Gurzlum was empty. The once well garrisoned scouting camp had only a few measly defenders left. The Taskmaster looked to the South for a short while and sighed. “All the good boys are either dead or fled to the hills.” None were around to hear the taskmaster’s rumblings as the ones that could still fight, were placed at the gate to prepare for either aid, or their end. Gurzlum has lost their warriors and scouts on the elves and their wretched allies. The Ongbúrz licked their wounds and prepared to let their teeth shine again.
A small ruin. Might have been a house once that served as the house for a very minor noble in the ancient kingdom of Arnor. Yet now these white stones served a different purpose. Within the four walls a gathering was held. A silent gathering, only filled with whispers. Not any whispers mind you. Evil whispers were uttered in the ruined house near lake Evendim. “Report!” The command too, was but a whisper to the common ear. Yet it was almost a shout to the ears of a Blogkun-Hai. “We are now with 23. We lost five of us in the North-Downs.” The commander of the tracking party looked at the faces of his elite. Everyone in those four walls were his elites. Eight of the best orcs he ever served with, even though their time had been short. They wore a black chain mail yet it felt like cloth to these fighters. The normal Blogkun-Hai were flawed yet these eight were perfect. Agile, aware, fast, strong, merciless, quiet. There were simply not enough words to describe them. All thanks to the master’s gift. Each of these elites wore a simple bronze band around their fingers. To anyone that would behold them, they were just copper rings yet to the Blogkun-Hai Elite, they were priceless. Sounds that normally would harm them, were not a pain any longer with these gifts. The sun seemed less bright yet the eyes not less sharp. Their master’s gifts were nine in total. Eight bronze, one silver. The commander took his eyes of his most trusted and looked to the sky. He gave the simple command: ”We move.” There was no sign of their passing. The small ruin looked as abandoned as it always was.
Just a little while now. The flight had been harsh yet the nests of the long-legged and featherless. Crowbeak hovered over their nests, smoking coming from some of them. The caretaker sat down where he always sat at this time. On his roosting spot near the drinking place. Crowbeak made a dive and soon landed on the drinking place’s edge. The caretaker startled slightly yet moved closer. He started speaking like he always did. He was one of the few that could ask me and one of the fewer that could understand what I said, sometimes answering in that featherless speech of his. “The camp near the old city of Fornost?” “How many did you say there were, again?” “Eleven? There shouldn’t be more than four.” “Green cloaks and the long eared as well?” When the report was done the caretaker stood up and walked away yet not before giving me a small thing to nibble on.
A letter was sent to the Tomb-raiders of Barad Tharsir and Ost Forod. Both letters bore a simple message:
A company of vagabonds will arrive from the East through the gates of the haunted lands. Sharkey wants a barricade. None will move into the Twilight Hills from that road, none will leave on that road. If the total company is captured or slain, the total sum of 50 Golden Coins will be rewarded. Be on your guard and bring as many men if you deem worthy. Do not disappoint.
The conqueror of Minhiriath
