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Stedon's fighting skills improved steadily after his return. He no longer had a problem with the passion to draw blood that Kreg had mentioned. He had conquered his fear of pain and death. Alone in the wilderness, faced with starvation or attacks by predators and naked to the elements, Stedon had looked his own fears in the face and defeated them.

When Kreg nearly gutted him, slicing open a bloody gash in Stedon's side, Stedon bull rushed Kreg and pressed his own blade to Kreg's gut to end the duel before he even noticed he was wounded.

The orcs grew. Their frames swelled with seething, lewdly rippling beef. The ground now vibrated slightly wherever they walked, and their strides grew exaggerated with the need to keep their hulking thighs from rubbing against their own balls. Their voices dropped even lower as their chests filled out, growing more potent.

Ten months to the day Grothor declared they would begin training, he assembled his warband in front of their home. He looked over them - vicious and savage Kreg who now had a body riddled with freakish veins up against the skin, proud and vain Blackmane who's body now looked like some two-legged heavy warhorse and who's arms could no longer fully hang at his sides, gentle and wise Majok who now looked anything but gentle with his great gorilla-like frame distorting his tattoos.

Grothor picked up a small boulder and slammed it between both his hands. He eyed his warband, then brought all of his strength to bear on the stone. It crumbled under his power. The act made the other orcs bloated and erect.

"Now, we are ready for Zor," Grothor thundered.

***

Oltuk, potential recruit of the Best Blades, was bored. He stood gazing out over the towering, spiked red iron walls of Adaar'kurn at the Blood River, winding its way through a series of small rapids before it entered the fortress. In another week, Zor would decide whether he had what it took to become part of his warband. Until then, he was just on loan from the Dragonslayers, and here he was, doing sentry duty like some Grunt.

Something caught Oltuk's eye. Figures approached the fortress, moving along the river's edge. Oltuk narrowed his eyes, then widened them.

"By the dead gods!" he swore. For they were the single mightiest-looking warband Oltuk had ever seen.

Their leader swaggered in the front, serrated scimitar at his side, wearing a polished leather harness across a set of enormous pectorals that cast their own shadow and might have been breasts were it not for the permanent striations Oltuk could see even from the fortress walls. The others in his warband were equally endowed with brawn - twice the brawn that any orc had a right to! Oltuk reached down and rubbed at the crotch piece of his spiked chainmail. His mouth watered. He would do anything for the honor of being dominated by such an orc.

Down below, Grothor strode up to the closed gates of Adaar'kurn unchallenged. He sneered. He knew the sentries were staring at his body in awe. He would give them something to gape at! Grothor gave a mighty ROAR and swung both arms together in an overhead chop, crashing them into the gates. The wooden beam that closed them shattered like a twig, and Grothor entered the fortress with tusks bared.

The sentries seemed to have finally remembered their duty, and yelled challenge.

"Who do you think you are, orc?" Oltuk called.

Grothor fixed Oltuk with such a look that Oltuk moaned under his breath and almost cummed in his armor.

"I'm the warrior who just punched open your puny gates! And I want to talk to Zor the Undefeatable."

How could Oltuk disobey such a man? He strode awkwardly from the battlements down into the guardhouse and there he yanked open his belt and sprayed his cum against the stone wall. He hurridly stuffed his cock back into his armor and went to find the Best Blades.

Grothor and his warband stood proudly back to back with each other, glaring down any orcs who dared look them in the eye. Stedon stood in their midst, at the center of the group, hidden behind their bulk. He rested his hands on the luscious ass cheeks of Kreg and Blackmane while he waited.

An orc wearing some sort of black warpaint in a tribal stripe down his brow came toward Majok. He dropped a coin sack on the ground at his own feet. Some minutes passed, and a thick, burly orc who's barrel chest was criss crossed with hideous scars came forward, facing Kreg, dropping three coin sacks.

"What are they doing?" Stedon muttered.

"Bidding on us," Blackmane murmured, his voice hushed with disbelieving delight.

"What?" Stedon asked.

Kreg leaned his head slightly back. "Sometimes an orc can't declare his desire for another openly. So he bids with sacks of coin. If the other accepts, he gets a good fuck and some gold. I've never been offered more than two sacks before."

