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other.
    “I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Morden. “I’m not used to drinking goat piss.”
    Some of the orcs lost control and rolled over on the mats, clutching at their bellies. Grimtooth got up and came to sit next to Morden, slapping him hard on the back. There’s iron in those arms , thought Morden, wincing.
    “It’s not goat piss,” said Grimtooth. “It’s beer with a few special ingredients. Go ahead. Drink.”
    Morden stared dubiously at the mug in his hand. Though it did smell like goat piss, it had tasted like a rather good hoppy beer. He took a large swig and the orcs roared their approval.
    Though no stranger to beer, Morden found himself edging quickly towards being drunk. “This is good stuff he remarked,” emptying his mug, “but you didn’t bring me here to get me drunk.”
    Grimtooth drained his mug and set it aside. “Indeed not, Morden.”
    Grimtooth clapped his hands and said something in Orcish and the mood turned sombre. One of the orcs slipped out and returned with a cloth covered bundle which he handed to Grimtooth before resuming his place. There was a tangible air of expectancy in the gathering now, bordering on excitement. Grimtooth set the bundle down in front of Morden. It was hard to make out what was under the grimy cloth but Morden’s curiosity was soon sated when Grimtooth whipped the cloth away.
    “What the hell is that?” he exclaimed, as much to himself as to the assembled.
    Though in some part it was obvious what had been wrapped – it was a leather covered book – it was what was clasping the book that had Morden confused. “Is that a hand?” More accurately it was a skeletal hand that was gripping the book; a hand that had been severed at the wrist.
    The orcs sat in a ring transfixed, no hint of teeth, no sound, no movement. They were like statues. With a sideways look at Grimtooth first, Morden reached out and picked up whatever was grasping the book to examine it more closely. Without doubt it was a hand, maybe even human. Up close, Morden could see that there were vestigial fingernails. The hand looked as though it had been hacked from its arm and horribly burned. If that was the case, then how was it that the book was in such good condition? It didn’t look like the book could have been forced into the hand’s grasp, it was too tight. The cover resembled hard leather but bore no title. Morden twisted the hand to see if the spine of the book held any mark. It didn’t. Nor the reverse.
    “Interesting curio,” said Morden, holding out the book to Grimtooth.
    “Take the book,” said Grimtooth.
    Morden tried to read something into the way that Grimtooth was looking at him, but could not. He shrugged and looked down at the hand again. It was gripping the book tightly – an exploratory tug confirmed that. Morden pulled harder and the book remained firmly in the grip of the white bone fingers.
    “Doesn’t seem to want to come,” he said, and as he did so he could feel the observing orcs tense. Trying hard not to show fear, Morden turned the book over to examine it again. This was obviously a test. Quite a weird test for sure, but one he felt absolutely certain his life depended on.
    The book was grasped with fingers on one side, a thumb underneath, and so firm it wasn’t going to release the book easily. If it was held by magic then he was doomed to fail, as magic was again, much like orcs, stuff of tales and fiction rather than something taught at a school for prospective brewers.
    “I claim this book,” he said and held the hand at the wrist and pulled the book.
    Nothing.
    The orcs seemed to be getting restless.
    Then it came to him. If there was one thing he had learnt in the last few years, it was how to break a finger. He flipped the book over, gripped the thumb at its knuckle and used the leverage of the thumbs length against the book to push it sharply. There was a snap as the thumb came free in his hand.
    He tossed the hand and its now