Gordok send Wordok west to find slaves. Send Marjuk east. Gordok say to Marjuk, “No come back without new slaves.”

Slaves are stupid, Marjuk think. Do nothing. Fight in arena, sure. But slave fights dull. Marjuk think Gordok use slave fights to keep dumb ogres happy. Dumb, happy ogres no challenge Gordok. Marjuk think Marjuk challenge Gordok. Marjuk become new Gordok. Soon. But not yet. Gordok still too strong.

So Marjuk go east. Marjuk look for new slaves. Look for gnolls. Look for yetis. Find gnolls before. Find yetis before. Find tauren, even.

This time Marjuk no find gnolls. No find yetis. No find tauren. Marjuk no find murlocs, even. But Marjuk no go home to Dire Maul without new slaves. So Marjuk keep looking.

Finally, Marjuk spot yeti. One yeti. Small yeti. Marjuk could take small yeti. But Marjuk no take yeti. Marjuk follow yeti. Find many yetis. Marjuk have about twenty ogres in Marjuk’s command. Marjuk order attack.

Yetis no want to be new slaves for Gordok. Yetis fight. Ogres fight. Marjuk fight. Marjuk kill two yetis. Marjuk not happy. Dead yetis no fight in arena. Also, some ogres die. Not too many. Some. That okay. Marjuk must come back with new slaves. Marjuk no need to come back with all his ogres. Plenty ogres in Dire Maul.

Too many yetis die. But Marjuk chain some yetis. Yetis make good slaves for arena. Fights not so dull. Gordok be happy. So Marjuk happy.

Then come Feral Scar. Then come human boy. Then come gnoll. Then come human woman. Gnoll pup, even …

Feral Scar kept to himself. He loved his tribe. But the valley of the haven was small. And Feral Scar was big. He needed space to range his body. He needed space of his own to range his mind. To consider what to do.

He had his own cave outside the haven. Close, though. Close enough to hear the call of his tribe. But far enough away to consider what to do.

He missed the yeti lands. Not the lands they had left. Those had become dead lands. He missed those lands from before the ogres cut down all the trees, chased off all the game, killed yetis or took them away.

Those lands-of-before were rich and wide. Those were lands on which a yeti could range. On which Feral Scar could range. There were gnolls nearby, but there was space enough for gnoll and yeti. And if a gnoll got too close, gnolls were easy enough to kill.

But that was before.

Once the ogres destroyed the lands, destroyed the trees, destroyed the game, Feral Scar knew the yetis had to move. They moved through gnoll lands and had to kill some gnolls. They kept moving. They found the haven.

The haven was too small for his tribe, he thought. It was safe, hidden from ogres and gnolls. But the yetis needed to range. They did not—could not—stay in the haven all the time. The yetis ranged. But when they ranged, Feral Scar knew they might be followed back. This was a problem. This was the problem that Feral Scar considered from his own cave.

And while he considered, Feral Scar listened for the call of his tribe.

Instead, he heard footsteps above his cave. He heard voices. He heard speech. He heard gnolls. He heard them right above his head. Feral Scar thought, These gnolls have not found the haven. But they are too close. These gnolls must die.

He smashed his hand through the ceiling of his cave and grabbed the closest, loudest gnoll. He pulled her down. She was just a pup. Barely worth eating. Barely worth killing. Then another gnoll dropped down through the hole that Feral Scar had made in the ceiling. This gnoll was little more than a pup, too. He hung from Feral Scar’s horn but barely weighed enough to be annoying. Then two more gnolls ran into the cave. These were strange-looking gnolls. Skinny gnolls. No fur. A female and a male pup. The female had an iron chain. She began to swing it toward Feral Scar’s head. But Feral Scar held the smallest gnoll pup out, and the bigger, strange-looking gnoll stopped swinging. She let the chain fall. She didn’t know what to do. Feral Scar thought she must not be very bright. Maybe these two weren’t gnolls at all. Maybe they were tiny ogres. Very tiny ogres who thought they could use the chain to pull Feral Scar off his feet.