A one-eyed orc, head shaved save for a long ponytail down his back and wearing heavy armored shoulder pads decorated with a row of gilded spikes approached. He looked Grothor up and down. Then he snapped his fingers and held out a hand. A smaller orc who stood behind him began to hand him sacks of coin. He set down a row of five sacks. Grothor looked from them to the orc, at a loss for words. More sacks came - six, seven, eight, nine, a full second row making ten.

"What do you want?" Grothor asked the strange orc.

In response, the orc strode forward. He unclipped his armor, letting it fall behind him and stood facing Grothor, thighs almost trembling with desire.

"Let me bear you sons."

So this was an orc cuntman, Stedon realized. It was impossible to tell him from a full male.

"I do not know you, brother," Grothor said.

The cuntman slid his hands up Grothor's magnificent pectorals. "I will tell you everything, my lord. Show you everything I have. Give you everything I own. I have waited a lifetime to find one worthy of my womb. Please. Name your price. But do not deny me!"

Grothor wrapped a bulging, veined arm around the cuntman, drawing him to his side with a possessive growl. The cuntman orc gave a soft, quavering moan. A moan Stedon knew all too well.

The cuntman caught sight of Stedon in the middle of the warband and bared his teeth. "What is that?"

"That," Grothor said, shoving the cuntman back, "is no concern of yours."

"No human has ever seen Adaar'kurn, much less set foot in..OHH!" the cuntman orc's objection died on his lips. Grothor had one big hand shoved up under his chainmail beechcloth, slowly stroking the orc's pussy.

"Go," Grothor purred to him. "And tell every cuntman in Adaar'kurn of me. I'm sure you're not the only dam who'll want me to sire them warriors."

The cuntman staggered off, whimpering. The ground thudded heavily as a row of fully armored orcs marched into view. Grothor regarded them while slowly licking droplets of cunt moisture from his fingers. The armored warriors formed up in a perfect line. Their leader stepped forward.

He wore a helm forged to look like a dragon's head. Piercing eyes like those of a wolf looked out of it at Grothor's band.

"So you are the ones being called Big Boys, eh?"

Behind Grothor, Blackmane clapped a hand onto Kreg's shoulder and shook him. Their warband had just been named. Their status among all orcs had been elevated. And by the glance Blackmane gave to Stedon that became a wink, Blackmane knew who was to thank for it.

"Where is Zor?" Grothor demanded.

"A good impression is not enough to disturb the ruler of Adaar'kurn," the dragon-helmed warrior sneered.

Grothor turned his head slightly. "Kreg?"

Kreg left his place in the formation. He kept his steps slow and deliberate. As he stomped closer to Zor's messanger, it became clear he stood a good half foot taller, to say nothing of how much broader. The messanger tried to conceal his rising apprehension as Kreg pushed naked gigantic pectorals against his armor and gave a sound from his nostrils that Stedon could feel through his feet.

"I must insist," Grothor said.

"But..I..."

The gathering of orcs in the fortress square gasped as Kreg hoisted the messanger - armor and all - off his feet with one hand and gave another brutish snarl.

"Y..yes! Of...of course! At once!"

Kreg dropped the orc in the dragon armor, who crashed into the stone slabs of the square with a grunt. Kreg put a heavy bare green foot down onto him, ground it there for a moment, then shoved him bodily halfway across the square with a simple push.

Kreg smirked, watching Zor's men break ranks to go rushing back to Zor's inner keep. All around him came the soft musical sounds of coin purses dropping like apples in autumn.

An hour later, they stood before a pair of towering iron gates. The metal had been tinted with impure red ore to give it a bloody luster. Each gate served as the frame for an orc sword of exaggerated size. In moments, the gates would open and the Big Boys would arrive in the presence of the closest thing orcs had to a king.

"My greater," Stedon said to Grothor, "what orders have you for me?"

Grothor put a heavy hand on Stedon's head. Ran fingers through his freshly trimmed mohawk. "None. You will present yourself as you are, Grunt."

"Will that not anger Zor?"

Grothor's eyes narrowed at the gate. "If Zor has a problem with you, he can get to you through my corpse."

