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sitting around a fire-pit, its smoke rising up out of the hole in the roof. Woven mats covered the floor and the walls were covered in hangings that depicted scenes of battle; orcs mostly, dismembering opponents with wicked axes. One was roaring at the sky, his victim limp in his arms, throat torn out.
    Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea after all , thought Morden and instinctively reached for his dragon pendant. Oddly, it was warm under his touch and seemed to pulse. His skin suddenly felt burning hot and there was a terrible itch between his shoulder blades.
    His entry had not gone unnoticed and as one the orcs sprang to their feet, swords and axes appearing like magic in their clawed fists.
    “Gr’k-k’h!” they roared.
    Morden had no idea what Gr’k-k’h meant but was quite sure it was not, ‘Hello, how good of you to drop in.’
    Unbidden words came to Morden:
    “Kznk d’lak!”
    Morden felt like he was two people. He could barely recognise the voice that spoke. There was power and authority in his voice that surprised even him. The accent had a faint hiss about it but there was no doubting its strength; it was deafening.
    The effect on the orcs was dramatic. Brief astonishment was replaced by a curious mixture of joy and terror. They threw their weapons and themselves onto the matting – in one case causing a nasty gash – and pressed themselves as hard and as flat as they could manage to the ground.
    Behind him, Morden was aware that Grimtooth had entered.
    “I see no introductions are necessary,” said Grimtooth, pushing his bulk past Morden. “Brothers, please. Get up and sit.”
    Grovelling in the dirt, the orcs seemed torn between what Grimtooth said and fear of Morden. Grimtooth tugged one by the arm and Morden tried a reassuring smile.
    It had the opposite effect.
    “When an orc shows his teeth it means he is ready to use them,” said Grimtooth, observing the effect of Morden’s smile.
    “But I’m not an orc,” protested Morden. “And when we met you smiled at me when I told you to lead on.” Morden took a second to think on the realisation. “Oh.”
    Grimtooth looked at him steadily. “I am not used to allowing anyone to speak to me like that, and no, you’re not an orc. You’re something a lot worse. Come sit. Set my brothers at peace.” Grimtooth snatched a hard leather cushion from the floor and tossed it into a gap in the ring of orcs. “Sit there.”
    Morden took his place and kept his teeth firmly behind his lips.
    Grimtooth spoke sternly to the orcs in their tongue and with some cajoling they regained their positions, with a noticeable gap either side of Morden.
    None of them seemed to want to hold Morden’s look, finding more interest in the ceiling, wall hangings and the copious amount of dirt under their fingernails. Grimtooth barked something at a dark space beyond the ring and what Morden presumed was a female orc emerged with a tray of mugs. Another followed with an earthen jug. Morden was given a mug first and it was filled with the brown frothy liquid from the jug. Morden hoped it was beer but from the smell he suspected something else. It smelt less of hops and more of urine. Orcish lore represented a huge gap in his education to date so he had no idea whether they drank their own fermented piss or not.
    Trying hard to be nonchalant, Morden took a drink. It was surprisingly good. Refreshing even.
    “It’s good,” he said with some relief. “I’ve not had this before. What is it?” He took another large mouthful and let it rest in his mouth.
    “Fermented goat piss,” said Grimtooth.
    Morden almost doused the fire as he spat his mouthful out. Wiping his lips, all he could see was a ring of grinning orcs. Some had teeth like Grimtooth, though not as large, but some seemed to be filed flat. Regardless, he couldn’t see himself getting out alive.
    Grimtooth was the first to laugh, the rest joining in and mimicking Morden by spitting mouthfuls of drink at each