Grossum had come with a small army to reclaim the Moonberry Orchards. They smashed the guard posts hidden in the valleys and settled in one of the larger canyons. As Palical prepared his people to flee deeper into Withering Sorrows’ domain, Hohza sent a message for reinforcements. It was fruitless, as the bird wouldn’t even make it to the Keep in time.

War Master Hohza decided to make a pre-emptive strike to throw the enemy into disarray. Assassinating Grossum or destroying their supplies would work. Leaderless or hungry orcs were disorderly orcs.

Defenses were posted at the at the southern end of the canyon, facing the orchards. However, the people of the North Country were adept at traversing the rocky, uneven terrain and didn’t need to approach from the openings.

Although he struggled to match the agility of Palical and his forces, Hohza took a team to the invaders through zigzagging goat paths, scaling sheer rock faces, and sloshing through scorching, steam-covered springs. After arriving at the enemy’s encampment, Palical, Hohza, and a handful of others descended. Grossum’s tent, adorned with banners of black and silver and capped by a bust of his Dread Lord, was nestled in the middle of the forces. Only Hohza approached that one. Palical and the others were responsible for sabotaging the forces supplies, which were more towards the north of the encampment, where Grossum foolishly believed they were furthest—and safest—from the people of the moon berry orchards.

Hohza slunk through the camp like a snake. He moved silently and crept in the shadows. When he happened upon a pair of sentries, he distracted them with a thrown stone. As they investigated, he pulled one between a pile of crates and slit his throat, then did the same to the other when he noticed his partner was missing.

Although Palical was headed for their enemy’s supplies, he could help but glance back towards Hohza to check his progress. Even if the War Master failed in his assassination, he was to serve as a distraction to aid Palical and the others on their mission. At the rear of Grossum’s tent was Mornin Horizon’s makeshift pen, a large circle enclosed by hastily tied together wooden boards with straw thrown over the canyon’s stone floor. As Hohza climbed over the fence the boards creaked.

“Did that beast ever make a racket once she noticed Hohza!” Palical threw up his hands. “She trotted up to him, neighing and whickering. I wanted to shout for him to cut its throat or else it would give up our mission!

“Now, for those unfamiliar, Morning Horizon is a unique looking mare. Black with a white mane and white streaks along her flank. Those streaks were scars. Grosum, riding into combat with a war axe in each hand, didn’t have a hand to spare for a rein, so he steered her by hitting her with the flat sides of his axes. Where she healed, the fur came back as these silver lines.” Palical slashed his hands through the air to indicate the horizontal strikes, stirring a gust which rustled Tad’s hair. “Which is to say, he was not particularly gentle to that animal. Mind you, this was a horse big enough to be ridden by a troll, so she was more than a little large.” He pounded his own broad chest for emphasis. Each bump banged like a sewage pipe deep in the Machines Works.

Confronted by a beast big enough to stomp him into jelly or bray loud enough to bring the whole camp, Hohza dove from the pen into a nearby barrel. He returned to the mare with his arms laden with food. He spoke kindly to Morning Horizon as he offered her big, purple carrots and golden apples. The mare approached and ate from his hand with surprising gentleness as Hohza stroked her face. After she downed a couple of items, he dropped the remaining food to the ground and stalked toward the tent as Morning Horizon picked her treats off the floor.

Although Palical was not privy to what occurred inside the tent as it happened, he’d been told about it during the drunken revelry that followed.

Inside, Grossum was not asleep. Hohza would have prefer to plunge a dagger into the troll’s throat mid-snore. The enemy War Master was instead so plastered that his whole, hairy front was caked in vomit. Hohza struggled to breathe the noxious air as he watched the beastly troll stumble about his tent, struggling to find footing in a dirt floor sopped by piss and bile.

Not grasping that Hohza was his enemy, Grossum ordered him to leave the tent, then to stay and explain why he was in the War Master’s tent, and finally commanded to fetch Grossum more drink. All the while Hohza came nearer with his hand on the hilt of his sword. With all his orders ignored, Grossum flew into a fury and threatened to beat Hohza to death as a warning to the other soldiers. Hohza flinched, fearing the shouting would draw the attention of guards, but it seemed such derangement was commonplace.

