[Envinyatar]

Nozhdrul, from his vantage point behind the crates, heard the rise of voices and the scuffle of running feet coming near to him. He chanced being seen and stood up to peek over the crates. The miasma of anger and high tension assailed his nose and he nearly gagged at the reek of it.

The Easterlings, swords and knives drawn, had set upon the Orcs. And while he held no real affection for his scabrous brothers, he did not relish the thought of being the only Orc left in this pit of stinking Men. He reached for his sling, but dared not move into a more open place from which to swing it. He considered his long knife, but that seemed a foolish idea considering the length of the Easterlings’ swords and the long arms which held them.

‘What to do, what to do.’ His nose brought him a heavier scent, from the cartons he had crouched behind to consider his options. He worked his long thick fingernails beneath the top of the crate and pried it up. Bottle’s of wine! Nice thick, heavy, long necked crockery containers filled with liquid. He picked one up, hefting it in his hand.

Drawing back his arm, he let it fly. A direct hit! Splattering shards of crockery and flying trails of wine rebounded from the skull of an Easterling, and he went down. Ambidextrous, Nozhdrul kept the fermented missiles flying, knocking down those he could.

The floor of the cave was becoming slippery and dangerous, awash with wine and the sharp shatterings of the bottles themselves. He laughed with glee as he watched the Men slip and fall like Wargs on slick ice.

And to be honest he was not that sorry to see some of the Orcs go careening across the wet mess either . . .