A dry and crackling squeal shattered the peace in the southern region of Nan Curunir, where two arms of the Misty Mountains formed an open pincher. The outburst was brief, as it was meant to be. There was no pleasure in a lingering cry of death. It only proved that the aim had been less sure and lethal than intended. It spoke poorly of a hunter's skill to have the prey wailing as proof that its killer was an inferior marksman. When that occured, the cries and squeals became mocking and ringing laughter as blood and entrails spilled upon the ground in an agonizing dance of slow death.

A tall and hulking figure strode over to the limp corpse, bow firmly gripped in a massive hand. The reddish hue of his skin was the color of dried blood, and most of it was bared as he wore little but arm and leg guards of toughened hide, a cloth swathed around his waist and sturdy boots that made easy passage over the rocky land. A long and thick mane of coarse hair, almost the consistency of a horse's tail, sported several matted braids and was streaked with colored mud. On his face was the imprint of a white hand. The paint had not run during the chase as he had not been forced to exert himself.

The hunter did not feel victorious, even as the defeated object of his pursuit lay in the dust before him. His race, the Uruk-hai, were mighty warriors, but indeed how mighty was it to kill the weak and the sick? That was no test of skill. It kept him honed at a certain level, but greater victories would remain elusive as long as he continued to be a ridiculous slaughterer of the unworthy.

Lurtz bent over the prone Orc and retrieved the single arrow that he had buried in the wretch's heart. The tension on the bow had been so great that it had nearly passed through the orc's body and Lurtz had to put his foot upon the torso to wrench it free. He wiped the arrow on the scrap of clothing the Orc wore and reached behind him to drop the cleaned missile into his quiver.

For a moment he stared at his vanquished prey, his eyes full of disgust. The creature, worked nearly to death in the mines and forges within Isengard, had met the end of his usefulness at the point of an arrow. All of the weakened and sickly Orcs were put at the disposal of the Uruk-hai, used as living targets upon which to practice their hunting and fighting skills. Some of these sacrificed wretches actually tried to fight, which was often amusing, and Lurtz could not deny that in the early stages of his training he welcomed the endless supply of these spent slaves. He had learned how to track, using more than simply his heightened sense of smell. He had practiced with many weapons: knives, swords, bow and arrow. He had become proficient with all of them, though he loved the resisting nature of a drawn bow most of all.

But he had only fought against orcs, and that was not his enemy. That was not who he and thousands of others had been bred to fight.

Man.  Therein lay his true prey, and one against which he had not yet been tested.

He gave the Orc a kick and turned on his heel, walking south. To his left in the distance lay the River Isen, or so the white wizard Sharkey called it. The old man was his master, but he knew nothing about warriors. They could not live on a diet of the sick, the half-dead. Fresh meat was needed and if it would not be brought to him, then he would seek it out for himself.

He would find it, and when he did, he would savor the feast.