Dugbúrz's Story by Artano

Beginnings

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.