The Battles We Choose by Hoglorfen

Illusions

Praktash stretched, wincing as his shoulders cracked loose. The snaga had died some time during the night, but it was just as well. It had been fun while it lasted, and Praktash doubted the little Orc would have wanted to go on living with the experience anyway. People died all the time in Lugburz; that was just the way it was. One of Hîsht's lickspittles nodded to him with a lopsided grin as he went over to the privy.
”Hungry?”
”Sure. What's on the menu?”
Narduf grinned as he passed Praktash a bowl. The garrison in Udûn ate the same grey slop as everywhere else. There might have been a little more meat in today's batch, but it could also just be his imagination. Hîsht came back from the morning inspection as he finished, and they exchanged a few words. Getting Praktash transferred to Udûn had been easy, despite his being a Black Uruk. He had been shirking his primary duty to the Tower for so long that the census office would happily send him anywhere he wished just to get him into the military where he was supposed to be. Once in the garrison, Hîsht had made sure to drill him hard to get him in proper shape. It was not just for his own sake; she had gotten a few jabs about picking him just for his looks, and that was a sentiment she intended to kill. Praktash had the Uruks' natural fighting instincts and was soon a passable warrior, and Hîsht made sure not to show any favouritism, giving him the least desirable duties as was befitting someone at the bottom of the pecking order. He did not seem to mind.

Praktash's face was still too pretty for the army, but Hîsht had been reluctant to mess it up and Praktash had been more than disinclined to let her. He had gotten a lot of lip for it from the others and until last night, he had simply shrugged it off. Now however, Hîsht was pretty certain no one would ever dare to bring it up again, at least not to his face. When one of the snufflers had kicked his bowl out of his hands and loudly proclaimed that he probably preferred to lick the contents off the floor, a new light had appeared in Praktash's eyes. He had lifted the snaga by what little hair it had, shoved it against the wall, jammed his thumb up its arse and then proceeded to fuck it until it bled from both ends in front of half the garrison while cooing little sweetnesses in its ear. Afterwards, he had dragged the snuffler back to the nook where he kept his bedroll and finished it off.
”And that, my sweet fellows, is why my face isn't as messed up as yours.” The message had been as clear as rainwater.

Keeping track of your position in the pecking order was an important thing to do. Mistakes could be fatal, and if someone else rose too fast they could threaten your own position. As a Black Uruk, Praktash would have been able to take Hîsht's position simply by virtue of being what he was. After all, Black Uruks were made and destined to lead. But Praktash had made sure to declare that he had no intention or interest in Hîsht's position or anyone else's near the top. Once he had settled in a place high enough not to get bullied but not high enough to have to give orders or carry out officering duties, he was satisfied. Hîsht kept an eye on him nonetheless. He had the brains to question stupid orders, but also the brains to back down when push turned to shove. Still, there was something odd about the Uruk that Hîsht had not noticed before. He was still his old talkative self, but the grin never reached his eerie green eyes. She had never asked him why he had suddenly chosen to sign up now after refusing it for years, but she had her suspicions when that cute palefaced guy he had been living with last she saw him never showed up.

A few months after his arrival to Udûn, half the garrison was transferred to the newly finished Great Gate. Hîsht and Praktash was among them. The night after their arrival, Praktash stood on top of the giant wall, catching his first glimpse of Enemy territory.
”Doesn't look like much,” he said.
Hîsht snickered. ”Disappointed?”
He shrugged. ”I'd kinda hoped for more enemies.”
”Oh, there are. Not near here, o' course, but follow the cliff here to the left, that leads south and west. Those lands are crawling with tarks. Even further west there are Elves too.”
”So I've been told,” Praktash muttered. Hîsht cocked her head and he tried to grin, but it came off as an odd grimace. Then he stared off into the southwest.
Hîsht hummed. ”That's where he came from, isn't it?”
”Yeah,” Praktash replied. ”He did.”
He let out a snorting sound and Hîsht quickly glanced about to make sure no one else had heard or seen them. But the night was still and calm, what few guards there were stood far away near the northern end of the gates. She gently patted Praktash's shoulder.
”Don't worry cub,” she said. ”I've got your back.” Praktash collapsed against the battlement.

Hîsht had seen the big Uruk cry a few times before. She had found him in the streets of Lugburz, scared out of his wits and with about as much knowledge of the world as a newborn cub. When he had told her of his experiences in Blog Shakâmb, the tears had come. Hîsht had not known what to make of it that first time. Orcs did not cry from emotional distress, and Black Uruks were not supposed to feel any extreme emotions at all apart from rage and lust. She had figured that the sorceress that ruled the place must have done some permanent damage to his head and had planned on putting him out of his misery. But something had stayed Hîsht's hand.

