The tallest and most powerfully built of the three uruks was in the lead as the group angled down the heavily forested slope. Wise in the ways of avoiding detection, they were careful not to show themselves above the crest of the peak, for their dark silhouettes would be seen against the lighter color of the sky. They had no desire to betray their presence to anyone in the valley below.

The tall, broad-shouldered uruk held up his hand and signaled a halt, glancing back to the tracker of the trio. "Torû, think you can ever pick up the scent again?"

Torû shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe," came his terse reply. A block of muscle, his hefty form was clad in a shirt of boiled leather stitched here and there with metal scales, and a pair of leather breeches. His wide feet were shod in heavy boots. A cloak of green was draped about his wide shoulders, and a quiver of arrows and an unstrung bow hung over his back. His lank black hair was pulled back and tied loosely by a strip of leather at the base of his neck. Scowling, his thick lips drawn and tight upon his flat, swarthy face, his slanted, catlike eyes were small amber slits on either side of his broad, flat nose.

"Not too hopeful, are you, Torû?" came the mocking query. The two uruks' eyes bored into each other for a moment until the leader of the three turned away. "Well, since we aren't getting anywhere wandering around up here, we'll go down and take a look in the valley."

"Wait, Sharapul!" The slender uruk standing beside the leader touched him on the sleeve.

"What is it, Âmbalfîm, my little cock-warmer?" An indulgent expression upon his face, Sharapul stroked the youth's cheek.

"O arouser of my passions, I am not certain, but I think I caught the odor of warm flesh wafted upon the upward breezes," the young male uruk simpered. His long eyelashes fluttered as he pushed his cheek into Sharapul's hand. "I am unable to say anything with certainty, though. My bloodlines are not those of a tracker."

"You were bred for something far better, sweet boy, and we know what it is!" The big uruk chuckled as he patted the smaller orc's crotch, sending him into a fit of effete titters as the touch put a hefty bulge in his breeches.

Part man and part orc, Âmbalfîm could almost be called handsome, even by mannish standards. He favored his Gondorian ancestry far more than he did his brutish orc foresires. His features were refined, almost Elvish in a twisted sort of way. His soft, wistful eyes were green, the color of aventurine, like new leaves in the spring. His sensitive long ears, which flicked back and forth whenever he heard a curious sound, rose to leaf-like points and were pierced with the most delicate of silver rings.

Unlike most orcs, Âmbalfîm's fangs were milk white and pearly, much like those of a young wolf's. His long nails were well-manicured and stained with black paint. His raven hair was long and flowing like strands of night sprinkled with stars, and he had affixed ribbons and brightly colored bird feathers into the small, comely braids which hung freely throughout his luxurious mane.

He would have preferred to dress in the frills and finery which he had purloined from ladies' wardrobes in the conquered city of Minas Tirith. As a compromise, however, Âmbalfîm wore a white silk chemise adorned with ruffles and pale pink ribbons under his boiled leather armor and tunic. His rough leather breeches hid fine satin undergarments which had been taken from the boudoir of a fine lady of the White City.

Sharapul enjoyed watching Âmbalfîm dress himself in the fine garments, but he appreciated it even more when Âmbalfîm performed a slow, sensual disrobing for him when they were alone. His eyelids outlined with kohl, his lips enhanced with colored balm, Âmbalfîm would tease and wink coquettishly, arousing Sharapul to a state of erotic frenzy. Slowly pulling down the shoulder of his gown, Âmbalfîm would touch his silver nipple rings and stroke the black pebbles into hardness. When Sharapul grasped the silver ring that pierced the boy's tool, he would lose all control. In those times, his loins burned so fiercely that he did not even bother with applying the hot oil. He simply bent Âmbalfîm over, pulled up his skirts, and took him right there.

Beneath the happiness that he had found as the love toy of Sharapul, Âmbalfîm's soulful green eyes hid great sorrow. He had discovered long ago that the rest of his tribe vehemently disapproved of his effeminate ways, turning against him when they discovered his shame. His delicate, sensitive nature had surfaced when he was very young. Once when he was an imp, he had strayed away from the caves and wandered into a high mountain meadow. There, as he sat amidst the tall grass and wove long chains of daisies and braided them into his hair, he had composed songs about cheerful little birds flitting about in peaceful meadows. Proud of his adornments, he had returned home, expecting his stern mother to be pleased with him. Instead, she was enraged and beat him severely for these "perversions," as she had called his peaceful pursuits, and forbade him ever to return to the lovely field of flowers.

