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.

'Woe to ye, men of Gondor! Woe also to ye, men of Rohan and Eriador, of Dol Guldur and Arnor! For the Ring was lost to its Bearer, and all Hope surely had Failed.

But it happened then that the King in his Wisdom said: 'Naught else remains for us. Send for the Orcs...'

- Extract from unpublished notes of the Royal Historian.

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

There was a shocked outburst of babbling from behind the thick curtain, and Ghurz cocked his head.

'Sounds like...trouble,' he muttered nervously. Lurkh barked out a tiny laugh, and rolled over with a rattle of chains to face the younger orc.

'Oh, you think we could be in trouble? Well, some of my brains must be rubbing off on you...'

He was poked behind the ear by a blade, and fell silent.

It was two hours since the scene at the execution ground. In the confusion, the orcs had been grabbed by guards, shackled and hastily pushed into a small anteroom, where they now lay, watched by bored farm-boys with spears. Beyond the thick curtain could be heard murmurs, and frequently voices raised in anger. The Captains of the West debated; it didn't sound like it was going well. Now a grave young lieutenant pushed back the curtain.

'The King does demand your presence. Keep your eyes on the floor at all times. Speak only when spoken to. Keep your hands in front of you. Address his Royal Highness as... umm, his Royal Highness. Understand? Through here...'

'Let me do the talking, alright?' hissed Lurkh. 'It'll take some pretty massive fibs to keep us alive...'

Ghurz nodded, ashen-faced.

So now they stood before the King Elessar, aware of people examining them on all sides, surrounded by whispers, and scrupulously examining the carpet. A voice spoke up, deep and regal, if slightly hoarse.

'Tell us how you came to be in possession of the One Ring.'

Lurkh swallowed hastily. 'We found it, his Royal Highness.'

There was a buzz of conversation, swiftly silenced.

'Found it? Where? Where was it? In Mordor?'

This was the part Lurkh had been frantically making up during the wait.

'No, his Royal Highness. In a forest, not far from here. It was, umm, surrounded by bodies. Other orcs, an' that...' This story could probably cover just about any eventuality. Probably... They seemed to accept it.

A long silence now, punctuated by low voices from the throne.

'Would you say that some of the bodies were... unusual?'

Lurkh caught the hint of emotion in the words, despite attempts at concealing it. And here he was forced to take his first great gamble. In the confusion following the aborted execution, as he and Ghurz were being shoved back into the tent, he had dimly heard a gruff voice from the crowd wailing something about 'the halflings'. Not much, but it was a straw to clutch at. And then there had been that assembly about six weeks ago, when the gate-guards were all ordered to watch out for 'little rat-men'... and 'halfling' would seem to suggest 'little', wouldn't it...?

'We really didn't look too closely, we were in a hurry... I guess they could have been odd... yes, now that you mention it, they were! They were actually...' and here he gulped nervously, '... rather smaller than usual...'

A shocked outburst of grief from behind him confirmed that his bluff had paid off. Lurkh sagged slightly, and congratulated himself on a fine piece of acting. Humans were schmucks.

'And where is the ring now?' The voice of the King seemed different, older somehow, weighed down with sorrow. I am good, thought Lurkh.

'We buried it, his Royal Highness. Where we found it. Figured we'd get it back later and flog it...'

His voice caught on the last sentence. What if the ring wasn't gold? It could just be iron, or brass... no-one would believe they had planned to sell it then. But there was no outcry.

Now an older voice spoke up, stern and commanding and utterly self-confident.

'And how did you worms know that you had found the One Ring? Explain me that.'

This hadn't occurred to Lurkh, and his mind raced. Ghurz had told him the whole story, but he could hardly say that his companion had heard of it during a little chat with the Dark Lord...

'Why... we've all heard of the One Ring, sir. There's the whole story about it, isn't there?' Please don't ask me what story, he begged silently. 'We tell it to our litters. And why else would all those guys have died for it?' Again he congratulated himself. He was the master con-artist, playing for his life.

A short, busy pause.

'You knew it was a Ring of Power, yet you planned to sell it?'

'Well, to you guys, obviously. The forces of Good. That's, that's why we're here now. We hate Sauron, don't we Ghurz?'

'S'right,' muttered the other orc.

The dry old voice spoke again.

'You speak quite eloquently, for an uruk...' Obviously this guy thought he was pretty clever, mused Lurkh, littering his conversation with foreign phrases. '... but why has your companion kept silent? Cannot he corroborate your story?'

Ghurz started to speak, but Lurkh cut in hastily. 'He's very simple, milord. Mostly he just does what I tell him...' Ghurz clammed up.

