Morsnak wrapped the borrowed cloak around himself. Normally it was quite hot in Mordor, and as with all hot places, it was very cold at night. He shivered, and looked over at Corporal Zagluk. Despite his stomach churning appearance and his initial feelings of mistrust, Morsnak found the Corporal to be a very caring individual.
For example, an hour earlier, as they rounded a corner, they came across a mugger plying his trade. Zagluk, or Zaggy as he preferred to be called, had waved Morsnak on and said that he could have this one. Morsnak vaguely recalled that he said it was both fun and easy.
Later, when pulling Morsnak out of the muck, Zaggy had said that muggers often did that to fresh blood, but after a few years they would line up to surrender. Morsnak had beamed at the praise. Or at least he beamed at what he thought was praise, but was oddly punctured with fits of orcish sniggering, which is normally emitted at a decibel level loud enough to shatter eardrums.
But now, at two A.M., with the novelty of patrolling wearing off, Morsnak found himself understanding why watchmen were always so ecstatic to go back to the watch house and have a mug of hot cocoa. He returned his attention to the ‘beat’ as the watchmen called it; people who did not pay attention in Udûn found themselves lying naked in a ditch, staring up at the stars and with their throat slit more often than not.
There were only five beats in Udûn. There was Broad Way, which was the straight, main street that led all the way from The Black Gate to Isenmouthe, Thespian Road to Crook Alley, which contained the watch house. Then there was the gate itself; it had a broad road running down the center that was paved with large cobblestones. In times of relative peace , it was a highly popular and contested spot for selling merchandise.
The way up to the Gate Way was through a series of tunnels on the north-western end. The tunnels formed a complex network that stretched all across the valley and out to the two tower-forts beyond the gate.
Morsnak had been very relieved when he learned that they would not be required to man the towers. He had a terrible fear of heights and was claustrophobic to boot (it didnÂ’t look very roomy inside those towers). Zaggy had kindly offered to take him up on a tour after Morsnak had told him this. Morsnak decided that Zaggy was a bit hard of hearing, bless him.
He had also decided that the permanent and unsettling smirk on ZaggyÂ’s face was supposed to be a sign of friendship. Or at least he prayed that it was.
Brushing up to the north-east side of the gate was the tangled mass of alleys that was commonly known as The Pits. ItÂ’s official name, Morsnak noted, was Under-gate. It was always good to learn interesting facts in order to surprise smug locals.
At the moment they were currently prowling the dim, narrow streets of The Pits. Zaggy had said that it was best that he learn this route first, because they wouldnÂ’t be able to go there after the soldiers arrived. Then he gave Morsnak a conspiratorial dig in the ribs and winked. Morsnak couldnÂ’t imagine why anyone would want to be in these streets at all.
So he decided to speak his mind. He cleared his throat while Zagluk pulled a dog-end from some unseen pocket and lit it. “Sir,” he said, “I still don’t understand why anyone would want to come down here.”
Zaggy snorted and put out his dog-end with the snot, “And I had you ear-marked as a clever lad. Possibly even a Zaggy-junior to take over the bribe-and-blackmail business when I retire.” He sighed and selected another dog-end, of which he had a seemingly limitless supply. “Use your eyes lad! Take a look around.”
“I don’t want to anymore sir. There’s lady-orcs wearing pink feathers and not much else, and for Morgoth’s sake there’re humans here! Humans! Everyone knows they’re filthier than us!” said Morsnak with extreme disdain.
“I thought you said you had a few humans you talked to about…” Zaggy paused, apparently thinking, and took a deep draw on his dog-end, “…art, ‘n stuff. YÂ’know, wimmin in the nudd anÂ’ all that.”
“But that’s different,” protested Morsnak, “It was just talking! I didn’t tell them to parade around in their unders!”
“Unders? Wossat?”
“You know…” Morsnak muttered, “What you wear, er, under your pants…”
“Don’t wear anything under my pants, lad.”
“DoesnÂ’t it…wrankle?”
“Not since I started puttin’ that cream that Sharahk sells on it. ‘S got herbs in.”
Deciding not to speak his thoughts of the authenticity of the so-called ‘herbs, Morsnak replied, “Of course, sir.”
“But lad, dÂ’yÂ’know that when, er, when a soldier, or any orc fer that matter, gets lonely… there are… things he needs, yÂ’know… comforts of home, anÂ’ all that.”
“You mean like a hot meal, socks without holes in, fresh sheets?”
“No, sÂ’not like that atall. Most oÂ’ the lads I know donÂ’t even wear socks, or have sheets neither. SÂ’more like…ferbidden stuff… pleasures of the wossname.”
“Like what, sir?”
Zaggy stared up into the bright, shining face of Lance-Constable Morsnak, “Well…he…well…you see…er…forget I ever mentioned it, okay?”
“Yessir.”
“Good,” Zaggy looked around shadily, “Now if anyone offers you a thrupenny stander, tell them to bugger off, and if they get smart with you after that, hit ‘em wit’ your nightstick.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s only worth tuppence! Thass price gouging that is! And the way they do it so shoddy around here, it’s not even really worth three for a penny!”
