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Warmaster Jack

JACK

[This text is available under the Creative Commons Noncommercial Attribution Sharealike License.](%5C)

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© 2011 by Onyx Tao

I'd arranged to meet him here; if he showed up. He said he would; I'd left civilization, such as it calls itself, about fifty miles behind. This is orc-territory, although still a little close to the border. I'd dodged a couple of patrols, but nothing serious. Well, nothing serious to me. There weren't that many of them, ten, and I could have killed them all - but if I'd gotten hurt, I would have missed the rendezvous, and even if I wasn't sure he'd be there, I didn't want to miss him if he was going to be there. If. If. If.

I'd been surprised when he knew of the stones; I'd slept there on when I'd left my tribe. When I'd used the key I'd stolen, unlocked the shackle, and run. What I'd wanted to do was creep in and start cutting throats. I'd probably have been caught, but ... sometimes I still wished I'd done that. I hate orcs. Not that humans had treated me any better. I'd learned to hate humans pretty thoroughly, too. Humans hadn't chained me up and raped me every night after a day on the chain gang with the other half-orcs and human slaves, it was true. Humans had just spit on me, insulted me, and treated me like garbage. Disposable, stinking garbage. I'd taken it, swallowed it, and hired myself out to a farmer anyway. I'd done hard work, and I wasn't afraid of it, not if I were going to be paid. Underpaid. Word of advice: when working for humans, get paid in advance. Instead of coin, I got slops - after they'd fed their pigs, and told that was more than what I'd worked for, and that I owed them for it.

It was the laughter, I think, that pushed me over the edge. They thought it was funny. I don't even remember deciding to kill them. I remember doing it - the first time I'd ever killed anyone. I'd killed animals, for food, but it wasn't like this. I remember them laughing, and then looking angry, and then the farmer and his older son looking - finally - scared as I ripped the younger one's head off. It was like pulling out a weed, although flesh gives differently. Another blow had crushed the other son's windpipe. The farmer stuck a knife in me, but it didn't hurt, and then I crushed his hands. He started to scream - I think - but I smashed my hand into his chest - through his chest, and crushed his heart. Maybe they'd thought I was unarmed, although I had been wearing a cestus.

And that's pretty much how I made my way among humans as a despised half-orc. I'd travel from town to village to city, trade a few stolen coins for probably stolen goods, or outright illegal ones, or vice versa. I'd gotten good at it, good enough to turn a few coins into a lot of coins, and it turns out in the cesspool of corruption that passes as human civilization that enough money can buy respect even for a half-orc.

After the first couple of years, I didn't even have to make much of an example out of the humans who cheated me. Maybe it's my orc heritage, though, but I found I enjoyed it. There's just a visceral bloody joy in killing. It makes me harder than an iron dildo, too. And as long as I was going to kill the bastard anyway, I might as well get all the pleasure out of it I can.

I met him on my last trading trip. Humans like their drugs, and the stronger the drug, the more likely it is to be illegal. I was meeting a new trader, Danz. He had fifteen pounds of basso incense - called brainfuck by its human users - and the stuff is incredibly addictive, massively illegal, and very valuable. Incredibly very valuable. I was paying for it with eight mithral tradebars, and it was still a deal. I'd get twenty times that much for it, where I was headed.

Danz turned out to be a gnoll, with a dark brown pelt. He was striped, but the stripes were barely visible against the dark of his hair - dark dark brown stripes on dark brown. We fenced politely for a few minutes, but we came to terms pretty quickly. Neither of us had the goods here , of course. I'm not stupid. Danz wasn't stupid. We made what we in the business call arrangements , and I'll leave it at that.

Maybe it was fate that put a guardsman in my way that night - a young, arrogant, pretty human. Sometimes when I get called stinking greenie , it doesn't bother me. I can usually buy and sell someone like that a hundred times over, and when I turned to look at that tasty young fellow in his fresh guard livery, I knew this wasn't going to be one of those times. I feigned a little bit of fear, stepped toward him, and grabbed him. Knocking him out was easy, and a few drops of sweet lotus essence in a cloth tied around his face would keep him sleeping until I was ready to deal with him.

I'd have to leave town right afterwards, of course, but I'd planned to do that anyway. I picked him up, and carried him to the meeting place with me.

Danz was there, and our exchange went smoothly. I wasn't surprised, he'd come highly recommended. I hope he wasn't surprised - I have a good reputation, among those who deal with me.

"And ... this?" the gnoll said. "What is ... this? A surprise, an inducement, a present?"

"Something I picked up on the way here," I answered. "I thought I'd dispose of it before I leave town," and I smiled, thinking about what I'd planned.

Danz's eyes widened a bit, but then he smiled too. "I see. Perhaps ... we can do business again."

"That would be fine," I said. "Although ... I might not want to come back to this town too soon," and I tipped my head towards the unconscious man.

"A pleasure," the gnoll said.

"Dealing with professionals is always pleasant," I said, and the gnoll took his mithral, and walked quickly away.

I took the guardsman out of town, and broke the guardsman's arms and legs - that woke him up, but he couldn't scream through the gag. He tried, though. I managed to slice his clothes off without cutting him - keeps the blood down. By the time I was done fucking him, though, he wasn't screaming, just a few broken whimpers. By the time they stop fighting, that's really when I'm done. I tossed the carcass into a deep thicket of berries - it would be found, eventually, but not until after I'd left. Long after I'd left, I expected.

So I was surprised to see Danz sitting in my inn when I got back. It was late - very late, nearly dawn. He was leaning back, with a tankard of beer in on his table and a single candle. The barman looked tired, and I was surprised to see the bar still open.

"I paid him to stay open," the gnoll said. "Although I did expect you back earlier. You found some amiable companionship, I hope."

"Companionship, at least," I said.

"Give us both another beer," the gnoll said, "and close up. Please, have a seat?"

I waited until the barman had left. "Was there something wrong with my payment?"

"No," the gnoll said quickly. "I am satisfied, completely. Completely. It was ... it seems ... you have ... some anger towards humans."

"Yes."

"And orcs, too, I think?"

"Yes," I said tightly. "What of it?"

"I have a proposition," the gnoll said quietly. "I need a war ..."

Did it appeal to me? Yes, yes it did, and that meeting had led to another, and another, and another, and finally, it had led me here, a deserted set of standing stones high in the Medden Mountains, on the fifth day before the ninth full moon. Danz said he'd be here tonight, and wait for three days. If I wanted to follow through with this, he said, then this was the start. Danz was wrong; the start was long, long before that, but gnoll couldn't know how this had fit in with my plans. Or maybe he had; and known just how attractive his offer would be. It didn't really matter to me; I'd spent enough time to be fairly certain that Danz wanted ... well, I wasn't entirely sure why Danz was so intent on it, but something close to what I wanted. Sometimes an opportunity just has to be taken.

If Danz had been serious; that was the real question. If he hadn't been leading me on. If he were, I'd have to look him up, eventually, just to let him know how much I didn't appreciate it ... I was relieved to see him, sitting on a boulder, puffing smoke from a hookah, the charcoal glowing faintly with each indrawn breath. The gnoll was wearing heavy leathers, and had apparently finished eating something, an empty plate next to the hookah. I didn't try to sneak up on him - that can be funny, but I didn't think he'd appreciate it any more than I would, or at least, he'd appreciate it the same way I would: with something sharp and pointy. "Danz! I'm glad to see you."

"And I you," the gnoll said. He pulled out another mouthpiece, and attached it to the hookah. "Here."

"I don't smoke," I said.

"There are reasons for it," Danz said. "Please try it. Smoke has ... obscuring properties. Which this hookah uses. It's subtler than most means used to avoid, how should I say it, unwanted onlookers."

Unwanted ... "I think you're too paranoid. Who do you think would be spying on us?"

"Nobody," the gnoll said primly. "If I thought someone might be spying, I wouldn't even be having this conversation. I just don't like to take chances. One tiny little error, even an accident, and what was a charming ambush turns into a fiasco."

"A little paranoid, aren't you?"

The gnoll shook his head. "Think about what I want to do, and to whom. Would you like to reconsider the phrase too paranoid?"

"Point. So, what do you have?"

"Some of what you wanted," the gnoll said cautiously. "I could only get three of the love philtres - the permanent ones are rare, very rare, I'd never even heard of such a thing, but my Master had ..."

"Your Master?" I said. Danz had never even hinted that he was working with, much less for, someone else before.

"My Master," Danz said, nodding. "Yes. And yes, you'll have a chance to meet him - maybe in a year, if all goes well. He will want to meet you, in any case. Apparently, this is even more important to him than I'd thought."

"Huh," I said, thinking. "Who is he?"

The gnoll shook his head. "I can't tell you. Not won't, can't. It would take a God to break that spell." The gnoll looked pensive. "And maybe not even then. Master is ... quite skillful."

"But you mentioned him."

"He wanted me to. I've ..." the gnoll broke off. "You'll meet him, and you can ask your questions then. I can't answer them now. As I said, he had other things, too."

Fine. "Go on then."

Danz nodded, and handed me a folded soft leather packet. "They're in there, labeled. The blue one is much stronger than the other two, Master says. There also three curative preparations, all very strong. Also labeled."

"He made them?" I asked.

"No. None of these can be traced back to him," Danz answered quietly. "Or me."

"Good."

"And I have two other things ..." the gnoll said. "Equally anonymous."

I hadn't asked for anything beyond the potions. "Oh?"

"I know your chain has virtue," the gnoll said quietly. "As does your sword. But my Master is concerned about discretion." He reached into his robe, and pulled out another, smaller, carefully folded leather packet, and handed it to me. "Here."

I took the package carefully. I've always been a little distrusting of magic; you can never really tell what it's doing, although armor and weapons are usually fairly quiet - not quiet, but ... if you've ever held something mage-worked, you'll know what I mean. They ... tingle. I've had a wizard friend - acquaintance, I'm not sure I'd call him a friend, tell me that mage-items aren't really self-willed, but if I pretended that they were, I'd do better with them. I'm not sure what that means. My sword has a ... tingle. My chain shirt? There's something there, something more. Don't ask me what; I'm no mage, but I can feel something. Not this time, though. The folded leather was just leather, the suede finely napped under my hand. I undid the knotted leather string holding it closed, and spilled a necklace - a yellowed bone medallion, on a tarnished silver chain. And still it didn't feel out of the ordinary, not the way I'd expected, so I just held it, waiting, trying ...

