Business, Pleasure, and Pugilism

[Otto]

Oh gods. Did Leo just wave a spear at the warchief?

And did he just give Imruk Black-Talon, Supreme Khan of the Berevar Host, an ultimatum?

Oh gods.

We're going to die.

Leo probably thought that a good orc would rise to any challenge. But if the Khan had to respond to every orc who threw down the gauntlet, there'd be a new leader every week. Challenges made to the higher-ups had to come from worthy and reputable warriors (read: not Leopold), and had to have a good cause behind them (read: not Leopold's). Barging in where you were barely welcome and making demands of the host was a major faux pas - but while elves and humans would probably just snub you, orcs were more fond of adding your skull to their growing collection of drinking vessels.

The entire tent was silent. More than twoscore sets of eyes glimmered at the envoy, and their owners' hands were each resting on the hilts of their weapons... except for the Khan. Imruk's warleader was visibly scowling at the humans and their snaga, but the Khan slouched in his chair and drummed five blackened fingers on the table.

"Gurat urdan maj-at," the Khan grumbled. "Shof-an kishaulus."

The hitherto frozen orcs now began to mutter darkly to each other. The mood had clearly turned sour, but Leopold and co. seemed to no longer be the target of these Berevarans' spite.

"And what," Leopold whispered out the corner of his mouth, "did the Khan say just now?"

Otto was still in shock at what he had heard. "He says... he says he needs to actually consider it. He's going to seek counsel. The other orcs aren't too pleased - I would have bet money he'd have us all slaughtered-"

Tha Khan's voice once again cut over the hubbub. "Krug!" he roared out.

The grumbling instantly ceased. Someone at the rear of the room began to guffaw. Another orc started giggling uncontrollably, and another few hollered with laughter. Soon enough, the whole tent was shaking with jollity as the punchline seemed to drop for everyone but the trio. A small and gangly snaga emerged from outside, sidled between the press of bodies to warily approach the Khan's table, and dropped to his knees. Imruk gestured for the slave to rise and approach.

"Blumos?" the Khan said, pointing at Leopold. Krug appraised his master's guests while the other orc added, "Tum-uurz?"

Imruk's dishevelled underling nodded sagely. "Jan-uurz," he suggested.

Otto's sense of hope vanished. "Oh," he said, dispiritedly.

"What is it?"

"That's the cook." Otto replied flatly. "He's the Khan's counsel. They're discussing how to cook us."

"Oh."

"I want you to shout something out right now, alright?"

Leopold brightened a little. "Yes?"

"'Kung-pik'. Emphasise the 'pik'."

"Alright?"

"As in, right now."

Leopold nodded. He cupped his hands to either side of his mouth, breathed deep, and yelled the word as loud as he could across the still-chuckling orcs. They all paused in apparent disbelief - and then started laughing afresh. Even the Khan cracked a smile.

"Well, that seemed to work," Leopold said with relief. "But what did I say?"

Even Otto couldn't keep from grinning. "'Slow-roast.'"

"Um..."

"It worked, didn't it?" Otto cajoled. "They... we still have a sense of humour. You'll become one of the boys yet."

They saw the Khan stand. Imruk raised an arm, and the other orcs quietened almost immediately. He opened his mouth to speak, but paused with a frown, and glared down at Krug. The snaga was sent rolling away with a sharp kick, quickly took the hint and bolted out the tent. Imruk returned his attention to the room and proceeded to address them all with a short speech in orcish. Otto mumbled a translation into Leopold's ear as best he could.

"The Khan says that you can fight his warchief, though he doesn't agree to any of your terms. Basically, if you win, the Khan will forget your transgression and allow us to live."

"Sorry, " Leopold interjected. "Do you mean 'forgive'?"

Otto gave Leopold a mildly reprimanding look. "They're orcs," he replied. "They don't forgive."

[Leopold]

Leopold Winchester rarely had his plans backfire. If you got him a little bit drunk he might have admitted to you the one occasion they had. It involved a gun, a madman, and trying to talk said madman out of being mad. Here he was, doing the exact same thing. Playing at being orc when you were a pasty faced and had an aversion to snow was foolish.

“Safe to say you owe me a pint, Leopold.” Otto stated glibly.