But, no, these were not ogres. Ogres and gnolls would not fight together. Maybe they were ugly elves. He stared at them with contempt. Ugly elves, and not too bright.

Then he heard the call of his tribe. The haven was under attack. Ogres—real ogres—were attacking the yetis. Feral Scar had been playing with the gnolls and ugly elves. But there was no time to play now. He knocked the one gnoll off his horn and left. He almost forgot he was carrying the pup. The male gnoll hit Feral Scar’s wrist with his club. It stung a little. Feral Scar dropped the pup. He didn’t have to, but he didn’t want to be burdened with her. Not when he was in such a hurry to return to the haven and his tribe.

He wasted no time. A straight line down the canyon, a straight line up. If anything was in his way—trees, rocks, anything—he moved them. Feral Scar was big. Moving trees was simple. He had forgotten about the chain wrapped around his ankle until it fell off. He didn’t even look back.

He came to the long cave. He didn’t stop. He knew the way. He crossed through the mountain and came out the other side. Only then did Feral Scar pause.

It was worse than he thought. Worse than he had hoped. The ogres had discovered the haven. Many yetis were already dead. Sister Heart was dead. Brother Sinew was dead. Strong warriors and wise elders were dead. Cubs dead.

Many ogres dead, too, but not enough. The ogres had put what remained of his tribe in chains.

Feral Scar ROARED as he raced down the slope! He pulled the head off the closest ogre without slowing or stopping. He gored two more with his horns. He waded into the rest. He tore off limbs. He bit and thrashed. But some of these ogres were big, nearly as big as Feral Scar. They had weapons. Hammers. Spears. They hammered at him. They stabbed at him from a distance. He knew he would not be taken. But he thought that now he would die. He would fight until he died. And then he could range far in the afterlands of the yetis. He was ready for the afterlands …

Then came the ugly elf boy. Then the male gnoll. Then the ugly elf female with the chain. Even the little gnoll pup …

“Hackle’s work done for Hackle,” Sivet had said.

Hackle had nodded, frowning. He said despairingly, “Hackle be runt forever.”

The little matriarch seemed slightly flummoxed by this revelation. Her regard for him had clearly undergone a drastic change.

Feral Scar had waded into the ogres and had already done much damage. But there were just too many. It was clear to Makasa that the beast would not surrender, that he was fighting to the death against too many enemies led by too fearsome a commander. And it was equally clear that—although he might take half the ogres with him—the great yeti was indeed going to die. This would have been fine with Makasa, except he wouldn’t die at Hackle’s hand, which would complicate retrieving the murloc.

Suddenly, Aramar Thorne was running downhill. Makasa had tried to grab him, but he was just out of reach. He was not out of reach of the length of her chain, but stopping him with that would have somewhat defeated the purpose. (Which didn’t mean she didn’t briefly consider the option.) Within seconds, she and Hackle had joined the fray. Even Sivet …

Dumb boy dumb, Sivet thought.

Hackle brave, but Hackle follow dumb boy, so Hackle dumb.

Makasa Flintwill brave, but Makasa Flintwill fight beside dumb boy and Hackle. So maybe Makasa Flintwill dumb.

So Sivet fight.

Sivet probably dumb now, too.

Aram had taken off practically before the impulse had crystalized in his mind. An ogre with a spear was aiming for Feral Scar’s back. Aram ran up and slashed at the ogre’s arm.

Aram’s attack didn’t cut deep, but it did cause the ogre—a big tawny-skinned creature with large tusks that seemed to stretch his mouth wide—to turn toward the source of the annoyance. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of the small boy. Then the resigned ogre all but shrugged his shoulders before raising his spear again, this time to skewer Aram.

Aram glimpsed something flying over his head. It was Hackle, who had leapt from above him on the incline. With the gnoll’s entire body weight behind it, the swing of Wordok’s club crushed the skull of the tawny ogre. Aram cringed involuntarily. He took a step back and watched for a good two seconds as the gnoll balanced on the dead ogre’s shoulders—before leaping off with a loud keening cackle and wading into battle against the other Gordunni.

