Business, Pleasure, and Pugilism

[Leopold]

“You look like a yak’s arse Leroy,” Wilfred heckled.

Leopold stopped dead in his tracks, widened his eyes, and bit his lip. After three hundred leagues over tundra, it was the last thing he wanted to hear.

“Manners, Mr Jackson…,” he reminded. He added a sigh for good measure in case his disappointment was not obvious.

The rectangular office of the Salvar branch of The Winchester Rose fell silent. For an awkward moment, the occupants shuffled uncomfortably. Nobody knew what to do, say, or think. It had been a long day. It would be a longer night.

“It is alright Mr Winchester. Me and Mr Jackson have a history spanning,” he mock counted, “a decade or so.”

“I am sure that would make for a grand tale,” Leopold complimented. He had heard snippets of that history over the years but had no desire to dig deeper. Some things did wonders if left buried. “How are things?” The change of subject was a natural swerve from awkwardness.

“…Now then.”

Mr Tilmouth recounted the last three weeks operations. Leopold and Wilfred walked to the central desk and sat in two chairs opposite. Tilmouth sat in a chair Leopold had carved, with raven wing rests, and began to rifle through document wallets. Each was an account in honour of clients in the ruins of Knife’s Edge.

“Most of all,” he concluded. He finally got to the point. “Most of all we have been contending with the Vorgruk-Stokes Trading Company.”

“Oh joy,” Wilfred clucked. He pushed himself boisterously from his chair. Every step towards the drink’s cabinet on the eastern wall was dutiful. Leopold had no need to call for ‘business fortification’ any more. The mere mention of Vorgruk required bourbon, and lots of it.

The rattle of glasses broke the silence.

“I am sorry, only, I thought you said ‘contending’ and ‘Vorgruk-Stokes’ in the same sentence.” Leopold furrowed his brow. He folded his left leg over his right. He began to feel clammy as the cold night air changed to a stuffy, coal-scented atmosphere.

Mr Tilmouth nodded. His troubled expression revealed conflict in his mind and that, to Leopold, was truly cause for concern. Finally locating the file he required to demonstrate, Leroy turned it about and held it forwards. Leopold rose, took it, and sat down again. He scanned it with feigned disinterest. Somehow, he knew exactly what the Vorgruk-Stokes were up to.

“What am I looking for?” he questioned.

Mr Tilmouth puckered his lips. Although he was a model employee, Mr Winchester intimidated Leroy immensely. Without thinking, he gave away far too much about his mistakes in the last week with that simple expression. Leopold took one look at him, and resigned himself to disappointment.

“The Vorgruk-Stokes company agreed not to involve themselves with your business.” Leroy tapped the table nervously. He pointed to the stained and curling map on the eastern wall.

“But…?” Leopold cajoled. He was growing impatient.

Leroy looked at Wilfred nervously.

“They have raised an orcish army.”

[Leopold]

Business, Pleasure, and Pugilism (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8AEU5pBxY6E)

http://digital-art-gallery.com/oid/108/1600x915_18658_Lord_of_The_Rings_Concept_Art_2d_fa ntasy_snow_city_battle_mountains_orcs_lord_of_the_ rings_picture_image_digital_art.jpg


Sequel to Dread Sovereign.

[Leopold]

It took a few moments for the facts to seep into Leopold’s tired mind. When they did, his eyes widened and his heart raced. He made no show of it to the others, lest they begun to feel superior. He was, though a friend, also their employer.

“I am sorry. There is an orcish army here in Salvar?” The scepticism did not need more forcing or explaining than that.

“Not in Salvar Mr Winchester. The Vorgruk-Stokes have seen fit to undermine your ‘slow reparations’ here by inciting an invasion. The invasion would send Knife’s Edge…well, over the edge. Rumours point to them then sweeping in, picking up all the duchy’s contracts-”

“…and profiting heinously from death and destruction,” Leopold concluded.

With ever the perfect timing Wilfred arrived at the desk with a tray. They were not Leopold’s finest silverware, but the decanter and three crystal glasses were worth fortunes. They were imported from Raiaera, gifts from the Blade singer council of old. Wilfred knew this all too well, and set them very carefully onto the battered veneer.

“Bourbon, sir?” he ventured. His bristly moustache bobbed on parched lips. He undid the stopper, presuming, and began to pour.

“How did you find this out?” Leopold nodded to Wilfred. He did not look set eyes away from Mr Tilmouth.

Leroy shuffled uncomfortably. In his defence, he produced another dossier, which Leopold recognised as a reconnaissance report from a Chronicle operative. He took it with a lightning snatch, and confirmed his suspicions.

“We have to do something.”

Leroy nodded, seeing an opportunity to divert aggression to someone, something, somewhere other than him.

“I took the liberty of calling on a few old friends who might be helpful in preventing this chaos before it happens.”

Mr Winchester, Mr Tilmouth, and Mr Jackson each partook in a deep inhalation of their bourbon. They waited an appropriate amount of time before they proceeded to neck it, smash their laps in a choral misogyny, and slam the glasses down. Wilfred went about fixing them another.

“I dread to think who you have deemed suitable for such a task,” Leopold said in jest.

The office, a rundown branch of the Winchester Rose began to look a little cheerier. The fireplace, run down to its embers, seemed brighter. The run down tiles ceased to let in thawing snow, and the run down picture frames stopped stealing the thunder of the maps and expensive oil paintings from far off lands.

“You will need a translator, for one.” The dossier flew through the air and landed on Leopold’s lap, much to his surprise. “Recognise that puggish face?”

Leopold looked inside, chuckled, and closed it again.

“Yes, how could I forget?”

“I’ll be accompanying you too I expect sir?” Wilfred enquired. He loosened up the moment he sat down. Leopold was never sure if the growing friendliness at the end of the day was through drink or respect.

“The army is amassing on the Plains of Adelman, what about that giant fellow?”

[Leopold]

Leopold wanted very much to shoot down the idea. The more he thought about it, and threw room into silence, the less ammunition he found. It made sense. Awkward.

“I guess the giants could make an appearance,” he hesitated.

“Well either they do, or the army right above their heads topples the gate tower to the city.”

It took the merchant an embarrassing length of time to piece the various, half-veiled clues together. When he did a bourbon was required, a cough, and a sitting up straight.

“You mean the army is literally outside Adelman?” On the plains. Why of course it was. How could he have been so slapdash?

“The valley where the eagles oft land is now an encampment some ten thousand strong. The city gates have not opened since winter’s fall, and likely won’t till the thaw revives eastern Berevar in spring.” Mr Tilmouth spoke with authority on the matter but a little too much condescension.

“I get the picture,” Leopold sniped. “I can send word to the Bursar but I would not factor them into our little dalliance with resistance.” He glared cautiously, to tell Tilmouth to back off without actually having to say so, and then turned to Wilfred. “Thoughts?”

“I have them occasionally, sir,” the butler glibly replied. The narrowed glare did away with the need for further humour. “What of the scribe, sir?”

Luned Bleddyn. Undoing worlds and warriors with a flick of her quill. Leopold had considered her as an ally, perhaps one too many times, but this seemed inappropriate for her expertise.

“I’m not sure she’d be able to…,” he fell silent. Remembering. Smiling. “Actually…”

The office returned to a steady status quo, lingering souls of wood smoke danced overhead, and nervous quivers of excitement faded away. As the men finally found their place, and marked their boundaries, things began to flow naturally and with accordance to that age-old courteous pursuit – bullshit.

“Send her a telegram Wilfred, and let’s see what she says. Play the Gurdon angle,” he added, beseeching himself for a telling-off-at-a-later-date, “and then steer absolutely one hundred percent clear of that other fellow.”