Rather than force Leopold into a long winded apology, the orc summarised who owed what quite nicely. His quick thinking, as ever, had saved them all. Again.

“And me, of course,” Jeren added. Just to make sure.

The war chief began posturing opposite, leaving the bewildered, and somehow still alive trio ruminating over their fate. Neither of them had particularly nice thoughts running through their heads. Leopold half expected the orcs to bring out carcass for the war chief to hew in half with his bare hands as a warm up. Imaginations ran ragged even the most prepared warriors.

“If we make it out of here Otto, I’ll buy you a barrel of Oxtrotter.” Leopold kept his eyes firmly on his opponent. He was surprised how open the orc was in showing everyone in his tent his war scars. Posturing to his kin. Victory to his enemy. He smirked.

“Do I want to know what that is?” Otto asked, eyebrow raised.

“It will make you wish there were more tankards of piss knocking about the office when we get home.” He trailed off just long enough to let Otto’s wince become audible. “However, it goes quite nicely with stilton.”

“Oh. That’s alright then. I’ll take your word for it.”

The sentiment did little to appease Otto’s disgruntlement, though the orc would never show it. Leopold had about spent all his lives in dealing with the orc khan, and soon, he would need to but his money where his all too easily opened mouth was. He had to wonder how many times the merchant could spring back from the dead, and who would get his waistcoats.

“How exactly are you going to defeat him, Mr Winchester? Esteemed employer or not, my money’s definitely on him,” Syrian asked, blunt as ever.

Syrian’s roguish ability to wind Leopold up, for once, only brought about a smirk on the merchant’s face. Whilst his plan had, for want of a better word, gone tits up…there were still hope. The war chief had seen to that. They may yet all walk out of the caldera of ice with limbs intact and no orc army on their heels.

“Oh Mr Silvers.” Leopold stood up from the table and clambered away from the long oak bench.

Leopold leant in close to his compatriots and, when he was quite certain nobody else would hear them (impossible over the orcish ruckus), he let his final gambit loose in the form of a glint of silver and white from beneath his overcoat. A woman the members of the Winchester Rose Trading Company were all too familiar and fond of.

“You didn’t think I was going to play fair, did you?”

Leopold circled the feasting table too quickly for Otto or Jeren to stop him. They both got carried away with excitement just long enough for the merchant to get out of arm’s reach, and then he was home scot free. When he stepped into the centre of the tent, a battlefield of piss soaked straw, blood, and what he now knew were not boar ribs, silence fell.

“Uk shruk khazzak!” roared the khan.

Leopold did not want to know what that meant. From the guttural intonation, and the swell of equal roars that emerged from the orcs in the tent it would not end well. He spread his legs, eyed up the war chief, and conjured his spear from the aerie into his right hand.

[Otto]

"So," Jeren mused, dreamily unscrewing the silver top of a hip flask. "What do they do to people who bring a gun to a knife fight around here?"

Otto kept a wary eye on the figures squaring off in the middle of the tent. "Depends if he wins or not..."

"Won't they think it's cheap?"

The orc just shrugged. "Sure. But a warchief who can't handle bad odds has no business staying a warchief. They're probably expecting Leo to pull a fast one, even." He eyed the crowds for a moment, and quickly saw what he expected: a number of orcs in the back were exchanging coins and tokens, already taking bets as to the outcome, and the specifics of the winner's victory.

He could see the calculations running through the warchief's skull, as the massive thing appraised Leopold's defence. How many battles had the orc had to survive to command respect second only to the Khan? How many others like himself had he had to kill to climb to the top of orc society? And here in front of him was a fat, drunk little trader who had recently displayed as much sense of self-preservation as someone diving into a shark tank. The spear was a definite problem - but those long limbs on the warchief meant that if he got past the point, he could make sure Leopold had no chance to recover...

The warchief made his move. He had to, sooner or later. He darted left - a feint, though Leopold seemed to have been expecting as much. The merchant stepped back and circled a little, while keeping his speartip leveled at the orc's chest as his opponent suddenly changed direction. It was the work of a frantic moment for the warchief to stop from skewering himself on Leopold's weapon, but he had ducked back before the man could capitalize on the opening. The orc was faster than he appeared.

