When imagining Ruud’s voice, think of the daft Rottweiler from the second
Isengard
Year 3012 of the Third Age
Ralph had never been in so much pain in his life.
He lay blowing hard in the Warg dens below the White Wizard’s tower, the racket and unending roar of Isengard’s industry battering his ears. One lay torn nearly in half against his cheek, blood clotting his coat and crusting at the corner of his left eye. His limbs burned with fatigue, the fire spreading in long agonizing lines across his back and shoulders, to the wounds on his sides and the bloodied wreak of his right haunch. He was sure something was broken inside him, some crucial piece come loose and shredding what was left of his insides.
For the first time in his life he longed for home, for the Packlands, where fights were to pass the time, not to decide who would go into battle at the whim of a twisted human filled with magic and ambition…
There were footsteps, one set with two feet that shuffled and loped, the other with four beats and a familiar heavy tred.
“Up,” snarled an Orcish voice, and strong hands clamped on his shoulder, hauling him upwards.
Ralph howled, filled to the brim with pain.
“Be silent,” his mother’s voice said, and he felt her beside him, bracing him to keep him upright. He lay against her side and whimpered.
“You’re lucky to be alive,” she growled. “Otsoa should have just killed you. His mercy is an insult you will have to rebuff.”
“Why are you here?” Ralph rasped, voice lowering to a whimper or a growl as the Orc began going about cleaning his wounds and stitching the worst of them. The scars would be ugly, but hopefully hidden under the fullness of his coat.
“You are my whelp,” Úlfa muttered. “I’m obliged to be here.”
Ralph didn’t answer; he was trying to focus on bearing the pain of the bone needle sewing his side up so his insides weren’t at risk of falling out. Then the needle bit too deep and Ralph snarled, flinching and curling his body away from the Orc, throwing his jaws forward to close with a snap an inch from the fell creature’s flat nose.
The thing squealed and scuttled back, bulbous eyes wide with fear.
Ralph stayed where he was, each breath a growl that rattled in his chest and throat, his eyes luminous yellow, his hackles high along his spine and his teeth like lines of blood-stained ivory.
“Maybe it was worth keeping you,” Úlfa remarked dryly.
---
On-Site Journal of Erin Berenger
Alpine dig-site 7,
Friday, August 20, 2010, Seventh Age
Toby and I got a call from Dig 7 today. We took a helicraft over the mountains and came down in the
Six years ago, while I was still farting about at University wondering why I was doing accounting
instead of something interesting, there was another archaeological team that set up a major dig here and found that there had been a dam once. It had broken, for reasons we’re still not entirely clear off, and hit the tower at the bottom of the valley. It filled in these big cavities that had been dug in around the tower and even washed out a lot of whatever was inside them. The bodies it must have carried away are still being excavated from halfway down the valley, about 30 miles as the crow flies.
It’s what Professor Brigs called us about, actually. When we got down there, she showed us the latest skeleton found in the silt banks.
Its one of the ‘orc-wolves’, like the ones we’ve been finding in at the Rhovanion sites. Its no surprise, really, they probably came over the mountains looking for game, or maybe it was another pack altogether, but…
Turned out it wasn’t just one. It was dozens. No where near the numbers of skeletons that have been found on our sites, of course, but still. So many. Most of them are young, too. And none of them died from old age. Each one has some kind of trauma, fatal or near fatal. The one the Prof gave us a good look at was maybe 8-10 years old, judging from the growth rings on his bones. The cause of death was easy to see; the top of his skull had been crushed by some awesome force.
Its sobering, to see something that must have once been so mighty killed in such a way.
-
We’re back at Dig 5 now. Just got a call from the Prof on results for the ‘orc-wolf’ with the crushed skull. Measurements and fracture patterns came up positive for, get this, the jaws of another wolf. It must have been a quite literal battle to the death. Not only that, the same goes for a lot of the other skeletons.
Why would a pack turn on its own like that?
---
Isengard
Year 3012 of the Third Age
Weeks later, he was thrown back into the training pits with his brothers.
Otsoa was there, a yellow-toothed grin stretching his jaws. He and his lieutenants circled the new ones, Ralph among them.
“So,” the General barked, “some of you lived! How very fortunate…” The snarl began, low in the reaches of his barrel chest. “Some of us were getting bored.”
It was all the warning they had before the veterans leapt at them, roaring and snapping, going for their throats.
Ralph put his ears back and tried to back away, bumping his brothers’ flanks and letting out a soft whine as he went.
He bumped into something solid and spun about with a yelp just in time to see Ruud throw one of the lieutenants to the ground. Ruud was the largest of Úlfa’s brood, his shoulders broad enough to walk across, his jaws wide an Orc’s shield and the bristles of his coat more like spines than hair.
His savagery knew no bounds…
Ralph watched, eyes wide, as his big brother threw the veteran warrior onto his back and snapped his jaws over the other Warg’s throat. There was a wet crunch as his opponent died and gouts of red gore flew upwards and spattered across the dirt floor of the pit.
Ruud lifted his bloodied jaws and said, “Hello, Ralph,” in his big, slow voice.
…He wasn’t very bright though.
