THE WARRIOR OF THE WHITE HAND

by Soledad

Author’s notes:

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“We are the servants of Saruman the Wise, the White Hand: the Hand that gives us man's-flesh to eat. We came out of Isengard, and led you here, and we shall lead you back by the way we choose. I am Uglúk. I have spoken.”

The Two Towers, Chapter 3: The Uruk-hai

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

From his vantage point high upon one of Isengard’s Gate Towers, Uglúk the Great, chieftain of the fighting Uruk-hai in the service of the White Hand, watched the training of his lads with satisfaction. Unlike the other Orc tribes, the Uruk-hai were a well-trained, disciplined strike force, skilled at the use of various weapons and unique in size and strength. And Uglúk, their chieftain, was the most magnificent of all.

Uglúk was past his tenth cycle by now, quite young even for an Uruk-hai, who grew into adulthood in a mere six cycles. He certainly was the youngest who had ever clawed his way through the lesser ranks and reached the peak in less than four cycles, but his outer appearance was that of an experienced and hardened warrior. He had the scars to prove that he had reached his rank through tough fights.

He was huge, even compared with his own kind, almost as tall as the horsemen of Rohan, who were the tallest ones of the race of Men. His hard, big-boned body, marked by heavy shoulders, a powerful chest and mighty thighs, was gleaming black like polished iron – an outsider would have difficulties to find out where the armour ended and the living flesh began.

The armour was made of several layers of ox hide, stomped and tanned to steely hardness, and yet as flexible as a second skin, not hindering his movements. It reached down to mid-thigh, to protect his entire torso but left his arms, which were thick and strong like tree-branches, bare, save from the wrist-guards that he needed to protect them from the bowstring. His legs were bare, too, above the high boots he wore.

His long, pitch-black hair was braided away from his board face and held together on the nape of his neck by an iron clasp. He almost could have been mistaken for one of the dark-skinned warriors from Far-Harad, if not for his slanted, yellow eyes with the diagonal pupils and the sharp fangs in his wide mouth – both features giving him a demonic look.

He was perfection. The most magnificent creature of the White Wizard. The perfect result of long generations of careful breeding. The ultimate killing machine, born and bred to conquer Middle-earth for his master.

Or so Saruman thought anyway. But in his pride over this powerful creature, the wizard had become careless. In his eagerness to make the great Uruk even more perfect, he taught Uglúk things he had never shared with any of his other servants before. The young Uruk’s eagerness to learn and understand made him weak. It had been too long since he had been able to share a fragment of his enormous knowledge with someone.

With someone whom he thought completely devoted to himself.

The truth was, however, that Saruman had gone too far with the perfection of the Uruk-hai. By mixing their blood with that of the proud and headstrong warriors of Rohan repeatedly, he had created a new, evolved kind of Uruks, a race with a will of their own and a survival instinct that was stronger than any loyalty he could have managed to bred into them. This had been a slow process that had gone through many generations of their short-lived kind.  Right now, they were still loyal to him, their creator and feeder. But they had already begun to have their own goals – on the personal level as well as for the entire race – and it was only a matter of time for their own interests to clash with the wizard’s long-time plans of conquering and subjugating first the closest Mannish realms, Dunland and Rohan, and then extending his rule over further parts of Middle-earth. While still serving him and fighting for him, the Uruk-hai already had their own dreams of conquest.

Vicious fights for leadership were common among all Orc tribes. But the Uruk-hai of Isengard had inherited a useful trait from their Mannish ancestors that lesser Orcs lacked: the ability of forging lasting alliances. There already was loyalty among them, loyalty not only towards the wizard but towards their own kind as well. A strong warrior usually had a small group of followers who profited from his – or her – skills, strength and leadership, and in exchange watched his (her) back against the ambitious adversaries from within their own troops. In these days, simply killing the chieftain in a duel was no longer enough to take over his position. One needed followers to claim it and to keep it. And for the first time, blood relations began to play a role in these power struggles.