Jeren's elbow nudged Otto in the ribs. "How long do you reckon he can keep this up?"

"As long as it takes for the warchief to test his guard, or make him tired. So, not too long, I should think."

"Oh, I don't know about that," the mercenary conceded. "You're probably not crediting Leopold with as much experience as you should."

They watched in silence as the grizzled orc boss made a spirited grab at Leopold's spear, forcing his opponent to skip away once more lest he be rushed. The warchief matched him step for step, until a desperate jab brought him up short. The orc backed off a little, smiling faintly. Even Otto could see the effort it was costing Leopold to keep the big spear aimed at such a tricky target; the orc was weaving and feinting, seeking a quick resolution, but equally happy to bide his time. His own chopper was one of a brace of simple hand-axes, a fine weapon that would make short work of armoured and unarmoured foes alike in close quarters. They weren't huge and jagged-edged, nor carved with so much filigree and decoration that they ended up resembling Raiaeran cheese. They were simply very good tools for someone who wanted to kill people, and who wanted to be able to keep at it all day.

"Come on, Leo..."

[Leopold]

In their jostling, a testosterone fuelled exchange of thrusts and pulling out, Leopold calculated the orc’s weight. Though he put a figure to it there did not seem to be any need for more than ‘bloody heavy’. Even a normal man swinging the orc’s blade would split him in two, and leave what remained plastered against the far side of the tent. The fate that awaited him should the spear connect properly was grimmer still.

“Of course,” Jeren began, “you could help him.”

Otto turned to look at the guard captain with a frown.

“I’m sorry?”

“You can stop this.”

“You just said I was not giving Leopold enough credit, and now you want me to help?”

Jeren smirked. He casually produced a hip-flask, bourbon only he liked, that Leopold didn’t to ensure lubrication was always in his reach. He sloshed it gingerly, popped the cork, and drained it just enough to add spice to his words and a sparkle to his eyes.

“You didn’t really think that lanky streak of piss was going to take out that on his own, did you?” A finger pointed at the orc, though Otto needed no help to infer his meaning. “I have an admission to make, Mr Bastum.”

Whilst Jeren hit Otto with a revelation, the war chief hit Leopold square in the face with a titanic fist and a grunt that spat gobbets here there and everywhere. Everyone in the room, human, orc, and old god alike flinched in unison. Leopold, knowing all too well what resisting the blow would do to his jaw let himself catapult across the tent. He went head first, like a ragdoll, straight into a huddle of orcs on the outskirts of the tent.

“I’m going to punch you like that if this is a joke,” Otto grumbled.

Jeren handed over a scroll, which Otto unfurled and began to read. In the background, he could make out the sound of several orcs man handling a half conscious merchant back to the centre of the tent. He considered intervening, for only a split-second, before he continued. The scroll was a letter from Leopold, penned some weeks prior.

“This is a job interview?”

Jeren nodded. “A test, more so. Offer to take Leopold’s place and we’ll have this whole affair done with in no time at all.” The man’s flippant tone did little to appease Otto’s rising anger.

“What makes him think I’m any less likely to get pummelled into soup than he is?”

“Like you said, and like the letter says,” Jeren darted a finger around the page to the relevant passage. “Orcs respect bravery.” There was more to it than that, but Otto got the point.

“He has a plan?” Otto asked in earnest. Jeren nodded. “Of course he has a plan…” Otto looked back to the fight.

The warchief was slowly circling Leopold. Leopold, oblivious to the world, was face down in the piss soaked straw writhing in agony and trying to pull himself together.

[Otto]

Otto shook his head.

"It's no good," he muttered. "He doesn't have a plan."

Otto realized he had known this from the moment when Leo stepped into the tent and started swinging his member around, and had suspected it for much longer. Leopold didn't understand these orcs, and he didn't have a clue what he was doing; everything the merchant did was taking them further and further up the via cloaca, sans paddle. Maybe Leopold was confident that he could end the warchief with one shot. Otto didn't like the odds, but he also didn't like what would happen in either scenario. Miss the shot? Leo would end up with a hatchet in his brain. Kill the warchief with a cheap shot, and maybe they'd get out alive...

