Orm Tullim felt feverish next to the burning embers in the brazier, which barely illuminated anything in the room. He could make out the edge of a dais a few feet away, and was aware of a restless shape at his side which he took to be Rhaga. There were other shapes too, shapes that crawled along the walls and at knee level, which he feared too much to look at directly.  

 "Vengeance?" The Old Mother Redbones growled in the darkness. "What do crusaders know of vengeance?"

Orm Tullim's eyes strained against the darkness. He knew with uncomfortable certainty that the shadows were moving around him.  "I know that Lashka deposed you; I know you must hate her."  

There was silence for a moment; Tullim struggled with the hope that he might have reached her. Then she laughed cruelly. "You humans think that we are mere savages, so easily moved. You think that many of my kind cannot speak your language because we are too simple..."

He jumped as something hissed in his ear, so close that its breath raised the little hairs at the base of its neck. "But we listen, from the darkness, Orm Tullim. We watch as you murder out of fear, as you let the strong starve for a bit of gold and let the weak thrive simply because the one that had borne them wears it."

"It is is not the Uruk way," she said, "to let the weak burden the tribe."

He made a noise of protest, which was quickly choked back in the soot and ash. The Old Mother laughed again; this time the sound was distant, in the direction of the dais.

"How savage of me," she said, turning the word into a jape, "not to clear the air." There was movement by the dais.

"Open the vents, and stoke the fire," the Old Mother called, and the shadows moved to comply.

There was a great grinding sound like gears, and he startled as a blast of icy air hit him from above, accompanied by a dry leathery sound like the wings of a giant bat. The room was gradually bathed in  silver moonlight. As the room brightened, he began to make out details.

The moving shadows were kobolds – dozens of them. They crawled over every surface, tending glittering orbs that sat in niches set into the walls. Copper orbs, which sat on the lower tiers, were by far the most numerous, though there were silver and gold there as well. He took a step towards them in fascination. 

As one, the kobolds turned on him and snarled; he hastily took a step back.

Her attendants, Tullim realized. That meant she still had power in the camp. Perhaps he could use that. As the smoke cleared he turned towards the dais, where he assumed she had seated herself. There was a throne there that looked like it had been fashioned out of iron and a giant's pelvic bones. And seated on that throne was-

He fought the urge to scream. "Am I not fair, Orm Tullim?" the Old Mother said mockingly.

He gagged. Ancient was the word that sprang to mind; as old and twisted as the elf-oaks , he thought. Her limbs did look like branches, all bones and dry leathery skin. She was naked, save for a piece of hide that hung beneath her bloated belly.

What we do not eat, we use. Rhaga had said. Eater-of-the-Dead, he had named her.

Her hair – what little there was of it – hung in wisps from her scalp, which was grey and mottled with boils. Her ears were gone. Her brow protruded over her remaining eye, which shone moss-green and cruel. Her lips seemed to be stretched into a permanent smile - all jagged yellow teeth and purple, bloody lips – the rictus of one who has been damned and knows it, a death-mask to the joy of battle.  There was a gaping maw where her nose had been, and her cheeks on either side looked pocked with what he feared were teeth marks.

Tullim shuddered involuntarily. 

She noticed his eyes on her face and smiled wickedly. "The Sundog Gith took my ears, the treacherous little shaggas.  I took three-score of their children as my blood-price, and a hundred of the Uruk Sma. They all feared me, until she took my nose to spite my face."

Redbones laughed.  "Did you know that you humans get that saying from us? A Horde-Mother without her nose cannot track. She cannot hunt her enemies. She is nothing to her tribe if she cannot lead them. She is only good, as the keeper of death. A gnawer of bones."

Redbones walked over the nearest niche. "A keeper of  the old memories, of the Time-Below-the-Mountains..." she lifted the golden orb down, "Of our strongest warriors; of chieftains and horde-mothers long gone." 

She turned the orb towards him so that she could seek the rows of teeth, still sharp after all these centuries, she tilted it so he could see that every inch was covered with the jagged runes that orcs called uruk.

