I was talking to Vekan, the Stonegrinder's blacksmith when Curnag found me. Well, I say blacksmith, but he wasn't really. Nomadic life in the hills didn't really lead to good metalwork: mostly, he knew how to get metal fairly hot with a campfire and beat the hell out of it until it yielded to what he wanted. He couldn't smelt ore, or work with alloys, but he could reshape iron, somewhat, for small things.

I examined the helmet he presented me with. It was a simple cap of iron, with a brutal bar nasal. The hammering was rough, and the metal poorly polished, but it looked like solid work. I experimentally placed it on my head, and the leather padding seemed to hold it steady. I removed it again, and nodded, handing it back to him. "Excellent work, Vekan! Now, if only we had another twenty-score of these!" His face fell at the thought of that much iron, and that many helmets, and the amount of work it would take with his poor tools. Before I could reassure him that we didn't need them immediately, the other chief arrived, and I sent the smith on his way. He scurried off, clutching the helm in his hands.

"Bah, never saw the point of a metal cap myself," grumbled Curnag, but he grinned at me. "Seems like a waste of good iron, and makes your neck hurt."

Orc's armour was as eclectic as their weaponry: many wore nothing more than a vest of rawhide, or boiled leather. Others wore chain mail of various design, or scale, and some even owned breastplates looted from more civilised realms. I had a huburk of chain in my tent that covered me from crown to knees, and my arms to the wrists (booty from the same raid that had gained me my sword), but many of my tribe simply didn't bother. That was another thing I was trying to change: making sure all my warriors had at least a leather jerkin and a helm, bracers and greaves, and a decent round shield to carry into battle. So far, I had managed the shield, mostly, and I was making progress with the leather.

"Better the foe bleeding than you," I countered, but slapped the older orc on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get some lunch: I hear the hunters brought down a boar earlier, and it should be starting to roast nicely."

We walked through the camp, and I took a moment to assess the situation. Between our tribes, we had almost thirteen hundred orcs, six hundred of mine and seven hundred of his, nearly equal to the Hearteater's fifteen hundred. Unfortunately, that didn't tell the whole tale. Of those thirteen hundred, we could field barely nine hundred, the rest being the children too young to fight, the elderly (such as existed amongst orcs), and the female non-combatants, those who raised and cared for the children, watched the slaves, and generally did the work to keep the camp functional.

The Hearteaters, however, had not only a secure, fortified position, they also had plentiful food and water, along with slaves aplenty to do the tasks they didn't want to do, like farming, brewing, cutting wood, fetching water, cooking and mending. All in all, almost the entire adult tribe were able to be put into the field, fully twelve hundred orcs as of the last time they went to war, driving out a band of bugbears who had been encroaching on Hearteater territory. The goblinoids were fierce fighters, but had numbered less than half the Hearteater host, and had been slaughtered, with only some of the women and the stronger boys taken as slaves. Many of those now worked in the fields beneath the craggy walls of the Hearteater fort under the watchful eyes of their orc conquerors.

So, between their numbers and their entrenched position, even with my otherworldly knowledge, we weren't likely to be able to take the Hearteaters in a fair fight.

Fortunately, I had no intention of fighting fair.

"Your boys are making some of my lads jittery," confided Curnag as we walked. "Getting all pissy about how deep they're digging shit holes, of all things, and where we dig 'em. Causing a couple of fights." He didn't sound broken up about it, more amused than anything.

I grunted. So, Bar and Garoig are doing their jobs: good. I couldn't exactly explain germ theory to my tribe, so a lot of it came down to 'I'm the chief, this is how I want it done, do it or I'll plant my boot in your ass.' Surprisingly, it worked: orcs were used to doing what bigger, tougher orcs told them to do. Ass-kicking is authority, I mused with a grin.

"I hate how shit smells: digging deep means you can't smell it as much, and if it's away from the water it means the water don't taste like piss."

Curnag raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Not a bad idea."

Orcs, I had found, weren't actually stupid. Oh, to be sure, they're not mental giants, and are lazy, cruel and stubborn to boot. But if you explained something in a way that made sense, keep it simple, and come at it from the right angle, they're likely to get the point.

I shrugged, as though it wasn't worth worrying about. "Besides, we've got bigger things to worry about."

He grinned. "Like slaughtering those bastard Hearteaters."

