I have seen many throne rooms in my time, stranger. This one, surely, was the most squalid.

Blacktooth the Ugly, Chieftain of the Hilltop Horde, finished laughing in my face and leant back in his revolting throne. He gestured with one massive arm.

“Kill them.”

We drew our weapons as orcs charged from all directions, howling war cries so savage as to turn my blood to ice. I parried a thrust from the nearest brute with my rapier, turned his blade aside and ran the devil through. The next instant, one of Blacktooth’s huge guards came at me with a poleaxe, of all weapons, bringing the clumsy weapon down with enough force to cleave me in two. I could do no more than dive to one side as the blade tore a long gash in my finest blue pantaloons. It slammed into the ground where I had been standing, splitting two planks and leaving a gaping hole in the floor.

The gods forbid that blade had nicked me. Everything in that place was foul. The throne was an iron chair, of all things, strewn with the remnants of Blacktooth’s last meal (the contents of which I could not begin to guess at and prefer not to try). Bones and worse things littered the greasy rushes, which crawled with rats and fat insects of every description. Rush torches spewed cloying smoke across the chamber and, from time to time, a glimmer of light. Soot and grime coated everything.

I might have abandoned our quest, here at the end. Penniless I was and starve I might, but what good would gold do me with my belly already filled by an orc’s scimitar? Yet every exit was blocked.

All around were stinking foes, hacking at me with the ugliest of weapons and showing a deplorable lack of finesse. Though I had not yet fought beside Az’Mak, Lord of Axes, nor learnt the bladecraft of ancient Illudor, this was a wretched display and quite beneath me.

“To me,” I cried, rolling to one side as the poleaxe descended once more, leaving another hole in the floor to trip over. I managed to stab my assailant in the ankle and, as he hopped away, howling, scrambled to my feet. “Back to back, friends!”

One orc, overcome with the joy of battle, cleaved the head from one of his fellows out of sheer exuberance. Mojo lifted the creature high into the air and, with a flex of green biceps, flung him bodily into three more.

Feliciatia almost put an end to my troubles then and there, her whirling blades converging on my throat faster than I could blink, much less parry. They came to a stop a hair’s breadth from my throat as the elf recognised me, and a drop of blood trickled down one short sword.

She grinned, may the gods curse her. I barely had time to gurgle before she spun away into the mêlée, axes and clubs raining down around her. How she survived is beyond me, but she dodged each blow and carved a path through the orcs. Goblin thralls poured into the throne room from stairs and side chambers until I could hardly breathe from the reek.

“Fine, then,” I muttered as the fighting dissolved into three entirely separate combats, devoid of strategy.

I would say “four”, but Haliban was huddled against a wall, waving his staff feebly at the throng. I rather hoped the necromancer would work some sort of magic, but he merely stood there, gaping.

I have rarely been moved to concern for Haliban the Black. Yet in that moment, seeing the old man surrounded by enemies, I feared for his life. Fortunately, the orcs must have guessed my companion’s trade from his white hair, robes and foul demeanour. They gave him a wide berth, preferring to focus their efforts on the rest of us. Haliban brandished the staff triumphantly.

“Had enough, have you?” he declared to their retreating backs. “I’ve hired kobolds with more gumption. You wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in my campaign against the wood elves!”

At last, our enemies were pressed so tightly into that foetid space that no more could squeeze in and still fight. I lunged and parried, feinted and thrust, and felled no fewer than six of the beasts – and these were not ideal conditions for fencing.

I was feeling rather pleased with myself, notwithstanding my impending demise, when a gigantic figure loomed over me, and I realised the end had indeed come.

Blacktooth the Ugly, Chieftain of the Hilltop Horde, stood before me.