Orc women were ferociously protective of their cubs. For all their violent nature, no Orc with any sense left in its head would deliberately harm a child of their own kind. But the Black Land had changed the natural order of things, shoving the women together in breeding pits to breed an army and using dark magic to twist and change the baby cubs into Black Uruks. What should have taken years to grow and set was completed within months, and the grown Uruks were forever changed and set apart from other Orcs. Hîsht had been down there a long time. It was no easy thing to have your litter torn from you even as you sweated and roared to push them out one by one, chained to the wall and unable to defend them as your instincts told you to. It hurt deeper than mere physical pain, just as much the first time as it did the three hundredth. And in a small corner of Hîsht's mind, Praktash was the one cub she got back. For all she knew, he could very well be hers for real, and that tiny spark had lit up her mother's instincts.
”So what happened?” she asked as Praktash wiped his eyes.
”They took him. To the Tower. I guess they had enough of him messin' with them.”
”Whaddya mean?” Hîsht asked.
”There was someone... Someone he came here with. Got caught tryin' to sneak past and ended up in the dungeons. Not the regular one, the Eye's own private one. And he couldn't let go. Made him all obsessed. He even broke in there to see her, one last time.”
”Are you fuckin' kiddin' me? He broke into..?”
”Yeah,” Praktash sighed. ”I tried to stop him, I really did. Told him it was stupid, more than stupid, it'd get him worse than killed. But he wouldn't listen. He got caught of course, but for some reason the Eye let him go.”
”Hold on – your little pale buddy broke into the Eye's personal dungeon, and the Eye let 'im go? Just like that?”
”Nar, not before he had his head thoroughly messed up.”
”Figures. But... 'her'? He had a mate?”
Praktash nodded and swallowed hard. ”That was his âmbal, the one he'd give his life for. I... think he stuck with me 'cause when she died, he had nothin' left to live for.” He grimaced, trying to force away more tears. ”We had a good thing goin', things were good. An' I thought... but then she comes back, just like that, and steals him away again.”
Hîsht stared at him. ”She came back from the dead?”
”Sort of. Or... I don't know for sure, that's what it looked like. Scars all over like a cage etched into her hide. Eyes just like the Eye, burnin' blue. I think they turned her into a Top One, or meant to.”
”Why'd they make an Orc into a Top One? Ya know that doesn't happen.”
Praktash gave her a mirthless grin. ”Wasn't an Orc. T'was a bloody golug.”
Seeing Hîsht's face contort with disgust was oddly satisfying. ”That just ain't right! Elves die when you fuck 'em, everyone knows that!”
”This one didn't. This one liked it, or so he claimed. Came back beggin' for more and killed her own family when they found out.”
”Oh, come on!” Hîsht shot to her feet and grabbed the Uruk's ear with an angry look. ”He was bullshitting ya, Prak! That might be a pretty fantasy in a sick head, but I can't believe you fell for it too! Use that brain o' yours, if ya still got it! Think! There's no fuckin' way a golug would survive first gettin' fucked by an Orc, gang up with him after the fact and saunter into Lugburz as if the stars were out, then move on to become a High Officer! For fuck's sake, that's just stupid, they're the bloody Enemy!!”
Praktash winced as Hîsht tugged his ear. ”But... Zuzar said-”
”That mutt wouldn't find its own arsehole if someone pointed it out for 'im,” Hîsht growled. ”An' you know wargs follow their riders. You're not that daft, are ya?”
”I'mma lose my ear if ya keep tuggin' it like that!”
”And a good reminder it would be, too!” She let it go with a grin and squatted in front of him. ”Now you'll listen to Hîsht – forget the paleface. He was cute, but bonkers. There're more rats on the plain than that one. An' pale skin's bad luck anyway. I know it's hard, but give it time an' you'll soon be laughin' at yerself over the whole matter.”