“What is a thrupenny stander, anyway?”
“Er,” Zaggy’s face turned a shade of muted orange, which was the equivalent of a blush, “It’s a pad. For the soles of your boots.”
“So why shouldn’t I purchase some? My boots are, well, uncomfortable.”
“Believe you me; you should by these pads from Dr. Sharku down on Broad Way. He’ll sell you some good ones.”
“Gosh, thanks Corporal!”
“Don’t mention it kid. You wanna roll-up?”
Morsnak looked condescendingly at the proffered dog-end, and sniffed, “No thank you sir. I don’t smoke. I’ve always thought it was bad for you.”
“Suit yerself.” Zagluk took the current dog-end from his mouth, put it back in his pocket, lit up another and took a long draw on it, “Ah. D’you drink then?”
“Not much, sir. And shouldn’t we be patrolling sir?” said Morsnak reproachfully.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Zaggy waved his hand vaguely, “We will be, Lance-Constable. The pub is on our route, y’see. It’s a wretched hive of scum. And who’s to say we can’t have a drink while we’re upholding the law?”
“Er…no one sir?”
“Exactly! Now let’s get moving, shall we?”
They set off through the shambling alleyways, Morsnak limping slightly (“You’ll have better luck on your second go,” declared Zaggy as the gang of snotty-nosed orc children left their victim and advanced on the duo. Shortly thereafter, Zaggy had vacated the premises, coming back in time to drag Morsnak into an alleyway to hide).
Zaggy attempted to play host on the way to the tavern. He wasnÂ’t very good at it, thought Morsnak, bless him for trying though. He seemed to be only interested in the sequin-clad young-ladies, and knew a great number of them by name, and so called out to them. Obscenely.
Morsnak was therefore glad when they reached the tavern. Surely there would not be any young women in there who would punch Zaggy in the face and kick him in the tonkers in there. One could see that Morsnak had never been in a tavern in his life.
The tavern was called Minas Ethyl. He grabbed Zaggy by the shoulder, who recoiled, and pointed excitedly at the sign, smiling broadly.
Zaggy shifted position so that Morsnak’s hand slipped off his shoulder, taking nearly an inch of grease and grime with it. “Yeah,” he said, spitting out his dog-end and lighting another, “That’s a tav-ern si-gn. It is used for ad-ver-tis-ing pur-po-ses. People see the si-gn and say, ‘Gee, that looks like a great place to get drunk,’ and then they go in.”
“Yes, I know the principles behind advertising,” said Morsnak irately, “But don’t you see the joke?”
Zaggy scratched the stubble on his chin and looked up at the sign. After a moment, he turned back to Morsnak, “Nope. Is it in them real small letters because you see, my eyesight ainÂ’t what it used to be…”
“No! No! Minas Ethyl? The Tower of Alcohol? Get it? No?” he said, eyeing the blank look on Zaggy’s face. There was a moment’s awkward silence. “Who owns this place?” Morsnak asked, hoping to meet someone who had a basic sense of punning.
“Er,” said Zaggy, walking in, “I dunno. I suppose Lady Ulruk, she lives over in Northern Nurn, she owns the place, but Big Abu runs it from day to day. And Sharahk the Merchant’s got a deal wit Big Abu; he gets a permanent cut of the profits or he poisons the beer. Dunno if that counts as ownership.”
“Poison the beer?” asked Morsnak as he followed his partner, “How would he do that?”
“Add his merchandise to the vats,” replied Zaggy, sidling into the shadows. He gravitated to the shadows; it was probably a survival trait of some sort. Somehow he made it up to the bar while staying within the general gloom. It was quite impressive. “Ello Zaggy,” said the huge figure in the shadows , “That’ll be a ‘How’s-yer-mum” then?”
“Wit an umbrella innit,” said Zaggy happily. He sat down on a stool, and turned back to his partner. With immense disdain, he snarled, “What the hell are you doing?”
Morsnak looked crestfallen, “You mean you can see me?”
“‘Course I can see you! Yer edgin’ along the wall like an idiot!”
The huge shadow behind the bar returned with Zaggy’s drink. Morsnak thought that he saw white teeth flash in the dim light of a wax-encrusted chandelier. “That a sure way to get splinters in yer arse, bwana.”
“Too right, Abu,” said Zaggy, lifting the nearly opaque glass into the air, “Bottoms up.” He immediately broke out into a fit of coughing and wheezing, “Yep! That’s the stuff!” He fell off his barstool and starred at the ceiling.
Big Abu shook his head, or at least Morsnak assumed he shook his head. He was good at lurking in the shadows. “Why you do that to yourself, Zaggy…I mean, Ikutiki , lamp oil and gin. You gonna kill youself bwana.”
Zaggy made a valiant effort to stand up, made it to his knees, pulled a barstool with Morsnak perched atop in close to him and vomited. Morsnak leapt off his chair and edged away.
Big Abu frowned, or at least Morsnak felt an aura of frown radiating off of him, “An’ I jus’ put down new sawdust too.”
