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.

'If We Don't Beat 'Em, We Can't Eat 'Em'.

- Popular orcish marching song.

It was a sloping, grassy hillside, flecked with tiny delicate spring flowers and small stands of fir and ash. Under the evening sun, the land shimmered gently, and there was a scent of flower perfume, of grass, and growing things, carried on the faintest of breezes. Fronds pierced moss and mould, larches were green-fingered, and tiny birds dived and twittered among the shady copses. There was a gentle murmur on the edge of hearing, a brook at the foot of the hill running gently down into the valley. Only dark pillars of cloud massing on the horizon gave rumour of war. The kingdom of Ithilien, once conquered, now abandoned and overgrown, seemed to slumber in the late evening in a state of perfect peace and beauty.

The creatures of Nature had inherited the kingdom now; the rabbit scampering across the fields, the kestrel circling lazily overhead, the flashing trout in the streams running over rocks and into pools, the sombre snail, slowly oozing his way up a blade of grass, the two squat ugly orcs stamping through the meadow...

Hang on.

'...but just look at all this...nature,' spat Lurkh, thrusting aside a branch. 'Doesn't it make you want to retch?'

'I quite like it, actually. It's nice and quiet, you know? Restful.'

Ghurz inhaled deeply. 'The air is clear, too. None of the smog you get at home.'

Lurkh glared at his wistful companion. 'I like the smog. It makes the air less boring. This is distinctly boring air.'

'Just look at that view... doesn't that do something to you?'

The green hills, dotted with forests, fell gently into deep hazy valleys below them, wending their way into the West. Here were quiet, sunlit glades among the trees, the trees planted long ago by the hand of Man and now abandoned, as the kingdom had been, to grow old untended and wild. The groves of old Ithilien had been invaded by brash new growth, and now the venerable forest giants were surrounded by throngs of foxglove and sycamore, creeping ivy and pungent terebinth. Bushes there were of mint and sage, thistle and privet. And down in the open water meadows, among the swaying grass and sprouting herbs, were many lily-flowered plants of vibrant colours nodding their shapely heads in the sweet-scented breeze...¹... from the West, like an old wooden stool.

'Get rid of all the trees, plough up the ground, sow it with salt... then put in a few orc-holes, a couple of slag heaps, a few bonfires to get a good pall of smoke going... and then maybe, maybe it'd be alright.'

Lurkh regarded the peaceful sylvan scene with violence in his eyes. A week of forced march had not improved his mood. A rabbit scampered up and wrinkled its wee nose at him. He kicked it.

'This is why I hate going on these Western campaigns. Foreign places are, basically, muck. All trees and fields and babbling bloody brooks.'

He hissed between his fangs, all his venom expelled, and scratched the raw back of his neck. In the full light of day, he was peeling and flaking². Ghurz sat down on a mossy rock, twirling a hunting horn on its string.

'So where will you go when this is all over? Is that part of your retirement plan too?'

'Have you ever heard of Harad? My last campaign. It's far, far south of here, some of our allies come from there. Well, they have the most amazing beaches... nothing but dead, desert coastline for a thousand miles, populated by vultures and shipwrecks. I'm going to go down there, dig myself a little pit and live off vultures and shipwrecked sailors. Nobody but me and the vultures and the scalding desert sun. Bliss.'

Lurkh sighed contentedly. 'And if I ever see you within a hundred leagues of the place, I'll kill you. No fooling.'

Ghurz gulped. 'Right. Understood. Well, there doesn't seem to be anybody around, does there? I think we could sound the advance.'

'Go ahead.'

Ghurz took one last wistful look at the slumbering landscape, then raised the horn to his lips and sounded a deep, throaty call on it. There was a faint reply, followed by a distant rumbling, like summer thunder.

