Click here to read Part I: Misadventure in Fornost.
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Night - or maybe day? An Orc camp in the ruins of Fornost.
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Everything hurt.
At first it had been so bad it was all she could do not to scream. Mercifully, her nervous system had eventually lost track of all the different places that were injured, and everything faded into a dull ache – just punctuated by an intermittent sharp stinging pain from her bruised ribs if she breathed too deeply. Her cheek pressed into the dry dirt, she drifted uncertainly in and out of consciousness.
Hazily she wondered how she had come to die in a place like this.
She still could not believe her own arrogance. How could she have allowed herself to be snuck up on by Orcs – of all creatures? She had been so pleased with herself – so incredibly smug. She had walked in plain sight of their camps, thinking them somehow such a remote, unreal threat – the beasts would be sleeping the day away, like village drunks.
She would not underestimate them again.
Not that you will live to have the chance, her mind reminded her sardonically.
By the time she had seen them, it had been far too late. Almost at the top of the ramp, something – a sound, an instinct – had caused her to look around.
Four great, ugly Orcs. Armed to the teeth.
Not twenty feet below her on the ramp.
Panic seized her. Wildly she cast around for an escape. Couldn't go back, they were blocking her escape – couldn't jump down from the ramp, she was far too high off the ground. There was only one option – break for the citadel.
Without a second thought, she began to sprint for the top of the ramp, not knowing what she would find there. She had some half-formed notion that she might be able to lose them among whatever ruins or undergrowth she found within – but she never got that far. She had run maybe six paces when something heavy and cold collided with the back of her head. Lightning exploded in front of her eyes and just for a moment she lost consciousness.
When she came to a moment later, she had fallen on her face – and already begun to roll back down the ramp. Dazed, she glanced around desperately. The Orcs were almost upon her. She would never make it – she needed more time. She struggled – failed to get her feet – forced herself to crawl towards the edge of the ramp. She had no choice – she would have to jump, and pray. But just as she reached the edge, the first Orc seized her by the hair and dragged her back.
She did not remember exactly what had happened next. Hideous, fanged faces. Clubs and hammers, framed against the purple sky. She must have lost consciousness again, for the next thing she knew she had woken up here, in their camp, bound hand and foot, and a dozen or more of their terrible twisted faces were slavering down at her.
There had been an argument, a couple of brawls. Some of them wanted to eat her straight away; others wanted to put their hunger to one side for now and have some fun “softening her up” her first. The way they said it, and their cruel laughter, had caused her heart to quail.
The argument probably saved her life, for as the shouting grew louder, a large Orc carrying a thick staff emerged from his shelter and roared at them all to shut up. He had to smack a couple of heads with the staff, but eventually the others quietened down and made way to show him what they had found.
The big Orc's nostrils flared at the sight of the human, lying curled in the mud at his feet, her hair matted with dirt. He stooped over to get a better look - and his filthy mouth watered instantly at the scent of fresh young meat. But something was growing on his mind.
Another Orc came forward, looking over his shoulder.
“Come on, Garbog! Can we eat 'er yet or what?”
The big Orc elbowed the speaker in the gut, and he yelped and staggered backwards.
“Fraid not lads.”
There were howls of indignation from the other Orcs, but Garbog would have none of it. He roared at them to be quiet.
“Don't be morons! Use yer eyes – barely any meat on 'er! And you lot, already brawling over the scraps! There isn't enough to go around. Where would you be without me to stop you killing each other, I'd like to know!”
The Orcs seemed chastened. They were still grumbling and whining among themselves, but he was able to make himself heard.
“And besides... aren't you all forgetting something?”
Sheepish murmuring. Garbog grinned at them all, relishing the effect.
“The Master.”
That finally shut them up. Garbog continued.
“Just think how pleased he will be when we deliver up this human to him as a gift! Think how he'll reward us. We'll be eating meat for weeks – more than the few measly mouthfuls we'd get if we ate this one now.”
Garbog had won. His crew were back in line. Most of them were terrified of the Master.
“You. Tie her up there to that post. Nice and tight now. We don't want her wriggling off during the day.”
One of the Orcs seized Fingeleth's arms, yanking them behind her back so hard she cried out. The other Orcs laughed. In vain she struggled, but the Orc binding her arms was too strong.
Garbog leered at her. She didn't feel brave, but she mustered her fiercest snarl and glowered at him.
“You revolting animals.”
He struck her forcefully with the back of his hand, sending her crashing backwards into the Orc binding her arms. The other Orcs whooped gleefully. Garbog grinned.
“Oh the Master will like you.”
Fingeleth's heart sank. Garbog barked at the Orcs.
“Tie 'er to the whipping post. No food or water. The Master will be here in a few nights. He'll be the one to decide what to do with her.”
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Time crawled by. Everything hurt. Her head swam, her thoughts were muddied. In a lucid moment she released she had developed some sort of fever, she knew not what.
Breathe.
There was a rope round her neck, thick and callous, chafing the skin. She could see the other end of it, tied to a great wooden post, sunk deep into the ground. She could barely move her arms at all, so tightly were they bound behind her back. Her fingers were ice-cold or sometimes numb - she flexed them anxiously whenever she remembered to, just to check that she still could. Her ankles were bound too, though her legs hurt too much to move anyway.
Occasionally Garbog came and stared at her for a while, nudging her with his boot to check she was alive.
Just breathe.
Heartbeats stretched into centuries. Hours contracted into nothing.
Remember to breathe.
Was this a dream, or were those people at the gates? So hazy had her thoughts become, she could not have reacted even were she fully conscious. Come closer, dream-people. I cannot make you out from here. Step quietly though! You must not wake the hounds. One of you seems taller than the others. You seem almost to shine as you come towards me. What brings you here, dream-people? Do you come to lead me to the Halls of Mandos? Is it my time already? Beware of the hound, dream-creatures.
The wind whistling through her hair. Mist in her vision. More pain – a shoulder in her bruised side. No jolting. She felt as though she was flying, borne away by this tall, shining man. She did not have the strength to say a word, to ask him not to stop. Already the world was falling away again, drifting into the mists. They called to her.
Blackness.
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