He emerged in a storage room, quickly checking his surroundings. Barrels of ale, sacks of grain, and—perfect—a pile of dirty servant clothes. Orcs had a strict hierarchy; nobody looked twice at the lowest caste.
Five minutes later, Arthur shuffled through the kitchen carrying an empty bucket, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. The kitchen staff barely glanced at him. Just another worthless servant cleaning up after his betters.
The head cook, a massive orc woman with arms like tree trunks, barked at him: "You! Take slop to the warg pens!"
Arthur grunted acknowledgment, grabbed the slop bucket, and headed out. But not before he'd slipped a packet of powder into the victory feast stew. Not poison—he wasn't here to massacre. Just a mild sedative that would make the warriors sluggish. In about an hour, half the garrison would be fighting yawns instead of invaders.