Suddenly hundreds of orcs crested the brow of the hill and came pounding down through the meadow like a glittering swarm of metal locusts, tearing down and destroying all in their path, yodeling a vicious battle cry. This was the 43rd Battalion of the Great Orcish Hordes and the ground shook as they approached, in time with the great war drums being beaten. Down they came like a black tide, ripping up the spring growth, blotting out the sounds of gentle evening. They slowed, and came to a halt in ragged companies around the two scouts, who quickly rejoined the ranks.

'You took yer time' growled Khantz, the company captain, as they shuffled into line. 'I suppose you're pissing yer breeches at the thought of a proper fight, eh? Ye delicate little ponces³...'

As his diatribe went on, Dûrbhur the Pitiless (Battalion Commandant), a huge tattooed uruk-hai, strolled out to the front, surrounded by flunkies and aides. He scanned the horizon lazily, taking in the plumes of smoke in the hazy distance, and conversed a little with the flunkies. Then he turned to address the battalion.

'Ze enemy,' he bellowed, 'is in ze next walley! Tomorrow morning, he vill pass on ze road through ze cutting! Here ve vill ambush him! You vill VIN! For ze sake off slaughter unt death! Unt luff for our dear old Homeland! You do not know pain! You do not know fear! You vill taste man-flesh!'

A weak cheer went up. His motivational speech finished, the Commandant sauntered off to the officer's mess, a hastily-dug pit which the NCOs were already draping with warm deer entrails and using as a toilet. Orcs know how to make themselves feel at home in hostile foreign parts.

Horns called out along the line, and the common rabble of the companies began to dig in for the night. One of the younger company orcs, Globkrut the Lover of Slaughter, elbowed Lurkh in the ribs.

''Ere, what does man-flesh taste like guv? I've never par-took of it before.'

'It tastes... like chicken.' Lurkh had vague memories of tasting man in some kind of stew, back in his early campaigning days.

'Oh.' Globkrut paused in the act of delousing his ears. 'An' what does chicken taste like?'

'Feathers.' Lurkh hefted his knapsack and stalked off to look for a billet.

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

The mood around the campfires that night was tense, relieved only by a little of the usual light-hearted bloodshed. The troops chewed on dry wads of orcfeed, speculating nervously about the enemy they would face in the dawn, and what they would taste like.

'It'll be the elves. Knowing our luck, it'll def'nitely be the elves. Nasty, shiny-faced bastards that they are... good with sage, though...'

'Fought t'dwarfs at Azanulbizar, I did... t'valley choked wi' bodies...' said Old Ghozly. It was all he ever said, though, so nobody paid any heed.

'Nah, it'll be humans, I'm telling you. They're like the elves' little lapdogs, anyway. And they hate us too.'

The common orcs knew very little about humans; their only human allies kept very much to themselves. They had dark skin, wore red silk and black armour with gold rings, carried scimitars and cooked vile garlic dishes. This was the limit of their inter-cultural knowledge.

'Come on, we're not frightened of humans, are we? Little pink fleshbags? Humans are afraid of us.'

'I heard they have red blood, not black.'

'It's the ones with beards you have to be scared of...'

'They've all got beards, stupid.'

'Even their womenfolk?'

There was a sudden hush around the campfire. Somebody coughed.
Orcs are very reticent on discussing anything related to the fairer sex.

Lurkh piped up. 'Well I heard that they don't eat their young!'

A collective shiver ran through the company. That was unnatural.

'Enough horror stories!' Khantz strode around the campfire knocking heads. 'Anyone not asleep in five minutes will lose a finger. I want you all evil-eyed and fell tomorrow, or there'll be Consequences. Yes, Torkh, that finger, now put it away, you slime...'

Ghurz whispered to Lurkh: 'I know a little about humans...'

He snorted. 'Go to sleep.'

The orcs slept, and dreamed their troubled dreams.

