Title: Orc in Ithilien
Author: Draylon (draylon@hotmail.com) 
Pairing(s):Faramir / Shagrat
Rating: NC17
Summary - see author's note.
Author's Note: Chapters six to eight of a continuing sequel to the story 'Captain of 
Mordor' (also available on LoM), in which Faramir of Gondor finds himself slashed 
with Shagrat, an Uruk, once again. 


Chapter 6.  An Orc and his Warg

The moon was low in the western sky and would soon be setting behind a thick bank 
of clouds.  Dawn was still several hours off as Shagrat limped his way doggedly along 
the valley bottom that led from Faramir’s state residence, keen to put a few more 
miles between himself and any Rohirrim pursuers before day-break.  On leaving the 
Palace grounds he had left an obvious trail leading deep into the middle of the largest 
of the Ithilien marshes before he’d doubled back and made straight for the highway.  
Even though the road he was on was one of the main thoroughfares serving the 
province, Shagrat had chosen to take the quickest route out of Ithilien.  He had no 
doubt that he could be tracked easily enough in any case.

Shagrat stopped short.  The stealthy footsteps off to his right that he had been 
listening out for continued for a moment then stopped, and he breathed a long sigh of 
relief.

“You again,” the Orc said gruffly, into the darkness.  “You can come out now.  Let’s 
be having you.”

There was a prolonged rustling in the dry grass that lined the side of the track, and 
after a while, a dark-furred creature crept out from the underbrush.  It was hunkered 
so far down on its paws that its mangy belly dragged along on the ground as it inched 
forwards, and as it approached, it whined at Shagrat, wagging its stub of a tail 
appeasingly.  The beast was vaguely dog-like, but its head was over large and its rear-
quarters sloped downwards abruptly, like a hyaena’s, which gave it a front-heavy, 
disproportioned appearance.  Despite the part that this beast had played in his recent 
and hasty departure from Ithilien, Shagrat was glad enough to see it.   

He knew it had Warg in its make-up, for it understood the Black Speech when Shagrat 
had first spoken to it, but there was not a great deal of that ferocious breed, and what 
there was had been mixed and diluted with sundry other doggy strains.  Though rather 
undersized for a Warg, it was much too big to be to be a wolf, and it had a scrofulous 
cast to its staring coat that suggested more than a dollop of domestic dog or jackal in 
its recent ancestry.  On the whole it represented a pretty poor specimen of any canine 
species, for it was mangy, decrepit-looking, and had lost more than half its teeth.  If 
this hadn’t been the case however, there was every chance that Shagrat wouldn’t have 
been standing talking to it at that moment; if not for the poor condition of this Warg, 
the Orc would have been long-since dead.  

During Shagrat’s time with the travelling circus, he had occasionally been called on to 
participate in certain crowd-pleasing, special entertainment events: Orc takes on and 
is defeated by the village strong-man, is grappled to the ground by a local wrestler - 
and so on.  The last of these challenges he’d been involved in had also featured the 
Warg hybrid, which Shagrat had been scheduled to fight and eventually defeat.  When 
it came to it, the competition hadn’t exactly been a clash of Titans.  On the night of 
the contest Shagrat, at the end of his tether, had knelt down in front of the beast, and 
beseeched it to put an end to his miserable life.   

The Warg, in all fairness, had tried its best but had failed to finish Shagrat off entirely.  
Although Shagrat’s Barker had quickly stepped into the fray and forcibly prised the 
two combatants apart, this was largely due to the Warg’s dentally-challenged 
condition.  Sometime during the night following their contest, Shagrat, who had been 
left for dead outside the Barker’s lock-up, had managed to release the Warg from its 
cage.  Strictly speaking this hadn’t been a good deed on the old Orc’s part: what he’d 
really intended as a parting shot was to try and scotch another one of the Barker’s 
fairground enterprises.  The morning after though, Goldilocks had very unexpectedly 
stepped in at the last possible moment, and had rescued Shagrat in turn, after which 
the Orc found himself being borne off to safety in Ithilien.  And the wolf-Warg had 
trailed after them, following at enough of a distance that it had escaped even the 
notice of the keen-eyed Rangers of Ithilien who formed Faramir’s personal escort.  
Since then it had been lying up in one of the swamplands that bordered the Royal 
Palace, where Shagrat had  been feeding it, partly out of gratitude but mostly for fear 
that otherwise, it would have attempted to messily disembowel one of Faramir’s 
household staff.  He had done his utmost to impress upon it the idea that humans were 
no longer legitimate prey, he’d thought till now with some success.

It had attacked the guard back at the palace though, and Shagrat eyed it speculatively, 
considering that it might possibly be running rabid.  It looked calm enough at the 
moment and he wondered why of all people, it had chosen to savage the Rohirrim 
guard.  Most likely the reek of horse-sweat that came off the man had enraged it, 
stirring long-suppressed emotions in the beast, Shagrat decided at last, and he could 
certainly sympathise with that easily enough.  He never did figure out what had 
provoked it to attack, the notion that anyone or anything might willingly want to 
watch his back being a concept that was at that point completely unfamiliar to him.

