After the journey through Hangman’s Forest, Hohza kept his War Party with him at the Prison of Eternal Suffering for a week while he assessed the situation:

The invading forces had moved across the Dread Lord’s domain and set up camp about a day’s ride west of the Prison in anticipation of the campaign’s start. Their location was uncomfortably close to the western camp, but spies said they’d stayed put save for hunting parties to bag game for food. Bigrummar, despite not being assigned to the defenses, decided to take control of the western Key Stone camp. Either as an act of disrespect or laziness he refused to report to the Prison first. “I don’t think he’s aware of how near he is to the enemy,” Hohza commented as he crumpled the almost illegible notice. “Hopefully the invaders will tire themselves out by killing him!” The northern camp would be defended by visitors from the Moonberry Orchards up north. As they needed to travel some especially difficult terrain to arrive at the Key Stone’s defense point, they would not be visiting the Prison, either. “A shame I won’t get to see them,” Hohza said while smiling at the notice. “That party will be commanded by Palical. He’s an interesting troll who loves to tell stories. I wager you’d enjoy his company, Tad.” The southwest camp would be headed by Porran. A young War Master without a War Party, he was clearly considered fodder. Hohza tasked Gohta with giving the orc some additional training. He seemed an odd one who kept getting distracted by the brightly colored insects buzzing about the prison grounds. He could handle a sword well, though, and never saw fit to insult the overweight orc. Gohta hoped he might survive the battles ahead. Maybe Hohza would take him into their War Party. Toran was to set up a medical tent southeast of the Prison grounds. It was the first time one of these campaigns had ever been run with consideration for tending the wounded. Many War Masters, behind Hohza’s back, grumbled it was being done only so the elf could save the life of his pet orc should he be wounded. The Logistics Corps goblins, however, were excited by the prospect of receiving on-the-job training by an elven doctor. Too bad most orcs would refuse elven medicine, even if the alternative was death. The elder goblin of the War Party, Glum, proved adept at ordering around the Logistics Corps workers. His efforts at facilitating communication between the goblins and orc warriors proved admirable. Gohta even began to consider that his War Master’s idea of taking goblins on as advisors wasn’t completely insane.

After several days, the goblin teams bolstering the Key Stone camps’ defenses returned to the prison. With them bringing the Prison’s repairs to completion, it was time for Gohta and Tad to tour the three camps. At a leisurely pace, the errand of delivering the Key Stones and communicators would take three days.

Then the campaign would commence.

After only a day on the road with Tad, Gohta was counting the hours until he could face the mercy of being skewered by an elven blade.

“Gohta, do you see that fork in the road? Please advise on which path to take,” the communicator hanging from the orc’s hip blabbered in Tad’s voice. The remaining few devices in his satchel did the same, albeit muffled by the coarse cloth.

The response from the orc was a drawn-out, guttural groan. Gohta leaned over the goblin’s boar, a speck compared to the orc’s buffalo, and saw the boy holding the communicator to his mouth. Lowering his head between his shoulders, Tad flashed Gohta a sheepish grin.

Gohta’s scowl turned downward, extending into a severe frown. “I heard you when you said it,” he grumbled. “We’ve already distributed some of these. Do you think it wise to bother the War Masters with your stupid questions?”

The communicators were small black slabs of polished stone that, through a combination of wraith magic and goblin ingenuity, could relay a voice message to the other devices across vast, or insignificant, distances in just a moment. It was still being developed, so a limitation was that everyone with a communicator heard every message being relayed.

Tad pouted as he stared down at the device while turning it in his hand. “That’s a good point.” Before Gohta could be satisfied his companion had seen some sense, his expression brightened. “Officer Lim asked us to use these a lot so the Logistic Corps would be able to tell if there are any issues! I’m only following orders.”

“You take orders from War Master Hohza, not Lim.”

“Where are you now, Tad,” Hohza asked through the communicators.

Gohta hung his head low and slowly shook it.

Bringing the communicator back up to his mouth, Tad pressed the button and breathed deep in anticipation of answering. Then he stopped, released the button, and asked Gohta: “Where are we now?” The one heavy breath repeated on the devices.

It occurred to the orc that the goblin may have been foisted on him as some sort of punishment. Too weak to carry equipment, barely able to control his aged boar, and utterly hopeless in navigating the woods, Tad’s only contribution to this mission had been his blathering with the soldiers when Gohta delivered the keystones and communicators.

Porran was agreeable with it. Perhaps he felt it strengthened his authority by being seen talking with someone from the lead War Party. He’d taken command of the camp just three days prior to Gohta and Tad’s arrival and seemed to be struggling with the ragtag band of orcs he’d been assigned. All of them from the newest brood and freshly trained, their camp was expected to suffer the heaviest losses. Any survivors would benefit from being battle-hardened so young.

Bigrummar and his War Party were less tolerant of the boy’s attempts at conversation. They arrived at the camp, the troll grudgingly accepted the delivery, and then the pair headed for the final camp, north of the prison.

“Tell him we’re halfway done, approaching the northernmost fortified point, where the forces from the valleys are camped.” Tad relayed the message, which meant a moment later all the devices repeated the words he’d just heard the goblin say, which was exactly what he’d just been told.