The others grunted their assent. A boom shook the gate, and with a great clanking of metal on metal, hidden counterweights moved on chains to pull the gates open. Beyond lay the court of Zor the Undefeatable.

Zor's throne room was a large chamber of black stone. A triangular vaulted ceiling was lit by large torches. A gutter filled with burning oil back lit Zor's throne, made of the same dark stone and made to resemble a yawning dragon's mouth.

Zor was an enormous orc. Stedon guessed him to be close to eight feet in height. He sat in nothing but a leather harness and a dragonscale loincloth. Three Grunts attended him, judging by their age. One served as cupbearer, holding a great bone drinking horn in both hands. The other two smeared scented oil into Zor's heavy, dropping pectorals.

Stedon had prepared himself to meet a creature so mighty it would make Grothor seem a weakling. The reality shocked him.

Zor might once have been such a warrior, but no longer. His huge pecs sagged down against his ribs, and a healthy paunch covered once-tight abdominals. Arms like the trunks of oak trees still advertised their strength, but a layer of fat covered them, now.

Zor regarded the Big Boys, idly stroking his thick black beard with fingers covered in glittering rings. He snapped his fingers. His cup bearer put the drinking horn to his lips and tipped it for Zor to drink.

"So you're the studs who would steal the hearts of my cuntmen, eh?" Zor asked with a graveled voice. He laughed. "I can see why! You remind me of my own youth!"

Grothor slammed a fist into his rock hard chest in salute.

"We are honored to be in the presence of such a mighty warrior."

"Hm. Of course you are," Zor said with a dismissive wave. His Grunts silently left by a pair of side doors. Zor leaned forward to peer at Stedon.

"I heard you had a human with you. He's got a Grunt's look."

"I am Grunt," Stedon confirmed in a clear, bold voice.

"Ha!" Zor clapped his hands together. "And you trained him to speak, too!" He leered at Grothor. "I could trade you handsomely for your trained human."

Grothor glowered at him. "Grunt is part of my warband, Zor. Are you saying you'll give me a Best Blood for him?"

Zor seemed to find the idea uproarious. The hall rang with his guffaws for nearly half a minute. "I think you've been stomping around in those mountains for too long, Grothor! What's next? A mountain goat as your shield bearer?" Zor belted out another round of laughter.

Kreg growled behind Grothor. Grothor held up a hand to silence him.

"We want a shaman. A powerful one. Old and ready to die," Grothor informed Zor.

"What for?"

"We will make Grunt, here," Grothor rubbed Stedon's back, "a real orc! Not just in name."

Zor shot to his feet with surprising speed for his bulk. His paunch gave a slight bounce from the excess momentum.

"You WHAT?!"

"It's been done before," Blackmane spoke up. "In ancient times."

"THOSE were true orcs! Who put their very souls into worthy war beasts in order to crush and rip apart our enemies! NEVER once did an orc foul himself by transforming his body into that of a puny, tuskless HUMAN!" Zor raged. "How dare you come into my presence and insult me with this request! Get out!"

Grothor only had two options - obey or challenge Zor the Undefeatable. And Grothor was no fool. He turned his hulking back and led his warband out in disgrace.

It was a glum fire that the Big Boys sat around to have their evening meal. There were fine roast shanks of dripping meat to be had. Barrels of bloodbeer. Even tongue of drake, a rare delicacy. Stedon touched none of it.

He crouched with his bulging arms around his knees, body taught with suppressed emotion. Stedon had given up everything for this chance only to have Zor spit in his face. Once he had more control of himself, he would speak to Grothor about sneaking back into Zor's hall and finding one of the shamans anyway.

Majok came to sit beside Stedon. Stedon barely acknowledged him. He kept his eyes fixed on the fire. Majok nudged a plate at Stedon's elbow.

Stedon backhanded the plate, sending meat slapping into Majok's face. He stood over him, hands fists at his sides.

"Are you trying to COMFORT me?" he snapped.

"You need to keep your strength up, Grunt," Blackmane said.

Stedon whirled on him. "Order me to stuff myself like a contented pig the way you are, then, Blackmane!" Sarcasm lent acid to his words. "I'll happily obey!"

Blackmane lunged for him. Stedon grabbed Blackmane by his bulging arm and yanked forward, hard. Blackmane's own momentum carried him into the fire. Blackmane rolled, howling, out of the flames, trying to snuff out his burning hair.

