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"Why not?" Shatarz's eyes glints suspiciously at us.
"Because we'd be outnumbered 100 to 1, for starters. We can't provoke the loyal uruks until we're ready for them, and right now is not the time."
"Who cares about being outnumbered?"
The Lieutenant and Bullet exchange glances. Had they picked an idiot to ally with?
Shatarz sees their uneasy glances. "Listen, listen, luftig-hai. I was Morgul commander for years, fuck yeah? I ran a fortress. Fucking understand?"
He waits for a response, switching his gaze back and forth from each of us. No response is forthcoming. Shatarz sighs.
"Morgul commander deals with supplies. Food, water, arrows, whetstones, boots, cloth, armor, fire oil, axle grease, paper, everything. Endless fucking supplies, fucking day in day out; supplies bullshit. But I am a veteran of the motherfucking Mines of Moria. I laid siege to that dwarf stronghold for almost a year. I saw how it worked, even if that snaga Urburz up in Barad-dur didn't. We had food- nasty food, maggoty bread, but edible. The dwarves did not. We could drink good water till we were slaked; the dwarves could not. When we broke a sword, a new one was issued, because we could trade with the shitbrain goblins up in Gundabad. The dwarves had to pick up shovels and rocks when their weapons broke. We could shower them with arrows, because we had tens of thousands of them, and could get more as we needed. They had to conserve the few that they had. We killed them all, trapped them like rats in a pit, because we had all kinds of shit to consume and they did not! Do you not understand? If we dominate the southlands around the Sea of Nurnen, who gives a flying fuck how many of them there are? They may have more warriors, but we will be eating three meals a day, and they'll be eating dust and bitter air."
The Lieutenant's eyes widen. Evidently that tactic hadn't occurred to him. Possibly because he was still envisioning 150 of us against 100,000 of them, and hadn't considered exactly how to use the rebel uruks we had amassed. "How many uruks can we muster on short notice?"
Shatarz hisses approval. "Just under 10,000, not counting you."
I laugh aloud. "10,000. Well, I'll be damned."
Bullet grunts an inquiry. No one can communicate without words like he can.
"When Soulcatcher almost destroyed the Company, we got whittled down to the size of a street gang. We spent a decade just scraping by; sneaking around to scrawl insulting messages on back alley walls, kidnapping her sycophantic lackeys, and so on. Sleepy resurrected the Company by recruiting the Children of Hsien, and we returned to seek vengeance upon Taglios and Soulcatcher. By the time our new army met hers, we were almost exactly 10,000 strong."
The Lieutenant cocks his head at me, drumming his fingers on his ebony helm. Then he says, "Well, let's hope that history repeats itself."
We wait until Shatarz procures the supplies we'll need, then set off. We take as much as we can carry and still be able to quick-march. We have a great deal more than we need, because our entire strategy will depend on the hosts of Mordor starving to death before they can beat us. We manage to put a moderate dent in their stockpiles. Every little bit helps.
We hit the road and never look back. Sapper had been preparing for the occasion for weeks and had been producing some kind of magical caltrops to lay behind us to slow down any pursuit. He had more or less taken over the armories of Minas Morgul and started producing them nonstop since he came up with them. He would take a small sliver of iron and put a little bit of mojo into it- enough to make it self sustaining from now till eternity. He would then take it and a few thousand more just like it and scatter them along our back trail- anyone who stepped on or near one would get zapped hard enough to knock them flat on his ass and stay there for a good long while. It could be lethal if they get zapped multiple times or if the guy in question is unlucky enough to make direct contact with the sliver, but it's purpose was not to kill outright. An uruk who got zinged with the sliver might lose his foot, or be rendered partially paralyzed, or break every other bone on his left side, or any of a dozen other effects that Sapper dreamed up.
A dead man can be stripped of his gear and abandoned. A wounded man has to be carried and cared for. Once the pursuers start racking up casualties, they won't be able move as quickly as us. And once they get popped by them five times in the first ten miles, they'll start slowing down to check for metallic slivers before rushing ahead. And since Sapper's caltrops are so small and hard to notice, and can be covered with dust or pebbles while retaining effectiveness, they'll still get stung even if they stop and look around for them.
