“And so, they lived happily ever after, until the end of their days,” the caravan assistant concluded. Sitting around the crackling camp fire several of his companions gently applauded or nodded their appreciation of the tale. It was one well known to them that had been told and retold around similar fires on similar journeys, but they were simple folk with little use for extravagant legends and complex plots.

“Well dat were borin,” Wurzag inserted with a yawn, “if yez gonna tell stories, least try to choose sumfin orijinul.” The wagon-rider glared at the half-orc with chagrin and several of the other assistants sniffed in disdain. “Now dunt get me wrong, it’s a gud story, I’ve just eard it a ton ov times before an I bet yooz lot av too.” He rubbed his chin, “least it ain’t about some fella fightin a dragon, dem stories get so old!” He rolled his eyes.

“Now I gots a story wot as been told by da orcs fer ages, but I reckon none of yooz lot av eard it an in might give yez sumfin to fink about.” The assembly looked doubtful but held their collective tongues, even the usually verbose caravan owner managed to look curious about what sort of tale might spring from an uncouth brute like Wurzag.

“Well den, now I av yer attenshun!”

A sirocco wind blew across the ever-shifting landscape of the Anfauglir desert, driving the biting sand in drifts that swept across the arid ground like desiccated tsunamis. The crushing, white heat of the sun poured its endless wrath down upon the blasted land which reflected it back in distorted, shimmering waves. Nothing lived here; what few creatures chose to call the desert home did not live, they simply survived. Each day was a constant, arduous struggle against the oppressive heat and murderous sun. By night the temperature plunged to near-freezing as the cloudless sky swiftly sucked all trace of warmth from the parched earth and left it cold and exposed to the pale light of the stars. In short, only the mad and the desperate sought to make the desert their home, the mad, desperate and orcs.

It is widely believed that the green-skin races can live anywhere, somehow subsisting on barren earth and thin-air when any other race would have perished. This is not entirely true; green-skins will attempt to live anywhere until they are either forced to move on or eradicated by their disgruntled neighbours. The Dogskull tribe was no exception and had moved into the desert having been chased there by a band of crusading knights. Outnumbered and outflanked, the orcs had decided to make use of the age old strategy of the tactical withdrawal. Now they were in the awkward situation of having run out of goblins. There is nothing more irritating to an orc than having to do his own fetching and carrying. Cleaning, building, mucking out the stables, cooking, in fact every job other than eating, fighting and sleeping is carried out by goblins, or for the particularly wealthy tribes, slaves. In their haste to retreat from the crusaders and in dire need of sustenance they had managed to eat their last manservant.

Fortunately, after so much ill-fortune, luck had finally smiled on the beleaguered green-skins and they had happened upon that rarest of things; a halfling slave caravan. The Dogskull chief, Alak Gunitz and his assistant Unka Frush had set out in the pale dawn light to meet the diminutive merchants with an eye to procuring more goblins, or at the very least some runty humans. The hulking wagon-train was some miles distant and the journey across the burning sands took most of the morning, but as the sun reached its zenith, the massive form of the caravan hove into view like some sort of primordial beast. As the pair approached, a number of thickly swaddled halflings leapt to the ground and moved to intercept them.

“Now yooz let me do da talking,” Alak grumbled to the younger orc, “des fellas can be tricky and will rob yez blind given arf a chance, an dunt let der size fool ya, dey can fight ard and will av yer knees faster den yez can blink.” Frush nodded and allowed the chieftain to go ahead of him. As their hosts drew closer through the rippling haze, Frush got his first real look at them. Four feet tall and heavily robed from head to foot in coarse, brown fabric it was impossible to see anything of their forms beyond a pair of bright, calculating eyes that peered out from beneath the hoods of their raiment. The group chattered to each other in their peculiar tongue as they approached, but hushed expectantly as the big orc stepped up to address them.

“Right yez runty gits,” Alak began in greeting, “I is lookin to get some new grunts to do da borin crap around da camp, if yez got any gobbos, I’ll take em. If yez aint got no gobbos den I’ll take oomies.” He punctuated the request with a curt nod and folded his arms across his chest. Immediately the halflings hurried off to fetch any wares that might fit the orcs desire. “See,” Alak rumbled as they scurried about, “just gotta be firm wiv em an let em know oo is boss.”

A few minutes later and a parade of shackled goblins and humans stood in a sorry looking row in front of the orcs, heads bowed and shoulders hunched miserably. Alak stomped up and down the line with feigned disinterest, “dis all yez got?” He asked dismissively, “only I’ve seen betta meat on a zombie an dats sayin sumfin!” The halfling Frush assumed to be the foreman chattered something incomprehensible. “Well of course yez gonna do a gud price fer em, yez aint gonna shift em otherwise.” He stopped his pacing in front of a tall, skinny human who was still clad in what might once have been an expensive suit. “Wot woz yer job afore dese grunts picked yez up?” He said to the man, thrusting his face so close that their noses almost touched.

The man looked around nervously and licked his lips, “I was a pro-“

“Yeah, yeah, very interestin,” Alak cut him off, “are yez gonna be any gud to me an da tribe?”

“Well, I am fluent in over six-“

“Ye’ll do,” the chieftain concluded, already resuming his pacing. He stopped again in front of a wild-haired old man who grinned crookedly at the big orc and giggled. Alak admired the man's style. “Wot did yooz do den?”

“I am the king kebab,” the old-timer replied, “bring me gifts!”

Alak quirked an eyebrow and turned his attention to the foreman, “I’ll take bofe ov dem oomies, da posh wun an da crazy wun,” he pointed them out with a thick finger, “an I’ll give yez five guld fer each ov em, deal?” He stuck out his hand, spat on his palm and waited expectantly. After a moments hesitation the halfling returned the gesture and the pair shook hands to seal the deal. In moments the selected pair of humans were released from their shackles and prodded in the direction of the waiting orcs and Alak set about the important task of retrieving his gold from the many hiding places about his person. While he was occupied, Frush inspected their purchases.

“Wot are yooz called?” He asked the younger of the two, “not dat it will matter much, coz yez will be called runt from now on I reckon.”

“My name is Jeffrey Peo sir and I will endeavour to serve you as-“

“Yeah, yeah Jeff,” Frush cut him off, “I dunt need to ear yez life story, wot about yooz?” He said, looking at the old man.

“I am the face of Pob and all his little minions!” The crazy fool screeched. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed face down in the sand. Frush stared at his prone body for a moment and blinked, then he looked up at Alak.

