Loyal to the Light

The Ones in Charge

"Shrakh." The first word Ronk heard every morning, and nearly the last word he heard every night. It irritated him dreadfully, despite that the frost stung his flesh just as harshly as it did Hagra's, and that every day it felt like his mind might go numb at times. His companion's struggles with the cold were just as awful as his own were, yet Ronk kept his mouth shut about it. After all, the Bright Lord never complained, and Ronk was not about to demonstrate himself as weaker than any Tark, even one as powerful as his boss.

Snow glittered every day on their path, covering grass and rock, dirt and water in whiteness that stabbed at Ronk's eyes when the sun was high and bleared his vision when the light was dim. It crunched under his boots, made every nerve jitter at its touch and half of Ronk's conscious thought was given to wondering why on earth the Dark Lord even allowed such an element in his land. Surely Sauron was the lord of fire and destruction; why let all this snow hang about? But he said nothing and let silence be his only reply. At least the Bright Lord had gotten furs for them to wear.

They had recruited two more Captains by now, though the boss seemed dissatisfied with the rest. It seemed every time now that they came upon an encampment, he would look at the commanding uruk or olog or orc and sigh. Then he would go in for the kill. At least it brought them loot, and a reputation that was slowly spreading through all of Seregost: the slayers of the weak, the three cullers of Mordor. Ronk smirked to himself. He and Hagra were rising in the world, thanks to the Ranger, unforseen and unexpected as the Man's leadership had been.

For now, they had returned to the winding path that scaled the cliffs beside the fortress of Khargukôr, killing many of the orcs who were guarding the slaves working here. Most of the slaves themselves the Bright Lord left to escape, so Ronk let them pass, though he could not resist occasionally prodding them with his sword point to get them moving faster. He and Hagra laughed to see them run, stumbling over their own feet and then scrambling up to run further. "Stupid globs." They told each other. "There's a reason they're slaves, after all."

Fighting up the path suddenly became harder when they found a group of uruks and ologs all bunched together in a protective circle. The Bright Lord twirled his sword in his hand, striding forward. Without a word he suddenly dove into a roll and came up with his dagger in the other hand, driving it into an olog's stomach. The fresh tang of blood stung the air and Ronk took it in excitedly. It thawed his mind out, waking him to the battle-lust he treasured, and he dashed forwards. "For the Bright Lord!" He yelled, drawing his own weapon and barely remembering the lessons their boss had been giving in swordplay. But remember he did, just as an orc brought his blade down towards Ronk's shoulder. The uruk yelled in response and parried, then slid his sword neatly along his enemy's and cut into his hand. The orc's scream of pain roused Ronk; he pounced. Once, twice, thrice he drove his sword into the orc's stomach, and then he made a quick slash across the throat the left his opponent choking on his own blood. Ronk sprang away, aware of the other enemies around him.

He saw, all in a moment, Hagra sliding between the legs of an olog, raking the jagged edge of his blade across the creature's skin. The Gravewalker was in the air, bright blue flashes coming from his hands and striking into the face of what looked to be a flamboyantly dressed orc. Then Ronk dove, his instincts driving him forward, and when he looked back, he saw the hammer of another olog in the very spot he had been standing in. With a yell Ronk darted forward. "Time to die!" But he was cut off; with a snarl, another fantastically dressed orc sprang at him, swinging what looked like a lute in Ronk's face. The wood cracked against his skull and nearly brought him to the ground, but the uruk's training overtook him and before he knew what he was doing, he had seized the orc's arms and kicked him in the chest. Then the pain subsided and his head began to clear. He saw the orc actually in his hands, gasping for air and weakly struggling to free himself. Ronk kicked him again and then dropped him to the snow. All it took was a stab to the face, but Ronk skewered him as fiercely as he could, twisting the blade in place before ripping it free with a howl of victory.