Morsnak looked miserably out of the back of the wagon. His father had been unwilling to spend money for a carriage, and Morsnak could no more ride a horse then he could fly. It looked as though Morsnak seniorÂ’s grand plan to rid himself of his pathetically useless son was going to fall through.
Then, during another bout of drinking, ‘Anal’ Pirshak had brought up the suggestion of the dung carts. It was an instant hit with the drunken Morsnak senior.
At least once a month, carts arrived from the more important regions of Mordor loaded with dung. The wagon-masters and their crew stayed in the town for three days, made a mess, and solidly booked the calendars of the orcs-of-negotiable-affection. They then left back to the more important regions, loaded with useful goods. The dung was used to fertilize the fields.
After that, it had been a matter of waiting until the next dung-train came in. Morsnak senior had done a bit of negotiating with the wagon-master and, after five chairs and two tables had been broken in the inn, he had agreed to take Morsnak on one condition.
And so, eleven days later, Morsnak sat in the back of the dung cart that contained rejected dung. It was too runny, too lumpy, or too undigested to use for fertilizing. By the time the dung train got back to Gorgoroth, it would be too rancid for even the cooks to use. It could always be bunged to the trolls.
Morsnak felt a deep sense of kinship with the dung.
Not, of course, he told himself, because he looked or smelled anything like the dung, but because he was, for lack of a better word, useless. Both he and the dung werenÂ’t fit to do the tasks they were expected to do, and would be passed along as fast as possible until someone ate them.
And it was very likely that someone would end up feeding Morsnak to the trolls. Orcs had never been, and probably would never be, creatures who appreciated fine art. Their idea of classical music was listening to a drunken woman sing ‘The Maiden and the Hedgehog’ with jaw harp and banjo accompaniment. Their contribution to the visual arts was smearing some poor sod’s innards all over a wall.
‘Sometimes the pancreatic juices mingle well with the blood to form a nice orangish pigment,’ thought Morsnak, losing himself, as all artists do, in the minor intricacies of art, ‘And if you’re lucky, sometimes there’s a great example of neo-cubism; sort of a blood and fluids outline. Not to mention that there’s nothing like a good brain tissue smear for a surrealism painting.’
No. Morsnak shook his head. Those were orc thoughts. He was an artist, an artist in an artistic wasteland. At least in Nurn there were some thralls that had a basic grasp of post-Dol Guldurian sculpture. Just a few, however; knowledge of romantic sculpture wasnÂ’t exactly a thrall survival skill. It wasnÂ’t an orc survival skill when you got right down to it.
Morsnak stood up in the middle of the semi-dung-free space that had been cleared for him in the center of the cart. Just visible through the steaming mounds of rejected feces was the magnificent view of Gorgoroth, if rolling panoramas of dust, rock, ash and more dust were your idea of a good time.
He could paint that, he decided. Yes, a nice acrylic, with some of that chartreuse paint he had bought specially from Umbar. He wasnÂ’t entirely sure how he would work that in, but by the Valar he was going to.
Adopting Classic Artist Pose #1 (putting the thumb up in front of the face, squinting, and sticking out the tongue while occasionally bobbing the head and muttering things like ‘perfectÂ’ and ‘this will be a masterpieceÂ’), Morsnak peered around the piles of stool and sized up his painting. He dug into his rucksack for a bit of paper and a brush…
And the cart stopped.
He was flung to the rear of the cart, landing face first in the offal. It really was quite rancid. For a few moments, he truly became one with the dung. It was almost a pleasant feeling, the smell aside.
Then he started to suffocate.
As he struggled to get free, he could hear a somewhat muffled amused cackle in the background. Then came words,
“I’d stop yer rollin’ around in me merchandise, but yew look like yer havin’ to much fun! Hahaha!”
The wizened and wispy-haired orc slapped his inner thigh, and instantly regretted it. He sauntered off as Morsnak pulled himself free of the dung. Morsnak wiped the excrement off of his face as best he could, then found time to sigh at the lack of the second ‘o’ of the word ‘too’ the old orc’s sentence.
Gathering up his meager possessions, he staggered out of the cart and directly into the wagon-master. Several seconds passed. Morsnak did his first-ever push-up to haul himself out of the muck-filled ditch.
