We rested up for a while after the battle, sharing out the spoils and making any necessary repairs to our gear. The Stormcrows had owned a fair amount of kit, and shirts and coats of mail, pieces of plate and helmets were parcelled out to those who needed them, while spears, swords and knives were piled up and shared out. For the less militarily minded, there was also piles of jewellery, pieces of precious metal, ornaments, trophies, cloaks, blankets, tools, rugs, pottery, all the necessities of life. Some of the other Stonegrinders had objected when I announced that we would split the loot equally with the Fleshtearers, claiming that it was our shield wall that won the battle, but I insisted ... violently. The objectors still grumbled, but they did so quietly, nursing their broken teeth.

For that matter, a surprising number of Fleshtearers were expressing interest in the way we fought. Orcs of the Stonegrinder tribe were undewrstandably proud of their new method, and graciously (well, relatively graciously) offered to demonstrate.

I had just returned from washing in the river when Garog and Bar walked up to me, their shields slung over their backs and their helms hanging from their belts. "How did it go?" I asked, finishing using my cloak to rub the water out of my hair.

Garog grumbled. "Shit."

Bar elaborated. "It's the same dammed problem: everyone goes at their own pace. It doesn't matter how much we yell at them to stay together, some orcs always move faster than others, and some slower, and gaps appear in the wall!"

"And gaps mean bastards getting through the line," added Garog.

"Which is bad," finished Bar with a shrug.

"True," I said, giving my cloak a flick to remove some of the water and draping it over my arm. "Any thoughts?"

Garog scratched his head. "Nah. Well, one, but it's stupid." I motioned at him to say it anyway. "Gargh. I mean, what if everyone used the same foot at the same time? Like shield foot, spear foot, shield foot," he continued, demonstrating the action. Then he looked back up at us, and snorted. "Told you it was stupid."

I blinked. "Actually, that's not a bad idea."

Garog's jaw dropped, and Bar hit him on the shoulder, grinning.

Out of the mouths of orcs ...

Curnag grunted as a mixed group of tribesmen moved past, with Bar marching alongside them, calling out "shield, spear, shield, spear, shield, spear ..." while Garog walked on the other side, kicking and shoving at anyone who dropped out of time.

"Waste of time: look like morons, dancing like that. Nothing to do with real fighting," he complained, but I just shrugged.

"It seems to work."

"Hungh. Where's the glory? Where's the joy?"

"I don't know," added one of his tribesmen, who was watching the practice avidly. "I wouldn't mind having a mate on either side so no bastard stabs me in the back."

"Eh. Bunch of pansies," grumbled Curnag, but waved a hand. "Fuck it. Still looks stupid." Then he turned back to me. "Ain't gonna be much use against the Hearteaters," he accused. "Not like you can march one of your shield walls up their stone walls, can you? Hard to climb with a shield in one hand, and a spear in the other, eh?"

I smiled. "True. Which is why we won't do it that way."

Curnag spat on the ground. "Don't play word games, boy. I'm not some soft-headed half-orc, or a goblin you can bamboozle! Tell me straight: when are we going to kill the Hearteaters!"

I looked up at the sun. "Hmmm. Next year, I think."

The group was silent, then Curnag spat out a blistering string of curses, then rounded on me. "What are you playing at, boy? I'm not going to stand here and let -"

"Shut you damned mouth," I shouted, giving the larger orc a shove. "And stop calling me boy! I did what I said I would: I killed the Stormcrows! My ways of fighting work! Your tents are full of spoils! So show some fucking respect, old man!"

For a moment, I thought he was going to go for his knife. He stood there, breathing heavily, his nostrils flaring. But he didn't attack, so I continued.

"Do you think it would be easy? A little trick, and the most powerful tribe in the area just rolls over and dies? Killing moronic Stormcrows is easy: taking a fort from an enemy that outnumbers us is hard. It will take planning, and effort, and time. It won't be fast, and it won't be simple, but we have a good chance of success."

I waved my hand around, indicating the area. "In a year, we'll both be stronger. We'll have more fighters, practiced in our new methods of fighting. In a year, we'll have more and better weapons and armour. We will have time to prepare supplies, and gather more allies.

"Blood brother of my father," I said seriously, clapping a hand on his shoulder, "Together we have finished what you and my father started. In time, we will eclipse all the efforts of our ancestors. Will you trust me in this?"

Curnag glared at me, panting, but eventually his eyes lowered, and he shrugged my hand from his shoulder. "Whatever. Just don't ... whatever." Then he jabbed a clawed finger at me. "Next year. The beginning of summer. Here. Don't be late ... Huruk."

I nodded calmly. "Upon the blade of Foe Smiter, Ilneval's blade, I swear."

