But first, a Warning to Readers, especially the Weak-Willed - HERE BE (SOME) SPOILERS!

The following events are set in the background - the extreme background - of the events forming Chapters V to X of Book Five in the final book of a certain massively popular fantasy trilogy. While every effort has been made to obscure the plot details, a certain amount of spoilage has been unavoidable in two or three areas. Anyone who has not read the book in question, and intends to, is gently advised not to read this. Or you could wait for some kind of screen interpretation, possibly coming out in the near future.

So, as the saying goes, if you don't want to know the score, look away now.

'In reply to this, the wise of Eressëa did declare their decision: "Thou shalt not suffer an orc to live". And their wisdom was praised, for it is surely the creature most vile and base, and the most hateful to Ilúvatar...'

- From the Royal Historian's 'On the Lore of the Quendi'.

The elf walked in the meadow, and though it was high noon starlight glimmered in his eyes. A glow like that of the waning moon caressed his face, which was fair, stern and achingly noble. As he walked, his high mind dwelled on the song of the birds, the slow language of the trees and plants, the overpowering beauty of the scene... He tried not to dwell on the corpses scattered throughout the field, because they were so ugly really, and not a fit subject for the contemplation of a higher being. He held a glove up to his perfect nose at the stench. They didn't even have the grace to die discreetly. This was Meneaer, an Elf-lord of the Golden Wood, a wise and ancient Avari of impeccable elvish stock.

Happily, there were not too many distractions sprawled among the long grass of this fine field. The orcish army had turned tail quickly in the face of the elves' assault, hiding their loathsome faces and grunting like beasts, so few had been killed on this flank. On the other side of the gorge – he cocked an ear to the wind – the sounds and fury indicated that the heavy cavalry had found the Haradrim allies of the Dark Lord unprepared, and were having bloody sport. Marvellous. He smiled beatifically.

But what was this? His brothers walked the hillside, swords sheathed now, searching for survivors and reflecting on the regrettable yet necessary violence... yet here they crowded, and a heated argument was going on. He strode over with purpose and, of course, nobility.

'What problem, brothers...?'

he began, then:
'By the Valari, they're hideous! Kill them! Why hasn't anyone killed them?!?'

In the centre of the circle of elves stood two revolting, sunken-chested, deformed, ugly little creatures. Yrch. Orcs. One was standing, clutching a scrap of paper and grinning nervously, exposing a mouth of sharp, uneven teeth. The other crouched twitching at his feet, mewing in his own brute language.

'We cannot kill them,' muttered one of the elves sulkily.
'They have surrendered.'
'Surrendered? Can they do that?'

It takes a lot to shock a five thousand year-old. This did it.
'But of course we can kill them!' growled another forcefully.
'We have always killed orcs. They are not worthy of life, it is tradition.'

A surge of polite muttering from the assembled elves indicated that this was a popular opinion. But one was not satisfied.

'They never surrendered before... We must take them back to camp.'

The first elf scowled.
'But it is most vexing. Would that they had the courage to die decently... disgusting little sneaks...'

The standing orc turned to Meneaer, and cleared his throat. The elf-lord leaned back slightly, in expectation of phlegm. Then, consulting the scrap of paper, the creature spoke haltingly.

'We surrender. To surrender. He/she/it/one surrenders... We wish to seek political asylum. This - umm - cheese is stale. I am sorry, I am a visitor here. A room - umm - for two, if you please. Please. Thank you. Quarter past seven...'

Grimacing, Meneaer snatched the paper from the orc and held it up for inspection in a gloved fist.

''Handy Elvish Phrasebook'' he read aloud, distaste dripping from every word. 'From the Terrible Publishing Pits of Doom¹...'

The elves argued; the two orcs stood awkwardly in the middle, one bemused, one terrified.
'He said he wanted a sylum. Does anyone know what that is?'
'Is it not a part of a flower?'
'But what could he want with a flower? Could it be some cunning design of the Enemy...?'

Still staring darkly at the two creatures before him, Meneaer coughed gently. The other elves fell silent, respectful of his wisdom and seniority.

'Alas, we cannot slay these wretched minions where they stand...'

There was a disappointed groan from the back of the crowd.
'Brothers, brothers. We are the Avari, after all. We must set a certain moral standard. The... the sub-elves will be taken back to the camp and questioned. Then we'll kill them.'