Skulls, he realized with horror, so many skulls… 

He glanced upward, trying to calculate how many. Hundreds. Thousands.   

"I remember," she whispered reverently as she placed the gold-plated bone in a small wooden bowl to shine in the moonlight. 

She looked at him balefully. "I remember…that though she took my face, though she humiliated me, Lashka is still Uruk. And you, pathetic little man, are not."

Tullim took a step back in fear, "Then why all this? Why did you want to see me?"

Redbones smiled. "To see what we are up against, my little Silver-Chain. To see if your people will be worthy to serve us."

What we do not eat, we use, Tullim remembered bitterly, as far above him the war-drums began to sound.  

This is my song, Lashka thought as she looked out over Ashk Harim, but do these children sing for me?

There were songs that the bards sang, she reasoned, songs that were as weak and watered-down as gnomish brew. This was different. It was the rhythm of sinew put to purpose, of the carving of wood and sharpened metal. It was a squealing calf as it was slaughtered for skin to make saddles and flexible armor; it was the exhalation of the bellows and the tolling of hammer on steel.

The wind carried other sounds to her ears - creche mothers singing to their whelps of the glory and battle their fathers would carry come first light. Old women sang the laments of chieftans long gone so that their spirits would give them courage. To the east, the servants of the gods spread the blood of slaves - elven, dwarven, and human - along each side of the triangular altar at the base of the temple complex.

Inside, she knew, the old priest Jaffa and his monks would be marking the heads and knives of the Iquadron acolytes with that same blood, so that even the shadows would melt before them, and the runes of power would tremble at their presence.

Old magic, she thought, written in the flesh. To be Uruk was to believe in the power of the blood. Why else take other races as slaves, or exact a blood-price from vanquished enemies? Why else consume the flesh of the dead, if not to gain their power.

"Rhugash is not happy to be left be left behind. He feels you shame him."

Lashka ignored Urgho for a moment, then sighed. "His son will honor his family; that should be enough."

"He says he is not ready to be fed to Old Mother Redbones just yet."

Lashka laughed. "I am rather fond of the fool, I must admit; she will not have him yet." She looked towards the southwest, towards the lights of Bristol Faire. "Besides, I need him here." In case I do not survive. He is the only one the others will listen to.

"Perhaps." Urgho said, "But my uncle will not survive a dozen more winters. Better he die in battle than a husk in a bed."

Lashka turned to him. "I need him," she said forcefully, "you will obey." His insolence was reminder that these were not really her people; not yet. She still had to prove herself in battle.

On the hill below them a great clamor came from the brewery. "Go see to the kobolds." Lashka said curtly. "I do not want them too drunk to fight in the morning."

Urgho inclined his head in submission. "As you say, Horde-Mother."

With Urgho gone, she was free with her thoughts, as unwelcome as they may be. On impulse, she unslung her battle horn, and placed it to her lips. The iron rim felt cold and cruel against her warm breath as she gave a might blast, which echoed off the wooden parapets of the gates below.

The clamor stopped suddenly; the entire city held its breath, and then a murmur started, building into a tide that coalesced around a single word taken up as a chant.

Uruk….Uruk…Uruk…

Now, she thought, my children sing for me.

"Mother..."

Lashka stood so still that for a moment Rhugash was not certain she had heard above the sound of thousands or orcs chanting below them.

"Horde-Mother..." 

"I heard you, Rhugash."

 She turned to look at him, and though he was old, something deep inside him stirred; he knew that look well – the rapture of the battle-born. Many chieftains felt it on the eve of their battle; it was rare to see a Horde-Mother experience it. Their domain was the survival of the uruk of the cities and towns – they kept order, leaving the waging of war to the chieftains.

I should lead, Rhugash thought sourly, this new Horde-Mother violates the order of things.  He could challenge her and become Horde-Chieftain himself - other tribes did it this way - but what then? He would spend his final days wondering when one of his rivals would be bold enough to challenge him.

Perhaps even Rhaga, he thought, perhaps even my son.

"Yes?"

