The land was burning. Not just houses or patches of grass but the plain itself, the southern quarter of Pelennor had been devastated and was black with ashes and soot, with twisted remains of trees, cottages and the grisly and blackened dead of both sides. The smoke had rose high, thick and stinking from the damp ground, and the sun shone less than it should. The orcs chieftain had held nothing back, as if seeking to set fire to the world itself. That was of course not within the reach of even such a prominent warchief but the combined effect of oil, pitch, tar and less known and even more lethal substances gathered over years of campaigning was a devastation of fearsome proportion. Men and horses shied away from his wrath, and Gondorian captains forsook the hope of ever relieving their capital, surrendering to the idea of the homelands complete defeat. North the combined Rohirric forces huddled in the castle of Cair Andros.
Trolls with clubs and maces marched alongside black plated uruks on the road that went from south to north under the walls of Minas Tirith. Other orcs stared at them, with contempt, awe, fear and jealousy. There was no mistaking the assuredness and swagger of Malthurs uruks and deep down everyone knew that it was not without reason. But those same uruks and to a lesser degree trolls were also branded as outcasts and something of renegades, publicly scorned by the wraiths and in bad standing with the rest of the dark lords servants. A wise orc kept its distance from such kin, expecting something bad to come out of it all and hoping to not get caught up in it, and to be there when it was over to pick up the spoils.
In a long column Malthurs army marched with the chieftains bodyguard close to the front. Uruk archers made up the vanguard as usual. They soon reported that large forces were deployed next to the city gates and the crossroads, similar to when they had marched out. Immediately forward of them were a company-sized group, though. They bore better than average plate armor and shields with a grinning white skull over a likewise white crescent moon. Malthur recognized the emblem of the orcs stationed permanently in Minas Morgul, the mark being a mockery of the tarks who had called the place the moon tower or something of that sort. Leading them was a shorter orc with a pointy nose and darting eyes, with the habit of tilting his head downward so that he looked at others from under his eyebrows. Malthur thought his appearance reminded him mostly of an overly aggressive rat, like many of the stunted archers that were usually given scouting duties. A nasal voice completed the likeness.
"Stop! Halt! Who goes there?!"
Malthur did not stop, nor did he in fact make any sign of having heard the question when he continued marching ahead towards the orc patrol. Their leader cried out again, clearly less reassured this time.
"I said: who goes there!"
Malthur was still marching ahead, seemingly intent on marching right over him.
"I am Lorg, captain of this post, and I demand you state your name and number and rank!"
"Halt column!" Malthur suddenly held out his arm and barked at his troops, with the cry being repeated down along the ranks. The chieftain stepped forward
"You are not welcome here, little overseer. Why not crawl back into Mordor while you let those who are actually trusted do the work of war? We don't need your rabble anywhere here, you see."
"Why not get out of my way, worm?"
"You can't touch me! I am under the nazghuls themselves commands!"
"Just as we all are, then. Unless you would suggest that the wraiths do not have control over their armies? Is that what you are saying, little maggot?"
The other orc stared at Malthur but did not form any retort.
"So perhaps you could direct me to a real commander here for I have no patience for sniveling little Morgul bootlicker rats! I am going into the city so either get out of my way or try to stop me."
Lorg hesitated, looked around himself and licked his lips, walking backwards. When he had put a few ranks between himself and Malthur he frantically cried out "Seize that rebel! Now!".
Malthur made no reply but held up his raised fist. As one, the first line of uruk bodyguards raised up their shields and put one foot forth, ready to brace against a charge. The Morgul orcs running forward stopped in their tracks, hesitant. They looked to one another and back over their shoulders. They had not come to fight, they had come to stand guard, beat up the odd suspected culprit and help with bullying other orcs. Usually, the skull and moon of their shields were more than enough to let them get away with such. Now for once it clearly wasn't. But neither were Lorgs company ready to accept the fact that another uruk company would attack them openly - knives in the dark and murders in dark corners were the common ways of the enthralled orc of Mordor. And so they did neither thing, and hesitated too long.
Lorgs eyes darted left and right, searching for reinforcements or for an avenue of escape. Then suddenly he drew a knife from his belt and threw it at Malthur quicker than anyone could react to. The orc chieftain instinctively turned his head to the side to let the helmet block as much as possible, but Lorg was not as skilled or steady as he was fast, and the knife bounced with a clattering against the orc chieftains chest plates. Malthur looked down unimpressed, secretly well aware that the armor he wore resisted steel much sharper and attempts far more determined than that. Then he lowered his fist, and his uruk bodyguards advanced.
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Re: [Third Age MOS AAR] An Orcs Tale - Chapter IX - VII
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Originally Posted by Maltacus
Surely our noble hero cannot be defeated by this terrible news!
of a maggots nest! GRAAGH!"