Morsnak surreptitiously squeezed into the corner (also in the shadows), and made a valiant attempt not to be noticed. Alas, slinking about and hiding in the shadows in the corner is one art form that Morsnak had never attempted, and thus he stuck out and was blaringly obvious like…something that sticks out and is blaringly obvious.
There came the sound of spitting from the general location of Big Abu, and then the squeak of cloth on wet glass. Morsnak got the feeling that the bartenderÂ’s looming presence was watching him bemusedly.
“You can’t half lurk around in da shadows bwana.”
Morsnak tried using his shoulder blades to dig into the wall. “How ‘bout now?” he asked as he nestled them into the inches deep grooves.
“Well, I set back two dollas now, but no change otherwise.”
“Bugger.”
Morsnak gave up and walked back over to the bar, taking care not to step on the still retching form of Corporal Zagluk. He could see approximately four teeth gleam as Big Abu grinned. From out of the darkness, a glass was pushed at him. It bubbled. He tentatively took a sip as Big Abu continued.
“You ainÂ’t got da look of a milÂ’try man ‘bout you, er…”
“Morsnak,” added the same helpfully.
“Ya, Morsnak. What you join da watch for eh? Do a few murders, didja?”
Morsnak looked taken aback, “Goodness, no! Nothing like that at all!”
“Ah,” there was a hollow cavernous sound, and Morsnak realized that Big Abu was tapping the side of his nose, “Thievin’ then? Some items went missing and unaccountably turned up in your gear, an’ all of a sudden they were breaking out the shampoo and bath oils, and you had to high-tail it quick?”
“Certainly not!”
“Did ya get a girl into trouble, then?”
“No!”
“Your father sent you away because he thought you were a disgrace to orcish traditions.”
“Spot on. Tipped slaves pennies, gave sums to beggars, style of thing.”
He was hit full in the face with a spray of lukewarm Ikutiki hit him full in the face. Big Abu lurched forward out of the shadows, half a ton of flesh. Small, twitchy orcs in the other convenient shadows in the bar jumped at the jarring impact, drawing knives and other, less easily nomenclatured weaponry.
In an orc-bar, everyone is on edge, everyone is armed, it is dark, and there is no room to maneuver. Thusly, four were killed as a result of the mass drawing of weapons, one from being knocked into his beer, and eight were on the floor writhing. Blood, opting to skip the pooling stage, was eating into the woodwork.
Amid the moans and groans and screamed obscenities, Big Abu hauled himself back up. He smiled, wiping his mouth as he said, “I can see why Radrak considers you a bit of a disgrace, bwana. But don’t worry, we see all sorts in here. Once, we had a monk who gave all his money to a group of slaves. Dey thought he was coming the raw prawn of course, but he was really a few palms short of an oasis. Swept da floors here for a bit. Disgusting, ‘ow clean dey were. You coulda eaten off dem and not gotten a single bit of filth in?”
“And everyone knows the termites provide extra protein,” added the recumbent Zaggy.
“S’right,” said Big Abu. Glancing up, he noticed the shocked visage of Morsnak. He nodded, “You spill something hot on your lap bwana?”
“Mwaa…” came the somewhat distraught reply.
Big Abu leaned over the bar and peered down at semi-prone lump of flesh that was Corporal Zagluk. With two fingers like sausages the big man poked the prostate orc,
“It he alright? Only, he makin’ noise like he isn’t.”
Zaggy lifted his head, swaying slightly as he did so. He looked up at Morsnak in his borrowed pants, and said, “Ugh! He just pissed Grishrat’s best pair of trousers!” Rather weakly and unsteadily, he reached out and smacked Morsnak on the leg, “What’d you go do that for?”
“Mwaa…” replied the distressed Lance-Constable as he pointed a filth-encrusted finger at the looming, human figure of Big Abu.
“Damnit kid, what’s the matter with you?”
MorsnakÂ’s wavering finger shifted from the bartender, to his drink and then up to his mouth, making choking noises. Big Abu nodded knowingly,
“‘S his drink. Not many can hold that kind of liquor in them too long.”
As if on cue, Morsnak vomited vehemently all over the bar top. The bartender nodded, “See, what’d I tell you?”
“YouÂ’re…human,” said Morsnak hoarsely, “I accepted a drink from a human.” For a quiet soul such as Morsnak, the previous sentence was an astonishing verbal feat. He managed to project into one word what it normally takes a wide variety of swear words and witch-doctor curses to portray.
“Very observant lad, I’d say,” said Big Abu vaguely.
“Everyone knows your filthier than us! You smell funny, you all do! And just the presence of you can lower an orc’s IQ by several points.”
“You been talkin’ to me for twenny minute, bwana. It a wonder you can still speak, eh?”
“The fact of the matter is,” spluttered Morsnak, “That youÂ’re all just…just…not right!”
“That a bit hippo-critical of you Morsnak. All da tings Radrak say about you make me tink you a bit of a human symaptizer. You were trying to get them wages, I hear.”
“Yeah, but…” Morsnak stopped for a moment. This was hypocritical, and therefore very unlike him. He struggled to rationalize, which was also something he would very rarely do. He put it down to all the funny smells, “We-ll, would you feed a dog that was fresh out of the dung-heaps?”