Blackmane roared to his feet. His smoking hair was a tattered ruin, now close to his head. "You're DEAD, Grunt!"

"Come and take me, then!" Stedon roared back. "I'll wear your tusks around my loincloth!"

Grothor grabbed a burning log from the fire and clubbed both of them in the abs. "ENOUGH!"

"No, it's not nearly enough!" Stedon yelled back. "Hit me again! Harder! Or are you-"

Grothor gave Stedon a look that forced his mouth shut before he could say another word. Stedon stood there trembling in helpless rage. Grothor approached him.

"Are you going to cry?"

"Fuck you!" Stedon hissed through his clenched teeth. But he didn't shed a tear.

"We're all angry," Grothor said. "But take it out on your own warband and you can fend for yourself."

Stedon walked over to their supplies and yanked his blade free. "Then tell me who I can kill!"

"We're guests of the Best Blades, Grunt. Don't be stupid," Kreg said.

"We must have rivals somewhere in Adaar'kurn," Stedon said to Grothor.

Grothor recognized his need. An orc's need to vent his rage with bloodshed. He turned to Majok.

"Shaman? Do we have any unsettled scores in Adaar'kurn?"

Majok nodded. He drew a fingertip across his right eye.

"Jynzek!" Blackmane whispered, venting some of his own anger into the name.

"Old One Eye is here, is he?" Kreg said in a nasty undertone, staring to grin. "I wonder how he'd react to our newfound stature."

"No," Grothor said to Kreg. "We're not going for him." Grothor looked back at Stedon. "This one is. Grunt's claimed him. If he can kill him, he won't just be Grunt anymore."

Majok grabbed a smoking ash stick from the fire. He cleared sand away from the underlying stone that made up the ground and began to write with feverish speed. Grothor put a hand on Majok's shoulder and read over his head.

"You really think Zor would go for that?" Grothor asked Majok.

"Go for what?" Stedon asked.

"You and Jynzek, to the death, in Zor's own hall. Majok thinks if Zor can see that you fight like an orc, taste your ferocity, he might reconsider your request."

"It's worth a try," Blackmane said.

They were agreed. Kreg volunteered to hunt Jynzek down in order to deliver their formal challenge.

"In the meantime, Grunt," Grothor said, "you eat."

"Yes, my greater," Stedon replied.

He grabbed a tall horn of bloodbeer and started to obey. Then he felt Blackmane's breath next to his ear. "You've got a real temper on you, Grunt."

"Aw, are you pining for your pretty hair?" Stedon taunted with a sneer.

Blackmane yanked Stedon's head around. "I owe you for that." He bared teeth and tusks in a sadistic grin and shoved a burning coal against one of Stedon's nipples. The pain was a white hot lance skewering him. But Stedon bore it by stuffing his face against Blackmane's enormous chest and giving back as much pain as he could with his teeth.

"Mmmmnnh...Grunt...shave me."

Stedon grabbed a serrated dagger. Blackmane hunched down by the fire. Stedon pressed his nearly naked body up against that thick, firm, warm, sweaty back. He scraped the blade through the ruin of Blackmane's hair. It fell in clumps about them until Blackmane's green skull was bare. Inspired, Stedon fetched some of the oil they'd learned to produce from desert nuts. He smeared a liberal amount about Blackmane's bare head.

"Can't exactly call you Blackmane any more, can we?" Grothor teased.

He approved of Blackmane's change with a hard throb and a stroke of his crotch bulge. Blackmane took note of it. He smiled back.

"Come here, mighty leader. I'm sure you'll think of a new name for me."

"I think I already have," Grothor announced, standing up to swagger over so they could crush their massive green bodies together and make out. They ignored Stedon completely, though he was shuddering and smothered between them, still bearing the dagger.

The dagger slid from his fingers. Stedon pushed up the bottom of Grothor's loincloth and began to hungrily mouth at his big testicles. The air about the campfire filled with the soft erotic sounds of the three of them.

"I hope you save some for the rest of us," came a new, unfamiliar voice.