In Uglúk’s case, being the progeny of a former, highly respected chieftain not only meant having earned the excellent personal traits of his sire’s bloodline – size, strength, a quick wit and strong ambitions – it also meant that he had got the best training, too. And he had several siblings, born by different females, who would support his ambitions, assuming that he proved his superiority. Which he had, as soon as he had finished his eighth cycle and gained the permission to breed for the first time. His twin brother Mauhúr as well as his half-brothers Grothrásh and Azdreg flanked him like a shield wall against his chief adversary, Skaithak, and his followers. And that had won Uglúk further supporters among the younger warriors.

Uglúk was proud of his small but steadily growing group of followers. He had hand-picked his personal guards – that was the time-honoured right of a chieftain – and oversaw their training personally. He had them trained by âshwûsh, the weapons master of Isengard, who wore the well-deserved byname “the Hated”. She was a savage and brutal female, feared even by most of their own kind, but she was the best. And Uglúk wanted his lads to be trained by the best.

He glanced over the training field to take in the various groups. The youngest ones were practicing swordfighting under he watchful eye of Thraknazh, the whip-master. A large group of the older warriors was fighting with spears and shields. Another group, this one of Uglúk’s own generation, was practicing archery with the great bows only and Uruk was capable of using. And finally, the small group of hand-picked warriors was occupied with double-axe training – probably the most demanding weapon of all. Even more so under the merciless hand of Ashwûsh.

The weapons master did not seem content, which was understandable. Ashluk and Skarburz, the two currently fighting, were way better with the sword and the bow – especially with the bow – than with the axe. Ashwûsh was scowling and swearing, spitting mean insults at the two warriors and their chieftain. Who, in her opinion, was not capable of forcing them to proper training.

That was something Uglúk could not leave unanswered. His authority under the older warriors was still precarious, due to his relative youth, and if Ashwûsh managed to stir them up against him… that could be perilous. He had to intervene at once.

He ran down from the tower, directly to the training field, with an angry scowl upon his face.

“She is right, you know,” he said to his lads. “You’re fighting like the young daughters of the horsemen. Nay, the little girls of the horsemen fight better than you do. Much better. Have you never seen a double axe before?”

Ashluk and Skarburz exchanged ashamed looks and wisely remained silent, as Uglúk’s yellow eyes were gleaming in an unholy light. They knew the quick anger of their young chieftain. ‘Twas better to duck.

“What about you, Ashwûsh?” turned Uglúk to the weapons master with a dark, unpleasant smile. “Do you thing you’re ready to try your skills against mine?”

“Had enough from the good life of the chieftain already?” Ashwûsh snarled. “Fine; get ready then! ‘Tis time for a new leader anyway.”

Uglúk laughed uproariously and peeled off his armour, standing naked in the middle of the training ground, save from his boots and wrist-guards. Uruk-hai did not wear breaches, just a small leather pouch to protect their groin. Facing Ashwûsh without any other protection was a calculated risk. He needed all the speed he could manage to best the weapon’s master, who was more skilled and more experienced than anyone else, but slightly slowed down by her high age. The females of breeding age certainly appreciated the sight of his magnificent body gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun, if the whistling and smacking of lips was any indication. He would have no lack of eager mating partners, once his temporary bond with Krumhûr was severed.

If he proved himself in this fight, that is.

Ashwûsh attacked without warning, but Uglúk had been ready for her. Despite his bulky frame, eight cycles of training and practice lent his movements a fluid grace that could not be matched by many fighters, Men or Orcs alike, even if they were half his weight. The double-axe, as the Dwarves designed it and the Dunlendings copied it, was a weapon made for skill and precision, though it could be as brutal and messy as any other battle-axe, if the need for killing and maiming arose. It had been but for two generations that the Uruk-hai adopted its use from the Dunlendings, and it had improved their fighting style greatly.

The weapon Uglúk was presently wielding might seem ugly to anyone but another Uruk, and it served as a tool of intimidation as well as its actual purpose. Made by Wazzog, the experienced weapon-smith of Isengard, who, in turn, had learned the skill to make such weapons from captured ironsmiths from Dunland, it had a heavy steel shaft, crowned by a needle-sharp upper spike, which connected a pair of identical, double-bladed axe heads. Each of those heads were considerably smaller than that of a common battle-axe, but the crescent-shaped blades were razor-sharp, and they could cut through the hide of a mûmak with ease. In the middle of the shaft, where Uglúk’s hands were gripping it, a handgrip of mûmak leather served to prevent the user’s hands from slipping and to absorb the shock of blows.