Looking down at the device hanging from his belt Gohta considered if he should have answered the question himself. Most orcs were wary of wielding enchanted weapons and this black slab filled him with a familiar dread. It had taken the orc some time to be willing wield Burn Blade, despite it being a gift from his War Master. Hohza was too comfortable with such oddities. Perhaps that was what compelled him to place goblins in his War Party; their kind shared his bizarre fascination with gadgets and enchantments.

“We take the left fork,” Gohta finally answered Tad’s initial question. “You know, the one the breaks north, given we’re heading to the northern camp.”

“Oh, right, it’s north.” The boy turned in his saddle and the seat slid on its harness. Tad braced himself by slamming his hand down on the boar’s rear, which caused Keg to yelp. “The sun is behind us, so left is … north.” He righted himself in the saddle. “Sorry, I’m used to navigating tunnels underground and there’s no sun to guide us down there.”

“Sometimes the Makers made sense,” Gohta grumbled. “It will be night by the time we get to that camp.”

“Do you think they’ll have a supper for us?” The goblin’s stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard over the hooves of their animals as they trod the dirt road. “We haven’t had anything to eat but those dry rations the whole trip! Porran’s camp was too disorganized and Bigrummar’s camp was too hostile.”

Gohta while leered at Keg. The rolls of fat swung with each step, but he was sure there was plenty of gamey meat hidden in that animal. “We could always put that boar of yours on a spit,” he said. The boar made a series of sharp oinks in protest as he galumphed in distress.

Tad called out as he struggled to control his steed. “Not funny!” A moment passed. The boy fussed and fidgeted in his saddle. He pulled out a map from his satchel and only partially unfolded it before holding it by the corner as he looked up to Gohta. “It’ll still be hours before we get to the North Camp.”

“Yes. As I said: not until nightfall.”

“So … what do we do in the meantime?”

“We could be quiet. These woods are filled with bearwulvs. Although the sudden military presence has likely sent them into hiding.”

After only a moment of quiet Tad commented: “If they’re in hiding then we don’t need to be quiet.”

“I would prefer to be quiet.”

Gohta had his preference only so far as just past the fork in the road.

“How did you meet Hohza?”

…

Gohta’s youth was spent in the mist-veiled southern end of the domain, known as the Deadscape. When he wasn’t cowering in fear at the howls of the cannibal Miseries who roamed those lands, he was enduring the abuse of his fellow orc soldiers. Sometimes both happened at the same time.

“I bet he’s stealing rations,” one orc mused. He was watching Gohta clean dishes in the kitchen, leaning against the counter behind the orc.

The gruel proved especially resilient that day. This worked out well, as outside a haunting moan was carried on the winds. Gohta had been stationed at that base for three years now and could distinguish between the driving wind and the lilting songs of the Miseries. Besides, the mist outside was still as it burned away in the late-morning sun. While thankful the guards were fed and rested, the tension helped his rapid scrubbing of the dirty dishes.

The orc had a friend who’d followed him in from the mess hall. He was finishing his breakfast by tipping the bowl into his mouth. “That’s the only way he could be that fat.” Watery porridge dribbled from his mouth as he spoke.

“Maybe he’s secretly a troll.” The orcs crowded Gohta as he scrubbed at the wooden bowls. “Which is it? Are you just a really fat orc or a really small troll?”

Gohta did his best to ignore them. Engaging always made things worse. He’d learned that during basic training, near the Central Keep. Just focus on the dishes, Gohta reminded himself as his cleaning grew more harried.

“He asked you a question!” The orc cracked his bowl against the back of Gohta’s head. Hot porridge ran down his back. Gohta snatched a dulled kitchen knife from out of the sink before the dish’s halves hit the floor. Soapy water trailed the blade as he swung it through the air, aiming to bury it in his attacker’s side. The orc’s friend was quicker, though, and snagged Gohta by the wrist. He threw the boy to the floor and landed a quick punch to his throat. As Gohta coughed and wheezed the two orcs stomped and kicked him.

Standing over Gohta as he cried while bent over on the floor, the orcs called for guards. Within minutes the young orc was dragged into a nearby pantry. “Lock him up here for his last meal,” one of the orcs yelled as he pulled open the door.

They threw the boy in. He crashed against a shelf and broke the frame. Jars crashed down on him, shattering against each other, and covering him in dry goods and pickled veggies. The soldiers laughed as they slammed the door shut.

“Wait until the War Master gets back from patrol! You attacked his War Party! He’ll see to it that you get cooked alive like the pig you are,” someone shouted.

There was a clattering against the door. They’re probably bracing it shut, locking me in, Gohta thought to himself. He didn’t bother to move.

The orcs were chanting “roast the pig” as they left the kitchen.

The taunt caught on in the fort. By midday, judging by the daylight slipping under the pantry door, the song seeped through the walls to taunt Gohta of his imminent demise. Some of the soldiers had expanded the tune to include details on how the traitor would be seasoned. Gohta lay on the floor, drenched in food, and wondered if they would have the mercy to slit his throat first. In training, a boy had mishandled some pitch and caught fire. Gohta had nightmares for weeks about his screams as he burned alive.