To breathe was pain. To move was agony. The world was foggy and transparent, as if not truly there.
WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?
Despite having nothing to do with the Ambassador's death, Záhovar had taken full responsibility for Graznikh's transgression. In a way she was responsible; had she executed proper discipline, the situation would never have arisen. As it was, an important piece of the Dark Lord's puzzle had suddenly disappeared, and He was furious. Thin tent walls could not block out curious ears, so the Dark Lord had simply torn Záhovar apart from inside, thrusting both Himself and her into the Wraith-world, a shadow-realm where He was in complete control and she was nothing but a meagre will, defenseless against the Eye.
”He treated me like a mere snaga, I would not stand for it any longer! What use am I as an Officer if I cannot defend my position?”
THERE ARE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS THAN YOUR PETTY POWER STRUGGLES! IS THIS HOW YOU REPAY THE BENEVOLENCE I SHOWED BY ALLOWING YOU TO LIVE?
”I will-” Every word He uttered tore at her self, and she had to pause and focus to keep herself together. ”I will repay it a thousand times over! I will make this worthwhile, I swear it!”
INDEED. His voice was no longer angry, but thoughtful. AND HOW DO YOU INTEND TO REPAY THIS DEBT?
Záhovar could not answer in words, so instead she conjured up an image of what she had planned. The Dark Lord radiated mild interest. THAT IS... AN INTRIGUING PICTURE. AS WAS THE MANNER IN WHICH HE DIED. THINK YOU YOURSELF CAPABLE?
Záhovar pulled what little confidence she had together, and He let her go. She could not help but let out a gasp of relief as the world turned solid and real around her, although the tent walls seemed to be closing in. As she stepped outside, the Dark Lord stopped her. Many people had found a reason to remain in the vicinity, no doubt hoping for a public execution. Záhovar prouded herself on being able to bow before Him and walk away without shaking.

When He had simply waved His hand in dismissal and no punishment came, people suddenly began tiptoeing around her and showed her respect in a way that they had not done before, figuring that a lack of punishment was the same as approval. Graznikh was still treated like shit, but he tried to shrug it off. I don't need any approval from tarks anyway. Záhovar on the other hand... She had really warmed up to him after his little cloak-and-dagger adventure, and had even agreed to let him sleep closer to her than before. He had eventually managed to sneak into her bed and spoon her a few times. Despite her protests that it would ruin her reputation if they were discovered, she seemed to enjoy it as much as he did and Graznikh assured her that no one could sneak up on them without him noticing. He had watched her tremble in her sleep and sob quietly every now and then, and him lying close seemed to calm her during those times.

After a few weeks' travel, they reached the capital of Khand.
”Hailed be the King of Arda!” the local leader exclaimed and bowed deeply as the Dark Lord entered the throne room, followed by the three Officers that should have been four. ”It is an honour and a blessing to house thee, Great Lord!”
The Dark Lord gave the king a nod, smiling benevolently. Záhovar glanced around the throne room. Many had gathered from far and wide to catch a glimpse of their supreme ruler. She could recognise Men of Khyardur, Rhûn, Khand, Númenor and even a few from the distant lands beyond. The reception was brief, for which Záhovar was grateful. She was still not sure that it was wise of her to leave her unruly Orc without supervision, but she would have to let go at some point. He had been tasked with caring for her horse, his warg and with bringing her belongings to her quarters, and she dearly hoped that he had not gotten into any fights on the way.
She found him by the royal stables, fetching the last bundles. The sky was cloudless and the Sun baked the city, so he wore a thick cloak and hood to protect himself. Still, he was sweating profusely as he greeted her with a grin.
”This is nice,” Graznikh said as they entered the lavish guest suite that Záhovar had been given. ”So how did ya manage to get me in here? I thought they'd have me sleep in the stables.”
”I will not part with my bodyguard. And the servants would instigate a rebellion if they were forced to share quarters with an Orc. And... you were not trusted to be left alone near any animals.”
”Right,” he said with a scowl. ”Vicious murderer and rapist and all 'at shit.” He licked a corner of his mouth as he eyed the large bed. Then he spotted a thin, dirty bedroll in a corner and his face fell. ”They want me to sleep on that?!”
Záhovar scowled as she saw what he was looking at. ”Get rid of it.” Graznikh merrily grabbed the bedroll and threw it out into the hallway. He also took note on the number of guards out there before closing the door. Too many. All probably stationed there because of me. He scowled a little as he removed his armour and clothes for the first time since they left the Tower and hung the swords on a bedpost where he could easily reach them if necessary. Then he threw himself into the soft bed and ground his hips suggestively against the silken sheets with a leer. ”So... Wanna try out our new playground?”
She gave him a small smile. ”That will have to wait. There is some paperwork that must be filled out before the official signing tomorrow, and I fear that I shall have to work late.”
Graznikh stopped grinding with a disappointed look. ”Hnh... well, I'll be keeping the bed warm for ya when you get back.” He sighed as she left. I've been holding back for weeks... He relieved some of the tension by wanking a few times and then tried to sleep. When she eventually returned much later, he simply pulled her close and wrapped the blanket around them both. This is what's important, he reminded himself as he drifted back into sleep. Screw the rest, it'll change.