He glanced up at the Khan. The big orc was watching with the deadpan expression of a poker player nursing a royal flush. Bastard probably had spades, aces high. It was the look of someone who knew that no matter what hand everyone else put down, he was coming out on top.

Otto grumbled something that Jeren thought was "Bugger this for a game of soldiers," and climbed over the table towards the action.

"Hey!" the mercenary shouted behind him. Otto pushed his way through the press of foul bodies before the man had a chance to do anything else.

The crowds parted and hushed. Otto stepped into the ring, opposite the warchief - who he ignored - and stalked over to the prostrate form of Leopold. Then the muttering started, all around them, as Otto bent down and hauled his friend up. Two glazed eyes blinked at him in surprise, while the pupils wavered back and forth like a drunk with inner-ear trouble.

"Hello, chum," he greeted the orc. "What're you doing here? There's a fight on, you know."

There was a noise like a toilet coming unclogged, and something gelatinous hit Otto on the cheek. The warchief had stalked over to them and was glaring, quivering with rage.

"Snaga" he snarled, as the warchief's spit oozed down Otto's face. The Khan stood up.

"No one does intervene," he bellowed, in passable Tradespeak. "Is against laws. You fight, you for-feit."

Otto raised a hand and pointed at the Khan's table. Angry onlookers ceased their whisperings and shuffled out the way to see what he was looking at, and revealed where the warchief's own slave-orc sat slouched over the table drooling into his ceremonial bowl.

"The right of snaga-goth says otherwise. I take his place."

"Cannot!" roared the warchief. He hefted an axe.

Otto leveled a calm gaze at him and said, "Are you too tired now? Or afraid?"

"Hold," the Khan growled. His underling froze, a statue with hate carved in every grizzled line. "Seeing as fight has started, it would be... un-fair." The Khan said the last word with a look of distaste. Otto imagined it wasn't a word that got bandied about by orcs a lot.

Up the stakes. Make it showy and boisterous enough, and they'll rise to the challenge as soon as the first neuron fires.

"Then we make it fair," Otto stated, and turned back to face the warchief. "Udautas vrasubatlat. Today I will kill you. Blindfolded."

[Otto]

The murmur from the crowd had changed; the orcs were interested now, rather than angry. It was obvious that Otto could only meet a bloody end (but a quick one – orcs have a lot of anger to vent, and they like to make good violence last), so the question on everyone's mind was: what's the trick? Everyone except the warchief, who prowled irately back and forth. Otto stared at Imruk. The khan's narrow eyes slid across his subjects, and he reached a decision.

"Bring out a hood," Imruk commanded.

His warchief snarled and spat. Half the tent jittered with disgruntlement, the other half with excitement, but all of it with at least a wary interest. A bare-chested, charcoal-coloured brute emerged with a thick black sack, such as one would use to cover a condemned man's head on the scaffolds. Otto propelled his dazed friend back towards their table, before bowing his head and letting the cloth slip over his eyes. Someone pulled cords tight around his face to hold the hood in place. He could see vague pinpricks of hazy yellow light across his vision, and hints of shifting shadows. He'd be just as well off with his eyes closed.

The crowd watched Otto reach for his hammer, but before he had drawn it, two orcs had seized him by the shoulders. They spun him roughly around to everyone's general amusement, and twice stopped to reverse direction. A chorus of harsh laughter erupted as Otto staggered a little, righted himself, and brought himself to face a point several metres to the right of his opponent. He stood there swaying slightly, a long, dark-headed hammer grasped in both hands and held defensively out in front of him.

The warchief snorted and stalked forward. He had crossed the distance in three strides, his expression merciless. There was no intent to play along there; he arched back and swung the axe down in a plain, efficient movement that would end the contest with as little fuss as possible.

As soon as the blade flew in, Otto twisted and brought his weapon to bear. The hafts met crosswise, but Otto slid his down as soon as they had clashed and rammed the warchief in the chin with the butt. There was an audible crunch and something pale sailed through the air.

Silence descended as Otto skipped backwards. The Berevar orc raised a shocked hand to his mouth and probed the at broken stump of his tusk.

His eyes drew wide and red.

