His toes curled into the sand, the feeling of semi-solid ground beneath him once again so utterly unfamiliar and so entirely welcome Masaan was momentarily unable to process. Something hard and knobby pushed into his shoulder, throwing his attention back to the moment, as one of Javalyn’s crew stomped ashore, unloading supplies. More urukshane flooded out of the dingy on the beach, most of them carrying large packs and crates. Masaan glanced at his hands, discomfited by their emptiness. His staff was tied to his pack, which sat on his back.

“Elbereth!” Masaan exhaled the prayer as he flexed his hands. The sound of splashing caught his attention as the second rowboat arrived, Javalyn standing on the prow.

She is majestic.

As glorious as...

Another rough push from behind and Masaan almost toppled over into the surf. He caught himself, and by the time he was again upright Javalyn was there staring at him with those sea-gray eyes of hers.

“You would do well to keep your balance, Masaan.” she said without a smile.

He nodded. She was right of course.

The journey across the sea had taken so many long months Masaan had begun to believe the Sea truly was endless, that it truly encircled the world in a ring of salt and water, as the old myths claimed. He had gotten used to the bucking of the ship and now was surprised to find his sense of balance was affected. A hesitant step forward, towards firmer ground and the unpleasant, slow drifting motion abated, but did not go away.

“It’ll pass, nar.” Uikan said. The sailor, and second-mate to Javalyn, was a hideous sight. His lower jaw was rent with scars, his teeth crooked and stained, and his brow a thick-ridged affair over a pair of the blackest eyes Masaan had ever seen. Over the months, Masaan had learned much of the stories from Javalyn’s crew, but he had spent more time with Uikan than any other, aside from Javalyn herself.

He was there.

Uikan had served in the armies of the Dark Lord Sauron, his mind and purpose a twisted reflection of that soul’s wish. But more, Uikan had been something else once.

Eldar.

The uruk had been taken a child from a band of wandering Sindarin elves, brought to the pits of Angband, where the dark magic of Morgoth was set upon him, until he lost the fair form upon which the One had blessed the Eldar. As long as Sauron had lived and been empowered, Uikan had been nothing more than a small finger of the Dark Lord’s might, a broken expression of grace used by the Dark Lord to spread fire and darkness across Middle Earth.

Listening to Uikan talk about how he had managed to survived all the wars since the ending of the First Age, how he had lived past the fall of Morgoth, the return of Sauron, the War of the Ring, and then the eventual Fall of the Dark Tower, had been rather like learning to breathe underwater for Masaan. It was alien and amazing, terrible yet edifying.

“It was Javalyn, ar, who saved me. Without ’er I’d be a monster still. She is salvation, that one!” Uikan said. “Never thought I’d begin to remember what it was like ’fore I was what I is.”

Uikan clapped a hand on Masaan’s shoulder, a gesture between friends. For a being who had been tortured and enslaved for untold thousands of years, the uruk had far too congenial a disposition.

“I expect to see mahself as I was, ’fore I dies. And that change don’t come nowhere but from inside, nar.”

“Comin’, ar?” Uikan said.

“Yes.” Masaan replied. “How far is the outpost?”

“Far?” Uikan said. “Nar, on that. Yer standin’ pon it already!”

Masaan blinked in confusion, but Uikan gestured for him to turn in the direction Uikan pointed. Where before there had been only the hazy fog of early morning sea air drifting over invisible, darkened land, now there was a wide stretch of earthen walls. Masaan had to crane his neck back to look up those walls. They had to be fifty, maybe sixty, spans high, with crenelations and towers running the length of them. He could spot the signs of movement behind those posts.

“Don’t think it.” Uikan said. “Them BloodShine’ll shoot yer, nar, before you could blink.”

The fog gone, a shining Sun above glinted off a piece of metal atop the wall, but the metal was hidden and the glint seemed almost as if it had been some phantom. Some lingering affect of his long months asea. Uikan barked a rough laugh. “Get on then, yar. Time’s a-wastin’.”

Masaan brought his gaze back down to the line of urukshane wending into the building. Most of the crates and packs were full of a shellan, a powdered meal of the bony carapaces of Shello spiders from the mountains around Masaan’s homeland. The stuff was worthless for Masaan’s people. The effort required to kill a Shello was only the slightest bit more than necessary to remove the carapace from a dead one. And Masaan knew of no use for shellan, other than the bright blue color it made when tossed as a powder into a roaring fire. But the entire ship was full of the stuff.

“You.” a gruff voice said as Masaan entered the arched portico which was the only visible way into the massive wall. It was wide and tall enough for perhaps two urukshane to walk abreast, but not much more. Yet the owner of the voice was so incredibly large Masaan could hardly believe what he was actually an uruk, as Javalyn and the others had insisted.