“’M sorry,” he mumbled.
“You’ll be sorrier if yew ever bump into me again!”
“’M sorry.”
“And dun you fergit it!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now bugger off!”
“Here, sir?”
He narrowly dodged the kick. He crawled on his hands and knees out of the ditch and past the wagon-master, who kicked him. Somersaulting away to the wicked delight of all, the nasty little voice in MorsnakÂ’s head told him that this was going to be harder than expected.

It was later. The great barracks of the Udûn City Watch loomed above him. Three stories of dark, blank and decisively un-cheerful windows gazed down at Morsnak in mixed disbelief and disgust. Morsnak gulped, clutched at the bruise on his throat with his right arm, and groaned at the intense pain from the joint. Three muggings (one from a beggar with no legs and a terrible case of hacking cough) had not improved his outlook on the future.
“Someone up there hates me,” muttered Morsnak. Yes, he thought bitterly, that someone is my father. Kinship with dung and such. Shouldering his bag, he took a deep breath, winced at what was probably a bruised rib, and walked in.
It was dark inside the watch house, and from all around him he could hear muttering, as though from far away. He took a step forward.
Now, most orcs could see in the dark, but Genetics had been dealt a bad hand when it came to Morsnak. He had eyes that were rather more like a humanÂ’s, e.g. he could not see if there was no light. Granted, he had also been dealt Cleanliness and Artistic Aptitude, but in the orcish world, those were easily trumped by Blood-lust and Sadism. So, the point is, Morsnak could not avoid what happened next.
He tripped on a loose floorboard and fell flat on his face.
Said face turned red, or close to red at least, as he heard the roar of laughter all around him. As his eyes, currently at floor level, adjusted to the darkness, they made out a pair of boots. Slowly, he looked up at the biggest orc he had ever seen. With no apparent effort, the orc grabbed him by the collar and lifted up so they were face to face.
“’Lo,” squeaked Morsnak nervously.
“Who’re you?” boomed the big orc.
“Name’s Morsnak.”
There was more laughter. There was a shade of a grin on the big orcÂ’s face, but it quickly disappeared.
“Shut up!” he roared, “Let the orc speak will yer?”
There was a mumbled chorus of, “Yes Sarge.”
“Now,” rumbled the big orc, rounding back on Morsnak, who cowered, “Woss your business here at the watch… Mr. Morsnak?”
Morsnak ignored the snicker from the back of the now visible crowd. Drawing himself up as best he could while hanging in midair, he said, “I’ve been sent to join the Watch. May I speak with the commanding officer? Please,” he added after taking another glance at the big orc’s muscles.
“Captain Shagwakh ain’t in right now. You can sit in his office if you like. I’m Sergeant de Massive, by the way. But you can call me Gromwûsh. Or Sarge if that’s more your taste.”
“Massive… thatÂ’s an interesting family name,” Morsnak said, making a brave stab at polite conversation, “What does it derive from?”
“It don’t de-rive from nothin’ nancy-boy,” said a nasty looking little orc in the front of the crowd, “Everyone just calls him Gromwûsh de Massive, cuz he’s so big, ye see?”
“Oh, so he’s Gromwûsh the Massive.”
“Yeah, I suppose thass how you highbrow posh types would say it.”
“Erm, Sergeant?”
“Yes?”
“Could you, er, put me down?”
Sergeant Gromwûsh relinquished his grip on Morsnak’s collar, and he fell to the floor with a dull thud. As he scrambled to his feet, he took in the faces of the finest Mordor had to offer.
There was the orc who had spoken to him before. Genetics had dealt him a fine hand, for a goblin. He had crooked arms and walked bandy-legged. His eyes seemed to bulge out of his head and squint suspiciously at the same time.
There were four or five orcs that had a generic, ‘I’m disposable’ look about their faces, and were built like wrestlers.
And finally there was an orc that looked as close as an orc can come to Santa Clause. He was, well, fat, but it only showed where it oozed out around his highly stylish and engraved breastplate. Wispy gray hair framed a chubby face with the barest trace of a beard on his chin, and he had rosy dimples, which were, given his skin tone, a shade of neon green.