The next morning, Záhovar awoke early. Graznikh managed to wrestle her down the first time she tried to rise and steal a bit of snuggling before letting her go. Later on, he was sound asleep in the comfortable bed as he heard the door open. A young female servant let out a shrill scream and dropped the bundle of cloth she had been carrying as he jumped to his feet with a growl.
”Whaddya want?!”
The girl began trembling. ”I.. I...” The next moment, two guards appeared in the doorway.
”Are you in trouble, child?” one of them asked.
Graznikh let out a groan. ”It's too early for this shit,” he grumbled into the pillow. As the guards spotted him, he suddenly found a number of spears brandished in his direction.
”You are not to sully the mistress' bed with your filth!”
He gave them a lopsided sneer. ”I do whatever th' fuck I want.”
”You will leave the bed at once! Your place is on the floor.”
Graznikh began to growl. ”Then call Lord Záhovar back here, ask him in person what he thinks of that. See how happy he'll be about being disturbed for a shit thing like this!”
”I must change the sheets,” the servant girl managed to say. Her eys widened as Graznikh grinned at her.
”Well, why didn't ya say so? No need to wave those sticks all over th' place, let's be civil.” With that, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. One of the guards made a disgusted sound and the servant girl squeaked and turned her back to avoid witnessing the full frontal horror he gave them. Graznikh stretched leisurely and stepped aside. ”Bed's clear,” he grinned. ”Be my guest.” The girl gingerly walked towards the bed, head turned away to avoid seeing the naked, leering Orc.

Graznikh had no real interest in the girl. Tarks had never been more than fleeting playthings to him, and since his arrival in Lugburz what little interest he had once had had quickly turned into hate for all their kind. But the scent of the girl's fear was intoxicating, so he could not keep from teasing her a little.
”Ever seen an Orc before?” he asked quietly as he leaned against the bedpost, ignoring the guards. ”Bet ya haven't, we're not really welcome in these parts. Or anywhere else for that matter, for... reasons. So go on, take a good, hard look. You never know if you'll ever get a second chance.” He made sure to emphasise the growling sound he made every time he tried to pronounce the Westron 'r' and chuckled at the girl's horrified expression. She changed the sheets with frantic movements but hesitated when proceeding meant having to stand closerto the corner where Graznikh stood. He grinned and motioned for her to come closer.
”Don't worry,” he purred. ”I ain't gonna rape ya. As tempting as that is, I'm saving myself for another.” She looked like she would faint at any moment.
”Stop it!” one of the guards exclaimed and took a step forward.
”Ya really think you're a match for me with those pig-stickers?” Graznikh asked in an amiable tone. ”I'd have yer arses in the air in no time. And what's the issue? You look like ya could've had an Orc for a sire anyway. I bet your mummy liked that big, hard-”
The guard stabbed at Graznikh with a roar. Záhovar's command had been not to fight, so he simply stepped out of the way. The guard lost his balance and tumbled down onto the floor.
”You done?” Graznikh asked as the humiliated guard got to his feet. ”I've no interest in fighting or fucking. Now get done and get out so I can go back to sleep!”

A few hours later, Graznikh was helping Záhovar adjust her armour in preparation for the grand banquet the king was holding in celebration of the Dark Lord's visit, when the doors opened and four guards, the mistress of the palace servants and the steward entered. He drew his blades and dropped into attack stance in the blink of an eye, and the group stopped short at the sight of the growling battle-ready Orc. Záhovar simply glanced over her shoulder briefly and touched the bond. Graznikh relaxed, resheathed the blades and returned to adjusting the armour as if nothing had happened. The tarks stood dumbfounded in the doorway.
”Ask them what they want,” Záhovar told him.
”Whaddya want?” he growled.
The mistress of the servants found her voice first. ”This is the one,” she told the steward. ”He threatened to assault one of my girls and injured the guard who came to her defense! The poor man is limping badly and will need both rest and herbs, as will the girl after such an ordeal!” The steward swallowed hard and bowed to Záhovar. ”There has been-”
”She heard ya,” Graznikh interrupted. ”I ain't done nuthin'.” The inevitable invasion of his mind felt like having icy water poured into his eyesockets and sent him reeling against the wall. It soon ended and Záhovar turned towards the steward.
”The girl misunderstood his intentions,” she said calmly to him. He twitched at being spoken to directly by the High Officer. ”This Orc is mine, and no action of his can be performed without my explicit consent. His boundaries may change, but they cannot be transgressed. The girl feared a fantasy that cannot become reality unless I wish it, and the guard injured himself because he lost his head over mere words and lied to you to save his own skin. He attacked my servant and by extension attacked me. I will let this pass, this one time. See that it does not happen again.” All this was said with a voice and expression completely devoid of all emotion. She had reached into the Unseen as she spoke, turning the room cold and causing the tarks' breaths to come out in little white puffs. Graznikh with his higher body temperature was steaming. Záhovar met his eyes briefly, and he nodded as if he had understood what she wanted.
”Yes Master,” he said with the reverent voice he used while among others and returned to his armour-adjusting task. It was a trick they had agreed to use, to pretend that she controlled his mind and could see through his eyes if she wanted to. It was tricky at times, but the effect it had on the gullible Khyarmen was hilarious. All six of them scrambled for the door the moment they were dismissed. Graznikh closed the door and turned to face Záhovar, who was laughing silently. There was a sense of elation through the bond that he shared wholeheartedly.
”Probably thought I'd be alone in here,” he said with a big grin.
”That is a mistake which they will not repeat.” She refastened the armour. ”Why did you frighten the servant?”
”'Cause she woke me up from a really nice dream and I was feeling grumpy.” He leered. ”I kinda hope they send her up again. At a time when you're here, too. I'd like the little bint to watch and learn what fucking an Orc's all about.”
Záhovar gave him a thoughtful smile. ”I could send for her.”
Graznikh laughed. ”Gur opashat lat! But let's not blow yer cover; ye're supposed to be 'Lord' Záhovar, right?”
”Alas for such a fate,” Záhovar said with pretended exasperation.

