Just The Boys

‘Not allowed in the fortress proper’... What kind of bastard does Zog think he is? Hûra spit out a mouthful of bitter saliva as he grimaced. Everywhere he looked, there was death and torture. Bodies partially flayed, skin blackish-grey and frozen from Seregost’s cold wind. Uruks half dead, groaning and moaning in pain as they tried to embrace death. This wasn’t the first time Hûra had seen such things, but he has never seen so much of it concentrated in one place. Uruks kill one another. His own littermates killed each other to gain rank in his old tribe. The old kill the young competition, the young kill the old to open up a position for themselves. It’s the way of Mordor, but this? 

He’s going to be sick again- 

Trying to figure out exactly what he was supposed to while under such strain was impossible. Hûra wasn’t even taught how to monetize his craft. How much is too much money? Or too little? What about time? How much time is he supposed to spend during his rituals? Hûra breathed through his mouth as he was approached from the side. 

“Come with us.” Hûra couldn’t stop himself from making a face. Two uruks wearing thick surgeon’s smocks and cloth covering their noses and mouths motioned for him to follow. Hûra looked them up and down, incredulously. One of them fingered the knife at his belt, almost daring him to dig his heels in and give him a reason to kill him. 

“I shall.” 

They kept him at arm's length in between them, as though they thought him diseased. Hûra, like other novices in the clan, were kept in the dark about the going ons outside of their coven, but whispers were shared that there was a plague spreading through Udûn, and it was something that concerned the elders enough to hold private discussions about, which none of the younger members excluding their most trusted apprentices were allowed to attend. They… and a few eavesdroppers. Hûra understood why the healers were on edge, and didn’t fight them when escorting him to the infirmary, lest they kill him or toss him from the fortress and run him into the chilly wastes of Seregost. 

Khagukhôr was larger than Hûra initially thought it to be. He stumbled as he was kicked from behind, one of the uruks snarling at him to ‘keep moving’. Hûra held his tongue, focusing on the blood spattered back in front of him as eyes followed him on his walk. He could pick up some whispers, some looks of disgust, anger, wonderings if the Mystics would be so stupid as to send in a novice that was ill. No, they should know better. Perhaps they did, but they would interrogate him nonetheless. Hûra doesn’t think he can blame them, but his apprehension was turning to aggravation the longer this was dragged out. 

The infirmary wasn’t so unlike the one in his coven: plain, bare, in a way, drafty but far warmer than it was outside. One of the uruks that escorted him tried to knock him to the ground, but when that proved difficult, he instead backed off, as though he would contaminate him out of spite. Before things escalated further, a more experienced healer suddenly appeared through the curtains to the room Hûra was shoved into, his face also covered and missing the dried herbs that was around the covenant’s own healer, Ashgarn’s, neck. 

“You come here sick-”

“No. I am not ill. I-”

“Caragor shrakh!” The healer spat. He narrowed his eyes, as though trying to will Hûra to come clean to him. Hûra tried to take a deep breath through his nose, but the smell of purulent decay made his stomach roll with such intensity he had no choice but to swallow visibly. 

“What’re you sick with, boy?! D’you come from Udûn? You been with any lad from Udûn?!” Hûra gritted his teeth as the three uruks glared at him. He held up a hand, which made them all twitch slightly, going for their belts in case he tried to attack them. 

“Hear me! I am a track-” 

“Pale, bloodshot eyes, rough throat- Do you have a fever? You’re dressed too thin to be comfortable in the winds.” Is this dumb glob serious? 

“Are you quite finished?!” Hûra growled in between his barred teeth. 

“Who do you think you are, boy?! Don’t you know there is a plague razing Udûn as we speak?!” Hûra blinked slowly.

“I… am aware, yes-” 

“Then you clearly don’t know what is at stake if we let puking bastards into this fort!” Hûra growled under his breath. 

“Hear me-” 

“You little shrakh-”

“ HEAR ME! I. Am. A. TRACKER. My sense of smell is keen, and the stench of this fortress is unbearable! Are you so dense as to not know that the Mystics sent with their usual group a tracker among their ranks?!” He pointed to his nose and spoke loudly and clearly, slowly, so they couldn’t possibly misunderstand him. His voice was harsh and his tone snappy. He was surprised by it, but the healers still regarded him with suspicion. 

“A tracker? Never heard of a tracker that gets ill like that!” One of the assistants spat at him. Hûra rolled his eyes, not even attempting to hide his ire. 

“Have you met one?”

“...n-not in person, no-” Hûra let his teeth show as he clenched his fists. The situation was tense, to the point that something was about to snap. Hûra had to let it be himself, before he was stabbed by these skittish uruks that believed they couldn’t possibly do no wrong. 

“Release me this instant! I am not ill! As a representative of the Mystic tribe, I uphold their ideals of- of cleanliness utmost! They would not allow anyone ill, novice, adept, or elder, to infect the masses of Mordor. Especially if they are on official business!” The healer scoffed, looking him up and down, challenging Hûra’s resolve. 

“How’d we know you even are a black cloak? Never seen you here, before.” 

“Do you believe that the Mystics lied about such a thing?” The healer set his jaw. 

