by Gurmeet Mattu

Created on: September 04, 2008

The great hall rang with a thousand voices. Burning torches around the walls cast dancing shadows as the great throng moved around. The air was rich with the smell of spilled beer and roasted ox meat. Tables were thumped and voices raised and occasionally a female voice shrieked in indignity. But suddenly there was silence as Vorga entered. He was a big man. Bigger even than the many fur-clad brutes who clustered around him. But they made space quickly, for Vorga was known to be short of temper and quick of sword. He swung one iron shod boot onto a bench and hoisted himself onto the head table. A cry of welcome was quickly stifled as Vorga looked around him and slowly nodded his bearded head in approval.

His voice was low and gravelly. "It has been the way of we, the Targen," he said, "to gather together in time of war and on the eve of battle to declare ourselves before our brethren and before the Gods, that all may know our names and remember them lest we fall in combat." He paused, unused to lengthy speech and his great chest filled with air before he bellowed, "Hail, ye gods, and listen to my words. I come before you, a Prince of Pelthidor, Master of Volkrane, Holder of the Talisman of Shen-Derok. I Vorga, son of Rastak, the Soul Shredder."

The crowd roared enthusiastically and a low chant of Vorga, Vorga' began. Almost instantly a smaller man leapt up onto the table beside Vorga. He was smaller only in height and matched his chief in the breadth of his chest and the width of his thighs. Unlike Vorga he was clean shaven and his face was marked with countless scars and his eyes burned. He placed the head of his great battle-axe on the table and rested his hands on the haft. His voice was higher than Vorga's but carried a terrifying coldness. "Hail, ye gods," he roared, "and listen to my words. I come before you, Lord of the Night Realms, Victor of the Battle of Zildar, Terror of the Hergol. I Damak, son of Jakar, the Blood Scorcher."

Again there was an enthusiastic roar but as this died away there was a strange uncertain pause. Finally a small man, dressed only in a t-shirt and shorts was pushed forward. One of the warriors grabbed him as he passed and whispered in his ear. "It is your turn, stranger. Guests precede the nobility in our tradition." His great, meaty hand then propelled the stranger onto the table with one shove.

The stranger looked around him and his heart fell at the sight of the huge, imposing throng, but Vorga put his hand on his shoulder

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