The event turned out to be just as dull as Záhovar had feared. The food was decent, but few of her dinner partners spoke Black Speech or the Common tongue and the rest largely ignored her. This was for the most part a relief, as she was not in the mood to begin a conversation.
As the dinner ended, the Dark Lord rose and beckoned for her to follow. He was speaking to a Man Záhovar did not recognise, and she followed them into a smaller room. She had to bend her neck backwards to meet the eyes of the man her Master had conversed with. He had ebony skin and his black hair was plaited into fine braids that reached his waist, each one ended with three golden studs, one above the other. The tall man could have looked Praktash straight in the eye but where the Uruk was bulky and muscular, this man was almost willowy in comparison. He could easily have been called beautiful had the Dark Lord not been there in all His radiance. He also had an air of arrogance about him, but kind eyes. The combination made Záhovar wary.
”Allow me to introduce Jí Indûr, the king of the Kirani realm of Koronande,” He said.
The man smiled. ”A king without a crown, I am afraid,” he said with a heavy accent. ”And thus no king at all in truth. I had heard that a new star had risen in the ranks of the Tower, and I fear the sight makes me glad that I do not dwell there.”
The smile disappeared from the Dark Lord's face and His eyes darkened.
Záhovar frowned. ”Why is that?”
The Kiran smiled sadly. ”For it is clear that, had I dwelt there, I would soon be a hapless slave to such beauty. Even now I feel myself falling. Alas for such a fate!” He bowed deeply before Záhovar. The smile soon returned to the Dark Lord's face, but Záhovar remained impassive. Was this supposed to be a compliment? What is he insinuating? At her Master's request, she left to call for refreshments and was relieved to do so.

Jí Indûr watched her as she left, and the Dark Lord watched him in turn. He had not expected the Kiran to recognise Záhovar as a woman so fast. But the Kirani had close dealings with the Eastern Elves and as a member of the assembly, Jí Indûr had probably encountered them before and was familiar with their androgynous looks. He had hoped to use the Elf to ensnare another man, a noble from the northeast who had proved reluctant to fall in line and who was too powerful to be subdued by traditional means, but the king-in-exile's sudden infatuation provided an unexpected opening of a different kind.
”Your daughter?” Jí indûr asked quietly.
The Dark Lord nodded slightly and His voice sank to a persuasive whisper. ”I say this in confidence, for few know of her. The truth could be used as a weapon against Me, so she poses as an Officer both for her own safety and to learn the realities of politics. I dare not send her out alone or reveal her identity just yet; my realm can be a harsh land and many of my Officers cling to their prejudices.”
”Indeed. A father's worry never ceases, so I have been told.” Indûr glanced in her direction. ”She has the bearings of a queen. It is only to be expected, of course, with an emperor for a father. Whoever marries her will have a valuable ally, I am sure.” The Dark Lord nodded with an expression that Indûr took as a father's reluctance to part with an only child. They changed the topic and were discussing the intricacies of Southern politics as Záhovar returned with a servant that carried a tray with drinks, and the Dark Lord beckoned for her to sit with them. Jí Indûr kept giving her small compliments and asked her questions about life in the Tower. They were innocent enough, but his continued interest made her increasingly uncomfortable. Eventually she was allowed to excuse herself and return to her quarters.