A raw scream erupted from the warchief's throat as he charged forward. It was echoed by the onlookers, who hooted and pounded on the tables. Otto ground his feet firmly into the earth and swung horizontally, using his superior reach just as the warchief entered into range. The Berevan ducked under, but his own attack was foiled. He powered on with arms outflung in a hard tackle - netting nothing but air. The warchief ploughed into the crowd, which sagged under the assault, but rebounded and sent him careening back into the ring.

He whipped around. Otto had slipped aside and was shuffling backwards at the other end of the patch. He ducked as the warchief's thrown hand-axe whirred overhead and struck some unfortunate soul in the crowd. One mightn't have thought the din could get any louder, but it managed to swell in appreciation as the bystander collapsed in a growing pool of their own lifeblood.

The warchief drew another hatchet and was upon Otto even before the corpse had hit the ground. The weapon viciously slashed back and forth as its wielder constantly advanced, forcing Otto to caper madly backwards. As large as Otto was, the other orc towered another head over him, a maddened vision in a black iron byrnie and gruesome battle-trophies.

Otto was being pressed into a corner when he managed to rally. His hammerhead caught the axe on the blade and knocked the warchief's guard wide. Otto stepped forward and rammed a vicious punch under the ribs, but the grizzled old orc twisted reflexively and let the fist deflect away. Two arms like a boar's torso apiece wrapped around Otto, who became aware that the warchief was still roaring incoherently as he was thrown through the air. The crowd scattered just in time to let him through, where one of the crude wooden benches did a sterling job of cushioning his fall. The rough beams cracked he hit the floor in a jumble of splinters and planks.

The warchief drew another axe into his spare hand and leapt forward. Otto grabbed a sizable chunk of table and frisbeed it hard into the berserker's shins, sending him staggering and cursing. Otto scrambled to his knees just in time to block one axe blow before it could take the top of his head off like a hard-boiled egg - but that meant he was using both his hands to wield his hammer when the other axe came in and caught him in the ribs. His mail coat held, but his breath left him in a puff of agony and he fell sideways against the soiled ground. A rough kick rolled him onto his back, and a huge knee planted itself on his chest. Otto drew his weapon back for a desperate attack, but the warchief's gnarled paw closed tight around the haft. Otto tried to pull it free; an exercise in futility. The warchief's axe was already rising in his other hand, ready to make the killing blow.

The old orc grinned unpleasantly down at him. "Dobat," he growled.

Otto's lips drew back in a snarl - and was drowned out by the clarion call of a horn from the camp outside.

The orcs looked around in confusion, the warchief included, as more klaxons took up the call. And from further away, what just might have been another horn-call, if horns could be made to sound like the sub-audible scream of birthing mountains. It was a sound that rattled your bones from the ground up.

Next thing the warchief knew, he was swaying backwards as Otto pushed the hammer into his hands. Steel whispered free as the smith's hands flew past the dagger-sheath at his chest, and then his hand disappeared under the warchief's byrnie. The old orc gasped as cold metal sliced deep into the inside of his thigh. He tried to raise his axe, but Otto's hands were now clasped hard over his. The piercing, iron tang of blood quickly flooded the air while the warchief brayed and struggled. Otto's muscles bulged and his tendons stood out like taut steel cables under the skin, but he held the thrashing beast close with a look of grim determination.

Slowly, the struggles weakened and slacked, and the roars turned to panicked wheezings.

It took less than a minute. Otto let the limp body fall away and then drew up wearily to his feet, pure crimson and dripping from the waist down. He hoisted the hammer up and rested it upon his shoulder, scanning the orcs who now rushed back and forth through the tent. He knew that the activity had nothing to do with this duel, though. The trouble was only just beginning.

The giants had arrived.

[Leopold]

You could rely on giants for three things. The first was their size. They were, undeniably, and always, humungous. Second was their ability to consume copious amounts of meat and alcohol (the source of either never seemed to bother them). The third, which irked Leopold Winchester more than anything, was that they were never ever on time. Ever.

“Well.” Leopold dusted himself down. “About time they showed up.”

When the bomb dropped, both Otto and Jeren turned to face their employer with a look of murderous intent on their faces. Jeren reached for his sword as Otto put his hammer, still bloodied despite his best efforts, to rest.

“I’m sorry?” the orc questioned. He cocked his head just a little, to emphasise that he was listening very carefully for any answer bar the one he by now expected.

