‘But at the moment Uglúk was not engaged in sport. He needed speed and had to humour unwilling followers.’ – TT Bk 3 – The Uruk-Hai.
‘Uglúk the Mighty, Uglúk the Blood-soaked, Uglúk the heartless!’ That’s what they would call him, Uglúk decided. Already he could hear the triumphant voices echoing around him. He would sit upon a throne of elf-bones as his subservient followers groveled across the dirt floor to him, bringing platters of the tenderest man-flesh, and inebriating drafts.
And when they caught prisoners…Uglúk licked his dun lips in anticipation…he would have his sport.
There was a noise behind him, which jerked Uglúk out of his daydreaming.
“Oi, Pushdug! We want a rest. We’ve been lugging these prisoners about for ages, and we isn’t even allowed to have any fun with them. Just ‘cos your Master wants to play wid them first … what is you gettin’ out of this anyway? You think he’s gonna feed you man-flesh for them?” The Orc spat on the ground, almost on Uglúk’s foot.
Uglúk turned around, incensed. “Shut your gob you little maggot, before I shut it for you. The Master want the prisoners to him as quick as possible, and I ain’t givin’ him damaged goods, just ‘cos some little stink from Lugburz can’t equal an Uruk-hai.”
He proved his point with a huge fist to the Orc’s face, and a kick to his belly. He yelled an order to the others and the pace quickened.
Pippin groaned. His head hurt, and his legs had been cramping painfully for hours. He stumbled over a thick clump of grass but the Orc behind him yanked him back upright and he forced his legs to keep on moving. Suddenly there was a commotion in at the front of the column. Pippin strained his ears to hear the conversation, but his mind was too exhausted to fully listen and before he could fully make sense of it the companies’ speed picked up and he was dragged along again. As he ran, he worried. He couldn’t see Merry and he hoped with all his heart that his friend had not been the source of the disturbance.
Barely had the sun peaked its head above the horizon, when the Rohirrim fell upon the Uruk-Hai. Uglúk snarled in anger as he swung his filth-caked scimitar, smashing bones and removing limbs. They had no chance of victory, although it had given Uglúk a small sense of pleasure to see Grishnákh speared by the first horseman he’d encountered. How he’d laughed as the pathetic Orc squealed like a stuck-pig.
But as he reminisced the Orc’s demise, Uglúk felt a sharp pain in his arm. He spun round. There in front of him, his sword soaked in blood, stood a blond haired rider who suddenly swung his sword at Uglúk’s neck.
Eomer grimaced as he cleaned his sword in the long grass, then rose slowly to his feet, examining the battlefield. The morning was progressing well, with barely any rain-clouds in sight.
“Burn all their dead,” he ordered his men, wondering what had brought the Orcs to this place