Grothor and Blackmane parted to regard the newcomer. He was young, bearing the Mohawk of a Grunt. His body was hard and lean, only a hint of the mature size of a full adult starting to come in. He wasn't alone. Two rows of hungry-looking naked and half hard orcs stood behind him. He was the only Grunt daring enough to have shown up. The rest were older, larger. Some even sported grey in their hair.

Stedon recognized them - the orcs who had dropped money earlier that day. Come to see which of them had been found worthy. Grothor nuzzled his fellow orc - the one who had formerly been Blackmane.

"What do you think, Firescar?"

Blackmane, now after known as Firescar, grinned wide. He pointed at the orc Grunt. "You." He pounted to one of the older orcs, who stood proudly with a silvering long ponytail and pierced nipples. "And you."

Firescar welcomed them each with an open bulging arm and soon both his chosen lovers were groaning and nuzzling up under his heavy lats into the depths of his armpits. The Grunt wrapped his hand around Firescar's shaft, stroking firmly. The older orc caressed a hand up across Firescar's thick pectorals.

"Which of us gets the human?" leered a pale green giant of an orc with heavy tattoo work covering his face.

"He's Grunt," Grothor corrected. "And none of you get him until he's slain his challenger."

Stedon growled in protest. Grothor wheeled on him. "Save it for Jynzek, Grunt!"

Stedon gave a reluctant nod. He hoped this Jynzek accepted. It would be tedious work trying to hunt him down and kill him in the huge fortress. Stedon left Grothor and Firescar to their whoring and - no doubt - some spawn-making as well considering the number of cuntmen Grothor had attracted.

Stedon found a wooden barrel that reeked of bloodbeer. He sat facing Zor's keep, watching its ragged banners flutter in a stiff gust that rushed in from the open desert. Such moments of reflection were rare for him. Stedon began a mental exercise he had done many times since joining the Big Boys.

Eyes fixed to the battlements, Stedon pictured himself with properly green skin. Orc skin tones varied from pale jade to reddish mud to a deep pine needle shade that was almost black. The variety had surprised Stedon at first. He was used to thinking of orcs as a horde of identical brutes, rather like packs of wolves. Yet even wolves often displayed a remarkable difference in shade of coat and color of eye. Stedon preferred to think of his orc self as having a warm, polished emerald color to his skin - something with naturally darker highlights around the cuts of his muscles.

And the orish Stedon would have muscles. Such muscles and strength that he could easily best Grothor, Zor, or any other orc that dared challenge him. Stedon's lip curled up at the thought of dominating Grothor, of wrapping huge arms seething with striated, veined power around Grothor's body and crushing him until Grothor came against his mighty frame, begging Stedon to fuck him.

Stedon wanted red eyes. Some orcs had brown eyes that were almost human. Others sported feral eyes in yellows or whites. Those with red irises were Stedon's favorite, for they spoke of the bloodlust within. Stedon loved the way Grothor's red eyes glinted in the firelight when the big orc gazed lustfully down at Stedon in the throes of passion.

An approaching figure broke Stedon's reverie.

"Jynzek accepts," Kreg said.

"I'm surprised he would agree to fight a..." Stedon caught the warning look in Kreg's eye and corrected himself "...a Grunt like me."

It was critical Stedon think of himself as an orc in all but name. If their plan worked and the ritual went forward, Stedon's very soul was at risk.

"He knows you're a Grunt, but that is all," Kreg informed Stedon. "Since we are still out of Zor's favor, Jynzek has gone to make the request on his own behalf."

"Do you think Zor will allow it?" Stedon asked.

Kreg's lip rose in a half smile. "He seemed interested enough in you before."

"I should train."

"You should save your strength for the battle. Jynzek does not fight fair. If you go in already fatigued, he will just wear you down."

Kreg sat down and silently ordered Stedon to attend him. By now, they were so familiar with each other that Stedon knew the details without having to be told. He fetched Kreg some water, then some scented oil. Kreg gave a sigh of pleasure while Stedon's fingers worked the slick substance into the rolls of his high, bulging shoulder muscles.

"I never thought I'd say this, Grunt, but if this ritual works I'm going to miss those cunning small hands of yours."

Stedon chuckled. "None can say what details my form I will receive. For all we know, I may turn out larger than you, Kreg."