“Er boss, I fink dis wun is broke!”

Alak swivelled his porcine eyes to regard the fallen human and then slowly swivelled them back to the foreman. “Wot are yooz tryin to fob us off wiv ere?” He exclaimed in indignation, “damaged bleedin goods, dats wot!” The halfling began gibbering something in his own tongue and gesticulating wildly toward the remaining prisoners, clearly suggesting some sort of exchange would be possible for such worthy and esteemed customers as the Dogskull tribe. “Er, the gentleman on the end there is in fine condition,” Jeffrey put in, “I have worked with him before, he would certainly be a worthy purchase.” Frush looked at him askance and then looked along the line of slaves to the gentleman indicated. He was a rotund little fellow dressed in a frayed blue and white tunic that had obviously seen better days.

“Ere, boss, Jeff sez dat fat fella on da end should be a goodun, reckons e as dun gud work before.” Frush stomped over and glared at the little man, “aint dat right?”

Alak hesitated a moment and then shrugged, “fine, weez will take da little fella.” The answer seemed to satisfy the halfling who had several of his minions drag the prone old man away and unshackle the replacement. “Wot do dey call yooz den?” He asked the man as he ambled past to take his pace beside Jeff. “His name is Artune Deyton, he is very good with devices of all sorts and will be a real asset,” Jeff continued, “er, he doesn’t talk much though, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

The two orcs looked at each other and shrugged, “right yez are, now get a zoggin move on, I dunt wanna be angin around ere all day, I gots an ungry tribe to get back to!” That said, the unlikely foursome shuffled away across the shifting dunes.

“You had better remember this,” Jeff muttered to Artune as they made their way across the desert, “why I should stick my neck out for you is quite beyond me.” The return journey was slow, hot and arduous but before the travellers had come in sight of the camp it was abundantly clear that something was wrong. A thick pall of black smoke spiralled lazily into the sky and the stink of burned meat and ashes became evident a full mile from where Alak had left the tribe. Nothing recognisable remained of the encampment save wreckage and ruin. The ramshackle tents the orcs had used to shelter from the blistering sun lay crushed and burning, their coarse canvas trampled beneath the combined might of many hooves. Nothing stirred amidst the devastation, and with a sigh of resignation Alak and Frush descended and began to hunt for survivors. Frush picked his way through the mangled corpses and stooped to examine a fallen comrade, “yooz reckon dem desert bandits did dis?” Frush scowled, “dey been moochin about ere fer ages.”

Alak shook his head, “nah, dem bandits always walk in a line to ide ow many der are, an look ere,” he said, gesturing to a slain orc with a knife in its eye, “dis frowin dagger, too akerate fer stoopid bandits, only proper sojers are dis gud.” He stood and squinted in the direction of the churned sand. The tracks trailed away into the distance, “dis is da work ov da army ov darkness.”

“So, wot we gonna do den boss? All da rest ov da tribe is dead, we gonna go join anuvva wun or wot?” Frush muttered despondently.

“No, we ain’t gonna join no uvver poxy tribe ye runt, we is gonna go an find da army ov darkness fellas an give em a kickin!”

Frush scratched his head, “but der must be like,” he looked at his fingers, “loads ov dem boss! Not dat we aint ard or nuffin but,” he paused, “loads ov dem!”

“Yeah,” Alak replied with a slow grin, “so dey won’t be expectin nuffin an we’ll take em by surprise.”

“Dey cud be miles away by now though an we ain’t got nuffin to ride on to catch em up.”

“Yooz leave dat bit to me, der is a place in da desert where yooz cen get anyfing yez need fer da right price,” not that they had much gold left, “an I knows where to look.” Two hard days march later and the unlikely foursome stood atop a ridge overlooking an oasis settlement. Squat, flat-roofed dwellings surrounded a little tarn as if the buildings themselves thrived on the life-giving moisture. A few heavy-fronded palms protruded incongruously from the streets and alleys closest to the water, the verdant green of their leaves a stark contrast to the dusty white of houses. Impossibly, despite the remoteness of its location, the town thrived. Creatures and peoples of all shapes and sizes thronged its streets, hawked their wares and pursued their own unknowable goals while wagons and caravans from far and wide rolled into and out of its well guarded gates. Alak glared at the settlement through narrowed eyes, “in all da land yez won’t find a bigger pit ov scum an villainy, weez gonna av to be careful.” Coming from an orc, that really meant something; human standards of scum and villainy were almost saintly by comparison. Warily the group made their way down the hill to the gate where a group of soldiers in the uniform of the dark army were inspecting travellers. “Just do wot I duz an dunt worry about nuffin,” Alak said to Frush, “we’ll get froo ere fine.”

“Halt!” The first guard announced as the orcs approached, “we’re looking for some missing slaves, are these humans yours?” He gestured to Jeff and Artune. Alak rolled his eyes.

“Course dey are, I dunt just let em follow me around fer nuffin.”

“How long have you had them?” The guard was obviously not impressed with the orcs tone.

“Dunno, since da spring last year, dunt matter does it?”

“Look here orc,” the soldier began, “you might-“ he would have said more but a punch to the gut doubled him over with a whoosh of expelled breath. A second blow to his jaw sent him sprawling unconscious into the dust. The second guard reached for his sword but got no further than half drawn as Frush butted him in the face, breaking his nose and rendering him equally helpless. “Usin force can av a strong effect on da stoopid,” Alak commented and the group moved on in to the settlement. The streets thrummed with activity; every conceivable commodity thronged the abundant stalls in a dazzling riot of colours and scents. Frush followed Alak through the thick press of bodies as the group made its way through the winding streets to a tavern hidden away in the litter-choked back alleys. As the group approached, a drunken goblin stumbled out into the detritus and collapsed face down on the ground. “Shud be able to find a caravan to da souf from ere, den weez can track down dem darkie fellas and give em a kickin.”

Inside, the bar smelled of smoke, stale sweat and old beer. A three-man band of pale skinned elves occupied the stage playing a strangely catchy tune on a bizarre set of pipes that Frush couldn’t help but hum as he made his way over to the bar. As he did so there was the subtle twang of a crossbow being released and a hobgoblin sat by one of the far tables slumped into his beer. Alak grinned and shouldered his way through the patrons toward the table's other occupant. “We don’t serve their kind in here!” The dwarven bar-tender grated as Jeff and Artune ambled in. Frush glanced over his shoulder at the two humans and then back at the stocky barman. “Your slaves, they’ll have to wait outside!” Frush indicated that they should do as they were told with a shake of his head and the pair seemed happy to oblige.

