Oaths
Chapter 3: The City of Ethring

AN: Sorry for the long wait. It took me a while before I could get back into the rhythm for this. Heh, I told you I never abandon my orc stories… even if it takes a few years to get to some. Remember! This is Zoop-verse, not Markos-verse... So the lay of the land is a little different for those of you keeping notes on my stories.

The soothing sway of the wagon turned suddenly to an uncomfortable vibration, and Gundshau startled awake. Peeking over the high backboard, the Orc was unnerved to see that the muddy dirt road had suddenly sprouted cobblestones. He swallowed uneasily with the realization that Barannon would make good on his threat to deliver them to Ethring before the night wore on.

Glancing over, Gundshau noticed Nymhriel was still asleep. A notion to run flashed through his mind. There was no way this venture would end well. Nymhriel had been known and respected by the people in her village, and still they came to torch her house on his account. If he left now, she could take the money she'd stashed on her person and make her own way in the world without him saddling her.

Gently, he brushed a messy cluster of wavy, sweat damp hair from her face. She twitched a little but did not wake. Gundshau willed himself to move, to leap from the back of the jostling cart before they reached a more heavily populated area. But his limbs were like lead, his will too weak. Whether it was his own selfishness or a pure lack of good sense, Gundshau realized that he would not leave Nymhriel's side unless he was forced to. He wriggled lower in the cart instead, and pulled the canvas flap over the back closed tight, so no one could spy them inside.

Gundshau tried to snatch a few more moments of sleep, but lay anxiously awake instead, staring up at the patched bonnet. Outside, lamplights grew more numerous and lit the stretched canvas with a flickering, yellow glow. Gundshau tried to imagine they were safely tucked in a cave, far in some eastern country, out of the reach of these Western Men with their long memories, but the jostling cart and the steadily increasing sound of people outside made that impossible. He had lost his chance for escape. Gundshau hoped Barannon's faith in his tavern owning friend was well placed.

It was maybe another hour before Barannon brought them to a halting stop. The red gelding pulling them along let out a huffing snort, his bridle jangling. The wagon dipped and bounced as Barannon dismounted, walking briskly to the rear and pulling open the canvas drape.

"Up and about, friends," the trader said, his voice gruff but bright.

Nymhriel finally stirred. "Oh," she breathed, rubbing the heel of her hand against her sleepy eyes. "Here already?"

"Been hours," Gundshau mumbled, making no move to abandon the safety of the covered wagon.

Perhaps sensing his reluctance, Nymhriel brushed her hand along the length of his arm before she bounded from the back of the wagon. Warily, Gundshau passed their few possessions to Barannon. "Is safe?" he asked.

"I pulled directly into the stable," Barannon stated. "There isn't a soul about at the moment."

Peeking out, Gundshau was surprised Barannon would call this building a stable. The interior was completely open, so Gundshau could see from one end clear to the other. Whoever decided to erect this building had only the basic idea of what a stable should look like. The boards making up the exterior walls were set at every angle imaginable. Through the weathered slats, Gundshau could spy the soft lamp glow from the rear of the inn sparkling on the fresh snow. The horse stalls were mere suggestions, wide wood beams that also acted as supports. Thick, fraying boat rope was the only barrier keeping the beasts in their enclosures. The far end housed two old nags and a sounder stallion was stabled in one of the closer stalls. Gundshau had not cared for horses before in his life, but knew a few, lower ranking snaga orcs who had. One female in particular had been a recurring bed partner. So, he remembered the impressive stone stables of Barad dur, where the horses of the Haradrim and Easterling lords stabled. It would have taken a legion to break the barred door of that impressive structure.

Gundshau frowned, unsure, while Barannon unhitched and tended his horse. It wasn't the safest of shelters, and drafty, but it would do for an overnight. "Good enough," he said out loud, looking about as he hopped cautiously to the ground.

"What is good enough?" Nymhriel asked.

"Not best roof, but good enough," he explained, feeling a little better about their lodging. They would be left in relative peace. If they had an early start, few might mark their passage. Perhaps this was not the worst idea. At least they weren't out in a storm.

"Oh, friend," Barannon laughed. "You don't think you're staying in this rickety old shack, do you?"

"Gracious Valar!" Nymhriel exclaimed, "I should hope not!" Gundshau looked at her incredulously. They had worse shelter than this in the past few weeks. She must have caught that look, because her expression became suddenly defiant and petulant all at once. "I haven't slept in a bed in weeks," she sighed. "Barannon said he knew the owner, and I was desperately hoping for a bed."