"Âmbalfîm," his mother had railed, "you are too much like your father, that Tark weakling! He did not even have the balls to mate me in the way that a true warrior would! The little coward! I had to straddle him and stroke his prick to hardness before forcing it into me cunny!" Embarrassed by these revelations, Âmbalfîm had cringed as she recited his father's many inadequacies. His father had been a Ranger of Ithilien who had been unlucky enough to be captured by a patrol and taken to Barad-dûr as a possible sire. For years, the man had been forced to act as the unwilling stud to countless female orcs in the breeding pits of Barad-dûr. The torture of his life had finally ended when one of his lusty brides, enraged with his paltry male endowments and bumbling ineptitude, had choked the life out of him. Âmbalfîm's mother, protective of his future, had considered it necessary to beat him regularly for his own good.

His gentle spirit nearly crushed by this cruel abuse, Âmbalfîm drove his secret yearnings for beauty and love deep into his heart where they smoldered for years until they resurfaced when he was a youth. On the threshold of maturity, he had found his heart and loins strangely stirred when he beheld the broad, wide shoulders, slender waists, and tight, muscular buttocks of other males. He had wondered if the other youths felt the same yearnings for him as he did for them. For a long time, he had not the courage to approach any of them with his unusual tastes.

When at last Âmbalfîm's heart burnt in the throes of love, the object of his desire was an older, much larger uruk, one of the tribe's best warriors. Watching the other uruk as he strutted about the camp and inhaling the ripe, rich scent of his male essence, Âmbalfîm burned with passion. Though he lusted for the big uruk, the apple of his eye studiously ignored him. After weeks of pining, Âmbalfîm could bear it no longer and resolved that very night to offer himself to his beloved. He knew he would die if the warrior rejected him, but he would die anyway if he never revealed his love!

When all the others were asleep, he lay down at the foot of the older male's furs and gently kissed and licked his feet. "Take my virginity, my lord," he whispered. "I am yours to do with as you would!" The other male grunted, and Âmbalfîm was sure that he must be as willing and eager as he was. Still, he waited a while before snuggling under the fur beside his nude body and timidly encircling his sleeping spear with a hand.

When the other orc did not object, Âmbalfîm was convinced that he had been accepted. He applied more pressure, sliding the foreskin up and down. So excited that his hand trembled, he feared he might faint when he felt the other's flaccid member responding in a great display of throbbing tumescence. He groaned loudly as his own more modest organ surged into action. Âmbalfîm's murmurs and rapid fondling soon awoke the object of his affection.

When his adored one discovered that the lovely female of his dream was really a male, his eyes blazed with fury. Grabbing Âmbalfîm around the neck, he dug his fingers into his windpipe until Âmbalfîm's eyes bulged and his tongue lolled out. The enraged male rose to his feet, grabbed Âmbalfîm and hurled him across the floor of the cave. "Get away from me, you dirty little lecher, or I'll cut off your stinking prick and stuff it down your throat!"

Bruised and battered, tears streaming down his cheeks, Âmbalfîm had fled from the cave, an outcast among his own tribe. He had broken an ancient taboo, and the shame was so great that he could never return. After that, he had wandered aimlessly through the Mountains of Shadow, wishing only to die, for great was the pain of his broken heart and his deep shame. His life no longer had any meaning, for not only was he reviled by his own people, but he knew he was doomed never to know love. No one would ever understand his sensitive and delicate nature, and his attraction towards his own gender. Indeed, Fate had paid him a cruel trick by placing him in the body of a male orc, when he should have been born in the body of a female elf.

He would have been supremely happy if he could spend all of eternity as the wife of a great elven lord, bearing his children. He could imagine himself spinning and weaving fine garments for his husband and making jewelry of incredible beauty for his family. Perhaps he would have been a poet, singer, or musician, but cruel Fate had denied him that! His only solace was daydreaming of being the mate of Finrod Felagund and listening starry-eyed as he played songs upon his harp. Such tender thoughts filled Âmbalfîm's mind and comforted him in his loneliness as he pleasured himself with his fingers wedged deep inside his dark chamber, pretending they were really the glorious love spear of Finrod.

Âmbalfîm's existence was a misery to him as he wandered alone. At times he thought of taking his own life by falling upon his sword, or plunging over a precipice to his death on the rocks below. He wandered, not knowing or caring where he was or what might befall him. Death would be a blessing, for it would end the tragedy of his existence. There was no bosom companion to walk beside him on his journeys, no handsome face to smile at him in love, no rapturous embraces to be shared as he and his lover sat hand in hand and watched the stars come out one by one. And the nights! They were the saddest of all! There was no beloved to soothe away his worries, kiss away his sorrows, and relieve the ache that throbbed constantly in his loins!