“Ye-ss,” said Big Abu slowly. He wasn’t very good with metaphor.
“Would you let it sleep in your bed?”
The big human’s eyes narrowed, “Dat was uncalled for.”
“When you get right down to it,” continued Morsnak, pointedly ignoring Zaggy’s frantic hand signals from down on the floor in a characteristic display of not knowing when to drop a subject, “The fact of the matter is that you’re a bloody human.”
It was the swear word coming from the delicate orcÂ’s mouth that attracted the attention of the barÂ’s other denizens. This was not something that a person like Morsnak needs on their first day on the job.
“Yeah, and he makes the damn best drinks north of Cirith Ungol, friend,” came a low menacing voice from behind the guardsmen. The hairs on the back of Morsnak’s neck stood straight up, no mean feat. Written deep within the subconscious of every individual is a deep mistrust of anyone that pronounces ‘friend’ with the same inflection as ‘victim’.
Zaggy obviously felt this instinct rise to the surface, as he quickly stood up and bolted for the door, muttering something like, ‘I’ll just leave you to handle this Lance-Constable,’ as he left. Morsnak turned around to see two dozen armed orcs standing behind him.
“Well,” said the foremost orc, “Have you anything to say to our good friend Abu?”
Morsnak glanced at the assorted weaponry of the orcs and said, unsteadily, “Uh, drop your weapons or I’ll arrest you?”
The orc grinned, revealing filed teeth. They were black; not the rotted-away black, the I-just-tore-out-someoneÂ’s-throat-with-my-teeth-and-this-is-dried-blood black.
“I am an officer of the law?” said Morsnak weakly as liquid trickled down his leg.
“Oh good,” said someone from the back of the crowd, “That opens a huge range of options on what we can do with your badge.”
“Eep?”
“Hey! Where’s he going?”
“Gerrim!”
Big Abu, with speed unusual for one so fat, started hiding all of the bottles and glasses behind the counter as the mob chased after the retreating Lance Constable.
Luckily for him, mob-IQ is lower than that of most things that grow on bread that has been in the pantry too long.

Captain de Vile moved at a leisurely stroll down the Pits, smoking a fine Umbar cigar, and chatting idly with Gromwûsh.
“So, Sergeant, have you had your holidays yet this year?”
“No, sir. Been thinking about visiting Mount Doom again. I can never get enough of that place.”
“Ah.” A pause. “Which of your dependants has been misbehaving this time?”
“Rihr. He’s being a right pain i’th’arse to be honest, sir.”
“You’ve tried the branding irons?”
“He just seems to enjoy them.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Yes sir.”
Another pause.
“I guess that’s the only thing to do with ones like that; you know, push them into the Crack of Doom.”
“I’ve been considering just slitting his throat, if it means I can spend my holidays somewhere where I dun come out all crispy.”
De Vile shook his head, throwing ash to the winds. He hunched his shoulders and leaned against the nearest wall, creating a little hut of warmth and peace. It was short lived, however.
Corporal Zagluk came tearing around the corner as though his bum was alight. Nearly crashing into Hut De Vile, he tried to regain his breath and a semblance of composure, which was difficult, as he had neither to begin with.
“Captain,” he wheezed, “TheyÂ’re…kill…kid. In Minas…Ethyl.”
“And you left him?” asked Captain De Vile incredulously.
“I thought your motto was ‘Never drop your mates into the cacky,’ Corporal,” said Gromwûsh, “I’m rather disappointed in you.”
“It…only applies…to other…people…in…regards to me,” Zagluk wheezed.
“I should’ve guessed,” rumbled Gromwûsh, “So many of your bloody policies and mottos do.”
De Vile sighed. “I suppose we’d better get over there, then.” He stubbed out his cigar on the wall, leaving a small hole in the woodwork. Then he pulled out his truncheon, wiggled his helmet until it was secure on his head and said, “Boys, let’s go prod buttock.”
“So long as I don’t get mine prodded in return, thass all ‘m sayin’,” muttered Zaggy.

They stopped at the end of the street, where they could hear the screams and the tinkle of broken glass. A chair flew out through the window and into an alley, from which issued a scream of pain, followed shortly by a half-naked orc. The three guards-orcs looked at each other, rocking on their toes in an ashamed manner.
There was a screech from inside so loud that the aural nerves shut down. Captain De Vile winced; a rare sign of sympathy. He pushed Corporal Zaggy forward, surreptitiously wiping his hands on Gromwûsh’s jerkin.
“Go on then Corporal,” he said.
“Why me?” whined Zagluk.
“We-ll, itÂ’s on account of you beinÂ’ the least senior officer present, anÂ’ heÂ’s your partner,” replied De Vile, “AnÂ’ anÂ’ anÂ’… just do it, Zaggy! I donÂ’t need to give you a reason! ‘M your commandinÂ’ officer!”
“We-ll,” said Zaggy with the air of someone speaking to a small child, “I think tha’, tha’, tha’ this task should be del-e-gated to Sergeant Gromwûsh, on account of him bein’ the biggest an’ strongest of our squad.”
