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Grask had watched the entire proceeding with increasing anxiety. The subtleties of conversation had been over his head, but he had caught the drift: there were a few who wanted to let Ishkur and the others live, but most of them had voted for murder. He did not know why he had hoped at all; the stories were true, it seemed; Men were just as vicious as they reported Orcs to be. What would he do? Where would he go? His path had been bound up in those of these Orcs that were about to die.
Their meeting broke up; the Men hauled up the Orc males from the pit none too gently. Grask strove to catch Ishkur’s eye in hopes of some guidance, but to no avail; Ishkur was not looking for him, and even if he was, Grask was too well hidden. The Orcs were marched out of the camp, and Grask, seeming to have no will of his own left, trailed behind as far as his cover extended. They were lined up; knives and swords were drawn.
Grask’s heart beat wildly and he looked around frantically. What should he do? Somebody must do something! But he was alone - where were the females? Help – he needed help! They needed help!
Suddenly Ishkur’s words to him thudded strongly in his mind: “Someday I may need you to guard my back." Without any thought of what he was doing, Grask hurled himself from the brush, a war cry of utter anguish sounding from his mouth. He fumbled one of his long knives from his belt as he ran, then held it point first in front of him. He had to stop them. Ishkur was depending on him.
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