The doom stout bolstered Ned’s courage, lessened his reason. He had no fear of death, merely a general dislike for it. He was capable of anything right then, and even he wasn’t sure what he might do.

“My money.”

Ralph dropped Ned’s pouch on the table. “We didn’t think you’d be needing it anymore, sir.”

Ned belched loudly enough to nearly knock himself off his rubbery legs. “My knife. My sword.”

The knife was given over.

“Someone got to the sword before us,” said Ward.

Ned hunched over the table to keep his balance.

“We were just following orders,” said Ralph. “Sir.” He grunted that last word with obvious disgust.

Ned’s bad arm swung out hard and fast and collided with Ralph’s thick jaw. A terrible crack filled the air. Whether it was Ned’s hand breaking or the ogre’s teeth slamming together, Ned couldn’t tell. But he knocked Ralph out of his chair and onto the floor. Ned spun around on the follow-through and, if not for a steadying arm from Ace, would’ve ended up beside the ogre.

The pub cheered. Every one of these soldiers appreciated a good, solid punch as an art form. Ned would regret it in the morning. His knuckles were swollen and red, but he didn’t feel the pain. The stout kept him nice and warm.

Ralph stood. He rubbed his jaw. A trickle of blood showed on his lip. Not much, but more damage than any human had ever done. Actually he’d never been punched by a human. The peculiarity of the situation took away his anger, leaving him with only profound confusion.

“Here’s a new order.” Ned jammed his finger into Ward’s chest. “Don’t ever bury me again.”

He turned and tripped his way back to the bar. When he’d settled back into place, the pub filled with noise again. The bonehorn player launched into a rousing rendition of “Broken Bone Blues,” a tune consisting of the same notes in the same order as “Skullcrusher Boogie,” but a little slower.