Corruption

Crack!

A man moaned in pain as a whip struck his naked back.

"Pick up the pace, dung-filth!" snarled a white-skinned orc. It sauntered down the line, gnashing its teeth together and threatening the slaves.

Huddled close to the crumbling soil was another man, whose youthful eyes still had many years to turn dull. His mother, Camilla, had named him Matthis. Lartzgàsh had named him Field Thrall C-5010, and the runes burnt into his chest proved it.

It was growing season on the plains of Núrn, in the shadowy land of Mordor. The sun's rays struggled to pierce through a thick layer of smog and volcanic ash, ever present due to the region's extensive industry and the eruptions of Mt. Doom. The slaves of Central Fields Camp, indicated by the "C" in their Field Thrall designations, worked tirelessly with small iron tools, planting seeds and covering the holes with soil. In several days, irrigation canals leading from the Sea of Núrnen would open, nourishing the crops with its tainted water. The slaves would cultivate their precious plants, and come harvest time, they would get to keep whatever food wasn't sent off to the Dark Lord Sauron's armies in the northwest. The orcs didn't bother properly distributing the extra food among the slaves; most lacked the mind for it, and if some slaves died from malnourishment, they could always get more.

After another day fearing the whip, the slaves returned their tools to the orcs (they were not trusted with them outside of work) and were herded through a massive gate dividing the fields from their thatched huts at the camp's eastern end. The orcs didn't provide this shelter to the Field Thralls. Instead, previous generations of slaves had constructed the huts using the sturdy plain grass. They had all died on these dry plains, in the confines of the camp. The huts, built in close proximity to one another in no particular pattern, were the only trace of their existence.

Once all the slaves had been gathered, about fifteen hundred in all, the orcs shut the gate to the fields and took up their guard posts. A rectangular wall made from the black igneous rock of the Gorgoroth plateau surrounded both the fields and the village, with the gate and its accompanying guardhouse dividing the two in the centre. Another gate was located at the western end of the camp, at the end of the fields. This was where harvested crops were picked up by transport convoys, and where new slaves were brought in.

Sentries wielding longbows and poisoned arrows manned watchtowers placed in regular intervals along the wall. The orcs on the night shift slept in the Guard Quarters north of the village. The orcs on the day shift were in small groups dotting the perimeter of the hut village. With most of the Dark Lord's forces participating directly in the war effort, the orcs didn't have enough strength to maintain the perimeter guard and patrol the camp itself. Thus, the slaves were free to mingle as they pleased.

Matthis knew most of the people living around his hut. The first- and second-generation slaves were mostly like him. They still had some futile hope left in them, and used their birth names when not in the presence of orcs.

Other slaves had lost their very sense of being. They had no name but their Field Thrall designation. They worked, ate and slept every day without the slightest thought.

Then, there was Fallothen. A Wood-Elf, he told his story to anyone who would listen: "When I lived among the elves of Mirkwood, my kindred, I spotted a silver elk in the forest, and could not bear to leave it be! I returned home with its great bulk upon my shoulders, proud as anything. But this race was considered sacred; one of their lords was the mount of my King, Thranduil. I was banished from Mirkwood forever! But perhaps it is for the best. I don't suppose I'd want to spend the rest of my immortal days among uptight folk like them!