As he walked, Shagrat mulled over his future prospects, and in very little time had 
decided where he was heading.  There was only one kind of place that suited Orcs, 
really.  Up in the mountains, where the high passes would be permanently cloud-
covered, and the gorges and ravines were so deep that they’d provide shelter from 
even the hottest noon-day sun.  Accompanied by the Warg, he struck out at the first 
opportunity for the distant line of peaks that formed the border region of Gondor, and 
within a week they reached the first foothills of the mountains.
 
It had been many years since Shagrat had had the chance to hunt at his leisure, and he 
had almost forgotten the satisfaction of tracking and catching his own dinner.  Roe 
deer, wild sheep and smaller game animals were in fine, fat condition and were 
plentiful in the woods and pastures.  With the Warg’s help, he made easy prey of them, 
and they could easily catch as much as they could eat.  The Orc’s plan, such as he had 
one was to find a secure place in which he could over-winter.  But the hunting was 
good and the cold season still some way off, and so the Uruk and Warg spent the last 
days of summer wandering at their ease through the high forests.  Clean air, fresh 
food and regular exercise turned out to have the same beneficial effects on ex-servants 
of Mordor as they would on anyone else, and in very little time both Shagrat and his 
canine travelling companion had noticeably filled out, the Uruk regaining some of the 
strength and muscle-mass he’d lost since the fall of Mordor. 

He had been roaming in the mountains for a perhaps a little under a month he first 
came across a trail that had obviously been made by other Orcs.  The scent was still 
fresh and their spoor looked to be no more than a day old. The Warg wasn’t with him; 
it had taken to spending longer and longer periods away on its own in the woods, and 
Shagrat surmised that it was off looking for others of its own kind, perhaps for a mate.  
Though he was not by nature a sociable creature, through Faramir’s influence, Shagrat 
had become much more tolerant of company and to his surprise, he found that he had 
even come to wish for it.  That, combined with his curiosity about his fellow-Orcs, 
was enough to make him decide to follow them. 

By night-fall, Shagrat was within sight of their encampment.  He hadn’t bothered to 
conceal his approach, and soon enough his presence had been detected by whatever 
Orcish watchmen had been set about the camp’s perimeter.  Before long, a voice was 
shouting at him out of the little hollow in the hills where the group was positioned.


Chapter 7.  An Orcish Reunion

“Come out where we can see yous,” the Orcish voice barked.  “We heard and smelled 
you coming a mile back so don’t try nothing clever.”  

Recognising the voice, Shagrat’s heart sank, as he realised that this Orc-band included 
at least one of his former acquaintances.  It was however too late to turn back.

He stepped out into the circle of firelight, scanning the clearing back and forth and 
counting bodies.  There were seven of ‘em, ten counting the Snaga, and that was just 
that he could see.  Some were familiar, but there were a number of  new faces.

“All right then, Dokuz?” Shagrat said to the large lead Uruk who had spoken. 

“Well if it ain’t the Uruk what formerly used to be known as Captain Shagrat,” Dokuz  
replied, and if he was surprised to see him, he didn’t show it.  “What you been up to 
since you parted company from our merry band, eh, Shaggers?”  

“You know what he’s been up to,” another of the Uruks reminded his companion.  
This one’s name, as Shagrat would later find out, was Rukush. “We saw him that one 
time over Belfalas way, remember?  In that town we stopped in going down the coast.  
Market day, and an almighty commotion, and then what do we see but it’s your old 
mate Shagrat, strung up in the square.  Head stuck in the stocks, hands out like this, 
and folk all flinging muck at him.  You laughed about it for a week, Dokuz!  ‘How far 
the mighty ‘av fallen!’ you said, and that.  And you started that rumour about –“

“Yeah. Oh yeah,” Dokuz interrupted, sniggering evilly.  Now here’s something I’ve 
been wanting to ask you a long time, Shaggers.  Hey!  You lot!” he shouted, waiting 
till he had the attention of the whole Orc-gang before continuing.  “Oi!  Oi, Shagrat!  
Grown back yet, have they?”

“No,” Shagrat replied, carefully keeping his voice neutral.  “No, they haven’t.  As 
well they might not.”

“I want you to know,” continued Dokuz, “sad as I was to see the back of ‘em, and 
dear as they was to my heart - those little keepsakes I had from you, Shaggers my old 
mate - in that town I sold the pair I cut off you for a blasted mint.”  

Shagrat’s right hand clenched tightly into a fist, and with a quick involuntary 
movement he rubbed his thumb against the knuckle-stubs of his index and middle 
fingers; all that was left of them, since the rest had been hacked away.   

