Gurzab Kurv

The girl was standing at the edge of the river, staring across the water. Trickles of dark blood seeped from the bodies spread on the bank and stained the water. She held one of her throwing blades in one hand, twisting the tip of the knife against the skin absentmindedly. Suddenly, she came back from wherever she had been.

“I’m not going to move you yet,” she said, handing him a water skin. “Rest. I have...business...to attend to.” Her Common sounded labored and unpracticed, as if she had to search for the right words. He couldn’t place the accent, but the curses she had used earlier were definitely orcish.

She left him there and set about her...business. He watched as she sawed the heads off the orc corpses and stuck them on the ends of spears around the edge of the clearing, stripped the bodies of armor, clothing, and any useful items. His stomach threatened to turn over as she carved something into the chest of the nude corpses. Blood in battle was one thing. This...desecration...even of orcs, was different.

He watched her with something between curiosity and horror. She noticed him watching, and smiled coldly, holding up the bloody blade.

“There is an art to inspiring fear in one’s enemies. I’m going to check your wound and then we should move camp.” Regarding the grisly decor of the clearing, he nodded grimly. Pain lanced through him with each breath and he was not looking forward to standing, much less moving anywhere.

When she was finished, she washed most of the blood from her hands and hauled him to his feet. Slowly, painfully, they worked their way upriver. He could not go more than a few steps without resting, and those few steps she had to half drag, half carry him.

“We will stay on the river as long as possible. Easier to fish than to hunt in these woods.”

“There’s lamas bread in the pack,” he told her, through a red sheen of pain.

She snorted in contempt. “Elvish bread? You will need more than bread to heal. Here,” she said suddenly. “We camp here.”

His relief was almost palpable as he lowered himself to a patch of moss. She dropped the bag in his lap. “Eat. I’m going to scout the area. We don’t need any unpleasant surprises.”

She had not asked his name. She had offered no information about herself, nor sought any about him. In fact, she acted as though dragging wounded men through orc infested woods was something she did every day. When she did speak, he found himself trying to decipher her accent. More than once throughout their trip he had heard her muttering to herself in orcish, and when she had tripped while carrying him, he thought he had recognized the curse as Haradric.

She was a mystery. A mystery almost intense enough to distract him from the pain. Almost. However, with nightfall rapidly approaching, he was not looking forward to spending the evening staring into her hollow, haunted eyes. He would be certain to thank Aragorn for leaving him in the care of a madwoman.

She returned shortly with an armload of firewood. She saw his concerned look and barked a short laugh. “It is safe. The fiends have fled. Apparently, they have what they wanted. And you are in no condition to spend a cold night on the damp earth. She started a fire then set to scraping a small hollow to one side of the firepit.

As the sun dropped over the treeline, she finished carrying several flat river stones over to the edge of the firepit. The stones went into the pit, she covered them with a thin layer of dirt, and several layers of boughs and branches. Blankets went over the boughs and she helped him to lay down. The heat from the stones seeped up through the blankets, and he stopped shivering almost immediately.

She had not said a word as she worked, quickly and efficiently going through the motions. As she finished, he handed her a chunk of the elven bread. She shook her head and instead handed him something from her own pouch. Jerky of some kind. She sat down with her back to the fire, staring out into the darkness.

He studied her in the flickering light of the fire, trying to think of a way to break the eerie silence. Her hair was short cropped. Messily. It looked although she had hacked it off herself with a knife. Considering what he had seen today, she probably had. She was a good six inches shorter than he, but incredibly strong. Strong enough to drag him two miles through the forest, and have energy to spare.

Even in his condition, he couldn't help but notice that she was well formed, wide hips and ample breasts which her manner of dress failed to conceal. Breeches and tunic were both well worn, and covered in bloodstains - not all from today’s battle.

There wasn’t an inch of extra flesh on her anywhere that he could see. She wore throwing blades strapped to each wrist, and the hilts of her twin daggers peeked out of the tops of high boots. He could see on each side of her neck, nearly identical scars, dished out circles slightly smaller than a standard gold coin.

Her eyes were wide and alert, searching the darkness. Those eyes were green, he had noted earlier during one of their numerous rest stops, and had a slight tilt to them. Her skin was fair, though not so fair as was common in Rohan. She held her head cocked to one side, listening.

He took a deep breath and winced at the pain in his side. She glanced over at him, face impassive. “That wound will be a long time healing.”

“If it heals at all,” he groaned.

“I’ve seen men survive worse...and die from less.”

“That’s...encouraging.”

“I am not a healer.” A simple statement. Blunt, and painfully honest.

“It’s going to be a long walk to Edoras.”

“Three days hard ride.”

Which translated into an impossibly long journey in his current condition, but he was breathing and he wouldn’t be if it hadn’t been for her.

“I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”

She turned those eyes on him, unblinking. “For what?”

“For saving my life. The others would not have arrived in time. Without my shield, I was a standing target for that archer. I owe you my life.”

“You owe me nothing, Son of Gondor.”

“Boromir.”

“Boromir,” she said it slowly. “A famous name. Or an infamous one. Your family must be well born if you share a name with the son of the Steward.”

“I am the son of the Steward,” he answered, attempting a smile.

“I see. And your companions?”

He hesitated, unsure of how much he should share. She noticed the hesitation and turned back to the darkness.

He decided to take control of the conversation. “What were you doing, alone in the woods?”

“Hunting.”

“With poisoned daggers?”

“The weapon depends upon the quarry.”

“I heard you tell Aragorn you have no name. I am unsure how to address you. I do not wish to offend.”

“There will be only the two of us on this trip. If you speak, I shall assume you are speaking to me. If not...” she let the thought trail off. He couldn’t tell if it was meant as a joke or not. Somehow, he doubted this one knew the meaning of humor.

“Everyone has a name. What caused you to turn away from yours?”

“You talk too much, Steward’s Son.”

He bit his lower lip to keep from snapping at her. The pain was making him forget his manners. He attempted a recovery. “Forgive me. I am simply trying to keep my mind off the pain.”

She turned back to him, regarding him in silence for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Very well. I do not remember my name. They...” she indicated the darkness, “call me Gurzab Kurv.”

“What does it mean?”

“Death’s Whore. They meant it as an insult, but I have taught them otherwise.” A slow smile crept across her face, but it did not reach her eyes. “I leave it in their flesh. Their own words, and now they shake in fear when they hear it spoken. They know me by these,” she touched the marks on each side of her neck.

He started to ask her about them, but something stopped him. She was staring into the darkness again, a far off look in her eyes. He fell silent, weariness seeping into him.

“Sleep. It will ease your pain.”

“Wake me when you wish. I will sit watch.”

She shook her head. “I don’t sleep.”

She sat at the edge of the pallet, staring out into the darkness. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain. Eventually weariness won. The last thing he saw before the darkness took him was her eyes. Cold. Hollow. Haunted.