As he settled himself on a stool a snarling lupine barked something in his face. Frush wasn’t too sure exactly what had been said but it had not sounded at all complimentary. He grunted in disdain and returned his attention to the extensive list of drinks. “Ee dunt like ya!” The hulking barbarian beside the lupine announced. Frush turned to look at him. “Dats is problem,” he said dismissively. Frush did his best to ignore the irritating human, but he was unaccustomed to having to exercise patience. Alak however had impressed upon him the need to maintain a low profile while they were in town and not attract attention to themselves. “We are wanted men!” The barbarian seemed intent on making an impression, “ya should be worried!”

Frush sighed, “fine, woteva, I won’t say nuffin to anywun, ow is dat for ya?”

The answer seemed only to further enrage the burly human. He grabbed Frush by the shoulder and spun him around to face him. “Ya will be dead!” He yelled and drew back his arm to strike. The blow never landed, the striking arm instead flopped uselessly to the floor in a bloody spray that elicited a terrible scream of agony from the quick-tempered barbarian. Alak stood behind him holding a crimson stained cleaver and a huge grin on his face. All sound in the bar seemed to have ceased. “Dis ere is One-and,” the big orc said, introducing a greasy looking green-skin that seemed to suffer from a perpetual sneer, “an is assistant Backatcha. Dunt let is looks fool ya, ee is wun of dem frost trolls frum up in da norf.” The ‘assistant’ was an eight foot tall, blue-skinned gangly creature with a drooping nose and huge, yellow eyes.

“I fought yooz frost trolls were all furry an dat to keep yez warm in da snow?” Frush said, slightly perplexed.

“Careful,” One-hand cautioned, “ee dunt like to talk about it.”

With the introductions made, the music and general hubbub of the bar returned to its normal volume as if it had been waiting for further violence but was disappointed by its absence. The group returned to the corner of the tavern and seated themselves out of harms way. “One-and is da owner ov a wagon wot can get us out ov da desert an down to da souf where da dark fellas ang out, aint dat right?”

One-hand nodded, “sure am, gots a team ov fast boar too fer pullin it, made da norf souf spice run in less dan a season.” Frush nodded appreciatively; if the traders boasts were even half-way to being true then they would be out of the desert in no time at all. “Where are yez eaded?” Alak looked thoughtful for a moment, “I reckon we needs to be eaden fer da village of Anderald, an wud like to keep away frum any darkie involvement if yez knows wut I mean?” One-hand nodded and grinned, “well dats da trick aint it, but I can gets ya der, dunt worry about it, jus meet us in da market place by da wagon sheds.” With that, the pair slipped out of the tavern and into the bustling streets.

“Luks like we gots us a ride,” Alak announced jovially, “best be gettin dem oomies together an den we can get out ov ere.” He scratched an arm-pit, “aint afore time either, I reckon I gots sand in places I dint even know I ad places!” Frush rolled his eyes and winced in sympathy. With the prospect of escape close at hand, the two orcs wasted no more time and swiftly departed, pausing only to collect their two slaves on the way. Jeff had considered attempting an escape while their masters were distracted until Artune had astutely observed that they were in the middle of the desert and that there wasn’t really anywhere for them to escape too. The group made its way once again through the streets to the heart of the commercial district where the market square sprawled like a gaudy maze. Sights, sounds and smells to dazzle the senses and bewilder the mind filled the open space with enough exotic stimulation to keep even the most hedonistic noble occupied for years.

They were half way across the square when Jeff tugged urgently on Alak’s sleeve, “um, I don’t mean to be a bother sir, but those soldiers over there look awfully cross and they appear to be searching for something.” Alak peered in the indicated direction and immediately spied a cluster of dark army soldiers shouldering their way through the crowd. At their head were the pair that the orcs had roughed up at the gate. They were thrusting their way purposefully toward the wagon sheds with single minded determination. “I fink somewun as ratted us out,” Alak grumbled and forged ahead through the throng. The others followed in his wake and in moments they stood beside the entrance of one of the warehouses. A door opened and One-hand peered out furtively before waving them inside. They had almost made it through when a shout went up from behind them. “There they are!” A furious voice roared. It was followed by the sound of several bow strings twanging and crossbow shafts blossomed around the doorway with a thud of dry wood.

“Ah, bugger,” Alak cursed and dragged the party in before slamming the door. The pounding of bolts against wood chased them across the open floor of the shed to where One-hand’s wagon waited. It was a bulky and typically orcish affair of cobbled together wood, iron plates and brightly coloured pennons and looked as though a stiff wind would bring it crashing down. It was pulled however by eight ferocious looking boars that glared at the newcomers with undisguised malevolence. “Wot a dump!” Frush exclaimed in dismay, the way the trader had been going on about it he had expected some sort of sleek racing sled. “Weez can always leave yooz ere if ye want!” One-hand yelled, “now get in afore dem darkies breaks da door down!” Backatcha had already planted himself in the driver’s seat and impatiently twisted at the reins. The sound of heavy blows and splintering wood reached them from the door as the party scrambled into the rear of the wagon. “Go!” One-hand shouted to his companion and with a snap of leather the boar team lurched forward.

“We iz gonna crash ye daft git!” Frush exclaimed as the doors loomed near, but One-hand said nothing, merely scooped up a heavy bow from the floor and took aim. As he did so, the soldiers finally crashed their way into the room and the air was filled with flying quarrels. One-hand released, his single arrow flying straight and true to sever one of the many ropes among the pulley system. The sudden imbalance of weight ripped the shed doors open with a roar that sent people diving for cover in all directions. A wall of soldiers waited for them beyond, but Backatcha had no intention of stopping for them and lashed at the boars with renewed ferocity. The men scattered from their path. “Ow duz ye like dat yer oomie gits!” He yelled and followed the sentiment with an obscene gesture that would have made a harlot blush.

“We aint out ov da woods yet,” One-hand cautioned and pointed to a side street as it flashed by. Four, mounted soldiers were hot on their tail and as they slewed into the main road behind them they began to gain on the fleeing orcs. “Ah buggerit,” the trader growled, “come ere!” He waved Frush over to a panel in the floor which he proceeded to pull open revealing a set of heavy crossbows. “Grab wun an start shootin, I aint gonna be caught by dese scum today!”