“Only uruks dwell in the trading cities. What few Men who live in the BloodShine are mostly slaves. Those who are not are generally not allowed to have power or prestige, nor to own property, nor to marry, though they are allowed to breed. Among the people of the BloodShine, the Urukhainen as they call themselves, having the features of a Man and the size of an Uruk is considered to be of “high aspect” and the most worthy goal of any family. They have bred themselves so over the last age, until they are a wholly new thing, unlike us, but also unlike Men, though I suspect they would disagree, save to imply they are better than any Man.”

His first sight of one of the Urukhainen left Masaan speechless. He was male, that was obvious from the musculature and the slight out thrust of his lower jaw. Among the urukshane it was far more difficult to tell a male from a female than that, but in general the lower jaw was the best place to look.

“And what are you lookin’ at, orc?” the Urukhained said, making the word an obvious slur. Slight grumbles came from others of Javalyn’s crew, but none rose above a level of distant complaint. Over the entirety of his life Masaan had never been called an orc. The word was simply not used in the Masterlands. He blinked at the Urukhainen, perplexed as to how to respond. “Get moving then!”

Masaan shook his head and breathed a silent prayer to Elbereth. What other wonders will I find in this place?

He knew the Urukhainen would not allow them outside the city. Javalyn had stressed it. Those people had boats, but none capable of long sea voyages, and they obviously knew enough of history to understand what an orc was, but Javalyn had insisted they would ask no questions about from whence the ship had come.

It is death for an Urukhainen to sail out of sight of land. Their religion forbids it. Some order of Priests rules them, along with a Captain to lead their armies. To hear one of those Priests talk only monsters and darkness can come from the Sea.”

Judging by the manner in which that Urukhainen had disdainfully looked over Masaan, it was not hard to imagine that the Urukhainen believed only monsters came from the Sea or the lands beyond it. For the first time in his life Masaan was struck by a feeling of doubt and insecurity about his appearance. There were no Men, no Urukhainen, on the entire continent of the Masterlands. According to Javalyn, Men did not even know it existed, though once they had.

“Long ago they were mariners of such might even the Valar above took notice, but that is gone now. Some Power ties them to the land. Like the Urukhainen they will not sail their small, river-born vessels much beyond the sight of the the shore. Though the Shorelord offers His grace to Men also, I have never had one in my crew for long.”

Masaan had yet to pry the story behind that comment of Javalyn’s from her. The line of urukshane moved a bit quicker, forcing to Masaan to increase his steps to keep up. When the tunnel under the walls ended and spread out into a wide, walled yard the Sun above was so bright Masaan had to shield his eyes from the glare. The place was empty, except for members of the ship’s crew, and what seemed to be a detachment of armored guards from the Urukhainen. No visible signs of trading posts, warehouses, or any other commerce related structure existed in the square. Just walls forty feet up, unrelieved, towering over a cobbled courtyard, with two exits; one which lead to the dock and hidden beach where Masaan and the others had come ashore, the other further into the heart of the walled city.

“By the stones!” an airy, but firm, voice said. Masaan’s head darted in the direction of the voice. Just exiting the other portico, surrounded by a retinue of equally massive guards, was a female Urukhainen. Her skin was the most lustrous shade of green-tinged pink, the green so subtle it might almost seem like affectation or makeup. Her muddy water colored hair was cut very short, too short to grab in a fight. And though her skin shone in places, as though oiled, in others it merely glinted dully with light reflected off the patches where old scars had healed. Her eyes were even more striking, for an uruka. They were a clear, sparkling grey, like translucent pearl.

“Koira?” Javalyn said. The striking uruka clasped arms with Javalyn and the mood in the place change. The feeling of being escorted into a prison evaporated, leaving behind a sense of homecoming, strange and ominous to be sure, but plainly welcoming. The detachment of guards began removing the burdens of the crew and smaller, less war-like uruks streamed about, offering water and fruit. Masaan refused both from the delicate cheeked man who tried only once to insist. When the uruk wandered away to offer his fruit and water to another sailor, Masaan moved back to stand near Javalyn.

“I had no idea you would be doing this run.” Koira said.

“There aren’t many of us left now.” Javalyn offered, her face dropping to simmering concern. Koira frowned.

“Still, you’ve brought quite a haul. Haven’t seen this much shellan in... damn near ever!”

“Because we’ve never brought so much before. The shello are more active of late. Something...” Javalyn noticed Masaan and she smiled out of the side of her mouth. Koira’s grey eyes sparkled. The two uruka were disturbingly similar in bearing and beauty, if nothing else. Neither was what Masaan would call beautiful for beauty’s sake, they were masterful and there was deep beauty in that. Then there were those eyes.

“He must be new.” Koira said.

“Aye. We took him on after Lacona decided she would rather bear children in service to the Shorelord.”