Oh, Sapper, you are an evil genius. This is why we keep you around.
We reckon that, between the Gondorian invasion, Sapper's tricks, and the general unpleasantness of Gorgoroth, we'll get across the desert lands and entrenched in Nurnen before any significant counter-attack gets underway.
The commandos who are to ride ahead of the main body are as follows:
Saintly, because skirmishing and raiding are his speciality.
Bop, because both Saintly has worked well with him before.
Arrowhead and Kisander, who will provide any long range slaying needs; Arrowhead being armed with Blink's old crossbow and Kisander being a dab hand with a longbow. Kisander will shoot the lighter missiles faster while Arrowhead uses the slow-reloading ballista.
Grog and Goth, because they can move about more freely in the open, since the inhabitants of Grufoz are overwhelmingly uruk.
Paleboy, Mahmoud, and Landshark- three men with no speciality other than basic infantry, but we anticipate that stealth and sneak attacks will only get us so far into the Tower of Grufoz before it will come down to which side can kill the other more effectively. To that end, all three were chosen for their ferocity and aptitude for violence. Paleboy in particular has a bloodthirsty streak a mile wide.
Nine men- make that seven men and two uruks- no, make that nine Black Company brothers should be all we need to seize our Annals and hold them; at least, hold them long enough for Salim to show up with the reinforcements. If Saintly fails to reach the Annals in time, then the commander in Grufoz might set our history alight once he sees Salim's boys charging.
They can do it. Saintly's bravos are sharp as blades, sly as snakes, and strong as lions. I know they can do it.
But there is a world of difference between being able to do something, and actually succeeding in something. You ever watch a duel to the death between equal swordsmen, you know that either man can win, but it's a certainty that one of them will lose.
I dislike wagering my family's present, past and future on whether nine guys can infiltrate a defended position, no matter how much confidence I have in their ability.
The commandos set off hours ago. I should have been with them. I'm the Annalist, it's my job to watch after the Annals, isn't it? I can help. I'm Tiger Hand, for fuck's sake, I can slay as skillfully as any of them. Who cares quickly that I'm too stiff, sore, and aching to move quickly and quietly...
I am so sick of being an old man. I can still feel every cut I've ever got, like my skin is stretching tight anywhere that I've been scarred. Every broken bone that I ever mended now throbs, reminding me that I'm slowly dying, and that one day the sun will rise and the earth will turn and my brothers will go about their business, but I will not be among them. I'll be lying still and cold, and my face will be slack like an idiot's. And that's not even counting all the shit that's going on on the inside of me, either. Heart and liver and lungs and kidneys and eyes; so many ways for my body to fail me at critical moments.
I am too goddamn old and too goddamn worn out to be of any aid to my endangered Company, and I think that this fact alone hurts me worse than the merely physical pain of aging.
"Papa?"
Zimraphel is standing there, in the entrance of my tent, the setting sun lending her slim body a certain flashing glory, and obscuring all but a glimmer of it. She really was a looker, our Zim. She reminds my a little too much of Oak Leaf, but I can survive that. Tonight, though, she looks more scared than pretty.
Not a good sign. In the short time I've known her, she's always had a good reason to look like that. I beckon her inside my own private quarters.
"Zim, dearheart. Better get in before the sun sets all the way and you freeze to death on the spot." An exaggeration, but not by much. Nights on the Plateau of Gorgoroth are vicious.
She favors me with a bright, yet strained smile as she steps inside the warmth of my tent. "Can I talk with you?"
"Of course. Just sit yourself down on my comfy Annalist's chair. I'll take the footstool." Since I'm about half a foot taller than she is, this puts us approximately face to face."What's up?"
She pauses for an instant, then what's on the inside spills out quietly but intensely. "Shaggy's dead I killed him and I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." Tears threaten her eyes for a moment, but Zim has had a lot practice controlling her emotions.
I admit that when I first heard her say this, I assumed that she had tried to knife him again and succeeded. Not so, as it turned out. Shaggy picked up some kind of infection on the ride through Gorgoroth- the bandaging that Pork Chop stuck on him was good, but apparently not good enough. Open wounds on this hellish plateau are deadly.