The tawny ogre came crashing to the ground, and Aram—belatedly realizing that he was just standing there like an idiot—was nearly skewered by the monster’s spear for a second time. Makasa barely managed to yank the boy out of the way.

“Stay on the perimeter!” she yelled. Though, of course, it wasn’t advice she intended to follow herself. Her cutlass was out. Her chain was swinging in its wide arc. And despite the danger, Aram felt certain the tide would turn.

Makasa was furious with Aram. But that reckoning would have to wait. She made quick calculations. Judging by the quantity of ogres already lying deceased on the valley floor, she didn’t think the Gordunni were holding any warriors in reserve. A party of about twenty, she thought. And between the initial battle and Feral Scar, about a dozen ogres were already dead. Hackle had just killed another. That left … five, six, seven. The seven biggest—including their especially big commander—but still only seven. (Seven, of course, being quite preferable to twenty.)

She swung her chain. It wrapped around the massive biceps of the closest ogre. She pulled and—unlike pulling Feral Scar—when she pulled, the ogre stumbled off his feet and onto the point of her blade. That left six.

She crossed swords with another. Or rather, she crossed her sword with the ogre’s axe. He was large and strong but slow. She carved him up. Five.

Their entry into the battle now commanded the ogres’ attentions. A couple turned from Feral Scar. A clear error. They should have finished the beast off while they had the chance. The yeti’s claws ripped out the spine of the first ogre to turn his back on him. Four.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that crazy gnoll Hackle single out the largest ogre of all, the commander, nearly as big as the ogre king Gordok. This ogre regarded the smallish gnoll with the huge club in stunned amusement. Then he actually laughed out loud when Sivet ran up to join Hackle, brandishing her tiny double-bladed axe. The ogre commander had his own considerably larger double-bladed axe, which he swung with enough force to slice off both gnolls’ heads at once. But he clearly wasn’t accustomed to fighting opponents quite so short. Hackle easily ducked beneath the swing, and Sivet didn’t even have to bother. Moving under the ogre’s extended arm, Hackle slammed the club down on the commander’s foot. The ogre howled, glaring at Hackle and the war club. He shouted, “That Wordok’s club! Where little gnoll get Wordok’s club?!”

Hackle barked out, “Hackle take club off Wordok’s corpse! When Hackle done with Marjuk, Hackle take Marjuk’s axe, too!”

The commander, Marjuk, roared, swung his axe up over his head, and brought it down hard and fast. Hackle and Sivet leapt to either side.

Makasa knew they’d need her help. But she was busy with two ogres of her own—an eight-footer and a ten-footer—and she was trying to keep an eye on the hopeless Aram as well.

The boy had, in fact, moved to the perimeter upon her command, but he hadn’t stayed there. He had again rushed forward to help Feral Scar, again slashing at an ogre about to strike at the yeti from behind. Again, the blow had done only superficial damage to his opponent, who instantly turned and slapped Aram’s cutlass out of his hand. But again, Aram’s actions had distracted the ogre long enough for the yeti to turn and snap the ogre’s neck. Three.

She thought she saw the boy and the yeti exchange a glance. Did the beast just nod a thank-you to Aram? No! That’s insane! At least losing his sword had forced Aram to run back to the perimeter to retrieve it.

She briefly lost track of the others, however, as the two ogres she kept at bay with her chain attempted to flank her. She executed an old but consistently reliable trick. Turning her back on the ten-foot female, Makasa tilted the rotation of her chain toward the eight-foot male in front of her. The ten-footer moved in low to club Makasa under the chain. Makasa instantly corrected her swing, and the chain connected with the rearward ogre’s jaw, stunning her and sending her reeling. The forward ogre rushed Makasa—but was tackled by Feral Scar, who brought him to the ground and went to work with his claws. Two.

This freed Makasa to turn back toward the ten-foot female. While this ogre was still shaking off the blow to her jaw, Makasa stabbed her through the heart. One.