Mr Tilmouth caught Leopold’s glare, and frowned.

“Am I missing something?” he asked.

Leopold lifted himself from the chair and approached the ageing map with slow, undaunted charisma. Every step he took ensnared Mr Tilmouth. Every breath hushed the crowd of one. Capsulated.

“Whatever you do Mr Tilmouth avoid any contact with an associate,” he stopped ten feet from the tapestry, “an unfortunate necessity of the job.” He sighed. “Called Aurelianus.” A flash of black skin, an augmented vision of quills, quivers, and qualms. Leopold had begun to hate the man as much as Luned, but still had quite the way to go to match her enmity.

“The man you sent to-“

“Enough of that, Mr Tilmouth,” Leopold snapped. Wilfred, who by now halfway to the door, stopped to crane his neck. “You don’t know who is listening.”

The manservant departed, bereft of gossip.

[Leopold]

Day One - Ahyark Pass, Berevar

A wagon trailed north, through Ahyark, snow, and insanity. At its helm, Leopold Winchester peered through the bellowing drift. At its rear, Wilfred played cards, as ever he did, with men who could ill afford the luxury.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mr Bastum,” the merchant said aloud. He had every intention of his voice penetrating the red and white strikes of the wagon’s canopy.

Even over the howl of the wind, the praise reached the ears of the intended recipient.

“You’re ever my saving grace!”

At the recollection, Leopold winced. The gunshot that ended a former life in the service of justice in Corone still gave him trouble. It was as though the shot pierced the fabric of the Tap itself, leaving a scar to heal in the ether.

“Otto…?” he questioned, after minutes of awkward silence.

Given neither man had spoken in over three hours; it came as small surprise to Leopold when Otto did not respond. He puckered his lips, half against cold and callous disregard for recognition. Though the orc had seemingly come to Berevar willingly, the further they went, the harder it became to reason with why. The offer Leopold had to make on the outcome today weighed heavily on him.

“I am sorry if I made it seem like you had no choice Otto!” he added, hoping to get through to the key to their kingdom. If Mr Bastum, of all people, could not parlay with the orc warlords…no one could.

[Otto]

It was dim inside the cart, and musty. A scant bit of sunlight penetrated the cloth cover, but it had better luck than the breeze, which had been almost entirely shut out. Otto had reckoned the winters in Corone could get pretty foul, but Berevar had a bite to it even in the milder months. It was the wind, he reckoned. If you didn't put a good inch of fur or hide between you and it, then it would flense you to the bone.

"I think he's talking to you again..." muttered Wilfred.

Otto ignored him. The orc held, between his pudgy fingers, a hand just one card short of a flush. He extracted the lone diamond from its kin of hearts, put it face-down on their impromptu table, and tapped at it meaningfully. Wilfred gave him an old-fashioned look in return, as well as another card from the deck, which he slid across the upturned crate. Otto picked it up, and squinted at it through the gloom.

Ace of spades. Bugger.

Otto stood up as far as the wagon's canopy allowed, while mumbling, "I should see what he wants." He crab-walked his way through the stacked supplies to the front of the wagon, followed by the sound of Wilfred and Jeren's sniggering, and wormed past the front roll of cloth.

There was Leopold, parked to one side on the driver's seat. Even after all this time, Otto wasn't quite used to the man's transformation; whenever he looked at him, it took just a fraction of a second before recognition kicked in. Otto clambered through the rest of the way and sat himself by his friend's side. Leopold took his eyes off the scenery to glance at the orc, and flashed him a wan smile.

"You must know this is important," he said.

Otto peered warily around the snow-blanketed pass. "It is?" he asked. It all looked very much the same to him; uniformly white, blue, and grey, but broken here and there as a struggling plant pushed its way up from the stony earth.

Leopold looked unimpressed. "I was referring to situation with the horde."

Ah, of course. A standing army of five thousand orcs had borne down upon the Ahyark Mountains, and Salvar's capital, Knife's Edge. Leopold had thought long and hard on a solution, and so here was Otto, his skin turning a deeper shade of blue the farther north they went. It was a very human idea, sending an orc to negotiate with his peers, although obviously not a true orc, as one of those would never sue for peace. Just one that looked and sounded like an orc. Otto approved; it was probably what he himself would have suggested.

Otto just hoped it wasn't Leopold's only plan. One good card didn't win the game.

"How much further to go?" he asked. As if it mattered... the distant peaks which barely moved, and the monotonous snow - they combined to do strange and boring things with one's sense of time. An hour felt just as long and dull here as a day.

[Leopold]

“Atop the pass we’ll be able to look down into the caldera, as the locals call it.” Leopold sounded far too impressed with his own knowledge.

Otto frowned. There were no volcanoes in the frozen heartland. He pointed to the rise ahead, gestured east then west, taking in the horizon, and then turned to the merchant.

“Caldera?”

Leopold smiled; hook line and sinker with his fish of knowledge.

“It’s called the caldera because it’s a natural ‘bowl’ surrounded by mountains. The lava’s metaphorical, something church-witty about Knife’s Edge being the bowels of hell or some such.” His sipping from a hip flask whilst whipping reigns did not bring comfort to the orc.

“Should you really be drinking Leopold?”

Always. There was never not a time to partake. Though Wilfred and largely Ruby had tried, and failed…it still amused him that people asked. He put the flask into his inner pocket and took the reins firmly.

“Of course I should. We’ll be in Knife’s Edge by nightfall, and from there, a day’s ride to Adelman’s gates.” If they were lucky, it would be two. Then he could enjoy Salvar ice wine on the open ride, all the while travelling into utter uncertainty resting on one highly recommended member of Corone’s armed forces.

“Right.” Otto sniffled. Though hardy, the cold out front was beginning to get to him. The cards and the cover of the caravan suddenly seemed overbearingly welcoming. He rose on his haunches, and looked to the merchant.

“Continue your game, if you want. We’ve time,” he said, reading his companion’s mind without taking his mind off the thickening drift cupped by landslides and Liviol branches broken and decrepit. The wilds here were truly wild, lost to time and reason.

“Thank you,” Otto found himself saying for no reason.

Ducking back inside, Wilfred’s sour face greeted the orc with a nervous, sheepish expression. Otto saw the card disappear up the man’s sleeve in a flash, and when he sat down, shaking the wagon back and forth, he coughed loudly. It was a suggestive and forceful blow to Wilfred’s ‘winning streak’.

“Can you blame me?” was all the manservant could muster. He pulled out a pipe and began to empty it of yesterday’s debauchery.

Otto coughed loudly a second time. He rested his titanic fists on his knees, and stared. Wilfred sighed, put the pipe away, and dealt them both a fresh hand of legitimate, courteous cards. He began to see exactly why Otto Bastum selected for what Wilfred Jackson believed entirely to be a suicide mission.

“He has no idea what he’s doing, does he…” Otto grumbled.

Wilfred chuckled, loud enough to be annoying, but not loud enough to alert Leopold to the fact somebody other than he was having a good time. He shuffled the cards one last time, and dealt four to each. The game was changing, but the rules; win at all costs, were still very much the same.

“Did your little ‘adventure’ in Corone not spell that out abundantly clear like your name written in piss in the snow?” Toothy grin aside, Wilfred seemed genuinely amazed at the concept. The ignorance, he meant, but he kept that to himself.

Otto ground his trunk-like teeth and admired his hand.

“There were too many bodies to be paying attention,” he recollected. He still smelt the carnal house of the priest’s dark secret. “But let’s play.”