"But I killed him," she says, eyes wide and jaw clenching. "I stabbed him, back in Morgul. If he hadn't been wounded that disease couldn't have infected him. I killed Shaggy, Papa, and I'm so sorry."
"You've taken good care of him, yeah? While he was laid up in the medic wagon?"
"Of course. Least I could do."
"Did he seem even slightly resentful towards you? You know, 'Argh, ye bitch, yer the one who put me here!' Anything like that?" I take care to exaggerate Shaggy's voice to ridiculous levels, to avoid giving offense. Zim doesn't laugh at my imitation, but nor does she collapse into tears. I'll just have to accept that as good enough.
"No," she says. "Nothing like that. Except one time he joked that I was either the best knife-fighter of all time, by catching him by surprise, or the worst, since I couldn't even kill him. I'm pretty sure he was joking, except it wasn't exactly funny. But..."
"But there was no malice on his end, was there?"
"No, I guess not."
"If Sapper took up necromancy and brought his spirit here, do you think he would rage and curse you and blame you for your prowess with a scalpel?"
"No."
I spread my hands, as though to say, Well then.
She leans her head forward, clutching her temples in both hands and hissing out a sigh. "I know it's not my fault. I get that, I'm not a fool. But nonetheless. My stupidity back in Morgul cost him his life. Whether he holds me accountable or not. So... It's as though I'm trying to get someone to accuse me. It's like I want someone to acknowledge my part in this stupid, petty tragedy."
"Ach, well. Probably won't happen. If anything, the Lieutenant might chew out Pork Chop for not checking his bandages, but I doubt it'll happen. Disease carries us off without consulting us first, and every soldier accepts that as, well, as just the cost of doing business."
I scoot my footstool closer to her and grasp her hand. "I don't have any great insight to give, nor any magic incantation to make you feel less responsible. Just know that no one here will be angry with you, because no one here has cause to be angry with you, and holy shit wait a minute."
Her hand is very warm. Unless she's been holding it over a bonfire for the last ten minutes, she's feverish as all hell. And there was me thinking her sweat came from the afternoon desert sun.
"Shit." I place my hand against her forehead to double check.
"Papa? What's wrong?"
"Fever. Fucking hell. I think you picked something up on the plateau. Come on, up, up. We need to get you to Pork Chop."
Pork Chop confirmed my diagnosis.
"Yep, It's a fever, alright." Pork Chop nods to me appreciatively- as though from one medical expert to another.
"I just told you that."
"Yeah, but you didn't know that it was the same shit we picked up the first time through."
I think back. "Oh. She got whatever killed Wallace?"
"Yep. You, me, and the whole Company are immune to it, and the uruks don't seem to be able to catch it. But she wasn't with us then. Fair game for the disease."
"But you can keep her alive, yeah?"
Pork Chop eyes me suspiciously. "Is that a trick question?"
"No, I honestly want to know."
"Of course I can fucking keep her alive. The first time around, me and Sapper stopped the contagion dead in its tracks without any warning or information. Now that I know how to treat it, she's going to be fine. Why would you ask me such a stupid question?"
"I don't know," I say. "I suppose I was worried about her."
"Yeah, well. She won't be dancing about on street corners or going back to the shieldwall anytime soon." He cackles. "But she'll make it through with little to no fuss. Relax, Papa. She's in my care now."
"What you were telling me was comforting until that last part."
My wit is rewarded with a small pity-chuckle and then he tells me to get out of his tent before I contaminate his working environment.
Two days later, Saintly's squad returned from their raid.
We had not been idle in that time. Bullet started up a rudimentary training program for the uruks, so that they could use combat expertise instead of brute savagery. Trench systems and stone walls were put up. Sapper scattered his caltrops randomly to the north to fuck up the inevitable enemy advance. Maps were made of the surrounding areas, plans to seize the farmland and food stockpiles and enemy fortifications were made. None of it involved me, so I sat in my tent and brooded.
The first I knew of Saintly's return was when he showed up at my tent entrance. He was still travel stained; dust and grimy sweat lay heavy on his face, and he looked like he had just ridden through a duststorm.
