Something smelled undeniably off in the square, and for once it wasn’t just Jehan stewing in his wearable pot. It took a deep, controlled expenditure of willpower to breathe normally, turning his head very slowly from one side to the next. It would be easier to take a dozen short, sharp inhalations, he knew, but he would also grow quickly accustomed to the alien scent and thus lose it. The concentration required was good, anyway: it prevented him from expressing his annoyance for all of the clunker’s gleaming and shouting.

The scent strengthened though the air went still, and Throm narrowed his eyes but focused on nothing – there was nothing to see here, but for an orc of Berevar that did not preclude a presence. Direlings came from the mists yearly, and a scent of sweat on the breeze is often the only harbinger before a rain of arrows, and goblins and trolls love caves and only emerge in the darkest nights. The orc had known striplings that could fight blind, and Thrommesh out of Skogul was no stripling.

So his big ears twitched when Barnabas hoisted up his mallet, and when the weapon emerged Throm roared, stepped in, and shoved his shield against the swing to deflect it. Wood knocked wood with a tremendous crack, but the shield held and the nearly three hundred pounds of muscle behind did not budge. Throm was not puzzled by the lack of warning before he was attacked, but he was baffled by the force of the blow. It was as if there was no weight behind it, as if his shield were a bell to be rung and not a barrier to break.

The orc was no bell, and the little love-tap he received was actually a little insulting. Feeling slighted, Throm overreacted a bit, roared deafeningly, and shoved his entire body forward toward the handle of the mallet with his shield raised, intent on steamrolling his unseen foe.