Rhugash growled to cover the fact that his mind had wandered. "There has been a message from the Stalker, Vhaki. The defiled city awakens to our drums."

Lashka exhaled slowly; her eyes took on a dangerous half-lidded cast. "So be it. We are bringers of the night, so by night we will ride."

Rhugash shook his head. "We are not ready, Mother."

"Then you will make sure we are!" Lashka snapped. "You will wake the kobolds from the camps, rouse the uruk from the barracks, and make sure that Urgho feeds his wolves well. We march in an hour; make sure my wolf is saddled as well."

Rhugash blinked "Your wolf? Is that wise?"

Lashka glared at him. "Did I stutter?"

Shavit, all ground is treacherous with this one. He wondered, not for the first time, if removing the Old-Mother had been such a good idea. "I only meant -" he caught himself, "No, Mother; it is as you say," Rhugash said.

"Yes, I know what you meant..." Lashka replied. She looked at him carefully. "As I say, Rhugash. I am your Horde-Mother, and I will be obeyed. Or blood will fill the streets of two cities tonight."

"Yes, Mother." With a small bow, Rhugash excused himself, his mind already full of the changes he would have to make to the city guard. I will need Hargg and Urgho both; send a kobold to fetch Rhaga-

Rhugash turned back as a thought struck him. "What of Rhaga and the human, Tullim?"

"They both ride with us," Lashka said on impulse, "As do you. Tell Rushka she has the watch tonight." She watched with satisfaction as the old orc's chest swelled with pride. Keep him happy, a small voice inside her whispered, and you remove another rival.

 Tonight,  my children will sing for me.

Orcs had two views of trouble - one where one sought it out to challenge one's self, the other where it found you.

This, Ori thought, this is most definitely the second kind.

True, sitting in a sealed barracks with his enemies wasn't the worst situation he had ever put himself into - there was that time had had tried to run away, and ended up falling into that snake pit - but it came close.

"You. Boy," one of the soldiers growled. "Be a good lad, and bring me another pint." Ori moved quickly to comply. "Ah, there, that's a mate...gets harder and harder to keep the chill off the bones without a bit o' spiced mead. I keep telling Ellinora we ought to move on south, but..."

"That's enough of you, Tom Sullery," a burly stalwart said, knocking Sullery's feet off the table. "You'd wear a saint's patience thin with all yer flapping. Give the lad some peace..."

"Tom Foolery, more like," one of the other officers offered, and they all roared with laughter as Tom grumbled good-naturedly.

The stalwart reached back and handed Ori a crust of bread. "Here you are, there’s a bit of mash in the pot yet…" When Ori hesitated, the stalwart nudged him with a gauntleted finger. "Git goin'...it’ll be solid soon enough."

Ori stumbled over to the fire. He carefully spooned some of the marm barley and potato soup over the round of bread, careful not to spill a drop. He sniffed at it carefully, then took a careful bite. He groaned in appreciation at the wonderful taste, and without thinking, dropped down to a crouch next to the warm hearth stone.

Gradually, he became aware that the room had fallen silent; the entire room of soldiers were looking at him queerly. He realized too late that that light of the fire gave them a full, honest look of him – all skin and bones and clothes that hung in tattered rags. The filth was plain to see under his nails and in dirty streaks that traveled up both arms.

Ori looked around the room wildly. There was nowhere to run.

The stalwart looked at him. There was an expression there that Ori had never seen before.   “Here now, lad, you seem to be in a right ruinous state…” the stalwart said gently, "I’ve never seen a child of the Lady look so ill-used before. Who are your parents?"

On instinct, Ori decided against lying. "Don’t know. They died before I was born. Took care of myself, mostly." That part too was true; orcs were not known for treating their slaves well.

Especially Vhaki; especially after the viper pit. He trembled slightly.

"Easy lad, we won’t hurt you…" The stalwart reached a hand out to him. "A wildling," one of the older men said, nodding sagely. "That explains why we found him outside; must have wandered in from the cold," the soldier that had grabbed him off the street said.

"Most likely his parents were traders who ran afoul of those accursed orcs," another offered.