“Hrm?” asked Sergeant Gromwûsh, still staring with a calculating expression at the half-clothed orc who had fallen out of the alleyway.
“We think you should go rescue him, Sarge,” murmured Zaggy.
“We?” hissed Captain De Vile.
“Why?” asked Gromwûsh, “I mean, I know it was us what started the fight what knocked him out, but I dun think we need to rescue him. Besides, he’s probably got a change purse. An’ the boots are always worth somethin’.”
“What are you blabbering about now, Gromwûsh?”
“Well, he’s uncon-, uncon-, unconsci-, out cold damnit, innit he? Best time to nick boots dat.”
“Try to keep up will you, Gromwûsh?” sighed De Vile.
“Sir. What is it dat I’m supposed to do sir?”
They told him. Gromwûsh’s face twisted into a far more grotesque shape that probably indicated disgust. Then he smiled, if you could call it a smile. The corners of his lips turned up and his eyes narrowed. The other two sighed and braced for what was about to come.
Gromwûsh was about to try cunning.
This may not sound like much of a thing at all, but to someone who prefers to walk through doors rather than figuring out how the knob works it is quite a feat indeed. However, to the knowledge of Captain De Vile and Corporal Zaggy, Gromwûsh had never been able to come close to pulling it off properly.
“W-ell,” started Gromwûsh, the other two wincing at the misplaced dash, “I tink, I tink dat, this task should be de-gated to the Captain, on account of…er…er…”
De Vile and Zaggy exchanged slight nods; here was where it would all fall apart, like every other time.
“…On account of me not wantinÂ’ to do it and sneakily fobbinÂ’ it off to him,” finished Gromwûsh, who beamed.
The sounds emitting from the bar seemed to decrease in volume, as if joining in the shocked pause. Zaggy coughed.
“That ain’t gonna cut it, ‘m afraid, sarge,” he said, pulling another dog-end from behind his pointed ear.
“Oh. All right then. How about, someone else does it, or I’ll punch ‘em inna face. How ‘bout dat?”
“Hmm,” said Zaggy thoughtfully, “Better.”
“Bugger this!” shouted De Vile suddenly, slamming his truncheon into his palm. His face shifted from its normal, if not care-free than couldnÂ’t-be-bothered, expression into one of stern, if asinine, heroism, “One of our boyos is in there and IÂ’ll be damned if we leave him in there! Zaggy! Gromwûsh! Get your arses in…big metal disc thing with teeth!”
He marched down the rickety cobblestones down towards Minas Ethyl, which was only a story high and tower-like at all in any way. The corporal and the sergeant followed him out of morbid curiosity. They had seen Shagwakh De Vile like this before, usually right before everything went all fruit-shaped and somebody died a horrible death. They usually tagged along, if only to see who it was.
Shagwakh De Vile would be the first to admit that he wasnÂ’t a particularly brave orc. Actually, he wouldnÂ’t, because he would probably be legging it to the nearest hidey-hole if the occasion to ever do so arose. But the point was that while he ran away at the sight of a small, not very vicious puppy, he would probably charge headlong into a regiment of enemy cavalry if they had another guards-orc in their clutches. This was because Shagwakh De Vile had a philosophy.
It went something like this: If you were a copper, you looked after your own. You kept to yourselves, and you never, ever, crossed people who could kill you. If you did, you didnÂ’t leave your mates to take the piss, because they were your mates, and all that coppers had were one another. You kept your head down, you took your lumps, and above all, you looked after your mates.
It was a philosophy that had gotten him into a lot of trouble with a great variety of parties. Shagwakh, although he couldnÂ’t read if you cut off all of his fingers, had a sort of genius that very few orcs achieve. He could look at the enemy and think. He didnÂ’t just mindlessly charge, because that meant that your mates died, and nothing was more important than your mates.
Once, before he ran in terror at the sound of a miaow, he had been a general in SauronÂ’s army, one of the most privileged orcs in all of Mordor. Then he had been ordered to pacify a village in Harad, and when you try to pacify the Haradrim, they pacify right back at you. One thing had led to another, and there had been Words between Shagwakh and the lord commander of the regiment. He had relinquished his rank and sat back on the sidelines in protest, for what good it did. They charged in anyway, and out of a regiment, four walked out again.
The problem was that everyone was so bloody stupid, he would often think. They assumed that the sight of a lot of armed orcs with the same emblem on their shields would frighten anyone into submission, and that humans would run away if you screamed loud enough.
Giving him Gate-watch and the Udûn City Guard had been a private dig at his expense among the Lords of Mordor. He was just another used up tool; albeit one with a little use left in him. It made his blood boil.
But he kept his head down, and he took his lumps, and he drank a lot, mostly to forget, but sometimes just because the world seemed less daft when it was seen through the bottom of a glass. Then, a year ago, he had joined a bunch of other drunkards down at Snuck-About Lane and stopped drinking. Now he had anger issues a mile wide, because all the cares and rage at everyone doing it wrong that had either drowned in the soft nectar of alcohol or passed out with his water now just brimmed up to the top and spilled over.
