Somewhere in the Arathi Highlands, there was a small camp of orcs led by the humans. It was for the pregnant women and children, and the old men and women - the ones who would die if they were set to some of the more heavygoing work. A dead orc, they said, was a useless orc. They had uses for weaklings such as these. "They call us demons," would say the old men. "But not us. No. Not any more. Demons are without honour. The humans are the demons." There, with stolen axes and reclaimed clothes, were more orcs than Ursala had ever seen in one place before.