“Let’s indeed,” Wilfred agreed. He set a four of hearts down onto the floor, drank a dram of whisky from his own, less grandiose flask, and waited patiently.

“I’ve only got till nightfall to win back a week’s pay,” the orc added, half in jest, half in deadly seriousness. He added a five of spades to the pile with a broad, cantankerous smile that practically slapped Wilfred across the face with a gauntlet.

"'Try to'," the manservant corrected glibly. He took a deep breath of the stale air, admired his bodily craftiwork, and added a seven to the tower. "I think you should be asking questions, good for the soul and all that shit...," he paused to watch Otto set an eight, and frowned. "But the question I want asking...is why the fuck did you say yes?"

His king finished the round, and with a curse of his own, Otto picked up the pile and dealt them both four more cards.

"Well..."

[Otto]

Night came quickly to Berevar. Otto had never seen anything like it.

Radasanth was a sprawling city, a strangely textured stain across the land. The buildings formed artificial crevasses, ensuring a fractured mosaic of shadows and light, patterned here and there with yellow lamp flames and colourful decorations. Berevar's wilderness was not like that at all. Everything was a single monotonous shade of white, from the expansive incline around them to the distant peaks in the distance. And yet, perhaps monotonous wasn't quite the right word. Even though the moon was far from full, it reflected dully on the snow from horizon to horizon, just the faintest shade brighter than the night sky. And the sky... without the presence of the street lamps and torches which marred one's night vision, he could see it all clearly - the ghost landscape, the hard stars glimmering above, even the twisting clouds of nebulae.

It was enchanting.

His breath came out in frigid little clouds, and he could see that too. As Otto stood there, propped against his shovel and staring out across the landscape, a sound emerged from the silence behind him and approached; snow crunching beneath light steps. Leopold soon drew up beside him, and the two of them shared the vista.

"We're a bit too far south," Leopold murmured, "but if conditions are right once we get further in, we will see the aurora. It's supposed to be magnificent."

The man's voice was hushed and respectful - a church house whisper. A shiver wracked Otto's shoulders, and he drew his cloak in tighter. He had grabbed some cold-weather furs from Leopold's supplies since his own Coronian wardrobe measured up woefully short to Berevar's climate, but his oilskin cloak at least did a good job of keeping out the wind. Said breeze hummed lazily around them, the constant background rumble of a great beast at sleep.

"I've heard about it," said Otto. "I should like to see that."

He wasn't the only one, either. Anvil seemed keen to reach the northern lights as well, fervently so. Otto did not know exactly why, but apparently the spectacle was the result of an unimaginably vast and deep deposit of iron. Anvil had tried to explain it to him - how the liquid iron reacted with the sun - but most of it was lost on the orc. Not that it stopped the spirit trying, though. Otto had noticed that the closer they got to the north pole, the more animated Anvil became. It even seemed less malicious, as though it had other things to keep it interested, and so did not need its vicious little games to stay entertained. Yes, Otto very much wanted to see the lights. Whatever it was that could affect the creature so must surely be incredible.

"Come on," said Leopold, after a short while. "We will want to be leaving by daybreak. Berevar is not the kind of place where you let sunlight go to waste."

Otto nodded, and followed him back to the snow shelter they had carved into the slope. Doing the same for the horses had been trickier, but giving an angry orc a shovel had been a good way to solve that problem. He and the others had dug down a few metres until they struck the frozen soil, just deep enough to put a roof over the head of the animals. Though the horses complied, they obviously didn't like their tight quarters, and Otto was learning why Salvarians often opted for sleds and husky teams.

They crawled in through the meagre opening to their own little space, navigating the sudden dark by touch and memory. Otto could hear the gentle breaths of the rest of their team, as well as the soft whisper of the wind outside. He reached his bedroll after a little bit of trial and error, slipped off his boots, crawled under the thick blankets, and closed his eyes.

[Otto]

The evening air had a chill to it, though nothing too bad. Radasanth's sturdy buildings sheltered the streets from the worst of it, and even that which did worm through came from the sea, and was thus tempered by the water's slow release of heat built up during daylight hours. Resolve and Otto walked arm in arm over lamp-lit flagstones, he protected by a stout woolen coat, she bare-armed and apparently indifferent to the cold. They slowly left one of Radasanth's restaurants behind them, where they had each enjoyed a rather nice meal and some palatable wines which, even now, lightly fogged their heads.

"Aren't you cold?" Otto asked. Though his dense hair and thick body let him laugh off some of Corone's more frigid weather, he was also used to the heat of the forge, and nor was he ignorant of the cold's effect on his slimmer human counterparts.

Resolve, however, made a dismissive sort of noise. "After all that wine we had? I think not."

Otto had to admit, he could feel the heat radiating off of her. Even through the fabric of his sleeve, he could feel the softness of her arm - a softness that belied their strength. He glanced down at her, and the cogs turned slowly in his mind.

Resolve looked up when she felt the mock shiver run through his limbs. Then she smiled, and pulled herself in closer. "You poor thing," the girl said, as she shared her warmth with him.

"Oh, it's not so bad," he replied nonchalantly. "Actually, I was wondering if you were up for a little stroll."

"Where to?"

"Somewhere special."



* * *


"It... looks a bit seedy," said Resolve, uncertainly.

Otto stopped fiddling with the heavy padlock on the worn door, and looked up at the towering wall, bathed in moonlight. Rough, mismatched stones rose high above them, and the entire edifice was void of much in the way of decoration or variety. When the builders had erected the battlements around the city, the sheer immensity of the task had probably driven such time-consuming features from their mind.

"Please," he replied, returning to the lock. "I know what I'm about."

There came a sullen click, and Otto let the padlock fall to the ground. He creaked the door open and stepped inside. A few more bumps and bangs signified his blind business in the small room beyond, but he found a tinderbox soon enough, which he used to light a wall-mounted lamp. Resolve could see him now, bathed in a dim glow. He gestured her to follow, then turned around and began to ascend a ladder at the far end of the room. She stepped inside and climbed up after him.

"I had a friend lend me the key earlier today," Otto whispered back down. "We're in one of the old eastern watch towers."

They passed through a couple of other storeys, each as empty as the first. They came to the top of the ladder, where Otto paused just long enough to push open the trapdoor above, and then he was up and out. After a couple of seconds, his long arms stretched back down the hole. Resolve grabbed onto them, and then she was floating up into the open air, the orc's strength making light of her relatively small mass.

When she raised her eyes, all of Radasanthia lay before her.

"I always enjoyed having wall duty," Otto said. He walked over to the parapet and leaned on the weather-worn stones. "Never got assigned to it after they moved me to the investigative squad, though."

Resolve stepped up beside him and looked out over the rolling landscape. The bright moon lit up the endless fields in burnished silver, and twinkled clear upon the sluggish Nieme. Here and there, faint spots of yellow light signified a distant farmstead, or perhaps a coaching inn, each one made more obvious whenever a tumbling cloud cast them into perfect darkness. And yet, it all seemed to go on endlessly, a gentle, ghostly down which spanned from horizon to horizon.

"Good view, isn't it? If the wind is right, and coming from the east, you can even smell the rest of the barony," Otto added.

Resolve turned on him. "Oh, come on," she said teasingly. "All of it?"

"Of course."

"I don't believe you."

"It's true! Here - face east," he told her. She dutifully turned around again. "Now close your eyes. It helps you focus."

Laughing faintly, she did as she was commanded once again. Otto stepped in close, so that he was just behind her shoulder.

"Now," he continued, "take a short breath and hold it. Don't flood your sinuses with air. The first thing you should be able to smell are the orchards in the east. Can you pick out the apple blossom?"