The din of battle grew louder. All the orcs were long gone from the tent, and the sudden vacuum meant that, for the first time in too long the three men could get a good look at one another without being overwhelmed by the smell of sweat, meat, and inbreeding. They were far from a pretty sight. Blood, guts, and what they all silently hoped was mud.

“It’s just…I’m fairly sure that sounded like you knew this going to happen.” If words could kill, Otto Bastum’s tone would have lain Leopold low.

Leopold took a moment to compose his thoughts. They had, knowingly or otherwise, brought the giants the time they needed to rouse an offensive that would not fail to crush the orc army. The only other thing you needed to know about giants was that, to make a decision, they had to talk about things. A lot. Sometimes, just deciding on which song to sing at their underground moots took days.

“Ermm,” the merchant mumbled. “I knew the giants would come.” That he had to admit. “I just didn’t expect the orcs to be so accommodating.” He had pictured days in the stockade, perhaps a trial by combat in the slave pits or two, and then finally freedom amidst a riot. After the debacle at the Ice Henge, he should have known better than to expect his plans to work quite as intended.

“I am going to gut you myself when this is over,” Syrian stated with no uncertainty. Jeren drew the sarcastic sword and ran to the slit in the tent that lead outside. “If the giants, orcs, and Otto don’t decide to beat me to it.” He peered outside.

The war camp was a sight for sore eyes. The giants were clearly visible to the North, towering above the roving bands of orcs that mustered a feeble melee in defence. Jeren could not be sure what the thudding was. Footfall or great weapons cleaving through the masses. Either way, it was a foreboding thunder above the chorus of war cries or blood curdling screams.

“What do you see out there?” Otto asked. His voice drew Jeren back into the tent. “Oh.”

“There’s a wall of giants encroaching into the camp from the city gates.” Jeren wanted to go into detail about the wall thick armour and swords that could level buildings, but he didn’t think now was the time for poetic license. “Orcs are trying to rush to mount a counter offensive. We’ve the element of surprise alright.”

“That sounds dangerously like you think this is a good idea,” Otto said with scathing resentment. He tapped the shaft of his hammer against his braced palm.

“Look.” Leopold shrugged. “Telling you would have meant you would have talked me out of it.”

“You think?” Jeren rolled his eyes. Something thudded against the far outer wall of the tent. It left an orc shaped impression in the wadding. “I can’t possibly think why!”

“But the plan worked, for better or worse.” Leopold readied his spear and advanced to the door. “Now all we need to do is make sure we eliminate the Khan and meet with the Primarch.”

Otto and Jeren looked at each other deadpan. They both looked at Leopold.

“What is a Primarch?” Bastum enquired.

Trying to describe the complex hierarchy of the giants of Berevar would have taken the best part of a week. Lacking that luxury, Leopold put the current circumstances into context for his associates.

“He’s the biggest, strongest, and loudest of the giants. I may or may not have tricked him into thinking there would be a husband for his daughter if he wiped the orc army from the face of the glacier."

Before Otto or Jeren could object, Leopold darted out into the snowy wastes.

“You can get in line to run him through,” Otto grunted past Jeren after him.

[Otto]

The frigid slurry kicked back against Otto's boots as he took three long steps outside the tent. It was deep night, and although the fires had been fed to ward off the cold, the ravine was still a gloomy place even for the orcs who'd camped here.

Battlefields were poor places in which to run blindly about, so Otto took a long moment to assess the situation. Orcs streamed past him with the same organized madness as an angry ants' nest, generally heading to the south. His eyes, glittering like two fire opals in the darkness, followed the flow of movement to the canyon's mouth. He could make out the towering, lumbering shapes advancing up the pass, and a swarm of tiny bodies flowing around their legs. But they had far less than the full force of the horde to contend with, at least for now. Most of the orcs were amassing back from the front line, and others were moving in altogether the other direction.

A flicker of movement above this seething mass drew Otto's attention. It was a banner, waving to a frantic rhythm. He snapped around and scanned the canyon behind him for an answering sign. He saw it - them - on top of an old landslide, which had been shaped and lined with timbre to make an elevated platform. Anyone up there would have clear line of sight over the whole army, and conversely, be visible to anyone in this part of the canyon. They'd also be able to see the standards being hoisted up, sending messages through the air.