And then I felt it, or rather, I didn't feel it. It was still, quiet, dark, like a covered well in a hidden grotto in a deep forest. "This is ..."

"Dragonbone, yes," the gnoll said, but that wasn't what I meant. I slipped it on, and it was like ... well, it was like falling into that deep well, and sinking into darkness. And it wasn't like that, because I could still breathe, and see, but there was this sense of depth, now ... it's hard to describe magic. It wasn't hostile, in fact, I didn't get a sense of anything except distance and quiet. "Am I invisible now, or something?"

"No, not invisible, but ... hidden. Protected. From magic."

I thought about that. "Except yours?"

"Mine?" the gnoll said, surprised. "No. I know a little, but not enough to get around something like that."

"Your Master's, then?"

The gnoll shrugged. "No clue. Is he worried enough to provide the best protection he can get his hands on, or just good enough to keep anyone less skilled than he is? And don't forget, he's looking for things that can't be traced back to him. Maybe it's better than what he'd like to give you, and maybe it's worse." Danz took a puff from the hookah, and shook his head. "No clue, Jack. None."

"I see. Well, if I'm successful, I'll see you again, here, in six months."

The gnoll shook his head. "Change of plans there."

That sounded suspicious. "I don't like last minute changes."

Danz shrugged. "It wasn't my idea. I did mention my Master, didn't I?"

"What does he want?"

The gnoll took a long, long drag on the hookah, but I just waited. "He wants this, Jack. More than I thought. Once you've got control, I'm supposed to come in as your shaman. I told him ... well, it doesn't matter what I told him. He told me."

I thought about that for a moment. It suggested that his Master, whoever that was, wanted to keep a close eye on either me or the situation or both ... but the plan Danz and I had worked out seemed solid. Having an allied spellcaster, one I could rely on, as much as any spellcaster could be relied on, could be handy. Then again, I'm sure Danz and his Master were planning a few alterations to that plan, pretty much the same as I was. It would make things more interesting, that was for sure, and a gnoll shaman in an orc camp ... well, I liked Danz, but not enough to put up with trouble, that was certain. And it would make him dependent on me, rather than ...

"That's jumping the rope," I said. "A gnoll mage is going to have a hard time impersonating an orcish shaman."

"No impersonation, I'm a priest." Danz said. "And a mage." The gnoll gave me a quick grin. "I'm a gnoll of many talents."

"Apparently," I said, looking at him again, wondering what minor godling he served. There are so many little powers willing to whore themselves for worship that there was just no way to keep up with them. My opinion of Danz went down, though. I mean, I like power as much any anyone, but selling yourself to some otherworld thing? Not a thing a sensible person does, nohow, noway. Especially ... especially since Danz was a mage. I mean, if you're a mage, you've got magic - why sell yourself for what you already have? "I'm not sure I'm familiar with that," I admitted. Danz made to say something, but I had to know one thing. "Did you ... were you a mage first, or after you started serving ... your God."

"Goddess. And first I was mage." said Danz. "Why?"

"Just curious," I said. "I don't know if I've met a priest-mage before," I lied, and wit

"Sometimes religion is a ... private matter." Danz said. "But ... I can do it. And if my Master has me doing ... what I think I'll be doing, it might be good for me to avoid more, ah, civilized lands for some period."

"What ... no, don't tell me. I don't want to know," and I didn't. I really didn't. "So, then, how long before you show up. And do you really think you can just walk in and take over?"

"You think so," Danz said.

"I am an orc. I know the tribe, I know the customs, and I know orcs. And I don't think you can say any of those things."

"Ah, but you'll vouch for me."

I just looked at him.

"No?"

"No," I said. "And it wouldn't help you if I did. You'll need to make it into the tribe, challenge, kill, or convert any current shaman, and then - somehow - get the tribe to accept you." I shook my head. "That's tough for an orc. A gnoll? It's a bad idea. And a goddess? Harder. Orcs like gods, as in male."

Danz nodded. "Oh, you'll be surprised. I will report your misgivings to my Master." When I didn't look impressed he said, hurriedly, "That's all I can do. He says jump ... I jump."

I briefly considered whether or not Danz was trying to snow me, but either way, my opinion of Danz dropped yet again. Subordinates who carry out hopeless orders don't impress me, and frankly, those who tolerate them don't impress me either. It might be that Danz's master knew he was an asslicker, but if so, he was giving him far more authority than a yes-man should have. And even if Danz's Master were that unreasonable, and listened so poorly to reports from the field and the opinions of those he had chosen to enmotion his plans ... it wasn't a complaint a good agent would make, to show his Master in such a bad light. I took a breath. This was a lot to consider. Unless Danz was trying to distract me from something else? Something that might give me a clue as to who this mysterious Master actually was?

If, in fact, Danz's master existed. That wouldn't be so bad ... although I still wasn't entirely sure what Danz got out the war we'd planned. Oh. He's a priest; maybe his goddess wanted something, and in fact most godlings would have a major hardon to crush Cheliax. That could explain it. Maybe. And if it were just him, then ... he might want to keep a closer watch on me as I raised the orcs to battle. Maybe.

"I'll make it work, somehow," Danz said, oblivious, I hoped, to my thoughts.

Danz being a single actor made even more sense, now that I thought about it. Love philtres aren't that hard to come by, just expensive, and I'd been expecting him to bring eight or nine. And then the amulet - someone who could easily lay his hands on that should find love philtres trivial. It would explain a few things, and his wanting me to think he had a more powerful backer - that, too made sense.

Maybe I'd underestimated Danz, after all. He might be doing this on a limited budget. I smiled; that was fine with me. Maybe even better; it meant that what Danz wanted was almost certainly compatible with what I wanted. Maybe I wouldn't have to kill him after all. I hate killing people for business. I mean, I understand it can be lucrative, but ... if it's not personal, then I just don't see the point.

"You're thinking it might work then?" Danz asked, completely misreading my smile.

I shook my head. "Hard sell. I think you're more likely to get yourself killed. If you're not threatening, you won't be respected. If you're not respected, you won't be effective. But an effective, threatening gnoll is just going to be a target."

"Suppose I disguised myself?"

"How? Turn yourself into an orc? I don't think you'd like that, and I'm not sure how convincing you'd be," I said. "Magic isn't the answer to everything. I don't want to offend you, seeing as how you're a mage and all, but I've always found magic most effective when it stays in the background."

"A problem for later. If Master thinks it's such a good idea, maybe he'll have some ideas on how to carry off a gnoll shaman in an orc tribe."

"Not an orc tribe," I corrected him. "The Stake Sharpeners." I paused, and repeated it in Orcish - it sounds a lot better in Orcish, because the Orcish word that gets translated into 'stake' is also used as spit, and sharpen is used for weapons so a longer (and less alliterative) translation might be the tribe that sharpens spits for their living foes. I might add that someone taken alive no longer rates the word foe, as well. In Orcish, the meaning is that anyone opposed to them will be impaled and roasted, alive."

"Haven't heard of them," Danz said. "Although I assume they're near here?"

"A little south. Maybe fifty or so miles from the Cheliax borders. They've done a little raiding, but most of that's the Gore Drippers." The Orcish doesn't translate at all that way, literally, it would be blacksmiths hammering liquid flesh, but since what it means is that they crush and liquefy their enemies into nothing more than a spatter of remains about the battlefield - it's accurate enough as a short phrase.

"I've heard of them," Danz said thoughtfully. "You should see me again in ... oh, maybe six months, give or take a few weeks. Otherwise, you'll be contacted by some other agent of my Master - as I've said, he seems to like you. He'll ask you about ..." and Danz paused. "Blackberry liver pate."

A recognition phrase. "I've heard worse ones. It'll do, not so outrageous as to invite attention, but not something I'm likely to hear accidentally, either."

Danz nodded. "And I have one more thing. For you, I mean. My Master's said he's had it for a long time, but given how he got it, and the thing itself, he's not concerned that it could lead anyone back to him. And that it's useless to him, unless perhaps you can use it."

Another leather-wrapped thing emerged from Danz's robes, and at this point, I was suspecting magic. How much stuff could he store in there? There hadn't been a hint of it from the outside, and robes that just carried stuff ... pretty useful. Maybe I should have asked for something like that ...

No. That's the other problem with magic. Start depending on it, and it kills you. You forget how to solve your own problems. It's too make-believe - it's a trap, one of the most seductive traps. I'm not against magic, I'm happy to use it when it comes along, but I'll never be too sorry if it goes away, either. One of my ... acquaintances, who does kill for money, learned just enough wizardry to master a scroll - that's a premade spell - with a spell of antimagic. Antimagic! All it does is shut down all the magic around him for a few minutes. I still have trouble believing any wizard would have been stupid enough to create such a spell to begin with, and then, having created it, actually taught it to other wizards ... or that some other - any other - wizard would be crazy enough to sell a scroll of it ...

No. Never depend too much on magic. I keep mine hidden, well hidden. Nobody expects an orc to be a wonder-worker.

The leather was wrapped around something just a little smaller than my arm and the package was surprisingly heavy in a strangely unbalanced way. Curious. I unwrapped it to find there was a thin sheet of metal - lead - folded around something, and sealed with melted lead. "What is this?" I asked.

Danz shrugged. "All my Master told me was that it was orcish - very orcish - and that you might be able to use it. Might. If you can't, I was to rebind it, and bring it back. It's old, it was ancient when my Master got it, and my master says all he knows is that it will wake to blood and thunder."

Blood and thunder. War? Prophecy? See what I mean about magic?

"So it's not going to kill us if I open it, or anything."

Danz shook his head. "If my Master wanted us dead there are easier ways he could have gone about it. I've no doubt this is dangerous, but ... indirectly."