“Uh, hello, Ruud.” Ralph ducked to avoid a hind limb that spun over head. “How – how’s it going?”
Ruud looked down at the corpse. “I’m good at this,” he stated.
“Good for you,” Ralph said. “I’m not sure I am.”
“But it’s easy,” Ruud said cheerfully. And so saying, he spun about and grabbed the veteran trying to creep up on him, shattering the other’s Warg’s face with one crushing bite and tossing the gurgling body over Ralph’s head. It crashed somewhere behind him in the melee.
“Right…”
At that moment there was a roar from behind him, and when Ralph looked over his shoulder, it was to see Otsoa approaching, murder in his, dark, beady eyes. The General’s jaws were parted, his teeth on full display, each one stained with decade’s worth of gore and sharpened to a deadly point. Ralph could see some unfortunate’s sinew caught in those teeth, could picture the mess they would make of him, again, and yet he could not move. He stayed frozen with fear, his spine a livewire of terror, his head singing with an internal scream.
“Your mother should have just let you bleed dry in the dens,” Otsoa mocked. “It was a waste of gutstrings to stitch you back together. You would have been better split open and made rug for the Master’s floor.” He sneered as he stalked closer, and Ralph could only watch him like a fledgling watches an approaching snake. “Look at you, you can’t even run.”
Run.
Run, run, run.
Can’t even run…
But he could. He could and he had to, because it was all he’d ever been good at…
It was like the livewire of his spine had been tripped, as though something had come alive inside him and the pieces were of some puzzle were slipping into place. The tension in him built to shocking heights, living lightning firing across his muscles, filling his extremities.
RUN!
And he did.
Every limb moved in beautiful sync and suddenly he was flying, darting fluidly between the thrashing bodies of his still fighting packmates, ducking and weaving and speeding through the carnage like he was made of quicksilver.
Otsoa let out a savage howl of thwarted rage, trying to come after him, but he was too big, too slow, his thickly muscled body too heavy to follow where Ralph’s lithe gait could go.
The young Warg threw himself forward, aiming for the walls of the pit, for freedom. He gathered speed, hearing the General’s bellows behind him, and gathered himself for a leap.
At that moment, a body crashed in front of him, hitting the dirt floor with a thud he felt in his bones. Blood spewed across the ground, clotting in the dust. Another veteran with a leather strap around his neck and gore upon his exposed chest. Ruud appeared, leaping onto the veteran’s chest and worrying his throat.
Ralph didn’t even slow down.
With reaching limbs, he flew into the air and landed on Ruud’’s shoulder, which it turned out really were broad enough to walk across, and using his surprised brother as a spring board, leapt again for the edge of the pit.
“That’s cheating,” Ruud said indignantly at the same time as Otsoa howled, “Get back here you little runt!”
Ralph didn’t hear either of them. He had caught his forepaws on the lip of the pit, dew claws straining to keep hold, and was trying to get propel himself over by digging in and scrabbling with his hind legs.
He was close, so close…
The blow came out of nowhere.
An Orc’s club struck him across the face, hard enough to split the skin of his cheek and rattle his teeth. Ralph leant perilously back, staring in alarm and shock at the Orc standing over him. It raised its club again and the young Warg let out a yelp and let go of the lip of the pit. He fell backwards, writhing in midair to get his feet under him. By some miracle he only stumbled a little when he hit the ground.
Otsoa let out a triumphant snarl – only for it to be cut off as another two Orc’s caught his neck strap and tightened it, hauling him back. It was happening all over the pit; those Warg’s still living were being collared and dragged back to their dens.
“Release me!” the General demanded, his voice reverberating off the sides of the wide pit. “I’m not finished here!”
“Yes, you are,” the Orc with the club stated. “They’ve spilled much blood, torn much flesh. These we will ride in the Master’s name.” It pointed the end of the club at Otsoa. “Stand down, Warg.”
“No!” Otsoa bellowed, thrashing in his bonds.
Ralph crouched against the side of the pit and watched as the two Orcs holding his neck strap were pitched back and forward until one came loose. The General was on it in a flash, gripping its throat in his jaws and shaking it like rat until black Orcish blood flew in rain-fine splatters and the thing’s high, rusty squeals had stopped. He dropped the body and stood over it breathing hard for a few seconds.
Then his eyes flicked up, pinning Ralph and sending a bolt of fear through him.
I’m going to die, he thought.
But Otsoa merely bared his teeth, dark with brackish Orc blood, and turned very deliberately away, stalking after the rest of the pack and their handlers. It was an insult, another one, and this time it said simply, I offer you my back, weakling, because I know you will never strike it.
Ralph heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping as he stepped away from the wall. He could feel a fine tremor making its way down his legs as the racing fear of the battle wore away, leaving him drained. He let a handler loop a strap around his neck and lead him from the pit, into the tunnels that lead to the dens…
…but though he walked quietly, and didn’t flinch when the handler smeared unguent on his bleeding cheek, his mind was afire with one thought:
I have to get out of here.
1 comment:
Hello,
I am really enjoying this so far...I wonder how you will be able to stop or limit yourself!
Oh well...who cares! Just go for it :) I see the next installment is already posted so on to that now...
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