Smoke rose from the ashes of Muir-Glaen. The Orcs had stormed the village during the night, putting man, woman and child to the sword and taking everything of value before torching the Hill-Men’s shacks. The Trev Gallorg had refused to march with the Ongbúrz and thus they had paid the price for their defiance. Híthenér was in the back of a wain, his hands and feet bound. Although the Northmen treated him cruelly he was glad that he was not in the hands of the Orcs, who would sooner kill him for sport than spare a hunk of bread. There were also wargs in the train, and trolls, meaning that the host could march only at night. For this reason many of the Angmarim were now attempting to get some sleep, though this was difficult in the blazing sun. One of few who had managed to doze was Giric, now curled up beside the wain. Arnubên on the other hand was angrily pacing around the encampment and when he came close Híthenér could see the bags under his eyes. Frustrated, the Angmarim leader made to kick his ally, but then thought better of it and roused him gently instead. Slowly turning over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Giric waited for an explanation from Arnubên, who said, “This isn’t good enough; a herd of oxen could move faster than this. Why we need the trolls I don’t know; I thought all we were fighting was a few farmers and weakling Elves.”
“Nonetheless, I imagine they’ll come in useful,” responded Giric, his tone casual.
“That’s not all,” said Arnubên, sounding increasingly fractious, “You know the gold choker that Cormag wore? The one that he stole from Baranthir, my grandfather? Well Zaukîl has taken it for himself!” He sat down beside Giric and yelled, “How dare he? What right have scum like that to my inheritance?” Giric suddenly seemed much more interested, “I agree, we can’t have the Orcs helping themselves to all the loot. You should tell Zaukîl to mind what’s his; we can’t let them keep pushing us around.”
Arnubên thought for a moment before saying, “Really it should be you that speaks to him. You’re one of few Men he seems to have even the slightest respect for.”
“Ha! Is this what we’ve sunk to: playing to the whims of Orcs? You are the Lord of Urugarth, a descendant of Númenor!” Giric proclaimed, clearly trying to appeal to his ally’s vanity.
“You’re right,” said Arnubên, his pride rising within him. “I’ll go and wake him now.” He got up and started walking in the direction of the Orcs’ encampment. “Wait!” Giric called after him, “Why should you seek an audience with him when you are the high lord and he the scum of the mountains? I’ll send a man to his camp, summoning him to our presence.” To Híthenér this did not sound at all wise; Zaukîl was a powerful Uruk and would not take kindly to being ordered about by a chieftain of primitive Hill-Men. It was done nevertheless and an agitated Arnubên sat waiting for the Orc leader. When Zaukîl finally arrived he was not alone, but accompanied by around a dozen of his best warriors. The war-leader seemed angry at having been woken in the middle of the day. “Where is the cur that requested my presence with such insolence?” Arnubên promptly rose, and for a moment seemed to consider apologising. His pride won over however, and he answered, “I summoned you here Zaukîl, as befits my station.” He spoke in Westron, it being their only common language. “Oh, listen his lordship’s fine words!” the Uruk cried mockingly, prompting laughter from his guards. “And for what reason does one as mighty as yourself wish to bandy words with me?”
“The choker you wear around your neck belongs to my family. I demand its return.” Arnubên’s voice was beginning to falter. “You demand it do you?” asked Zaukîl, who now walked right up to the Hill-Man, “Hear that boys? He think he should be getting a bigger share of our loot!” he said, facing his warriors, who hissed angrily. “What should I tell him?” But before the Orcs could answer, Zaukîl turned and drew his scimitar before beheading Arnubên in a single vicious swipe. After his corpse thudded on the ground the goblin leader licked his blade clean and shouted out, “From now on, you Hill-rats do as you’re told! “ Laughing, he and his guards departed, leaving the camp in a state of silence as Arnubên’s blood wetted the soil. The Hill-Men were horrified, all but for Giric, who smiled.
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South, to the North Downs
Submitted by Hithenair on July 3rd, 2014