I broke the seal, unfolded the lead carefully, and took out an old, tarnished gauntlet. A left-handed gauntlet. At first I thought it was steel, and then black-tarnished silver, but ... it didn't feel like either of those two. The pattern of long, thin overlapping scales concealed its articulation, but as I bent it, it flexed almost as easily as a leather gauntlet would have, although it had much more stiffness. The wrist moved in every direction; the fingers moved down ... trying to bend one up, though, seemed to cause the entire back of the hand and finger to seize - it would be hard to break a finger in this thing. The inside smelled of old, cracked leather - it clearly hadn't been maintained well. Along the back of each finger, running down onto the hand and then past the wrist and up the arm were the suggestion of spines, long, sharp, just laying down flat against the device. A little experimentation showed they were decoration, though; the hint of a spine cleverly embossed in the small scales of the gauntlet.

It needed to be oiled, and badly. The workmanship astounded me, though, and it was a little puzzling. Most weapons, really good weapons, are dwarvish, and those have a ... heaviness to them, they're solid, dependable ... they're tools, a warrior's tools, rather than weapons in their own right, and that always seems to mark dwarf-work. And this gauntlet didn't have that. It was attractive, but it was still war-gear. It didn't have the graceful touch of elf-work, even if it had been small enough. It didn't remind me of any of the human lands I'd been through, either, although humans vary wildly. If I had to guess, I'd say ... "Human?" The word came out as more of a question than I'd intended.

"Orcish," Danz said, looking at it curiously. "Master said it was orc-work."

I'm no scholar of history, but I don't think orcs ever made anything like the gauntlet I was holding, and I shook my head slowly. "I don't think so." It was too well made to be orcish, however well it captured the ever-present menace of orc. Human, it had to be human, or maybe ... maybe even half-human. Why would I think that? I hadn't thought of half-human in ... since I left the Stake Sharpeners, where I was a weak, effete half-human, and went south, where I was a brutal, monstrous half-orc. Maybe because I was going back?

Maybe there was something more than that.

I just held the gauntlet, in both hands, waiting. If it had been wrapped up like that, in lead and leather, and old, then it was probably magic-stained, and I wanted to know what sort of stain it had. At first, I felt nothing, just the weight of cold metal, the dry smell of the cracked leather. I didn't smell rust, or mold, or mildew, though. This had been neglected, forgotten, gone unused ... but it had not decayed, I realized. It ... slept, and while it slumbered I could only feel the faintest touch of it. How much stronger it would be when it woke was a mystery. No; craftsmanship like this - magic like this - was no orcish legacy, much as I wished it might be. I wished that? Why would I wish that? I shook my head, and pulled the gauntlet on.

I could feel the cracked leather and dust inside the gauntlet scratch at my hand and arm, but I worked my fingers into it - it was a tight fit. But it was a flexible - or it would be, once I oiled it - as I'd thought from my inspection. It looked ... right ... on my hand, the blackened scales glinting dully. I held it up to look at it in the moonlight. It looked good, even if it was scratchy.

"It seems to fit," Danz said, watching me.

"Yes," I said. "I'm not left-handed, though." I looked around. "Is that everything?"

"I think so ..."

"When you come back," I said, "bring food. Something to create food, water. Ease that problem for me." I paused. "And more permanent love philtres. As many as you can find."

"That's not ..." Danz started, questioningly.

"No," I said. "Not enough."

"How many ..."

"As many as you can find," I repeated.

"A number, a goal would help," Danz said. "Five? Ten? A hundred?"

"Ten," I said.

"And whatever you're going to do with them," and the gnoll made some placatory gestures, waving his hands forestallingly, "and I'm not asking, we agreed, but ... will you be using them one at a time, or ... several at a time?" He paused, and then added, "It makes a difference, really."

"I don't see, that it matters to you," I said, "but one at a time." I had a very specific use for them.

Danz nodded. "That ... that might make things easier. I'll see what I can do." He paused. "And ... anything else? Besides that?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't even need the philtres, but they will make ... things easier."

Danz gave me a careful tooth-hidden grin. "As you say. Good luck, Jack."

"If I need good luck," I said, "that's bad luck, right there."

The Stake Sharpeners, when I left them, had an encampment in a mountainside hollow, something like a small stone valley a few hundred feet below the tree line, and, if you didn't know exactly where it was, easy to miss. Easy to miss? Impossible to find; that had always been one of its best defenses. Even the desultory patrols when I was there would find searchers long before they came anywhere near the hollow. And years of labor - by slaves, not the Sharpeners - had opened up tunnels into the mountain. One of those tunnels accidentally opened into a real cave, but it was just a tiny little room, barely more than a crack in the rock.

Although, if you knew just where to look, there was a crack in the wall near the ceiling, barely large enough for a young half-orc to crawl through - and in fact, not even that large, although the scrapes had healed a long, long time ago. It opened up into a chimney of sorts, a long crack between two planes of rock, impassible, in the dark, and with no openings to the outside.

No known openings to the outside, or better yet, no known opening except for the one I had found, many years ago. I was bigger, now. Too big to go back the way I'd come. I hadn't had to ask Danz for a potion of reduction, though. I'd acquired four of them, and all I had to do now was find the crack I'd come out of. I'd marked it, long ago, just as I'd marked my route through the mountain, but I wasn't entirely sure I'd be able to find it again. Ultimately, it didn't matter, but it would make the challenge I intended easier. The tradition was that anyone who wanted to challenge the chieftain had to do so on the last day of the full moon - tonight, at a rock called, not so surprisingly, the Challenge Rock. When I had been there, it was usually decorated, if that was the right word, with the heads of previous challengers. Warmaster Burn - that's what he called himself, the Warmaster - was always happy to take on his challengers. I'd noticed, though, that those challengers were usually given liquor the day before, and they'd often not even slept, simply coming directly from whatever tunnel where they'd been imbibing their liquid courage, and not surprisingly, Burn killed them.

I doubted the procedure had changed, although I'm sure Warmaster Burn was long gone. Here. The six gashes I'd left in the bark of a tree ... they looked a lot smaller than I remembered them. There should be a boulder about fifty feet over, and a little to the right of it, a rock sitting in a crack ... yes, although both rock and crack looked smaller now, too. I moved the rock, took a potion out. I hadn't asked Danz for this one, or its siblings. I'd bought these myself. It's not that I didn't trust Danz ...

But I didn't trust Danz. I cracked the wax seal, pulled the stopper out.

Drank it.

Potions taste like magic, and they always taste the same, and different. This one stunk of mint and camphor, an icy coldness at the back of my throat as I gulped it down. I've learned; it's always better to swallow as fast as possible. Few potions taste like they smell, and this one tasted like dead leaves and rust mixed with cheap firewater. A cramping started in my stomach, spread out to my arms and legs, like every muscle in my body was kinking at the same time, and then the kink released just as another wave of cramping spread through me. It hurt, a dull ache that turned into a sharp pain as I felt like I was sinking into water that got heavier, and heavier, and heavier. I set my jaw, and waited. I've suffered worse.

It passed, probably faster than it seemed. The crack was higher on mountainside now, the boulder nearly eight times bigger than before. I was smaller, really, along with all of my stuff - that's the way these things work - and I had, according to the hedge wizard who'd sold me this stuff, about three hours before it wore off. That should be enough time to make my way back. Should. I brought out another potion, from a different hedge wizard, and tied it around my neck. I didn't want to risk this one wearing off and leaving me pinned inside a mountain to starve slowly while having the potion I needed inside a pouch that I couldn't reach. I didn't think it would happen that way, but ... who does?

Giant spiders aside, the trip was uneventful. Although I did need the second potion, and it was handy to have it so close to hand, it wasn't at a point where I would have been trapped, so I got another out of my pouch instead, and drank that one, tasting of strawberries and straw, leaving the scent of lilacs in my nose. It didn't hurt, either, more like the almost-but-not-quite pins-and-needles of a limb about to fall asleep, but nothing more than that. It was one of the gentlest potions I've ever had, and given that it was transformation, I was amazed. I made a mental note that, if I ever found myself back in Opoppi, to drop in and give that fellow a sizable tip.

I'm not sure how much later, I found myself staring down into that tiny little chamber, now apparently being used to store old barrels. I'd have to wait for the potion to wear off, but ... I got down, and inspected the new door. It was locked, although the locking mechanism was meant to keep persons on the other side of the door out. From this side, anyone could open the door. Good.

A little surreptitious checking showed the barrels contained bear fat (I thought), grain, dried fruit, dried meat ... useful, but nothing that valuable. I lay down on the floor, waiting to be my normal size again. It took quite a while; that Opoppi alchemist gave me an amazingly effective potion, even if the last three hours or so were spent hiding in a storeroom. But I needed my full size before I ventured out, and certainly before I allowed anyone to see me. I didn't want anyone thinking about how I'd gotten in, or why I'd been tiny. I wasn't planning to use that path again, but I still had two potions left, and having a secret way in - and out, ever so long ago - had turned out to be very useful.

I listened carefully; if my internal clock was right, it should early afternoon. All quiet. I went back to my pouch, pulled out another concoction in a wax-imbued leather bottle. I'd bought it from a priest of ... of ... Desna? Shelyn? I'm not sure now; but it was a pleasant little chapel. It was one of two I'd bought from him. This one would prevent toxins from harming me, at least as long as it lasted. The second, far more expensive, would actually purge any poisons in me. The priest had told me it would last at least half a day, maybe a little longer. No. Not yet. Too soon. I wasn't really afraid of a poisoned weapon tonight. I expected my 'victory feast' would have special seasonings in some of the dishes, and of course, I could hardly not drink when I was the one being honored. That would be cowardice, and ... orcs don't respect cowards. There are, of course, all sorts of ways to keep from being poisoned, but my plan was simple. I just plain wouldn't bother. Instead, I'd dare them to do their worst - and show everyone that poisoning me wouldn't work. After that, a ordinary vigilance would keep me safe, at first, and if my plans succeeded, being poisoned would be the least of my worries.