Grossum charged with such speed that Hohza hadn’t time to draw his sword. The strike to the gut sent Hohza through the rear of the tent and back into Morning Horizon’s pen. His sword spiraled through the air and landed in the hay. Struggling for breath, the world a blur around him, Hohza was on all fours and scrambling to grab his weapon while Grossum stomped towards Hohza, with a double headed axe in each hand. As the troll dragged his weapons, the edges scraped the stone floor and sent sparks which caused the hay to begin smoldering.

With slurred rhyme, pausing between verses for a quick puke or a gag, Grossum taunted Hohza: “Mosquitos come for a drink/I squash them dead/perhaps after I’ll catch a wink/In my stately bed.”

Dazed, Hohza got to his feet and stumbled through Morning Horizon’s pen. He’d spotted his sword leaning against the far wall of the fence. The horse gaily stepped up to him, nuzzling his arm, as she begged for more food.

Palical stopped his tale and addressed his two guests. “Hohza carries an enchanted blade these days?”

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Gohta nodded. “War Master Hohza wields Stormblade.” Gohta unsheathed his sword which glowed red at its edges and brightened to a searing white at its fuller. The crowd awed at its reveal. “While he has gifted me sword, Deathburn.”

“Most impressive,” said Palical, nodding his head. After he watched Gohta put away his blade he continued the tale.

There was Hohza, seeking his lost blade. It was a simple sword he’d taken from the locals’ inventory. As he did, a towering troll drew near, ready to chop him down, and a neighing nag hounding him for handouts. He spotted his blade on the ground and headed for it, kindly dismissing Morning Horizon with a “later, miss.’”

Grossum walked slowly, continuing to compose as he did. “I shall ride to the orchards and burn them away/Its people will be slaughtered and then I shall say:/’If it not be for Constant Envy then it would not be/conquer or destroy is what they decree!’” He then beckoned Morning Horizon, who hesitantly obeyed her master. A crowd gathered around the pen as excited onlookers cheered on their War Master, thinking this a simple bid for control of the War Camp, and not an enemy invasion.

The horse stopped partway across the pen to look back at Hohza. He leaned against the corral wall as he pulled up his sword. Meanwhile, the troll mumbled complaints about his slow horse. He closed the rest of the distance to her and bounded onto her back and then smacked her rear with his axe, urging her to run down Hohza.

Morning Horizon must have decided she’d rather be owned by an orc who would treat her with kindness and respect. She reared back to toss Grossum from her back as she trumpeted in defiance.

The troll rolled through the fall without his axes slipping from his hands. He crashed against the wooden pen and the wall collapsed under him. Hohza seized on the opportunity and charged at the troll with his sword thrust forward. Grossum shouted unlyrical obscenities as the warriors collided amid the slap of muscle and the clash of metal. The tangle of blows and parries ended with Hohza being thrown back to the other side of the corral. The baying horse wound between the combatants as they squared off amidst the wrecked corral.

By now the audience seemed torn. Most soldiers cheered on their War Master while a handful urged the unfamiliar warrior to triumph over the abusive troll. With the camp awake, but preoccupied, Palical ordered his scouts to disperse and sabotage the enemy’s supplies.

“Withering Sorrows’ whelp, you be/assassin in my midst, I see,” Grossum announced, finally understanding the situation. The crowd fell silent after a collective gasp. Even if Hohza was victorious over Grossum he would be lost once the crowd beset him.

Fortunately for Hohza, Morning Horizon committed to the battle and dashed into Grossum, pinching him against the railing with her side. The bars splintered under him as he roared in pain. Still gripping his weapons, he pushed the horse away. “Morning Horizon, now my foe/black as night and vicious as a crow/of your strength I used to boast/once done with him I’ll serve you as roast.”