Despairing of ever finding his soulmate, he had resigned himself to a life of loneliness. Then one night as he was sitting by his solitary campfire, contemplating the wretchedness of his miserable life, he heard a twig snap nearby. He raised his handsome head to see a group of five young uruk males rushing upon him. They had come from downwind, and he had not picked up their scent.

"Ho, pretty boy!" their leader had shouted. "We have come looking for you! You have quite a reputation as a slut! We want to find out if your tender recesses hold as many joys as they say they do!"

"Go away! I do not know what you are talking about!" As the five circled around him, terror struck Âmbalfîm. His heart hammered in his chest and his breath came in great, heaving gulps. His hands shook as he fumbled for his knife. He had never been the best fighter, always preferring fleeing to fighting. How could he ever defend himself against such rowdy fellows?

"Oh, I think you do!" the leader guffawed lewdly. "Everyone has heard of Âmbalfîm the bottom boy, who spreads his cheeks for any who ask! Now pull down your breeches, and we'll all have a turn at you! We'll see if you're everything you're reported to be!"

"No! No!" Âmbalfîm screamed as two of the brutes held him while the leader tugged down his leather breeches and knelt behind him. Âmbalfîm struggled even more and begged for mercy as he felt the hot, thick hardness of the leader's loathsome member pressing against his tender rear.

"Your nether cave is plenty big enough, so this shouldn't hurt too much! I know it's not your first time!" the leader whispered huskily as he bit Âmbalfîm's ear, almost severing it in two.

"Oh, please, please!" Âmbalfîm sobbed, bitter tears coming to his eyes. "I am a virgin!"

"Har har! Then I will be your first! Count yourself lucky! You're in for a great deal of fun! Ready, you passive little prick?" The leader laughed harshly and dug his claws into Âmbalfîm's hips. As he began to push forward, entering the youth's secret chamber, Âmbalfîm screamed in agony. The leader laughed even harder, but his laughter was caught in his throat and turned into a gruesome gurgle. An arrow had hit him from behind, barely missing his spinal cord and gouging a bloody hole as the barb plunged out the front of his throat. A stream of bloody froth rained down on Âmbalfîm, and then his attacker sagged on him, his heavy weight crushing Âmbalfîm into the ground.

Âmbalfîm fought to extract himself from the dead orc, but the corpse was far too heavy for his delicate body to lift. There was another scream as an arrow took down one of the orcs who had been holding him. Another blood-chilling cry echoed through the woods as an iron barb drove through the viscera of the third orc. The remaining two took to their heels and melted into the woods.

Weeping in his terror, Âmbalfîm shuddered as he heard heavy footsteps approaching. A deep, masculine voice cursed in Black Speech. Âmbalfîm could breathe again as the heavy body was dragged off him and flung into the bushes. Strong hands helped him to his feet. As he looked up into the golden eyes of a massive uruk, Âmbalfîm embraced him in gratitude, mumbling his thanks.

"I am Sharapul, called the Man-swiver, and you are my dog now! I was out hunting when I saw those louts creeping up on you through the trees. When I beheld your beautiful face and body, I knew then that I must have you for myself!"

Âmbalfîm kissed Sharapul's hands, licking them affectionately. Reaching down, Sharapul touched Âmbalfîm's unclad groin and possessively grasped his member. The young uruk smiled dreamily as he felt himself harden. Then Sharapul took a leather band studded with small iron spikes and locked it about his new catamite's neck. As he heard the key lock, Âmbalfîm burst into joyous tears. A hot stream of seed shot from his jerking member and splattered against Sharapul's thigh.

"My lord, I am yours! It is an honor to belong to one so brave and strong! What sublime rapture to be chosen as your boy!" he gasped as he clung to his deliverer.

They had been together ever since. Sharapul was his protector, always coming to his aid when the larger, fiercer orcs would threaten him. Though Âmbalfîm was devoted to him and had eyes for no other, Sharapul liked variety. Many times he left his boy alone and crying while he sampled other flesh, both male and female. Once after he had returned from a liaison with an exotic half-breed from Turkûrzgoi, Âmbalfîm had gone to him, and after kissing his hands, burst out into tears.

"My lord, are you going to these other boys because I no longer please you? I live only for your love! I beg of you to whip me, Master, and drive away my faults! Make this worthless wretch a delight to you once again!"

"Do not cling to me so much, boy! Your love can sometimes be suffocating! As long as you remain loyal to me in your heart, I do not object if you form attachments with friends your own age!" Sharapul had told him.