There was a short exchange of whispers from the throne. Lurkh heard the elder voice talking over the others, low and heated. The word 'unsatisfactory' was in there somewhere.

'I believe we've heard enough. Leave us.'

The orcs were bundled out of the presence of the King, under the thick curtain and back into the atrium. Again the voices rose in the council chamber, as torches were lit and night fell.

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

In his dream, he was moving slowly towards a great glinting circle of gold, suspended in inky darkness. Through avarice born of long habit, he was eagerly assessing its value, when it disappointingly burst into red flames. The flames licked at his face and flickered over his body, quite uncomfortably realistic for a dream. Now a voice spoke, quiet and reasonable:

'... why don't you bring us the ring...? ... better for you... better for your friend...'

In his dream-induced delirium, Lurkh giggled maniacally. 'Will I let you in on a secret, mate? Hehehe...'

'... go on...'

'This is good, this is... I don't have it! I don't even know what the bloody thing is! Isn't that the funniest...?'

...WHAT...? ...'

The flames burst outwards silently, and human voices woke him.

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

In the trampled-down area outside the King's tent, horses paced and whinnied restlessly. About a dozen figures, shadows in the dim torchlight, were saddling up. One of them stepped into the light and revealed himself to be Meneaer, the elf who had interrogated the orcs after their defection. He scowled at Lurkh.

'Against my counsel, the King has decided that we must take you at your word. Get your idiot companion. You will take us to the ring.' He unsheathed his sword, the blade flat and glowing in the moonlight. 'And if you attempt to deceive us in any way, it will be my duty and pleasure to dispatch you both. Know this – I do not believe you for a second, and I am just waiting...'

Lurkh grinned nastily, the genesis of a new Plan forming in his mind.

'I'm sorry, are you mooning me? Wait, no, that's your face! 'Sooth, it really lights up at night, doesn't it? Must be pretty inconvenient when you're...'

Meneaer shoved his face (which did, in fact, glow with a faint light of its own) into Lurkh's and hissed furiously:

'I will kill you, just for that, ring or no ring. No sub-elf insults a High Avari and lives, especially not a depraved, ugly little cave-crawler like you. The world will be better for your passing... I here make a solemn vow, binding my soul to yours and yours to mine; I will take your miserable life, and if I fail may I...'

Lurkh gingerly pushed down the tip of the elvish blade, hovering near his throat. He smiled again.

'You can put that away, buddy. I'll behave. Orc's honour. Besides, you need me.'

Meneaer reluctantly sheathed his sword and turned away.

'By the way, are you a natural blonde? 'Cause I think I see roots...'

This time it took five men to hold the elf back, and Lurkh narrowly retained his ears.

Minutes later, with the two orcs hog-tied to a pair of saddles, the host swept out of the sleeping camp, without fanfare or ceremony, and turned onto the Eastern road.

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

The other riders were Rohirrim, men of Rohan, tall with fair, braided hair, baggy mail shirts and long spears. Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed; their grey coats glistened with morning dew, their long tails flowed in the wind, and their manes fell thickly across their broad necks. The Rohirrim rode with consummate ease, rolling in the saddle with the horse as they trotted down the winding fern-lined tracks. As the sun sent its first rays over the eastern mountains, they began to sing a close harmony with one voice constantly rising and falling above the rest, imitating the gentle trot. All morning they sang cheerful songs about riding on a sunny day as they swayed in their saddles, not pausing for food or water.

Lurkh hated them, blindly, irrationally. He had never ridden a horse before, and he hurt in places he hadn't even known you could hurt a person.

The sun was directly overhead by the time of their first rest, in a shadowy clearing beside the road. A warm wind stirred the leaves of the trees; dark pillars of smoke were visible above the canopy.

'You are taking us near the orc army, yes?' rumbled the Captain of the Rohirrim, a big, brawny man called Aglulf. Ghurz shrugged. He hadn't been let in on the new Plan.

'Ummm... They may have retreated over the place we buried it, they may not have. Doesn't matter. It's this way, and there's no other path.'

The rider puffed his cheeks, and examined the horizon with professional concern.

Meneaer had settled his back against a mossy log, and now began to softly sing an elvish ballad:

'An sí Gil-galad

Ve fanyar-'

'Did you say Gill Glad?' demanded Lurkh from his perch on the far end of the log. He spat.

'What of it, orc?' Meneaer was annoyed, having just gotten into the tune. 'He was a great elf-king of long ago, from the Second Age. What is he to you?'