Resolve frowned with concentration. Then, after a few seconds, it receded, and she smiled. "Yes! That's incredible... they're so far away. Wait - how can I smell them at night...?"

"It takes time for the wind to carry their scent this far," Otto replied calmly. "You can smell the flowers well after dusk, and by the same token, won't be able to smell them until an hour or two into the day. Keep your eyes closed."

Otto returned the small white flowers to his pocket, and in the same movement, drew out a small jar.

"The wind's changed to a westerly now." He opened the jar, disguising the sound beneath a showy sniff of his own, and brought the container fairly close to Resolve's nose. "There was a Falleni ship in just this evening. Can you-"

"-nutmeg, star anise... cardamom?" Resolve guessed. "A spice merchant, then? Actually, I'm running a bit short on camphor at home."

"Good," said Otto. Now he was smiling. "There's more as well, but I don't know if you'll be able to pick them..."

He had judged her just right, it turned out. "Try me," said Resolve, determinedly.

"Well... on a really clear night, when enough cold air drops down from the northern mountains, it passes through the conifer forests on the lower slopes."

Otto watched her take a few tentative sniffs of the air, but to no apparent avail. "Here," he said, and stepped up closer, right behind her. A large, grey arm curved around her side to cradle her jaw, a side effect of which meant it ended up hugging her, almost as if by happenstance. He gently guided her head. "Face north, and tilt your head up a bit." His other arm pressed into the small of her back. "Move a bit closer to the edge, so you can catch the upwell where the wind hits the wall."

"You're making this up, surely," said Resolve, accusingly.

"Not at all. Now, focus..."

Fortunately for him, pine resin was cheap and plentiful, so it wasn't long before Resolve was laughing with victory. "There it is!" she exclaimed, then opened her eyes - though not soon enough to see Otto tuck the small shard of amber away. Her head drooped back against his chest, and Otto dropped his hand away from her jaw. Before he could take it away completely, though, he felt Resolve's delicate fingers entwine amidst his own, and clasp his arm across her collar. He hesitated, and then his other arm slid about her waist and held her snug, while he nuzzled her richly-scented hair. He felt her body relax against his, and there they stayed, a little hutch of shared warmth looking out upon the softly sleeping countryside.

[Leopold]

Day Two - Ahyark Pass, Berevar

First light, soft touch of promise. Leopold was up first, as ever he was. He set about mustering the beasts of burden promptly. Otto remained stationary for quite some time. His nostrils pug-like whistled their content and told observers of sweet dreams made for two. The merchant tried to reason with his own misgivings about orcs. Mr Bastum had proven each one quite incorrect, and yet here they were headlong into a foray with the worst their kind had to offer.

After a few horses, Leopold’s boots were sodden. The snow clung to leather like shit to a shovel and left brackish moisture dribbling through his haggard toes. Fortunately, for him, immortality did away with frostbite’s constant worry and left him merely tired, uncomfortable, and in desperate need of a drink.

“Wilfred!” he roared. His breath a cloud of vapour, his heart a ventricle of stone and oil, he stood steady and waited. The manservant materialised from behind a horse’s ass symbolic, and smiled through a broken fence of teeth and mischief.

The ice villas tumbled one by one. Shelter swift shorn from the world and replaced with sludge and dark snow from rock face’s throng. By Wilfred’s hand, the caravan had mustered itself ready in under an hour. That efficiency kept the Winchester Rose abreast of the competition, and the expertise it kept closely guarded made light work of Berevar’s uneasy roads.

“Could you kindly wake Otto with some of our best travel cobs, a slab of the Rosie cheese, and some salted ham?” Rosie cheese was a Scara Brae highlight, and salted ham every caravan worker’s staple food. “Then get yourself the same and a draught of the good stuff from my wagon.” This offer was Wilfred’s benefit, well, the better of so-called ‘perks’ for the man who very much ran the business as much as Leopold did.

With a smile, broadly beamed and melting snow with pleasure, the manservant vanished as quickly as he appeared. Leopold tightened the last buckles on his wagon’s tack, and patted the mane of Beastie and Bonnet; naming animals not his best skill, and clambered up to the front porch of his makeshift home. His hobbled boots, still wet, dripped icicles down the framework and his bony backside and aching limbs draped over the course wood in a brief moment’s respite from a busy morning.

“Ride out in ten minutes!” The order carried right down the pass with a thunderous certainty to it. Quality like that came only with godly power, and perhaps a promise of more coin the quicker they fended off near-certain-death from Knife’s Edge beleaguered, broken back. He took out a book; a battered leather bound manuscript of his own, and turned to a folded page. Gingerly, he licked his finger, set back the pleat, and read on.

Out of sight, but not mind, Wilfred crept up to the hulk of Otto Bastum with a wooden plate in right hand, and flagon in left. Fortunately, for the orc, he was not on duty and not bound to the decorum and rules of employment with the Winchester Rose. He was free to drink, and drink he did, as often as he liked on the way to the giant’s home. Wilfred, knowing the potential for a missing eye if he grew too close, whispered the guest’s name meekly.

“Otto…”

Silence. A snort. Silence again.

“Otto!” he said a little louder, his bark hushed by nerves and the imminence of their departure. Defeated, he scuffed his boot angrily in the snow. “Sod it…”

“Hrummpgpgpg.” Grumbled the sleeping giant.

“Mr Bastum! Wake the pikin’ ‘ell up!” Wilfred shouted. Though not godly, his voice possessed all the thunderous, certain qualities of the elder Thayne. Just in case, he stepped away into the portal and grit teeth teasingly against the tired old tirade of trying to tease men out of tired retreats.

[Otto]

The yellow eyes snapped open, and just as quickly again, the blankets were flying back and Otto had leapt out of bed. Wilfred scrambled away for fear of retribution, but it was soon apparent that he had little to fear. The orc rolled out and staggered to his feet, smacked his head damply against the packed snow roof, and blinked is bemusement. He squinted blearily around, frowning as he took in his surroundings, until he finally registered that this was not the barracks dorm and nor was the fellow shouting at him his drill sergeant.

Wilfred held out the plate and flagon. Otto rubbed his eyes, then gratefully took them from the man.

"Eat up quick," Wilfred suggested. "We're heading off in ten."

The orc nodded, and began to wolf down his simple breakfast. He ate with a soldier's acquired habits; highly appreciative of the quantity, and keenly aware that he might have to abandon it at any moment. Wilfred was tempted to stay and watch the spectacle, but there was much to prepare for the day's journey. Besides, as fascinating as it was, he was worried it might put him off his own appetite. The fellow retreated from the shelter instead, out into the blazing snowfield above.

Alone, now, Otto quickly finished off the last few crumbs of food, and set to work. He rolled up his bedroll with deadly precision and as much strength as he could eke out from his limbs, so that when he tightened the straps about it's sausage-thin form, it was possessed of a density normally associated with neutron stars. Then he dressed himself as best he could against the cold outside, stuffed his remaining belongings in his knapsack and, keen to leave the den of dreams behind, pushed his way out through the aperture.

The Berevar wind hit him as soon as he emerged into the light. It seemed to slice away the little heat he had managed to trap in his clothes, and the air was cold enough to catch in his throat and send him coughing. The little puffs of mist flashed gold in the sunlight before being skewed away in the low breeze. All around him were similar wisps, some spawned from the teams of men working around them, others great billowing clouds jettisoned from the horses' nostrils.