The door opened silently, because I used a little of the bear grease on the hinges and lock mechanism. I had some oil with me, but why use my oil when the bear grease would be more than satisfactory. I looked out into the tunnel; nobody moved. I slipped out, and began moving cautiously. There's an art to being unseen; of drifting from nook to nook, even in a tunnel like this. It would be easier once I got out into the sunlight, of course. Orcs, unlike we half-humans, just don't see well in bright light to begin with, so hiding from an orc in the daytime is child's play.

I'd spent most of my childhood hiding from orcs, but that hadn't really been play.

The first intersection had a locked gate; just a set of bars with a simple lock. There was a little rust on it, so I oiled it, and had it unlocked - probably faster than if I'd used the key. The gate was new, at least to me, but it had still been there for a few years. I continued on, turned left, and then right, and by a new tunnel. The entrance to the tunnels was guarded by an orc warrior, with a sword that looked like it could use a lot of sharpening. A snoring warrior with a dull sword was hardly anything to stand in my way, I easily suppressed the urge to lace his trousers to his bracer, and slipped by, a shadow into the sun. This was the inner courtyard of the Sharpeners. The Warmaster lived in rooms up above, cut into the mountain. The slave pens were just outside the inner walls. The courtyard itself was close to what I'd remembered, although ... neater. Neater? The woodpile by the roasting pit, the tall chunk of rock that Warmaster had called the obelisk - it was just long, roughly - very roughly - cylindrical spike of stone that some previous chieftain had dragged into the courtyard and stood on end. The chains by the roasting pit were still - no, they'd been replaced, there were more of them, and they looked heavier. The pit itself had been lined with stones - finally - and ... that was why the courtyard seemed neater; the pit was empty, just soot-stained stones. Lined, and with the ashes cleaned away, it looked much better than it had before. It was, I supposed, too much to hope that they'd actually used those ashes to make soap, but every little bit helps.

It occurred to me now, as it hadn't twenty years ago, that the stone had to have some kind of base. Probably it was hidden under the skulls. At least a hundred skulls, mostly orcish, had been around the base when I was here last; now, there were more. A lot more. Five of them looked fresh, although the blood had dried to brown. The stone itself jutted about thirty feet into the air, as ugly as it had ever been, although the bottom third or so was covered in flaking brown dried blood. Something new, I supposed.

I'd expected the courtyard to be empty, at least of orcs. Slaves scurrying around, or trying to avoid work, or chained to the wall wouldn't have surprised me. Instead, there weren't any slaves. A single orc, wearing a battered but servicable breastplate and greaves with a broadsword was standing by the stone. He looked young - at least, young to me. It seemed obvious; he intended to challenge, and by getting here earlier, was perfectly willing to take on any and all challengers until moonrise. I'm sure he didn't expect any now.

Getting behind him with a dagger was easy. Admittedly, I've had a lot of practice at that, but I really didn't want him yelling or screaming or alerting anyone. The question was, should I talk to him first, or just take him out? Almost certainly this idiot was expected, it's hard to mount a challenge unexpected. Ultimately I suppose I wanted to know if he was worth keeping.

I decided to see how things would play out. I walked up behind him and hit him very precisely with the pommel of my dagger. A little harder, and it would have killed him. A little softer, and it would just have made him angy - but as it was, he just crumpled, and would have fallen forwards if I hadn't pulled him back. I gagged him with his shirt, tied it tight, and then ... ah, yes, the chains by the pit. I didn't have the keys for the manacles, but then, I really didn't need them. The locks might keep ordinary prisoners in, but against a professional, they just weren't that useful.

I went back over to the rock, and let myself blend in with the shadows on it. I'm not sure how to describe that. It's mostly just how I hold myself, angles, curves, but ... there's a mental trick to it, to, sort of letting the shadows into your head, and pulling them over you as well, and after a moment, I could feel the shadows pull me in. It would be interesting to see if anyone would see me, too. I looked up at the sky - it would be dark soon, and the moon would already be up, full and bright. After a moment of thought, I swapped the potion around my neck for the one that would render me temporarily immune to poisons. I wasn't ready to take it, not yet, but the moment was approaching.

The chained orc woke up a few minutes later, glanced around, tried to say something through the gag, and I watched with a certain amount of interest. The gag held, as did the manacles. I'd looped them around some other links, to keep him from bringing too much leverage on any one hand, and it seemed to work. He pounded one on the stones, but it held. Given the cheap pig iron, I had wondered if he'd be able to break it; these were far from good steel chains. He finally settled down to wait, after he decided there was nothing else he could do about it. Certainly don't use your broadsword to cut the links. Of course, I'd tied the broadsword into the sheath, so it wouldn't come out - but he could have tried. I mean, it wasn't long until dark, the chief would come out and find his rival all tied up right next to the roasting pit. If that didn't give the chief some ideas, well, he was dumber than most.

Late afternoon gave way to eventing as the sun vanished early behind the mountains to the east. It would stay light for a while. A few orcs, the less sensitive ones, were starting to creep - no, these were mostly half-orcs. Some had slave brands, but not all; that was a step up from my day. All half-orcs had been branded as slaves when they decided we were old enough - not old enough to be branded, but old enough to remember being branded. They didn't want us to forget. I'd left just before they were going to brand me, but ... I hadn't forgot, either.

A small crowd had formed around the chained warrior. He was ordering them to let him go, and they were laughing at him. Some crude humor, some of it funny, most of it just crude. The consensus, though, was that Trilwek, the Chief, hadn't showed his cousin Hont enough respect, with a great deal of smart remarks. I wondered if that were the same Trilwek who'd been such an ass before. Still, it was considered a little shameful for Trilk to chain up his rival like this, although there was a sizable minority who thought it was just smart, and approved of it. Chief Trilk, or Trilwek, the shorter name was probably a nickname, hadn't shown up yet. I was keeping my eye on the stairs, as much as anything else. He ought to show soon, if he wanted to exercise any kind of control over his tribe. Or perhaps he was just too busy surviving. However the evening went, that wouldn't be his concern much longer.

When he came down the stairs, he was dressed for battle; heavy leather armor that almost fit, and a heavily battered but sharp greataxe that looked as if ... it might have been the one Warmaster had. If it had survived that long it probably had some kind of magic. It didn't matter to me.

"What's this?" Trilk's voice was unpleasantly high-pitched, and the little giggle at the end of it didn't help. "Hont, you said I'd find you at the Challenge, and ... so I have." That annoying giggle again, and "I appreciate your locking yourself up like this, Hont." He turned around. "LIVE ROAST," he yelled, and there was an uncertain half-cheer that quickly gained volume as those opposed realized mood of the crowd.

"Cheating bastard," yelled Hont. "You knocked me out!"

"Not me," said Trilk. "Although whoever did ..."

Ah. My cue. I didn't move so much as relax, let the shadows flow back. "That would be me," I said, as loudly as I could.

Hont jumped. Trilk, to give him credit, was turned around with that axe in his hands and a look of deadly concentration on his face before I'd even finished speaking. That told me something about how the confrontation between Hont and Trilk would have gone, even if the unusual forbearance the tribe extended to that pathetic excuse of a warrior. Trilk's expression registered a little bit of surprise, somewhere, but he was busier studying me, my armor, my weapon, my expression - perhaps expecting me to study him. I already had, though. I knew just where and how to strike, and Trilk would be as helpless as Hont had been earlier ... if I could strike first.

"Who the fuck are you?" Trilk said, disparagingly. "And what do you want?"

"Drop your weapon," I said. "And you can call me 'Master."

"You're not a tribemember, you have no rights," Trilk said, backing up. "Challenges are for Stake Sharpeners. You ... you're just going to make our feast that much bigger."

"I am Jack Stake Sharpener, Trilkew," I said, and there was a mutter as I used his name. "I've been gone for a while, but so what? Either drop your weapon, or come and fight." I paused slightly, insultingly. "Unless you're scared." I tilted my head a bit. "Don't be. I'll let you eat at least once a day."

Trilk charged - pretty much what I expected. He gained nothing by letting this drag on; the sooner he killed me the sooner the better for his authority. Sometimes these duels can be preceded by an hour of clever insults, or what passes for clever. He was probably expecting to take me a little off guard.

That would be the second to last disappointment in his life. I sidestepped the axe, and slammed him with my longsword, sending him reeling into the ground. I'd hoped to knock him out, like I had Holt, but that didn't happen. He recovered easily, and came back at me, with murder in his eyes. I was expecting that, too. He wasn't the first berserker I'd fought, and he wouldn't be the last.

After a few exchanges, I did realize he was one of the stronger ones. The mad fury that boosted his strength had more lasting power than I'd expected - I decided I'd just have to whittle him down. No sudden surprise winning moves here, not this time. Usually, that's what I aimed for, a single telling, deadly blow, but not here, not tonight. I wanted the warriors of the tribe to see just how dangerous I was, and a killing blow can easily be dismissed as luck or accident. A fight like this, where your skill, speed, and stamina is on trial, is a much better proving ground and much as I might like to think otherwise, I had a lot to prove to these orcs. They would follow me, eventually, from loyalty, but they would start from fear - I had to give them something to fear, first. Fear would lead to respect, and respect to loyalty.

Staying out of the way of the greataxe wasn't that difficult, but I did have to take some risks to get my own strikes in, and Trilk grazed me, once or twice, as I was slicing him to shreds. I might have preferred to take him out cleanly, but he was good, good enough to be chieftain and either defeat or scare off challengers. Still, I was better, and it wasn't long before he was laying dazed on the ground. I took a breath, and looked around.

There was now a huge circle of orcs around me, watching. Some of them were afraid, others wary, and some - many - downright hostile. That was fine. I pointed to one of the hostile ones with my sword. "You. Get this gutted and onto the fire." He didn't move, of course. "Now," I added, in the same voice. As I'd expected, he didn't. It only took a single blow to send his head rolling, and blood spattering across the crowd. I took a step towards one of the wary one, wiped my sword off on his clothes, and said, "You. Get these two gutted and onto the fire."