Lurkh frowned. 'Giggly Lad tried to kill my grandad. It was in a big battle, grandad ran at him and the vicious ponze skewered his guts and left him for dead. It's an old family story, grandad surviving that... kind of victory by default, don't you think?'

The elf sneered. 'I very much doubt that the High King ever had dealings with any of your blood.' He coughed, and began to hum the melody again. Lurkh's voice slid into the tune like a discordant note.

'Tall guy, face as radiant as the sun, gold armour, big spear...'

Knotting his brows, Meneaer admitted: 'That does sound a little like the son of Fingon...'

'... and bad breath. Grandad said it was like he had gargled with dirty dishwater. Said it was hard to play dead with that great skunk breathing halitosis in his face...'

Meneaer roared, and kicked the orc from the log. He stopped singing, though.

Back on the road again, and they rounded a great curve to find the sharp grey peaks of the mountains of Mordor glowering at them from between a gap in the trees. The Rohirrim shuddered, and fell silent, so Lurkh piped up to fill the silence.

'Me an' Ghurz know some songs, don't we? Traditional orcish harmony stuff, some chants, some blackgrass¹... There's one really nice one, springs to mind now, and since we all seem to be in a musical mood...'

The men and elf's faces were uniformly hostile.

'Well, it's called,' and here he slipped into the Black Tongue, 'listen to me Ghurz'

The other orc's head snapped round.

'Did you just say his name?' asked Meneaer suspiciously, fingering the hilt of his sword.

'Why... yes, well spotted. 'Cause actually, the name 'Ghurz' translates as 'slag heap'. It's a proud old orcish name. Good strong name. The song's called 'The Grey, Grey Slag Heaps of Home'. Lovely old tune, isn't it Ghurz? Here it goes...' His voice was reedy and cracked as he began:

'We have got to get away

Sometime in the night.

When these guys find that there's no Ring

We'll be knee-deep in [untranslatable].

'Take it!'

Ghurz cleared his throat nervously. 'Umm...'

'Alright then, if that's the plan

But how'll we get away?

The elf watches you all the time,

And he'd... he'll... oh bugger, I never was good at rhyming, sorry...'

'Enough, enough!' Aglulf spat into the ditch. 'You two sound worse than foal being gelded! We sing my song. Let's have... 'The Lay of Earendil the Mariner'. Got it boys? A one, two, a one, two, three, four!'

The riders began an a cappella choral piece about sailing along on a moonlit bay. The orcs exchanged meaningful looks.

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

They made camp quietly that night, in a small grove of stunted ash trees off the track. The moon tangled itself in bare branches. From somewhere nearby, deep resonant drums could be heard, and lights could be seen beyond the hill above the grove. The army of the Dark Lord was very close; occasionally the wind would bring fitful snatches of laughter, or distant screams. Ghurz sat with his head in his hands, feeling homesick.

The Rohirrim quickly fell asleep in a circle, curled up in their great riding cloaks. Meneaer, however, needed no sleep. He perched on a log and watched the orcs with sharp bright eyes.

'Excuse me... Menu?' Lurkh whispered.

'It is 'Men-yair', you filth,' he snapped. 'Do not address me.'

'I was just wondering... what's going to happen to us?' Lurkh managed to put some convincing emotion into his voice.

'I have already told you. Your fate is sealed, orc. When this is over, I shall kill you.' A hint of satisfaction; mostly just cold certainty.

'No, no, not to me. To, y'know, all the orcs. Orckind. What'll happen when... I mean if, you win?'

Meneaer chuckled quietly. 'This has been the subject of much debate in the circles of the Wise. It is now believed that, with your master gone, you will all simply lose the will to procreate - though there is a curious dearth of information on this subject - and will die out. That is... the easy option...'

'And the hard one?'

If Meneaer had been paying attention, as he should have been, he might have noticed Lurkh's gaze flickering up to behind the elf's right ear. But he was lost in pleasant dreams.

'If that does not happen, we shall have to take... other measures.' He looked up slowly, his eyes bright and hard in the murk. 'The orcish problem is not insoluble, I assure you... plans are already in motion to...'

At this point, Ghurz clobbered him inexpertly over the head with a branch.

The elf simply let out a pretty little sigh, and folded up. One of the Rohirrim grunted, and turned over. And that was it.

Dark shapes crashed through the forest undergrowth.

'Did you see that?' babbled Ghurz excitedly. 'I was just here – WHAM! and he just...'

'Keep it down. We're nearly there... say about halfway between the humans and our army...'