"Blankets,” the stalwart said, “and hot tea."

Ori smiled. That was easy enough to do, because he was happy. Happy to be warm, and surrounded by these foolishly giving people. He had had some trouble, but now it was the first kind: a challenge.

 I haven’t failed yet, Vhaki.

Not yet.

Not all of us can reflect the serenity of the Lady,  Emmit reflected, as he watched his brother Mylmo work in shadows and torchlight, Some of us need to thrive in the chaos.

All around them the townspeople stumbled out of their beds into the chill air of the night, but Mylmo was clear-headed and definitely in his element. "Move those horses, you slaggards! Elmi Torchwell, get that grain onto the wagon! Jasca, you silly girl, wait until we get those pigs loaded before tying off!" He moved in between the wagons and horses with a grace that belied his size; he had but to offer a calm word here, or curse loudly there, and the entire town moved to do his bidding.

I am their shepherd in name only, Emmit thought, it's him they trust.

It had always been that way with Mylmo. When he had been a boy, he had gone to Centrum to try his hand in the jousts. Mylmo the Mountain, they had called him. He had done quite well - for a trader's son - earning the respect of more than a few of the nobles.

 Things had been different for Emmit. He could never afford to accompany his brother that far inland. Their father needed him to help administer the accounts from the dockside and besides, he was the eldest son of a Kellsmouth fishmonger; there would be no life for him beyond the sea.

But they had loved Mylmo. Particularly their daughters, Emmit remembered, his mood souring.  Within three months, every bit of coin Mylmo had won had been handed over to the slatterns and the taverns and the cards.

My Queens of Cups and Brushy Thickets, Mylmo had called them, and if he had stayed within his class, perhaps he might have spent out the rest of his days in drunken bliss.

But then there had been the girl.

The Lannigold girl - Daisy, or Rose or somesuch - a flower had been her name; Myl would no doubt remember. A distant branch of the tree, to be sure, but still powerful enough that deflowering the flower had proven his brother’s undoing.

Father's too. Within a month of the affair being made public, their father's contracts had all been cancelled, or given to other merchants. Their loans were called in months early, and a suspicious fire had destroyed half their fleet.

The last memory Emmit had of his father was through the cart's iron bars as the King's Men hauled him off to debtor's prison. Mylmo had pleaded to the King for leniency, to no avail; the Lannigolds were a power to be reckoned in the Kingdom, and they had very long memories.

They had drifted for years before the priests had found them, half-starving in a village in Ursor. At first, their devotion stemmed from a warm bed and three meals. As they had lived with the priest of the Silver Chain both brothers found their faith worthy of emulation, and over time they had both found redemption as servants of the Lady. 

Emmmit had even found it within himself to forgive his brother in Her name.

 "Emm?" Mylmo called out, "The wagons are ready. Is our shepherd?"

Emmit could have told his brother how much that little gesture of deference meant. There would be time enough for  that later.

For now, he thought, there is a flock to tend.

"I'm sorry, boy - it had to be this way..."

Ori glared at the stalwart, and lunged at him through lattice of the wardrobe they had shoved him into. His hand throbbed, but he paid it no mind. So you say, Silver-Chain. When he focused his hatred of these humans, he almost felt as if uruk blood flowed through his veins.

Almost.

He pounded his good fist against the side of his own head. Stupid soft-headed fool! It had almost worked, the poor beggar act.

They had wrapped him up in warm blankets - horse blankets, actually - but they had felt so warm. And then one of the soldiers had suggested brandy to ward off the chill, and well by the time he had finished that, he felt fit to boil.

The warmth had made his eyelids heavy, and the next bit was still a bit fuzzy, but he remembered one of the soldiers tucking the blanket more tightly around him. It had reminded him of so much of nights spent bracing with Vhaki and Gruggi against the wind that he had instinctively murmured, "Uruk shagga vhok, Vhak'na  Grugg'" which might have translated into Common as "Sweet Dreams, Vhaki and Gruggi," if human dreams had routinely involved decapitating one's enemies.   