It seemed some twisted blessing of the Dread Lord that Gohta’s fate would be switched with his fellow soldiers. As it turned out, a fortress united in jesting song was taken by the Miseries as a challenge. Soon, their wails swelled to overpower the orcs’ song and immediately after the orcs were screaming. From all directions Gohta heard the ineffectual shouting of orders and the death cries of the Miseries’ victims.

Huddled in the dark, Gohta listened as the women scaled the walls and worked their way through the fortress. Soon the fighting grew near enough that Gohta could hear the tearing of flesh and chattering of the women’s teeth as they feasted on their victims. Sweat dripped down Gohta’s brow and he shivered while his breath came rapidly, each one choked by fear.

A clash in the kitchen outside. Pots and pans banged against the floor as cabinets and tables scraped the floor. It sounded like several orcs were in there, grunting as they barricaded the door. Someone shouted that the War Master was near. Another answered that he’d already been eaten. Another told them all to be quiet.

Gohta joined them in silence. He hugged himself tight and held his breath.

“Why’s there a chair propped against that pantry door,” one of the orcs outside asked.

He never got an answer. The barricaded door to the mess hall gave way immediately. Miseries charged into the kitchen roaring like bearwulvs and fighting just as fiercely. For only a few seconds did Gohta hear clashing outside. After that there was just the tearing of flesh, popping of bones, and smacking of wet lips.

The boy was so intent on being still and silent he didn’t even move his eyes to the silhouette of feet splitting the line of light below the door. Someone on the other side rose and fell on their toes as they considered the throwing open the pantry while munching on a piece of orc. Blood dribbled onto the floor with each smack of the lips.

At least this death should be quick, Gohta thought. He braced himself.

Cheers came from outside. Someone called out the War Master’s name. The figure standing outside wheeled about, clumsily knocking over the chair. It landed on its side as the Miseries fled the kitchen to join their sisters in slaughtering the new arrivals.

The screams ended, and the song began again. Hideous and cruel, the wordless tune made Gohta think of a slow drinking song, like the Miseries were singing of their victory as they drifted away. It was nightfall before Gohta dared to push open the door and crawl into the kitchen. His hands slid through pools of blood. The moonlight spilling in from the window hid the goriest details of the slaughter.

“They’re fed,” Gohta spoke to himself. Perhaps any surviving orcs might be called to him if he made noise. “They’ll go into hiding for a while.”

No one came to him as he narrated his progress in the night. After gathering food and outfitting himself with weapons and light armor, Gohta raided the stables. It seemed the Miseries hadn’t a taste for horse.

He noted a misshapen lump, the blood still slick and reflecting the moon in a light blue sheen, on the ground some distance away. Its muzzle was bent back, the tongue lolled out of the gaping maw against the ground.

“Perhaps just for stallions,” Gohta commented. He tugged at the reins of a mare still in her pen. The horse whinnied, hopping back from him. “Come on, you don’t want to be here any longer than I.”

It was known that the Deadscape fortress had fallen by the time Gohta returned to the Central Keep. He reported what had happened, anyway, and was accordingly charged with abandoning his post.

After his public flogging, Gohta lay face down in the muck of Drink Town. The breeze across his back, where the lashed cut deep, soothed the sting enough that he didn’t mind if the mud smelled of piss and vomit.

Someone knelt beside the boy. He could only see the orc’s feet and didn’t bother to look up. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. What happened at the Deadscape sounded terrible. I’ve read reports of the Miseries, that attack seems unusual, even for them.”

He offered his hand to Gohta.

Fearing what would happen if he refused, Gohta took it and let the orc help him to his feet. The other orc’s left tusk was broken off at the tip and he had a black, scruffy beard. They stood at about the same height, although Gohta was bulkier.

“I am War Master Hohza.”

Gohta looked away. He focused on a bubble swelling in the bog rather then let the War Master see the amusement on his face. This orc looked just a little older than he and was likely from the brood prior. Few so young were afforded the title of War Master. One had to sharpen his tusks as a Scout or Guard Master, first. “I’m Gohta,” his voice was meek.

“I have a friend who can help with your wounds.”

If only anyone could, Gohta thought. “You’ve a varied War Party.” He looked about. Were the gathered around him, waiting to pounce? No, there were only the drunks wandering between bars and the Justice Master, who sneered at Gohta as he dipped the scourge in a bucket to wash off Gohta’s blood. There were several others lined up for punishment.

“By the Makers’ Designs or the Dread Lord’s, I do not yet have one,” Hohza answered. “Maybe, after my friend heals you, we can discuss that matter further.”

…

“He showed me some kindness,” was Gohta’s terse reply.

“Same for me and Glum! He saved us from these crashing barrels, despite being pretty beaten up.” The goblin lifted his head and knotted his brows as he thought. “About that night … why weren’t you there to help him, Gohta?”

Gohta breathed deep. “I was ordered to stand down. I am sure War Master Hohza had good reason for it.” He exhaled, slow, silent, and grateful the goblin didn’t ask for more.