“Is that right?” he replied quietly.  “Is that a bleedin’ fact.”  With his left hand he 
reached surreptitiously for his sword-stick, taking a step towards Dokuz at the same 
time.  Outnumbered or not, he was damned if he was standing for this, and if he was 
quick enough, there was even a chance he would take that rotten braggart Dokuz with 
him.  “Trading in Orc-flesh now eh, Dokuz?  Can’t say I’m surprised.  You’d never 
stick at anything would you, you low, conniving -”
 
Rising to Shagrat’s challenge, Dokuz stood up slowly, grinning at his opponent all the 
while.  “Remember what happened last time, Shaggers,” he warned.  “Thought I’d 
sorted it so you wouldn’t be able to raise your hand against me in a hurry.  Don’t 
make me beat you in front of this lot again.” 

“You’ve got no chance,” Shagrat retorted, wounded pride pricking at him, “You had 
to wait till I was down last time, well out of it from that poisoned knife-stick I took in 
the ribs, and –“

“’Oh, I was off my game,’ ‘he gave me the slip’, and let’s never forget the immortal 
‘but-I-fort-this-was-the-Halfling-treasure-what-you-was-after’,” Dokuz mimicked, 
affecting the self-justifying, whining voice of an utter incompetent.  “It’s always 
excuses, excuses, excuses, with you, innit,” he continued, “and if ever there was a 
sorry excuse for an Orc, you, Shaggers my friend are most definitely it.  You’re more 
Snaga than Uruk – and have been a long time.  I’ve always said it.”

“Is that true then, Dokuz?” Rukush interrupted earnestly, absent-mindedly wandering 
up and standing between Dokuz and Shagrat, seemingly oblivious to the growing 
tension between them.  Evidently he was several beats behind in the conversation, and 
he repeated the question, tugging on his companion’s jacket to get his attention.  “Is it 
true about Orcs’ finger-bones being good luck for gamblers?  I never knew that before, 
did you?” 

“No,” Dokuz sighed wearily, sagging down slightly and taking his seat once again. 
“We made that up when we were leaving that town.  As a wind-up - so I’d get a better 
price for Shagrat’s. You remember, don’t you, Rukush?”

“Yeah?  Oh yeah!  Yeah!”

“Thinking ain’t exactly his strong suit,” Dokuz admitted to Shagrat as Rukush ambled 
off out of earshot again, “but he does what I says and the lads’ll do what he tells ‘em.  
He’ll make a grand second-in-command one of these days.  I’m training him up, you 
know - same as you did me.” 

“You’d better do a better job than I did then,” said Shagrat sourly, “or he’ll end up 
stabbing you in the back, same as you did me.”

“Give it up Shaggers, it was dog-eat-dog in them days,” Dokuz retorted.  “And I never 
done nothing you wouldn’t of tried yourself.”

At that point a short, rotund and hairy creature bustled up into the circle of firelight.  
On first glance Shagrat assumed it was one of the lesser Orcs.  Though stunted even 
for a Snaga it was certainly about the right size for a smaller example of that type of 
Orc, but as it approached he saw it had a healthy, glowing complexion and a well-fed 
plumpness to it that no Snaga-Orc ever did.  Shagrat could scarcely believe what he 
was seeing but it was – could not be anything other – than, than a bleedin’ Halfling. 
The Uruk gawped at it.

The Halfling beamed back at him then bowed low to the ground.  “Ludlow 
Pennycress at your service,” it said.

That sounded like abject gobbledegook to Shagrat and he ignored it.  The little 
creature was unabashedly staring at him, and eventually sidled closer until it was 
standing at his elbow.  “Excuse me,” the Hobbit said, “s’cuse me, Mr Uruk, Sir.  I was 
wondering, and the gentleman over there -” 

At this another of the Dokuz’s cronies, an Uruk that Shagrat didn’t know from before 
laughed out derisively.   He was short for an Uruk, squat and muscular and almost as 
broad as he was tall.

“- he said you wouldn’t mind my asking.  What is under your eye patch?” 

Shagrat turned on him, drawing breath to make a sharp retort, but being met by 
Ludlow’s bland, innocently staring expression, found himself stopping short.  The 
eye-patch had been one of Goldilocks’ earlier innovations for he’d hoped that it 
would make Shagrat less of an unpalatable sight to the Palace staff.  Unfortunately 
this cosmetic adjustment hadn’t made a blind bit of difference, but the Orc had grown 
accustomed to wearing it.   He sighed out, wearily.  “There’s nothing underneath,” 
Shagrat said.  “That’s why people have ‘em.”  

“Oh, right,” the Halfling replied.  

“It’s the whole point,” Shagrat continued, not really knowing why he was bothering to 
labour the issue.  

“It suits you,” Ludlow said.  “Rakish.  You know.”