Ashwûsh had a similar, through less finely made weapon, and she had about ten cycles more practice in wielding it. She knew all too well how to use every single component of it to even out her slightly smaller frame and slower speed. Beyond that, she had an almost eerie instinct to always be at least two moves before her opponent. In theory, she should have been able to beat Uglúk, which subsequently would have led to his imminent death by the hands of his own lads. A chieftain, moreso such an outrageously young one, could not afford to be bested.

But as always in Uglúk’s case, Ashwûsh was led by hatred and vengeance instead of her sharp instincts. For six cycles had she tried to wrestle leadership from Kushúr, Uglúk’s sire, giving up even the chance of breeding, but lost every single time. She was good, but the Cleaver was better. And when Kushúr, reaching the end of fighting age, wisely chose to step down voluntarily and take over the training of the young cubs, Ashwûsh had already been too old to challenge the ambitious new chieftain. Whom, in turn, Uglúk had challenged and slain less than a cycle ago.

Yet Ashwûsh was still a force to recon with, and Uglúk could not afford any lapse if he wanted to keep his rank – and his head. His main adversary, Skaithak, would gladly take booth; albeit too much of a coward to challenge the chieftain openly, the Crippler had left no chance unused to weaken Uglúk’s position. And he had supporters, before all else the older warriors, who took offence that a half-cub had managed to seize leadership.

Sidestepping Ashwûsh’s ferocious attacks, Uglúk switched off conscious thought and fell back to the fighting patterns and forms trained into his unconscious mind, into his every muscle. This was a uniquely useful technique his sire had taught him long before he had been fully-grown. In this semi-meditative state of mind, training and instinct took over – and they were much faster, much more reliable than any clumsy thought. The moves he needed came back to him at once. All he needed was to let them happen.

Thusly they circled the training ground again and again, ‘til age caught up with Ashwûsh and she slipped for one unguarded moment. In precisely that moment, Uglúk’s long arm sneaked out like a striking cobra. He grabbed Ashwûsh’s axe, and with the same move turned it against her, slapping the flat of the blades against her temple with brutal force. The impact had her stumble and fall backwards into the dirt. Uglúk stepped onto her chest with one foot, immobilizing her quite effectively, and touched the pointed upper spike of his axe-shaft to the hollow of her throat.

“Do you yield?” he asked. He was exhausted, too, his massive chest heaving like the bellows of a blacksmith, but he did not allow his voice to tremble.

Indescribable hatred glared up into his face from bloodshot eyes.

“I yield,” she said through gritted teeth.

Uglúk retrieved his weapon and accepted the training tunic of rough wool someone handed him. Slicked with sweat, putting on his armour would have been extremely uncomfortable. Something he would stoically endure on the battlefield, but he saw no reason doing so right here and right now.

“Continue your training,” he ordered, and while Thraknazh was already running around and swinging his whip to herd the others back to the training fields, he turned towards Saruman’s tower. The heat of the duel made his blood boil, and there was a most pleasurable way to take care of that problem.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Satisfied with what he had seen, and with his own success against Ashwûsh, Uglúk now left the training field to pay a visit his offspring and their bearer.

Females with cubs were housed in the chambers under Orthanc itself. That way, they needed not to protect them from the lesser goblins and the Wargs that lived in the underground chambers, workshops and stables all around the wizard’s tower. The maggots from the Misty Mountains and their riding beasts were always hungry, and it was easier to keep them away from the cubs than to guard the nursing chambers all the time. Considering that they feared the wizard’s presence in the central tower, and that they could not break the spell that kept them away from Orthanc, the cubs were safe.

Krumhûr looked as smashing as always – even though she was called the Smasher for very different reasons. Namely, being one of the fiercest warriors, even as females go. Presently, however, she offered a rather… domestic sight, wearing a knee-length, woollen tunic that was wide open on her chest, as the two cubs were clawing themselves into the thick fabric of said tunic and latched at her teats like leeches. The little ones were apparently earnest feeders, determined to get their bellies as full as possible. Which was a good sign – it meant they had a good chance to fulfil their first cycle and be successfully waned.