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

The pleasant meadow was, by one of those unfortunate quirks of geography, in a hugely important strategic position. The road from the White City to the Black Gate running north wound through this hilly country, and passed through a deep gorge cut into a mountainous spur. So on both sides the road was overlooked by steep bluffs. The meadow lay on the westward, cut-off end of the spur. On the other side of the gorge, a battalion of Easterlings waited to complete the ambush. The Hordes were ready, like a crocodile lying still beneath the surface, waiting for the young fawn to come wobbling down to the riverbank for a drink...

A very faint whiff of garlic carried over to Lurkh where he lay on his belly, looking down into the defile where the road ran. The Haradrim were cooking breakfast. It was bright morning, the sun was beating down and he felt the skin on the back of his neck start to crinkle and flake again. Two hours since sunrise, the last ragged patches of morning mist were being burned away and there was no sign of the enemy. The entire orcish battalion, seven hundred strong, lay gently simmering, peering down the rocky gorge at where the road rounded a curve, waiting. Someone started to whistle, and was quickly silenced.

'Scout!'

Ghurz was pulled back roughly, and found himself facing the Commandant.

'You vill go down ze hill,' he whispered gutturally, 'unt find out vere ze bloddy hell ze enemy iz, understand? Unt zen report back to me. Now go!'

Bemused, but happy to be relieved of boredom, Ghurz trotted down through the meadow away from the stinking tension of the orcish battle lines, beneath glades of fir and ash, pushing through thickets of fragrant herbs and scattering multi-coloured clouds of tiny butterflies. Caution seemed out of place on such a morning, especially to his optimistic nature. Sure, there were people out there who wanted to kill him – but they were miles away, and Lurkh's plan would surely save them both. Despite his earlier reservations, he had decided to trust the educated orc. He had very little choice; already their crimes had been great enough to warrant a protracted and then sharply-curtailed stay at the torture pits... still, the sun was shining and he felt invincible. The Plan would work. Whatever it was. He began to hum...

You can see where this is going, can't you?

It was in this happily oblivious mood that he pushed aside a branch and stepped into the shade of a small gully, starting to sing a little.
'Ev-ry-thing's go-ing my... my...'

Three hundred beautiful heads swiveled to look at him.

There was a pregnant pause.

... but this young fawn seemed to have teeth and it was biting back...

'Ssh! Belay that talk, you vermin...' Khantz flapped a hand, silencing the orcs who had begun to chatter quietly among themselves. 'Do you hear something?'

He slid on his belly over to the back of the line, where the hill sloped down into mist, and peered myopically at the scene. He could hear... a dull tramping?

And there! There was a dark figure darting up the hill, moving in zigzag patterns, apparently ducking and weaving.

'It's the scout,' he muttered to one of the NCOs, 'what's he doing back so soon? I'll flay the worm alive for cowardice...'

Ghurz staggered through the remnants of the previous night's camp, and sat down heavily, gasping for breath, in front of the assembled officers.

'Well, orc? Speak up! Speak up I say!'

'They're... gaahhh... they're coming...'

'Who is? What is this garbage? I apologise sir, this orc is a known deviant...'

There was an alarmed shout from the rear of the line, followed by a scuffling as several orcs shoved their way to the front. Because now the enemy was clearly visible, lines of grey-cloaked, white-faced figures slowly advancing up the hill, straight into the rear of the orcish battalion. They were silent.

'Elves...' cursed the Commandant.

'Elves,' confirmed Ghurz.

'Dwarfs...' muttered old Ghozly, squinting and twitching.

'Elves...' The word went out up and down the line. And suddenly, sweaty panic was in the air. No-one was giving or receiving orders, all were just watching as the grey line, hypnotic and deadly, drew closer and closer.

'Zey... zey should not be zere...' stammered Dûrbhur⁴. He shook his head, trying to control the cold, insidious fear now coursing through his veins.

'Companies! All form line! About face!'

Along the line, orcs turned and pointed their spears, halberds and assorted tinware outward to form a bristling wall.

'Archers ready! String!'