Four days after the battle, our tribes went our separate ways. Too many orcs couldn't subsist on hunting the same land for long, and it was time for us to renew our journeys through our range. So a month after we killed the Stormcrows, we were miles away, camped near a minor tributary of the River Karen, and life went on.

There was something hypnotic about the stately progression of an orc camp. Every day was different, but the routine of hunting, gathering, eating, scouting, training, brawling and praying never changed.

It's a hell of a thing, I thought as I finished offering a prayer to Ilneval after bringing down a deer, for an atheist to become a fervent worshiper. The threat of my soul being mortared into the Wall of the Faithless was enough for my sense of self preservation to overcome my scepticism. Besides: I know this guy's real ... and I know I don't want him pissed off at me!

I drew my knife and went about the messy, hard but necessary task of dressing the carcass. One thing about having the life of an orc dropped into your head, it turned a squeamish suburbanite into a veteran hunter.

The weather was getting colder, even by mountain standards, and the winds were getting icier. Winter, as it were, was coming. Before long, heavy clouds would deposit deep layers of snow, and travel would become impossible, even for small groups. The passes would be clogged, food would be scarce, and even the rivers frozen over. While it was still possible to use the extensive systems of the Underdark to travel, there were few entrances in our region, and those networks were already occupied, and it would take full scale warfare to clear them.

So, the Stonegrinders were heading for a system of caves we had used as our winter quarters for centuries, caverns and tunnels where we could store jerky and grain and dried fruit, roots and vegetables, wine and ale, where we could wait out the bitter storms and frozen winds of winter in security. It was a chance to do some serious maintenance to our gear, to teach our children and to breed more, to give thanks to the gods and to curse those of other races, who had stolen summer and spring from us (orcs tended to blame others for their hardships ... not so different from humans, now that I think about it ...).

Even now there were patches of snow on the ground and in the trees, so we were basically slaughtering our way east, using what salt we possessed to pack some meat, while smoking more over the campfires, filling packs with wild vegetables and roots. We were behind schedule, but thanks to our victory over the Stormcrows, we had more than enough supplies to last the winter.

When I was finished with the carcass, I hoisted it over my shoulders and trudged back in the direction of camp. It won't be leftover orc for dinner tonight!

The tribe stood in silence before the entrance to the cave while the priestess of Luthic performed the traditional blessing. For most of the year, the clergy of the Cave Mother, wife of Gruumsh and patron of female orcs, caves and healing, were considered a minor sect, but in winter they came into their own. Many orc children would be either conceived or born during the long nights below ground, winter chills and diseases needed to be combated, and the close quarters of subterranean quarters meant we were in greater need than normal for wisdom and calm. So, for the days we would spend in the caves, Luthic's priestesses were largely in charge.

At least the old girl is enjoying herself, I mused, as the elderly cleric chanted and waved her hands, calling on the blessings of the goddess and the rest of the pantheon for our winter rest. I think this is the most excitement she gets all year! In the crowd, I could see at least a few of the younger female orcs chanting along, mouthing the words and swaying in time. Looks like she's getting some new recruits, too ... good. Better than following Old One Eye and His Idiot Son.

Unfortunately for the rest of the tribe, the ceremony took three hours, with the priestess raving in an archaic orc dialect that few of them could follow.

Aside from their respect for the gods, it was probably only the inevitable party that was promised to follow that kept them standing still.

The celebration was in full swing in the main cavern when I dropped my packs and weapons in the corner of the roughly hewn chamber that was reserved for the chief. Amazingly, there was a large raised platform that was essentially a bed (made of stone, but with a few furs and blankets, it would be comfortable enough). Lit by several small magical flames that gave off little light and no heat, it wasn't huge, but I could live there. A heavy door, reinforced with bronze and iron studs and decorations, kept it separated from the rest of the complex.

Brigitte, as my personal slave, was already putting her own meagre belongings in her designated corner. After the battle, I had made sure that she wasn't forced to share in our cannibalistic feasts, and that she was well fed on more appropriate fare, so she was starting to look less like a skinny pile of dirty rags. Her hair, when washed in a mountain stream, turned out to be a honey blonde, and her skin was soft and pale, with a bit of a tan. Under all the dirt and misery, there was a pretty young girl, and I made sure to keep her close, in order to keep my word that she would not be harmed any further.

A few of the tribe had made suggestions that I wasn't beating her enough, and that coddling the human was a weakness a chief couldn't afford. More, however, made jokes about how I was able to tame the girl so easily, and I was clearly keeping her in line using methods other than a firm hand. True, but not in the way they mean. Still, it can't help the reputation: vicious on the battlefield, and potent in bed. I hadn't touched her, but didn't deny it when it was suggested. She's safer that way, and she knows it.