“...you-”

“Perhaps we should call the warchiefs and overlord to attention, then, if you believe me to be… what? A spy? A vagrant? A liar? If you believe me a liar, then question the adepts that are in meeting with your leaders at this very moment.” The silence was tense. The healer narrowed his eyes, then snorted from underneath his cloth mask. 

“Come here-” 

The healer stepped forward and tilted Hûra’s head up with the back of his fingers. He grunted for him to open his eyes, ‘wider’, then his mouth. After searching his face for several long moments, and even feeling his forehead and cheek with the back of his hand, the healer gestured towards the door with a distracted wave of his wrist. 

“Get outta here. If any uruk here gets sick, I’m skinning you myself.” 

“So be it.” 

Hûra shouldered his way out of the infirmary, slightly shaken by the encounter. It has been too long since he has been outside of the coven’s walls… Things were getting worse in Mordor, not better. He was far from Udûn, but plague always spread fast among the masses. The elders didn’t tell him of the current state of Mordor… Though why would they? They didn’t trust him with anything, and Hûra doubted that they trusted him to make any money, either. 

They likely believe he will fail. Will this be used as a justification of sorts? To send him away for good? For something… worse?

Aimlessly wandering deeper into the stronghold, his eyes drifted towards a strung up body, his eyes widening and his fingers twitching as his gaze darted from broken limb to broken limb. 

Arms and legs shouldn’t twist that way.

Do bones break in such a way? 

How… What do they look like underneath- 

“Admirin’, are ya?” 

Hûra blinked, disoriented and almost annoyed that he was suddenly torn from his thoughts, though in the seconds that followed, he felt conflicted as disgust blanketed him. He kept his face tactfully blank as he turned to face the owner of the voice that had broken his concentration. 

He was ill dressed for the weather, only having a small cape of caragor skin on his back for warmth, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold at all. His expression was slightly distorted by the squint from his scarred eye and there were deep wrinkles all over his dark face. Hûra allowed silence to fill the gap in between them, appearing to be thoughtful, though he was only wondering if he would be able to shrug off the sick that began to resurface in his gut once again. 

“In a manner of speaking. As much as I… admire, I look for interested parties in my craft.” Hûra was unsure of how to adequately broach the subject, merely getting straight to the point rather than courting the usual Mystic drivel of ‘proper’ etiquette when it came to speaking to those with leagues of power over them. The uruk quirked a brow, narrowing his one good eye but still appearing more intrigued than wary or outright hostile to him. 

“‘Craft’, eh? Wha’s that craft o’ yer’s? ‘mancy?” Hûra couldn’t stop himself from curling his lip in disgust. He tried to drop his expression, but it was apparent enough to make the uruk bark out a laugh. 

“Naw, I can sees you ain’t part o’ that lot tha’s here typical. Ain’t never seen ya ‘fore, for sure.” He nodded to himself, as if he was content with talking with himself instead of hearing Hûra answer him back. 

“Yer new blood, ain’t ya?” Hûra began to nod, but before he could answer properly, the uruk posed him another question in quick succession.

“Wha’s that craft o’ yer’s if it ain’t ‘mancy?” Hûra straightened his back and reached for the pouch at his side. He pulled it free and held it in his palm, his heart fluttering in his chest as he felt the bones within clattering against one another. 

“I practice not necromancy, but osteomancy.” A look of confusion spread across the uruk’s face, so Hûra quickly added.

“Bones, sir. I interact not with the dead, but bones.” A bit of recognition lit up in the older uruk’s face. It was something that Hûra wasn’t expecting to see at all, though perhaps he was merely hopeful and only seeing something that was a trick of his mind. 

Was he… curious? 

“BONES?! Ha! Now tha’s something I wanna see!” Hûra set his jaw and widened his eyes as the uruk grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him along, deeper into the fort and towards one of the many buildings that were partially open to the elements and almost full to the brim with uruks and orcs of different ages, standings and tribes. 

“It’s somethin’ the boys’ll want to see too!” The older uruk half laughed as he shook Hûra by the shoulder, leading him into a building choked in pipeweed smoke but warm and lighted by a roaring hearth. There were multiple tables inside, but he was guided to one in particular, situated in a darker corner where several other rough looking Uruks of varying ages all sat drinking grog and smoking from pipes. Some were of the Feral tribe, Hûra thinks, but others he couldn’t tell. Not Mystic and surely not Dark, either. Perhaps tribeless… but he wouldn’t be caught dead insinuating such a thing. Not to strangers and certainly not to ones that regarded him in such a standoffish way.  

He was unceremoniously shoved into a chair, his back slapped heartily and a call for grog yelled, whether or not it was acknowledged, he wasn't sure. Hûra found his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth as he looked between the Uruks, all staring at him like he was some sort of intruder, not quite ready to attack just yet but still surprised and irked like he suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Taking his own seat by a short uruk with reddish hair and a missing ear, the uruk that led him into this place leaned back in his chair and gestured towards Hûra with an outstretched hand. 

“This lad ‘ere’s gonna show us some magic!” He smirks at Hûra, who begins to sweat a little as the group stare holes into him. He wants to say something. ‘No, no, there's been a misunderstanding here. I can’t do magic like that.’ But before he can, the older uruk rocks his chair and startles Hûra out of his head.