Others took up their twisted bows and barbed arrows, fumbling to string them, unable to take their eyes off the advancing elves. Ghurz found Lurkh leaning casually on a pike at the centre of the orcish line, and collapsed wheezing beside him.

'Whatever happens now, just stick with me, alright? The Plan will see you through.'

Ghurz nodded weakly.

'Archeeeers! On the commaaaaand... LOOSE!'

A ragged flight of arrows rose and fell. The elvish line still advanced like some grey, exquisitely stylish tide that was advancing up a hill. By now, individuals could be made out. Their pale, perfect faces had no emotion.

Ghurz had scrambled to his feet and scraped out his sticking-dagger, and was facing the enemy with the look of brave, delusional determination that could be found on the face of a badger who has decided to step out for a spot of human-baiting. He whimpered slightly.
Lurkh stopped cleaning his nails for a moment to give Ghurz a pitying smile. 'You realise we're in no actual danger here?'

The big orc was not convinced, and gave another moan of terror. A second volley of arrows screamed through the air. The elves didn't seem to notice. Now the orcish line rippled slightly, as every individual looked over his shoulder to suss out an escape route. They knew what was coming next; it was practically tradition.

The Commandant rocked on his heels, and cracked his knuckles nervously. When he spoke, it was quickly and with brittle cheer.

'Vell, I'm out off ideas. But I'm sure you vill all do chust fine. Now... I shall retire for ze day...'

And he took to his heels, legging it across the line northwards down the hill, towards the eastern road. There was a hot, confused moment of exchanged glances, and then most of the officers followed him. Captain Khantz, a conscientious soldier, paused before his company.

'Hold the line, keep your spears low, any orc caught deserting will be flogged, fare well...' and he was gone, huffing and panting his way down the line.

Now the elves paused, barely fifty metres away. There was a metallic flicker along the line as they drew their swords in unison.

'A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!''

The cry went up, loud but pitch-perfect, cold and triumphant. And that was pretty much it for the 43rd Battalion. They dropped their weapons and fled, whimpering in terror. The entire army on the hillside simply dissolved into a fractured mass of running orcs, heading north and south, heeding their ancestral fear of pale faces and gleaming swords.

Two figures alone remained still, while all around them ran, collided, screamed and panicked. Lurkh and Ghurz faced the elvish line alone. Now the elves had taken up a high-pitched battle cry, and were advancing at a run up through the meadow, a wall of swords headed for the two still figures.

'Would you look at that? This Elbereth guy must be pretty tough...⁵'

'Luuurkh...'

'Calm down, boy, I have the situation under control.'

You could see the various colours the elves wore, all the different devices...

'I have the spell written here, on my hand... oops...'

Closer now: some of them had filigreed suits of light armour...

'Oops? What does that mean?!? Oops?!?'

'The ink smudged. Could you get the page from my knapsack? It's over there...'

'The ink smudged? We're dead...'

'Just look, please, and hurry...'

... the craftsmanship on some of the breastplates was incredibly intricate...

'Is this it?'

'No Ghurz, that's a tissue. Don't let me rush you, ahaha...'

Some of the elves had colourful tassels hanging from their sword hilts. The ground shook.

'Here?'

'Thank you...'

That elf had a long white ponytail, with little beads wound into it, but more importantly he had a big sword and he was barely spitting distance away...

Lurkh stood up hesitantly and, consulting the scrap of paper, he roared in perfect High Elvish:

'We surrender! We wish to seek political asylum! We surrender!'

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

In Chapter Five our heroes reap the icky fruits of their defection, with traditional elvish hostility during their interrogation, revelations fly around like nobody's business, the sub-elves have a disagreement, an old MacGuffin makes an appearance, the complexities of inter-species loathing are addressed and certain death appears regrettably unavoidable for our two little Philbys.
Crammed full of noble elf-lords, doughty yoemen, blonde men on horses, warrior chicks, soldiers, tents and an enormous cast of authentic-looking 'peasant' extras with suspiciously good teeth.

The Final Appendix
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