This time, I was obeyed with pleasing alacrity. I looked around. "Anyone else? Anyone?" The circle took a step back. "Good, damn good. I am Warmaster Jack, and anyone who crosses me or my warriors is going to die. You want to know why I'm here? I know how tough you are." I had their attention now. And why wouldn't I? A little flattery goes a long way. "And you're going to be tougher. In two months, the Bone Hand will be our slaves - the ones that beg for their worthless lives." They, of course, were the closest tribe to the Sharpeners, and there was a continual feud on that border. It had been ongoing twenty years ago, and it was still ongoing today. In two months my grip would be a lot stronger than it was today, and it wouldn't matter then what I promised today. Still a lot of silence. "Or don't you want them?"

That provoked some muttering and yells, and a trio of warriors shouldered their way through the crowd; they were big, and their hands were on their swords as they swaggered up to me. "Who the hell are you, punk?"

I killed that one first, and both of the other two were fast enough to get their swords out before I could cut them. They were fast, but were they coordinated? Apparently not; it was fairly simple to deflect their attacks into each other. Even better, was that they were acting like clowns in front of the rest of them. That pretty much decided it; I'd have to kill them - they'd never forgive me for humiliating them, and I regretted that briefly. They were reasonably good - nowhere near as I was, of course - and it seemed wasteful, but I'd end up wasting a good number of orcs before I was through. Omelette, eggs. Still ... they'd have to go, so the more hapless and foolish they looked ...

Unfortunately for my new sparring partners, they had no idea how to work with each other. I sent one tumbling into the other, and they both toppled over. I chuckled, loudly enough to be heard, and I heard a faint echo from the crowd. I waited for them to get themselves back up - something I'd never do in a serious fight, but this wasn't, not like this, and they charged together. Together! Tripping them was trivial, and one of them actually fell on his own sword. He didn't get up, and there was definitely laughter at that.

One left, and no partner to tangle him significantly decreased the opportunity for laughs, so I just let him charge me. And charge past, as I sidestepped and slapped him forward. He stumbled, but recovered without dropping to the ground again, turned, and came back. We engaged for a several strokes. He was being surprisingly cautious given how angry he'd been earlier; his swordplay was defensive and testing, inviting me to make an error.

As if I didn't know everything about this. Feint, counter-feint, riposte, stroke ...

He was slow on the stroke, and I sliced his cheek open. Feint, counter-feint, riposte, stroke - not the same, but different, and still slow. I could have cut him again, but not on the other cheek, so I didn't take the opportunity. I doubt he realized that was intentional, because he started another series that was painfully predictable, and this time he did give me an opening, but he managed to twist out of the way - and now he realized I was playing with him. That could either make him angry or afraid -

Afraid, but there wasn't anything he could do about it now. Disappointing, really, because I'd rather he was angry. Fear leads to bad choices as well, though, so perhaps there would be something I could work with - no, he missed a parry that he should have made, and my blade slipped across his stomach, leaving a thick trail of green. It didn't cut through the muscle, though, but it made him drop his sword. I let him drop down, he grabbed for it, looked up, and looked at me - terror.

I love that.

And then he dropped the sword again. "No," he said. "I'll ..."

"What? Be a warrior?" I said. "Dropping your sword? I need orcs," I said, and an oblique blow sent his head rolling. "Not weak-blooded geldings."

"He wasn't gelded," a voice rang out.

"He should have been," I said. "He would have been." I turned around, and faced the crowd. "I think there's enough meat now. For my first official act as warmaster, we will have a party, just as soon as -" and I kick one of the bodies "- these are ready." I looked around. "Break out the wine."

That got a cheer in response, and several orcs headed off to the storerooms. They'd probably get an early start on the drinking, but so what?

"I have to go see to my household," I said, and that got a second cheer. Fighting, drinking, fucking. It just doesn't get much better than that.

My new home was a cave, dug into the mountain several generations ago. The chief's sows would have seen the fight, would know their lives and bodies and litters belonged to yet another warlord, and this time, unlike any previous times, they wouldn't know anything about him.

Me.

I wasn't sure if they'd be in the entering chamber, or they'd have run back into the sowery chambers. I'd only been in these rooms once, a very long time ago, and they were different now. Where there had been cloth, now there was bare stone - no, the tapestries now served as rugs, soiled and filthy. Eh. My time in human-dominated lands had affected me more than I'd thought, or maybe it was just Baron.

Baron was dead, though, and I was ... not.

I took a breath, and went further into the rooms. When I had been here before, the sows were to the left, and I'd had no business with the Warmaster's females. Left had been a direction that would have gotten me into more trouble, and I'd been either smart enough or insufficiently daring - whichever one applied - to do that. Quiet conversation came from the short corridor, and I brushed through a hanging skin - cattle, I thought - into the sowery - Baron would have referred to it as a harem, but it wasn't, not really, not the way orc boars thought of it.

The conversation stopped, and four of the five sows and a human female turned to look at me. Ragged clothes on top of ragged clothes, boots long worn out on two of them, clumsy leather sandals on the others, all worn to an unattractive set of browns and grays that looked even worse against the soft green skin. It took a second look to confirm that they were - or at least looked - healthy. And that was strange, because I remember the Warmaster's females in brighter colors and better clothes, but no doubt that would explain itself, eventually. The last sow was laying on the stand, and I only caught a glimpse of her before the others formed a half-circle around her. She'd been beaten, that much I could tell, from the dark green and black blotches across the paler green skin, but then the others - including, interestingly enough, the bitch - blocked her off from me. A challenge, if a mild one. Three of the sows were young; one obviously gravid, and a single older one, probably long past her fertility. She was probably the queen, and ... most likely, the previous chief's mother. If she were, then she had the most to lose from my killing him; the first act of a new warmaster was often to throw out the old one's sows. One could never be sure where their loyalties were, to the new boar or to the old boar or to their children, and though a boar would never admit it out load, there was no reason at all a sow couldn't kill a boar. And sows working together - like sows in a sowery were - could do that even more easily. Easier to bring in daughters of friends, warriors who supported the new chief. Let the old sows go to their sons, out of trouble. Of course, I didn't have any of those - yet - so I'd decided to make do with what I found in place. I watched them for a moment, and they watched me back.

"We can leave," the older one said, "after Dakra is better. Let us stay, just two days. She's hurt."

"You can stay with me," I said. "Or you can go. But if you stay, you stay."

"Dakra stays, I stay," the gravid one said, almost defiantly.

"You were littermates?" I asked.

"We became so," she said. That was, they had become friends.

I nodded. "You will both stay," I said, coming further into the room. I gestured, and two of them stepped aside - just as the bitch lunged for me, with something in her hand. I slapped it to the side, sent the human careening into the wall. A stick? She'd attacked me with a stick? Not even sharpened?

"You willing hurt again it!" she said, turning around, not - as I'd hoped - stunned.

"I beg your pardon?" I said, in Chelian. "I didn't quite follow that."

"You won't hurt her," she said.

"I hadn't intended to," I said, with as much of a smile as I could manage. I may be half-human, but my face is pure orc, and my smiles aren't generally reassuring to humans. Or orcs. "Who did? Not any of these?"

"No, that devilspawn Chief." Devilspawn. An interesting term for a Chelaxian, but ...

"He's dead, I killed him," I explained. "And so you now belong to me."

"I don't belong ..."

"No?" I said, with a touch of menace. "If you don't belong to me, than you're more than welcome to go take your chances out there." I gestured. "Go ahead. I won't stop you. I'm sure some boar will claim you as his." I paused for just a half second. "Eventually. But if you did belong to me - if you do belong to me, then you may stay. You may eat my food, warm yourself at my fire, sleep in my home."

She just looked at me.

"And I won't beat you," I added. "I don't beat women." I repeated that last in orc, and added, "I will kill anyone who touches any of you without my word."

"I will leave," the oldest one said. "You young ones should stay."

"I won't stop you," I said to her. "But we must talk, first. I want, above all other sows here, you."

"Me?" she said, and looked around. "But ..."

"You," I said. "I will get the rest of your names when it is convenient," I added. I turned to the human woman. "Dakra will need you, if you stay. But if you stay - you must stay." I switched back to Chelian. "I cannot be seen to have lost control of my own women. If you embarrass or shame me in front of my warriors - I will have to kill you." I stared at her for a minute. "It will be quick, with as little pain as I can manage, but I will kill you. Do not doubt it." And again, I repeated that in orc.

And added, "Teach the bitch to speak."

"The Chief forbade ..." stuttered the last sow, but I did not let her finish.

"And he is dead," I said. "And you will obey your Warmaster." I smiled back at her. I turned, and gestured that the older one should follow me. "Or you can die." I strode back out of the sowery, and down to what I remembered as the Warmaster's lounge. I listened, carefully, for the soft sound of footsteps behind me, and was not disappointed.

The lounge had changed least, although there were new skins hanging from the walls and on the floor, new trophies on the rock shelves, and a huge chair - almost a throne, faced the other, simpler chairs. That was new; the Warmaster in my day had a chair like any other warrior. At some point, someone with more than the usual amount of arrogance had built a throne, or what he imagined was a throne, or maybe just what he could get. I looked around, more carefully. There should be ...

And there was, on a cleaner shelf, a full wineskin, and a number of goblets. A quick inspection found two that were almost clean. I poured myself a goblet, and then turned to face her.

"I am Warmaster Jack."

She nodded, cautiously, instead of - as I'd wanted - introducing herself. I wasn't surprised, as most boars do not react well to initiative on the part of their sows, but I was slightly disappointed.

"At one point - years and years ago, I was here," I said. "Whelped here. I left."

"Why," she asked, almost bitterly, "did you come back?"

That was a question I ignored, as I took a sip of souring wine. Orc-filth. I hated it, and fought down a surge of anger. No, it was a fair question, albeit one I would not answer. What had brought me back to this filthy primitive stinking sty? I thought about why for a moment, and took some relief from the thought, although it wouldn't do to share it, not yet, and maybe not ever.

"More importantly," I said, "where would you go if you left? Stay. You will be the first sow in my home. Still."

"Why ..." she said suspiciously.

"You keep this home."

"As I am allowed."

"You may keep it as you please," I said. "It hardly matters to me."

"So I may have unimportant things to myself."

"And some important," I said, taking another sip of the wretched wine. "I just came back. I don't know the names of a tenth - of a hundredth - of my warriors. I don't even know your name."

"Baxs," she said.