Shagrat eyed him doubtfully, convinced that in some way, he was having the rise 
taken out of him.  He snarled half-heartedly, and turned his back on the irritating little 
creature.  

“What’s the point of that, anyway?” Shagrat snapped in Orcish, jerking his head at the 
Hobbit.

“Provisions,” the block-shaped Uruk replied, in kind.  “Fresh meat.  Much easier to 
carry when it’s on the hoof.”

“It’s a bit small, isn’t it?”

“Quality over quantity,” Dokuz explained.  “More of what you’d call a speciality 
foodstuff.  We can afford to pick and be choosy these days.  Mean ter say, now that 
we’ve got a leadership with a bit of nounce behind it.  Connoisseurs, and that, innit?.”

Shagrat gave him a blank look.

“Crackling,” one of the smaller Orcs explained, smacking his lips surreptitiously.  
“You seen the amount of fat on him?  Right little porker.  Talk about tasty!  Little 
butterball should roast up a treat, eh?”

“What, him, really?”

“Not going soft in your old age are you, Cap’n?” said the Uruk who had spoken 
earlier, with mock concern.

“Nah, Azof, between you and me, he always was as soft as shite,” Dokuz scoffed.  
“You ought to of seen what he done with this pretty-boy Tark he got his claws in one 
time -”

“Tark-sport?  Oh yeah?” Azof prompted eagerly.

“No, no, nothing like that.  Only went and fell for the blighter, didn’t he?  The 
bleedin’ Mary.  So ‘in lurve’ he went and showed the bugger the back door to Cirith 
Ungol, ‘stead of shagging him blind then slitting his throat like any normal person 
would’ve.”

“Disgustin’!” Azof  hooted.

“Fair dos though.  Having said that, time was, my mate Shaggers ‘ud have had that 
little Shire-rat’s liver and lights out, right alongside the rest of us.   Started off a 
vicious enough old sod all right - never would of made Captain of the Tower without 
that.  But you could see he’s never been quite right, never since – well, since he ‘ad 
his troubles.”   

“Nazgul’s pet, you mean?”  said Azof.  “Oh yeah – yeah, that one went all the way 
across Mordor and back didn’it?  I was forgetting about that.  Give us a story, eh, 
Shaggers?  The way I heard it, you always was as close-mouthed as anything about 
your holiday in lovely Lugburz.  Now, that was quite a fix.  Go on now, tell us, how 
the frigg did you manage to extract yourself out of all that?”

“What did he ‘av to frigg, more like!”

“Nah,” Dokuz said.  “He could tell us a much better ‘un.  ‘How I nearly won the 
War.’ Fucked it up for all of us though, didn’t he – and all on account of him bein’ a 
dirty old nance.  Exactly what was he doin,’ our brave Captain Shagrat, all that time 
alone with that little Ring-Bearing bleeder up top in Cirith Ungol, you gotta ask 
yourself.  Never bothered searchin’ ‘im proper, that’s for sure.”  

“Too busy feeling him up, I shouldn’t wonder,” Azof said.  

“That goes without saying,” Dokuz agreed.  “Don’t it Shaggers, you old bender!”

Shagrat bristled.  Over the years, the Uruk ex-Captain had had a lot of time to think 
about various things.  And he had come to, arguably for an Orc, some quite radical 
conclusions - about leadership styles in general, and in particular, about the wisdom 
of unquestioningly rendering lifelong services unto the kind of Dark Overlord who 
had the lack of foresight to tie up all his cruelty and malice – not to say his desire to 
dominate all the races of the earth - into a single, easily mislay-able (and ultimately, 
destroyable) portable object of very small size.  Shagrat voiced these opinions now, 
rather forcefully.

“Yeah, I suppose you got a point there Shagrat,” Dokuz agreed at length, nodding 
approvingly, and he shifted over, making room for Shagrat next to the fire. “I s’pose 
you could say in them days, we was all a bit too easily led.”  

“Not that we had a lot of choice back then, mind you,” another of the Uruks added, at 
which there was a general rumbling of Orcish agreement.

“Rings of Power, my arse,” muttered Azof.  “We’re better of without ‘em.”

Shagrat wasn’t particularly mollified by any of this, but his bad leg was hurting and 
had begun trembling in a way that suggested that if he didn’t get his weight off it at 
least for a minute, it would soon give out.  To avoid this happening in front of 
Dokuz’s band he took a seat beside the other Uruks.

Throughout this conversation the Hobbit had been pottering about on the far side of 
the camp-fire, not really following what was being said, since evidently he did not 
understand the Black Speech as used by the Orcs when they spoke among themselves.  
At the mention of the words ‘Cirith Ungol’ he had begun to look up with interest, and 
was now staring over at them, gaping at Shagrat boggle-eyed, almost apoplectic with 
excitement.  “You’re that Shagrat?  Captain Shagrat of the dark Tower of Cirith 
Ungol!” he exclaimed, in an awestruck voice.  “It’s incredible to meet - but you aren’t 
– you can’t really be him.  I mean, we all heard you were – well, that you were ever so, 
ever so terribly fierce.”