They remained in Khand, and time seemed to fly by. Záhovar spent much time alongside her Master and had little time for leisure. Graznikh was bored and tried to alleviate it by being an absolute terror to the servants. He was reluctant about going out in the sun, but spent cloudy days exploring the capital. The city was not planned the way Lugburz was; as soon as one left the palace district it became an absolute maze of streets, side streets, little plazas and narrow alleys. There was a large market square and several inns near one of the city gates, but he also found that there were innumerable little shops, alehouses and other establishments scattered throughout the place. There seemed to be people everywhere and there was a mix of colours and cultures that he had never seen before. Not all were hostile or disdainful, but the hidden message was clear; Graznikh was alien, he was inhuman and did not belong.

One morning there was a knock on the door to the guest quarters. As Graznikh opened, he spotted a young Southron servant holding a large, exotic flower.
”Whaddya want?” he snarled. The dark-skinned boy looked surprised but not frightened, shaking his head and pointing into the room.
”Forget it. Whaddya want?” As Záhovar appeared behind him, the boy suddenly lit up and held the flower out to her. Záhovar stared at it as if it was a poisonous snake.
”What is the meaning of..?!” She was interrupted as the boy pushed the flower into her hand with a big smile. Graznikh tried to catch the kid but missed. The servant dashed away, his laughter ringing through the halls. The guards made no motion to aknowledge what they had just witnessed. Graznikh snarled a curse and slammed the door shut. ”What the everloving fuck was that?”
”I do not know,” Záhovar said, frowning at the flower in her hand. An image came to her then; a vague, faded memory, as if belonging to someone else. A small bouquet of withered flowers, held under a dark sky but with a sea of light on the horizon. She dropped the flower as if it had burned her.
Graznikh picked it up as she turned away. ”Throw it away?” he asked.
”Destroy it,” she whispered. He returned it to the floor and proceeded to stomp it into the luxurious carpet.

Acceptance came in the most unexpected way imaginable. Graznikh was sauntering down a side-street, his hood up to avoid the scorching sun and chewing on a meat pie he had bought at the market with tokens that Záhovar had given him when he suddenly found his way blocked by a large gathering of people.
The mob turned as one towards him. ”Your kind is not welcome here!”
Graznikh groaned. Not this again. ”Of course we're not,” he said after cramming the last piece of pie into his mouth. ”But the Eye and the Top Ones are, ya really wanna mess with them?”
”You are nothing but a slave,” another sneered. ”Slaves are expendable and Orcs breed like flies. No one will miss you.”
”Ya wanna take yer chances with that?” Graznikh sneered back, but his insides twisted as footsteps were heard behind him. Záhovar, I could really use some help here!
”We are not Orcs, killing innocents in the street,” a voice from behind said. ”You stand accused of raping several women and girls during your stay here. Also of killing three guards and several others who tried to stop you. This is justice!”
Graznikh turned with bared fangs. ”Those are bloody lies, and you know it! I never raped- oh, fuck this!” he exclaimed as he saw the man's attire and instantly recognised the brooch he wore on his turban. One of that imp Dachman's lackeys! He wore one just like it. This is a trap. Don't come Záhovar, it's a trap!

He threw himself at the hedgemage with a roar, breaking his concentration as he began chanting. The mob descended upon him like vultures and everything turned into a blood-drenched chaos. Not all of the blood was his enemies', he realised as he managed to break free for a moment. Most of them wielded daggers of various kinds and he began to feel dizzy as he broke into a run, thrown knives and other sharp objects whistling past him. His attackers knew the streets and soon he was cornered again. He desperately reached for the red haze, begging for it to come, but it never came. The bastards probably have a poison that counter berserking, he thought, shaking his head to get the cloudy feeling out of it without success. He could feel Záhovar approach, but tried to shut the bond out so that she would not fall into the trap. I'm sorry âmbal. This is my time, I won't let it become yours as well.
As the mob's battle cries rang out, he prepared to take as many with him as he could. This would not be an easy victory for them! But he was not alone anymore. In a blur he saw someone descend from a roof, crashing into the mob and sending them flying in all directions. He slumped to his knees and leaned forward, clinging with all his might to consciousness but with little success. The last he heard as he collapsed were the clinking of a chain.