Almost as harsh as the temperature was the sunlight. Burning golden light glanced off the crystalline snow, almost perfectly aligned to eye height, and walking out into it had almost blinded the orc. It was with great reluctance that he extracted a pair of smoked glasses (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?26023-Making-of-the-Hirsute-Hipster) from his pack and donned them, pulling his hood up and ducking his head to avoid being seen by the others.

Leopold looked around at the sound of the orc's boots crunching across the snow. Otto heaved himself up and beside the man onto the driver's seat, and gave him an apologetic little grin.

"And good morning to you, Mr Bastum," Leopold intoned. "All set?"

Otto's training must have been slipping. Like any other soldier, he could always have been relied upon to be up and about before daybreak, but this morning had somehow broken years of habit. It must be the weather, he reckoned - the dreary, monochrome days were bringing out a hitherto undiscovered tendency to mope. But looking back to that early outing with Resolve, whatever pang of longing he felt was dwarfed by a sort of abashed incredulity. He'd never had his interests reciprocated, and so was new to courting when he began to see Resolve. Thus, the first few weeks - at least - had been marred with that same sort of fumble-handed naivete. Otto had also learned not to underestimate the girl. His spice jar had gone missing soon after the remembered incident, though he'd thought nothing of it at the time. Then Resolve had invited him to dinner and there it was, in the middle of the kitchen. A little message to him; a retort. From memory, she used it to store cinnamon quills now.

Otto shrugged the knapsack from his shoulders and slung it behind them into the wagon, then nodded at Leopold.

"Aye," he muttered, and gave another small cough. "Let's not waste the sun while we have it."

[Leopold]

“It would help if you got in the spirit, Mr Bastum. The day's sour enough, let's not help it along.” Leopold’s tone dripping with wry contention and barely contained seriousness. Otto darted him a glare broadside down the palisade, but softened when he caught the merchant’s cheeks – clear signs of humour.

“Point made. I wouldn’t want to,” he grunted as he made himself comfortable, “delay meeting certain death head on.”

Before either of the men knew it, they were off proper. The horses, seemingly intelligent beyond their manure stained behinds lurched into life. They cleared the rise of the pass double time, and broke out onto the plains and the sunrise halcyon scene. Kissing the mountains yonder, gold light gave beauty and love to Berevar’s otherwise bitter and shrewd existence.

Silence purveyed the scene until Otto realised he had been asked a question. Lethargy it seemed, or perhaps the temperature, undid his wit and keen senses. He set himself right in the less than comfortable carriage and puckered his lips. Grey eyes sparkling, he reflected on the day’s coming events.

“I’m not sure what I getting set for yet.” There were so many questions hidden beneath his sentence even Leopold, quick as a razor, had to break it down.

“Peace. Politics. Potential disaster.” That was about as abrupt and succinct as he could get. He whipped the reins thrice for dramatic effect. It slowed the caravan after they reached two leagues. Time was melding into one frigid fraction of a moment.

“Oh. Nothing important, then.”

“Otto, I did not ask you for help without reason.” Who else would? “Several interested parties have expressed considerable faith in your humility, humanity, and hubris and I have seen it first-hand painfully and practically.” The stomach wound still gave Leopold trouble after too many whisky chasers.

“Luned?”

Leopold nodded. The reporter, though he oft suspected that was a nomenclature to something more devious and worthwhile, practically sung Otto’s name when she had mentioned it. Taking a moment to slice and dice some choice words, he produced a hip flask. The silver rim was battered, but the curvature emblazoned with his family crest was as brilliant and ornate as it was a thousand years ago.

“Amongst others.” He downed half of it there and then, and offered the remainder to his increasingly fond of being about man at arms. “Tell me, Otto. Over bourbon, bounty, and bombast…if diplomacy fails with the orc tribes, what can we expect to happen to Knife’s Edge?” Rocking back and forth in the cradle of his mercantile empire Leopold Winchester tensed every muscle in his lithe body. This was a tipping point in a potential allegiance between the dead, duty-bound, and dangerous men of Luned Bleddyn’s expanding repertoire of heroes, hooligans, and horrors. The hip flask tipped tantalisingly.

[Otto]

The orc sniffed. His nose was already beginning to run, and he drew out a length of cloth from under his cloak. It was no handkerchief, and he hated to soil his linen bandages so, but it was either that or leak a steady dribble of snot for the rest of the day.

"I don't know," he replied, after some thought. "I know that in Alerar, the orc tribes wouldn't even understand the concept of diplomacy. But they exist as small, independent clans, and I don't think they form armies like this. Which means..."

Leopold looked at him expectantly. "Yes?"

"It means one of two things, perhaps." Otto shifted uncomfortably, and looked out over the tundra. "They're either socially advanced enough to willingly band together, which would require some form of diplomacy to exist. Or they could have taken the opposite route, and armies are formed by the violent and forceful subjugation of subordinate clans. If that's the case, I wouldn't hold much hope for settling matters peacefully."

The old merchant nodded to himself. He had feared as much, but what else could they do? One goes to war, he thought with a twitch of mirth, with the army one has.

"And what of Knife's Edge?"

Otto glanced back at Leopold. "You know as well as I do. Probably better, in fact - we've both been rebuilding the city, although I've mostly done so indirectly. More than half the city is still rubble, and poorly defended. If this were a raiding band, that would be fine. But an army? Our best bet might be to evacuate as many people as we can and withdraw. Once they break through whatever lines of defence we put in place and reach the civilians, it'll be a massacre."

"The city walls are still strong..." Leopold mused.

"Yes, and undermanned." Otto coughed drily into the back of his hand. "Rubble Town takes up three quarters of the city. Homes and business looted and destroyed, criminal organisations filling the sudden power gap. The place generates no revenue to fill government coffers. The standing army at the city took a massive hit during the war and just hasn't been able to recover, in terms of enlistment or equipment. There just aren't enough men to hold the walls, nor to plug the streets once the orcs make it through. We could probably hold the castle, but Knife's Edge will be lost."

"I see. And if we fail, will we live to see any of that?"

Otto shrugged. "Maybe they'll let us live. Might let us go, might keep us as slaves. But I think we'll be alright. If we impress them enough that they bother to even hear us out, they'll probably be kindly disposed towards us."

Leopold mulled this over. After several minutes of watching the frigid cliffs sidle by, he said, "Or they might find it prudent to kill us, so that we can't pass on any information about their numbers."

Otto wanted to dispute this - the orcs of Alerar would relish having word of their strength spread, and glee in the growing dread of their foes - but were his kin in Salvar bound to feel the same way?

[Leopold]

“You’re wonderfully optimistic, as always.”

Leopold chuckled. Once upon a time, he would have disagreed with the orc. He would argued his way out of condescension, but when so accurately read like this… it was pointless. Instead, he did what he did best. He sourced them both a drink from his hipflask, somehow finding crystal bourbon glasses from thin air. The almond scent, undercut with peaty after tones made him swift forget the frigid air and the rise and fall of the Clifftop highway.

“I have an admission to make, Mr Bastum,” he eventually said some four miles on.

“Oh?” the orc hazarded lazily. The back and forth of the wagon over the declining ridge lulled them both into complacency and comfort. He adjusted himself on his seat, pushing feet forwards onto the guard step as advantage. If the road dropped any steeper they would both tumbled headlong down the mountain.

“I asked out of good faith and curiosity, but I know exactly how this encounter will go.” Sadly, he had tried to appease orc warlords and vagabonds before this day. Each time war broke out. Whilst the war was rather localised, to about half a mile squared, it was tiring all the same. With the overbearing weight of Rayse Valentino’s name pressing matters, Leopold was not certain he could win.

“You do?”