He felt a large, well-muscled hand on his shoulder. Oh, yeah, there was Sergeant Gromwûsh de Massive as well. Morsnak took a mental note to stay near him; he generated an aura of Universal Sergeantness, which included protecting rookies from sneering veterans.
Sergeant Gromwûsh led Morsnak up the stairs; his heavy footfalls making the stairs tremble. Morsnak stayed as close as he could to the massive orc without actually touching him; the rest of the orcs were following them up the stairs at a respectable distance.
At the top of the stairs Gromwûsh turned right and opened a door with a golden plaque on it. The plaque was engraved with the words Shagwakh de Vile, Captain. Morsnak timidly nudged Gromwûsh as they entered.
“Is the Captain a noble?”
Gromwûsh paused for a moment and screwed up his face in thought. Morsnak could see the gears turning. After a moment, the massive orc rumbled, “I dunno about him being noble, but…he does seem to be a bit more high-brow than the rest of us.”
Looking at the low hanging eyebrows of the other members of the watch, Morsnak muttered, “Not that that would be hard in any case.”
“Look here,” said the crook-armed orc, “Just ‘cause our Cap’n innit a snotty nob like you, it don’t make you any better’n him or him any worse then you.” He looked vaguely proud at such a stunningly sophisticated verbal defense.
“I wasn’t suggesting that,” said Morsnak hurriedly, glancing at the large knife at the orc’s side, “I was just inquiring if the plaque was just more colloquial bad spelling.”
They all stared at him.
“Er,” said Morsnak.
Sergeant Gromwûsh cleared his throat, “You can sit down if you like.”
Morsnak sat down gingerly in one of the several spindly chairs that were scattered seemingly at random about the office. The wood was rough and splintery, and smelled vaguely of mothballs. For a few minutes, everyone stared at one another in awkward silence. Morsnak rapped his knuckles on the chair arms in the way that only the truly nervous can manage. A sudden snap and few swear words with eyebrow burning power broke the silence.
“Son of a soddin’ barstard!” shouted the goblin-like orc from Morsnak’s side. Both of his hands were in Morsnak’s bag, and just visible in the opening were two of his spindly fingers caught in the metal hinge of Morsnak’s self-designed collapsible easel. “What the hell is this thing?”
Sergeant Gromwûsh stood up so fast that he knocked his chair over, darted across the room, and yanked the homemade easel off of the orc’s fingers. He immediately stuffed them into his mouth, risking poisoning, and began to suck on them.
“It’s an easel,” said Morsnak, drawing more blank looks.
“It’s a type of folding chair,” said the Santa Clause-esque orc, “Easy to carry, and very light.”
“’S’smart,” said one of the disposable orcs.
“Mmf mmf mmmmmf mmmf!” the goblin-orc screamed through his fingers.
“Serves you right for trying to pinch the orcÂ’s folding chair, Zagluk,” Sergeant Gromwûsh rumbled disapprovingly, “You know we arenÂ’t supposed to do that to guests…Corporal Grishrat you put that tub of whatever-it-is back in Mr. MorsnakÂ’s bag”
Corporal Grishrat, who had wandered over after Gromwûsh, held up the jar of chartreuse paint, “‘S rouge!” he said happily, “My wife buys this from Sharahk the Vendor for about three dollars a bottle. But this looks like high quality stuff, where’d you get it?”
“I ordered it special for Umbar,” said Morsnak, dazedly. “And it’s paint!” he added, regaining his composure, “And that’s not a chair,” he said hotly, “That’s for holding up the paper while I paint on it!”
“Mmf mmf mmf mmf mmf mmmmmmmf?”
“What kind of snotty nob thing is putting paint on a paper?” Translated another orc.
“Yeah,” said another, “everyone knows that paint and paper are for eating.”
“Its art!” said Morsnak in angry disbelief, “Surely even you cultureless slobs have heard of art!”
“Oh yeah,” said Corporal Grishrat uncertainly, “ThatÂ’s when you make a blood nÂ’ guts outline of a corpse and the blood and pancreatic fluids mix to make a pleasant orange color…innit?”
“NO!”
