Mauhûr had a job to do. He was a captain in Saruman's army, called pizdur Mauhûr by those of higher rank, and occasionally by the privileged few he considered his equal. All others addressed him as pizdur. He led five companies of Uruk-hai, numbering five hundred strong. When they marched in full might, the ground begged for mercy.

He'd risen in the ranks over the course of his fifteen years of life. He feared nothing and no one. He never backed down, and he never bluffed. When he told an Uruk under his command that one more time would end his life, the Uruk knew not to do it twice. If it was a matter of rules, no warning was given.

Mauhûr had rules. To fulfill his master's goals, to obey the orders sent down from his superior officers, he had rules. He had a job to do, and he did it well. According to the rules.

Few of his elders earned his respect; those who had it were strategists and thinkers. At their sides, he'd studied tactics and learned the strengths and weaknesses of his enemies. This knowledge furthered his master's agenda, so it was valuable to Mauhûr. He did not have any use for the zealous and those driven by base instinct or worse, the powerful lust and bloodthirst that consumed the young. It made them foolish and difficult to control. He did not trust what he could not control.

The duties of each pizdur included razing villages to the ground, destroying goods they could not carry off, and scattering the whiteskins far and wide. Any that did not run fast enough were put to the sword. If specific orders were given to fill the ranks of the breeding females, he saw to it that a handful were spared and delivered unspoiled.

All knew the rules; the chosen breeders were untouched, for master had his records. Any others who survived were shared spoils. Mauhûr didn't care what became of them, so long as his rules were followed.

Mauhûr made it clear to those under his command that he did not tolerate rule-breaking. Only the newer recruits incurred his wrath with such transgressions. A few were bent on catching his unwanted attention today.

The village hadn't been large, but the take was bountiful. The dozen Men who defended the fleeing inhabitants were laid out in a neat row; a trio of Uruks under pizgal Fakhthal's watchful eye were handling the butchering. One of Mauhûr's many pizgal had found a wagon that escaped the flames licking at a large barn and his troop was hauling it into the open. The pizdur nodded with satisfaction; that would help them take more back to Isengard.

"Got the boys lookin' fer a horse, pizdur," the pizgal informed him as he walked up. Mauhûr looked over the wagon and frowned.

"How will you harness the beast if they find one?" he growled, and the pizgal sagged.

"Fuck," he hissed, and turned abruptly to collar a few of his boys and head back into the barn before the fire destroyed it and all it contained.

Continuing on his rounds, Mauhûr located a pizbûr and motioned for him to approach. The grizzled soldier had lost an eye awhile back, yet disdained wearing a patch over the sunken hollow. General consensus had demanded he at least have the lids sewn shut. Halting in front of Mauhûr, he punched his own shoulder in a salute.

"Pizdur," he growled.

"Brogud's lads are looking for a horse," Mauhûr told him. "I want you seeing to it, Dushrûk, if they get lucky."

The one-eyed Uruk nodded. "Consider it done."

"Where are the breeders?" Mauhûr asked.

"The ones Dalgum picked are at the mustering area," Dushrûk replied.

Mauhûr smirked. "Old enough but not too old?"

Dushrûk chuckled. "I think he remembered you breaking his jerking hand last time. He did better on this round." Gesturing in the opposite direction, he added, "Some of the boys are seeing to the leftovers."

Nodding with little interest, Mauhûr moved on. His mood would have continued to be even and businesslike had not another of his pizbûr come to him with a grim expression.

"Pizdur," he said, saluting. "The whelps are at it again."

Mauhûr's calm demeanor dissolved. Scowling, he turned on his heel and strode purposefully back to where Dushrûk pointed before. He didn't need any further comment from the pizbûr; he knew who the whelps were, what they were doing again, and how he would deal with it.

It seemed the youngest of his recruits had a difficult time following his rules. They needed constant reminders.

Two of the whelps in question were at one another's throats. Their contemporaries in age were either cheering the battle or rutting the few females still alive. A particularly well done in female with hair so pale it was almost white, yet youthful and smooth of skin, appeared to be the object of contention. She lay in a bleeding, sobbing heap, her clothing shredded from many hands, while the two Uruks intent on being the next one to have her were locked in mortal combat.

A warning was given once before; a repeat of the offense was intolerable.

Mauhûr waded into the fight and with quick, decisive blows, separated the combatants. Good; he had their full attention. Reaching down, he grabbed the female by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She trembled from head to foot; her shaking hands attempted to restore her dignity, pulling the remnants of her dress closed over her breasts. Mauhûr unsheathed his blade and cut her throat, then let her drop to the ground.

Rounding on the shocked offenders, he picked one to be the example. Clutching the front of the Uruk's jerkin, he yanked him close, then stabbed him in the throat and chest. Pushing the dying Uruk away, Mauhûr turned to the others. All were now staring at him fearfully. Even those in the midst of their rut had paused.

"We are Uruk-hai," Mauhûr snarled. "We do not fight each other, no matter the cause. Not in the field, and not over a toy. You will abide my rules or you will be dead. Have I made myself clear this time?" He shot a particularly hostile look at the one he'd spared. The whelp was still clutching his throat and staring at his twitching comrade.

"Have I made myself clear?" Mauhûr repeated. The whelp looked up and nodded vigorously. Scanning the rest, the pizdur growled, "When you're done here, take them to Fakhthal's lads. Carry on." Then he stomped away. He had more important matters to attend to.

There were always horses somewhere, the Uruk-hai had long learned. Not a single village or town was devoid of their presence. Mauhûr discovered early on that any of his Uruks with a knack for handling them were a great benefit. Dushrûk was such a one. The ragged beast Brogud's pizurk brought back trembled wild-eyed as the company regrouped. The veteran Uruk held its bridle and murmured nonsense near its ear.

It amounted to a recitation of numbers and a listing of the lads under his personal command, from each pizgal down to the lowliest pizurk. Like all Uruks, Dushrûk did not forget much. The Uruk's rumbling voice and gentle strokes on the horse's neck kept it from giving in to panic from the stench of death and fire all around.

"Are they ready?" Mauhûr asked, coming up beside Dushrûk. He could see with his own eyes that the skittish horse wasn't properly harnessed to the wagon and some whelps were jeering and feigning grabs at the terrified breeders rather than standing in ranks as they should be.

His second and the most trusted of his pizbûr wasn't fooled. "You want to catch me in a lie?" Dushrûk asked, arching his brow.

Snorting grimly, Mauhûr shook his head. "Five minutes," he growled.

"Right," Dushrûk nodded. Setting his lips tightly, he emitted a screeching whistle that never failed to capture everyone's attention. The horse jerked sharply, but Dushrûk had a firm hold. Uruk heads all around the mustering site swiveled toward the sound, and a few shook like dogs to relieve the ringing in their ears. The signal was a warning that was rarely repeated. Almost immediately, those who'd wandered from where they were supposed to stand ready when the company was preparing to move out, swiftly formed ranks.

Scanning the now stilled and readied troops, their shoulders straight, heads held high, Mauhûr's chest filled with pride. We are fighting Uruk-hai! he thought fiercely. His lips curved slightly in a rare smile. Then he threw his head back with a roar, and the company moved out.

A/N: Here are the military ranks as rendered in Land of Shadows Black Speech. I'll be using them a lot.

maugoth General (commands several orc armies)

mautor Lieutenant (commands an army of 1000 orcs)

pizdur Captain (commands 5 companies)

pizbûr Sergeant (commands company of 100 soldiers)

pizgal Corporal (commands troop of 10 soldiers)

pizurk Soldier, private