Dugbúrz's Story by Artano

The sound of drums rolls through the tunnels and caverns around Dugbúrz as he beats steel into shape for more armor, hammer rising and falling in time with each boom.  By now, he knew the timing of each beat by heart, for he had been working here in the forge since he was old enough to carry supplies to those who endlessly made and repaired the armor that shielded the armies of the High King from the weapons of Man and Elf alike.  Now he was one of the orc slaves who beat the metal plates into shape as other younglings carried supplies to him and kept the forge tidy.

Boom
His hammer clangs against the heated metal again, sparks flying.  Lifting his hand, he brings it down with the next boom, mentally counting each beat in his head.  Soon, there would be a half note, barely noticeable as anything other than a slip of the mallet against the leather of the drums.  But to those who knew, to the few orcs who whispered at night of a route to freedom into the uncharted lands above and of escape from the heavy hand of the High King and his Lieutenant, each extra tremor whispered of a path through the mass of tunnels.  If an orc only listened long enough and closely enough, the tremors would provide a map to a secret tunnel that would allow one to escape the caverns beneath Thangorodrim.

Ba-boom
Dugbúrz's hammer slipped, then struck fully against the metal taking shape beneath his hands.  Another orc two stations away did the same.  And one three in front of him.  Each was memorizing the map, clinging to the hope that once it was completely committed to memory, they could flee their lives and start anew.  Falling back into the normal rhythm, Dugbúrz listened for the next quiver against the drums.  it would be a while before he heard it, but he could not afford to let his attention slip.  One missed stroke and he would miss the tunnel, and be found, and face a fake worse than death.  There was no room for chance in this plan.  So he would wait.  He would wait until the pattern began repeating.  He would wait until he had each variation, each twist of the route memorized.  He would find a way to coordinate with the others who kept time with the tremors from the drums.  And then he would make his escape.

It had been several hours since Dugbúrz and his six companions exited the long, narrow tunnel that twisted through the bedrock away from the peaks of Thangorodim.  Hours since they had crept out of inky blackness into the darkness of a starless night and began their journey away from all they had known.  With the warning about the harsh terrain they would be crossing echoing in their ears, they had packed plenty of water, hoping it would be sufficient until they could find a precious urn left by those who had escaped before.  If there were any left.  Since they had left the foothills and entered the parched plain, they had seen several shattered pots, their shards crunching softly under foot as the orcs passed by.  Now, as the blackness lightened slightly, Dugbúrz and his allies curled up among a few boulders, praying to whomever would protect any such as them that they would escape notice.

They rest all that day, not daring to stir so close to the keen eyes of the guards positioned in the mountains towering behind them, even in the twilight cast by the thick vapors blocking the sun.  Only after the darkness thickens into another starless night do they sip a little water from the pouches they carry and continue their journey.  Slowly, as the hours pass, the mountains diminish behind them.  But Dugbúrz remains vigilant, for the danger of patrols remains a constant threat to his little band's safety.  The night passes quietly, and as dawn begins to lighten the sky, they again make camp among some boulders.

They rest through the day, uneventful expect for a patrol passing a few hundred yards away.  Fortunately, they remain unseen, looking like nothing more than smaller boulders in the twilight under the dark, vaporous clouds  above. They set off again at night, journeying farther into the parched, dusty plain and passing more shattered pots, a reminder of their own dwindling water supply.  Dugbúrz and his companions make good time and the mountains continue diminishing behind them throughout the night.  Around midnight, they pass beyond the normal reaches of the patrols, but they remain silent as they walk, the close brush with a patrol during the day reminding them just how far the hand of the High King could reach.  Many miles pass behind them the rest of the night.  As the sun begins to lighten the sky, Dugburz realizes that the vapors above are thinning so far from Thangorodrim, allowing him and his companions to see further in the gray dawn.