“Oh dear,” Jeff complained, “now I remember why I hate cart travel!”

The two orcs swung out on to the tail board and began firing while Jeff and Artune supplied them with fresh bolts from the stash. The riders ducked and weaved but the effort of avoiding the deadly missiles cost them considerable speed and they began to fall behind. With careful precision One-hand lined up a shot on the closest rider, compensated for the wind, the motion of the wagon and the stride of the horse and with a slow grin he squeezed the trigger. The bolt plunged neatly into the soldier’s skull and toppled him soundlessly from his mount. Bereft of instruction, the horse slowed to a trot and disappeared into the streets. “Gotcha,” One-hand muttered quietly to himself.

Not one to be outdone, Frush followed the older orcs example and took careful aim, landing a clumsier but no less lethal shot into another rider’s chest. The man shrieked and fell from the saddle clutching feebly at the impaling quarrel and vanished from sight in the clouds of dust. Backatcha growled something unintelligible from the front of the wagon and One-and nodded in satisfaction. “Ee sez we’re nearly to da gates, once we reach da desert we can loose em no trouble.” Frush nodded back and continued firing. By the time the wagon burst from the edge of the settlement only a single soldier remained in pursuit, his companions dead or dying on the road. Frush removed the final threat with a well timed shot that punched the man from his mount and sent him sprawling to the sand. “Yes!” He said with a fierce grin, “got im!”

“Aright, aright,” One-hand countered, “yez aint dat speshul.” He said, and stowed the crossbows.

For more than a week the group travelled steadily south with no sign of pursuit. The orcs passed the time arguing and fighting with each other over who was the better warrior and which weapons could potentially do the most harm to an enemy. Alak insisted that there was nothing finer than a cleaver for dealing death to the enemy, while One-hand instead placed all his faith in a sturdy crossbow and thus the debate went round and round until at last the arid terrain began to fade. Sand withdrew to be replaced by patches of scrubby brown grass and wiry bushes and the oppressive heat slowly eased to a more tolerable balm. The next morning the party was rudely awakened by the rough jostling of the wagon as it bounced over a large stone in the road. Alak blinked himself awake in the pale morning light and then banged his head on the roof as the cart rolled over another rock. He stumbled to the front and pulled the curtain aside. “Wot de bloody ell is goin on ere? Where did yooz learn to drive a wagon?!”

One-hand glanced irritably over his shoulder at the older orc, “I dunno, da road is all churned up an rocky like a zoggin mountain fell on it!” Looking ahead Alak saw that the trader was right; huge chunks of stone lay strewn across the road and the formerly green countryside had been churned into a chaos of rutted earth. “Shud be able to see Anderald by now an all, but dese rocks is blockin da view!” Alak withdrew to the interior of the wagon, a look of concern written plainly on his orcish features.

“Wots up boss?” Frush mumbled sleepily.

“Sumfing aint right,” he replied quietly, “dis place shud be well busy wiv carts an fings goin to da village, not all torn up an quiet.” The wagon bounced obligingly over another rock. “I reckon da-“

“Anderald is gone!” One-hand yelled from the driver’s seat. Frush and Alak hurried forward to see what he meant.

“Wot duz ye mean gone? An ole village ov orcs dunt just disappear ye daft git!” Scanning the horizon however he suspected that the trader was right; the orc village of Anderald had indeed vanished, only towering menhirs and shattered monoliths remained to mark its former location.

“I mean it’s bloody gone, smashed ta bits, scrubbed of da face ov da earf!” One-hand was anxious now in case the force that had caused so much destruction still lingered nearby.

“But dat aint possible,” Alak growled, “ain’t no army in da world wot can smash a place to bits like dat, it dunt make sense.” Sense or no he could not argue with the facts; their rally point was gone. Further postulation was cut off by the sound of galloping hooves and a lightly armoured rider sprang from behind one of the massive rocks and galloped directly away from the wagon. The rider had the symbol of Raku plainly emblazoned on the back of his tunic.

“Outrider!” One-hand announced, “where did e come from?”

“Must av been part ov da bigger army an wandered off or sumfin to be way out ere. Woteva it was ee ain’t gonna be around much longer to tell em about us! Ride im down!” Alak scowled.

The wagon thundered in pursuit of the lone rider, the strength of the boars quickly closing the distance between the orcs and their prey. “Ee is eading for dat wooden castle der,” One-hand said, gesturing to a structure that lurked on the horizon. Alak regarded the castle through narrowed eyes for a long moment; he did not recall the orcs ever having built a fortress near Anderald. Then the horrifying reality dawned on him.

“Dat ain’t no castle,” he said with growing alarm, “dats one ov dem siege tower fings!”

“Der aint no siege tower dat big!” the trader protested.

“Get out ov ere now!” Alak ordered as a flare of arcane power illuminated the highest tower of the structure.

“I fink yer right,” One-hand said and jerked on the reins. The boars did not respond and instead continued to gallop at full tilt toward the menacing fortress. He tried again but still the creatures ignored him, a strange gleam In their porcine eyes. “Ah buggerit, dey av been magiked! If we jump off now dey will see us fer sure an I aint loosin me wagon to dese gits!” He grabbed Backatcha and dragged the troll into the rear of the cart. “I gots dese idin places,” he continued, pulling up sections of the floor, “fer when I needs to get stuff past stoopid guards, never fought I’d be sneakin meself past em, come on!” He gestured for the rest pf the party to climb in and closed the panels behind them before sealing himself in.

The wagon continued to bounce over the rocky ground for some time before it finally drew to a halt. Hidden beneath the floor, the party held its collective breath as the sounds of booted foot thudded overhead. The investigating soldiers moved efficiently around the interior of the cart examining everything before making their way out again. “There’s no sign of them sir,” a voice said from outside, “the occupants must have jumped before the magic could take hold.” There was a muffled reply. “Yes sir, the caravan matches the description of the one that escaped the oasis last week but there is no sign of the missing slaves on board.” Another inaudible reply, “yes sir, we will search every inch of it until we find something you can work with.”

While the exchange took place the orcs crept from their hiding place and waited with blades in hand for their captors to return. There were two of them, both bearing the mark of Raku and both completely unarmed. The fight was brief and brutal and afterward Frush and One-hand struggled into the ill-fitting tunics. Alak grinned at the foolish looking pair, but then his attitude turned serious. “I aint angin around ere to get me ead kicked in, yooz lot av a mooch about an see if yooz can grab us some loot.”