Leopold glumly nodded his reply. He stared ahead, admiring the mountain panorama that was Berevar’s one redeeming feature of beauty amidst darkness. Above the peaks and troughs of the winter valleys, for just half a day’s journey, they could see a kingdom resplendent. Untouched by the south. Untouched by greed.

“If my message reached the giants before the orcs put up their blockade a pitched battle is inevitable.”

Otto blinked. Heavy tired eyes beneath bushels of grey mattock. He calculated how best to respond, short of smashing the glass into Leopold’s all-too pretty face, and relented.

“The giants and the orcs of Berevar, unlike Alerar counterparts have been blood enemies since the War of the Tap.” Blood enemy was literal. They were born of the same union of Old Gods in days of yore. The wagon hit a tussock, and amidst clenched teeth, both men steadied one another.

“Why are we bothering to come all this way if they’re going to kill one another anyway?” The same reverent piety Leopold witnessed in Otto months prior returned. The merchant remembered the orc’s speech at the dining table and the outburst that followed.

“The orcs do not know the giants are still alive.” That was Berevar’s greatest secret, not that it contained gods and demons older than St Denebriel did. “When they burst out of Adelman and rip the army in half, it will be us that brokers peace and that alone will give us the leverage we need to disband the army.” He sighed. “At least, I hope it will. Like you say, if the army marches on Knife’s Edge even Rubble Town will have to find a new name.”

In silence, they descended and levelled out into the very southern tip of their destination. Ahead, pinned between two rising and indomitable clifface, an army spanning leagues. In the distance, a great fortress strutting out the northern cliff like a palatial nightmare. The mountain, which bore it, rose high into the horizon, and eagles, giant and regal flocked wearily at its tip.

Otto’s jaw, a mountain of its own, dropped open.

“We go on foot from ‘ere sir,” chirped Wilfred. The butler managed to slip out and disembark to the front of the wagon in effect silence. A skill that earned his lucrative salary alone. He pointed ahead to the movement over the snow.

“Ah, drat.” Leopold dismissed his glasses, the hip flask, and his hat. He donned a woollen cloak and dismounted in a less stealthy fashion than his employee dismount. With heavy footfalls, he touched earth again, his home. “I was hoping to at least change before we began proceedings.” He looked at the welcoming party, and then Otto, and then back at the approaching orcs. He ventured ahead of the caravan and waited diplomatically, arms where their enemies could see them.

“Hurry up Mr Bastum,” Wilfred heckled. He stood to his master’s left, and gestured for Otto to stand to the right. They had survived business, dabbled in pleasure, now it was time for pugilism.


Draft post so you can amend dialogue and demeanour before finalising.

[Otto]

Eight towering orcs slowly clarified into view against the snow. The wind changed and Otto picked up hints of sweat, grime and smoke from the approaching group. He could see that they were clad in bleached hides and furs for the most part, with the odd bit of blackened metal peeking out from under the thick winter garb. Otto clambered down, sinking halfway up to his shins in the crisp snow, and trudged over to Leopold's side. The other orcs had weapons in hand, too - not raised and ready, fortunately, but it was quite obvious that they could be at a moment's notice.

The tusked sortie drew to a halt some twelve feet away from the caravan. The largest of them - a scar-faced behemoth peering out from a bear's-mouth hood - shuffled to the fore, and ran a suspicious eye over Leopold's crew.

The merchant took a confident step forward. "Hail. I am Leopold Winchester, of the Winchester Rose Trading Company, here to parlay with your warlord."

The senior orc seemed to ignore him completely, and alighted upon Otto.

"Lat sha-burri-ul?" he asked, in a hoarse grumble.

Otto resisted the temptation to catch Leopold's querying expression, and looked instead straight into the other orc's eyes. The fellow was almost a good foot taller than the smith, and a mite wider, though it was hard to tell just how stout or wiry these warriors were beneath their heavy clothing.

"Otto uruk," he stated. "Otto goth-ob Otto, Leopold bosnauk."

A harrumph echoed from the leader's maw. "Otto lul gijak-ishi, snaga burob."

"Fatoft-uurz sma-buub," another one chuckled behind him to his brothers.

Leopold sidled a little closer to his friend, who had more or less frozen over. "What," he hissed out the side of his mouth, "is going on, sorry?"

Otto wasn't the only one who had heard, it seemed. The orc leader turned to Leopold with a scowl. "Him no-uruk," he muttered to the man. "Him man name, man master, come talk not fight. Man talk. Uruk fight."

"'Uruk'?" Leopold asked.

"Orc," Otto mumbled.

"Man-things follow Garruk, if want talk," said the big orc. "Bring wagon and snaga if want carry things, maybe."

With that, he turned about and began to trudge back the way they had come. The other orcs, meanwhile, closed around either side of the caravan and formed an unsettling escort for the party. Leopold, Wilfred and Otto trudged back towards the wagon, while Garruk made his own way deeper into the cliffs, and the milling horde nestled between them. After a little while, Leopold turned away from the sight and directed another question towards Otto.

"'Snaga'?"

The orc's features bunched up in a snarl. "Slave orc," he explained. "They think I've been domesticated."

"Ah. Well, to be fair, they're not entirely off the mark, are they?"

Otto shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, my friend," Leopold stated chipperly. He slapped Otto on the back. "We'll set them straight soon enough, I'm sure."

The orc smiled thinly. "It's a good thing you planned for this mission to fail, or else I'd be worried."

[Leopold]

“I’m so glad you’ve faith in me.” The expression was deadpan enough without the giveaway tells of reaching for his hipflask.

When the sun rose on the morning Mr Winchester had been rather cocksure of himself. The plan was testable. The hypothesis was provable. The execution…was lacklustre. As they were curtailed through the ramshackle and yet strangely organised war camp, he pledged to avoid orcs full stop (save Otto), for as long as he lived.

“Should we get back onto the wagon?” Wilfred enquired. Half-stooped, half tiptoeing, the manservant lost all his wit and while the moment more than one Otto was near. He whispery waltzed behind the duo, keeping out of earshot and fist range.

Otto chuckled. He ignored the glares of the disapproving ‘kin’ to throw a murderous glare at Wilfred. It said ‘If they don’t eat you, I Will’ without having to sully his name in front of ‘honoured brothers’.

“If you wish to cower in the shadows before Brother Garruk, Wilfred, do so. We men will walk on the snow, as the Old Gods intend…”

A fresh smattering of snow fell across the valley. As though the aforementioned gods willed the scar on the surface sealed and shut, it deepened the drift and weighed heavily on the ox hide tarpaulins that were strapped to ramshackle wooden frames in the name of shelter and, Leopold hoped, hospitality.

“We sensible cowards will be indoors then, all’s well guvnor.”

Quick as a whistle Wilfred scarpered. The sound of his lithe form flailing up the wagon’s ladder and disappearing into the red and white striped canopy echoed down the valley. Groups of orcs, some bigger than lions and every one armed watched in nervous groups as the caravan made its way towards the Black Gates of Adelman, and the Bloodied Hall.

“He’s going to miss the Feasting,” Otto sad glibly.

Leopold’s eyes widened.

“Shit.”

“Shit?”

“I forgot about that.”

Otto sighed. “Don’t worry. I’ll drink ox piss and keep your head on your shoulders.” His footfall became heavier and languishing, as though the weight of the world was trying to prevent him from the inevitable, sticky end that awaited them all in Garruk’s tent.