A loud cheer went up; great was the rejoicing of the Fair Folk.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been touch-and-go for a moment there when the first one had stopped, dumbfounded, and almost cut Lurkh in half from sheer surprise. But now he felt a surge of confidence. After the initial heated argument, while he and Ghurz sat blinking innocently at the elves with their hands on their heads, the tide seemed to have turned in favour of the view that no-one wanted to take responsibility for this. The reading seemed to have gone well, and now the elves were totally in disarray. They don't know what to make of me. Heh. Like a loaf of bread had suddenly made an eloquent plea for life just before coming under the knife.

'Didn't I tell you to stick with me?' he whispered in quiet jubilation. 'Retirement here we come!'

Ghurz cringed. 'They don't seem too happy... oh wait, they're cheering. That's good, isn't it? Is it? Umph...'

'Don't worry so much, I am in - heya there, steady! – complete control. I have a trump card left to play.'

Ghurz continued to worry. In all the card games he had played, someone had ended up missing at least a hand.

Now one of the elves – it appeared to be the most junior, although it was hard to tell with their ageless faces - pulled on a pair of gloves and, looking exquisitely uncomfortable, tied their arms behind their respective backs, leaving only the legs free. Up close, their ethereal presence was even more unnerving. Ghurz shrank from the pale glowing figure. It was a fear engrained in the orcish mind; their smell was wrong, their texture, their way of moving... With a series of curt, very expressive hand gestures, the elf indicated that they should move, and listed the unpleasant alternatives to cooperation.

Down the meadow, through the gully, into dappled shade, along beside the stream, out into another field they marched. All the while the massed companies of the Captains of the West were passing in the opposite direction; all kinds of men, in armour ranging from light chainmail to heavy plate armour, bearing the white tree, the rampant horse and a myriad of other emblems; cavalry there was too, proud, fair men on great horses with long spears. As they filed past, they all looked confusedly and maliciously at the orcs. Lurkh, quite unconcerned, grinned sunnily at them all and waved. An elf shoved him in the back to hurry him along.

'What in damnation are you doing, trying to get us killed?' protested Ghurz awkwardly. Swearing had never come easy to him.

'Don't worry, they can't kill us now. We've surrendered. That makes our persons, um... 'inviolate.'

He took in his companions blank stare, and tutted.
'It means they can't do the dirty on us, or they'll be breaking their rules of war². These are on the side of Good, remember? It'd be terribly bad form to kill a guy after he'd laid down his arms and waved the white flag. Useful, eh? You just have to know a little about these saps to know their weakness... But you're just a simple orc.'

Lurkh swung to one side and made as if to shake the hand of a passing sergeant, who was rubbernecking on his way along the lane. The startled man jumped back as if stung, tumbling into the overgrown hedge, and Lurkh guffawed.

'See? They're terrified of us!'

Ghurz wasn't sure. Some of the elves were staring quite nastily at him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Into the great banner-hung camp of the Captains of the West they were led, and through the thronged streets of the tent city. Finally they were bundled into a small tent, bound to the central pole and abandoned. Muffled sounds of men and horses penetrated the tent, and the smell of woodsmoke filled the air.

'Are you sure this was the right thing to do?' Ghurz quavered, tugging at the ropes that held him. 'I mean, suppose the humans...'

'Ghurz, you trembling little turd, relax. For the last time, the Plan is sound. Remember the trump card? And what do you really know about humans, anyway? Why, you probably...'

'Actually, I was raised by humans,' Ghurz interjected. 'So there now. Didn't know that in your big brain, did you?'

For once, he had managed to stop Lurkh mid-speech. The educated orc stared at him with the traditional goggling eyes and slack jaw of complete shock.

'By... humans...'

'Yep. When I was very little, I must have been weak and sickly, because my clan decided to expose me on the mountainside to die. So along came this human, a man trekking across the pass, and he picked me up and brought me home to his woman.'

'Why didn't he kill you, or leave you? What, was he some kind of orcitarian...?'

'They had lost their own spawn in an orc-raid, I think, and they were lonely, living in the mountains alone, and they saw it as justice or fate or something...' Ghurz shrugged. He told the story hesitantly, as if it was a song he had half-forgotten. 'They called me... some other name... I had another name...' Now his eyes took on a far-away look, as he groped for memories long since faded.

Silence fell in the little tent.