Normally he just pounded holes in the cellar walls, but sometimes, when one of his was in it deep, it would leak out in another way. Sergeant Gromwûsh, to whom nomenclature came to about as easily as trigonometry came to a limpet, had taken to calling it, well, IT, always capitalized and in italics, without exception.
And so, Captain De Vile stormed into the bar with a face set in stone and his truncheon raised above his head. The noise stopped, and for a moment there was a calculating silence and then the screams started again, punctuated every so often by a resounding ‘thok’, as could be made a heavy piece of wood connecting with a nearly-hollow head.
It stopped.
Cautiously, Zaggy and Gromwûsh eased their heads around the edge of the door-frame. De Vile was standing in the center of a ragged semi-circle of semi-conscious, unconscious, and probably-dead orcs. Morsnak was nowhere to be seen. Gromwûsh whistled softly, causing some miraculously un-smashed glasses on corner tables to vibrate off the edge of the table.
“Dunno what all the fuss is about,” muttered a low voice under a pile of broken chairs and tables, “All I said that he was human. No law agains’ pointin’ out the obvious, and I would know, bein’ a copper an’ all.”
De Vile walked over to the pile and flipped a table over with his boot. Huddled under it was a much shaken Lance Constable Morsnak. De Vile held out a hand, and Morsnak looked at it as though it was going to explode. Eventually, he took the proffered hand, stood up and looked around.
Zaggy was going through the pockets of all of the prone figures, nicking any small items of jewelry he found as he went. He smiled brightly when he noticed Morsnak watching him.
“Knew I was keeping you around for something! There’s a year’s pay in this liddle lot if I’m any judge.”
“Ehng,” muttered Morsnak.
“And the way you ducked under the table and let ‘em finish one another off, well, all I can say is that you’re a bleedin’ pro-di-jee!”
“Ehng.”
There was a sound like a gale sweeping down a coast, and Morsnak realized that Big Abu was sighing. He swiftly ducked behind De Vile and poked his head out warily. Big Abu was looking with a jaundiced eye at the extensive damage; nearly every glass and bottle in the bar was broken, save a few rescued by the bartender or sheer luck. And there was a great deal of damage to the woodwork, which made him despair more.
In a place like Udûn, where glass can easily be made from the abundant sand supply and forges that are built over volcanic hotspots but wood has to be carted five hundred miles away, there is a reversal of class-dwellings. Houses that are made of stone belong to the poor; anyone with a chisel and a sense of what they’re doing can make a house out of stone. No, the truly wealthy lived in houses made of the same wood that the poorest woodsman lived in. Not the same exact wood, of course, the same type of wood.
In fact, the Watch-house had once been made of wood. But after the third time it had been burnt down on a dare , the city council had decided it wasnÂ’t worth the cost and built it again out of stone.
De Vile winced in sympathy as he surveyed the damage. This had been a damn good fight and it would take a lot more than some spit and mortar to pay for these damages. He looked severely at Zaggy, who was trying to avoid Big AbuÂ’s soulful gaze. The corporal ignored him, but shuffled around in a way that suggested that he was standing on needles. The captain coughed pointedly.
“Oh all right, all right!” groaned Zaggy. He grinned sheepishly up at Big Abu, “Split it with you? Sixty-thirty?”
He cringed as Captain De Vile frowned and moved forward.

“I still don’t see why I had to give him all of it!”
De Vile gritted his teeth, and jammed his helmet down further over his head, although all this did was give the constant stream of protests a tinny and echoing quality. He hunched up his shoulders and kept his eyes straight ahead, at a point on the pavement eight feet away. Behind him, Gromwûsh berated Zaggy for, among other things, e.g. his kleptomaniacal habits and for running several protection rackets in Lower Broadway and Small Street, his lack of selflessness.
Beside him walked a dazed Morsnak, who was not, in fact, looking at anything at all, because he had slipped on broken glass on his way out the door and had banged his head on the cobblestones. De Vile had wondered briefly what had happened to his helmet, but had quickly decided that Zaggy had nicked and sold it, and already it was an ornamental tea set. It didnÂ’t matter; they had enough armor for a regiment in the basement in the watchhouse.
Once upon a time, there had been over five hundred guards-orcs in the Udûn Gate Watch. What the men in The West didn’t notice, being far to preoccupied with their own decline, was that the glory years of the orcs had been over since S.A. 3320, when Arnor and Gondor were founded. Without an embodied Sauron to lead them, their glory just seemed to fade.
Sauron might have seen the War of the Ring as a method of regaining his beloved ring, but the orcs saw it as a return to the glory years of the First Age, and they dreamed…
They dreamed of having everything once again.
They dreamed of piles of jewels and precious metals piled high against the walls of their wooden mansions.
They dreamed that the sun would be blotted from the sky, and they would walk freely under the darkness once again.
And De Vile dreamed that dream. He told himself he had to dream that dream, otherwise what was the point of living? What was the point of serving? He might as well march up to the front door of the Barad-dûr and proclaim loudly that Sauron was a git.