All the orcs winced as the all-caps sentence hit their sensitive ears. They stared at their feet as they shuffled them in an embarrassed manner while Morsnak flared his nostrils. It was a wonder he wasnÂ’t dead yet. After a bit, one in the back spoke up timidly,
“Thass where you get a bunch of namby-pambies, no offense meant o’ course,” he added hurriedly, noting Morsnak’s face, “And they paint picshures of young wimmin’ in the nudd.”
Morsnak softened, “Almost. Sometimes, immature artists will paint pictures of women in the nude, but we call those ‘portraits’ and I pride myself on not doing them.”
Zagluk pulled his fingers out of his mouth, “So what do you do then?”
“I do group portraits on occasion…”
“Lossa wimmin’ in the nudd,” translated the intellectual.
“…landscapes…” Morsnak went on, ignoring him.
“Wimmin’ in the nudd on a well manicured lawn.”
“…surrealist images…”
“Wimmin in the nudd with her nose where her eye should be and her mouth where her ear should be.”
“No, that’s cubism,” Morsnak corrected, in spite of himself.
“Oh,” said the intellectual, “What’s surrealism then?”
“That would be a green nude woman with seven eyes walking through a forest of liquid clocks.”
“Right, then. Carry on with your rant.”
“And I do sculpting on occasion,” Morsnak finished.
All the orcs looked to the intellectual for translation.
“Er,” the intellectual said, “I think thass when you have a woman in the nudd what you can actually touch and feel.”
“What?” asked Sergeant Gromwûsh, “Like those doll things that Sharahk was selling a couple of days ago.”
“Oh yeah,” said Zagluk, “The ones he was advertising as ‘the perfect gift for the lonely male.”
“I donÂ’t think that itÂ’s quite the same. I think those are used for…erm,” Morsnak started.
He was saved from embarrassment when the be-plaqued door swung open again, this time with a vaguely ominous creak.
“What’s all this then?”
In a nearly synchronous movement, every orc in the room turned to see Captain Shagwakh de Vile enter his office. Sergeant Gromwûsh snapped to attention and ripped off a textbook salute.
“Sah! Civilian artist to see you here, sah! Think he might be a nob, sah!”
De Vile sighed heavily, “At ease Sergeant.” His gaze swept the room, pausing on Zagluk, who was attempting to salute and suck the fingers of the same hand at once. It moved on, and came to rest on Morsnak, who flinched.
De Vile raised an eyebrow, “And what can the Watch do for you, Mr…?”
“Morsnak,” said the same, “I’m here to join the Watch, sir.”
“Deliberately?” said De Vile incredulously, and was joined by every other orc in the room.
“Er…uh…no,” said Morsnak, “Sometimes I pretend that I had a choice, but it was either go, or get bashed over the head with a bottle, be trussed up like a Dark Lord Day present and left on the Watch house door step with a note stuffed in my mouth.”
“Wouldn’t the ink get runny?”
“I didn’t mean it literally sir.”
“Ah.”
De Vile walked around the Watchmen and Morsnak and sat at his desk. He picked up one of the items, which could only called paper in the most generalized sense of the word, on his desk and started to read. He wasnÂ’t very good at it. There were a great many things Captain De Vile could do with both hands tied behind his back, but reading was not one of them. Then again, thought Morsnak, this being Mordor, it was a small miracle that he could read at all.
Sergeant Gromwûsh coughed softly next to Morsnak. De Vile roughly scratched something down with a ragged quill. He put the paper down and picked up another. There was a muffled swearing from the back of the group; someone had just stubbed their toe.
Sergeant Gromwûsh coughed again, a bit more loudly. De Vile roughly scratched again, this time; however, it was his nose that was the target. Sergeant Gromwûsh swallowed heavily and, with the air of a man jumping from a very high platform into a very small pool of water, coughed very loudly indeed.
De Vile looked up from the maybe-paper. “I have a lozenge in my desk somewhere, Sergeant.”
“I was just wondering if I should swear Mr. Morsnak in, sah.”
“Were you?”
Sergeant Gromwûsh looked hopelessly puzzled. This was intense verbal riposte, and he had trouble keeping up. He was good at asking questions , but he was bullocksed when it came to answering them .
“I was sah!”
De Vile sighed heavily, and made a reach for his lower desk drawer. At the last moment he restrained himself and mumbled something under his breath that sounded to Morsnak like ‘I am strong, I am an individual, and I do not need alcohol to complete me. I do not need alcohol. If I want to make the world look better I must go and do it myself. How bloody encouraging.’ He looked back up at Sergeant Gromwûsh, who seemed to think that he had scored a point with his new answer.
