Silhouetted against a raging bonfire, his hands holding aloft knives as big as Tad, the mountain of a troll who approached Tad and Gohta as they rode into the camp was a terrifying figure … until he spoke. “Welcome, emissaries of War Master Hohza,” the troll greeted them. His voice booming yet warm, his smile inviting, and the knives dripped juices from a freshly carved roast laid on a tarp beside him.

“This is better than at Bigrummar’s camp,” Tad said. The troll’s tone reminded him of how Glum would say “back at home” after guiding Tad to his bunk after a night of heavy drinking.

“His scouts must have told him we were coming,” Gohta grumbled from atop his steed. “We could have slipped in unnoticed if one of us wasn’t so talkative.”

“I don’t know why we should want to sneak up on our allies, anyway,” said Tad through a haughty sniff. He kept his eyes on the troll ahead and didn’t care if the orc beside him heard. Or maybe he should? No point making an enemy in his own War Party. No, just look ahead, unbothered, bold and … orc-like, the goblin thought to himself. He straightened his back, thrust his scrawny chest, and held his chin up. In his mind, he pictured how Hohza might approach an enemy camp, sword in hand on that mammoth horse of his, black with a white mane and white streaks along her flank.

The woods were dotted by fires. Each was circled by orcs and short orcs and above most fires were kettles or spits. As the cauldrons simmered and the roasts rotated, their combined chatter and chorus reached him along with the aromas of gamey meat and sweet cider. Tad closed his eyes and breathed deep, holding it in for several of Keg’s noisy steps. Finally, he exhaled and opened his eyes. Many of the soldiers’ heads were turned toward the exchange, their conversations paused. “And welcome to you, uh … War Master … ?” He sheepishly looked up at Gohta while his posture returned to a nervous curl.

With a roll of his eyes, Gohta finished: “War Master Palical.”

They stopped before the troll. On his Buffalo’s back, Gohta was practically tusk-to-tusk with the troll. “We’ve deliveries for you, War Master. The third key stone and some devices designed by the Logistics Corps to speed up communication.”

“Wonderful! I will be glad to accept the delivery however, it’s quite late.” He looked down and patted the buffalo on the head. The animal mooed in delight at having the curly hair piled on his head played with. Gohta didn’t budge, instead just sneering at the muscular troll. “You can’t mean to ride off to the Prison immediately after!” The troll stepped back and swept his arm toward the fire.

Tad noticed that his hands and feet were much darker than the rest of his pale green skin. He gasped and leaned back in the saddle. When Keg shuffled in his spot with a raucous squawk the crowd laughed at Tad in unison. As his cheeks burned, Tad pulled at the reins to right his boar. The stubborn beast refused for merely a second which felt like an eternity amidst the jeering jest of the warriors. Then, Gohta slammed one foot down as he dismounted his buffalo.

The boar reared in surprise at nearly being stomped on by the orc. Tad was thrown out of the saddle. He crashed on his back and rolled, ending up on his back with his feet above him. There seemed to be hesitant laughter, and even a couple of gasps, to the goblin’s tumble.

Gohta pulled the boy to his feet. “Try not to embarrass us further,” he whispered through his tight lips. He swiped dirt off the back of Tad’s jerkin and pushed him forward.

Tad stumbled forward, his footing was unsteady as the gigantic troll stomped towards him, hand outstretched. With a wary glimpse of the purple stains the boy hesitated a moment.

The troll looked down at his open palm. He had an affable smile, his cheeks pushing to cover his eyes. “Just some moonberry juice that won’t wash off!”

Tad nodded in understanding. This force had come in from the northlands, where the moonberry ciders and wines were made. It was an odd place geographically, bordering three other Dread Lords’ domains. The orchards were very profitable, and thus highly contested among the Dread Lords. It had been in Dread Lord Withering Sorrows’ possession, again, for only a few years. At the time they fought to reclaim it, an Ottis the Odd Goblin story cropped up where Ottis was assigned to fix the Wine Works but kept making holes in the barrels, so he had to drink up the evidence. Gripping the tip of the troll’s finger, Tad shook his hand.

“I’m Warrior Gohta and he’s … Tad. Shall we make the delivery, War Master?”

“I prefer the title of Master Brewer, personally.” He held his left hand to Gohta, in which he clutched both cleavers. “I’m more like Master Butcher, at the moment.”

“Quite clever,” the orc replied, his voice droll.

