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him with me.”
    The volunteer growled. “I don’t remember anyone putting you in charge! I—”
    Cræosh’s fist was a falling boulder. A bone-jarring thump was followed swiftly by a limp body sliding slowly to the grass.
    Father, but that helmet hurt!
Cræosh casually rubbed his knuckles. “Minor change in plan,” he said, turning back to the squirming gremlin. “You wait here until he wakes up.
Then
you go with him to speak to Berrat.”
    “I…” The gremlin was looking astoundingly edgy. “That is, I don’t really know that waiting around here is the best idea. I mean, I really ought to get back and report to my own superiors, don’t you think? And besides, what if the humans get past—”
    Words melded into a high-pitched wail as Cræosh casually reached out and grabbed the gremlin by his bad elbow. The screeching continued for perhaps thirty seconds before finally trailing off in an abbreviated gurgle.
    “I’m sorry,” the orc said mildly. “I was thinking about something else. Were you saying something?”
    The ghost-pale gremlin frantically shook his head.
    “Oh, good.” Without further ado, Cræosh broke once again into that steady orcish jog, the other three following on his heels. There was no more time to waste with that Ancestors-damned gremlin, not when there were humans to kill!
    It didn’t take long to locate their steel-clad prey. Barely had they broken through a small thicket of trees, only a mile south of where they’d met the gremlin, when the ground began to shudder. From behind a small rise, a distant foothill to the Brimstone Mountains, they came: six humans riding enormous chargers. Encased from head to toe in polished plate, the knights gleamed in the midday sun, as though the orcs faced not a band of mortals but stars yanked from the firmament itself.
    Cræosh wasn’t impressed. Orcs, by and large, don’t do awe; they have very little use for it. Out of long-ingrained habit, Cræosh offered a quick prayer to his Mother and Father, asking his Ancestors for their blessing in the upcoming battle. He knew, without checking, that his companions did the same.
    “Six against four,” Dækek grunted from behind, “and they’re mounted. Hardly seems like a fair fight.”
    “Agreed,” Cræosh replied. Ignoring the rapidly nearing warhorses, he put on a show of deep thought. “Should we give them a handicap?” he asked finally.
    “What? Why? I
hate
fair fights!”
    At a distance of perhaps a hundred yards, the knights reined in their mounts. Slowly, raising a hand, one of the humans—the leader, Cræosh assumed—rode forward a few paces. The large orc shrugged, setting his breastplate more comfortably on his shoulders, and advanced a handful of steps as well.
    “Orc!” the human called loudly, his words carrying perfectly over the intervening distance. “I would speak with you.”
    “You would?” Cræosh shouted back in near-perfect Manspeak. “What do you call what you’re doing now?”
    Dækek and the others chuckled loudly. A low murmur drifted back from the other knights.
    Their leader, however, appeared inclined to ignore the comment completely. “Surrender now,” he yelled, “and I promise you a quick, easy release from your wretched lives!”
    Cræosh raised his eyebrows, a gesture that meant basically the same thing in orcish culture as it did in human. “I’ll make you a counterproposal!” he called.
    “Yes?”
    “Why don’t you come and try to kill us the hard way, and I’ll shove you up that horse’s ass and feed him beans.”
    With a low bellow that would have done an ogre proud, the humans lowered their lances and charged.
    Dækek and the others spread out, weapons coming free of their sheaths with a series of menacing rasps. Cræosh, however, simply set himself, his stance wide, his arms apart. The knights were wielding stout, thick lances, and that, to the orc’s mind, was a
good
thing. There was something he’d always wanted to try….
    As he