Uglúk, the First of His Name

  In the scorching sands of the deserts, where the sun burns down to the bone, Uglúk took exactly two hundred years to unite all the small uruk clans under a single banner: black, with an eclipse at its center as the symbol of his absolute power.

  Sixty thousand uruk-hai marched under his command and his standard. That achievement was not the result of rapid conquest, but of slow and meticulous planning.

  First he unified the small tribes, forcing them to work together. It was a hard task: they were intelligent, but still carried the hot blood of innate violence. He had to be extremely careful to impose orders and discipline. Even he himself was surprised at resorting to the techniques of his former masters, memories from hundreds of years ago — perhaps four or five hundred years, it no longer mattered. Among his kind he was an exceptional elder: an uruk-hai who had survived five centuries, perhaps more. He considered himself old, but to his people he was the First.

  With cunning and lethality he imposed order. He created base-factories where all the armament of his people was trained and forged. In the Amanus Mountains he established his first fortresses. There, the first slaves captured in human villages revealed their secrets to the uruk armorers before they could build an infrastructure capable of sustaining a permanent army.

  In Upper Mesopotamia he offered guard and protection services to merchants in exchange for surplus food and hundreds of goods. Over the years, the Mesopotamians did not realize they were feeding a vast network of uruk peoples and tribes. And since Mesopotamia was so prolific, the tribute never hurt them.

  Volcanic deposits of Hauran — south of the Syrian desert, in the volcanic fields of Hauran, he forged his most secret bases. There they used basalt and obsidian to create experimental alloys: heavy weapons, but almost impossible to chip.

  In those same hidden regions he raised hundreds of human slave women, trained to serve their masters and become mothers. A woman could give birth to only three or four children per litter, every five or six months, perhaps ten or with luck fifteen in total; the only advantage was that women who conceived uruk stopped aging and became lethal slaves.

  But despite the advantages in loyalty, that limited rapid growth; yet in the long term the uruk-hai lived hundreds of years. If each year up to 500 new members were produced, it was only a matter of time before they kept growing. Without the constant massacres of old, the average lifespan of a desert orc went from a decade to hundreds of years, and with it he forged a far larger and more powerful force.

  Thus the first proto-state of the uruk was born: not from blind fury, but from the vision of an elder who wished to see humans perish — he had hated them since he came into life.

  Uglúk alone stood two and a half meters tall. His only visible defect was the absence of an arm — lost in some past battle, no one of his people asked — but the rest of his being was perfect for an uruk-hai: deep obsidian skin that absorbed light like a bottomless pit, teeth sharp as volcanic basalt blades, and a presence that imposed silence before fear.

  Unlike his brothers, always ready for blind violence and immediate roaring, Uglúk was calm, quiet, thoughtful. That stillness made him infinitely more lethal: every word measured, every pause calculated, every decision a step toward a future only he saw clearly.

  He wore full armor from head to toe, forged in dark metal — secret alloys of Hauran obsidian and basalt — covering him like a second black skin. He did not fight on the front line; he designed strategies from the shadows of his underground fortresses. For direct combat he had his generals: brutal but loyal Tai, trained under his iron discipline.

  For ten years he had been ready. Ten years of restraint, of observing, of waiting for the exact moment. The question tormented him in silence: strike the vast Persian Empire with its endless satrapies? Conquer Anatolia and its fragmented kingdoms? Subdue the wild tribes of Arabia, fierce but disorganized nomads? Or a lightning attack against Egypt, exploiting the divisions of the Nile?

  Until he saw the weakness of the Armenians. His spies had gone through all territories; the secret of conquest was information. He still remembered his early years and the education he received — he remembered the pain in the hand he no longer had.

  Peace had been a slow poison for them. Decades of tranquility had rusted their swords, dulled their watchmen, and fattened their kings. Armenia, bridge between worlds, was ripe to fall.

  That morning, in the gloom of his command chamber carved into volcanic rock, Uglúk gave the order with a single word:

  “March.”

  Sixty thousand uruk-hai emerged from their hidden bases, from underground hideouts humans had never suspected. Hundreds of tribes scattered across desert, mountains, and valleys united at once. It was a dark tide covering the horizon: spears raised to the sky like a forest of iron, eclipse banners waving in a wind witnessing such a vision for the first time, drums rumbling like distant thunder.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  The mass terrified the cities it encountered. Each was demanded the same: water and food for the army. None dared refuse. Not the Persian Immortals, nor the defensive forces of vassal kingdoms, nor local militias. Fear paralyzed them. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to be more ambitious from the beginning… but Uglúk did not make mistakes. He only postponed.

  The conquest of Armenia would be the true first step. A kingdom rich in metals, horses, and strategic passes. With it in his hands, the gates to Anatolia, Mesopotamia, and beyond would open wide.

  And as the horde advanced, Uglúk observed from a distant hill, his imposing silhouette against the setting sun, the missing arm hidden beneath the black cloak. Thoughtful. Always thoughtful.

  Behind him stood his generals, who moved — they already had their orders.

  .

  .