Hearing this, the company of Orcs all began laughing and howling uproariously.

Shagrat stood up abruptly, cut to the quick, knocking his walking-stick flying, in the 
process.  Stumbling as he tried to catch his balance he almost fell, but was steadied by 
the Hobbit, who rushed up solicitously to help.  

“He’s got the measure of you, hasn’t he mate!” 

The chance to make a quick and easy exit from Dokuz’s camp was not lost on Shagrat, 
and thanking his lucky stars for the opportunity, he did not so much as hurry as 
deliberately flounce away from the other Orcs, provoking more peals of laughter from 
them as he went.  As soon as he judged that he was far enough away, he took to his 
heels properly.  As a social call, the visit had not been much of a success.


Chapter 8.  A Change in Travel Plans

Shagrat was following a steeply sloping trail that wended through tall stands of broad-
leaved trees.  He had gone only a short distance when the Hobbit, huffing and puffing 
and apparently running at full tilt, caught up with him.  Trotting along by his side, he 
handed up Shagrat’s walking-stick, which in his haste the Orc had left behind in 
Dokuz’s camp.  Shagarat grabbed it out of his hands while the Hobbit gabbled 
apologies breathlessly.

“It’s all right.  You did me a favour, to tell the truth,” said Shagrat briskly, not letting 
up his quick pace. “I was looking for an excuse to get out of there.”

“What about your friends, those other Orcs?”  the Hobbit said, hurrying to keep up 
with him.

No friends of mine, Shagrat told him, and said that he’d better go back to them, while 
he could still find the way.

Ludlow hesitated, dragging his feet.

Shagrat stopped, and regarded the irritating little creature for a moment.  For some 
reason, Goldilocks had a hell of a soft-spot for Halflings, he knew that much.  Really 
fond of them he was, and most likely he would do his nut or worse, if he ever heard 
that Shagrat had stood by and let one of them be done to death without even trying to 
stop it.

“What d’you think you’re doing with that band of blackguards anyway?” Shagrat 
asked.

“Well it’s the funniest thing.  I came down here to see a bit of the country, all the 
sights and things, and they offered to give me the full tour.  It was very reasonably 
priced.”

“They’ve got you to pay them?”  Shagrat stared at him incredulously.  “Are you soft 
in the head or something?   Don’t you know anything about Orcs?”

Frowning, Ludlow asked him what he meant.

They were planning to kill you and eat you, not take you on a holiday, Shagrat 
explained shortly.  With this he felt he was absolving any responsibility or duty of 
care that he might be owing the  Hobbit populace in general given his association with 
Faramir.   

Ludlow though, seemed to take this worrying news surprisingly well.

“Oh right,” he said.  “I’ve been wondering about that.” He hurried up to Shagrat’s 
side. “Where are you going?” he asked.

Up into the mountains, Shagrat told him, where it’s high and cold and there’s clouds 
to hide you from the sun.

“Can I come?”

The Orc gave him a withering glare and turned away without speaking, continuing on 
up the woodland path.  Despite this the Hobbit kept on scampering after him, 
following sometimes at a greater, and other times at a lesser distance.  Trusting that he 
would be bound to fall behind eventually, Shagrat did his best to ignore him, and in 
this way they climbed, steadily gaining altitude for the rest of the night.  By the time 
the sky was growing pale with the first morning light, they had come to the end of the 
oak and beech forests that had covered the lower slopes of the foothills.  They were 
walking among coniferous trees now, and the patches of bare rock and scree-slope in 
their path were becoming more and more extensive.

Crossing one of these open areas, Ludlow suddenly let out a squeal of excitement.  
“Look, Shagrat!” he said, pointing to a cone-shaped mountain far on the western 
horizon.  There was a faint column of smoke rising vertically up from it.  “Whatever’s 
that!”

“Volcano,” the Uruk grunted, glancing at it and giving the Hobbit a baleful, yellow-
eyed stare.  “I saw one close-up, once.  Take it from me, you wouldn’t want to get any 
nearer to it than this.”

At that moment he became aware of a faint voice that was echoing up the 
mountainside towards them.

“Shagrat!  You shirt-lifting bastard!” it shouted.  “Give me back my bleedin’ Hobbit!”

It was Dokuz.  He came into view a moment later, running hard, in hot pursuit 
apparently, and he rushed on up the narrow path, breathing heavily.

“I oughter of finished you properly last time, and saved myself a lot of bother,” he 
yelled at Shagrat as he approached.  “Should’ve left you as carrion on that 
mountainside, ‘cause carrion’s all you’re good for.”