***

He was startled to find himself hauled swiftly to his feet by Tom Sullery, of all people. "What did you say?" When Ori didn't answer immediately, Tom nodded darkly. "That's what I thought." He propped Ori on a stool while the other men moved to form a circle around him.

Tom reached into the fire with a pair of metal tongs until he found an ember that still glowed red. "Now, you can either tell me why you can speak the Black Tongue," he walked slowly towards Ori, brandishing the ember, "or I can burn it out of you."

"Easy, Tom," the stalwart said.

Tom laughed. "Easy?  My sons died in that field - Jon and Avery. They were sixteen. Remember them, Robin? What about Hollis, and Dobrey and Flynn? Did they have it easy? The crows certainly did. They never got a proper burial, just left in a field to rot..."

Robin nodded. "Aye, and burning the lad silent won’t bring them back."

Tom shook his head, "I'm not sure the boy is what he says. Part of me thinks he's some sort of demon that just looks like a boy."

“Orcs know magic, and have assassins…” a freckled-faced boy barely older than Ori muttered.

"Shut up, Rody,"  Robin said through clenched teeth. He moved slowly, as if to not spook Tom.  "Tom..." Robin said softly. "Tom, look at me. Killing this boy won't bring them back. In your heart, you know that..." Robin glanced at the boy.

 In those eyes Ori saw something akin to regret in the seconds before they hardened. "Besides, if you burn his tongue, he can’t confess."

"Aye," Tom said softly, "There is that." A look of understanding passed between the men. "But a price needs to be paid."

Ori felt his shoulders relax. He almost laughed in relief. A blood-price? Is that all? Such things were common among orcs too. He might lose the tip of a finger for spying, but compared to losing his tongue, anything was preferable.

"Stick out your hand," Tom commanded, and he surprised them all by complying without protest. But his calm gave way to confusion as they turned his hand palm-up.  

"What are you..." he started to say, and then there was only pain, blinding pain as the hot ember was dropped into his outstretched hand.  He dimly heard Tom say "Grip it," and almost shrieked as they forced his hand into a fist with the ember as its beating heart.

Ori's vision began to go black at the edges.

"Enough," Robin said. "Bring the pail over here," he commanded.

Ori fell to his knees when they released him, cradling his injured hand to his chest. His breath came in quick, heaving sobs and the stench of burned flesh hung in the air.

He heard the door of the barracks slam quickly open, heard the great commotion of people moving outside, and then the door slammed shut and the wooden beam was lowered again against the door.

"Here," Robin said, gripping his wrist, "Put it here." The stalwart plunged his fingers into the pail, which he had filled with snowmelt, as the boy collapsed, sobbing, against his shoulder.

"The boy has been purged of his sin," Tom intoned, "His iniquity has been burned away from the hand he would raise against his own people..."

"He is forgiven," the soldiers replied in unison, "By the Blessed Light of Our Lady."

"He must serve his penance," Tom said, gesturing to two of the other soldiers, who had brought forth the lattice-box.

"Put him in."

 ***

Ori growled at Tom as he leaned forward to peer into the box. "He doesn't look very repentant," one of the soldiers said, and the others laughed. All except Tom and Robin, who stared at each other over opposite sides of the box.

Finally, Tom sighed. "Pete, Harry...load him on the wagons."

Harry made a noise of protest, but cut off when he saw Robin's face. "Aye," he said sullenly, giving the box a kick.

Pete grinned at Ori. "Just you wait, boy...you think we're bad? Just you wait till ol' Emmit gets his hands on you..." The other soldiers laughed.

"Just you wait..."

Wow pretty good

It's cold, Mylmo thought, and the wind will blow the lanterns out if we're not careful. He looked up ahead at his brother, who held one of the lamps aloft like one of the sea watchmen of their childhood. For his part, Emmit seemed immune to the elements, carved out of the same hardness that had been their father. 

Emmit swayed with a mariner's grace as the wagons heaved across the wintry steppe. He might have made a good fisherman, if it hadn't been for me. But those days lay behind him, with their ancestors and the kings of Tal.