“Highly sensible of you Sergeant,” he said.
“Sah!”
De Vile sighed again, “Swear him in Sergeant.”
“Sah?”
“Short version.”
“Sah!”
Sigh. “I do not need alcohol,” came the mutter.
Sergeant Gromwûsh turned about on his heel to face Morsnak. He swelled his chest up in true sergeant fashion, and shouted, “DÂ’you, Morsnak, promise to serve the Udûn City Watch, today, tomorrow, Wednesday, next Thursday…”
“I do not need alcohol. I am a strong person.”
“…the week after that, and possibly even next month, on pain of getting your head, right leg, left leg, right arm, left arm, abdymin…”
Captain De VileÂ’s hands seemed to be having a fight over which one would be the first to get to the liquor.
“…chest and tonkers kicked in?” Sergeant Gromwûsh lowered his voice to what he probably thought was a conspiratorial whisper, but still made the whole building shake, “DÂ’you like the oath?” he asked Morsnak, giving him a dig in the ribs and grinning, “I wrote it meself.”
“I was just wondering what the long version was.”
“Oh, I go over every day, and every body part, ‘stead of just general.”
“Oh dear.”
Gromwûsh raised his voice again, “Well? Do you?”
“Er,” said Morsnak, who was in the middle of having serious second thoughts about the whole thing.
“Welcome to the watch!”
“But I didnÂ’t…”
“Er, yes, they both mean the same thing, don’t they?” grinned Sergeant Gromwûsh, “don’t spoil the moment.”
“What moment?” asked Morsnak, looking at the half conscious orcs staring off into space and Captain De Vile having a personal crisis behind his desk.
“Are ye daft? Of course there’s a moment! Everyone in tears and someone passes someone else a hanky and little birds alight on yer arm. They make fine eating. There’s always a moment for summat as mon-u-mental as this. Read it inna book once, well, I had some bugger read it for me anyway.”
Zagluk piped up from the back, “Well, it looks as though the Captain is about to cry. Buggered if I know what yer gonna do for the little birds though. I could go round up some of the crap-eating ones from out back if ye like.”
“Ugh, no thanks, but I’d rather stick my arm in a troll’s mouth than have one of those alight ‘pon me arm.”
“I could go pick up a chicken from Ragwakh the Butcher’s.”
“I think I’d rather just go without if it’s all the same to you,” said Morsnak.
Sergeant Gromwûsh shrugged, “Suit yerself.”
De Vile looked up from his desk, “Are you finished, then? Good. Show Lance-Constable Morsnak to his locker, and outfit him with whatever we’ve got in the bins downstairs. I hope we can find something that will fit him,” he added, surveying the quite small and scrawny Morsnak.
“Right you are, sah!”
Sergeant Gromwûsh placed a giant hand on the newly minted Lance-Constable MorsnakÂ’s shoulder and led him out of the room. He did not notice how Morsnak’s kneeÂ’s buckled under the weight of his arm, or how the new Lance-Constable staggered out of the room. Nor did he realize the sniggers of the orcs once they thought he was out of earshot.
The thuds of Sergeant Gromwûsh’s footsteps died away. Died away meaning that they became merely deafening, of course. Captain De Vile went back to his paperwork, his free hand groping for the handle to his desk drawer.
He felt a scabby hand grasp his own. He looked up to see ZaglukÂ’s concerned face. If a face like that could support a concerned expression that is. Zagluk had a face that, if he were a field surgeon, a patient that looked up and saw his face might decide that death wasnÂ’t so bad after all.
As it was, Captain De Vile started. “Good grief Zaggy,” he said breathlessly, “Don’t do that! You know it scares me shi- it scares me a lot.”
“Sorry sir,” said ‘Zaggy’, “But you’ve been sober for a year now. And we all know what happens when you’re not.”
“Yeah,” mumbled Corporal Grishrat, “Things are always more interesting. Remember that time when you were hammered in The Pits and that one bugger had a little knife and mascara and you said-“
“Yes I remember Grishrat. I’d also be happy if you never mentioned that again. Especially not to Lance-Constable Morsnak. He’s still young and impressionable.”