Kreg elbowed Stedon hard in the ribs. "Always so feisty, aren't you, Grunt."

Stedon drew his dagger and playfully put it to Kreg's throat from behind. "Maybe I should get into trouble while we're waiting. You could punish me for my lack of discipline."

Kreg let out a low, deep laugh. He grabbed at Stedon's wrist. They began to struggle for control of the weapon.

"You two! I have word from Zor!"

Kreg pushed Stedon roughly back with a powerful shrug and rolled to his feet to regard the messenger. The other orc was bald and heavily tattooed down his bullish neck, over his bare pecs - a criminal, like Majok. Beholden to the Best Blades in servitude. He looked like a boy next to Kreg's huge, veined body.

"Is that so?" Kreg answered. "Has the mighty one agreed to let us entertain him with our feud?"

"He has," the messanger confirmed with a curt nod. "He will supply weapons from his own personal store for you when you arrive. Come to the fortress one hour from now."

"We'll be there," Stedon told him.

The tattooed messenger spat at Stedon's feet. "All of Adaar'kurn will be there to watch you die, human."

"Not all of Adaar'kurn," Stedon said.

He moved before Kreg could stop him. Before the messenger orc realized he was being attacked. Stedon's dagger pierced his right eye. Blood poured down the orc's face like a burst raw egg. The orc staggered in shock. Stedon took advantage of the surprise to puncture his other eye, then put a foot against the orc's chest and shoved him backward.

"You won't be watching anything from now on!"

The blind orc howled, writhing on the ground, hands frantically trying to stop the blood from his ruined eyes. Stedon stood over him. He eyed Kreg and rolled his tongue out to lick the blood from his dagger.

Kreg hauled the blind orc to his feet and shoved him in the direction of the fortress. "You heard him, Useless, get going! Deliver your message before you bleed out! Tell them what happens when you insult a Big Boy!"

Kreg returned to Stedon's side and took the dagger from him. "You are ready," he said.

Stedon had not expected such a crowd when he arrived. It wasn't as if he were challenging anyone of consequence. Yet, here he stood in Zor's throne room once more, and every seat was occupied. So many lovely burly orcs, all staring at him.

Stedon wondered what they must think of him - his human body with more brawn than half the true orcs present, dressed up in a hide breechcloth, head shaved into a Grunt's mowhawk. Majok had pierced Stedon's left nipple in honor of this event, with the promise that, if Stedon won, he would pierce Stedon's other nipple as well and fashion some nipple rings out of Jynzek's bones.

Some of the orcs glared with obvious hatred. Others with lust. Still others looked on with amusement or curiosity. Stedon ignored them. He concentrated on staying in the present moment. It was critical not to let his mind wander.

The far doors opened. Two orcs emerged. One was Zor, with a tattooed slave orc. The slave wore a golden collar and chain that ran down to Zor's hidden prince albert piercing covered by a purple silk thong. Zor's hair and beard were freshly groomed. Most telling, he wore a tight-fitting leather breastplate that squeezed his belly up tight and flat like some male version of a corsette.

Beside Zor strode Stedon's opponent. Stedon guessed it from the patch over one eye, the same signal that Majok had used to describe Jynzek. He was an older orc, seasoned in battle. Wicked scars slashed over his tight hard pectorals. His right bicep was branded with some symbol Stedon didn't recognize. Jynzek's silvering hair was cut short, and his face was grizzled with the shadow of a few days' growth. Years of harsh wind, biting cold, and blasting heat had tanned his green skin a leathery texture with a few pock marks along his cheeks and nose. His deep-set eye was, surprisingly, the blue of a robin's egg.

Zor took his seat at the front of the hall. Stedon faced Jynzek.

"I heard about you, Grunt," Jynzek said to Stedon. "I didn't want to believe it."

Stedon allowed a smile of challenge to rise on his face. "Too much for you, Jynzek? You could yield now. I might spare your life."

Jynzek did not smile back. He dropped into fluent Necarean. "This is no place for you, Stedon of Hunter's Pass. Neither is this your fight. My rivalry is between myself and the Big Boys. Orc to orc. Do not insult either of us further by continuing this farce. Go home. Back to your people."