"Brigitte," I said in Common, "Tidy up here, then get something to eat. If anything happens, talk to Bar. If anyone bothers you, talk to Garog. Understood?" Our evening conversations had improved my mastery of her tongue to the point that I actually sounded like an adult without a head injury.

"Yes, master Huruk," she said with a bow. She was actually adapting fairly well to her position, and seemed to be making a role for herself as my personal assistant/valet, which I supposed was easier to deal with than being property. Eh, if it works for her, and helps her sleep at night, then more power to her. She hasn't tried to slit my throat yet, so I reckon that's a good sign.

I gave her a closed-lipped smile, and headed off, seeking something I had been looking forward to for months.

I groaned in pleasure as I sank down into the pool of hot water. The lower levels of the cave system included a series of hot springs, and over the generations the Stonegrinders had shaped them into a comfortable set of baths. Probably it's what gave us our name, I mused as I closed my eyes and let the heat sink into my pores, chipping away at the rock until it did what we wanted.

All in all, things were going pretty well. The tribe was following my lead well, and my reputation as a war leader and planner of victories was spreading. We were well set for the winter, and we had enough space in the main cavern for some limited drill, so our skills wouldn't grow stale. Besides, I had a few errands I wanted to run, and a small party could use the Underdark tunnels to visit some interesting places, even during the harshest winters.

A rustling of cloth and rattle of metal drew my attention over the flowing water, and my eyes jerked open, my hand sliding for my dagger, and I was surprised to see Janare entering the bathing chamber. "I would have thought you would be helping to officiate the celebrations," I said quietly, my fingers inches from the hilt of my blade. If she's decided to make her move and pull a regime change on me ...

"One could say the same of you," she countered, removing her winter wolf cloak and hanging it over a rock. "Your father would have been in the centre of things, singing and dancing and pouring mead down his throat until he passed out."

I shrugged. "Oh, I'll drink and sing and dance later, but I promised myself that the very first thing I'd do on our first night in the caves was to enjoy a damned good hot soak."

She nodded. "I can understand that." Unfastening her belt, she tossed it aside, reached down and pulled her robe over her head. I blinked as the cleric stood before me completely nude, and my body couldn't help but react. Orc society wasn't exactly prudish, and living in the outdoors meant you inevitable had to bath with members of the opposite sex, but as I mentioned before, she was one hot orc lady ... and it had been quite a while for me.

Janare casually stepped down into the pool with me, and moaned as the steaming hot water enveloped her. "Ahh, I do miss this during the year," she admitted, letting her arms float on the top of the water as she sank down until only her head was above water, her hair floating around her.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, muffled echoes of the party above the only break in the quiet. Then she spoke. "You are not your father." She tilted her head to one side. "You are not like any chief I have ever seen. You have changed, Huruk of the Stonegrinders. Four months ago, you would be above, making a fool of yourself, drowning in drink and the praise of your warriors. Four months ago, you could not have led us to victory over the Stormcrows, or planned to bring down the Hearteaters after the snow melts. Four months ago, you would have bedded that human girl instead of spending the nights talking to her." I opened my mouth to deny it, but she raised a hand out of the water to stop me.

"You have changed, Huruk, my chief, and it is for the better. I say this because four months ago, I was granted a vision by great Ilneval. He showed me something, something incredible, something that I did not wish to see or believe.

"He showed me you: standing atop a mountain, your sword drawn, and below you, rings of orcs chieftains, warriors ... priests. All kneeling, raising their weapons in praise, in obedience, in service. I saw myself there, amongst those closest to your feet." Her eyes grew flinty. "I did not wish to see this, because I knew you to be a fool, a mindless brute, a simple orc who had no better dream than to live and fuck and fight and kill and eat and drink."

Then her eyes softened. "But now I see another orc before me. I see one who will become a legend, as none have before. I see the future of our people, and of all our kind. I see ..." and she rose up, water cascading from her shoulders and her full breasts, and waded until her knees were pressing against mine. "I see more than the endless days of tribe and horde. I see greatness, Huruk," she insisted, heat in her eyes as she leant forward to wrap her arms around my neck and straddled my lap, pressing her chest against mine. Running her fingers through my hair, she looked down at me with ... something ... in her eyes. Something that didn't belong on the face of an orc.

Hope.

"I see greatness, Huruk, my chief, and if you think I would let you have it without me, you are still not as smart as you think you are!"

Ah, greedy self interest: that's more orky.

She cut off further talk by pressing her lips against me, and my arms encircled her and pulled her close against me.

We never made it to the party.