238*Warning: this chapter isn't for the faint of heart. The City of Osgiliath is sacked by Uruk-hai, and all that goes along with that.
Ushatar's hooked sword ran red with blood, and his roar echoed in the streets. The dead lay around him in mangled piles of tossed about limbs and ripped guts. Thirty scalps hung from his armor and belt, not half as many as he had killed. There was still some action in his peripheral senses: a woman dragged by her hair, a child tossed in the air for a waiting pike, two laughing Uruk's tearing a man apart by the arms. But there were no more humans around Ushatar, and so he leaped the piles and jogged down a dark blood-slicked street. Screams rang out from stone dwellings, licking at his ears. His eyes scanned the area for anything that moved, but all was still for the moment. He inhaled a great gust of air, tasting the usual metallic fear, the meaty iron of blood, the harsh ammonia of piss. He jogged a few more strides ahead, and then something new tickled his nostrils and danced over his tongue, a scent Ushatar couldn't place or name that became, an entrancing trail that floated—ever so slightly—above Saruman's bloody whispers.
Ushatar jogged on, but it faded away. He turned, creeping door to door as the trail grew stronger. He set his hard, clawed hand on a wooden door and gave it a push, then rammed it with his shoulder, collapsing the thick oak into shards, tearing the iron reinforcement from the wood and sending it crashing to the ground. Ushatar stepped into the dark dwelling. The scent was overpowering now, and Ushatar realized that it was female… ripe female.
A small voice whispered that this alone wouldn't have drawn him so hard: they were all over the city, enough of them getting fucked close-by to make his cock iron hard even as he fought. But that was thinking, and Ushatar was running on blood-lust and black magic now. He merely followed. It flooded him so hard that it took a moment even for such a finely bred killer to choose his path, but when he did, he walked slowly up the stairs, his sword raised in anticipation. The area was divided in threes. Ushatar came slowly forward, sniffing the air, his blood racing with violent urges and desire.
Tara prayed. There was nothing left to do but pray at this point. She could hear the beast sniffing the air for her. She could hear his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor. She prayed something would divert it, turn it away, but it kept on. Tara clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. She could hear its low, growling breath just beyond the curtain.
A dark, clawed hand ripped the sheet back, and Tara could feel her legs about to melt beneath her. The beast in the darkness was enormous—two heads above her at least, and near twice as wide. It had the build beyond the most powerful Man in the world. His carnivore's eyes glowed a sick amber-green, even in the blackness, and Tara had the skin-scrawling feeling that it could see her perfectly. Don't let this hurt too badly, she thought desperately. And the beast's harsh breathing turned into a low, rolling growl, and she saw long, flashing white canines in its mouth, and that was more than Tara could take. She darted out from the tiny space, slinking under the beast's massive reach, and took off for the stairs to the rooftop. The beast's footsteps pounded behind her. Tara pushed the wooden trap door to the roof, but it stuck. She let out a sob of fury and terror, smacking it desperately over and over with her palm. The door popped open and she flew out into the dusky light, the clawed hand catching the air around her booted ankle.
Tara ran towards her neighbor's roof, pushing aside the sheets hung for a divider. The next house was on the corner, she would climb the low wall and jump down to the street. She would break her leg and drag herself away, if she had to! Then a massive weight hit her back and the creature was on her, his arms wrapped around her waist, pressing her into its immense hard chest where there was cold armor. Blackened chain mail flashed on the thick arms.
Tara whipped up her grey-brown homespun dress and ripped a long wooden-handled dagger from its sheath, and plunged it into the beast's thick thigh. It let off a blood-freezing roar and Tara slipped from the crushing grasp, tearing in a panic for the wall, and freedom. But even as she ran for the wall she heard the sounds of a massacre from the street below.
Tara was trapped. Behind her, a hard grunt and a noise of wood and metal hitting stone. It had pulled the long dagger out of its own leg, and was coming for her again.
She glanced around swiftly. The only possible weapon was a log of firewood. She ran for it, snatched it up, and turned to face her attacker.
