“We got orders, Lugnashk” Bagrish barked

“What orders, Bagrish, you stinking slime.”  Lugnashk replied, loathing the commander he’d been assigned to as first deputy.

“His orders. ‘n you better be sharp about it. ‘e wants a thousand of you rats ready to go in a week, Lugnashk” Bagrish replied

“ ‘n where are we headed” 

“Make way southeast to the great river, ‘e says to me in my head.  Be there on the fifteenth where the Limlight joins the Anduin.”

“What then”, Lugnashk sneered

“ 'e says you’ll know what do to you little bug.  Just be ready to fight”

Lugnashk snarled and stalked out of the ramshackle hut that was their headquarters.  With equal charm he began shouting at his subcommanders slumped over rude tables in a shabby mess room, rousing them from wine induced stupors, kicking some, cuffing others on their pointy ears.

“Come on you swine.  We got heads to chop and guts to stick.  Find your troops.  We leave in a week.”

There was more grousing and groaning.  Several of them began fighting each other, dulled by splitting headaches from the sour wine.  Lugnashk separated them, beating them on their heads with his mailed fists, kicking them out the door.

Soon the woods and mountain crags were echoing with snarls and curses as the main host of orcs was similarly awakened. 

Bagrish listened with satisfaction.  He said the Steward of Gondor might be a prize and what might He pay for the head of such a trophy, Bagrish mused.  Whatever it was Bagrish would make certain that prize was his.