“Funny, I thought that’s what you did do,” Shagrat commented, as he turned to face 
him.

“Yeah, well,” Dokuz said, looking nonplussed.  “Well - you don’t know what a trial 
it’s been to me, keeping that little bleeder out of trouble.  Give him here and we’ll say 
no more about it.”

“Don’t think I will, at that,” said Shagrat.  He shoved Ludlow further up the path 
behind him, out of harms way, for no other reason than that this would be bound to 
irritate Dokuz. 

“Last chance, Captain,” Dokuz said, going on to count each of Shagrat’s inadequacies 
off on his fingers as he spoke.  “Don’t think I ain’t noticed you got a gammy leg.  
Can’t see you’re still standing, to tell the truth.  You’re not wearing that eye patch for 
show, neither.  Strewth, Shagrat mate, you look like you been chewed up and spat out 
again by somethink.  What the bleeding hell’s ‘appened to you?”

Ran into trouble after you lot pinched all my kit, Shagrat replied.  “Little contretemps 
with a bear.” 

“Conti- contree- my bleedin’ eye,” Dokuz scoffed, telling Shagrat to pull the other 
one while he was at it. “You’ve never taken on a bear.  Unless you bullshitted the 
bugger to death at twenty paces with all your poncy talk, did you?”  

Shagrat shrugged.

“We both know your sword-hand’s well knackered,” Dokuz continued, slightly rattled 
despite himself by Shagrat’s nonchalant attitude.  “You – you ain’t got a weapon 
anyway.”

“You bone-headed idiot,” Shagrat snarled, unsheathing the blade that was hidden 
inside his walking-stick, “I’ll fight you left-handed any day of the week.” 

“Very fancy,” Dokuz commented and without warning, he rushed at Shagrat.  The 
older Uruk stepped sideways and back to avoid him, only to collide with the Hobbit, 
who had crept up so close behind him that he was practically hugging the skirt of 
Shagrat’s tunic.  They both fell over, sprawling among the stones and rocks.

Dokuz sighed and rolled his eyes at them.  “You’re nowt but a bleedin’ 
embarrassment,” he told Shagrat, as he bent over to disarm him.  Shagrat, still on his 
back, lunged for his opponent and missed, and at that Dokuz kicked him away, his 
heavily-booted foot impacting hard against the base of Shagrat’s ribs.  “Did I mention 
you were also outnumbered?” he added as Azof and one of the other smaller Orcs 
came clattering up the trail towards them.  

“You got ‘em!” Azof shouted. “Nice one boss!”

The three of them began laying into Shagrat properly after that, belabouring him with 
their feet and fists.  Unable to regain his footing, the beleaguered Uruk fought back in 
silence as best he could, but after several minutes Dokuz kicked him again, 
effortlessly finding that same centre of pain in his side, and when he did that all 
thoughts Shagrat had of anything else left him quite completely.  Dokuz’s blows had 
done something awful to a pre-existing injury to his chest, something that Shagrat did 
his best not to think about, day-to-day.  All the breath was driven out of him and 
wheezing helplessly, he folded himself around the frightening area of pain and 
looseness, curling up where he was lying to protect it from further damage.  

His opponent however had other ideas.  “That hit the spot, did it Shaggers?”  Dokuz 
said, with some interest.  “Azof.  Hold him still a minute, yeah?  That’s the way.  
Stretch ‘im right out.”

Azof’s strong hands grabbed hold of Shagrat as he began trying to force him up onto 
his knees.  From his position at ground level Shagrat saw Dokuz’s feet moving 
purposefully out of his field of view and realising that he was planning to take a run at 
him, he struggled frantically to break free.

The next moment he was floundering on his face in the dirt.  Azof had thrown him 
down and Dokuz had started screaming horribly.

“What the frigg – what the flying frigg is that?”  the little snaga-Orc was screeching.  
“Where the frigg – where the frigg’s it frigging come from?”

All this Orcish yelling heralded the arrival of the Warg – Shagrat’s Warg – which had 
attacked, making a beeline for Dokuz.  It was snarling ferociously and had him pinned 
to the ground.  Worrying at him with its claws, it was growling and slavering at Azof 
and his smaller companion all the while.  They were managing to hold it at bay, but 
seemed unsure how to proceed because -

“Don’t try nothing!” Dokuz was howling at them, “the bugger’ll have me - Shagrat, 
gerrit off me!  Shagrat!  Call the frigging thing off!”

Shagrat rolled painfully onto his side and stayed with his head down for a moment.  It 
took him a long time to finally get to his feet.  Despite this none of the other Orcs 
made any comment.

“You,” Shagrat said, addressing the Hobbit, who was still cowering among the stones 
and watching them, round-eyed.  “Get their stuff and bring it over here, will you?”

Ludlow obeyed immediately, hurrying over to where the Orcs had left their backpacks.  
One by one, he dragged the bulky objects back to Shagrat, also taking for himself a 
smaller, Hobbit-sized haversack that Azof’s companion had been carrying.