[Otto]

The sortie trudged steadily forward through shin-high drifts and banks. Otto heard the crunch and thump of hoofs behind, plus the rolling creak of axles, and could smell the horse's raw animal breath in shreds upon the wind. Even more powerful than that were the vague, grimy scents of the orcs all about them, and the razor aroma from Leopold's flask. The snow was by far the brightest thing in the canyon; the icy walls on either side were too steep for it to cling to, and stood tall and black and bare instead. A broad strip of sky ran above, but the shielding effect of the cliffs was obvious. Colour was dull and muted down here, the bases of the rockface were steeped in shadow even during what passed for daylight here. Otto could see a few small fires burning off in the gloom. Every once in a while, their light would be obstructed as some hulking figure shambled in front of them, but there wasn't a huge number of campfires all up. Perhaps most of the fuel was being held for the officers, or for when night's deadly chill settled down. As it was right now, the air was merely freezing.

They were being watched in turn, as well. Bands of orcs idled around by their thoroughfare, walking as they were, or just seemingly passing time. He saw one brute running a whetstone along the blade of an massive axe with a head about the size of a man's chest, but it was almost dwarfed by its wielder. The huge orc lifted two impassive yellow eyes to the group. Otto felt his gaze following them, along with the drawn-out scrapes of novaculite on pitted metal, like a patient mason polishing away at a tombstone.

Otto wondered how large giants got, and if it would be large enough.

They passed close by a few other orcs, all clad in warm hides, some in heavy black iron mail. They were armed to a soldier, though the arsenals were varied; thin curved scimitars to thick machete-like blades, axes, cudgels, hammers, spears and pikes, bows and javelins and more. No one seemed particularly inclined to use them at the moment (although Otto fancied he could hear the faint din of a ruckus off in the darkness), but instead just milled about and spoke in low voices to each other... until Leopold's party drew close, of course. Then they watched the newcomers with dull eyes for as long as it took the caravan to move past. It was a bored army that the blacksmith saw, dug in and waiting on the order to march. Nobody seemed too agitated about the prospect of surviving in the upcoming siege, but perhaps they were just more concerned with the more immediate threat of Berevar's cold.

Garruck eventually stopped in front of a small tent, made of crudely-stitched animal skins and decorated with various horns and bones. Two massive tusks framed what appeared to be the entrance, each slightly curving around to form an arch. Despite their size, though, Garruck would still probably have to stoop to pass between them. Otto also saw a number of clean-picked skulls adorning the corners of the exterior, strung up on cord to form morbid little mobiles. No small number of them appeared to be humanoid in origin.

The huge orc peered around the empty plot surrounding his own tent, and gestured to a bare patch some score of feet towards the cliff.

"Can claim land here for now," Garruck intoned. "Have snaga raise tents, if staying. But you go up, see Chieftain, get Feasting. Go soon, if know what good you."

"Just me?" Leopold enquired, through blue lips. "Or may I take some of my company with me?"

Garruck rubbed his neck absentmindedly, and stared past them towards the towering bulk of the far fortress. "Bring some snaga with if want, yes. But wise to leave others here and make ready. Pitch tent at night... bad idea. Fingers freeze, fumble in dark. We find man-things and horse hard as rock and cold as snow in morn." Then the big fellow grinned. "Still, meat run thin soon. Not so bad for us, I think."

[Leopold]

Leopold arrived at the same conclusion Otto did. Follow orders. He lurched forwards, arms flailing, seemingly mad. The caravan guard, however, stood nervously thirty feet away understood the man’s intent and bolted into action. It did not take long for preparations to be underway and for the Winchester Rose Company to pitch themselves a camp.

“I assume all that flappadapping has a purpose, sir?” Jeren enquired. He managed, once again, to appear out of thin air with a smile murderous yet meaningful. Leopold waltzed about, set eyes on the swordsman, and put the man’s doubts to rest with a glare. “I thought as much,” Syrian finished.

“You thought as much?” Had Otto been human, the sarcasm would have been obvious on his wizened features. Instead, all Syrian got was valley-like lines and gruff resolve. “Is he with us?” he asked Leopold. He leant to the left slightly, as though to look through, if not around the man.

Leopold nodded. The wind whipped his mop to life, his jacket to motion, and his heart to fervour. The orcs were right. If it were this cold now, they would be in serious trouble if they did not have cover by nightfall. Here, of all the valleys and lannerets in Berevar, warm was a state of mind – distant dreaming of weather that never quite reached this far north. “Cocky little shit though he is, the man’s a dab hand at poker faces and seeing me through troublesome…” the merchant trailed off. Jeren walked to his employer’s side and patted him on the shoulder endearingly.

“Fuck ups.” Syrian concluded. Leopold rolled eyes. “Only way to put it.”

“Well,” Otto sighed. “I guess the small consolation in all this is he has to endure the same…ritual of welcome we will.” The image in his mind was too impolite and horrifying to give any thought. They would live through it soon enough, and forget it not.

A trio of shouts raised wooden beams and flags atop pointless displays of sovereignty. Around the beams, support struts from the back of the last wagon and a help wrapping of cloth, fur, and wax treated skins. Layer upon layer to fight away the increasingly lancing wind that came south from the black gates that lead to Adelman. Leopold thought it metaphorical – giant breath down a nervous neck.

“You two will get along one of these days,” the merchant chuckled. He wrapped his jacket tight, did up the togs, and hunched his shoulders. Satisfied the camp would be upright and intact upon their return; he approached the impatient Garruk and nodded gruffly. “Take us to the Khan, then,” he said.

As the orc took them to their uncertain introductions, Otto flicked back through the pages of his memories at the times he had shared, to date, with the so-called ‘merchant’ Leopold Winchester. There was a remarkable concentration of pain, bullets, and bitching…less so gold, oration, and deals struck. He doubted if he could ever to learn to get along with Syrian, but for Jeren’s sake, he would darn well try.

“He be big up showing you our ways. Forget where you are, and that here, you’re all orcs, and you won’t just be meat to be stripped from bone!” Garruk roared over his thick, lubricous neck. The mention of cannibalism brought Otto firmly back to the snow covered earth.

“There’s something worse than being eaten?” Jeren quivered. His lanky frame, rapier in hand, silhouetted as the wind turn to snow turned to sleet. “Oh my…”

“Of course there is,” Garruk guffawed. “Being eaten alive!”

Otto, Leopold, and Syrian all swore in unison, and continued to speak out of turn and in terms too unenduring to print all the way to the Khan’s tent, and the start of pugilism.

[Otto]

"You thought I was joking?" Otto asked his two compatriots. Leopold maintained a vaguely horrified look towards the crude bowl in Otto's hands, though Jeren betrayed his amusement by sporting a faint upward twist at the corner of his mouth.

Orcs take a lot of flak for their craftsmanship, but the Khan's tent worked well at sealing the interior away from the desolate clime outside. Rather much too well, in the opinion of the trio; there pervaded throughout the tent a combined medley of sour, unwashed orcs, crudely-tanned hides, and rancid blood from the tables' game, with no means of escaping. It was something that you needed either a lifetime's acclimation to deal with, or a human's pitifully weak nose to ignore it. Otto had neither, sadly... and matters were made worse by the unmistakeable contents of the bowl. Its ammonic pang cut across the other odours like a saw along the sinuses.

"There are a couple of theories as to the tradition," Otto said, staring morosely down into the liquid. "Apparently, when one of the first Khans led his army south - raiding, of course - the pickings were especially lean, and supplies ran short. Rather than have his soldiers kill their animals straight away, the Khan had them last. He got his men to live off their beasts by taking milk, a little blood... and when they were desperate enough, piss. That's the version orcs here typically give credit to, and say that the tradition brings them closer to their ancestors. Funnily enough, the Alerar orcs have an almost identical story. That probably means that the story has been around since before the tribes split apart."