“We wouldn’t want to be rude and refuse the Wine Master’s offer for dinner, Gohta. It would be embarrassing to War Master Hohza.” Tad wandered past the troll and eyed the beast he was butchering. It was a huge slab of meat that took the boy several steps to circle. Then he saw the grotesque maw of the bearwulv with its teeth jutting from the mouth at add angles. The head lay on the side with its jaw ripped open. Blood dripped into the dirt from stub left in the mouth after the tongue had been hacked out. Tad gulped. Perhaps they could head back to the prison right away?

“Delightful! You can eat and sleep here then tomorrow morning you ride back to the prison, do the key stone ceremony, and then the fighting and the death comes. We’ve all done this before under a … different Dread Lord.” He dropped the knives and clapped his hands together with a crack so sharp it made Tad wince. The troll rubbed his palms together, the thick skin sounding like a steel brush scraping off rust and turned to the various kettles with white steam wafting up among the fires’ smoke. “We’ve prepared a feast of furclaw stew!”

“You packed bearwulv?” Gohta strode up to a cauldron and lifted its top to sniff at the contents.

“No, we hunted them! The woods between the orchards and here were infested with the beasts!” Palical tilted his head back as he laughed. “It was a matter of life or dinner!”

Tad approached a different kettle; this one fussed over by a goblin on a stool. He poured cider, thick and purple, into the burbling pot. “Furclaw meat is very tough but stewing in the moonberry cider tenderizes it,” the old goblin, one bulging eye pinched shut, let him know as he continued to drain the bottle. When the final drop dripped into the brow the chef tossed the bottle away, smashing it against a tree drunk. “Time to eat,” he hollered before Tad had unwound himself from his wince.

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The cook handed Tad his first heaping ladles of stew, piled into a simple wooden bowl. All around the camp, orcs and short orcs—perhaps some were goblins—were serving their own meals. It occurred to the boy that it would make no sense for all of these to have been finished at the same time, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Tad returned to the bonfire near the front of the camp, where Gohta and Palical were seated and talking. Gohta seemed more intent on his own serving than whatever the troll was saying as he rolled his eyes and huffed impatiently between sips. Tad, however, was eager to join them and walked as quickly as he could while wary of the sloshing broth, careful to not lot it tip over the sides. A difficult thing to do with Keg circling him, trying to get at his dinner. Tad was pushing the boar away with one hand while holding the dish out of reach of the animal’s mouth with the other when he got to the two warriors.

While holding a bubbling cauldron in his bare hand the troll leaned back and let off a hearty laugh that shook the treetops above him. “Having a little trouble with your pet there, are you, Tad?”

Hunching his shoulders to hide his face, Tad sat down between Gohta and Palical. Keg continued to pester the boy by trying to shove his snot-dripping muzzle into the bowl.

“Tad,” Gohta whined with just the goblin’s name.

“Here, let me help you with that.” Palical scooped up Keg in one hand, the boar kicking his feet and squealing the whole time. Cradling the anime against his chest, Palical cautioned him: “Calm down or you won’t eat!” The boar quieted and opened his mouth wide. The troll tipped his cauldron to the boar’s mouth the gently spill the boiling stew down his gullet. At first the animal took his meal in greedy, rapid gulps, but as his hunger sated, they slowed. Eventually Palical lifted the cauldron away and set Keg down by Tad. The boar walked a lazy circle before plopping onto the ground behind Tad. The boy skootched himself backwards and leaned his back against the beast, finding him to make for a not disagreeable piece of furniture.

“That seemed to work,” Tad commented, patting Keg’s head. He finally tipped his bowl to his lips. The stew burned as it coursed down his throat, making the boy choke and sputter a moment.

“Careful, there. We make this stew with a bit of our moon berry cider. It gets quite a kick.”

“I noticed,” the boy wheezed.

“A warrior who can’t hold his stew,” Gohta grumbled. He plucked a chunk of meat from his bowl. Glistening rivulets ran down his forearm as he popped the morsel into his mouth. “That’s even more pathetic than one who can’t hold his drink,” he spoke as he chewed.

“Unruly beasts. Holding one’s drink. It reminds me of a story.” Palical set down the cauldron near enough to Tad that he felt he was baking in its warmth. “Tell me, your War Master Hohza, does he still have a rather remarkable steed?”

“The black and white one? Yes. She’s named Bloodfoot,” Gohta answered as dryly as though he were reporting inventory counts. It was sharp contrast to the theatricality of every word Palical uttered.

“’Bloodfoot,’” Palical repeated, aghast. He pushed off the ground and wandered over to the fire, arms outstretched. “Come, gather around you all.”

