“Well, Lugnashk its clouded over nicely.  No reason why your pack of dogs can’t put in a few more leagues, being the sun ain’t there to make ‘em whine.”

Lugnashk promised himself that Bagrish would meet with a battlefield accident for all his arrogance.  But for now he would endure.  Bagrish was nearly a head taller than him and any of his subordinates, all of whom were intimidated by him. 

“Let’s see if your bow legs can keep up with your mouth, Bagrish” Lugnashk stalked off snarling orders at his sub-commanders.

Quick draughts of noisome orc wine were squeezed out of greasy black pouches for a boost of strength.  Shouts and curses greeted the orders to march on.

They had come far from their lairs in the Misty Mountains.  Down their rugged flanks, winding through steep gorges to the foothills, then out into the rolling plain.  Carefully they gave Lorien wide berth to the north.  Equally, they ran well away from Fangorn forest to the south.  Moving by night, sheltering by day they had reached the Limlight and now followed its course toward the Anduin.

Bagrish sniffed the air.  Storms to the south.  He read the skies and grunted.  The  rains would pass them by.  But the soldiers of Gondor would struggle in the mud.  It mattered not to Bagrish.  He would kill them wet or dry.

That would be tomorrow by his reckoning. 

Bagrish watched as his orcs moved out, eating up the miles with an easy lope.  He tightened his belt and quickly overtook them with his relentless jog.  Up ahead Lugnashk was setting the pace, leading the troops. 

He was insolent and untrustworthy.  Bagrish contemplated relieving his shoulders of the burden of carrying such a head resembling a rotted potato.  Things happen in battle.  For now he was more useful in one piece.