Uruk-hai, regardless of gender, were not particularly sentimental people – that could have been the death of them – but Uglúk could not suppress a certain amount of paternal pride as he watched his progeny. The cubs were large for their age, strong and healthy and perfectly round, covered with shiny black fur. The small bone knobs on their temples were almost grown together, forming the protective bone plates over their foreheads. Their claws were strong enough to hold them safely attached to Krumhûr’s tunic, despite their size and weight. They’ll be big, fierce warriors one day.

“They’re almost ready to be weaned,” Krumhûr brushed aside the fur of one fat little bottom and showed an as-yet hidden bald spot. “They have begun to shed their fur. We should think about the naming, soon.”

Uglúk shrugged. “You gave them life. ‘Tis your right.”

“But they are males,” Krumhûr pointed out, reminding him that as the one who had sired them, by male cubs he had the same naming right. Uglúk nodded.

“We’ll speak about it. Have their fangs broken through yet?”

“Almost,” Krumhûr removed one of the cubs from the teat; unlike the wives of Men, Uruk-hai females had no prominent breasts, but during pregnancy and nursing cycle, their nipples grew about three inches, so that the cubs could latch onto them easily. She pulled down the cub’s lover lip. “See for yourself.”

Uglúk touched the hot and swollen gums carefully. He could feel the hardness of the fangs directly under the sensitive flesh. The cub whimpered and clawed into his hand with its sharp little claws, drawing blood. Then it sniffed with interest at the new scent. A red little tongue sneaked out and licked up the blood with obvious delight. The small, yellow eyes glittered.

“Smart little fellow,” grinned Uglúk. “He’ll eat flesh within the moon.”

“They’ll reach fully cycle by then,” said Krumhûr a little wistfully. “And though I’m glad to be back to the fighting troops, I’ll miss them.”

“They’ll be in good hands by Kurbúg and Kushúr,” Uglúk shrugged. “The two have raised the whole younger generation. And they’ve done a damn fine job. That’s the order of things. You’ve done your duties towards the cubs.”

“I know,” replied Krumhûr with a shrug of her own. “And once they’re gone, I won’t miss them anymore. I never missed the first one, either.”

“Do you intend to accept another mate in the next cycle?” asked Uglúk. “You still have four more fertile cycles.”

Krumhûr shook her head. “Nah, I don’t want to. I’ve got fourteen cycles behind me. I’ve mated twice. Three cubs are more than enough for any female. I want to fight again.”

“It will be good to have your sword back with us,” said Uglúk in agreement. “It seems to me that something big is about to come. Something much bigger than the usual skirmishes with the Whiteskins. The White Wizard is restless – and the escape of the Grey Fool is a bad omen.”

Krumhûr glared at him sharply. She was one of the few who knew that Uglúk had the questionable gift of foresight. This was something the Uruk-hai inherited from their Elven ancestors – a rudimentary and extremely rare version of it.

“What have you seen?” she asked.

“Blood and fire,” answered Uglúk slowly. “And a red dawn, drowned in darkness.”

“For yourself or for us all?” asked Krumhûr.

“I don’t know,” admitted Uglúk grimly.

There was a long silence, while Krumhûr removed the other cub from her breast, too, and put them both back into their protective cage. There they could wrestle with each other, roll around like hairy little balls and play as they pleased.

Uglúk watched them for a while. They’ll be waned and separated, given names and sent to the tutors, within the moon. The only place he will be seeing them in the future would be the training fields. He and Krumhûr will separate their bond and go on with their lives, fighting for their master and – in Uglúk’s case – looking out for new mates. That was the order of things for the fighting Uruk-hai.

“It’ll be an honour to fight on your side again,” said Krumhûr, as if reading his thoughts. “And it’s been an honour to be your mate. Your bloodline is strong. Your progeny is excellent. You have always been a great inspiration for me.”

Uglúk sniffed the air discretely. Krumhûr’s scent told him that her nursing cycle was almost over, and she was ready for coupling again. Pregnancy and birthing took its toll on females, thus their body protected itself quite efficiently for several moons afterwards. But after about four seasons, the typical swells of the rear appeared again, opening up the body for further procreation – or just for fun.