When he came to, he found himself lying in an alcove bed in an unfamiliar room. He shot up, only to double over immediately, throwing up into the bucket that someone had thoughtfully placed next to the alcove. His arms shook as he laid back down and he felt dizzy and weak. After swallowing a few times and spitting to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, he looked around. The room was frugal; the walls were made of adobe and the roof and floor of wooden boards. There were cracks in the rough-hewn wooden door that let in light from a torch outside and the only furniture was a small wooden bench near the left wall. There was a clinking sound from outside the door that echoed in his aching head and he placed a hand over his eyes as light streamed in from outside. Once he heard the door close again, he looked up.
The man sitting on the bench had bronze-coloured skin and wore a plain robe made of unbleached hemp with frayed black trimmings. He had a chain around his waist with the Eye cast in rusted iron dangling from it, and a similar chain around his neck. Graznikh had seen the attire before; the blind servants of the Tower's upper floors wore it. Like them, this man was blindfolded and had stitches around his mouth. They did not seem to bother him in the same way though. He nodded in greeting and turned to Graznikh with a small smile.
”I am glad that you are finally awake,” he said with a strong Rhûnish accent. ”I feared I had come too late, but you are of sturdier make than I first assumed.”
”Where am I?” Graznikh asked weakly.
”You are in the Temple of the God-King. We are a small assembly of people from varying backgrounds who have sworn our lives and souls in service to the Eye.”
”Never heard of ya.”
The man smiled. ”That is not unexpected. Our numbers are still few, and we prefer to keep a low profile.”
”Záhovar,” Graznikh whispered, suddenly remembering how the ill-fated battle had ended. He reached out in panic through the bond and breathed a sigh of relief as he was met with reassurance.
”Your master has been informed of your whereabouts,” the man said. ”Fear not, you are among allies here.”
He felt his head clear as Záhovar gave him of her strength and he could finally take a better look at the man who had saved him. He was not old, Graznikh realised, older than twenty but probably no more than twenty-five. He had the scent of fanaticism about him but not insanity. ”So why risk yer life to save me?”
”As I said, we serve the Eye.” The scent of fanaticism briefly grew stronger. ”And those who serve Him with sacrifice. You are one of the true Children of Darkness, one who embraces the Shadow in a way we Men can barely fathom and only simulate with poor results. That is reason enough to me, but your master is also a new and unexpected pawn on the board, with as of yet unrevealed strengths. The Temple of the God-King would know him better.”
Graznikh gave him a lopsided grin. ”So I'm a hostage.”
”Not at all,” the man replied. ”You are free to go whenever you wish. Though I would recommend that you do not attempt to stand just yet; the poison is still in your blood, though we have halted its progress. It will take a few days to dissipate and during that time, you will feel ill and dizzy.”
”Right,” Graznikh said with a sigh. When I get my hands on Dachman, I will carve a blood-eagle in his back!

Záhovar managed to escape her duties the day after the attack and went into the city to find Graznikh. The messenger from the 'Temple' had provided her with a detailed description of the way, so the house was easily found. There was no outward sign that the two-story building was a temple, run-down as it was and located in the scruffier part of the city. Three knocks on the door, then a brief pause followed by a fourth. That was the signal she was to use. A small shutter opened above the door as she knocked.
”What would the Tower never use?”
”The useless,” Záhovar answered. The door was unlocked and the messenger let her in, bowing deeply.
”Welcome, my Lord. My deepest apologies for the delay; we must be careful. Even here and now the Enemy has spies and agents that would seek to harm us.”
”Apology accepted. I understand the need for discretion.”
The interior of the house was very different from its outward appearance. While the outside was uncoloured adobe like all the other houses of the district, the inside walls of the main hall were black and the wooden beams painted red. As the messenger-turned-doorguard showed her in, a man who, judging by the deference everyone else showed him, was the high priest of the 'Temple' came down a flight of stairs to greet her.
”My Lord Záhovar,” he said as he bowed. ”Welcome to the Temple of the God-King. I am Eälaion, caretaker of this humble enclave. It is an honour to have you here. Come, I will show you to your servant.” A servant carrying a tray followed them as they went down a short corridor to the left, near the back of the main hall. Faint chanting could be heard from above, but she did not recognise the tongue used. Another servant opened a door to a cell-like room. Graznikh grinned as he spotted her.
”Hey master,” he said. ”Sorry 'bout this mess. Looks like I fucked up again.”
Záhovar waved her hand dismissively. ”Some good may yet come from it.”
The high priest bowed as she glanced at him. ”I shall leave you alone. There will be a servant outside, should you require refreshments or anything else.”