It took all of Stedon's willpower not to register how thunderstruck he was. How had Jynzek known? Jynzek was an old warrior. No doubt he had many years of knowledge about humans to draw on. As for learning Stedon's human identity, perhaps Jynzek had performed some divination spell to learn that.

Stedon stepped nose to nose with Jynzek. They were of equal height, which helped Stedon to regain his composure. "Kreg warned me you didn't fight fair," he replied in Orkish. "But it'll take more than that to rattle me, Jynzek."

Jynzek shrugged. "I've killed hundreds of humans in my time, Stedon. What's one more?"

He turned to face Zor and bowed at the waist. Stedon, unsure of protocol, copied him. He heard Jynzek snort in scorn. He felt a flush color his face. Anger rose inside of him. It was just another tactic. Jynzek was trying to win the fight before it even began. Stedon clenched his teeth behind his lips, hardening his resolve.

A gesture from Zor, and two of his servants stepped forward, bearing a heavy chest on wooden poles. They set it down before Jynzek and Stedon and opened the lid. An array of fine and vicious-looking weapons lay within.

"Jynzek, choose your weapon," Zor said.

Jynzek bowed again and pulled out a heavy, two-handed battle axe. Then he jammed his booted foot under the edge of the chest and heaved. The chest rolled to its side, scattering weapons across the ground. Jynzek was on Stedon a second later.

There was no preamble, no bout of taunting, to formal repetition of the challenges made to each other. Stedon heard Grothor on his feet, roaring a protest at this treachery of Jynzek's. He could hear Zor's roaring mirth.

Jynzek leapt at Stedon over the chest, axe raised high in a two-handed chop. It descended with an audible whistle. Stedon caught the haft of the axe in both his hands. The force of the blow drove Stedon to one knee, but the axe stopped. Jynzek's eye blinked in surprise. Stedon flashed Jynzek a smile.

Now the orcs were engaged. Many cheered Jynzek on, but a few, to Stedon's surprise, backed him. Stedon had impressed them with his maneuver. In the back of Stedon's mind, he began to see the full genius of Majok's plan to get the two of them fighting in public like this. It was not Zor that Stedon had to win over. It was his orcs. If Stedon could sway the crowd in his favor, and then kill Jynzek like a true orc, it might be enough to move popular support behind Stedon's cause.

Jynzek yanked his axe free, bringing the base of the pommel up to strike Stedon's brow and send him crashing to the floor. It wasn't enough to knock Stedon senseless. Jynzek tried for a killing blow again. Stedon waited until Jynzek was committed to the swing, then jack-knifed himself up onto his feat with a flex of his abs and whipped his head forward.

Stedon's head collided with Jynzek's face. There was a hard snap of bone. Jynzek stagered backward. He stared at a pair of blood-stained bone spikes lying on the stone flagons. Reaching up a trembling hand, Jynzek felt the bloody stumps of his broken tusks.

A gasp of shock rose from the assembled orcs. Jynzek was effectively neutered. Without his tusks, he had no manhood. No honor. No chance for glory. And unlike most of their body, an orc could not regenerate their tusks. Of course, Jynzek could always have some metal caps attached to his stumps, but the damage was done. All of Adaar'kurn had seen it happen.

Stedon grabbed a serrated orcish sword from the scattered weapons. He knew he should press his advantage. He should capitalize on Jynzek's insult, drive him over the edge into a blood frenzy, and then slay him. Such a kill would be appropriate vengeance for such a long-standing rivalry to his warband. But would it be enough to sway the rest of Adaar'kurn? Stedon doubted it.

"Majok!" Stedon bellowed. Majok blinked at him in surprise. Stedon pointed to Jynzek. "Heal this warrior!"

The orcs looked at each other in confusion and wonder. Majok was a tattooed criminal, bound into servitude. Even a Grunt could command him. Stedon just had. Majok left his place. He bowed to Zor, then picked up Jynzek's broken tusks. He approached Jynzek. Jynzek stood there, still trembling in shock and humiliation. Majok caressed his cheek to calm him.

Sliding the tusks back into place, Majok bent his head and closed his eyes. His lips moved in a silent chant. Jynzek's eyes closed as well. A pair of bloody tusks clattered to the floor. Blood welled up and spilled over Majok's lips.