Most females only mated once or twice in their life – just like the males, they lived for the fight, and being with cubs took too much time and too much strength of them. Fortunately, it was not possible to get a female pregnant by accident, and that left open the chance of coupling, just for recreational purposes. Uglúk reached out, feeling up Krumhûr’s backside for the swells.

“Speak not the words of release ere we said proper farewells,” he growled playfully, imitating the stilted speech patterns of Men.

Krumhûr giggled and pressed her bottom into his palms, showing that she was willing – and more than ready – to play. And Uglúk needed to work the heat of his recent duel with Ashwûsh out of his system.

Mating was a serious action that needed the partners to focus and harmonize their inner fire. A good shag to blow off steam, however, was an entirely different issue. Soon, they were rolling and wrestling and growling and laughing on the floor, playfully fighting for dominance – until Uglúk managed to roll Krumhûr under himself and mount her. A long, rough and merry coupling followed. Uruk-hai had great stamina and enjoyed a good shag at any given time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After having had some much-deserved fun with his yet-mate, Uglúk decided to pay the healer a visit. The cuts and bruises he had suffered in the fight with Áshwûsh (and during the light romp with Krumhûr) were barely worth mentioning, but as the chieftain whose position was constantly challenged, he had to be at his best, all the time. Taking care even of small injuries was a way to ensure that.

Therefore he went to seek out Grúbkhash the Sleek, the old and experienced healer of Isengard… or rather the only healer, to be more accurate. The fighting Uruk-hai despised any other occupation than that of a warrior and only picked up lesser work if they no longer had the strength to fight – and, for some rare reason, the Wizard still had need of them nonetheless.

The fate of Grúbkhash was only slightly different. Born with a crippled foot, by right he should have been killed as a failure. But the Wizard felt a keen mind in him, taught him herbal lore and leechraft and made him the battle healer of the troops. He was never allowed to breed, of course, lest his imperfection might spread among the Clan, but his skills were grudgingly respected by the others, and thus he was rarely in danger of becoming a meal.

Due to his privileged status, he dwelt in a chamber on the ground floor of Orthanc, where he also had his workshop. That way he could both be easily found in need and well-protected from his less than respectful kinfolk. Everyone knew that the Wizard would be greatly displeased, had anything happened to his pet leech, and the displeasure of the Wizard was nothing that even the hungriest, most stupid Uruk would risk lightly.

As his byname revealed, he was sleek, almost slender – for an Uruk anyway – as he had never been properly trained in arms and therefore had not had the chance to develop such brutal strength as the others. His broad face showed definite signs of aging, as he was almost twice Uglúk’s age. His short-cropped hair – he did not have the right to wear the lush, elaborately patterned warrior braids of the fighting Uruk-hai – was iron grey, and there were deep lines in the corner of his eyes and around his wide mouth, and his movements had slowed down considerably during the last cycle.

When Uglúk entered his den – without announcement as was his right – the old leech looked up from the workbench where he was featuring some sort of tincture. His slanted, yellow eyes glittered with shrewd wariness and barely veiled hatred. It was nothing personal; Grúbkhash hated everyone who was hale in body and strong enough to fight… which included all Uruk-hai, save himself and a few other elders who were doing lowly work, otherwise they would have been killed and eaten,

Some said that the Wizard was the only one Grúbkhash would not hate, but Uglúk knew better. Grúbkhash had the heart of a true warrior beating in his broad chest; he hated the Wizard more than anyone else for keeping him alive. Such a humiliating existence was worse than death for a born warrior; and the survival instinct and the ingrained obedience towards the Wizard’s orders were too strong for him to take his own life. The Uruk-hai were not allowed to die for any other purpose than to serve their Master, and the Wizard needed Grúbkhash alive. It was as simple as that.

But Grúbkhash was not a fool. He might have hated the young, powerful chieftain who was all that he was not; but he also knew that provoking Uglúk’s rage could earn him a savage beating and even some broken limbs that would take a long time to heal. Knowing that the Wizard would severely punish Uglúk afterwards would be no help; thus he wisely showed at least some semblance of respect towards his visitor.

“What do ya want?” he barked, which, coming from him, counted as a high level of courtesy.