That “one” was Marjuk, the ogre commander. He had found no success trying to kill the two young gnolls, but they had found none, either. The difference, of course, was that Feral Scar and Makasa were both now free to come to the gnolls’ aid. Marjuk was surrounded on three sides. His earlier mirth had melted away. He swung his axe in long sweeping arcs, not to kill but to stall for time while his ogre brain struggled to come up with a plan. Feral Scar wasn’t inclined to give him that time. When next the axe swung past the yeti, he moved in.

But Hackle yelled, “No! Feral Scar no kill Marjuk! Marjuk kill Gnaw! Kill Hackle’s mother! Hackle kill Marjuk!”

The yeti actually stepped back. Makasa might have wondered then how much the beast understood, but at that moment, she was too busy mourning once again the loss of her harpoon. Her preference would have been to ignore Hackle’s demand and kill Marjuk from a safe distance before things got out of hand.

Still, she was semi-prepared for this. She had planned to help Hackle kill the yeti. The same plan would work even better on the ogre commander. The next time the ogre swung his axe, Makasa swung her chain. The iron links cracked against Marjuk’s elbow and wrapped around his arm. She pulled the bellowing ogre off balance, and Hackle slammed his club against Marjuk’s knee. The knee buckled. Marjuk dropped onto it. Hackle swung the club upward; it cracked against the ogre’s jaw. Feral Scar’s claws slashed at Marjuk’s back. The ogre roared again—this time in pain. Sivet raced in, swinging her little hatchety-axe. Marjuk brought his free hand up to protect his face and lost a couple of thick fingers.

Aram had been forced to scramble a dozen yards to recover his sword. An ogre had easily—too easily (and not for the first time)—knocked the blade from his hand. It was embarrassing, and Aram preferred to blame the cutlass itself. It’s not really mine, he told himself. It had belonged to Old Cobb, the sailor who had betrayed Aram’s father to Malus. During the battle for Greydon Thorne’s ship, Cobb had cornered Aram and was about to run the boy through—when instead, Wavestrider’s mast had come crashing through Cobb. As Aram had already lost two cutlasses in the battle, he had been forced to pry the one he now carried from Cobb’s dead hand. Yet a somewhat superstitious Aram didn’t quite trust the blade. Deep down, he thought it still loyal to Cobb, that maybe it liked slipping from his hand and still longed to fulfill Cobb’s last desire: to see Aramar Thorne dead.

Nevertheless, it was the only sword he had, so he ran to recover it. By the time he turned, the others were already engaged in fighting the ogre commander. From his vantage behind and to the left of Makasa, Aram grimaced. He had little sympathy for any ogre—particularly one who had killed Hackle’s mother—but in his heart, he knew this was hardly a fair fight. Four against one was bad enough, but when one of those four was the yeti of all yetis and another was Makasa Flintwill and a third was a vengeful Hackle, he couldn’t help feeling a little bad for this Marjuk. But only a little. Barely a little. Still, he was about to intervene, to say … something. But as he struggled to find the words, the means to reconcile everyone, Marjuk turned his head to the left and to the right, taking a last look at the odd collection of species bent on taking his life. Then he turned toward Hackle and spat out, “Gnaw easy kill.”

Hackle brought down Wordok’s club as hard as he could, and it was over. Commander Marjuk was over. And Aram never did find the words.

There was a pause. Then Makasa moved in to release her chain from around the dead ogre’s arm.

Feral Scar moved toward his fellow yetis to free them from their chains.

But Hackle called out, “Feral Scar!”

Everyone turned. Hackle had Marjuk’s axe now. He faced Feral Scar, who—grumbling irritably—raised himself to his full height to face the gnoll.

Sivet watched eagerly, ready to see if Hackle could regain his name once and for all. With nearly the same fervor with which she had quite recently held the “runt” in contempt, she now seemed to be silently rooting for him.

Makasa stepped back to allow this last conflict to run its course.

But Aramar Thorne had other ideas, and this time he was ready with the words …