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”Hold still.”
Zhaunthash returned to fiddling with the bandage, but another wriggle made him lose the knot. With a growl he slammed his fist into the thigh of his patient, making the grunt howl in agony.
”You want another?!” he snarled. ”Nar? Then lay still!” Useless snaga.
That did the trick. Once the bandage was in place, he stood and wiped his bloody hands on his breeches. Footsteps from behind alerted him to more work.
”How many?” he asked without turning.
”None,” the familiar voice grated, ”just some more stuff I thought you'd make use of.”
Zhaunthash took the bundle that Gazhal held out. A quick thumbing-through of the white linen strips and herb satchels confirmed his suspicions; the merchant caravan they had hit had been well stocked.
Gazhal hovered close as he began to restock his knapsack. Zhaunthash pretended not to notice her until she started humming an ennervating little tune. ”What?!”
The snuffler only grinned. She had never been a good dice player; too bad at hiding her funbles.
”Quit givin' me that look. So you heard something I haven't; out with it. Did the prisoners talk?”
”Maaaybe... a little.” She squeaked as a rock flew by too close for comfort. ”Arright, arright! One of 'em said something, something...” She frowned deeply and pretended to try to remember while glancing at the drugdealer. Zhaunthash could not keep the chuckle down any longer and tossed her a tiny pouch. The snuffler shone up as the smell of smoke-weed wafted up from it.
”They said 'the East is waking up'. An' something about weird stuff going on close to the Big Green. Shadows in the trees, folks disappearing'n stuff.”
”Our kind is always disappearing.” Zhaunthash squatted and began to chew on a leathery strip of jerky. ”More now than ever.”
”Aye, but this time it wasn't Orcs. Something about spirits, the bad kind, an' lots of 'em. And magic returning!”
”Sounds like all the more reason to steer clear to me.”
”Oi!”
Both drugdealer and snuffler started at the sound. Arkhumûb was a master tactician who could set an ambush in nearly any terrain, but the Isengarder had a temper fouler than most and Zhaunthash regretted the misbegotten moment he had agreed to join his band.
”How's the wounded?”
”They'll live,” Zhaunthash replied, suppressing the urge to cower when Arkhumûb's perpetually bloodshot eyes seemed to pin him in place.
”Walk?”
”That too.”
Arkhumûb sneered. ”If they can walk, they can carry. Pack up; we head north and lay low for a few nights.”
”I hate Uruk-hai,” Zhaunthash muttered under his breath as he closed the knapsack.
”Says the half-blood,” Gazhal chirped.
”Not one of my finer moments, I'll admit.”
The snuffler snickered so hard at that that she could barely walk; suddenly she stumbled and fell straight into Arkhumûb's armoured calf.
A hush fell over the camp for a moment as Arkhumûb glared down at the much smaller Orc. Then he kicked her aside with a huff before heading back to the loot pile.
Zhaunthash stared as Gazhal got up from a mistake that others had died and more for and shrugged the dirt off. ”How are you still alive?”
She gave him a conspiratory grin and patted her belly briefly before scuttling after the raidleader.
Well. That explains a lot. Zhaunthash spat. Magic... what's the point of juggling rocks around with your thoughts, unless you plan on dropping them on someone's head? There are easier and more satisfying ways of going about that. Useless snaga...