Uglúk shrugged off his armour, which he had only thrown around him loosely after taking his leave from Krumhúr, so that the leech could see his upper body.

“Tend to my injuries,” he ordered.

Grúbkhash gave his cuts and bruises a brief look. “They’re minor,” he judged dismissively, and Uglúk nodded.

“Indeed. That’s why you need to treat them now, so that they won’t fester.”

Grúbkhash muttered something under his breath – something about him being a leech, not the dotard caregiver of spoiled cubs with broken toenails and small scratches, which Uglúk ignored good-naturedly – but hobbled to the curtained niche in the wall where he kept his salves and the ingredients for his poultices nonetheless. He fetched a small wooden box with the usual black and greasy stuff that was used to prevent infections and smeared some of it over Uglúk’s cuts. Then he stirred together some sort of ill-smelling poultices and treated the bruises with it.

Fortunately, no bandages were needed… save for the last injury, a rather deep, bleeding cut on Uglúk’s upper arm; the one he had got from Áshwûsh in the axe-fight. Grúbkhash probed it roughly, as was his wont, and seemed disappointed when Uglúk, did not even hiss in pain.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, knowing that no patrols had been sent out from Isengard lately.

Grúbkhash always knew such things, though no-one ever bothered to tell him. Uglúk shrugged.

“Áshwûsh tried to question my authority. I taught her a lesson.”

Grúbkhash’s face contorted in anger and hatred. He might have hated the Wizard more than anyone else, but Áshwûsh, who never failed to humiliate him, came as close second.

“Áshwûsh u bagrouk sha pushdug Sharkû gob búbosh skai,” he snarled, falling back to the Black Speech in his anger, as if the more civilized Mannish tongue could not quite express the depth of his contempt for the weapons master.

Uglúk shot him a disapproving look. It did not behove for the fighting Uruk-hai to use the barbaric language of the rabble from Lugbúrz; they were stronger and better than the lesser tribes and were supposed to show it in everything, even in their speech.

Not that he could blame Grúbkhash for losing his temper when it came to Áshwûsh, though. She had that effect on just about everyone. Which, admittedly, made her a very good weapons master, giving her an advantage on most. Still, Uglúk felt almost sorry for the leech, knowing that Áshwûsh, too, would pay him a visit, soon, to have her own injuries treated. She was bad enough with her equals, but she was a hundred times worse with those she considered beneath her.

“I’ll have to cauterize this,”  Grúbkhash decided, still poking the cut.

Uglúk nodded. It would be painful, but better safe then sorry. An infection was something he could not afford.

The leech tossed him a flask, and he took a deep swallow, relishing in the hot, fierce glow as the burning liquid went down his throat. It was not so that he could not endure the procedure without something to ease the pain for him; but any kind of pain would make him weak, and that was another thing he could afford, not even for a short while.

This special brew numbed the pain without numbing one’s wits, and so he was willing to use it; besides, it warmed one’s insides nicely and had a sharp, pleasant taste. Only Grúbkhash knew how to make it, which was another reason to keep him alive.

He barely blinked when the white-hot iron touched his still bleeding wound. The stench of his own burned flesh did not bother him too much, either. That was the price he had to pay for keeping his strength, and it was fine with him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Leaving the den of the old leech, Uglúk’s way led him to the armour makers next, to have his harnish repaired. It had taken some damage in a previous fight with the Horsemen, and he needed to have it taken care of now before he would have to leave Isengard on patrol. More so as his armour was of a very precious sort.

Even among the fighting Uruk-hai, only the most elite warriors were granted the special harness made of black steel – a strange alloy created by the Wizard himself – and only the armourers of Orthanc knew how to repair it. Fortunately for Uglúk, said armourers were among his stoutest supporters, being his own birthmother, Kurbrúg, and her twin brother, Gazhûr, and they always did their best to keep his armour in an excellent shape.

The armouries of Isangard were part of the great underground works, together with the treasuries, the store-houses, the smithies and the great furnaces. As such, they were delved under the basin within the rimwall, while the living quarters of the Wizard’s many servants were under the rimwall itself. The armouries were separated about halfway between the wall and Orthanc, on the opposite side from the wolf stables, and a deep shaft, sheltered by one of the stone domes dotting the plain, led down to them.