"Well, Baxs, I think you know all the things about the Sharpened Stake clan that I should know. I think you know who would have challenged your chieftain, and who would support him in that challenge. And who would approve, and who disapprove, and these are all things I need to know."

"So you would listen to a sow."

I shrugged. "If she speaks sense. If she knows something I need to know. What kind of stupid would I be not to?"

"Boar-stupid."

"Yes," I agreed. "I am half-human," and noted her surprise, and dismay. "I avoided boar-stupidity."

"You don't look ..."

"I did when I was younger," I said. "And if you look closely now ..." I paused, inviting her to look.

"Yes," she said finally. "I see it now. Although your blood is green."

I nodded. "My mother is dead. Killed."

"A bitch."

I nodded again.

"And so you want my advice. As if she had lived, and you not gone."

"Yes. It will make things easier, for me." And for you, I didn't say, but she would still be under the protection of the Warmaster. "I imagine you have grandsons, warriors." Now she looked at me, sharply. "If they are leaders, I will let them lead."

"A few," she said. "They are ... not favored by all the warleaders."

I nodded. "They will be. By me."

"They will hate you."

Of course; I'd slain their father. It was an insult to them and their blood, but I could deal with that. "They will learn not to. And if they are stupid, it is better they do not breed." I thought for a moment. "Perhaps I might take one of your daughters."

Her face tightened with suspicion. "Oh?"

"I need your ..." I paused. Wisdom had a direct translation, but it wasn't a good one. Orcs don't value the things humans do, and I was still thinking too much in human terms. That ... that would get me into trouble if I wasn't careful. "Words," I said. "What you know. I cannot just take your cooperation; that you must surrender, I cannot force it."

"Take three of my daughters, and I will yield what I know to you."

"One," I said, with a chuckle. "Already I have six females."

"The bitch doesn't count," she said. "There are only five. Nanka and Krensu are heavy" - she meant, with child - "and so you can ignore them."

"One," I repeated, but added, "to start. I will consider a second, but I do not oath it."

She looked at me, clearly thinking. "I choose her."

I shrugged, as if it were something I didn't care about. For the most part, I didn't. "Good. You will choose someone who makes my home stronger. Not heavy, not nursing."

"Agreed," she said, quickly. Of course she would; whoever she added would be producing her grandsons, or at least she hoped for grandsons, and if that grandson was mine, she imagined I'd favor him. I didn't think I would, but there was no point in telling her that. And ... "If the first is not a son, you may choose a second," I said, getting up. I turned to the shelf, and touched up my wine, and after a moment of hesitation, poured a second cup for Baxs. I offered it to her, and she took it.

She sipped it, smiled with pleasure, and drank more enthusiastically. She was fortunate; the love philtre I'd slipped into it would improve the flavor significantly. I sipped my own, unimproved wine. "I'm glad we understand each other."

"It probably won't matter. You'll get killed in a few days," she said, sounding only a little regretful.

"Maybe, but I'm hard to kill."

She drank more, and she looked up at me. "I'm sure you think ..." and faltered. She looked down at the cup, finished it, and then looked back up at me. "I'm sure you think you are," she said. "I ... I .... I hope you're right."

I gave her my best, friendliest, expression. "Very hard," I said. "And knowing I have five sows waiting for me ... just makes me harder." I stepped toward her, reached out, pulled her to me, and slid my hands down her body. She leaned into me as I pulled her up into a kiss, and struggled as I set her down. "My bed is stuffed with grass - yes?"

She looked puzzled, but nodded. "Yes."

"Change the grass," I instructed. "And be waiting there for me in the morning." She nodded, violently. "Yes, Warmaster!"

"There will be a bonfire and feast, later," I said. "I'll need a sow to serve me."

"I ..."

"Not you," I said, pretending I didn't see her look of disappointment. "And not one of the heavy ones. One who will not embarrass me." I looked at her, and opened my eyes just a fraction. "Tonight ... I must be the warmaster; I need a sow who will know how to behave. Yes, I know, you'd serve well, but if you're going to the first of my harem - then it shouldn't be you."

She paused, and bowed. "Yes, Warmaster," she said, as she hurried off.

All that time I spent with Baron might have had some value after all. I set the rest of the wine down, and felt no urge to finish it. Tonight I would be introducing myself to the tribe, and that would be ...

A performance, really. I could say it was a long time since I'd been on-stage, but really, it was just a long time since I'd had this large of an audience. I smiled to myself, remembering. In a very real sense, I would be reprising my first role.

* * *

There weren't a lot of gainful employment opportunities for a half-orc, young or old, in the north of Cheliax. There were no shortage of opportunities to be cursed, spat upon, insulted, and generally reviled, few of those paid well. Few of them paid at all, so I was fairly happy to get a job as a bouncer at a ... well, something between a brothel and a bar. The whores didn't work directly for the bar, but it gave them a place to meet customers. The bar made money on watered beer, watered wine, water served as more expensive drinks to the whores, and bowls of the watered-down stew. I'm sure the owners were desperately trying to figure out how to water down the bread. My pay was what I could eat, a place to sleep when the place closed, and whatever tips I earned, usually a few coppers from the whores, a few from the barmaids, and once in a while even one from the barkeeper, generally after pounding some would-be hero into mush and tossing him outside. Even finding that had been a struggle, but I came with my own sword, and apparently I was a lot cheaper than anyone else who might want this job.

And if I went out in the mornings, every now and then? Nobody cared. A copper got me into the bathhouse, and then I went to a Chelton's house for an hour or three, lighter by another three coppers, and a little more familiar with reading, writing, and figuring. Chelton was ... well, I don't know what he was, besides frequently hungover when I visited him, but he'd taught before, and now he was teaching me. Apparently he'd done something to cross the ever-present Church of Asmodeus, and instead of arresting him, or maiming him, or anything judicial, they'd decided to ruin him. Or maybe it was one of his family, and he'd just been caught in the midst of it. In any case, he had no love for the devil-kissers, and neither did I, although neither of us made a big deal about it.

It was about seven months into these occasional lessons when Chelton introduced me to Baron, or maybe when Baron finally got interested enough to come see a talking dog - I mean, a reading half-orc. I liked the numbers more; arithmetic was fun, and Chelton told me there were amazing things that you could do with triangles. I told him I'd stick with the numbers for now, so we were concentrating on reading - writing was harder, both because I was clumsy at it, and I had very little practice. I could - and did - sound out the names and letters around me in the slums, which meant I was practicing, always practicing, the reading. Writing and numbers, less so.

But when I got to Chelton's rooms that morning, there were five humans waiting for me - Chelton, I recognized. He was awake, dressed in only a moderately soiled robe, and drinking something that stank of apples and alcohol. Right there, I knew I wouldn't be getting a lesson today.

The others were dressed better; both in terms of quality and cleanliness. Three of them were guards - bodyguards, I thought, wearing decent chain over their dark brown tunics, and holding themselves like warriors, even with the smaller swords the humans favored. The fourth wore no armor at all, and had the elaborately embroidered tunic and half-cape of a merchant. His fingers glittered with gold rings, and the tunic had pearl buttons. A blue-green gem - or hunk of glass, for all I knew - hung from a thin gold chain around his neck over an elaborately knotted cravat.

"And this is the half-orc I've heard about, then," he said. "Prompt. I like that, it's a good omen." He peered at me. "Task, isn't it?"

"I'm called Task," I said, warily.

"Straight from the baths, too," the merchant continued. "Which ones?"

I shrugged. "The ones in Eight Swords plaza. The water's warm, at least."

"Just warm?"

"Just."

"And you pay Chelton here three pennies a lesson, I understand."

"Yes," I said.

"Read this, then," and he handed a sheet of paper to one of the guards, who handed it to me. Interesting. I opened it, looked at it. It was handwritten, in a beautiful script. Even Chelton's writing wasn't so pretty, and in what Chelton called cursive as opposed to block. I still struggled with block writing; we hadn't tackled cursive yet in my writing lessons. But I could read it, sometimes, and as I looked at it, I thought I should be able to read it, since it was so clean and fine.

As it turns out, that just made it harder. The letters didn't have as much differentiation as they would in a less practiced hand, or maybe they were written to be hard to read. I studied it until the merchant said "Well? Can you read that?"

"Maybe," I said, and looked up. "What's it worth to you if I can?"

"Two more of these," he said, and tossed a silver coin to me. Silver! Even one of these would ...

"I can read it," I said, with more confidence than I felt.

"Do so." He held out his hand, and showed me two more bright silvery coins. I turned back to the page, studied the first sentence. "Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of Thune; And all the clouds that" - I paused. Lour'd. What the hell was that? It kept going, upon our house in the deep bosun - bosun? - of the ocean buried. A bosun was a sailor, that much I knew. Lour'd. Lowered? Clouds could lower, that made sense. But what was the deep bosun of the ocean? "Lowered upon our house in the deep bosun of the ocean buried," I continued, and saw the merchant wince at bosun. "I'm pretty sure this is bosun," I said.

"Never mind, please continue," he said, and that actually made me feel like doing it. Please? To a half-orc? I did what I'd been taught, read it one difficult sentence at a time.

"Now are our brows bound with victorious wrath; our bruised arms hung up for monuments," and that sounded definitely orcish, nailing up arms ripped from foes, "Our stern alarms changed to merry meetings, our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front."

"Bosom," said the merchant. "And wreaths. But other than that, better than I'd expected."

"What is a bosom, then?" I asked. "And are you sure about wreaths? Wrath makes more sense."

He chuckled. "A bosom is the chest. And the wreath is a symbol of victory."

"Oh," I said. "Then I was wrong, I couldn't read it," and I held it back out.

The merchant shook his head. "No, no, you did better than I expected, much. Turn around, please."

Again, it was that please that made me do it. Just a common, offhand courtesy, and if he'd omitted it, I would have told him to eat shit and die. I wonder what my life would have been like if I had. It might not have mattered at all, and I would at least have had the pleasure of telling him that once. Or maybe what happened next would have happened differently, or not at all.