Leopold peered over Otto's shoulder and into the bowl's murky depths. "And the second theory?"

"That it's even older. Orcs in the frozen north or barren wastes of Alerar noted that spots 'frequented' by beasts like oxen were generally more fertile, so they consider their water to have life-giving properties. That one's a bit more shaky," Otto continued, "but if it's true, I'm glad it's just the piss that they drew that connection towards."

"And you're certain you're alright to do this?" Leopold continued. His eyes shone with heart-warming sincerity as he said, "I'm sure Jeren wouldn't mind."

Otto tried to hide his face from Leopold's bodyguard. "It's... fine," he replied. "To be honest, I've probably drunk worse at Moody's."

"I'm more concerned that the greyskins will be upset it's not you taking a swig, Leo," Jeren interjected.

"It's fine," Otto said. "As his snaga, I'm technically property. If I down it, it's no different than using a cup or bowl to drink from. That little loophole of using snaga is how some of the elder orcs get around their more demanding duties."

The expression on his comrade's faces told him that they were less than certain about their situation. That would make the next part a little difficult.

"The other thing," Otto said, his fingers now drumming on the lip of the bowl, "is you'll have to treat me like a snaga. To treat a slave like a friend, to show concern... they see it as a weakness. To display weakness in front of the Khan is a grave insult. And as you would know, an orc's retort-"

"-comes at the edge of a blade," Leopold finished. "Yes. Thoroughly unimaginative, but effective."

Jeren apparently felt compelled to add an addendum. "Effective for most," he whispered.

Leopold shot him a Look, but continued mutterings were curtailed by movement at the other end of the tent. There at a long, rough table, were sat about a dozen grizzled and important-looking orcs. The hordes had no finery of their own make, exactly, usually choosing just to adorn themselves with tattoos, warpaint, totems and trophies. On these individuals however, there seemed to be a complicated tapestry of past accomplishments: extremely out-of-place Raiaeran trinkets, Salvaran jewellery and Church of the One icons, and more. All had no doubt been taken as spoils of battle. Otto saw a weird, shriveled, bladder-like thing dangling from a thong around one one silver-haired, scar-faced colossus. It was only when the orc turned in his seat that Otto could make out a cloudy iris and pupil, and recognised the thing as a giant's eye.

At the centre of the table, opposite them all, one of the orcs stood up. His jet-black hair was streaked with grey, though by no means did he appear to be among the eldest of them at the bench. And while the number of trophies dangling from his furs did not quite match the number born by most his seniors, a quick assessment of the room showed that it was far more than what most the others of his apparent age possessed themselves. The tent immediately filled with the sound of sliding seats as the attendants of the Feasting stood. Leopold followed suit, and soon felt the wooden bowl being pushed into his hands.

The Khan's yellow eyes sparkled as he surveyed the host before him. "Hugi-at stargushim," he growled, and held out his own wooden bowl.

"Hugi-at stargushim," the orcs chorused back. They proffered their bowls out to the Khan as they spoke, then drew their arms back in and swiftly gulped the liquid down.

Leopold went to look at his container, but it was being deftly extracted from his grip by a pair of grey paws which easily dwarfed his own. Otto put the bowl to his tusked mouth, muttered something distinctly orcish in its vileness, and sculled the contents.

As everyone began to sit back down, Leopold gave Otto a lingering and concerned look. "How do you feel?" he asked.

Otto made a sour face. "I think," he mumbled, "I think that ox piss was off."

[Leopold]

“Wash it down with this, then,” Leopold muttered. He discreetly passed his hip flask, always at arm’s reach to his companion.

Otto took it without reservation, and undid the stopper with a thumb.

“Snaga or no, any man who goes above and beyond his duties for a good cause at least deserves a drink.”

The humidity in the tent did not get easier to deal with as the noise increased and the orcs in the tent went from ox-piss to ox-piss beer. Leopold was sure that, had he the misfortune of drinking the latter, he would not have tasted any difference in the former. He watched the Khan backhand a lesser toothed orc across the room.

“Culturally speaking, it’s something the people of Berevar have all too readily forgotten.” To a casual listener in, Leopold’s comment might have sounded like an insult to Otto. In truth, it was a compliment, given Bastum’s place in Coronian society, and the fact he was of an altogether different tribe of orc.

“Don’t assume that culture and civility are mandatory, though, sir,” Jeren interrupted. He leant around Leopold to wink at Otto, who, with a sour expression, only managed to half wink back.

“I know that,” Leopold said flatly in his defence. He took the hip flask back from Otto, once the sergeant had drained it discreetly, and sent it back into the aether he used as his own private vault. “I was, of course, insulting my own kin in the process.”

Another orc caught the sour mood of the Khan, who was growing irate at the presence of foreigners unexplained, and this time the blow to the chin knocked the slave flying into the dark corner of the tent full of crates, furs, and barrels of…piss.

“We can talk about how terrible the Old Gods are, and which tribe is the worst later,” Jeren said encouragingly. His encouraging tone, on this occasion, sounded suspiciously like a threat.

With a finger pointing to the left, the caravan guard highlighted the fact that, in the absence of the Khan’s hospitality, the trio had garnered an enemy. An orc a good seven foot tall, with white teeth two foot long was glaring through the twilight. His own snaga was slouched over the chair next to him, clearly intoxicated with too much ‘vintage’ urine. Any orc with a snaga beneath the Khan was still an impressionable member of the tribe. Leopold looked nervously to Otto, his impromptu cultural attaché.

“As a guess, that would be one of the Khan’s war leaders.” Otto thought to himself. “Legends and supposition aside, a general of the Khan would have every reason to want to prove himself to said Khan by putting an outsider’s head on a spike.”

Leopold sighed. Drinking piss and being beheaded were his least favourite things.

“Khan!” he roared.

A paltry human voice amidst a brood of orcs bellowing drunkenly and on full stomachs did little to sate the din. Leopold stood upright, pushing himself from his seat by pressing down on the table. In the twilight, Otto and Jeren could have sworn their employer’s skin darkened. He grow a foot taller, and in a flash, he was his normal, lithe, pallid self again.

“Khan!” he roared a second time.

This time, his voice ripped through the tent. The Khan bellow back, though in orcish, and to command every orc in the room to be quiet. Mugs thudded onto table tops and orc skulls. Swords, impromptu daggers to carve charred meat clattered onto plates. All eyes turned to the Khan, and then all eyes turned murderously to Leopold. Not knowing quite what to do under such duress, the merchant bowed quaintly.

“Allow me to divulge to you my reasons for being here.”

Jeren immediately saw broken bones in his future. Otto would have prodded Leopold in the ribs had the man been seated.

“That man there,” Leopold pointed to the white toothed orc, the war leader, “had been making eyes at me for some time. An insult to you, Khan, and to me. So, as I came here to solicit you to take your war anywhere but Salvar, I have an offer for you.” Leopold reached into the aether again, and pulled out, with a grunt and a shunt, his cavalry spear. Every dagger in the room quickly found itself back in its owner’s hands.

“I challenge that orc. If I win, you abandon the Vorgruk-Stokes and return to Berevar to fight the other tribes.” It’s what the people of Berevar did best – keep themselves a thousand years in the past. “If I lose, put my head on a spike and go have fun with what remains of Salvar.” He waved the spear enchantingly in the war leader’s direction. Orcs full of piss seldom turned down a challenge to their masculinity.

Eagerly awaiting a response to see how quickly they would be ground to dust, Jeren and Otto remained seated, wide-eyed, and regretting not asking for a pay rise.

[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 (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mS8LvHT_zcQ#t=0m40s). 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!"