'We're not going back? Are we?' Ghurz stopped, leaning on his knees and panting for breath. They had entered a clearing in the forest, the bare tree-trunks like ivory in the white moonlight.

'Course not. We're going to start a little battle here.' He grinned wickedly. 'And then escape when all the humans and that bloody elf are dead. Climb this tree.'

'What? Why don't we just leg it now, head south and -'

'And have them ride us down tomorrow morning and slice us to ribbons? This is the only sure way – climb the tree. Do it!'

From his perch in the upper branches, Ghurz watched his companion scamper over to the side of the clearing nearest the camp of the Rohirrim.

'Orcs!' he bellowed, in the Common Tongue. 'They're attacking! To arms, men of Rohan!' He did a passable impression of Aglulf's broad accent. Then he scurried through the bushes and long grass to the other side, near the crest of the hill.

'Humans! Fleshbags is trying to catch us off guard! Humans! Come on, boys!'

Then he dashed back to the tree and clawed his way up the trunk to where Ghurz was sitting.

'Good plan.'

'I know. Lie flat, so you can't be seen. And we just wait...'

Minutes passed. Lurkh found himself regarding his heavy-breathing companion, crouched awkwardly on the lower branch. He hadn't needed the big orc for his Plan since the moment he entered Barad-Dûr, yet somehow Ghurz had managed to stick to him like a patch of eczema. This had been admittedly helpful when he saved both their lives back at the camp – still, gratitude is a foreign currency to orcs, and the smart thing to do now would be to ditch him as soon as possible. Two orcs striking out cross-country would be caught far quicker than one, after all. Perhaps, hissed his inner orc, an opportunity would arise during this fight to rid himself of the lumbering nuisance... his head was just below Lurkh's foot...

From the side of the Rohirrim, there was a rustle in the bushes.

A moment passed in silence, then a dark figure moved out of the bushes into the clearing, followed by eleven more, who spread out. The trees opposite them shook, though there was no wind. Resting birds burst into flight. The figures froze.

Ghurz stuck his fist in his mouth.

Come on, thought Lurkh desperately. Come on...

There was a great rending noise, and the trees were smashed aside like matchsticks. A shadowy line of huge rangy figures, twice the height of a man, ran ponderously into the clearing, shaking the ground, swiping at the small humans, roaring in anger.

'Trolls!' moaned Ghurz. 'They're trolls²!'

'Oh, bloody well spotted! Get down!'

It was chaos in the moonlit clearing, Rohirrim ducking and dodging the fists and chains of the ponderous trolls, shouting desperately at each other to retreat. One was already gone, flattened into the earth with his bones crushed by a troll who hadn't even seen him. Now, before Ghurz's horrified gaze, the captain Aglulf was caught by a swinging chain and knocked off his feet. He flew twice his length, landed and didn't get up.

As Ghurz craned his neck to see, a troll caught his eye. Making eye contact with a stranger can be an embarrassing experience, and for a moment both looked away again, Ghurz because he was looking for an escape route, the troll because it was exceptionally stupid and had poor visual recognition. Then it roared phlegmily in surprise, and pounded across the trampled open space towards the tree.

Ghurz scrambled desperately for footholds further up the tree, and where was Lurkh gone? but now it was too late and huge fingers had closed around him crushing the air out of him and he was pulled backwards into the air.

Lurkh watched all this from the safety of a higher branch, and a nasty realisation dawned on him. Sit tight, said his instincts, we're safe up here. And forget the lump; isn't this what you wanted? The nasty realisation was that he wasn't going to sit tight, because a very simple equation was going through his head. He had gotten that orc in a great steaming wagonload of trouble, and now he had to save him. One more character flaw to add to the register: somehow, he had developed a conscience without noticing.

'This is what you get from hanging around half-breeds...' he hissed to himself and, pausing only to silently curse fate one last time, he launched himself from the branch at the troll's heaving back, yelling:

'Unhand that orc, you scum!'

He had only a millisecond to wonder where that had come from, then a horrible impact shook his bones, breaking some, there was a moments respite, then another horrifically painful thump before, in the best tradition of these things, darkness closed over him and his eyes saw no more.

In the next horrific chapter, our heroes find themselves in the sweaty clutch of absolute evil, experience the full severity of the Mordor penal system and the full stupidity of an orcish interrogation, Lurkh attempts to access his emotional intelligence, foul torture menaces the defectees, Meneaer wakes in an especially nasty mood, Ghurz gets in touch with his heritage, the hordes of the Dark Lord prepare for a cataclysmic showdown with the armies of righteousness and there is a special guest appearance by a tree.

The Final Appendix
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