Koira’s face changed so suddenly Masaan almost believed the uruka meant to attack them. Her brow lowered and her jaw thrust out, a whispering snarl hulking just behind those teeth, like a beast about to be coaxed from its lair. Javalyn did not seem bothered, only surprised. When the moment passed Koira took a deep, evening breath.

“It galls, Javalyn. He should not take them for wives and breeders only.”

“On that we agree, Koira, but you know these uruks, be they Lord of the Waves or farmer in the croft. They think only of plans and schemes, and the Shorelord is, whatever else, also an uruk.”

The two uruka laughed. When they finished Javalyn said, “This is Masaan. He was of the Zadukuruk. Our so called Peace Days. Fools who chose to believe that our kind are meant not for mastery through war, but through peace, kindness, meditation, and reverence for living things.”

“How did you ever get his feet from the mud?” Koira asked.

“Enough salt water and the thickest mud looses its grip, Koira.” Javalyn said, with the tone of mock wisdom.

“Nice to meet you.” Masaan offered a hand.

Koira did not take it. She glanced down at his hand, then back up at his eyes, a question in hers. Slowly, Masaan withdrew the hand. “Among our Priests are some who believe that war is for the weak. They claim that to touch an enemy and not kill is the greatest victory. The Captain was once an adherent of their little sect, before she decided power lay elsewhere. Rumor has it however she learned her defensive skills from them.”

Javalyn was clearly not interested. “One Captain is much the same as another. Here as anywhere.”

“Not this one,” Koira offered. She swallowed. “The entire Bloodshine was marshaled, nigh on a year ago. We have less than a tenth of what once guarded this city. The Pyramid Council would burn a sigil on my forehead if they knew I told an outlander such, but our Bloodshine has never been more ripe for the fall.”

Javalyn waved the comment aside. “Nothing to fear from the Darklands, Koira. Ships are still forbidden, on order of the tarkan who sits her throne in the Valley. She has ships, of course. As do some small number of her favored houses, but enough to transmit an army of size? Nay. Thirty, maybe forty ships sail from the Darklands, no more.”

Koira shrugged, as if Javalyn had lied and they both knew it, but the argument was not worth having. Instead the grey-eyed woman smiled and clapped Masaan on the shoulder. “I imagine you are quite glad to have something real beneath your feet again.”

Javalyn snorted.

“Aye, Mistress.” Masaan said.

“Not much of a talker then?”

“He talks well enough.” Javalyn said. “When he’s of the mind. But I think perhaps you perplex him.”

Masaan started to stutter a denial but Koira laughed it away. New Urukhainen ran up and captured the uruka’s attention. Javalyn winked at Masaan. He had not felt this... childish, since he was still in short furs. While Koira’s attention was elsehwere Javalyn leaned in to whisper to him.

“Do not let your mind wander so. She is far better at seeing than you can guess. If you let her in your mind she might not ever leave.”

Perhaps I don’t want her to.

After the rest of the shellan was loaded and placed into the walled courtyard Koira lead Javalyn, Masaan, and the rest of the crew through the other exit to the place. Masaan tried not be incredibly obvious about taking everything in, memorizing every detail, using the long-trained ability of a Peace Days to form lasting, if not permanent, mental images of things seen. Aside from the largeness of every one of the Urukhainen encountered, Masaan took particular note of the martial nature of the place.

Nowhere was there the ability to see over the walls of the place from inside, save climbing one of the massive towers along that same wall. There were no battlements along the top of the wall, and try as he might Masaan could see no figures hiding anywhere upon it. On the level of the straight as an arrow street, were buildings which appeared to be near perfect squares, each with a door in the center of the block, and no windows. Those doors were reinforced planks of some thick, ash-hardened wood. Masaan knew looking at them it would take a great deal of effort to penetrate one of those doors, and by that time the flat level roofs would have offered any with a bow prime opportunity to fire on those below.

These places are almost impregnable.

And there must have been hundreds of them. Every time they passed a cross street Masaan saw that street running straight again to a wall, lined with doors and buildings exactly like all the others.

An enemy here would get lost easily enough.

No signs marked a street corner to distinguish one from the next, and the streets were almost frighteningly clean, as though someone swept them multiple times a day. No sooner had Masaan imagined such when they passed a cross street where young Urukhainen, clearly children but already shoulder height to Masaan, were busy sweeping a street with brooms. Those children did not seem bothered nor interested in the throng of thirty or so urukshane sailors, despite the fact that the urukshane looked like broken versions of the Urukhainen. Masaan tried to imagine how he would feel as a child to have seen a creature which looked enough like himself to be recognized, but only twisted into something foul and scary.

Am I foul? Scary?

Masaan had never really had thoughts along these lines, even after he discovered the Fire Book, and realized the true origins of his race, as Orcs fleeing Middle Earth after the War of the Ring and the Fall of the Dark Lord. Masaan was lost in such thoughts when the procession stopped at one of the nondescript doors. He stumbled into Koira and Javalyn, neither of whom budged.

