General Ghâshbúrz stirred awake when someone touched his shoulder in the darkness of the command tent. His slant, squinty eyes adjusted to the near-complete darkness quickly, as all orc-eyes do, and turned their glittering gaze upon the lieutenant who had disturbed his sleep.
”General”, grunted the lieutenant.
Ghâshbúrz sat upright on the cot he had been sleeping on. He was clad only in a short, threadbare, colorless tunic. His armor lied on the floor next to the cot. There was also a flask of draught on a primitive wooden stool next to the cot. Ghâshbúrz felt only fear and rage; the only two emotions any orc knew in their entire lives. Of the two only rage was acceptable to show in orc culture, so young orcs learned quickly to channel their fear into feeding their rage. But those on top of the food-chain – like generals – must learn how to rein in and control their rage as well. Aging orcs also needed to learn how to hide their growing frailty, aching joints and failing health for as long as they could. Old age meant weakness in orc society, and weakness was not tolerated. Those who were turning too gray were constantly challenged by younger, sprier orcs, to see if they were still on top of their game. If they weren’t, they did not grow any older.
The life of an orc was a never-ending struggle, from the moment they were born to the moment they died – and the moment of death came as a relief for most.
”What do you want?” Ghâshbúrz blinked his eyes to regain a sense of consciousness.
”Arnubên, General”, the lieutenant said. ”The man from Mordor. He wants to see you.”
”Tell him to wait”, Ghâshbúrz grunted. He had no intention of letting the emissary from Mordor see him clad only in his under-tunic. ”Wait outside, both of you. I will call you in when I’m ready.”
”Very well, General.” The lieutenant left the command tent. Ghâshbúrz stood up and blinked his eyes again as the world blurred around him. Too much draught. Ghâshbúrz growled and started pulling on his armor.
A quarter of an hour later Ghâshbúrz was sitting behind his campaign desk in full armor and barked for Arnubên to enter. The tall Black Númenorean nodded his head slightly as he entered the tent. Arnûben was as pale as death, and his pale complexion was further contrasted by the thick, pitch-black beard covering the lower part of his face.
Ghâshbúrz looked up. ”What is it?”
”Straight to the point, General, as usual”, Arnubên remarked. ”That’s what I like about you. You don’t waste time in idle chit-chat.”
Ghâshbúrz suppressed the urge to prompt Arnûben to return the favor. It was never wise to offend emissaries from Mordor. Ghâshbúrz had come to dread these visits from the gaunt Black Númenorean. He said nothing.
”The time has come”, Arnûben said.
”Time for what?”
”The time we have all been waiting for. I have received the orders from Mordor. Prepare the army for a long march. We leave tonight. Sauron wills it.”
Ghâshbúrz wiped a cold hand across his forehead. He was sweating and his face was drawn. The Uruk-General was pretty sure he knew the answer already, but he had to ask anyway: ”March where?”
Arnubên stared at the Uruk-General with an appraising eye. ”The High Pass in the Misty Mountains, where else? We have to be there and prepared for war by fall. The Nine will join us when we get there. Are the troops ready to do battle?”
”They are”, Ghâshbúrz grunted.
”Good. Good. Before winter many of them will embrace the greatest honor any orc or troll can hope for – to die in the service of the Dark Lord.”
Ghâshbúrz said nothing. He suspected they would all have to embrace said honor if he truly was to lead his army into Rivendell, but he would not say it out loud. It was not wise to even think such thoughts too loudly in the presence of Sauron’s emissaries, because he could be replaced as easy as one crushes a little bird in their fist. It was not his place to question Sauron’s orders. Such was the lot of an orc – not to question or think, but to obey, to kill and to die… all in the service of the Dark Lord of Mordor.