Mostly, he just wanted his life to mean something again. He wanted being a copper to actually be a job that was offered in pamphlets. Not that it would matter, as most potential coppers couldnÂ’t read, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered. And if that meant that he had to subscribe to something he didnÂ’t believe in, than so be it.
He was so caught up in his quasi-dreams that he didnÂ’t notice the look on the young lance-constableÂ’s face. It was not the glazed, barely-conscious look he would have expected. It was one of puzzlement, certainly, but calm, calculating kind.
Morsnak was many things, an artist, a coward, a hypocrite, a weakling, and un-orclike in nearly everyway, but one thing he was not was unobservant. Someone with the previously stated traits would not last long if they werenÂ’t observant and quick-witted.
True, he had been in his very-first tavern brawl, but one thing that had slipped through straight into his subconscious was this: Big Abu had called his father by his first name twice. He had mentioned that his father had been saying nasty things about him.
Neither of these things on their own or together bothered Morsnak much. Anyone was entitled to call his father by name, and he was used to his father saying nasty things about him; it was practically his job. It was, in fact, the only job he did, as he had thralls to do everything else.
No, what bothered Morsnak was that these things had come out of the mouth of Big Abu. He felt certain that Big Abu had never met his father, because he would have remembered him. It was very difficult to forget someone like Big Abu, regardless of how hard one tried. It troubled him deeply, but he decided to let it lie for now.

A month slunk by, embarrassed at having to be in Udûn, a city only more significant than the shanty-towns of the armies only because the buildings stayed in one place for more than five weeks.
Lance-Constable Morsnak had gone to the metal-smith the day after the incident at Minas Ethyl. He had twenty-five dollars with him, which was the equivalent of a monthÂ’s pay. In addition, he had fifteen dollars that De Vile had insisted that Zaggy give to Morsnak, seeing as he was the cause of ZaggyÂ’s good fortune.
So, Morsnak had decided to go all the way; black leather britches, chain mail that wasnÂ’t even beginning to rust, a highly stylized breastplate with muscles of massive proportions engraved in it, and a new helmet, scrounged off of a Gondorian corpse. It had been painted black, but glints of silver and wing designs could still be seen. He was an impressive sight.
Or he would have been if he didnÂ’t come up to most orcÂ’s chins, except for Zaggy of course. This sometimes gave him an advantage; the last thing many a thug ever saw was the pointed head of Lance-Constable Morsnak hurtling towards him at neck height, followed closely by Zaggy, carrying a knife and a sack. There were cells at the watchhouse, but Zaggy was a firm believer in tough love when there was money involved.
Morsnak had decided to settle down, and accept the simple life of a copper. He had nearly forgotten all about that first night on duty, but Fate, it seems, had dealt him a wild card.

De Vile was sitting in his office on a morning with a pleasantly large amount of gaseous clouds blotting out the sun. He was reading a report that a constable had written. Actually, it was Morsnak who had wrote it; in the previous month he had started a report-writing business, for which he charged only a moderate fee. Zaggy had rubbed off on Morsnak very, very quickly, and because of this had switched Morsnak to be Gromwûsh’s partner, and handed the shaft to Grishrat by changing his partner to Zaggy.
He shifted in his stony seat, trying to make himself more comfortable. He gave up after a few moments, because the only way to find comfort in the standard watch-house seats was to sit on the floor.
He slid off of his seat at the only angle he could. Unfortunately, this was also an angle that brought his forehead into contact with his desk. As he curled up under his desk, clutching his head, he could have sworn he heard several distant screams. But then again, he also could have sworn that five virgins had offered him a round-trip to paradise with them and that Zaggy had ridden by on a overgrown hamster.
Regardless of their existence in reality, the screams burnt their way through alcohol built roadblocks along the pathways of De VileÂ’s brain and touched a point that did not like to be touched. In a psychological sense, of course.
Damn. Damn, damn, damn. It was that time of year again. De Vile sat up as best he could. It was that time of year, when things should be getting warmer again, but that would imply that they had cooled down to begin with. It was, next Tuesday? No, Thursday. It was next Thursday; his fifteenth year of this exile to Udûn.
It always lurked in his thoughts, kept from his consciousness by roadblocks that had been set up by drinking. Every year, it broke through; either someone would remind him, or he would…hear something, that would take him back.
‘That village goes on behind the ridge,’ said a younger, if not more attractive, Shagwakh, ‘Out of sight does not necessarily mean that it does not exist.’
‘Nonsense old boy,’ said Lord Jahrk on his black horse, black plumes in his helmet. The horse looked disgusted at its cargo. ‘You simply don’t know how it is done. We charge in there in a jolly line, shouting and screaming, and the heathen Haradrim runs away at the mere threat of jolly dismemberment, wot! Understand? Jolly good.’
Shagwakh removed his plumed helmet (also black), and dropped on the ground. Lord Jahrk raised a bushy eyebrow as his general handed him his sword.
‘Throwing in the towel in the face of victory? You’re a strange one Shagwakh,’ Lord Jahrk patted him on the head in a patronizing way, “You just don’t have enough experience in the field, old sport.’