I shook my head. "Not yet."

Curnag reared back, and grabbed my arm. "What? Boy, you said you -"

I tore my arm out of his grip and rounded on him, snarling viciously. "Fuck, what did you think I had in mind? Just march up there and demand they fight us in the open?"

He shrugged. "Worked for the Stormcrows."

"Well, the Stormcrows are mostly Bahgtru worshipers," I countered, naming the Son of Gruumsh, god of loyalty, brute strength and stupidity. Yes, some orcs worship a deity who encourages stupidity. No wonder we were stereotyped. "They're so dumb rocks laugh at them!"

Curnag growled, turning away. "So? Don't see why we can't just -"

"Hurl our tribes against the Hearteater's walls, trying to drown them in our blood? Even if we win - and we wouldn't - our people would be dead. So we need to do this the smart way: Ilneval's way."

Curnag barked in laughter. "Your father always said you only chose Ilneval as your patron 'cause you wanted to bed that pretty shaman-girl of yours."

I slapped him on the shoulder. "Then some of her smarts must have rubbed off on me every time she slugged me for suggesting she share my tent," I joked, and we shared a laugh. It was true: Huruk had never really been a smart guy, even for an orc, but it wasn't all just because he had the hots for Janara. He really had wanted more for his people than the endless cycle of horde and shattered tribes. He had literally offered himself to Ilneval as a sacrafice, a way of finding a path forward for his people.

I wouldn't let that sacrifice be in vain.

Besides, I wanted to go home.

"So if we're not heading off to kill Hearteaters," Curnag asked eventually, "Then what in the Infinite Layers of the Abyss are we going to do?"

I paused. So far, I hadn't actually told anyone my plans. They were still percolating around in my brain, and it was only the fact that my people knew - and feared - me that allowed me to get this far. "The first part," I said quietly, "Is complete some unfinished business."

A week later, Bar loped back into camp, his fangs bared in a vicious grin. "They're right where we thought they'd be," he announced, to the muttered approval of the gathered orcs.

Curnag barked his version of a chuckle. "What did I tell you? They're not smart enough to be imaginative! Every year at this time, ever since the days of my grandfather's grandfather, they come here!" He hefted his greataxe, a massive thing of jagged metal and heavy wood. He wore no armour, but for a pair of leather braces on his wrists.

I nodded, and considered the rough map scratched into the dirt between us. The Stormcrows had encamped at a place where the Gurash river split, and became the Jord and the Karen. Fed by springs high up in the mountains and swollen by snowmelt in the spring, the Gurash was not exactly the Murray, but it was the source of most of the fresh water in the region, and flowed strong and fast. The Jord ran right through the valley ruled over by the Hearteaters, and fed their crops and their populace.

Basically, the smaller tribe was hemmed into a triangle, with fast-flowing water on two sides, and seemingly unaware that their enemies were cutting off the other side.

"Any scouts or lookouts?" I pressed Bar for more details.

He shrugged. "They're having a party, clustered around some big ass bonfires, chugging mead: most are too busy getting drunk to bother with keeping watch."

I nodded. "Right." I looked up at the afternoon sky. "We've got about four hours to nightfall. Bar, Garog," I spoke to my companions, "Get the troops ready. Keep them quiet, but get them moving. I want them drawn up just at the edge of the woods. Chief Curnag, I want half of your warriors, less a guard for the camp, formed up on either side of our formation: I don't want any stragglers getting passed you, there must be none who escape."

Curnag grinned. "Don't worry: they won't get passed my boys!"

"Good." I turned to where Kartan, High Priest of Gruumsh and the senior cleric in our two tribes. "I would appreciate any magic that could help us today," I said politely, "As well as any favour you can encourage the gods to send our way."

The priest, who had ritually gouged out his own eye in imitation of his lord, hefted his oversized spear. "Do not fear: the Stormcrows have been living in the shadow of their defeat for long enough! He Who Watches demands this battle, to remove the stain of their weakness! Such is the will of Gruumsh!" The rest of the assembled orcs shivered, as only priests were allowed to speak the chief orc god's name aloud.

I nodded again, and loosened my sword in it's scabbard, and stood up. "Then we are ready. May the gods be with us this day."