He felt a hand clamp onto his arm. "What're you waiting for?" yelled Jeren. "Let's get to Leo before the greyskins do!"

Their employer was having a hard time navigating past the columns of soldiers, but he seemed to have the right idea. Otto and Jeren found him struggling toward the command post. They grabbed an arm each as they dashed past, and dragged Leopold forwards with them.

"That's not strictly necessary," Leopold said reproachfully. "I can make my own way, thank you very much!"

A scurrying orc bounced off Otto, shot the trio a glare, and continued on its way.

"Maybe, but not quite fast enough," Otto replied.

"All the girth with naught of the muscle," Jeren added. "These 'uns will knock you off your feet if you don't get out the way."

"Then I'll crawl, if need be!" came the merchant's retort. "Really, we shouldn't hurry in any case. The giants are wading through the lines, once the giants draw near, the khan will have to withdraw -"

They pulled up behind a stinking hide tent. It was a little more sheltered here, out of the way of the commotion (but not the noise, nor the reek).

Otto smoothed the man's coat down with a palm like an iron washboard. "If you think they can keep that up, I'm sorry, but you're mistaken."

Leo and Jeren looked at each other. "Something you want to tell us?" Leo queried.

Otto peered around the edge of the tent. "Watch up there," he said, gesturing to the cliff face. "When you see banners being raised, look in the direction they're facing for a response."

"What are we looking at?" Leopold asked.

"Flag semaphore," muttered Jeren.

"Right." Otto nodded. "The khan's up there, signalling the different regiments of the army. The reason the giants aren't down the shitter right now is that they only have to contend with light infantry doing hit and run. That's buying the orcs enough time for heavy infantry to muster to the defensive points. I'm seeing a lot of pole-arms down there, and a lot of javelins. At this range, those are going to sting more than arrows."

"There's a lot of signalling happening behind us," Leopold remarked. "Do you know what that is about?"

Otto squinted into the dark. "Do you see the orcs running around in that regiment?"

"Not all of us have your eyes, Mr Bastum."

"Thin, unarmoured, and unarmed. Slaves, a few slavedrivers, and I'm seeing some others. I'm guessing engineers."

"How's that?"

"Well, they're marching to attack a city, right? It'd explain why they're assembling siege weapons. Now that's really going to sting."

[Leopold]

Flags bobbed up. Flags dropped down. Every time an exchange took place between the Khan and his various roughshod detachments, Leopold Winchester’s heart sank into his chest. He turned to his now more-than-worthy of promotion right hand man and frowned. Jeren knew what the frown meant and produced his hip flask from beneath his jacket.

“So you’re not the only clever orc, huh?”

Leopold took it politely, opened it with one hand, and drained it without a thought. The three men remained in their awkward triangle for several increasingly awkward minutes. Jeren shuffled his feet. Otto scratched his nose. Leopold added ten years to his face through excessive scowling.

“I get it from my mother’s side,” Bastum said jokingly.

Easing up, they all chuckled light-hearted and returned hip flasks and trusts to one another. Otto pointed east, to where the spindlier orcs were amassing for a flank volley at the spear head of the giant’s charge. Leopold trailed the point and understood.

“That looks like something we can stop.”

Jeren looked west, to where the signs of industry and artifice were making siege weapons out of half-frozen logs and quickly-melted-down scavenged weaponry. Dwarven steel and elven mithril paving the way for the extinction of men and mountains alike.

“I’ll just diddle on over there and see to that.”

Both men stopped five paces into their charge, and eyed up their companion to barter for his company. Even if they had offered incentives, the roar of battle was now loud enough to drown out hope as well hoarse cry.

“Never mind, no time to waste!”

Leopold scuttled away, somehow not unconscious through drink, grievous bodily harm, and the embittered cold (Salvarian winter took on its own persona and made sure you knew it was not happy). His boots, now useless fashion accessories in their sodden state slushed through the thawing snow. As he neared the detachment he drew darkness, the very swell of midnight into his fists. He clenched them, remembering days of old when his power had felled armies, and unleashed three spheres at his target.