The creature stopped in its tracks, and Tara swallowed, praying there was fire in her eyes. It cocked its head to the side, its long, wild black hair catching in the wind. It had a strange, terrifying face in the evening light: extremely knowing, with the high rugged features of something Tara could only imagine a wolf crossed with an Elf would look like. Its long black hair was quite deliberately shaved on two sides, the top braided back and falling thick and straight to its waist. Its armor bore a large white hand like a badge. Hideously, the creature grinned. And then it raised its sword, crouched a little into stance, and weaved towards her. Tara didn't think she had the heart to swing, but soon she had no choice. The beast swung its hooked sword hard at her, and Tara blocked it instinctively with the thick wood, the force of the blow ringing her arm. She was appalled to see that the blade was so expertly maneuvered that the wood had been shaved. The beast came at her hard then, again and again, whittling her club down to nothing, pushing her hard against the wall. It was taunting her deliberately, and Tara was about to piss herself. Her back hit the stone wall and the beast pushed its black sword—slick with red blood—against Tara's throat. It leaned down in her face and Tara cringed away. She could hear it breathing her in. Surely there were only moments—flashes—of life left.
Then a hand closed on her throat and she was thrown to the ground, and the beast landed on top of her so hard she lost her breath. It didn't dawn on her what was happening: she was still sure she was about to die. But when she felt the clawed hands ripping up her dress, Tara prayed she would die.
With nothing left to lose, Tara fought like a rabid animal, screaming shrilly. She clawed for its face and punched its chest until her fists hurt but the beast only dropped more of his weight on her, then caught her hands up. It was like being crushed by a fallen ceiling, the monster was so strong. Its knees forced her legs apart like a stone tearing through parchament paper. The heat of him was between her legs hideously fast, pressing at her secret places, then battering against her as if in frenzied excitement; her screams were full of pain now, but when the beast tore through her maidenhead, vomit rose in her throat. Tara swooned. The last thing she heard was the demon speaking to her in low, hard, guttural tones, her own language: "Fight me now," the monster purred in her ear. "Fight me now."
The world went black and numb, and Tara was gone.
Ushatar lay back on the rooftop, feeling the cold wind on his wet, sweaty body, until he heard the wailing of the slaughter die down. It was replaced by sharp, barked orders in the Black Speech. Ushatar sat up, draping his lanky arms over his knees. He had to get up, get going, but he wished he could make sense of why he felt as if a bucket of cool water had been poured over his head. He never felt things like wind on his face until he was well away from a battle, until the rituals of victory were completed and the flesh eaten and the women ravished, and there was nothing to do but bring the spoils home. Only then did Ushatar's mind return fully. But for some reason, it was happening much faster. He reached for his sword and pushed himself up, looking down at the female splayed and bloody before him. She still smelled so damn good. Maybe that was it. He had been eager in other battles, and satiated easily, but the feeling of satisfaction Ushatar felt now was unlike any other. He nudged the female with the toe of his leather sandal. She was out cold.
Master said thirty women, for the best fighters, Ushatar thought. His cunning hearing had caught that easily. Dressed up with scalps, surely he qualified as a top fighter? He couldn't be sure—the haze of blood lust had been as strong as ever, until the explosion he'd made in the female—but Ushatar thought he'd been fighting next to Gharsh-il for part of it. Ushatar yanked off his plain leather belt and squatted over the female, binding up her hands. He wanted her, again and again and again. And as ripe as she smelled, surely Gharsh-il would choose her for the cohort of breeders. Ushatar bound her hands tightly and lifted her limp body, amazed at how light it was. He threw the girl over his shoulder and went down through the dwelling. Outside, heat from a thousand fires touched Ushatar's cheeks as he walked through the streets. It wasn't hard to find the commander: listen for the bellowing roars. Ushatar hunted down his leader, then caught Gharsh-il's attention.
"I wanna take this one along, sir."
"Go ahead. I'm not dealing with any of the plunder until we've made camp well into the mountains. But fall the fuck in line. We've done our work here."