"Papa Jack." His voice cracked from thirst.
I spring awake on my bunk and take in his appearance. I try to feign nonchalance. "Saintly, didn't know you got back. How'd you do?"
Saintly's eyes water and he turns his face away. "Papa..."
I feel cold grease churning in my belly. "What?"
"We failed." He shook his head. "I failed. The son of a bitch uruk in charge of Grufoz had orders to burn them if any trouble developed. I couldn't find the... I couldn't find the fucking vault in time."
"No," I breathe. "Oh merciful god, no." I feel tears well up. I don't even try to fight them as they roll down my cheeks.
Almost one thousand years of unbroken brotherhood and heritage. Up in smoke. Wasted. Like they had never even been. Once the current crop of the Black Company dies off, we will not even be remembered. I have dedicated almost a third of my life to the Black Company, and we died under my watch.
"It was horrible," Saintly continues, staring into the tent wall. "I got there just after the uruk lit the fire. I had to watch the paper burn, and burn. I choked on the inky smoke as I slew that fucking pyro. I'm sorry, Papa. I'm sorry."
"I..." What could I tell him? It's alright, it's not your fault? Fuck you, Saintly, you incompetent fool? There's nothing. No response is appropriate.
"With these hands, I held the ashes of yesteryear," he says, gazing at his filthy palms. "I held the future in my hands and I didn't react as the ashes burned me. I just stood, and surrendered myself to the eternal night. Oblivion is the best I can hope for." His lip quivers and his voice shakes.
Kisander bounces in, grinning widely. "Hey, Papa! How's it hanging?" Then he notices Saintly's stance- tensed up and breathing hard, on the verge of tears. "Whoa. What's his problem?"
Something clicks. I gaze intently at Saintly, who now flings his arms upwards toward heaven and wails. "The very stones cry out for mercy upon us! Yea, the sands of time have run out, and we are left as helpless babes, alone and abandoned in this heartless world, and left to fend for ourselves without the nurturing wing of the Black Company!" He sinks to his knees and beats his chest.
I calmly draw my kukri knife. "Saintly. I suspect that I'm about to kill you messily. Is that going to be a problem?"
Kisander giggles.
Saintly grasps my shoulders and swells his chest in a very nearly convincing display of grief and sympathy. "Oh, Papa. Of course you out of all of us are hurt more by this terrible news. You have been driven mad with grief! You can no longer tell between friend and foe. Papa, it's me, Saintly! We can still remain together, bound by the ties of brotherhood, and warmed by our memories of our days of marching under our Standard."
"You got the Annals, didn't you."
He grins wide, like a frog. A bastard, son-of-a-bitching frog who deserves to be hung slowly. "Oh, yeah. Piece of cake."
"They're right outside the tent entrance, aren't they."
Kisander nods, beaming.
I sigh. I walk outside and study the old wagon that we keep our very spirit in. I lean into the wagon, touching the old papers and breathing in their scent- musty and old, yet oddly refreshing. I return to my waiting, smirking, soon-to-have-their-asses-kicked brothers.
"That," I say with as much dignity as I can muster, "was not funny, Saintly."
He shrugs cheerfully. "That's what you might call a matter of opinion."
The first thing to do after the return of the Annals was to officially promote the Lieutenant to Captain.
Bullet would also be making Lieutenant, but we'll still be calling him Bullet. His nom de guerre is too fitting and too firmly ingrained to abandon upon promotion. Oh, when he's parading the men they'll say "Yes, Lieutenant!" instead of "Yes, Sergeant!", but when they talk about him around their campfires he'll still be Bullet, after the lead ammo he used for his sling when first joined up 18 years ago. His name fits him too well to abandon.
Not so with the former Lieutenant. He's the Old Man now, until the day he dies. He gave up his former name and became universally known as the Lieutenant last time he was promoted, and he'll be doing it again now. For that matter, I can barely remember what his name was before he was Lieutenant.
