The front gates were open, and the ogre sentries were asleep at their post. The light wasn’t much better inside the citadel walls. The only illumination at all came from a few sizable lightstones that had yet to be stolen from their fixtures. Soldiers slept on the ground. Others milled about in drunken gangs. None noticed or cared about one stranger walking through their fort. Ned had heard Ogre Company was undisciplined, but this was an absurdity of a fortress. He was glad he didn’t have to worry about dealing with security.

He found the pub without any trouble. He just followed the sounds of carousing. The harsh blare of the bonehorn, a vile orcish instrument capable of producing only three notes, assaulted his ears. The player kept tooting those notes in the same sequence. Ned recognized the tune: “Skullcrusher Boogie.” Not his favorite orcish composition, but it beckoned him.

The pub was dark, musty, and crowded. Mostly ogres, as Ned expected. He kept his eye to himself and strode purposefully to the bar.

He caught the barkeep’s attention. “Doom stout.”

The barkeep, a short ogre easily a head taller than Ned, pursed his lips. “You sure you want that?”

Ned nodded, and the barkeep went to fetch a mug.

“Excuse me, but are you Never Dead Ned?” asked a goblin on the next stool.

“No.”

Ace leaned forward. “Are you sure? You look like him.”

“All humans look alike.”

Ace frowned. “Yeah, but this guy was distinctive, even for a human. He was full of scars. Like you. And he had only one eye. Like you. And his left arm, it looked a little gangrenous. Like yours.” He squinted. “Yeah, you’re him a’right.”

Ned admitted defeat. “Yeah. I’m him.”

“Thought so. I flew you in. Remember that?”

“How could I forget?”