"Raaaagh!" My battle cry carries far in these woods. We're in deep now, and coming into contact with one Orc tribe after another, hostile contact.

  A flint spear shatters on my mail shirt. Fucker! I'm getting sloppy. Just to be cruel, I cut the big green backstabber's leg off at the thigh and let him bleed out without finishing the job. Serves him right for sneaking up on me like that.

  Things are not like the big battle back east. These Orcs are scattered with a few dozen here and there in semi-permanent camps, not quite villages. Right now, I'm engaging a hunting party we caught isolated from the rest.

  Reka, my wife, just sits back and watches since she needs to conserve arrows. This trash is easy enough for Semuel and me to clean up.

  I've got a group of three cornered against some thick underbrush. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I raise my axe and close the distance.

  Three spears rattle as the orcs cast their weapons down and lie on their bellies, pleading for mercy in that guttural, snarling language of theirs.

  "That's my cue," I hear Reka say behind me. She skips to the prisoners and has a short conversation in Orcish. When she's done, the green menaces are all bowing and scraping before us, their eyes wet with tears and wide with relief at being spared.

  "How many is that?" I ask her.

  She tilts her head in thought after seeing them off. The Orc I took the leg off of is still moaning on the ground, annoyingly. I silence him with a downward jab of my axe spike.

  "Fifteen tribes, or thereabouts, my love. Those three will return with their village to receive Semuel's curse."

  "Orcs in abundance, but no Ents!" Alexia complains loudly. She hasn't lifted a finger to help us in a single battle. Her magic is "too dangerous" to be used casually. Sure, Jan.

  "All in good time, Your Grace." Reka has been heavy with the cozening and flattery lately, I notice. She's leading Alexia around by the nose. "Word has spread. All the Orcs of the eastern forest will be ours soon. I trust you've sent the message?"

  Reka knows she has. Three days ago, Alexia sent a bird of blue flame back to the settled Elven lands, demanding cartloads of woodsmen's axes made of good steel.

  "Yes, yes," Alexia says dismissively. "I still fail to see the wisdom of your plan. Even with the compulsion from your Dwarf cleric, the greenskins are but brutes, and hardly fit for useful work, even for the most menial tasks. Men serve better."

  "My most excellent lady," Reka leans in conspiratorially, "Ents are treeherders. What might a shepherd do when a wolf menaces his flock?"

  ***

  Alexia's Point of View

  By Elbereth, roughing it with the savages is trying. I tell myself it will be worth it if the bitch's plan succeeds.

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  Mistake me not, she's pretty enough, in a common sort of way, but how she managed to win the heart of that god of war is a mystery.

  Brad is his name, of House Regis. I have some familiarity with the human principalities, and none are ruled by a House Regis. That one calls to mind the legendary heroes of the past, the ones who reckoned with the Demon Queen herself.

  Tall and muscled like an ox, I can't deny Brad is pleasant to look upon, and the contrast! That axe has cleaved a hundred Orcs or more, and yet his voice is richer than some of the finest Elven bards. Perplexing. Our Elf lads are more focused. Fighters fight, and singers sing. That used to make sense. Now I'm not so sure.

  At least they've ceased to antagonize me with their rough mating. Every night. Every night! How? It's like the mayfly people never falter. They must, of course. Short lifespans mandate urgency. Not like us.

  'Tis a pity the goddess Elbereth Evervirgin demands her servants remain untouched, elsewise lose their magic. The Dwarf's demon god is more reasonable in this respect. Making a plaything of this Brad for a season holds a certain appeal, but then I would have to give up all my dreams and ambitions.

  And yet...and yet...if I could win the throne, I could dally with whom I please, and command mages to do my fighting for me. A thought, a definite thought! Thus, the Ents.

  The Ents waylay my foresters. The Ents bar our way. The Ents hinder my plans! So why by Elbereth's untouched cunt can't we find them?

  "Your Grace, Reka has found signs of another tribe nearby. This should be the last one for leagues and leagues. They've fled in haste, concealing their trail. Might you use your magic to get a bearing for us?" Brad asks me as sweetly as a killer can manage.

  He's polite, at least, more than I can say for most. Even insolent Elven courtiers vex me from time to time with their sharp tongues. Men may have finally bred a line worth something.

  "Very well," I agree magnanimously. This much is fine. The mongrels left behind a few strips of leather from a torn loincloth. There's life in it still. "Vitianis!"

  The leather strip Brad brought me rapidly shrivels, all the lifeforce in it gathering in a green ring above my hand. Their threads of life vibrate and crackle, harmonizing with the green jewel in my staff. A picture emerges: red outlines of armed figures, the last of their warriors.

  "Southwest," I say in surprise, pointing with my staff. It vibrates in tune with the life in my hand, showing the way.

  Brad looks worried. "Maybe they're trying to get the prisoners to rebel."

  "Nay," the Dwarf says. Strange, he hardly ever speaks. "One Other's curse is final, great berserker. Those who submit will never rise again."

  "If you say so." He doesn't sound particularly convinced. For my part, I reckon the magic of the Dwarves primitive and crude, but effective withal.

  "We must soon head back in any case, my love," the whore Reka says over her shoulder, already taking the lead in our march back south.

  Too cocksure by half, this ranger. She thinks she has everything, and mayhaps she does. To her kind, a fine mate and riches are the apex. Why should well-fed swine ask for more? Taking it all from her would be such a pleasure.

  I turn my horse around and follow the adventurers. We overtake a great train of Orcs, hundreds, perhaps thousands. Whoever knew the wilds held so many?

  My sharp eyes spot a few feral ones trying to rouse their fellows. It's for nought. With the curse of submission, every Orc in the train is stoop-shouldered and dead-eyed, utterly defeated. The woman, for I will not call her a lady, Reka, reacts the fastest, feathering the louts with arrows she looses while still ahorse, a trick I thought only the Elves of Tykon knew. Brad gallops forward and rides down the rest. So much for their rescue attempt.

  "Excellent work, everyone!" Reka praises the group. I sit a little higher in my saddle. It's nice to be praised. "It is well they led us back. The cartloads of axes should reach the edge of the forest soon. We must distribute them and set our Orcish charges to their work!"

  Alexia's tracking spell

  The journey so far