These words had cut Âmbalfîm to the core. From then on, he was a captive to despair. Gloom and melancholy fed off his tortured heart like worms devouring a corpse as they burrowed deeply into the putrefying body. Whenever Sharapul was with another boy or even a (O horror of horrors!) female, Âmbalfîm could not bear it and went off by himself to mope. Although several handsome young uruks had made strong overtures to him, he could never bear to allow anyone other than Sharapul to touch him. When he was not with his lover, Âmbalfîm spent all of his time obsessing about him and weeping great, bitter salty tears in his misery.

When Sharapul and Âmbalfîm had been assigned to leave the slavers' camp and escort the tracker Torû to search for the slaves, the youth had been ecstatic at the opportunity to go away with his lover. He had nothing to fear from the sour Torû, for he was quiet and kept to himself, and even if Sharapul had tried to seduce him, Âmbalfîm knew that Torû would refuse him.

Torû considered himself fortunate that he had never known any form of love, especially the kind shared by Âmbalfîm and Sharapul the Man-swiver. A doughty sort, he would never turn to another male when he was needy. When he was in a randy mood, he relieved his urges with his hand. If a fertile female were hot for him, he would satiate himself by plunging deep inside her until he had filled her with his seed. Never would he turn to another male; such things were far beneath him.

When the day had begun, Torû's humor was foul enough, for Sharapul and Âmbalfîm's lovemaking during the night had made it almost impossible to sleep. Their raucous sounds had cut through the peace of the night as Sharapul groaned and strained over Âmbalfîm's body, pounding and thrusting as the smaller orc squealed and moaned. They rolled and tumbled in their blankets, sweating and reeking of the scent of their lust, screaming out cries of passion as they brought each other to a tumultuous conclusion. While this "unnatural union," as Torû called it, was in full fury, Torû moved his bedroll as far away from the pair as he could get.

Torû had never wanted the duty in the first place, and resented Captain Ubri for selecting him. But duty was duty and the pay was good, and so, keeping his displeasure to himself, he had followed the scent of the Rohirric girls through the ruins of Osgiliath. When he had the bad luck to lose their trail at the river, at first he considered that they might have drowned. Unwilling to give up, though, he had insisted that they keep on searching. Unable to pick up the scent, he and his two unwanted companions had roamed over a wide area for the past two days, searching to pick up the girls' trail.

Covering ground in the rapid lope for which the uruks were famous, they traveled to the foothills of the White Mountains, where they had camped the night of June 19th. Breaking camp at dawn, they had climbed one gentle hill after another. Then when the skies had darkened and the rain had fallen, they took shelter under a rock outcropping. When Sharapul snapped his fingers and led the beaming young uruk deeper into the overhang, Torû had been so disgusted that he stalked outside and away from them. He had spoken little to either of them since then, and now it was the day of the summer solstice.

Squatting down on his haunches and resting his back against the sturdy trunk of a mighty oak, Torû ate a section of malodorous meat and washed it down with a greedy swallow of draught. He cursed and muttered impatiently to himself as he waited for the two of them to return from their latest tryst in the bushes. "Damn," he groused. "They can't keep their hands off each other! What's taking them so damned long? You would think he'd gotten his prick stuck! If I were not encumbered by that motley pair, I could make much better time!" When they returned, Torû raised his head slightly and scowled.

"Did you miss us while we were gone, Torû? You could always join us if you wanted, you know." Sharapul winked suggestively as he and a giggling Âmbalfîm rejoined the tracker. "Don't have the balls for it, do you?"

"Sharapul, you old bugger, I'm careful where I put my prong, and ain't no one's going to get theirs in my arse," Torû growled. He rose to his feet, adjusted his quiver on his back, and shuffled down the slope.

Sharapul and his giggling catamite soon caught up with him. "Onto something, aren't you, Torû?"

"Maybe," he muttered sourly, "but I need to find out if my eyes agree with what my nose has been telling me. To do that, I must get a good look down into that valley below us. Over there where the trees thin out seems like a good place to get an unobstructed view." When the three had reached the indicated spot, they stood upon a ledge of rock high above the valley.

"They don't appear to be the ones for whom we are searching," Âmbalfîm mused in a puzzled tone. "There are two horses and three riders - an old man and two scrawny lads mounted double - and an ugly hound. None of them fits the descriptions which we have been given."

"Hounds mean trouble," Sharapul scowled. "They can be as ferocious as wolves!"

"No trouble for our arrows," Torû boasted, smiling wickedly as he reached behind his shoulder and patted his bow.

"Doesn't matter if they're the ones we're looking for or not. They might know something. Even if they don't, they might have something worth stealing. We best go investigate," Sharapul smiled as he looked down the slope. "What say you, Âmbalfîm, my salacious little slut?"

Âmbalfîm looked up at him trustingly. "Wherever you lead me, my darling lord, I will follow!"