Feeling chastised, though he wasn't sure for what, Gundshau hung his head. "Seems safer here," he said quietly.

A heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder. "It will be just as safe in the inn," Barannon told him. "Trust me."

Gundshau wasn't sure how much he trusted Barannon, but Nymhriel seemed to, so he did not protest when the man left to fetch his friend. The minutes that passed while they waited for the trader to return were anxious and silent. Nymhriel pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders while Gundshau secured the straps on his weapons belted to his waist. If she noticed him do this, she didn't mention it. Nor did she say anything when he slyly unbuckled his sword. For Nhymriel's sake he would go along with this, but trust did not come easily to an Orc.

By the time the door swung open, Gundshau had imagined several different ways to slay two attackers and make an escape with Nymhriel. Though, now seeing the thin, unassuming Man that entered with the tradesman, that did not seem necessary. The two men seemed collected, even if the dark, weathered face of Barannon's friend was somewhat pensive.

"Miss Nymhriel, Master Orc," Barannon gestured to his friend, "this fine gentleman is Sar."

Without hesitation, Nymhriel stepped forward and offered her hand. Sar shook it gingerly. "Madam," he said, his voice soft. His pale eyes flicked anxiously to Gundshau. "Master Orc," he added with an acknowledging nod. "Do you have a name, sir?"

Gundshau wrinkled his nose. It was very subtle, perhaps a generation or two past. If he did not have such an acute sense of smell, Gundshau might have mistaken him for a man of southern decent. "Baalak," he growled.

Nymhriel laughed. "His name is Gundshau," she corrected. "Not–"

"He was not giving me his name," Sar said, straightening his spine. "Are you so proud, Master Orc, that you would not spend a night under a baalak's roof."

Ducking his head, Gundshau grit his teeth. Did Barannon think this would earn his trust? A half breed was even less trustworthy than a Man. At least Gundshau knew where a Man's loyalty lay.

A light smack on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts. "Gundshau!" Nymhriel hissed. "Stop growling."

Had he been growling? He hadn't noticed.

"You must excuse my friend's rudeness," Nymhriel apologized. "We would be honored to spend a night here. You have no idea what we've been through. Please…"

"Barannon has explained your predicament," Sar said, "and vouched for the trustworthiness of your… escort. Barannon and I have known each other many, long years. I will not deny him this request. If the lodgings are not to your friend's liking, he is more than welcome to remain in the stable." With that, the tavern owner turned and left, stalking back toward the inn.

Gundshau's already impressive frown deepened. "Will stay here."

"You will not stay in here," Nymhriel ordered. "I do not know what has come over you, but you will apologize for whatever it is you called that kind man and stay in the inn, and that is final."

Prepared to argue her on this, Gundshau firmed his jaw.

"I would think, Master Orc," Barannon said slowly, his expression unreadable. "considering how quickly others are to judge your intentions, you would be slower to judge others. I would hope that you would not give me reason to rescind my appreciation for all you've done for young, Mistress Nymhriel." He turned to make his way towards the inn.

"Fine. Stay here if you like," Nymhriel told him haughtily, " but I am sleeping in a bed tonight." She hurried to follow the trader, already swallowed by shadows.

Gundshau wondered if Barannon knew his friend had orc-blood in him, or if the baalak had covered that up with a clever lie. Sar was easily man-passable. It was not a stretch to imagine him finding a place among Men without revealing his heritage. He would have had no such luck among Orcs. They knew the shifty stench of a half breed in their ranks. Frustrated, wary, but unwilling to pass a night in a strange place, with a dubious host and Nymhriel out of sight, Gundshau huffed and followed after her.

The door they entered was in the back, and they climbed the rear stair to a short hallway. Sar led them to the last door. It opened into a small, stuffy room with a fireplace on the far wall that was three times too big for the space. A tall window on their right revealed the falling snow. Next to the window was a small, round table with two smaller, round stools beneath it. There was one, wide bed adjacent to the door. It was an ambiguous choice for their lodging, to say the least.

"I will have a cot brought in," Sar said, as if reading the Orc's mind. "I apologize for the tight quarters. This room is meant to be a wedding suite, but it is the most private room I have available."

Gundshau wanted to ask what a wedding suite was, but decided to remain silent. Sar did not spare him a glance as he left to procure the cot he mentioned, Barannon right behind him.

Nymhriel and Gundshau were left standing in the dusty little room. She glanced askew at him. "I cannot imagine who would spend their wedding night here, but it is a welcome alternative to the ground." She flopped face first onto the faded, patchwork quilt. A little plume of dust kicked up around her. Nymhriel lifted her head and sneezed loudly.