We are a fine pair of misfits, thought Lurkh bitterly. Two freaks who didn't belong back home, and are despised everywhere else. Me because I have a brain, him because he's a damnfool half-breed with too many emotions for his own good. What a messed-up world. Raised by humans... well, it certainly explains a lot...

At this point, his thoughts were disturbed by two elves pushing under the tent flaps to stand scrutinising them. One was tall, with sharp yet fair features, and a grim expression which seemed out of place on so beautiful a face. He stood pensively, one hand at his waist, the other caressing his chin disapprovingly. His lips twitched slightly as he gazed at them through half-closed eyes, with the air of a cat who is just beginning to find it tedious toying with the mouse. The other was a woman of medium height, and was just fair. Since this adjective so admirably describes elves, why cast about for any more?

'I am named Meneaer,' announced the tall one darkly, speaking in the Common Tongue. 'My companion is Avarlothien. We have travelled here from the Golden Wood, province of the elven Queen and last, timeless bastion of the old ways in this Age. Now... what do you little brutes think you're playing at? Hmm?'

Lurkh regained some of his earlier cockiness. Insults he could handle; back home they had been the bedrock of most of his conversations.

'We've surrendered, chum,' he chirped. 'We're seeking political asylum with you lot, on the grounds that returning to the Homeland would be...' He struggled to recall the archaic phrase. '...oh, yes, "injurious to our health". Very injurious.'

Meneaer curled his lip in revulsion.

'On what grounds?'

'Well, for one thing, you should see the smog they have there. Gives you black snots, you know...'

The high elf growled, and turned to leave. 'I had foreseen that this would be a waste of time. Avarlothien, you may take them out and behead them...'

She flicked out her sword eagerly, eyes all a-glimmer.

'Wait, wait, wait...' Lurkh hadn't understood the words of that last part, but the gist was unmistakable. It was time to play the trump card. 'We have information! Valuable tactical information!'

Ghurz frowned and twisted in his bonds. 'We do? You never...'

With reluctance, Meneaer turned to face the yrch once more.

'Quiet. Go on...'

Avarlothien pouted, and sheathed her blade.

'We can take you into the country. Right in, on the secret roads that no-one knows about but us. Secret paths through the mountains... you could bypass the Black Gate and be laying siege to Lugbúrz within a month... eh?'

Meneaer was intrigued, despite himself, and slightly disappointed. Would he have to forgo the pleasure of seeing these vile sub-elves executed?
'I must take this offer to the King. You live or die on his word.' He turned to the other elf with a forced smile, and said:
'Guard these little wretches, would you m'dear? I shall return with their death warrant, it is to be hoped.'

And he swept out of the tent with so much nobility it hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

'Are you absolutely barking?!?' Ghurz turned on Lurkh, twisting around to glare at him. 'We've just gotten away, now you want to go back with these... these knights in shining armour? As some sort of guide? What happened to Kharad, and the cosy little pit away from it all? You're going to get us both killed! Going back...'

'Don't question the Plan! You should be grateful, you dumb orc! I had to give him something, or you'd be missing your fat head right now!'

'Trolls***t!' Ghurz spat. 'You could have told them anything. But you want to help them destroy your own country – my home, too, by the way – because you've got some chip on your shoulder about being turned down for a clever-orc job...'

'That's not true...' said Lurkh, but his objections were weaker now.

'I went along with this whole thing 'cause I thought it was a retirement plan, not some big scheme for revenge...'

Avarlothien hadn't understood any of this, as the pair was speaking in the Black Tongue, a language invented by the Eye exclusively for his minions, like an evil Esperanto. But her gentle sensibilities were offended by the sound of the two degenerates screeching at each other, so she silenced them both with swift kicks. The pair stood stiffly in sullen silence, hearing the sounds of the great camp beyond the thin cloth walls of the tent. Several minutes passed, the only event of note being Avarlothien's soft singing. Some ancient elvish ballad about streams and forests and grey waves and bloody bunny rabbits, no doubt, thought Lurkh viciously. What a shower of pansies. He wriggled in his bonds.

There was a rustling of fabric, voices at the door, and then Meneaer sauntered in, the satisfied look on his cold perfect face speaking volumes.

'Brutes,' he announced with extra relish, 'your offer has been turned down. You shall be beheaded post-haste.' Avarlothien looked up, and smiled like a knife.