“Wot yooz gonna do boss?” Frush asked as he attempted to make the tight uniform more comfortable.

“I is gonna go an duff up dat stoopid wizard wot magiked da boars.” With that he jumped from the rear of the wagon and vanished from sight.

“Come on den,” Frush said to the rest of the group, “lets get a move on, see wot we can bag from dese darkie scum.” Outside, the sheer magnitude of the structure became apparent. The wagon was sat in a hall almost as large as the warehouse in the oasis had been. The walls were made from heavy wooden boards and bright sunlight streamed from between the planks of one of the walls which obviously doubled as some sort of ramp given the muddy tracks plastered across it. The orcs could not escape that way until the danger of the spell-caster was past however. “If I may be so bold sir,” Jeff piped up, “Artune says that there should be a map room up there and to the left.” He pointed to a wooden staircase along the left wall that ascended into the ceiling.

“Ow wud ee know?” Frush countered. In response the little man pulled a roll of parchment from within his tattered coat and allowed it to unroll. Depicted in meticulous script was a cut-away diagram of the fortress which accurately revealed its dimensions and inner workings. “So dats why dey woz lookin for yez!” Frush said in dismay, “yez nicked a drawin ov dis place an dey want it back!” Artune nodded mutely.

A slow grin stole across the young orcs face, “den we can find da best way to bag all der loot an dey wont even be expectin it! Come on!” He waved the party toward the staircase and began his ascent. Somewhat less enthusiastically his companions followed him up. The door of the indicated room was closed and Frush could hear two voices from within. He pointed to Jeff and then to the door, indicating with a gesture that he should be the one to open it. With a reluctant sigh the human thumped on the closed portal and listened to the sound of hurried steps as they approached. “Orcs! Thousands of them!” He exclaimed in alarm, “they’ll kill us all if you don’t hurry.” The door was thrown open and a pair of wild eyed soldiers rushed into the corridor and on to the waiting blades of Frush and One-hand. “Well that was easier than expected,” Jeff muttered, plucking an invisible speck of dust from his sleeve.

Inside, the room was spartanly furnished with a table and two chairs and was liberally strewn with maps and charts. One-hand stared at them for a moment and then rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ang on,” he said in bafflement, “if we gots da plans aready, why does we need dese maps ere?”

Frush sighed and rolled his eyes, “dey aint exactly gonna put where da loot is on da plans fer da place are dey?! Dat wud just be dumb!” He glared at the trader and shook his head as if he was convinced that it was he who lacked in the common sense department rather than the fortress builders. “Now den,” he said, turning his attention to the myriad plans, “wot av we got ere?”

It didn’t take long to identify exactly where the treasury was. It was marked plainly as ‘The Treasury’, though the room was deep on the bowels of the tower. Fortunately, if the plans were accurate, the room was also close to one of the main stairways that honeycombed the structure and could be easily reached at a brisk walk. The more serious problem was posed by the possibility of guards. A room full of loot that was almost certainly used to pay the many soldiers that toiled in the dark army would undoubtedly be heavily guarded, if not warded by magic and any direct assault on the place would almost certainly end in disaster. Frush sat back and hummed thoughtfully. If they could somehow get within striking distance without giving away their intentions, then their chances increased tenfold. Frush’s gaze settled on the manacles secured to the belt of one of the fallen warriors and a slow grin spread across his face. “Ang on a minute lads,” he said, scooping up the restraints, “I’ve got a great idea!”

Ten minutes later Frush and One-hand strolled from the room in their badly strained uniforms with Backatcha in tow. The troll held his massive paws behind him in a gesture of submission and the manacles rested, unlocked, around his wrists. To a casual observer it would appear as though a pair of the dark army’s most unlikely guards were escorting a prisoner to the brig. “Dis ain’t neva gonna work,” One-hand grumbled as they descended toward the treasury, “an leavin dem oomies back der is gonna be trouble.”

Frush shook his head, “ye was all fer dis plan five minutes ago!” He growled, “an dunt worry bout dem fellas, where dey gonna go? Darkies will chop em up right quick if dey catch em!” One-hand did not look convinced, but made no further comment as they approached the hold. As predicted, the position was guarded; three warriors stood to attention around an antechamber while an officer lounged at a desk in the centre of the room. He stood and strolled over to the trio as they entered the room, an attitude of arrogant boredom reflected obviously in his expression. He looked down his nose at the green-skins and sniffed.

“Where do you think you are taking that – thing?” He said in a haughty tone that was clearly used to being obeyed.

“Er,” Frush began, “we is bringin im – ere!” The officer had a split second to wonder exactly what was going on before Backatcha grabbed him. The troll’s huge hands closed around his head and lifted him from the floor. He struggled for a moment, limbs flailing in desperation and then there was an audible crack as his neck broke. The trio of guards hesitated only a second as they registered the demise of their leader, then weapons were drawn and they surged forward to attack. The first was plucked from his feet by the limp corpse of the officer as Backatcha flung it across the desk. A second toppled with the feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt blossoming from his chest. Frush braced to receive the charge of the third and dropped him with a crushing blow to the hip that would have felled an ox. One-hand sprinted to the prone soldier beneath the body of the officer and crushed his throat with a swift kick then stabbed the man through the eye as an afterthought.

“Well dat weren’t too ard,” Frush chuckled.

“Yeah,” One-hand grumbled back, “we ain’t got out yet though.”

Frush shook his head and sighed, “well ain’t you a ray of bloody sunshine! Come on, lets get da loot!” The trio of green-skins ambled off down the long corridor to where their fortune waited. The hall was lined with rooms each protected by a heavy, armoured door, but a short jog back to the corpse of the officer revealed an equally heavy bunch of keys. After several failed attempts Frush found a key to fit the first lock and with a broad grin of anticipation he pulled open the door. A pile of gold and jewels as tall as Backatcha filled the small chamber beyond and winked enticingly in the flickering lamp-light. Frush withdrew and peered down the hall; more than a dozen similar doors lined the corridor, each potentially filled with an equal amount of wealth. He turned to One-hand, “I fink we is gonna need a bigger wagon.” He said happily and stepped into the room.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the huge keep, Alak was approaching his target with cleaver in hand and murder in mind. Without the sorcerer to keep the boar team enthralled the party of orcs could make their escape to the Tribal Alliance with enough gold to fund their war for years. Given enough time even the army of darkness could be held at bay, though with this new city-smashing catapult the odds were distinctly in their favour. Alak would have to think about how to defeat it once they were safely away from the keep. He crept through another of seemingly endless corridors that filled the structure and made his way up the final flight of steps. Ahead of him the oak-panelled door of what he hoped was the sorcerer’s study loomed, its brass edging glinting in the torch-light. The room sat atop the highest point of the tallest tower, a position that would suit an ostentatious spell-caster right down to the ground. It would give them a commanding view of a battlefield and the maximum scope for any offensive magic they cared to hurl. It would also afford a perfect view of approaching wagons, a fact not lost on the orc.