  Ariadna dropped onto the nearest cushion with a long sigh, crossing one leg over the other in a way that, in any respectable Persian court, would be considered delicate, almost coquettish. The short navy-linen shorts slid slightly higher along her thigh — she hadn’t noticed she had stopped wearing long trousers; over those two years the clothing had gradually shortened — and as she moved the anklets chimed softly with every motion. Her teacher had called them “training” when she bought them in the Susa bazaar, insisting they were to “improve combat balance.”

  No one dared contradict her, though everyone noticed they were identical to those worn by royal court dancers. And the matching bracelets: they had magic that increased Ariadna’s body weight and incidentally molded the shape of her legs and arms. The sleeveless fitted shirt — she had never worn anything sleeveless before, always loose sober kaftans — shone with silver filigree embroidery and clung to her flat ten-year-old torso as if tailored. The turquoise cloak draped carelessly over one shoulder fell in elegant folds she adjusted with small almost automatic coquettish touches.

  Cyrus, sitting in front of her with legs apart and elbows on knees like a prince who still hadn’t learned court manners, stared for several seconds. His expression was that of someone who notices something doesn’t fit but doesn’t know where to begin.

  “Sixty thousand?” Ariadna repeated, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow — one of the servants had used special ointments while she slept days earlier to fix her face, now more feminine —. “Sixty thousand Uruk-hai, Cyrus? Seriously? How the hell did this happen? In our past life they were only ten thousand, though famine probably limited them. We must fear Urtok the Untamed.”

  Cyrus scratched his neck, uncomfortable. When he spoke with Ariadna the memories clashed against what he saw now.

  “I… don’t get how they multiplied so much. So what do we do? Think we can mobilize the army this time? My father refused before because rebellions were everywhere.”

  Ariadna rolled her eyes and leaned forward, elbows on knees. The cloak slipped and one bracelet chimed against the low table. She tucked hair behind her ear in a quick fluid gesture Cyrus registered.

  “Your father will think you’ve lost your mind,” she said, voice softer than intended — a tone she’d been using unconsciously when annoyed but not wanting to shout —. “You’ve never done anything for the empire and now say we must defeat a massive force. Last time a uruk embassy convinced the shah not to act…” She paused, biting her lower lip unconsciously. “Right. The royal audience. That’s where we make our move.”

  Awkward silence. Cyrus stared at the anklets ringing each time she moved her foot.

  “Why do they sound like that?” he suddenly asked. “They sound… pretty. Like harem dancers’. Don’t they bother you in combat? If we face sixty thousand Uruk you’ll have to run a lot.”

  Ariadna blinked, thrown off.

  “They’re training,” she answered, crossing and recrossing her legs calmly, letting them ring again. “They improve balance. Focus. If we don’t convince your father—”

  “Why do you look different today?” he interrupted, leaning closer. He’d been away a month and a half in a dungeon training. “Your face. Softer. And your hair. Used to be short like mine. Now it looks brushed a hundred times. Did something happen while you slept?”

  Ariadna felt heat rise up her neck but blamed anger at the prince’s stupidity.

  “Of course I look different,” she said lightly, almost playful unintentionally. “We came back, you asked something idiotic remember? But I think the same. Direct. Logical. As always. Don’t change the subject. The betrayal—”

  Cyrus nodded slowly, still staring at the bracelet she spun delicately.

  “Maybe it’s the training,” he murmured. “You’ve practiced Niru for months. You look more… light. Like your body’s adapting.”

  Ariadna hesitated, then nodded, adjusting the cloak elegantly.

  “Yes… training. I now have real martial skills. I’m developing Niru techniques. At first brute force, now precision. The bracelets normalize weight, the anklets improve flow. It changes how I move. Breathe. Everything.”

  Cyrus leaned back and smirked.

  “My father thinks I’m useless and only eat ice cream and watch dancers. If I say ‘sixty thousand green monsters will destroy us’ he’ll send me to eunuch training again.” He glanced sideways. “Though… if you speak with that voice maybe he’ll listen. He has a weakness for women — not that you are one.”

  Ariadna frowned but crossed her legs again, bells ringing.

  “I’m not a woman,” she protested, tone lower, persuasive. “Still a man. Logical. Strategic. If you start about rebellions and I add past-life numbers—”

  “Can I touch one?” he cut in, reaching for the bracelet.

  Instead of pulling away, she extended her arm elegantly.

  “Fine, don’t break it. Magic is delicate.”

  He lifted it.

  “Heavy… and suits you. Makes your arms finer. Does it hurt channeling?”

  She withdrew smoothly.

  “No. Intense. Like learning to breathe again. Worth it. In the audience we move fast—”

  “Or we run away,” he joked. Then smiled. “You distract me.”

  She sighed theatrically, leaning cheek into hand.

  “You’re impossible. Again: sixty thousand, Urtok, betrayal, audience. Ready?”

  “Ready,” he said. “We ruin the Uruk audience, save Armenia, prevent the end of the world… and then a sea of ice cream in my honor.”

  She laughed softly.

  “Maybe. If you don’t ruin the plan.”

  “I have one more question.”

  “What?”

  “How does it feel to go to the bathroom as a girl?”