‘I do believe that I have five more years than you, lord,’ said Shagwakh, sitting down a few feet away. He glared meaningfully at his lieutenants behind Lord Jahrk, ‘I won’t participate in the death of my orcs.’
But the lieutenants know that a chance such as the one that has just presented is a very rare one indeed. The senior lieutenant coughed, saying, ‘If we can leave the unbelieving behind, lord, I believe we can flank the village if one of our officers distracts them by reading them a peace offering.’
‘You can’t outflank an enemy you don’t know the size of!’ shouted Shagwakh furiously, but was ignored.
‘Splendid!’ boomed Lord Jahrk, ‘You instigate this plan Captain, er, what did you say your name was old boy?’
‘Larsh, my lord.’
‘Capital. You’ll go far in this orc’s army, lad.’
De Vile shook his head; Captain Larsh had indeed gone far. As far as he knew, they were still looking for wayward bits of him that had come flying out of the ensuing fray. And they never did find his nose, not even when they cut open all the bodies.
They were all lined up on the crest of the ridge in three groups of six ranks and twelve files. One spread out until there were only two ranks, and the other two tightened up and moved to the sides.
The newly-christened Captain Larsh rode at the head of the central formation, and he was wearing ShagwakhÂ’s helmet. He struck a pose on his horse (black), and signaled to the trumpeters. Without checking to see if his flanking forces were in position, he charged straight into the village, screaming bloody murder.
Which was in fact what happened to him. Even from the crest of the ridge where he sat, Shagwakh de Vile could see him run straight into the open arms of the sinisterly grinning Haradrim.
And then the screams started.
And then they didnÂ’t stop.
Even Lord Jahrk looked away, an only marginally dirty handkerchief clutched to his mouth. But Shagwakh De Vile kept watching. In the first eight minutes of the fight, more soldiers died than he had ever lost in his entire military career.
And when the last four survivors walked out sixteen minutes later, Jahrk had rode up to them and proclaimed the battle a glorious victory, and they were swept up by it. He made them all generals on the spot. Then they burned the village.
Even then, Shagwakh De Vile had wondered, ‘Why?’ Why was this a glorious victory? He had destroyed armies, cities, empires and had received no recognition. This was just the village of a relatively poor tribe, and it was proclaimed a glorious victory. Why, because more of our soldiers died? In that moment, the younger Shagwakh had come up with the political opinion that had steered his decisions for the next fifteen years:
Every single Lord, General, Noble, and Aristocrat was a bloody idiot who couldnÂ’t find his own bum, on account of not being able to find their hands with which to find their bums.
And his former soldiers had been smug to him.
Then they had been part of the council that had court-martialed him.
He supposed that he had to thank them; without them it would have been a far worse punishment.
Within a month, he was in Udûn. Within two, he had always been there. It was enough to drive an orc to drink.
Yes, a drink. A drink would be nice right now. He pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk with a wild ferocity normally only seen in starving predators. There was a bottle of whiskey in the bottom (Sharahk’s Authentic Mountain Brew, No Proof, Only Circumstantial Evidence!). The soft slosh of the amber liquid called to De Vile. It said, ‘Drink me, and I’ll make all those memories go away.’
The big hurdle, they called down at the meetings. The first time you had to face what made you drink sober. They said that every time after that it got easier. De Vile said that they were tight bastards who got pleasure out of watching him suffer. But then again, he said that about just about everybody.
The slosh of the bottle lulled him into a trance. He didnÂ’t drink it, but sat there, staring at it. Then Grishrat burst into the room, shouting. De Vile didnÂ’t look up.
Grishrat felt his jaw dropping of its own accord, staring at his captain looking at a bottle of whiskey that he wasnÂ’t supposed to have. He pulled himself together and coughed loudly. De Vile seemed to come out of a trance.
“Yes?” he asked as he shook his head and took a deep breath. Curiously, he sniffed the air. And then again. “Do you smell something burning?”
“Yes, sir, thereÂ’s…” started Grishrat urgently.
De Vile stood up, “Is Zaggy doing his ironing again? I told him that I’d have to bust him down to Constable if he burnt down the bloody watch-house again.”
“No sir. ThereÂ’s…”
“Sergeant Gromwûsh is trying to do that intelligence test the boys gave him for a joke again, isn’t he?” said De Vile as he pulled on his boots. He lifted his head and sniffed the air again, “No. Can’t be that. I don’t smell dandruff.” De Vile stood again and started pulling on his chainmail. An orange glare in the corner of his eye caught his attention.
He walked to the window and stuck his head out. The orange glow was coming from the south-east. “Hey, that building is burning!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you sir,” shouted Grishrat, “There’s a riot at the Granary up at The Wicked Sisters. They’re killing people, sir!”
“Who’s killing who?” asked De Vile, frantically searching for his helmet.
“Everybody it seems,” replied Grishrat, shoving the helmet into De VileÂ’s arms, “Gromwûsh and some of the boys are up there, but theyÂ’re going to need help! IÂ’ve got Zaggy and two others downstairs, weÂ’d better hurry up sir…”
But De Vile was already a rapidly disappearing blur.