Without further deliberation he broke into a run, long strides covering the distance between the stairs and the door in a heartbeat. Then, with a thunderous crash, he threw all of his considerable weight into the offending portal. The lock and hinges gave way in an explosion of twisted metal and the orcish warlord surged to his feet to confront the shocked sorcerer who had jumped from behind his desk. The room was small, half the size Alak had expected, the other half occupied by an expansive balcony that looked out over the open ground ahead of the fortress. The chamber itself was lined with shelves and bookcases which groaned under the strain of the knowledge they held. Scrolls littered the desk and floor and a huge tome lay open on the mahogany desk in front of him. The orc took the whole scene in with one sweeping gaze and then dived toward the room’s sole occupant. The little man had just enough time to make a single arcane gesture before Alak’s cleaver tore the head from his shoulders in a fountain of gore. Unfortunately for the warlord that single gesture was enough. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of the keep an enchanted bell began to ring. The chimes triggered a chain-reaction in similar bells in the surrounding halls and the alarm spread, one room at a time until the entire fortress was alive with enough crash and clangour to wake the dead. “Bugger,” Alak swore, and ran from the chamber.

For their part, Frush, One-Hand and Backatcha had just stumbled from the treasury laden with enough gold to sink a ship when the alarm sounded. The trio stared around at the frantically ringing bells before looking at each other. With a nod of understanding and a great deal of regret they dropped their loads and sprinted back toward where they hoped the wagon still waited. If the dark army had decided to move it in their absence they were going to be in a great deal of trouble that even Frush’s legendary luck would be hard pressed to escape. Jeffrey appeared in the map room doorway just as the fleeing green-skins passed, “sir I – “ he began to say as Frush thundered past. The orc did not pause or break his stride and vanished around the corner. “I think – “ he tried again as Backatcha appeared, only to be almost knocked from his feet by the bulk of the enormous troll. “Well I never,” the little man grumbled as he got to his feet, “I don’t think –“

“Run yez stoopid oomies!” One-hand roared as he sprinted away, “weez got to get out of ere afore dem darkies work out wots up, den weez be in real trouble!” Jeffrey did not require further encouragement, and pausing only to wave Artune out of the room he set off in pursuit of the green-skins. The group arrived at the Wagon a mere heartbeat ahead of the dark army soldiers sent to secure the vehicle and cries of alarm spread throughout the black-armoured forces as they realised that they had been infiltrated by the very orcs they believed they had captured. Jeffrey and Artune piled into the rear of the wagon closely followed by One-hand and Backatcha who swiftly took hold of the reins and barked obscenities at the sluggish boars. Frush pulled up short of the ramp and turned see if there was any sign of Alak as the first arrows thudded into the wagon frame around him. “Wot da bleedin ell are yez doin?” One-hand yelled from the drivers seat, “we aint got time to be angin around ere swappin stories wiv da darkies, we gots to go now!”

“I aint goin nowhere wivout Alak!” Frush yelled back and snatched one of the crossbows from the wagon. His first shot plucked a soldier from his feet but the man was swiftly replaced by two more who continued their headlong advance toward the waiting cart and its green-skin occupants. It was abundantly clear that the party had mere moments remaining to make their escape before they were overwhelmed. Frush had almost begun to believe the warlord dead when Alak emerged from a passage locked in combat with a heavily armoured knight. The man was clad from head to toe in ornate, black enamelled plate-mail, the slitted full-helm obscuring his features entirely. A billowing black and red cloak hung from his shoulders like a shroud of midnight and he swung a blazing crimson great-sword with a speed that belied its great size. Alak was fighting for his life against his monstrous adversary, forced to retreat and defend as best he could whilst keeping an eye on his foes deadly blade. He could not break off without compromising his position but he was moving too slowly to reach the wagon before the soldiers.

“Why is you still ere ye stoopid grots?!” The warlord yelled over his shoulder at the waiting green-skins, “get out ov ere now afore I comes over der an fumps yer skulls!” He stepped back and parried a blow that would have decapitated him, cleaver and sword ringing louder than the warning bells. “I said,” he started to shout again but a sudden reverse thrust by his opponent caught him flat-footed. The massive sword plunged into his chest and exited from his back in a spray of blackish blood, Alak grunted in surprise and sagged, his weapon dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers. “Get out of ere now,” he whispered and then toppled to the ground and lay still. One-hand didn’t need any further encouragement; a shot from his crossbow released the catches holding the ramp closed and suddenly daylight filled the cavernous room in a dazzling wash of warmth. Frush had just enough time to grab the wagon frame as the boar team took off at a dead run, hooves clattering across the wooden floor and back out into the welcoming embrace of freedom. A few arrows chased them as they fled but within a few minutes the massive fortress was shrinking into the distance with no sign of pursuit.

Stood in the open doorway the black knight of Raku watched them go with a disinterested shrug. “You have done as instructed?” He asked the officer beside him in a deep, resounding voice. The officer nodded, “yes, the enchanted beacon hidden in the cart will lead us directly to the Orcish Alliance and then our victory will be complete.” The black knight nodded and turned to leave, “rouse the slaves and make the fortress ready to move, we leave immediately.” The officer bowed and rushed off to obey his commander, sending soldiers scattering in all directions to obey his orders. With ponderous slowness the vast structure rumbled to life and began its inexorable crawl across the landscape.

“I can’t believe dey killed da boss!” Frush raged, “I is so gonna go back der an kick der eads in!” The loss of the warlord was a massive blow to the young Frush who had followed him for years as he clawed his way up through the tribal ranks. Now Alak was dead and Frush was the last of the Dogskulls. The fact that it made him warboss by default was little consolation; a warboss without a tribe was just an orc, and unless he could find another tribe willing to give him a chance at leadership then he was doomed to the groundless life of a wanderer. One-hand looked over his shoulder at the furious green-skin and shook his head, “if yooz wanna go an get yerself dun in den be my guest, but I ain’t goin back der for nowun, I is headin straight fer da Orcish Alliance to tell em about dis castle fing an den I am getting out of ere!” He lashed the boar team again and the cart bounced onward toward the base of green-skin resistance.