“Right,” Shagrat said to Dokuz, who was still underneath the Warg, “I’m taking this –
“ he indicated the largest pack, which was Azof’s, “and that” – pointing to the Hobbit,  
for all the stuff you nicked off me before.  Seem fair enough to you?”

“He can’t ‘ave that one,” Azof protested, pointing at his pack.  “Tell ‘im, boss.  It’s 
got the –“

“Tell him he can have whatever he likes,” Dokuz interrupted frantically.  “Take 
whatever you want, Shagrat, old mate,” he called.

Obeying a quick command from Shagrat, the Warg jumped clear of Dokuz.  It kept on 
barking maniacally at him with hackles raised, and it clawed the ground in frustration 
that Shagrat had halted its attack.  “See this lot off, all right?” Shagrat told it. “Make 
sure they don’t come back in a hurry.”

The Warg bounded energetically towards the three Orcs.  For a moment Azof looked 
as if he was thinking about standing and facing it, but with Dokuz yelling: 

“Leave it! Leave it!”

 - at him, he joined in their scramble to get out of the way.

Shagrat waited till they were far out of sight down the rocky path.  He shouldered 
Azof’s pack then sat down heavily under the unexpected weight, trying to gauge 
distances across the mountainside to the next stand of trees. It looked like a long way.  
Too far, maybe. The sun was getting higher and the bare ground ahead of him was 
already beginning to swim and grow hazy with the heat.   The Hobbit was also 
hovering around at the edges of his vision, irritatingly.

“What d’you think you’re looking at?” Shagrat snapped.  “Haven’t you seen someone 
getting done over before?”

“No!” said Ludlow.

Shagrat snorted wryly, explaining that the good kicking he’d just received wasn’t the 
first one he’d ever had, that it hadn’t been the worst by a long shot, and the way his 
luck was going these days, it probably wouldn’t be the last one either. 

“But they attacked you three against one,” Ludlow said, bristling with indignation.  “It 
wasn’t fair.”

“We’re Orcs,” Shagrat told him wearily.  “That’s what we do.”  Thinking about the 
beating he’d taken made the pain of it return with a vengeance. He was far from being 
the Uruk he once had been, and was well past being able to take that sort of treatment 
in his stride.  Worse in a way was the knowledge that he’d been bested by Dokuz yet 
again – another knock to his already-battered pride, and pride was a commodity of 
which, given the life he’d been leading lately he’d had little enough remaining in any 
case.  Feeling dreadfully tired, he slumped down next to the nearest boulder and 
rested against it.  It couldn’t hurt to close his eye just for a minute.  He woke a 
moment later with Ludlow patting his arm insistently.

“Come on, Captain, you can’t stay here,” the Hobbit was saying. 

“Get away from me!” Shagrat howled, coming awake with a start and shaking him off, 
“stop following me!  When will you get it through your thick head I don’t want you – 
leave me alone!”

Ludlow skittered a few steps back in fright but stopped where he was and went no 
further.  Apparently he was going to be stubborn about this.

In the end Shagrat had to accept the Hobbit’s help.  He didn’t particularly fancy his 
chances of making it to cover unaided and since his only other alternative would have 
been a slow death from exposure out on the mountainside, he reluctantly leant on the 
shoulder that Ludlow had offered him.  Luckily for Shagrat, the Hobbit was much 
sturdier, and stronger than he looked, but they still made slow progress.  The Uruk 
seemed unable to catch his breath properly and had to stop frequently, but at last they 
reached the nearest stand of trees.  

It was cool and dark under the branches, and staggering free from the Hobbit, Shagrat 
dragged himself further into the little wood.  The ground was carpeted with pine 
needles and he sank down and lay on his back.  Through the pine boughs the sky was 
dazzlingly blue, and for a while he watched the clusters of white clouds above him 
chasing along in the sunlight, being blown by the gusty morning breeze.  There was 
even the tinkling, musical sound of water falling over rock coming from a little stream 
nearby .  That it couldn’t possibly have been more ghastly, was Shagrat’s last 
coherent thought, as he fell asleep.  He had never seemed to require much in the way 
of shut-eye, back in the old days, but that was another thing about him that 
circumstances seemed to have changed, and by the time he woke again it was dark.  

Fortunately Ludlow had already spent some time living among Orcs, because 
otherwise the spectacle of Shagrat, screaming and lurching to his feet like some kind 
of demented scarecrow in the moonlight would surely have sent him scurrying for 
cover.

“Oh hello. You’re up again, I see,” he observed blandly, once the Uruk had quietened 
somewhat.  “How are you feeling?”  He was sitting beside the neat camp-fire he had 
built, busily cooking a meal.  The Warg was close by, watching him with a hungry 
look in its eye.