Rounding the bed cautiously, Gundshau stashed their packs in the narrow space between the bed and the wall. "What is 'wedding suite'?" he asked Nymhriel.

She wiped her tearing eyes and sniffed. "Oh," she breathed. "It is a room that a newly married couple spends their first few nights in. Though, usually only those with means will bother to rent a fancy room in which to consummate their marriage."

Gundshau looked around dubiously. "This," he gestured about, "fancy?"

"Gracious no," Nymhriel whispered, sounding conspiratorial. Her eyes darted towards the door. "Not at all. This is definitely a wedding suite on a budget." She giggled.

The frown on Gundshau's face did not change. "Don't understand," he said.

There was a thumping of persons walking awkwardly in the hallway, and Nymhriel waved her hand at him. "I'll explain later," she said as the tavern owner and the tradesman came in, carrying the narrow cot between them. Sar and Barannon set up the cot directly next to the hearth. A dark skinned, round faced woman entered behind them carrying linens and Gundshau tensed at this additional party.

"This is my wife, Mara," the tavern owner said, gesturing towards her with one hand as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the other.

"Hello," she said, bowing towards Nymhriel. "It is a pleasure."

"Likewise," Nymhriel said. "Please," she gestured towards the linens, "I can take care of that."

"Oh, but I will help," Mara insisted.

Gundshau said nothing as the women made up the cot and then the bed. Sar took away the old bedspread and sheets while Barannon bowed out of the tiny room, motioning down the hall. "I'm not far if you need me," he said.

As Mara helped Nymhriel, Gundshau realized Sar's wife was not part orc, like her mate, but a woman of southern decent. She had the copper complexion of Khand folk. He wondered how she managed to find herself in Gondor.

While Gundshau speculated as to the origin of his hosts, Nymhriel and Mara finished making the beds. "I will be up with your supper soon," Mara told them in a soft, quiet voice, and quickly left. She did not look once in Gundshau's direction.

Alone again, Nymhriel sighed and sat on the bed. Looking towards him, she patted the space next to her. Gundshau padded quietly around the bed, shutting the door before sitting beside her. Laying her hand on his tense shoulder, Nymhriel pressed her lips to his temple. Gundshau felt a measure of his anxiety melt away.

"Are you well?" she asked into his hair. "You seem out of sorts."

"Strange place, strange smells," he said, and it was true. He wasn't sure if he should press his concerns on her. She seemed so sure of Barannon and his friends. "Don't trust Sar," he said, deciding it would be better to share his thoughts.

"I see," Nymhriel said quietly. "Is there a reason why?"

"No," he admitted. "Strange people."

"Ah," Nymhriel nodded. "You have to trust someone, Gundshau."

"Trust you," he told her, and it was true. There was no one alive he trusted more than her.

"Why," she asked, a confused look on her face. "After everything I have put you through, why would you trust me?"

Gundshau thought she was making a joke, but the look on her face was searching and sincere. He wondered how she could not know. "Were kind," he told her. "Saved my life."

Frowning, Nymhriel glanced past him with a troubled expression. She rose and approached the cold hearth. "I'll make a fire," she said.

Gundshau was doing his best to look busy. He had fletched at least three dozen fresh arrows for the archers in his unit, had sharpened every blade, had stitched every loose boot sole, but they wouldn't be moving out until dark. He had tried to follow the lead of an old, veteran soldier and get some shut-eye, but he couldn't ignore the Woman's screaming.

They had killed the two, cloaked Men traveling with her, but their Captain refused to end this Woman's life so quickly. They took her back to the cave their unit was holed up in. She had been silent most of the way, whimpering behind the gag they'd made of a dead Ranger's cloak. It wasn't until they started stripping her that she started screaming. The higher ups continued playing with her, pawing at her as they tore off her clothing. Gundshau hadn't turned to see, but she must have been naked by now, certainly.

Her screaming reached a frantic pitch, and Gundshau imagined someone was getting ready to mount her. He slinked a little lower, further behind the rock, and continued carving the little hunk of horse bone he'd stashed away. The wolf head he'd begun was really starting to take shape. He tried to concentrate on that, to squash the woman's cries from his mind. Though he could not understand the Westron tongue she spoke, there was something to the quality of her pleading voice that reminded him too much of his murdered sister as she begged for her own life just a few months ago…

"Hey now, Dungfilth."

Gundshau's ears perked at that. It was how the Captain always addressed him. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked over the top of the rock he had hidden himself behind.

"Me, sir?"