The Orcish Alliance, such as it was, had been struggling against the dark army ever since it had begun to encroach upon their territory. The green-skins, who were famously unable to cooperate with each other, had been forced into a loose conglomeration of those tribes driven from their lands by the march of Raku’s forces. They had currently taken up residence in the crumbling ruins of an ancient temple that was largely hidden by the fringes of a forest. It was from this stronghold that the dispossessed warlords plotted their guerrilla attacks on the enemy and made plans for the day when they finally achieved victory over their hated foe. The fact that the dark army outnumbered them more than three to one had never figured largely in their calculations since as far as the orcs were concerned they never lost, merely decided to fight another day. By the time One-hand and his wagon rattled into the secluded camp the sun was setting and the sky was awash with fiery orange. The group was immediately surrounded by armed warriors, but as soon as they saw the orcish occupants they dispersed; no green-skin would willingly betray the tribes to the enemy.

Frush hopped down from the cart and looked around. The camp was alight with cook fires and bustled with activity as dozens of green-skins went about the day to day operations of the Orcish Alliance without the aid of goblin minions. Clearly the Dogskulls were not the only tribe to have been bereft of their servants. As he ambled into the camp a burly orc broke from one of the crowds and stomped over toward Frush with a broad grin on his face, “Frush!” The big green-skin said, clapping the younger orc on the back, “I fought you woz well dead along wiv da rest ov da Dogskulls.”

Frush grinned back, “no chance ov dat Biggun, I still gots to kick yer ead in at gob chuckin.” The bigger orc laughed and shambled off to find something to drink. “Dint fink any uver Dogskulls ad made it out of der,” he said to One-hand once Biggun was out of earshot, “reckon we shud get dis message to da alliance boss afore dem darkies get to smashin anuva town.” He pulled open the flap at the rear of the wagon, “oi yez oomie gits, get down ere an bring yer map fing to show da boss, we is gonna see wot e can do about dat tower fing.” Jeff and Artune scrambled down from the back and glanced nervously around at the openly hostile glares that surrounded them. “Dunt worry,” Frush chuckled, “dey aint gonna do nuffin to yez as long as ye do wot yer told and dunt go running off or nuffin.” Jeffrey looked less than convinced but followed the orc along anyway because the alternative was much, much worse.

The leader of the Orcish Alliance was a cantankerous old green-skin called Madmuvva who had once commanded the largest tribe north of the desert. Now he sat in command of the largest multi-tribal alliance in orcish history, not that orcish history was remembered all that long, but the achievement was impressive none-the-less. “Ello boss,” Frush greeted the gnarled old green-skin, “ow’s fings? Alliance doin aright? Ear about da darkies new deaf tower?” He waved Artune forward and the little man pulled the plans from his coat and spread them out for the warlord to see. The expression on the Madmuvva’s face went from annoyance to surprise to intense concentration as he regarded the complex schematic laid out before him. “Unka Frush,” the crusty orc rumbled, “while I aint zackly pleased to see yooz, dis tower fing is big enuff to be a problem so I’ll let yez off.” He nodded to one of the orcs lounging near the door, “go gavver da boyz, we needs a meetin to work out wot to do about dis fing. In da meantime, go an get yeself a drink an put yez feet up while I look at dis map.” Frush made to leave but One-hand held back, “if yez dunt mind I’ll be takin me some guld an be on my way Madmuvva, I aint part of yer alliance an I aint gonna go fightin no darkies when der is money to be made.”

“Yooz aint gonna come wiv us?” Frush growled to the trader in disbelief, “we cud use a fella like yooz out der when we gets to kickin da darkies, yooz is gud in a fight.” The trader sighed and shook his head. “No,” he replied sternly, “I aint goin out der coz I dunt wanna get meself killed. Yooz saw wot appened to Alak, dat black knight fella dunt mess around an dat deaf tower fing is ard as nails. Yooz lot go up against dat an yooz os all gonna get crushed like grots.” He looked long and hard at Unka Frush, “why dunt yooz come wiv Backatcha an me? Yooz is pretty gud in a fight yerself an der is guld to be ad out der, weez cud all be rich an ride away from dese darkies until dey dunt find us no more. Wot duz ye reckon?”

Frush shook his head and turned back toward the meeting chamber, “we is orcs an weez got to stick togeva. Yooz naff off to get yer guld an I ope yez choke on it.” By the time Frush had got something to drink and returned to the meeting hall the Orcish Alliance had assembled. Almost fifty orcs from nearly a dozen tribes filled the room and stood around drinking and talking while Madmuvva pinned the tower plans to the wall with a pair of daggers. “Rite lads,” he yelled to the assembly, “shut yer oles an listen up,” the murmur of conversation died, “I av been lookin at dis ere plan fing wot Frush an da oomies brought an I reckon I as got a way to get it broked.” There were a few raised eyebrows and somebody snorted into their beer but nobody said anything. “Da main weapon on da tower is dis massive catapult fing ere,” he gestured to the schematic of the colossal trebuchet throwing arm, “but dat is way too big to it an orc an a boar rite?” Again, there was no disagreement. “So den, if yooz look ere,” the old orc stabbed another dagger into the plan, “yooz can see dat dis is da rope wot winds da arm up wen it is gonna fire. If yooz can chop frough dat rope afore da big shoota fires den da whole fing will kick off inside da tower an boom!” He clapped his hands together, “yez got a whole load ov dead darkies. Wot duz ye reckon lads?”

There was a pregnant pause. “Err,” an orc at the back mumbled, “ow duz we get in to cut dat rope?” A large number of green-skins around the chamber nodded; it was an important point. “Ah, well,” Madmuvva grinned, “ye see, yez wont need to get in coz ye can see da rope from da outside just ere,” he stabbed yet another hole in the schematic, “der is an ole about dis big,” he spread his arms,” wot yooz could lob an axe frough an cut it wivout ever avin to go inside. Smart huh?” There was an incredulous silence that lingered for several long seconds and then the room erupted into shouting as every orc began yelling at once. Frush let the chaos rage on for several long moments and then stomped to the front of the chamber and folded his arms across his chest.