But the brighter light reveals a problem: there is no cover nearby.  After a hasty conference, the band decides to travel further, and they pick up their pace, feeling exposed under the thinning clouds above.  After a few hours, they reach another boulder field and swiftly slink in among them, slipping into their shadows.  Dugbúrz sips from his near empty water skin and curls up to rest when suddenly a low call rises from several boulders away.  Immediately, he rises to a crouched defensive position, his long knife in his hands, alert for danger.  But another call sets his nerves at ease.  "Water!  There's water here!"  He moves towards the voice, the last of his company to arrive, to see Pushdug holding up a blue urn, cradling it in his hands as he stares at it with wonder.

Pushdug looks up at him as he approaches. "The stories are true. They left water for us," he says softly, fragile hope blooming in his eyes.  There was someone out there looking out for them; perhaps they had a chance to make it to freedom after all.  Dugbúrz moves towards him, his eyes fixed on the precious water.  "Divide it among your water skins," he orders. "And don't drink too much; we don't know when we might find another one."  Pushdug nods and pours some into his water skin, handing it to Dugbúrz next.  Dugbúrz's breath catches as he stares down at the water sloshing from the movement, the blue-glazed pottery shining like a jewel through it.  "It looks like...like the sea," he whispers after a moment, mesmerized by the waves rippling in the urn.  At his words, the other orcs gather around and stare at the water.  They all had heard whispers of the sea, passed down from orc to orc: murmured tales of a great blue water, sparkling in the sun, stretching as far as the eye could see, and of a paradise, free from all pain and sorrow, somewhere beyond the far horizon.  Some said the stories heralded back to the first orcs, that some of them had once lived in the paradise.  But it was unreachable to all now.  Yet stories still persisted of its wonders.  And some whispered that upon death, an orc's soul might be able to return there, beyond all reach of the High King or his Lieutenant.

After several long minutes, Dugbúrz takes a deep breath, tearing his eyes from the water and looking up at the orcs surrounding him, his expression resolute.  "Until we are free or we meet beyond the Sea."

By the time they reach Lothlann, Dugbúrz and his companions have found several more of the blue-glazed urns filled with water.  At each one, they remember the sea, taking turns telling each other the tales they have heard, that have been passed down to them from their elders and their elders' elders.  But as they enter the wide, dust-choked plain, they sober, their stories turning to the souls of dead orcs.  Many orcs had died here, most in the service of the High King, but there were some who told stories of other escaped orcs who had lived here and perished in the fires as they swept across the plain.  Several soldiers had come back from the battle, shaken and claiming to have found the charred remains of these orcs.  Those who were too vocal about what they had seen disappeared soon after.  The rest learned to pass on their memories in whispers confined to lonely corridors away from prying ears.

As Dugbúrz and his band of orcs continue to head south towards the mountains said to lie beyond, they pass several scattered bones, most blackened to soot, unrecognizable as either orc or elf.  A few are clearly horse bones from their size, but little can be determined beyond that.  On the second day, they are several hours into their march when they come across a small cairn.  The base is built from charred bones, stacked in an orderly manner, but the top half of the small mound consists of an odd assortment of trinkets, untouched by fire.  And scratched into a rock placed on top of the pile is the mark of the People.  

After several minutes of study and discussion, Dugbúrz and his companions conclude that the cairn marks their path towards the mountains.  But it appears that orcs have passed by since then, they have added small trinkets to the cairn in memory of the People who had died in the fiery onslaught.  For several minutes, the small band of orcs stands around the marker in silence, no sound but the wind brushing over the plain filling their ears.  Then Dugbúrz steps forward.  Silently, he unbraids a metal bead from his hair, one of his most valuable possessions.  He places it reverently between two blackened bones, then steps back as Pushdug leans down, a small scrap of bright fabric held in his hand.  Each orc in the band follows suit, adding their own offerings to the cairn, a silent testimony of those the People had helped towards freedom, even in death.  The last orc ties a braided lock of their own hair around a bone, then steps back with a soft 'until we meet beyond the Sea'.  After one last moment of hushed silence, Dugbúrz and his people continue their journey.