“Goblin short,” agreed Frank.

Gabel glared ruefully at his mug and took another drink. “Still racism. Not my fault I was born a little short.”

“Goblin short,” reasserted Frank.

Gabel narrowed his eyes. He’d gotten used to this. Ores and goblins, despite their size differences, bore a passing resemblance. It was mostly in the shape of their skulls, their sloping foreheads, their wide mouths, and the ears that sat high on their heads. Scholars hypothesized that the two species shared a common ancestor. Both goblins and ores found the notion absurd. But Gabel, having wrestled with this handicap his whole life, had little tolerance for it.

“I’m not a goblin.”

“Are you sure?” asked Regina. “Maybe the midwives had a mix-up.”

“In the first place, orcs don’t have midwives. In the second, I’m not a damn goblin.”

Frank bent close and squinted. “It’s just that you look an awful lot like a goblin.”

“Orcs and goblins look alike. They’re related specimens.”

“Yeah, but every orc I’ve known was grayish blue. Whereas you’re more of a grayish green.”

“And your ears are very big.” Regina illustrated the size with her hands apart.

“Not to mention there’s not a hair on your body,” added Frank.

“I shave.”

“Well, that’s not very orcish either.”

Gabel jumped on the table. Even standing on it, his five-foot frame wasn’t especially impressive. Though he was in fine shape, his was a lithe muscularity. Orcs generally had great, dense bodies. And not one stood under six feet.

Gabel put his hand on his sword. “The next one who calls me a goblin gets run through.”

“Is ‘through’ a participle?” asked Regina. “Did he just dangle a participle?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Frank.

“‘Through’ is a preposition.” Huffing, Gabel hopped off the table. “Not that I’d expect anyone else in this pub to know.”