The horse trotted away, keeping wary eyes on her former master. Grossum doubled over, gasping for air. Hohza charged across the pen and rammed his sword into the troll’s gut then slashed it across to spill the War Master’s over the straw.

Grossum rose, leaning his back against the broken wooden fence, and pulled up Hohza with him as the blade was caught in his belly. He swayed a moment, the axes trembling in his hands, and looked down at his dangling entrails. The sword slipped and splashed blood across Hohza’s face as it tumbled down. “I go now to the Sculptors/Of Constant Envy my songs will soar/Soldiers make this orc done for/while my stomach’s on the floor,” Grossum managed to say as blood dribbled down his chin. The axes dropped from his hands, and he fell backwards, crashing through the fence.

With the onlookers stunned, Hohza grabbed up one of the axes and climbed onto an agreeable Morning Horizon. As he charged southward, cutting down orcs with his stolen weapon, Palical had his soldiers set supplies and tents alight. They scaled the walls while the enemy was in a panic and found their way back home.

Palical shrugged. “The next morning, we began a most epic binge. When I finally began to nurse my hangover, a week later, Hohza had already left for The Keep.”

The camp erupted with cheers. Keg stirred with a surprised squeal, but immediately returned to snoring. Tad scooched forward and excitedly clapped for the troll’s tale, but stilled his hands once he caught Gohta’s cold stare from the corner of his eye.

The goblin remained silent and stared into the fire after Palical returned to his seat. He dared furtive glimpses at the troll but feared conversing and offending Gohta again. Tad just sipped at his stew and bided his time. They would turn in soon.

“Do me a favor, Tad, and try to act surprised when Hohza gets around to telling you of that adventure,” Palical asked from the side of his mouth, between sips from his boiling cauldron. “It is his tale, after all. I’m sure he’ll tell it much better.”

“There’s no way he could,” Tad said, beaming at the troll. “I can tell stories, too! Have you heard any Ottis the Odd Goblin stories?” His voice cracked with excitement.

“Ottis? Now that is an odd name for a goblin,” Palical thought aloud. “I think I have heard a scrap of one or two from Machines Works goblins working up north. They didn’t sound very exciting, though.” The War Master scrunched up his face as though tasting something very sour.

“There’s a reason there are no goblin War Masters,” Gohta commented. He cast Tad a stern look.

“No goblin War Masters?! Perhaps not in service of the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows, but I’ve encountered them under other Dread Lords. My best scouts are goblins! Small and fast. Gib should be around here somewhere.” Palical stirred, looking abou himself. “You’ll know him. Curses a lot.”

“You have goblin warriors?” Tad joined the troll in looking around.

“I thought they were short orcs,” Gohta said.

“There may be some of those, too, but I assure you that many are genuine goblins!” He sighed. “It’s getting late and I’m sure you want to be off at morning’s light.”

“If not before,” Gohta added. He rose and wandered to his buffalo. “I’ll give you the key stone and communicators now so we can leave without having to disturb you,” he said as he rummaged through a saddle bag.

“I appreciate that; I’ve much cider to sleep off before the battle. Even leaving early you probably won’t get to activate the keystones until tomorrow evening.” Palical held out his left palm, in which Gohta deposited three communication devices and the remaining key stone.

Frowning at the stone, Palical picked it out of his palm and held it to Gohta. “I’m not one to question War Master Hohza’s strategy but it’s odd that this keystone is activated.”

A broke across the clear night sky. Orcs and goblins looked up and swore in confusion. Tad could pick up one squeaky voice’s particularly virulent vexations and concluded they’d come from Gib.

“Activated?” Gohta reached up to grab the stone. He turned it over in his hands several times while he stared it at, his brows knotted with worry.

“Do you feel that funny buzzing? That means it’s activated.”

Holding the stone to Tad’s face, Gohta asked “what did you do to this thing?”

“Nothing!” Tad pushed Gohta’s hand away. “You’ve had them with you this whole time!”

It was then that the communicators in Palical’s open hand screamed “we’re under attack!”