"Yea, you, Dungfilth," the Captain growled. He was a proper Mordor Uruk, tall and wide shouldered with a dozen scars from a hundred battles. He gestured towards the Woman with a snarl. "You ever seen a cunt afore?"

Gundshau had seen naked females plenty; his sisters, his mother, other females in his tribe. His homeland was usually warm; neither males or females wore very much.

"Yes, sir," he said quickly, hoping the Captain would leave him be. When Captain Hrothar singled you out, little good ever came of it.

"He's a liar," said one of the higher ranking soldiers. Dukhrat, Gundshau thought his name was; another uruk of Mordor breeding. "Only cunt that little fuckstain's seen is his mum's, ain't that right, Dungfilth?"

Technically that was true, so Gundshau nodded. The uruks had a long laugh at that, their mocking guffaws setting Gundshau's hair on end.

"Leave the little southern shit alone, Duhkrat," another uruk growled from a dark corner. "Just a boy, he is."

"No one asked you, Rashar," the Captain cut in, giving her a hard stare. Frowning, Rashar backed down, and closed her eyes again, though Gundshau was sure she was faking sleep. Captain Hrothar pointed right at him. "C'mere, Dungfilth," he said with a dubious smile. "I'mma learn you somethin'."

Gundshau hesitated.

"Come here, I said!" Hrothar thundered and started to rise from where he was crouched next to the Woman. It would be a beating if he didn't obey, so Gundshau rose and shuffled towards the group of uruks. The Woman's screaming had abated as they spoke and she eyed them curiously, though Gundshau doubted she understood what was being said, since their whole conversation had been in orcish.

Once he was close enough, the Captain grabbed him by the hair and pushed him towards another one of his commanders. Gundshau had not been given much when he joined up with the Mordor army. He had a loose fitting tunic, a loincloth and boots that barely fit him; along with a knife and a short sword, both of which were foolishly left by the little piece of bone he was carving. The Captain divested him of his tunic and loincloth with practiced skill, and before he knew it, Gundshau was left left only in a pair of weathered leather armguards he'd stolen off of a dead soldier and his too large boots. All the while, the other soldiers laughed, even some of his fellows in lower ranks snickered into their hands, amused.

Hrothar threw him on the Woman with a raucous laugh. "Get a little piece for yourself, boy!"

The Woman screamed as he fell between her legs, battering his head with her bound fists. Ashamed and afraid, Gundshau snarled and swiped at her with his claws, catching her across the chest. He tried to rise, but someone grabbed the back of his head and pushed him back on top of her, burying his face in her bloodied breasts. She screamed even louder, bucking like a wild horse, and kneed him square in the belly.

"Don't know what to do with a lady, Dungfilth?" one of the uruks jeered.

"Can't seem to manage his todger," another guffawed.

"Watch that knee, or she'll get your balls," another pointed out helpfully, though laughed directly after.

As the Woman flailed her limbs at him, Gundshau grabbed the nearest stone and dashed her across the temple. She went still and silent, a bright, bloody gash blooming on her head. Panting frantically, Gundshau dropped the stone.

"Well that's perfect," the Captain growled and knocked him upside the head. "Bonked her clear out, you stupid bastard." He pulled his sword from his waist and Gundshau shrank, but Hrothar brought the blade down on the woman's neck, neatly severing her head from her shoulders. "We don't got time to wait for stupid cunts to wake up. Get outta my sight, you. You're lucky you're good for a lark, Dungfilth."

The other uruks made noises of general discontent and pushed him out of their circle. Someone threw his tunic at his head and Gundshau hurried to pull it on. He rushed back to duck behind the rock. He would find out what they did with his loincloth after everyone was asleep. He collected his knife, but the wolf's head he had been carving was gone along with his sword. Someone cleared their throat, and Gundshau glanced to his right. Another, smaller Orc archer had his sword strapped to his belt. He grinned toothily as he tucked the wolf head into his boot.

"Left yer knife, boy," the archer said.

Gundshau had nothing to say to that. With unsteady limbs he climbed a section of wall that opened into a small, hidden nook. His unit was in sight, but he was out of their sight. Fortunately, he was also forgotten as the higher ranking Orcs broke into their captive, butchering her and passing out rations. Trembling with embarrassment, Gundshau clutched his knees to his chest and quietly wept.

Gundshau woke to a tap, tap, tap. Cracking open one, crimson eye, he spied Sar as he sat at the small, round table tapping out a pipe. Glancing towards the bed, he realized Nymhriel was not there, the bed neatly made. He sat up like a shot, grabbing for the sword stashed at his side.