My chain huburk rattled around my knees as I approach the edge of the clearing where the Stormcrows were enjoying themselves. In the fading light of the day, I could see them through the trees, leaping about and howling, emptying wineskins down their throats and waving swords and spears around. Not exactly OH&S approved behaviour, I mused, before jamming my helm onto my head and making sure my shield was buckled to my arm properly. "Everyone know their jobs?" I asked, and Garog scowled.

"Yes, yes, a hundred times yes! What's wrong, Huruk? You didn't used to be such a worrier!"

I grinned, and slapped my hand on his boiled leather jerkin. "Someone has to worry a little, Garog! The god's know, you just don't have the brains for it!"

The larger orc bared his tusks at me, but laughed along with the others at the joke. Generally, if you insulted another orc, he'd either gut you, or laugh about it. Knowing which he was likely to do at any given time was part of the fun of having orc friends.

I took a deep breath. "Then we begin." I nodded to one of the younger tribesmen, and he lifted a twisted, copper horn to his lips, and blew a strangled, piercing tone that warbled and screeched, but was clearly audable through the trees. Along the treeline, hundreds of Stonegrinders and Fleshtearers drew their weapons and started out towards the tribe below. I stood in the middle of our rough formation, and readied my spear, locking my shield with my neighbours. At the second toot of the horn, we began to move forward at a steady pace.

It wqas as rough as hell. Orcs usualluy advanced as a mass, hurling themselves at the biggest, baddest enemy they could find, and beat at it until it fell. Marching in disciplined formations was a foreign concept, and I realised from the beginning that even something as simple as a shield wall was going to be a work in process.

Behind me, I could hear Garog and Bar striding back and forth behind the line, shoving and kicking and dragging orcs into position, cursing at them and making obscene threats. Behind them came the archers and javalin- and axe-throwers, hefting their weapons and growling for the front line to hurry up.

"Steady," I cried out, "Keep in line, may Him of the Eye eat your souls! I'll gut the first orc who breaks formation, and serve their balls for dinner!"

In front of us, a few of the smarter Stormcrows noticed us, and started milling about, some readying their weapons, some gathering into groups, while others simply launched themselves at us. "Spears!" I howled, and thrust mine over my shield, my neighbours doing the same, until our shield wall bristled with jagged iron blades.

The distance shrank, and I shouted again. "Archers! Now!" I couldn't see, but I could hear the sudden whir and whoosh of arrows, spears and axes being hurled over our heads, until they started landing amongst the ragged hoard in front of us. Most harmlessly hit the dirt, while others sank into orc flesh, raising howls of pain to match the bellows of rage the Stormcrows were emitting.

They kept coming.

Finally, I judged we were close enough, and shouted out, "Halt! Stop walking, you motherless bastards!" After days of practice, it was still pretty ragged, but for the most part, the line stopped, and spears were lowered, aimed right at the oncoming orcs. "Brace yourselves," I howled, and A cry arose from our ranks as the second line tribesmen shoved longer spears over our shoulders, suddenly doubling the forest of spear points facing the foe.

I felt a hand on my mailed shoulder, and vaguely heard a familiar voice shouting behind me, calling out to Ilneval in an archaic form of orcish, which had roughly the same relationship to the 'modern' tongue as Latin has to Itallian or French. Strength flooded my limbs, and I suddenly felt as though I could lift a horse and throw a cow. Wow: so this is how Steve Rogers felt, I allowed a moment of insane geekery, before I focused my attention on the seven-foot berserker orc in front of me, waving an axe over his head in both hands. I deftly angled my spear, and he threw himself upon it, the razor-sharp point tearing its way through his throat as another spear point pierced his shoulder. Still roaring in fury, he swung his axe down twuce, tearing gouges into my shield and that of the orc on my left before a third spear took him from my right, and he fell to his knees.

"Hold! I cried, jerking my spear free as the main mass of the tribe arrived at the shield wall, and I set my feet and threw my shoulder into my shield. "Hold, damn you," I shouted once more, and the Stormcrows hit the shield wall.

For those of you who have never stood in a shield wall, consider yourselves lucky. It's a hellish experience, standing with nothing but a hunk of heavy wood and iron between you and berserk orcs howling for your blood, throwing your weight against them like trying to hold a door closed, stabbing your spear blindly over the top because it was too dangerous to stick your head out to aim properly. I felt arrows glancing off my helm, and cursed as a spear thrust went over my shield and tore at the mail links guarding my shoulders. At some point my spear broke, sunk halfway into the gut of a screaming Stormcrow, and I dropped the shattered shaft and drew my sword, thrusting at the faces and throats of the other orcs crying for my blood.