Majok fell to his knees, head bowed. Stedon moved forward. He shoved Jynzek out of the way and stood facing Majok.

"Brother," Stedon said. "You did not deserve that order. No matter what crime you committed to earn you the ink of a slave. No orc deserves that."

Majok slowly raised his head to look silently up at Stedon. Begging him to end it. Majok could not bear to live on tuskless as well as indentured. Stedon turned toward the rest of his warband, but his voice was raised high enough for the rest of the orcs to hear.

"This one is a criminal and a slave. But he is of MY warband, and so is my brother! He has sacrificed everything he has for the good of his band and his warmaster! He gave his voice that I might speak! Now he gives his life that this hall is honored with a proper duel!"

Stedon rammed Majok through the heart with his sword. Majok buckled over. He kissed Stedon's knuckles in silent thanks for the mercy, then crumpled over. His blood welled over the stones of the hall.

Grothor rose. He let out a blood curdling scream. He beat his massive striated pecs with his fists until his nipples bled and flipped the entire heavy oaken feast table over onto its side, scattering the other orcs seated there like dolls.

The hall fell silent. Stedon turned to face Zor. "The fight is not over, Zor! And now Jynzek has cost my warband the life of its shaman. I demand BLOOD!"

A unanimous bark of agreement rose from the rest of the orcs in the hall. Zor gave Stedon a grim nod. Stedon turned to face a flabbergasted Jynzek. He pointed at Jynzek with his blade.

"You. No more dirty tricks. No more insults. Fight me like a warrior. Fight me like a real orc or so help me I'll bash your tusks out again!"

Jynzek slowly raised his battleaxe up again. "I said things to you before that were wrong. I do not care what you look like, Stedon of Hunter's Pass. Your heart is of my people. And if the Big Boys are the ones who made it so, then Grothor is a greater orc than I. I know what it is you seek. Come and slay me. Claim your destiny, if you can!"

The two combatants circled each other. The orcs of the hall took up a battle chant. They pounded their fists against the feasting tables. Stedon's nostrils pulsed with the rising battle fury inside. It burned hotter than he'd ever felt before. It coursed through his limbs like lightning.

Stedon charged his foe. He meant to drive Jynzek backward with a series of lightning fast strikes. Instead, Jynzek held his ground. He parried Stedon's sword over and over with amazing speed, using both ends of the battle axe to good effect.

Jynzek dodged Stedon's last swing, spun, and counter attacked. Stedon caught Jynzek's axe swing with his blade, shoved upward and out, then drove beneath Jynzek's guard.

The orcs roared, on their feet, as Stedon claimed first blood. Jynzek backed off. Stedon brought the edge of his sword up to his lips and smeared some of Jynzek's blood from the blade. Jynzek slowly grinned at him, whirled his axe in both hands, and charged.

Stedon fought largely from muscle memory. Countless hours of drilling under Kreg now served to save his life again and again as Jynzek pressed his advantage with attacks too fast for thought. Stedon dodged a swing to the face. The axe cut clean through one of the feasting tables.

Stedon saw his chance. He brought his sword down across Jynzek's lower back with all of his strength. Jynzek howled as the blade nearly cut him in half.

Stedon planted a foot in the middle of the bloody gash and pulled his sword free. He aimed the point for the back of Jynzek's ribs. Jynzek panted like a rabid dog, struggling to stand, but the sword had severed his spine and left his legs useless.

"Someone give this orc a last taste of bloodbeer!" Stedon yelled.

The nearest orc shoved his mug across the table to Jynzek. Jynzek downed it with a greedy gurgle, wiped off his mouth, and used the strength of his arms to turn himself over so he was facing Stedon.

Stedon put a hand on Jynzek's shoulder for added leverage. He put the point of his sword to Jynzek's chest. Their eyes met.

"This is your last breath, orc," Stedon growled. "Don't waste it."

Jynzek let loose a ROAR of defiance. Stedon let it fill the hall until it reached it's peak, and then rammed his blade home. He pulled his sword free, turned to the orcs, and held his bloody sword over his head in victory.

A new chant rose in the hall.

"Tuskbreaker! Tuskbreaker! Tuskbreaker! Tuskbreaker!"

It was Stedon they cheered. It was his new name.