Lurkh felt the ground tilt, felt the bottom drop out of his world. The Plan had failed? It couldn't fail. It was perfect. For a moment he was lost for words. Ghurz was gibbering under his breath, drooling copiously.

'But... but...' Lurkh stammered, '... the secret ways, the mountain paths...'

'Not that it is any of your concern, but the King has determined to march directly to the Black Gate, and there challenge your master's armies.' Meneaer announced it in smug tones that belied his doubts about this plan of action.

'You'll all be killed! Have you seen the size of the Great Orcish Hordes? Are you shiny b*****ds utterly insane?!?'

'Enough, you sickening vermin. I hardly think the King needs your counsel!' His laughter was like the tinkling of silver bells.

Meneaer raised a hand, and two tall elf guards seized the orcs, sliced their bonds and hustled them outside into the cool early evening air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A great curious crowd had gathered around the tent, and they now formed a circle. There were men of all types, dark-haired men of the cities alongside blonde muscled he-men from the plains and sturdy peasant levies; elves there were too, dressed in shimmering grey cloaks, forest greens and browns or exquisite golden armour. All fell silent as the two orcs were dragged protesting into the middle of the circle. Avarlothien had drawn her blade, was humming and doing enthusiastic practice swings.

'It is the judgement of the King,' bellowed Meneaer to the audience, 'that these two monsters be executed here on this day, it being the twentieth day of March, as a sign to the Dark Lord that his schemes cannot deceive us! That his dominion is but fleeting, and that goodness shall prevail! A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!'

The roar went up from the elves present, and some of the more pretentious men.

As Lurkh and Ghurz had their wrists bound and were forced to their knees, Meneaer continued.

'There are times when we must show compassion...' and here his face took on a look of infinite sorrow and love, '...and yet there are times when we must be stern!' He smacked a gloved fist into his hand. 'And so, these wretched, foul, ugly creatures with no right to walk the earth will die!'

Seeming to realise that he may have come on a little strong, Meneaer dabbed at his lips and reassured the crowd: 'But swiftly... and mercifully, of course...'

He turned his back on the audience to watch proceedings, a predatory smile playing across his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lurkh considered trying to surrender again, but his tongue was thick and huge in his dry mouth, and no words would come and he couldn't seem to remember any words anyway and he could only kneel there, the dry grass itching against his bare knees, his wrists chafing from the tight knot and blood pounding in his head, soon not be his head, and see the righteous titillation of the crowd and watch his executioner pace towards him, so slowly, with the great curving sword bright in her hands, brighter than the sun, blinding his eyes, and watch the elf raise the sword high above his head and know that despite all the Plans in the world his death had come and there was nothing he could do -

'We have the Ring!'

The shrill, desperate cry carried out over the throng.

With no trump cards left, Ghurz had decided to overturn the card table. And so he shouted it loud, then shouted it again.

'We have the Ring!'

The executioner slowly lowered her sword.

There was one more quiet moment, and then the shouting began.
Ghurz's gambit had had much the same effect on the crowd as tear gas - turmoil had broken out, with people were roaring at each other, pushing to the front, gesticulating madly. One man in particular seemed upset, a tall old cove with a great white beard who was staring daggers at Ghurz. One unseen spectator was shouting about 'halflings', yet another was roaring in misery.

Lurkh leaned over and slowly whispered to Ghurz, almost inaudible above the uproar of the crowd:

'What in hell is the ring-with-a-capital-'r'?'

Ghurz looked back wildly.

'How should I know? I'm just a simple orc, remember? But it's really put them arse over elbow, hasn't it...?'

In the next chapter events proceed at breakneck speed, as our heroes find themselves at the centre of attention with several unforeseen consequences, the educated orc's powers of dissimulation are tested to their limits as he matches wits with the sharpest mind of the Age, the elf-lord Meneaer endures more abuse than he is accustomed to and almost says too much, Lurkh makes an unpleasant discovery about halfbreeds and the famous Rohanese Cavalry Corp Barbershop Quartet make an appearance.

But there's more! See if you can spot the scene in the next chapter where, if you freeze-frame, zoom in and squint, you can see what could possibly be some sort of smoke, possibly from a car, in the distance! Amaze your friends!

The Final Appendix
Archive

Mr Legion

21.08.03 Front Page

Back Issue Page