"You'll do just fine, once we deal with that accent." I felt a little light-headed, stumbled slightly, and he held out his hand. I looked into his eyes, and I knew I could trust him. Finally, someone who was my friend, someone who cared about me, someone I could care about. I'd never cared for anyone, not like I cared for him. He'd charmed me. I didn't recognize it then, nor for a long time, but he did, and he could have talked me into doing anything, if he asked nicely, and he did ask nicely. Oh so nicely ...

Come live with him, and that was easy, with the clean clothes and a bath in his house. He touched me, admired me, made love to me ... that, I do have to give him: he showed me just how pleasurable sex can be. And he was handsome, in his human way, human-strong which was weak to me, but firm and good under my hand. And he trusted me, or at least I thought he did, for he confided in me, told me about the assassination attempts, the attempts to put spies in his house, from his fellow merchants, from the never-to-be-sufficiently-accursed Church of Asmodeus, from others ...

And, another thing I have to give Baron, he got me a tutor, Riesling, an opera-buff, to help with my reading, which improved dramatically, and my writing, which did not, and he knew nothing about numbers or triangles. Someday I'll have to find out about the triangles ... but he knew how to sing, and he knew how to speak. My voice was not suited to singing - a disappointment to Baron, but Reisling taught me to talk so that I sounded like a human - albeit a deep-voiced human. The accent from my tusks was gone, and that was fortunate, very fortunate, because I was so wound up in Baron's charm that I would willingly have had them pulled out to please him. But it pleased him more that I looked more orc than human, that I could pass for a full-blooded orc, and so I kept my tusks by learning to talk around them. I cannot say if I truly loved him; I did love him, but some of it, maybe even all of it, was his magic. Still. I think I did love him. I think that's what made his hold over me so strong, that love, mixed with his magic.

Play his orc fucktoy in public? Naked, chained, on a leash ... no matter that the locks were trick locks, a twist and a snap and they would open, leaving me with a heavy chain weapon to defend my master. What was seen was an obedient slave, at his feet, begging for morsels from him, trained to obey him, trained to recite poetry and opera and speeches, very much the talking dog, a curiosity and a wonder. It didn't matter to me, as long as I pleased him.

And slowly, so slowly, he got harder to please. It wasn't enough that I played the slave in public, he liked it so much that I was his slave in private, too, and he trained me to like the sex harder, rougher. As he grew harder to please, what pleased him grew harder, too. If it didn't hurt, it wasn't good enough. Light flogging turned to bloody whippings while I screamed out how much I loved him, thanked him for the blows, begged to worship his manhood, begged to sleep on the floor - not even in his bed, but just in the room, and I felt lucky, fortunate, happy, when he said 'yes'.

It happened less and less often, as he took others to his bed. He loved me, he said, loved my ugliness, loved the uncouth green of my skin, loved it so much he shaved me, so he could see it better, he said. So he could see the welts and cuts and bruises he gave me to sweeten the kisses and flattery. He loved, he said, that I could - would - endure more than any human lover. And I loved him.

When I was silent, because I could no longer howl, when I was still because my muscles were cramped and knotted and weak, when I was broken and alone and ready to die, he would take me, and hold me, salve the welts, bandage the cuts, with his own hands he would set me in his bed, comfort me, and I'd awake in his arms, to his touch, to his intimacy. How could I not love him?

In the flickering heartbeat of a year, Baron turned me into his grateful plaything. As I look back, I can only wonder why he left me my tutor.

Tutors, but perhaps Baron didn't know that. He thought he knew everything, and for the most part he was, but he forgot that things change. I learned to read. I might never be fast at it, but I could read. I learned to write, even if my hand was still rough. And I learned opera ... to fix my speech, he'd engaged a speech-master from the opera, and when I learned to speak, Maestro Grillia didn't stop teaching me, he just moved on to other matters, and Baron didn't question what I was learning, or who I was learning it from. Dance-Master Huerik. Maestro Ivinne, the composition master. And from all of them, I learned about the opera. About the theatre. About music, and sound, and the difference between listening and hearing. About the magic of theatre.

And about magic itself.

* * *

I shook my head, clearing it of old phantoms. What I would do here ... no. I had learned; I knew why Baron had failed, and I would not make his mistakes. People bend, and bend, and bend, and soon you think there is nothing in them to break, but at some point, bend too far, and it goes awry, for they do not bend, and if they do not bend, and they are too strong to break, what is left?

I ran over my speech in my mind, and it seemed good to me; good simple orc-words, strong meter, it would hold them; I could hold them. And they would wonder, afterwards.

Baxs sent me the stuttering sow, Grytis, and before we went out to face the tribe, I asked her, "You know what I expect."

She shook her head.

"I have to demonstrate control over my house, and you. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

"Say it."

"I understand."

"All of it."

"I und - und," and she stopped, flinching, but I just waited.

"Say it slowly, very slowly," I said, wishing now that I hadn't asked, but having ordered it ... well, I would have to take it. Somehow she got the words out, that she was to obey me in all things, great and small, and she that she would."

I nodded. "Good," I said, and then added, "I won't ask you to say anything," and she gave me a tiny smile. That was promising. I wondered if she'd be smiling after I was finished. Still ... "Roll out the door. As if I'd kicked you out."

She looked up, surprised, and then nodded, and threw herself out the door, stumbling and falling - feigned, I could tell, but I doubt anyone else could. Or would. I followed, stalking out, catching the tribe's attention, and I gave Grytis a kick, a soft one, but she rolled with it, and the tribe gathered. It was full dark now, and the fires in the pit had died down to a dull glow as meat roasted over it. I looked out, and I could sense the hostility, the anger, the sense of weakness, that somehow this stranger, not even a full-blood, had appeared in their midst, slaughtered, no, butchered , their chieftain and his cohorts, who were even now cooking for a victory feast. It wasn't a feast they wanted; it was just the feast they had.

I went out, faced them, and I began to speak. Honor , would work with humans, and it worked with orcs, too, but not that word, no, not honor , but respect . Strength , and revenge , and blood . Destruction , that worked well, too. After a while, the words don't matter, it's about the rhythm of words, the pattern, catching the heartbeat of the crowd, breathing with them, and then taking their breath, making themba breathe with you, move with you ...

I finished with fire, death, and obliteration, and then there was silence, in the night, as my words slowly faded away, as they came back to themselves from the vision I'd conjured, and then their cheers rent the night.

I had them. They were mine. For tonight. Tomorrow ... tomorrow I would have to win them again, and the day after that, and after that, and after that, until they were in the habit of being mine. It would take time, but for now, I bellowed for drink, and meat, and it was brought, and I tossed the meat out into the crowd. "Eat! Drink!"

And they did; falling apart into smaller groups, some boars, some sows, and I watched them, break apart, discuss this new thing in their life, their tribe, was it good, was it bad, and how would it affect them? I reached down, casually took Grytis by her hair, and pulled her to my side, sat down in the black soot-stained chair that passed as a throne, and watched. Watched the mutter of discussion turn into the more serious conversations, and then to drink, and ... not fighting, but bullying. I watched as younger - weaker - warriors were cut from the larger groups. The fighting would come later, after more of the swill-drink.

I did not want fighting tonight. I wanted to impose my will on this tribe, and I would do it so subtly that they would never notice. Everything I needed, Baron had taught me. All I needed to do was watch. And at the right moment, act. Even as words were ready to turn to blows, I pulled Grytis around, unlaced my breeches, and fucked her, there, in front of the brawling warriors. I didn't have to say anything beyond that, I didn't have to remonstrate, argue, order, cajole, persuade, threaten, just fuck, and Grytis was a pleasure, I admit, wet and ready for me, and her soft noises and my grunts worked to convince the assemblage that what they wanted wasn't blows and violence, but penetration and release. I did need to prompt her to sound as if she were enjoying it - I didn't care whether she did or not, I did, and that was enough for me, but I needed her to sound like it. She was loud, and I rewarded her by quietly warning her when I was going to kick her away, so she could be ready for it. And when I pushed her gently, she threw herself away, and then - without prompting - she came crawling back.

"Well done," I muttered to her; I would have to find some way of rewarding her for that. And later, after we fled from the day, I made sure that she understood exactly what I'd tolerate, and what I wouldn't.

I went back out an hour or so after dawn, though, with some water. Just because orcs don't tolerate daylight well, doesn't mean I don't. The human blood makes it tolerable. Bright, horribly bright, but I'm used to it now. Orcs have more trouble it. I'd left one of challengers there, manacled to the wall near the roasting pit, as an object lesson. He was curled up, shaking - understand, sunlight is hard on orcs. Even to me, it's like a heavy crushing sensation. I could feel the pressure on my back, on my legs, on my arms. Ultimately, I think my body is more orc than human; my mind is more human, my childhood was human-slow, but now that I'm an adult, I look far more orc than human. Sunlight ... sunlight is a problem.

Trying somehow to pull himself into my shadow, still making himself as small as possible against the relentless sunshine, my prisoner looked pretty miserable. He'd gotten beaten last night, more in passing than with real intent, but being shackled to a stone made it pretty hard to avoid even the casual violence. I doubted that he'd eaten, or if he would have wanted to, seeing as how he was in danger of becoming meat himself, but he still stank of spilled beer and other, less potable, liquids.

I tossed half the pitcher of water on him, just to get his attention. It made him look up, and then I let the rest of it spill out, in a stream, which he could - and did, frantically, drink, until the water ran out. He was still thirsty, I was sure, but he'd survive, and at the moment, that was enough.

"Do you have the balls to admit you're a dog-orc, not a warrior, and beg to be mine?" I asked, conversationally. I was expecting no, of course, and that petty defiance came pretty quickly. I mean, if I'd wanted a yes, I'd have held off on giving him the drink. That no was fine, just fine, with me, although it was going to make his future distinctly less pleasant. I reached back into the pitcher, and pulled out the long leather strips that had been soaking. I kicked him with the side of my boot, hard, hard enough to topple him over, and I knelt. Between the restraints and the light, slicing his clothes off was easy. Of course, it's not like this was the first time I'd done that to a male, although it was more often a human than orc. Usually, I just cut off the balls, and let them bleed, but that's not what I wanted from this one. I pulled the sack down, and wound a leather thong around it, tight, round and round and round, and knotted it firmly. And then I wound a second one around the now-tight skin holding his gonads, and knotted it, too. He might have been a little too disoriented from the sunlight to realize exactly what I was doing, and the inevitable results, but he'd find out, pretty soon. Not that there was much he could do about it with his hands chained to a wall, or much anyone could do about after that leather had shrunk back down to its dry length.