They had given much of their seafaring roots. But they had kept the lanterns, despite the prohibitive cost.  Whale oil was almost unheard of this far north, but they still had kin that patrolled the southerns seas, and had not yet forgotten them. Every month Mylmo sent gold, and every month a barrel of oil arrived; Mylmo estimated they must have nearly fifty stored up at the monastery.    

He thought he heard his name being shouted above the wind. He lurched to his knees, cradling his lantern.

"Mylmo..."

The words were indistinct, drowned out by the wind and the chattering teeth of the villagers on either side of him. "Quiet," he growled. He strained against the rushing snow. Emmit turned forward for a moment, then Mylmo saw his brother straighten like a pin before whipping around to face him again.

The wind shifted, blowing Emmit's words towards him "Bridge..." he heard clearly, and "fire..." He inhaled the wind, smelled smoke and ash. The night sky was a little brighter to the east. They got ahead of us, he thought despairingly.

They had burned the bridge... Mylmo thought, they mean to slaughter us all. He looked down at the villagers next to him. He saw how worn and sullen their faces were. These were no fighters - they were potters and weavers and tanners.

Mylmo looked to his brother, who for all his grace was no fighter either.  He weighed their options carefully. There will be no going forward, that's for sure.

He lifted his lantern and covered the light with his hand. Thrice, an ancient Tallimar signal that the lightkeepers had used to warn villagers when there were raiders on the shoals. 

 Emmit returned the gesture; he spoke curtly into his wagon driver's ear. The driver tried to argue with him, but Emmit pointed to the smoke that had just started to come into the horizon.

Harry drew up next to Mylmo's wagon. "Trouble?"

"Trouble," Mylmo agreed.

(Author Note: Thanks to all for the encouragement. It keeps me motivated to write.)

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Jhorgo loved the smell of the black powder, loved even more the white phosphorescence as it lit, the way it eagerly consumed wood and iron and could even make the oldest stones tremble. He loved the hiss that was deadlier than the darkest asp that built into a deafening roar.

He studied the bridge again. He had covered the timbers in lamp oil, and poured powder into the seams, setting two small kegs underneath the keystone in the center arch. He had wound strips of cotton together and dipped those in lamp oil as well to make a rudimentary fuse.

"Let's go, saboteur..."  the Split-skull growled from atop his wolf, making the word sound like a curse.

Jhorgo sighed. Riders like Urgho preferred charging into battle. They never appreciated the subtle cunning and planning that went into moments like this - the endless experimentation to find the perfect mixture, the selection of the proper stress points. Such things required careful study.

"Fine," he snapped, aware that Urgho's evaluation of his work could reach the Horde-Mother's ears. He lit the fuse, watching as the flames licked hungrily at the threads. Urgho's wolf paced restlessly next to him; it clearly did not like the fire. Urgho whispered in its ear to be still.

"How long will this ta-" Urgho started to say but the rest was cut off by a brilliant flash as the bridge exploded in all directions. Timber and stone rained down on the orcs, who turned their faces away in disgust. Urgho's wolf bolted, throwing his rider into the mud at Jhorgo's feet.

The saboteur knew better than to laugh, but he permitted himself a small smile as he surveyed the new pile of rubble in the stream. A few loose stones clattered belatedly to join their brothers, and there were a dozen new fires burning merrily away across both sides of the river.

 I would have warned you to brace yourself, Split-skull, if you had left me to my work. Urgho floundered to his feet in the mud, sputtering. The Split-skull stomped over to where his wolf lay, shivering and boxed it on the ear hard enough to make it yelp as he clambered back into the saddle.

Jhorgo thought to make a jest, but held his tongue when he saw murder in Urgho's eyes.

"The humans. We go. Now." Urgho said, pulling his mount by its reins up onto its haunches.  Jhorgo leapt nimbly onto the back of one of the other wolves. He inhaled the rising smoke and ash, feeling his chest swell with pride. He seated himself facing rearwards so that long after the wolves had plunged into the wind he could watch the embers of his work drift high into the night.