”I'm kinda loath to call a tark my 'rescuer',” Graznikh told her after she had been given a chair to sit on next to the alcove. ”But that's the truth of it. If he hadn't shown up back there, I'd be dead.”
Záhovar nodded. ”I will see to it that he is rewarded accordingly.”
”This was a setup, y'know,” Graznikh said grimly. ”The leader wore Dachman's signet, I saw it. They'd probably planned for you to show up as well.”
”It was to be expected,” Záhovar said, ”though I had hoped for him to be a little more direct about it.”
”Bloody coward,” Graznikh growled.
”I still have His attention, so Dachman will not dare to attack my person. But he will make sure to whittle my defenses down so that he can arrange an 'accident' once I return to Lugburz.”
Graznikh grunted. ”You could always try to get these Temple people on yer side,” he muttered with a nod towards the door. ”They're fanatics, or at least that Lion fellow is, and I'm not sure what use they'll be but it can't hurt to have a few more allies. I can't protect ya now, not knocked out like this.”
”I will consider it,” Záhovar said. Graznikh lay quiet for a while before daring to ask the question that burned in his mind. ”He's not Lug-snaga, is he?”
”No. He may have been, once. The stitches are real, and I suspect that should he lift his blindfold we would find that his eyes are white and unseeing. But he is far too powerful a sorcerer to have gone unnoticed in Lugburz. His name puzzles me as well. 'Eälaion' is Elven in origin, but he is clearly from Rhûn or perhaps further east. It cannot be the name he was born with. Perhaps he chose it to sound more Númenorean, although I do not know why a servant of Lugburz would choose a name of the Enemy.”
”He's a good fighter too. He couldn't take you on, but he's good. Enemy spy?”
”He could be... But I doubt it. His conviction and devotion to the Eye is real, and the 'God-King' that his temple reveres is obviously our Master. Perhaps they are simply seeking His blessing through a High Officer, to give their religion some credulity.”
”But you don't think so, do ya?”
”No,” she said quietly. ”I do not.”

The convalescence turned out to not be as bad as Graznikh had feared. The room was dark and cool and the odd, subservient Men kept providing him with some really good meat and even some Orcish ale that he had no idea how they had gotten their hands on. It was watered down, but still better than regular water or that disgusting sickly sweet wine the Khandians seemed to prefer over proper booze. His rescuer often came by to talk. Graznikh had tried to piss him off by constantly mispronouncing his name as 'Lion' or freak him out by telling some gruesome stories from his past, but Eälaion had only laughed and encouraged him. It was hard to imagine the mild-mannered Rhûnlander as a warrior, but the way he moved and handled the staff he always carried told Graznikh that he was one worth keeping an eye on, even though he hid it well. The staff was a nasty thing, odd runes ran down it in three even lines and both ends were adorned with a spiky steel ball. Graznikh had a vague memory of how the 'Lion' had spun it while fighting and in one move had cracked three opponents' skulls open like eggs.

After a few days, Eälaion encouraged him to stand. Swift movements still made him sick, but the more he moved about the easier it got. The young high priest had his weapons and armour returned to him. As he put it on he found it clean and repaired. He met Eälaion's invisible eyes.
”You were in the Tower once, weren't ya?”
The high priest nodded. ”I was given in service to the Eye by my parents when I was very young, in payment of a debt they owed the Temple.”
”But ye're no servant now. Ye're a sorcerer.”
Eälaion seemed surprised. ”So you know..? I take it you are no ordinary servant then. No, I am a servant no longer. When my capacity for sorcery was discovered, I was sent to study in one of the academies in eastern Rhûn. But when the realm erupted in civil war, my academy was destroyed and the students scattered to the winds. As did I.”
”And the temple? How does that fit in?”
Eälaion smiled. ”You may not understand, Orc that you are – and I mean no disrespect by that – but faith is important for us 'roundears'. All Men believe in something, be it real or not. Some worship spirits. Some worship stars, or trees. This Temple of the God-King is a wayward servant's attempt to garner support for his Master through that need for faith. It is better to believe in something, or someone, who can truly change our lives and bring us to greatness, rather than having our prayers fall on the deaf, cold ears of the stars.”

Chapter End Notes

Gur opashat lat – I desire you
Blood-eagle – this is an old Norse execution method mentioned in the Icelandic sagas. It was performed by cutting or sawing off the ribs along both sides of the spine, bending them out and then tearing the victim's lungs out through the cuts. It was called 'blood-eagle' because the result apparently made the victim look like they had wings. It seems like a very Orcish thing to do.

Khyardur is the Black Speech name for Harad. The word stems from KHYAR, which is a root in the Elven languages and shapes Quenya 'hyarmen' and Sindarin 'harad', both meaning 'south', and the Black Speech ending -dur, which indicates a realm (see Burzdur – Mordor – Black Land).

Jí indûr, Koronande, Mûmakan and the Kirani comes from the Middle-Earth Roleplaying Game.