Shagrat grumbled unintelligibly in reply.  The Hobbit got up and handed him a large 
tin mug of something alcoholic, explaining that he thought that Shagrat might like a 
drink from the bottle Azof had been carrying in his pack.  The fumes rising off the 
vile brew made the Uruk’s eyes water. 

“What’s that on your face,” Ludlow asked, peering at him closely.  “Is that –“

“It’s nothing,” Shagrat said, wiping his mouth hurriedly. He coughed carefully into 
his hand.  There was more of the same but, he was relieved to note, a lot less of it than 
there had been before.

“- is that blood?” Ludlow exclaimed.  He watched Shagrat swallow a deep draught 
from Azof’s cup.  “Should you be drinking that in your condition?” he said.

“Probably not,” Shagrat told him, but at least it made you feel like it was doing some 
good.  A fresh fit of coughing shook him. 

“What’s wrong with you?”

“It was that – that blasted volcano I told you about,” Shagrat wheezed.  “Blew its top 
right after the fall of Mordor.”  He waved his claw vaguely.  “All burning smoke, and 
raining ash and poison fumes rolling down the mountainside, while everyone the 
wrong side of the Black Gate was running for it.” 

Ludlow gasped.  “How did you escape?”

Shagrat hesitated.  “Well I – actually I was in prison at the time.”

“In prison?”  Ludlow echoed, seemingly far more disturbed by the idea of Shagrat 
being an ex-jail-bird than he was by the fact that he had spent most of his life as a 
servant of the Dark Lord in Mordor.  “Whatever were you in prison for?”

“Gross dereliction of duty,” Shagrat said shortly.  “They’d had their eye on me a long 
time, after - after something that happened before.  I got my command back 
eventually, but short of officers or not, they never forgot and I was watched all 
through it, even closer than usual.  So this time, they didn’t hang about to ask 
questions.  I was sent down soon as they’d figured out something had gone wrong.  I 
was lucky though, compared to some.”

“Lucky?”

“I wasn’t burned to death straight off for starters, was I?  And the pit they’d thrown 
me in was deep enough to hold out through the first of the earthquakes.  Tremors tore 
down the walls, and afterwards it took me forever, but in the end I was able to make it 
back up to the surface.  But the smoke did a number on my blasted lungs, didn’t it?  
They’ve never been right since.”  Having his chest caved in courtesy of Dokuz hadn’t 
exactly done them any favours either, Shagrat thought, as he gingerly fingered his 
bruised ribs.

Then what happened, Ludlow asked him.
Shagrat was silent for a minute or two.  He’d never spoken about this, as with the 
other Orcs it had become something of a taboo subject but from what he’d seen for 
himself at the time he knew that their experiences must have been fairly similar.  
Their dark master Sauron had kept things in order  – amongst other, more directly 
physical methods – by putting a cruel little splinter of himself inside the heads of all 
his minions.  ‘Minions,’ thought Shagrat, that was undoubtedly what Dokuz would’ve 
called poncy talk, and it was: it was just a fancy way of calling what they all of them 
were, which was slaves.  Every one Shagrat had known back then had been affected 
by it, some undoubtedly worse than others, but even if it was just the faintest trace, 
such was the Dark Lord’s power that it would be enough for Him to ensure they’d 
keep in line.  When that connection went, well, it hadn’t exactly been pleasant.  
Shagrat wondered if the Hobbit could possibly understand what it had been like, and 
sincerely doubted it.  

“A lot of us stopped where we were standing,” Shagrat said eventually.   “Shock, or 
something, I don’t know.  Everyone was hard hit when Saruon - that’s the Dark Lord, 
fell.  He took a fair few right on the spot.  Intended to most likely, odds are he meant 
to take everyone with him when he finished.  That’s the way they did things back then 
in Mordor, but he never managed it.  The dregs was left running about like headless 
chickens afterwards, myself included.”

In a long and violent life filled with mostly horrendous experiences, the lasting terror 
and panic he’d shared with the other minions of the Dark Lord at the fall of Mordor 
still stood head-and-shoulders out as one of Shagrat’s more notably unpleasant 
memories.  A nameless, choking fear had driven him and his comrades on like dust at 
the foot of a whirlwind, forcing them to flee and scattering the remnants of the Black 
Army far and wide.  Shagrat, like the others had run till he dropped, lying insensible 
in the open wherever he fell, and when he awoke he’d run some more.  Many of them 
had not made it past that part, and had succumbed to the heat, and madness and 
exhaustion but slowly, over time, the terror had gradually dissipated. When he finally 
came to himself, the Orc was many miles from where he’d started, in an unknown 
region in the foothills of the southern mountains.  

“Then I met up with that lot, with Dokuz and some of the others,” Shagrat said.   “We 
had a bit of a ruck not long after that as it happens.  Decided it would be best if we 
went our separate ways.”

TBC