That led me to my second concern; the storage caves. I went in, and the warrior guarding them - I was glad to see he was still there, and at least pretending to be alert, and he didn't stop me from going in. I needed to know just what we had in the nature of supplies. In a well-organized human camp, there would be a quartermaster, everything would be sorted and available, and there would even be a list. Probably inaccurate, since it wouldn't reflect any skimming, pilfering or oversupply, but enough to give a commander an estimate of what he had.

Two hours rummaging around gave me a much worse estimate that even that incomplete and unreliable list would have, but it was enough to know we - I - didn't have enough food for the winter. I hadn't expected otherwise. There were ways to solve that, even if Danz didn't come through for me. I'd see what we had in the slave pit, although there's nowhere near the meat on a human that there is on an orc. Well, on a well-fed orc, anyway. We had a generous amount axes and bigger swords, some rags and tags of armor, and nothing in the way of polearms or the shorter swords that are better for military - as opposed to mob - tactics. Again, what I'd expected, although I'd hoped for better. And there was one good surprise - a number of crossbows and an astounding amount of ammunition for them. Not that I expected to find anything, of course, but I stood quietly, trying to sense any echoes of power. It would have been easy to overlook something taken, have it stored here, and if it were subtle, it would go unnoticed by anyone who didn't know how to look. And there was nothing, but I'd expected that.

By the time I left, though, it was an hour or so after noon; the sun was beginning its long trip back down to the east peaks, and the orc I'd left out in the sun was now whimpering. He'd probably changed his mind, and was ready to submit, but that hardly suited my goal of turning him into an object lesson. I walked over to him, quietly, and he didn't notice. I'm not sure he could; his head was locked in his arms as he huddled against the stone as he tried to protect his eyes from the sunlight. His skin was already taking a darker tint as the sun burned it, tiny hints of blackness appearing. He'd survive; I'd seen an orc left out in the sun for nearly a week. I'd considered gagging him, but he wasn't really making all that much noise. He'd make the point I wanted to the rest of the tribe: resist me and suffer horribly. I'd probably have to drive that point home, over and over and over again until it got through, so I might as well start now.

I went back to my new home, and found Baxs waiting for me in my bed. I told her to get Gretys to join us. I'd decided just how I was going to extend my gratitude.

The next night was easier, of course. I'd made it clear I wanted the warlords - and by that I meant the various would-be captains of the tribe. I didn't identify them, I just told them to show up, or I'd give their warriors to those who claimed them. That meeting went well, or at least it went well for me. I got to see firsthand who thought they were who, and what, and I straightened them out on just whose warriors were whose. It turned to be simple. They're all mine. Every last one of them. And if anyone wanted to dispute that with me ...

Nobody did. And if there was grumbling, they kept it where I couldn't hear it. Oh, there were a few fights over who would report to me, and who would report to one of my twelve new captains - excuse me, warlords, but I let them settle it among themselves. The last thing I wanted to do was to start them thinking I had to sign off on their decisions. No; I'll tell them if they do the wrong thing. I'll replace them if they keep doing it after I say don't, and by replace, I mean spit and roast, but I don't expect perfect. And I kept my eyes open, of course. I needed a second in command, and I'd identified a couple of possibilities at the orgy the previous night. There were a couple of warriors who kept drifting towards boars, not sows, and I'd hoped one or even both of them would be here, tonight, but not everything breaks my way.

Although I've had experiences where nothing breaks my way.

I'd survive, one way or the other.

The next problem showed up late, near dawn. I realized there was an orc staring at me from across the yard - and that's belligerent. Of course, nearly everything orcs do is belligerent, in some way, but this was one I hadn't seen before. There were a couple of possibilities ...

But only one of those possibilities would wear an iron chain threaded with skulls, or a carry a half-spear with bunches of black - and what's so impressive about black , anyway - feathers all over it. Or the big pouch, probably tanned dwarf-skin topped with elf-pelts or some similar exotic something designed to impress. The witch doctor, Chained Haggis. Well, Chained Urdrus. I'd had long talks with Baxs about him, and from what she'd said I was reasonably sure that Urdrus was a sorcerer, for all that he claimed to represent the gods. But, like any spellworker, there are a couple of things to do.

I started towards him, not threateningly, but I wanted to close the distance. Spellworkers are like archers, distance makes them deadlier. I was pleased to see he hadn't brought any of the warlords with him for this confrontation. That might mean he lacked their support, or he just might not want to push an open confrontation - he wanted to feel me out, see what sort of orc I am, how hard to push, how hard not to push. Since I'm coming to him, all he has to do is stand, and let me approach. There's not much else he can do at this point. If he attacks, it's because he's scared, and showing that you're scared is not a healthy reaction in a orc camp at any time, much less a still-unsettled one like this where the camp is slowly coming under the control of a new Warmaster. He won't do that.

"Warmaster," he said as I get within about twenty feet of him.

"Urdrus," I said, to let him know I recognize him. He looked a little surprised, but I couldn't see why. Shouldn't I know who he is by now?

"I am surprised, Warlord, that you have not sought the blessings of the gods!" This, he said in a in a loud, carrying voice.

"I have," I answered, as I kept approaching. "Many times." I dropped my voice so only Urdrus can hear it. "Nice skulls."

"They are the enslaved spirits of our foes," Urdrus said.

"Of course they are," I said, more quietly. "Let me put it like this, Urdrus. I understand you're just the humble servant of the gods."

"Not that humble," Urdrus corrected me.

"It would be convenient for me if the gods showed their approval of me," I said. "Someone with that message would be certain to get, oh, his choice of sows, slaves, gold ..." I trailed off, and he was looking at me. "In fact, knowing that the not-so-humble servant of the golds was getting what he wanted would be an important part of our war effort." Urdrus's face didn't twitch, and I considered that a good sign. One of the few nice things about orcish spellworkers is that they tend to be just a little smarter than the average warrior.

"On the whole I think the gods are pleased," Urdrus said.

"Good. Keep them pleased."

"But there must be a few changes."

"Such as?"

"Evening and sunrise prayers."

"Led by you, I suppose."

"Yes."

I pretended to think about it. "If you can get them to come."

"But if you commanded it," Urdrus said.

"Then I'd have to kill anyone who didn't show up," I said. "No, not happening."

"The gods are disappointed."

"The gods will get over it," I said. "Or else ... perhaps we don't need the gods as much as we think."

Urdrus looked shocked, and took a step backwards. "Everyone needs the gods!" he said.

"I don't," I said, pitching my voice so only he could hear. "And if you cross me, Chained Urdrus, you will have a chance to meet them in person. Clear?"

He looked at me. "I thought you sought the approval of the gods, Warmaster."

"The approval of the gods, the approval of their servant ... much the same thing," I said. "And I can make their servant wealthy. That would be good, for me, for him. On the other hand, if that servant got in my way ... I would have to send him back to the gods with my complaint. Clear?"

This time, I think he understood, and he nodded. "I see. I shall consult with the gods."

"I look forward to their favor," I said, as loud as he was. Still, once Danz was here to keep him in line, he'd be useful. At least he hadn't tried to enspell me.

I brought the chained orc in the next night. He was well-burned, and of course the leather cords had dried, changing him from a boar to a barrow. I ordered the sows to clean him up, but I didn't take the manacles off, not yet. They were a little surprised, and then more so when they found he was a barrow, but at this point they were obedient enough to follow directions without too many questions. The sows clearly thought my orders were just for his humiliation, but there was more to it than that. According to Baron, the urine of a gravid sow is practically a potion, with long-reaching effects. I'd never actually seen it work, but if it didn't, I hadn't lost much. If it did work, it would make my plans easier, long-term. Additionally, I had never known Baron to be wrong about something like that. If he said it would work, it would work.

The only thing that surprised me about the assassination attempt the next week was how poorly it had been planned and executed. A young warrior was hidden in my sleeping chamber when I came in for the day. Unfortunately, even with all my tricks, I could not get him to tell me who had sent him; he insisted he'd come on his own. I left his cooling body outside, and waited for what I was sure would be the real attempt. I feigned sleep, keeping my senses readied, listening for the faint scratch of foot and sand, for the puff of displaced air made by even the slowest moving person. There are magics to shield one from the eyes, and I expected one of them to be used, perhaps with something else, but I still thought I'd sense something. But there was nothing, and it was a long, long night. I was grouchy that night and managed to get a catnap in here and there before retiring for the day. But nobody had seemed surprised, beyond the initial surprise of the dead orc. Per my standing orders, the corpse was smoked, but there were no looks of guilt, no expressions of surprise or frustration, and he'd had no sows of his own, so there wasn't even a household to distribute.

Tonight, I thought, the real attempt would come, but it didn't. Nor the next night, or the night following that, and the lack of sleep was starting to wear on me. Much as I disliked the idea, I would have to take steps. From my pack, I got a tiny clapperless bell with some fine silver wire wrapped around it, and I said the words, quietly, precisely, exactly. Using magic ... my magic, directly, for this has always seemed like cheating to me, but more seriously, if my warriors knew I had that power, even as little as I do, it would make it very hard to retain my position as Warmaster. Spellworkers are never warriors to an orc, even when they (like me) are. It's just the way it is. Still, for a few hours, if anyone stepped within this warded room, I would wake, and since I went to bed with my sword and gauntlet - that would be very, very bad for anyone stupid enough to disturb me. But no one did.

And slowly, the camp was turning into my camp. The warlords who had been determined and fighting to be in the best position when I - as they expected - fell, started to realize that I wasn't falling, and none of them felt up to the challenge of pushing me off. Well, none of the surviving warlords, anyway. All my sows were heavy at this point, so all that remained was to find a warrior aide I could use. I even had my eye on a couple when Danz finally showed up.

Things would move faster, now.