Now that we have Annals to swear on, we have ourselves a little ceremony in the courtyard of the Tower of Grufoz. Amin, the Standard Bearer, holds his charge rigidly vertical, our black flag snapping to the west in the harsh wind and then fluttering down limply. Our shattered ranks, just 134 men including the three uruk brothers, stand at attention- shields exactly parallel to their bodies, spears planted in the ground and tilted at 15 degrees. Right hand on moldy papers, I ask the Lieutenant and Bullet if they are dedicated to the survival and prosperity of the Black Company; they say they are. I ask if they are able and willing to command and lead their brothers wisely; they say they are. I ask them if they would be willing to sacrifice themselves for the good of the Black Company; they say they would. I declared them the Captain and the Lieutenant respectively, and we pack up the Annals and fall out.
God, that doesn't even begin to describe what really happened that day. We were resurrected, just like the phoenix of lore. From the ashes of our time in Barad-dur's service we now arise. The Company is safe again, and this is where we formally shut the door in the face of yet another threat to our existence, mark it as read, and stick it in the Annals where all such threats belong. Our defiance lies not only in our force of arms, but in this simple, seemingly redundant ceremony.
If I were in a poetic bent of mind, I would say that our very souls swam freely in our ancient ways and familiar pomp.
Good thing I'm not poetic.
However, just like in real life, for every silver lining there's a dark cloud; morale plummeted immediately after the ceremony. I would even say that, based on the faces I could see, our lads had their spirits dashed during the ceremony.
Every one looked tired; pinched faces and weathered skin and sour mouths. That was the big difference from our lives before we came to Mordor. Every one of us looked the same way I feel every morning. Like they were in for a long, hard day and they didn't wanted to move, because if they moved they would have to start it now. Between the blood-soaked ground at Pelennor and the Eye's betrayal, we had been put through the wringer, and we all knew that the worst may be yet to come. We had previously pinned all our hopes on recovering the Annals, now that we have them everyone's wondering just what exactly we had been hoping for. As the men stood there watching the promotion, I could almost read their weary thoughts:
That's it? That pile of paper? How are we going to win with that, how will that save us?
It won't, I would have replied. Only we can save ourselves. Oh, it may mean that a handful of survivors can take the Annals off the battlefield and rebuild the Company for posterity, but that's not much comfort to these painfully young men who suddenly realize that the path they've been walking isn't a paved road, but a tight rope.
I think what it comes down to is, for the first time the rank and file have a clear view of what we upper ranks have been planning all this time. And since we've been fueling our schemes with nought but desperation and hope...
Still, they're Company to the core, all of them. They'll stand firm when standing's needed.
The ancient training drills of the Black Company resound once more, this time from the mouths of uruks.
"Left!" Bullet bellows.
"Easy!" the uruks holler back in unison as they run grooves into Bullet's makeshift boot camp in the fields outside Grufoz.
"Left!"
"Easy!"
"Left!"
"Easy!"
Pause; "Right, left!"
"TOO easy!"
Bullet's a big believer in the "never say die" routine; that is to say, if the troops under his command continually reinforce to themselves how tough and brave and intelligent they are, they will tend to act tough and brave and intelligent when it counts. For instance, this group of uruks has been running nonstop for the last hour, shouting to themselves how easy it is.
To the south of Bullet's position, Salim is taking a more bloodthirsty route, with the uruks doing the counting off;
"One!"
"Let the bodies hit the!"
"Two!"
"Let the bodies hit the!"
"Three!"
"Let the bodies hit the-" "-FLOOR! One!"
Whereas Kisander prefers rhyming whilst running;
"I want to be an uruk ranger!"
"I want to be an uruk ranger!"
"Fill my life with death and danger!"
"Fill my life with death and danger!"
"Uruk ranger!"
"Uruk ranger!"
"Death and danger!"
"Death and danger!"
"I want to be a battle medic!"
"I want to be a battle medic!"
"Score some funky anesthetic!"
"Score some funky anesthetic!"
"Battle medic!"
"Battle medic!"
"Anesthetic!"
"Anesthetic!"
I tell you, sitting in the shade with a cup of cool water is even better if you also get to watch about a thousand guys getting their asses whupped, while you just stretch out and relax. With age and rank comes privilege, and I don't mind admitting that I'm enjoying it more than I should.