“Apologies...” Masaan said, as sailors behind him laughed.

“No mind.” Koira said, tapping lightly on the door. It opened from the inside, as though they were expected. “Come inside.”

Once through the doorway Masaan was not at all surprised to see the place resemble a barracks. Long, flat wooden tables ran the length of the room, slicing it into sections. Across the room were four doors leading to interior rooms, which Masaan suspected would be bunks and latrines. One wall of the room was open to a kitchen, where a harried looking Urukhainen uruk was bent over slab of black iron grilling something. The uruk did not turn around as the rest of the ship’s crew filed in and took seats at one the long tables.

“Here, Masaan.” Koira said. “Sit. Food will be ready soon.”

He did as instructed and soon lost himself in rumination about the differences, stark and plain, between the Urukhainen and the urukshane. Around him the rest of the crew busied themselves telling stories of voyages, and though Masaan tried to eavesdrop on numerous conversations, he heard nothing unusual. Especially nothing which would lead him to reconcile the sense of developing unease he felt being in this place.

It is too... normal.

Before much longer urukas and uruks, just out of adolescence by the look of them, began serving the meal of grilled vegetables, boiled sweet roots, platters of pastes and crisped breads, flagons of honeyed water, and trays of nuts. Masaan had been certain he smelled meat roasting, but when he tasted one of the long, green soot-streaked vegetables, he realized it was this he had been smelling. It tasted amazing.

“Do the Urukhainen not eat meat?” Masaan asked one of the sailors to his right, a man named Randur.

“Nar. They don’t kill animals for food. Least ways not these Urukhainen. I ain’t met no others, so I can’t by rights be speaking for them all. Theres millions more of ’em up north of here, in their real cities. Those as lives here don’t leave much, if what they say is true. And our kind aren’t allowed outside the walls, you know.”

Masaan nodded and turned to see Koira considering him, having listened to the brief conversation between him and Randur. She smiled before she spoke.

“No doubt you have many questions about my people.” She bit into a bit of sweet root, chewed it before continuing. “Ask what you will and I will seek to answer.”

When he was done with his questions Masaan felt wrung out as sodden cloth. He took in breaths, surprised by the depth of each, sure it must be the last he would take. Koira had answered every question, had evaded no truth Masaan, trained as he was in the ways of a Peace Days saw nothing of dishonesty in her words. Something else was there, deeper than his sight could penetrate, something strong. Within Koira there was a presence, belied by her calm exterior, it was raging with a fire, a urgent desire to burn, somehow kept banked within her. During the questioning no one else had spoke, they had watched, listened, and sat. Even Javalyn, whose eyes Masaan had caught several times, offered nothing to the conversation, save a constant reminder to Masaan’s sight that what dwelt within Koira also dwelt with her.

“I have no more.” Masaan said, spent, his own fire blanched.

Koira took a long draught of lemon water. A drop clung to the edge of her mouth and she flicked at it with her tongue, a gesture of delicacy which implied nothing sexual. She set her flagon down the table and grinned, a leonine expression lacking in mirth, where her full lower lip rose above her upper and her eyes shone. “The Time of Men they called it. A time for the passing of things of the old world, the coming of the new. And what have they wrought? And what have they left behind, lost? This Age of Men is naught but a dream. You asked me what I am, uruk, and I answered you. Of the people of Tulkas, I was once. Later of the usurper Melkor. A demon. A wielder of the Flame of Udun. A Balrog. A sorceress. Many things I have been called in the histories of the Children of Eru. And yet here I sit, clothed still. Each name but a skin I wore until the fire beneath burned it away. Through all the long Ages of Elves and Men, of Lords Dark and White, of Trees and Jewels, Rings and Fire, I have lived. It is time to wake from the dream, uruk. You have been chosen. Will you serve? Will you have more?”

Masaan shrank from her words, overcome by a plague of fear so strong, so incandescent and blue he wanted only to shade his eyes from the awful brightness of it. But a voice spoke to him, out of the darkness seemingly, but unlike other voices which spoken to him before, whispering lies and fire clothed in darkness, this voice had no words, only grief. Empathy.

Pity.

For him, for his kind, for all the living things, and the dead, which were bound to the Earth. It cried for them all, tears enough to douse any flame, to fill any void, to water every darkness. And in that moment he saw past the barriers which had kept him from seeing truly into both Javalyn and Koira. He saw the shining light within them, the whole glory of their beings, so far beyond what his mind was presently able to withstand. As he fell in unconsciousness, unable to bear that glory so revealed, the wailing grief of the voice stopped. And it spoke to him, in words clear enough that he could never again forget them.

Forget the past, servant. Be the future.  

You called to us. We await you.

Save us all.

The Void comes.

Deny it.