(Ingame screenshot)
(previous part of the story here)
I wait.
I listen.
I can hear the crows. They are feasting on something.
The captive looks unconscious.
He is loosely bound on a pile.
I wait.
I listen.
Voices in the camp.
A few Orcs pass by.
I hear a word: Pomongôth.
And: Golug.
I know these words.
Nóm.
I have found him.
I wait.
I listen.
The corpses of a few Orcs must be nearby. I can smell it.
Must have been a brawl.
I check my axe. I check my arrows.
All ready.
I listen.
I wait.
One guard.
I approach from the side, silently.
Strike. The Orc falls.
I hurry.
I reach the captive.
No change of sounds. They have not heard me. Yet.
I check the Nóm.
Looks like he has been treated awfully.
Torture is not uncommon in these camps.
I do not know how long he has been here.
Maybe days. Maybe weeks. Maybe months.
He shows no reaction.
I grab his arm, and put it around my neck.
I pull him up.
I listen.
No change of sound.
Good.
I run. Try to run. The Nóm is unusually heavy, and very large, even for one of his kind.
He slows me down very much.
I try not to make any sound.
Another guard.
I take my bow.
Aim... shot! The arrow pierces his throat.
A silent burble only.
This night is dark. That is good.
Good for me. Good for Lord Krodda.
I put the Nóm's arm around my neck again.
After a while, I stop.
Sounds arise.
The camp is missing its captive.
I continue.
They will never find us.
I follow the small river.
"Hey!
hey!
Wake up!"
I slap his face.
He shows no reaction.
I let him sniff some of the Zuloy.
I always have some of it with me in my pocket.
He mutters something, opening his eyes.
"Wake up!"
I give him some water from my flask.
He drinks.
I listen.
No sounds.
They are far away. They will never find us.
Suddenly, he drops the flask.
"Who's this!"
He crawls back, still facing me, raising his bare hands, looking at me with almost closed, swollen eyes.
"Does it matter? A friend."
"A f...friend... you? Easterling!"
He must be in pain. His wounds seem to hurt.
"I rescued you. You do not look particularly pretty by the way."
"Curss..e you!
I d'not need yr h-help!"
He kicks my kneecap, crawling away another bit.
Damn. That Nóm is strong, even in his current state. I stumble, but try not to show the pain.
I grab his arm.
"Listen."
I try to calm myself.
"If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead already."
He ponders this.
He gazes at me for a while.
I do not like these eyes. They make me feel very thin.
I try to look relaxed.
"Trust me. I want to help you.
There is a camp of your people. Two days from here.
I can bring you there.
Your wounds need to be tended."
He mutters something.
"You do not have a choice.
You cannot fight like this.
You need to recover first."
He is silent for a while.
"Wwhy are...you doing..this?"
"I hate the Orcs, just as much as you do."
He frowns.
After a moment, he decides to accept my help.
He nods, gazing at me.
"Ráolor of Lothlann."
"Ra..lo?"
I manage a smile.
I tell him:
"Call me hunter."
"A strange name."
He gasps:
"Bring me to that camp, hunter, and my people shall reward your kindness."
I take his arm, and put it around my neck.
We continue.
He is barely conscious.
-
It is the second day.
He feels better.
A strange determination has returned into his body.
If not me, he would not even mind to crawl.
He wants to go on.
In the evening, we reach the camp.
We are late. Lord Krodda must be awaiting us.
"There. The camp."
Relief can be seen at his face.
"Thank you...hunter.
Now... come with me."
He lets go, walks towards the gate.
I draw my dagger.
Never underestimate the Nóm. I remember.
Not even their women.
If they go mad, it may get very difficult to stop them.
Do not look into their eyes. Their witchcraft will transform one's soul.
I remember.
Suddenly, he hesitates.
Has he realized...?
I must be quick now.
The moment I strike his back with my blade, I whistle loudly.
He utters a shout, turning around and grabbing my throat.
Pain, surprise, hate, despair... I can see them in his eyes.
"You....you..!! "
I stab his chest, but that damn grip does not weaken... where did that strength come from, all of a sudden?!
I feel everything going black...
Suddenly the grip weakens. He lets go.
Ulkor and Fanga have knocked him down. They are continuously hitting him with their clubs.
I gasp for air. The shapes of the world have appeared again.
After a while, the Nóm does not move any more.
"Enough."
My voice sounds like the weeping of a little girl. The Nóm has ruined my throat!
I whisper:
"Bring him to Lord Krodda.
The Lord shall have his amusement, after the Nóm has recovered a little."
The two warriors nod and grab the Nóm's arms, dragging him inside the camp.
I feel pride.
I feel relief.
I have delivered.
Lord Krodda will have his fun.
The age of the Nóm has ended.
The master of the world reigns these lands now.
He has conquered the west from the north.
Serving him is being rewarded. We all know that. We have seen it.
I shall be rewarded as well.
I will take my reward.
One day, I shall be Lord of Thakêl.
For I, Ulbród, am a mighty warrior.
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((to read the next part of the story, click here))
Translations:
Golug - Elves [Black Speech]
Pomongôth - Lord of Statues [Black Speech]
Nóm - Elves (Noldor. Literally meaning: the Wise) [Tongue of the Edain of the North, adapted by a few Easterling tribes]
Zuloy - a very strong tincture with a very strong smell [Tongue of an Easterling tribe - invented word]
Thakêl - barbarism of the elvish "Thargelion"