Jeren came to the edge of the siege position and immediately, and for the first time in many months, let Syrian emerge from the hilt of his sword. The persona change was instantaneous, and cautious optimism fell to the wayside in favour of reckless, zealot-like abandon. The caravan guard leapt over a barrel of rocks, weaved through scuttling goblins, and charged rapier overhead and into the middle of the orcish sappers.

A sword stabbed and Ravens darted through terrified orcs, Otto Bastum once again found himself stuck in the middle. The ground shook. The skies darkened, through shame for what transpired or because terror thickened the air. Despite the merchant and the madman’s thinking they were saving the day, the fate of kingdoms and races was put firmly in a hirsute hipster’s hands.

[Otto]

Here they were, smack bang in the middle of the orcish army's strength. Three against a horde. Not good odds, no matter how you looked at it. If only they could change it from a number game...

Or perhaps, they could raise their own army.

The khan's engineering corps had established themselves on relatively high ground. The ravine floor rose to a small, pebble-strewn hump, its snowy blanket scarred by crisscrossing ant trails from a legion of frenzied orcs. Leo and Jeren had struck the horde where it didn't expect it, but they had an uphill battle ahead of them. One orcish soldier took three direct concussive orbs, and performed a full somersault before hitting the earth. Another only had time to snap around in the direction of their attackers before Captain Jeren was upon him, driving his rapier past the orc's crudely-made armour and between his ribs. Three more guards perked up as Jeren bore down on them. Two drew various items of destruction and met the assault, while a third ran to higher ground and unhooked a horn from his belt.

The only sound this bugler made was a thick crack and a gurgle as Otto's pilum broke through his sternum. It sunk all the way up its steel shank and threw the soldier back four full feet before he hit the ground, dead.

"Spare the slaves!" he roared, rushing to the fray. "We need them!"

The two brutes didn't last long now they were flanked. Otto stooped over the bodies to grab their weapons, then he and Jeren left bloody trails in the snow as they charged onward, followed closely by an enraged Leopold.

A trio of ragged snaga atop the hillock paused in their task of pegging together a wooden war engine. Their slavedriver raised his vicious club and brought it down across the shoulders of the nearest one, whom sagged to his knees under the blow. The overseer started to scream orders until he heard heavy footfalls approaching at speed from downhill. The three slaves stared transfixed as Otto's spear pierced right through his chest and lifted him off the ground. Blood gushed down the haft and the slavedriver choked and gagged, struggled, then went limp. His cudgel thudded down on the snow.

Otto braced one foot against the corpse and wrenched his spear free. Three sets of eyes looked up at this be-mailed apparition, dripping crimson from the waist down and up to the elbows, spattered with gore over the rest of his body.

He unhooked a pair of axes from his belt and dropped them in front of this gangly crew.

"To your feet, uruk," Otto said, softly.

Grizzled grey hands seized the club and axes. The freed snaga drew themselves up, still looking at Otto, but didn't say anything. Free they might be, but bewildered and uncertain too, Otto thought. They need something to drive them - something more than a stick.

"If you want to be free, we have to break the khan's army," Otto told them. "There will not be a chance like this again, but we need the rest of the slaves to help."

A middle-aged and wrinkled orc ran a testing finger along the edge of her new axe. "How can we face the horde? We should flee while they are distracted."

"Into the wastes, with no food and no warm clothes? The khan needs his siege engines. He can't spare you. Even now, we have a few minutes at the most. But we can turn these weapons against him and break his defensive lines from behind. The giants will do the rest!"

They all heard shouting around them on the hill. Several more soldiers were sprinting in their direction. They had their weapons drawn, which somewhat gave away their intentions. The three slaves looked at each other. One nodded; the other shrugged. Their spokeswoman turned back to Otto.

"We were not fools. We did not want to be tools of the khan's ambitions. Slaves we might have been, but still stronger than those whom he controls without even needing whips. And slaves we will not die as, either."

Otto whipped down the visor on his sallet, put away his spear, and hefted his hammer in both hands. Its core was dehlar - a metal heavier than lead, and in his hands it could crush through inch-thick hardened steel like a bolt pistol through cardboard.

"I can think of few better reasons to fight," he stated. The orc turned to this new charge, drew himself up to his full height, and began to thunder over the hill to meet their assailants.

"Udautas Vrasubatlat!"