Gurzab Kurv

Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize. All belongs to Tolkein. I make no money off this story.

Warnings: AU, shamelessly. I love Tolkein and his work, but I think Boromir’s death stands out as the most useless character death in fantasy fiction apart from Sturm Brightblade in the Dragonlance Chronicles.

This story is going to be brutal. This is a story about the horrors of war, and overcoming trauma. If you can’t handle it, don’t read it. It involves graphic violence and centers around a particularly vicious OFC of mine. I don’t know how graphic the sex is going to get. It depends on how I decide to tackle the really dark stuff.

If you like it, let me know, because it give me incentive to stay up late and add more.

*Palay tutuurz - orcish curse - Cowardly filth

Chapter 1: Hunter

She could see her quarry a few yards in front of her, trampling through the forest so loudly a stone deaf halfling could have tracked them. She had been tracking the Hand for nearly a week, curious as to what mission could have taken them this close to Rohan without a whipmaster to drive them.

The watched the sniffer at the head of the pack, nose in the air, suddenly stop and gesture wildly to the rest of the pack. A brute of an uruk-hai with archers stripes across his forehead stepped forward.

She slid a small straight blade from the sheath at her wrist and uncorked at small vial which hung at her throat. A vile odor rose from the bottle as she touched the tip of the blade to the liquid.

Take out the archer first. Fade back into shadows. Strike-run-strike again.

She heard a shout of alarm go up from the ranks, and she tensed, preparing to bolt, but it was not her they were reacting to. Across a clearing, a dark haired man drew a sword as he stepped in front of two children.

Anger surged in her, bitter as bile at the back of her throat as she crept closer, searching for a clear sightline between her and the archer’s back. The big brute raised his bow and loosed an arrow into the man’s chest. She expected him to fall, but he didn’t. His knees buckled, he caught himself He was shouting at the children to run and for a moment, she thought he may follow.

The archer raised a second arrow as the man raised a horn to his lips and sounded a single clarion warning note. She sprinted forward opening up a clear line of fire and let the dagger fly. It struck true, landing with a meaty thunk at the base of the archer’s neck, the spot where the helm lifted to expose an inch wide strip of knotted skin.

The dagger missed the spine, landing instead in the flesh to the left of the spine, but the damage was done. The impact caused the arrow to fly harmlessly over the man’s head. A moment later, the bow slipped from fingers which would already be going numb. Mordor’s venom worked quickly. She saw one of the orcs break from the group, coming towards her. A slow smile spread across her face, a smile cold enough to stop the orc in his tracks.

That momentary pause was all the time she needed to yank a dagger from her boot and punch it into his stomach. The razor sharp blade passed easily through the boiled leather breastplate. She twisted the blade slowly and pushed it up, feeling the blood wash over her hand. She wrenched the blade free and let the dying orc fall backward. He would not rise, not with his stomach and lungs slowly filling with blood.

She stepped over the body, forcing her heel into the wound as she did so, her smile widening at the gurgling shriek it drew from the creature on the ground. Two of the foot soldiers had seen her, turned and ran in the opposite direction practically skewering themselves on the blades of the dark man’s companions.

She was shocked to see the remaining orcs grab the two children and retreat into the forest. She cast a second dagger which glanced off one of the retreating figures. She thought she had missed, but the orc began to stagger as it reached the denser line of trees. She laughed aloud as she went to retrieve her daggers.

“Palay tutuurz!” she spat after the retreating orcs and saw shocked expressions cross all three faces. She ignored them and knelt beside the dark man who had collapsed against the tree behind him. The white Tree of Gondor on his breastplate was already stained red with blood. She grasped the shaft of the arrow as close to the base as she could, placing her other hand on his brow.

She addressed him in Common, which felt rough and alien on her tongue, “Hold still now. It is too close to your heart. Move, and I may kill you, son of Gondor.” She snapped the arrow off even with the wound and peeled back the breastplate and blood soaked tunic. She reached into her waist pouch and pulled out a small flask and held it to his lips.

“Drink,” the man gagged as the harsh liquor seared his throat. “Again. This is going to hurt.”

He did as she commanded. She quickly tore a strip off the edge of her tunic and soaked it in the spirits, using it to sponge the blood and grime from the edge of the wound. She could see the edges of the barbs, just below the skin. Flicking a glance at his companions, she reached down and took the knife from his belt. Hers would be... counterproductive... for this.

As she prepared to dig out the arrowhead, she felt a hand grasp her wrist. “You will kill him!”

“Most likely, he’s already dead. Release me,” she snapped, without ever looking at the speaker.

The injured man jumped as she made her first cut, causing her to release another round of oaths. She reached up and planted a hand firmly in the uninjured part of his chest and went on with her work, cutting the flesh away from the barbs. She worked quickly, but by the time she finished, he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. She carefully drew the arrowhead out and held it up to the light, inspecting it carefully before tentatively touching it to the tip of her tongue.

“Your friend is lucky. This one,” she indicated the dead archer, already swollen and bloated by the poison, “was too proud to use poison. I...” she brushed her fingertips over the hilt of her dagger, “do not suffer from such pride.” She turned to the three behind her and smiled - a chilling expression completely devoid of humor.

She tossed the arrowhead aside and returned to the wound, emptying the rest of the spirits over the wound. The Gondorian jerked fully upright and cried out in pain as the liquor hit the open wound. She scowled at him and snapped over her shoulder, “I need something to cover this.”

The elf - elf? - knelt beside her and began examining the wound. “Ill take it from here,” he said, concern evident in his voice. She nodded and moved out of his way. Healing was not her area of expertise. She took the opportunity to size up the group as the elf worked.

They were an odd assortment. Two humans, and elf and a dwarf traveling together would have been strange enough. She wondered why they had brought children here. If the Lord of Isengaard was hunting them, and they were important enough to send an entire Hand deep into enemy territory something must be amiss. The dwarf and the tall human were speaking quietly, looking after the orcs.

The man on the ground spoke for the first time, trying to push the elf away. “Leave me. Go after the little ones.”

“Waste of time,” she said, flatly.

All four turned on her, angrily. She shrugged. “I only speak the truth. Most likely they will be dead by nightfall.” Her eyes flickered to the man on the ground. “The same could be said of him.”

“The orcs took them alive,” the elf said, sounding as though he were trying to convince himself.

“Fresh meat?” she suggested.

The tall human regarded her with dark eyes. He wore the dress of a ranger, but he had a more refined edge to his features. Good breeding there, she noted. She could see him measuring her with his eyes, weighing his options and considering his words.

She itched to return to the hunt, but she would not leave a wounded man alone with orcs about. Nor could she blame them for wanting to rescue the children.

“Go after the children. I will stay with him. When he can walk, I will take him to Edoras. It is closer than Gondor, and without a river to cross. I have friends there who will care for him until you return. Or, if you do not, until he is fit to travel on his own.”

The dwarf eyed her suspiciously and muttered under his breath. “I don’t trust her, Aragorn. What is she doing out here, miles from the nearest town? Wielding poisoned blades?”

“We have no choice! Go. Every minute wasted, the enemy gains ground,” the injured man rasped, struggling to sit up. He would tear the wound wide open if he continued his thrashing. “Go!”

Glances passed between the four, a silent discussion she was not privy to. The Ranger turned to her. “You have my gratitude, stranger. May I have your name?”

Her eyes grew dark and she felt herself slipping off, staring into the trees as if seeing something far away. “I have no name,” and then turned back to the man on the ground.

She never heard the three leave.