"She is well!" Sar said, holding up his hands in peace. "Madam Nymhriel has gone with Mara and Barannon into town. She left some hours ago. She should return shortly, and you can be on your way."

Settling, Gundshau tested the air cautiously. He smelled no lie in Sar's words, but that did not mean they were true. "Why you here?" he asked suspiciously.

"You slept very late, friend," Sar told him. "I have been in and out of this room all day, waiting for you to wake so I could tell you what I have told you already, as a favor to your companion." He lit his pipe and stood. "And now I have told you and I will be on my way."

Glancing at the window, Gundshau realized it was nearly noon! How could he be so foolish and sleep so late? But the cot was so comfortable compared to what he was accustomed too, and he had paced the room long into the night, after Nymhriel had retired and lay sleeping. He had expected a trap. Finding this place had been far too convenient. And then there was the matter of the baalak. "Why you help us?" Gundshau asked him before he could leave.

Sar turned towards him, taking a puff on his pipe before answering. "It is not wholly out of the goodness of my heart," he admitted. "Nymhriel did pay for this room this morning. And it is not you I am helping, it is her."

That made Gundshau even more suspicious. "Why?"

"Because she reminds me of my mother," Sar said quietly. "It is not an easy task, to take one of your kind as a partner. My father was but half, and still my parents were shunned from every place they hoped to settle. I am even less than my father was, but still Mara and I were forced to travel to a land where none could mark my heritage. The Men of Harad and Khand may know your folk better than these Men of the West, but they do not want one of you as a neighbor. And they can spot the mark of your people in their own."

Gundshau was well aware of what the Haradrim and Easterlings thought of their Orcish compatriots. Remembering Nymhriel's wisdom in denouncing their relationship, he quietly said, "Just protect her."

"I am many things, Master Orc," Sar stated, "but I am not a fool. Nor is Barannon."

That caught Gundshau off guard. He stared and said nothing.

"Knowing me is why Barannon thought to give you the benefit of the doubt," Sar explained. "I suppose, in his mind, I am an example of the gentleness in Orcs. It was my grandmother that was an Orc, you see. She left her people to be with my grandfather, and they lived many happy years together before their tribe was attacked and sold into slavery in Rhûn. My father and mother escaped that life by fleeing to Khand, but knew no peace. It is why, when I wished to settle somewhere with Mara, we came to this land, where none knew what I was. To the people here, I am simply a southron Man come to settle in Gondor."

He gestured outward. "We bought this humble tavern and have lived here ever since. Some of these light-skinned Men have little tolerance for any that do not match them, but most think of us as good neighbors. Our children are not treated poorly for their mixed heritage because none here can see it, and I am grateful for that."

"Sadly," he added, "I can think of nowhere you might go, where you might find the same for your own children, unless the rumors I hear are true."

Gundshau blinked at that. He had asked Nymhriel to be his mate, but he had barely wrapped his head around where they might live, nevermind any offspring they may have. Now that Sar brought it up, Gundshau realized there was an entire realm of responsibility placed on his shoulders that he had never even considered.

"What rumors?" he asked.

Sar sat back down at the table, and Gundshau cautiously joined him. "I have heard," the Man said, "that there is a settlement in the north where Orcs and Men have come to terms and live in harmony. It's here say, mind you, so I am not sure it is true, but I have heard it from more than one traveler."

Could such a place exist? Gundshau thought it was rather whimsical to think about.

Still, it gave them a direction, and that was more than they had before. It was a place to start. Gundshau looked at Sar with newfound appreciation. "Thank you," he said, and found the words strange on his tongue.

Sar nodded towards him. "You are very welcome, Master Orc." He rose to leave.

"Gundshau," the Orc said, and Sar paused. "Name is Gundshau."

"Master Gundshau," Sar corrected.

"Just Gundshau, fine," Gundshau explained, feeling silly with all this 'master' business directed his way. "Am sorry," he added, "for calling you baalak."

"It is what I am," Sar said with a melancholy look.

"Nar," Gundshau insisted. "Not baalak how I meant baalak. Hurtful. So, am sorry."

A thoughtful expression settled on Sar's face. "I accept you apology."

Nymhriel returned with her herbs and tinctures and supplies not long after. Gundshau had them packed up in short order. She had also bought him a cloak, and though it was too large, it did the job of hiding his face for the most part. Barannon's business in town would last him a few days before he could leave and make his way to Minas Tirith, and Gundshau did not want to wait. He knew where they would go, and it wasn't to the White City.

"And where is that?" Nymhriel asked when he told her as much.

"We go North," he said.

"And what is North?"

"Home."