I blinked my eyes blearily, and rolled onto my side. The ground underneath me was cold, damp and hard: not in the least like my warm, comfortable bed. Around me was the sound of night: crickets, the rustle of the wind through trees, the crackle of a fire, and my nose twitched at the acrid scent of burning wood. Nope, I was most certainly not in my room at home, the last place I could remember being.

With effort I opened my eyes ... and lurched back with a yelp. Sitting on the other side of a small fire sat a large, muscle bound figure, clad in rough furs and leather, a long sword resting bare across his knees. This was scary enough, but this particular figure had porcine features, large tusks, and beady yellow eyes that peered at me through the gloom, reflecting the flame's light balefully.

He laughed as I scrambled back, drawing my knees up in front of me and scrabbling about for a weapon, a phone, or maybe my alarm clock, in order to wake myself up from this nightmare.

"Don't fret, little human mortal," rasped the figure in deep and accented English, still giggling. "I have already eaten."

"Very reassuring," I responded, trying not to hyperventilate. "So I assume I'm not dreaming?"

"Humph. I would prefer to consider myself a nightmare, rather than a 'dream'," he continued, his eyes glinting in dark humour. "I am Ilneval, Horde Leader, War Maker! God of orcs, half-orcs, of tactics and victory! I am general to Gruumsh, and when his mighty spear smites his enemies, it is my planning that brought that foe within reach!" He leaned forward and thrust his snout towards me, the light from the fire casting ghastly shadows over his green-grey face. "You know me," he accused.

Satisfied, for the moment, that I wasn't a late-night snack, I brushed dirt off my knees and crossed my legs underneath me. "Um, the name is familiar." I thought furiously. "Okay, you're one of the orc gods from Faerun, right?"

He barked a harsh laugh. "And much further, mortal. My worshipers cover worlds, and fill them with pyres of the defeated foe in my honour." But he frowned. "And yet ... my people remain savages. They build nothing, leave nothing behind them. Tomorrow is as meaningless as yesterday. Humans, dwarves," he spat into the fire, causing the spittle sizzle loudly, "and elves grow, learn new tricks, new crafts. They build empires, while my children scrabble in the mud."

I couldn't help feeling a little empathy for the deity. Orcs were, apart from goblins, the biggest losers in fantasy. Yeah, they kicked butt when they could, but for the most part, they never got past barbarian hordes. Dangerous to small communities, and even kingdoms, but a strong nation with a disciplined army and some decent spellcasters would generally spoil their fun. Of course, that's human storytelling, I thought. No one likes to read about an orc horde stomping all over humanity ... except 40K fans, of course.

"I ... kinda get where you're coming from," I said. "Of course, strictly from a human point of view, that's a good thing." Inwardly I cringed as soon as I said it: it's not a good idea to piss off a god when he pulls you aside for a chat.

"Humph," he grunted. "Good for humans. Not good for orcs. So: since orcs don't build empires, I need an orc who isn't an orc." He pointed a sharp fingernail at me.

"Woah!" I shouted, raising both hands in front of me. "I'm no Genghis Khan, mate. I can barely hold down a job, let alone build an empire!"

"Grey orc named Huruk is chief of Stonegrinder tribe. Great warrior, loyal worshiper. Wants to make orcs great, but not smart enough. No 'vision'. So I take your soul, and swap it with his. You get his body, his memories, his skills. He comes to afterlife, and fights and dies forever. You take his place, and build a true orc empire. Build a 'civilisation'. Make orcs not wall fodder for other races: make them strong. Unite them, and make them great. If you succeed, I put you back where I found you, like nothing happened."

I blinked. "What happens if I fail?"

Illneval shrugged. "Other orcs kill you. Eat you. I start again."

"Oookay. I guess that counts as motivation. Do I get a choice?"

"No." Reaching through the fire with a suddenly long arm, he thrust his clawed hand into my chest, and with a wrenching, wet sound, tore my soul from my body.

Fortunately, that's where I passed out.

I sat up with a start, my hand clutching at my chest, my heart pounding and my lungs labouring to draw breath. My head swam, and I tossed aside the strangely heavy covers of my bed to stick my legs out to get up.

Almost immediately, I realised that something was wrong. Firstly, I was not on a raised mattress, but on blankets laid out on the ground. Secondly, I was not in my bedroom, but in some kind of tent, the sounds of a busy camp coming from outside, along with the appropriate smells. Thirdly, the hand pressing against my chest was not the one I had been born with.

I paused for a moment, raising my hand to look at it in the dim light of the tent. Long, strong fingers, heavy with calluses from hard work and with roughly hewn nails, the skin a grey hew rather than the normal pink I was used to. In a panic, I glanced around, saw a bowl of water on top of a wooden chest, and lurched over to peer into it.

Reflected in the copper bowl was not my face: it had yellow eyes, long, ragged blue-black hair, a heavy brow and a jutting jaw full of too many sharp teeth! I almost thought that someone had covered my face with a latex prosthetic, but the reflection moved too easily, too accurately expressing my shock and terror. It may not have been my face, but it was the face I now wore.

That was when I passed out. Again.