It was nine minutes that lasted an age, but eventually the fury abated, and the pressure was lessening. My blood thudding through my veins, I raised my sword towards the sky. "Stay in line, Stonegrinders! Stay with the men to your flanks ... but advance! Push them back! Push them into the river! Drown them, in water or blood, it is their choice!" Cries of agreement and praise to the gods and wordless howls came from either side of me, and I took a step forward, then another, my shield lead on my arm, my fingers locked onto the hilt of my sword in a death grip, sweat half blinding me and the howls of the enraged and dying filliung my ears.

I almost stumbled wen I stepped over a Stormcrow corpse, but I advanced, and we pushed, and the Stormcrows fought. And died.

None chose the river, I'll give them that.

I sat on a log that had probably been the place of the Stormcrows cheif, and sank my teeth into the hunk of meat in my hands that someone had passed me. Around me, orcs of two tribes celebrated the fall of a third, cheering and drinking and telling tall tales of courage and savagery. Captured stores of food and drink were shared out, and I concentrated on the crackle of the fire in front of me rather than listen to the cries of those females my orcs had taken alive.

A familiar figure sat down beside me, and grinned a toothy grin. "A mighty victory, and not before time," insisted Janara, scooping up stew from her wooden bowl. "From this day, the Stormcrows will be naught but a memory."

"And not that for long, unless they are mentioned to tell of how they were wiped out," I rejoined, washing my mouthful down with a swig of ale. "My thanks, priestess, for the gift of strength during the battle," I said seriously, but she just grunted.

"My duty to the tribe, and to you, my chief," she insisted, and for the first time, there seemed to be a hint of respect in her voice. "I will admit, I doubted this 'walking wall' would work," she continued, gesturing with her wooden spoon, "But we slew more than a hundred orcs, and suffered barely a dozen injuries. Three dead. Why didn't we do this long ago?" she wondered, and I hesitated, but spoke anyway.

"Because we have forgotten that strength of wit and cunning is as important as strength of fist. Because too many orcs favour the way of Bahgtru, rather than Ilneval. Because we forget that orcs who stand together for the tribe are stronger than those who fight alone, seeking glory."

We sat in silence for a moment, eating while the fire burned, a log popping as it burned through.

"I was wrong," she said after a while. "I thought you were just another muscle-brained orc, only claiming to follow Ilneval because you wanted to bed me. But now it seems that wasn't your intent."

"To be honest," I said with a smile, "It wasn't my only intent."

She nodded, and stood up. "So it seems. A fine victory, myu chief. May the gods grant you many more."

As she walked off, I considered the results of the battle. When we had finished, there were no adult males left of the Stormcrows, and few females. No one who lifted a sword or spear or axe was spared. Those females who survived would be taken as bed partners for orcs of our tribes, and the children would largely be adopted into the families of those who killed their parents. Give a few years, some initiation rites and they'll be proper Stonegrinders. The Stormcrows were dust in the wind.

There were several reasons for this. Firstly, I needed to blood my troops, and prove that I wasn't just talking out of my ass about new ways of fighting: I had shown that not only did my way work, but that it worked better than the old ways. When I introduced another new idea later, I could point to this victory as proof that it was generally a good idea to listen to me.

Secondly, I needed to prove my ruthlessness, my capacity to completely destroy a tribe. This way, when it came to showing mercy, I could point out the consequences of not accepting terms. Better to be conquered than to be nothing.

Thirdly, we needed their weapons, their armour, their supplies. A generation before, the Stormcrows had been a large, powerful tribe, and they still had plenty of swords, knives and pieces of chain and plate.

Lastly, I needed to see this place. I needed to see the lay of the land, the river, the mountains. My plans were still forming, but I already had a few ideas in place, and I was growing more certain by the moment that this location was key.

As I chewed, it dawned on me just what sort of meat I had been given. My jaws slowed, and I sat, considering. Then I shrugged, and swallowed. Better than being left for carrion eaters, I mused, and tore off another mouthful of fallen Stormcrow.

I was an orc.

I had better get used to it.