The thing is, despite the fact that uruks are tough, fit, and physically powerful, in every battle we've ever seen them in they die like suicidally depressed flies. Bullet is trying to work out a way to give our uruks a fighting chance. Apart from the general conditioning, which they handle just fine, there's also the weapons training.
Most of the uruk recruits came prearmed with small axes, scimitars, and short spears. They know how to use them well enough, but they rely on ferocity and brute strength too much. A slim wee punk like Kisander or Webfoot can outfight any uruk we have, simply because they've had proper instruction and precision drilled into them for years. We don't have years, we have a week at best. So we make do with what we got. Specialized instructors interview each and every one of the recruits and find out what each is using. Then they show the uruks four or five simple yet effective strikes that the users need to practice.
And practice.
And practice.
Seriously, two hundred yards to my left there are four hundred uruks practicing the same five axe swings over and over again. Behind me are three hundred spearmen who are getting the command "Strike feet! Strike thigh! Strike torso! Strike face!" imprinted on their minds. Soon, their instructor will start fucking with them, barking out "Face! Feet! Feet! Torso! Feet! Thigh!" as rapidly as speech will allow. Any uruk who fucks up too often gets to duel their instructor with the wooden training swords, and our drill sergeants know precisely what they're doing when it comes to fencing.
The uruk recruits will be slaying invisible opponents until Bullet finds some good target dummies to use. We tried using blocks of wood, but not only did they not last long at all, they also dulled and dinged up the uruks' shoddy weapons in the bargain. So while Quartermaster scoured Grufoz for appropriate material for target practice, and also decent weapons to use, Bullet tried rigging up some loyalist corpses onto poles and letting the recruits hack at them. But since the bodies didn't even last a quarter hour before falling apart, well, they'll just have to envision their opponent in their mind's eye until further notice.
Most of the training can probably be glossed over, since the specifics of the training we're using are in the Annals somewhere, but there is one episode that I think pretty much captures the semi-transformation from slave race to Black Company brothers the uruks are struggling to make.
I was nearby when Bullet stopped his company for a water break. The uruks fall on the small pond, slurping and gulping and sucking and splashing.
"A good sign," Bullet tells me, gesturing towards the writhing mass in the center of the pond. "Means I'm finally starting to tire them out."
"A good sign," I tell him. "But still not a pretty sight."
"Aye. Fall in!"
They fall in. Sort of. They never actually learned the basics of falling in and standing elbow to elbow at the position of attention, but the point is that they're in front of him, attentive, and listening for orders. I suppose that's what counts.
"How was that run, lads?"
One particularly ugly uruk near the back pants out, "I'm fucking fagged, sir!"
"Don't call me sir; I'm not an officer, I work for a-" He stops short. "I am an officer, ain't I? You just lucked out, boy! One way or another, 'I'm fucking fagged' is incorrect. Pump out fifty push-ups for being a such a fucking snaga." That order, had it been given after a run like that to a new recruit who's out of shape, may have been harsh and unforgiving. You can't expect boots to have the same capabilities on day one that they need to have by the end of training. However, if given to an uruk with the biceps of an ape and the hardiness of a small bull, it's more along the lines of a practical joke. Either way, the uruk gets down and starts counting them out.
"So, how was that run, lads?"
Uneasy silence. Then;
"Easy!" one growls.
"What the fuck? That sounded like only Zar spoke up! How was that run?"
"Easy!"
"How easy?"
"Too easy!"
"That is fucking correct! Come on!"
And he and his uruks started their run again. I suspect that Bullet's purpose here is not necessarily to beef our uruks up, but rather to discover what their limits are, so that we have a better idea of what their physical breaking point is. It wouldn't do to hurl them into the fray when they're just about to collapse, nor to allow them valuable rest time in battle when they're are still going strong.
Apparently I have a masochistic streak; I decide to burn some weakness off and go running with Bullet's troop, on the grounds that I have nothing better to do. That's why I was on hand when Zar screwed up.
During a pause in the cadence chanting, Zar pipes up in the back of the formation. "Sir!"
"What do you want, a fucking break?"
"No, sir! I was just wondering sir, if it were possible, if we could-"
"Will you fucking spit it out? If we lose our cadence because of you, your mates are going to suffer for it."
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