“Right sir.”
Shagwakh de Vile reached down to the desk drawer again. This time Zaggy blocked it with his leg. Not even the boldest man or the troll who has eaten the most rotten feces would dare touch regions of Zaggy that were below the naval and above the ankles. De Vile drew his hand back and glared at Zaggy.
“Corporal Zagluk, kindly remove your leg from the path of my desk drawer, lest you find your head stuffed in it whilst I shut it.”
“I thought you were going to those meetings, sir. You know; the ones you took me to. Because you told me they had free coffee and doughnuts, which they didn’t,” he added reproachfully.
“Fat lot of good it does, standing up and saying ‘I’m Shagwakh de Vile, Captain, Udûn City Watch, and I have been alcohol free for a year,” grumbled De Vile.
“It’s the group unity that helps, sir,” added Grishrat helpfully, “You know, like the time we were down in Shantytown , and there was that one female impersonator, and she, er, he-”
“Corporal, I would greatly appreciate it if you did not talk to Lance-Constable Morsnak at all.”
“Yessir.”
De Vile sighed, “I just wanted one drink. One drink.”
“I know how it goes sir,” said Zaggy, “Iss your motto or somethin’ innit? One drink is too many, two is not enough?”
“No. Our motto is, ‘Together, we are a mean lean alcohol free machine.’”
“Oh.”
“Indeed.”
“It bloody sucks sir.”
“I always need a drink after Gromwûsh swears somebody in. It’s that bloody oath!”
“It makes him so happy to say it sir.”
“I know, I know. But it still gives me a headache. Morgoth on a crutch! Who was the last one we swore in?”
Zaggy looked up at the ceiling, at the floor and around the room with his tongue hanging out. This was his equivalent of thinking. “Er,” he said, glancing again around at the now-vacant room, “That would be olÂ’ ‘PleaseÂ’ Morrat, we swore him in almost…” there was a pause in which ‘carry the threeÂ’ could be heard, “eighteen months ago sir.”
“Good grief, you’re right. I haven’t seen him around lately, come to think of it,” mused De Vile, “Has he been ill?”
“‘S been dead for about a year sir. You wouldn’t remember his funeral; you were still drinking at the time,” said Grishrat reproachfully.
There was a long awkward pause.
“‘M sorry lads,” said De Vile, “It’s just that it’s been so long, and everything’s happening so fast, an’ I don’t notice as much when I’m sober. He was a good copper.”
“We know sir.”
There was another awkward pause.
“Zaggy?”
“Yessir?”
“Could you be so kind as to put the bottle back in the drawer and the six dollars, four pence, hanky, notebook, and pen back into my pocket.”
“Yessir,” said Zaggy morosely.
“And never do that again.”
“Yessir. Sorry, sir.”

Corporal Grishrat went off duty twenty minutes later to go home to his wife. Alone of all the watchmen, he had found love that had not been purchased in convenient amounts of spare change. Captain De Vile continued to read his reports, occasionally pausing when he came to difficult words, such as ‘the’.
Sergeant Gromwûsh stomped into the room, followed by Lance-Constable Morsnak. At least, he was followed by a pile of loose-fitting clothing and armor, in which Morsnak was probably buried. It was either that or the clothes had developed sapient life-forms that were dragging them around. Given the state of the uniform, it was not entirely implausible.
The pile of clothing attempted a salute. De Vile sighed,
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be specially fitted Lance-Constable.”
“It would seem so sir,” said the slightly muffled voice of Morsnak.
“See to it when you go off duty tomorrow morning. Do you have any money Lance-Constable?”
“A little sir.”
“Good. There is a tailor on Thespian Road who gives discounts to watchmen; provided that Gromwûsh is around, of course.”
“Of course sir.”
“You’ll be going on your first patrol tonight. With Corporal Zagluk, because his regular partner is taking time off for his mother’s funeral. That’s the third one this month actually.”
“Delighted sir.” The voice was laden with sarcasm.
“Are you sure that’s wise sir?” asked Sergeant Gromwûsh in his vociferous whisper, “I don’t think Morsnak can defend himself too good.”