Orcs, short orcs, and goblin chefs inched forward. Tankards and dishes nearly spilled as they hung limp while the audience waited the troll’s next words. For a moment, only the crackling, burning wood and whoosh of the flames could be heard.

“As you all know, I served alongside War Master Hohza during the last invasion of the valleys by the Dread Lord Constant Envy,” Palical said. “I’ve served with many War Masters, serving several different Dread Lords, over the years, and so I can say with some authority that our esteemed War Master Hohza is one of the best!”

Raised his bowl and offered a meek cheer. By the time Tad put down his dish to clap, Palical had already moved on.

“After Withering Sorrows’s soldiers routed Constant Envy’s forces they thought the war was won and returned to the Keep. No one knew surviving invaders hid among the valleys surrounding the orchard.

“They proceeded to wage a war of attrition. Supplies from Withering Sorrows were cut off and we farmers and vintners were facing starvation! I requested aide from our Dread Lord with a strongly worded letter.

“I am ashamed to admit that I thought it some cruel joke when Hohza, freshly dubbed a War Master and lacking a War Party, was sent to help. He rode up to my village on a haggard horse and presented me with a letter of introduction penned by the Dread Lord! According to the letter this was a special sort of orc; one taught by an elf.”

The crowd laughed. Even Tad grimaced at an elven doctor teaching war to an orc. It was more like the setup of an Ottis yarn than a tale of battle.

“Although I had my doubts, too, after just a few days I recognized the brilliance of that orc! He analyzed our scouts’ notes and reports of attacks to figure out where the enemy camps were located. It took just a little sabotage until those forces were done in. No more of Constant Envy being a constant annoyance!

“A few days later, just as Hohza was to return to the Central Keep, Constant Envy sent a champion to reclaim our lands! He was a most powerful, fearsome warrior.” Palical hunched over and twisted his face, curling his lips. “He was a troll so massive he seemed like a small mountain! His tusks were so long, some said he’d just jammed a couple of claymores into his gums! And hair!” Palical swept his hands down his body. “One might think he was wrapped in bearwulv pelt!”

“Grossum,” one soldier spoke the name with a fearful reverence.

“That guy was an ass,” another commented.

“Yes, the great and terrible … Grossum,” Palical snarled the orc’s name. “Now, Grosum was unique among War Masters because he had but one member in his War Party. That member wasn’t even an orc, troll, or goblin … but a horse!”

“Bloodfoot,” Tad wondered aloud, mid-sip. Some of his stew trickled down his chin.

“Yes … Bloodfoot,” Palical sounded defeated to say her name. “There’s some sense to the name, given how things turned out, but it’s hardly one I would have given. Regardless, at the time she was known as Morning Horizon.”

“That’s almost as odd a name as Ottis,” Tad countered.

“Perhaps. However, Grossum, aside from being one of the most fearsome warriors ever known to orc kind—”

“Also an ass!” An unruly orc interjected with a slurred pronunciation. He was dangling from a bough with one hand and a cup in the other.

“Couldn’t hold his liquor,” another accused.

“Yes, yes, he was a bit of a lightweight and something of an ass. But, among his better qualities was that he killed quite well and was a remarkable lyricist.” He shrugged, adding: “For a troll. Mostly, they were songs glorifying his own exploits. Some are still sung today!”

A cluster of orcs and smaller orcs on the outskirts of the clearing sang what sounded like the conclusion of a ballad, although they raised their drinks and swayed to the beat as though they’d been at it all night. “Now the peace treaty’s signed/we got our way/but our Dread Lord they maligned/so right after we slayed.” If the song continued from there, Tad didn’t know, because the impromptu chorus broke into a fit of laughter.

“Right, ‘Bloody Peace,’ about the time he settled a dispute with Dread Lord Frozen Tears’ army. Someone in the opposing army made an offhand remark about Dread Lord Constant Envy while they negotiated peace. In retribution, Grossum took their heads to his Dread Lord, claiming it was their apology. His loyalty had been bought by the Dread Lord by blessing him with enchantments. This was how he had the unnatural strength to wield a war axe in each hand!”

Tad leaned toward Gohta. “I’ve seen a goblin hold an axe in each hand!”

“Hand axes, sure. Very fearsome against twigs and some saplings,” Gohta said. He held his bowl high over the ground. “A war axe is about this high with a head as broad as me. It’s meant to be held in two hands.”

“Now, back to War Master Hohza!” Palical rubbed his hands together. “And the tale of how he acquired … Bloodfoot.”