“Well, course if yooz is all just shiverin little grots I’ll go an do it meself,” then he stomped off out of the room. A moment later Biggun followed him, “an me an all.” Silence followed the pair out of the hall and lingered long enough for it to become embarrassing as each orc stoically refused to look at his neighbour. Then, one at a time, but then in twos and threes the alliance nodded their agreement to the plan. “Rite den,” Madmuvva announced once he had universal agreement, “we is gonna go in on da boars. Frush says dat dese darkies dig up a whole bunch of earfwurks wherever dey go wiv dis tower so it is easy to pull about. We is gonna ride in frought dem trenches so we got a bit of cover an try an get dat rope chopped, an we is goin first fing tomorrow morning got it?” There was a murmur of agreement, “gud, now go an ave a drink an get ready cos you is gonna kick some darkie eads in tomorra!” The cheer resounded throughout the hall and into the deepening gloom outside. Seated by a campfire with a mug of ale Frush grinned; it was going to be a glorious battle.

Morning arrived not with a glorious call to arms but with a frantic message from a lookout; the dark army had been sighted on the horizon and were taking up position to fire the death tower at the Orcish Alliance. Somehow the forces of darkness had tracked them to their lair and would soon exterminate that last of the green-skin resistance in the area. “Saddle up ye grots, times a wastin,” Madmuvva roared as the frantic orcs rushed to their mounts. The armoured boars stomped and snapped irritably in the early morning air, their breath steaming in the chill breeze and barding clicked and chinked as fifty orcs made ready for the charge that would either save or doom them. Biggun rode his beast up beside Frush who had mounted a boar named Skankeye, “bet yez I kill more darkies den yooz,” he said with a grin, “reckon yooz is gonna be last to dat tower an all.” Frush grinned back at him and clapped his companion on the shoulder, “I reckon I’ll be sittin on da smashed up bits of dat tower afore yooz even leave da camp,” he replied.

The blast of a war horn grabbed their attention and they turned to see Madmuvva waiting at the camp entrance. “Me an a bunch ov boys is gonna wait ere an kick in any ov dem darkies wot tries to storm da place,” he blew another long note on the horn and grinned fiercely, “now get out der an give em ell!” A great cheer rose from the line of boar riders and as one the group turned and thundered out onto the field that would decide the fate of the alliance. Almost immediately the tower hove into view, its wooden flanks crawling with slaves as the monstrous siege weapon prepared to fire. Panels and flaps burst open to reveal rank after rank of archers who tracked the wave of green-skins as they approached. “Watch out fer dem shooters lads,” Frush yelled as the first arrow ploughed into the dirt, “dunt wanna get yerself kileded afore da battle even starts eh?!” As he spoke several massive ramps dropped open from the front of the fortress and dozens of mounted soldiers charged from within to engage the green-skin attackers. In response half of the boar riders broke left to engage the enemy while the rest concentrated on the task at hand. Frush crested the hill and lined himself up with one of the earthwork trenches that surrounded the tower. Biggun followed him along with another rider he did not know and together the trio plunged into the defensive network.

On the surface battle was joined with a crash of steel and the screaming of animals. The orcs were severely outnumbered but used their stronger steeds and brutal axes to great effect, mercilessly chopping the legs from the horses and trampling the riders as they fell. “I gots one on me tail!” one of the lads roared as he broke away from the pack. He was pursued by a cavalry officer with sabre held high, ready to deliver a killing blow. “I got im!” another yelled and barrelled into the horses flank. Beast and rider went down in a tangle of limbs and the officer died with an orc blade through his chest.

Meanwhile, in the trenches the situation was no better; the black knight of Raku roared through the earthworks with reckless abandon butchering the attacking orcs. Frush glanced back in concern as a rider slumped over his boar went galloping past in the opposite direction. “Dey came from – behind,” the green-skin managed to whisper. Then he slid from the saddle and died. Desperate for revenge Frush rushed on, the massive form of the tower loomed ahead an he fancied he could see the target rope straining within as it hauled back the throwing arm. Without warning the third rider bucked in his saddle and fell to the ground, blood gouting from a wound to the neck. The black knight was hot on their heels, crimson blade held high to deliver another killing blow. “Keep goin,” Biggun yelled and dropped back to confront the apparition of death. Frush watched as the knight swatted the orc’s weapon away with contemptuous ease and speared him through the shoulder. Biggun dropped his blade and collapsed over the saddle. “Get out ov ere,” Frush yelled back to him, “yez can’t do anyfing else back der.” Biggun slowed his steed and the black knight thundered past.

“I have you now,” the deep, tinny voice said and Frush braced himself to receive the charge. Suddenly a crossbow bolt whipped out of nowhere and struck the knight in the helmet. The sudden impact caused him to drag the reins to one side and his huge, black steed galloped away from the trench and out across the plain. Frush could hardly believe his eyes as a wagon pulled by a team of boars leaped the trench and thundered away to support the remaining orcs. He just made out the wildly laughing form of One-hand hanging from the wagon-frame and clutching a crossbow. “Now get dis fing chopped an les all go ome!” The trader yelled and whooped in glee. When Frush looked back at the tower he didn’t have to imagine the rope straining, he could see it clearly through a hole in the side of the structure, “right ye bunch ov gits,” he growled, pulling a throwing axe from its sheath, “dis wun is fer Alak.” He drew back his arm and flung the weapon with all his might before yanking on the reins and galloping away as quickly as possible. Over his shoulder he watched the axe tumble end over end as if time had slowed to a crawl. It flew straight and true into the structure and neatly severed the creaking rope with an audible snap. The unimaginable torque intended to hurl the deadly payload was instead unleashed within the tower itself. The result was spectacular. One moment the fortress was there, preparing to fire, the next it literally ripped itself apart in a catastrophic eruption of debris. The catapult arm flipped over twice before falling to the ground with a crash that shook the earth for almost a mile. With a grin of exultation Frush emerged from the trench to the ragged applause of alliance survivors; the destruction of the tower had crippled the dark army and the survivors fled back toward the desert and their waiting master. The orcs had won, for now.

”Dat,” Wurzag said triumphantly, “is a fuggin story huh?!” He looked around at his audience who were staring in rapt attention to his tale. Nobody said a word. “Tons betta dan yer maidens in disdress eh?” One of the wagon assistants let out a snore and shifted uneasily on the cold ground. Every last one of them was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the half-orc and his tale of daring do.

“Fuggin oomie gits,” Wurzag grumbled and settled down to sleep.