De Vile looked at the pile of clothing again, and then at the gangly form of Zagluk. “You’re absolutely right, Sergeant.
“Thank you sir.”
De Vile turned to Zagluk, “You are not to pickpocket your partner. Do you understand, Corporal?”
“Not even just some loose change?”
“Corporal!”
“Oh, all right, all right. I won’t hurt the little bugger. Mind you, I’d have trouble finding anything in those pockets.”
“Too right,” said Morsnak, from somewhere in the heap.
“Sergeant,” said De Vile, “I would be much obliged if you would go round up the others who are on-duty tonight. They seemed to have wandered off.”
“You can’t take your eyes off ‘em for more than three minutes before they wanna drink,” said Gromwûsh disdainfully.
“Wish I could say the same.”
“Sir,” began Gromwûsh reproachfully.
“Just go get them Sergeant.”
“Yessir.”
De Vile turned to the heap of clothing that was probably Morsnak. It moved slightly. “Can you move in all that, Lance-Constable?” he asked.
“I suppose so sir.”
“Perhaps you’d like to go plain-clothes until you can get fitted?”
“That would be nice sir.”
“You could wear your helmet, and youÂ’ve got your badge…”
“Yes, I’ve got my badge.”
“Carry your truncheon and I suppose it would be alright.”
“Thank you sir.”
Sergeant Gromwûsh returned with two of the generic disposable orcs just as Morsnak emerged from the mound of garments. He saluted, just because he didn’t know what else to do.
“Night shift reporting for duty, sah!”
“Right,” said De Vile, “Well, I’ve got some news. Some daft bugger lost another bloody battalion of Haradrim,” he snorted, which seemed to convey a general feeling of ‘good riddance to them’, “Over by the crossroads.”
There was a general nod, even from Morsnak. It was the opinion of probably every orc in Udûn that, though fierce warriors, the Haradrim could probably not find their own buttock with both of their hands and the hands of all their comrades.
“It is said that Ithilien rangers did it.”
There was a general slapping of palms to foreheads, the latter term being used loosely. Even if the Haradrim warriors had considerable trouble finding their buttocks, they were experts on buttock-navigation compared to the Ithilien rangers, who, it was said, could not find their buttocks with both hands, the hands of everyone in Gondor, a map and a team of Sherpa guides. It was almost disgusting that they had killed all of the Haradrim. Almost. When humans fight humans, orcs are always the winners, because that means there are fewer of the buggers running around the place messing everything up. Oh, and the crows get something out of the deal as well.
De Vile cleared his throat and continued, “Minas Morgul,” he pronounced the name with all the hatred of a nine-page rant compressed into two words, “Is sending out their last regiment; there’s something big going on.” He paused in such a way that they knew the next word would be but. “But,” he paused while there was a group affirmative nod, “our very own Dark One is a tad jumpy for some reason, so he’s summoned two regiments of Easterlings. They’ll be here in a few days.”
There was a groan from all those gathered. Except Morsnak, of course, as he didnÂ’t have a clue what was going on.
“Not them!” moaned Zagluk, probably for Morsnak’s benefit, “They’re the worst. Remember the last time they were here? I don’t have to remind you about what happened to old ‘Gaskin’ Ratsahk, do I?”
There was a mutter of general agreement from all and sundry. Except Morsnak, because he was still smiling dazedly and wondering what was going on.
“Don’t give me that, Zaggy. You’ll all get through this. Right, so you know what to do, right? Stay away from the pits, stay out of sight and above all, don’t arrest anyone.”
“Yessir,” they chorused
“Don’t arrest anyone?” Morsnak whispered to his new partner, “I thought that was the whole point of what we do.”
Zaggy stared at him. After a moment he said, “Do you have a death wish, kid?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then you’ll not arrest anyone that could possibly fight back. They tend to frown on that, if you know what I mean. Mind you, this is still a good job lad.”
“Oh,” said Morsnak, sounding vaguely disappointed, “So what do we do?”
“Have a quiet smoke out of the wind and mump free beer off’f people.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
They walked out of the room, down the stairs and out the door. The shadows were lengthening and dark was approaching quickly.
“I thought you said this was a good job,” said Morsnak, with a trace of whine in his voice.
“The best there is, kid. Where else do you get paid to stay out of trouble?”