"Our race is already dying off," continued Artoch. "In a few generations, we will be gone like the ancient Saurians with whom our ancestors once traded."

"If you feel that way," asked Gorlag, "then why go through all this?" He pointed to the fire pit.

"We must bridge the divide that separates Humans from Orcs, or we will be wiped out. Athgar will be that bridge!"

"Surely you jest? There cannot be friendship between our two races."

"You are wrong," said Artoch, "I know it for a fact."

"How can you know such things?"

"Far to the west, others of our race thrive. Our brethren in the Netherwood have shown us the way. We must, like them, ally ourselves with the Humans to save our people. Athgar is the key to that!"

Athgar looked down on his handiwork, all the wood stacked with the kindling ready to be set alight. "Where do we start, Master Artoch?"

"Come," said the flame wielder, "sit before the wood as I do, your legs crossed, and prepare to clear your mind."

The Human sat, crossing his legs awkwardly, not used to the position.

"Close your eyes, Athgar," said Artoch, "and feel deep down inside you."

"All I see is darkness."

"Be patient, in time, it will come. A spark of light that appears to grow brighter when you concentrate on it."

They sat in silence for some time until, at last, Athgar spoke. "I see it," he said, "a tiny little light."

"Good, now concentrate on it. You must nurture it to allow it to grow. It is an ember, waiting to burst into flame. Picture yourself holding it in your palms."

"It's growing brighter," he proclaimed.

"Good," said Artoch. "Now you are ready to release it. You must open your eyes, but remember the flame, just as you have seen it. Concentrate on the stack of wood, and then release the flame by uttering the words of power."

"I can feel it growing stronger," said Athgar, his eyes still closed. "I feel its heat."

"Open your eyes," commanded the Orc, "or you will be consumed."

Athgar finally opened his eyes, looking directly at the stack of wood. "It's getting too hot!"

"Utter these words," said Artoch, "Cal, Exar, Ute, Fal

"I can't, it's too hot!"

"You must! Now concentrate, before it is too late."

Athgar was now sweating profusely, his face dripping. "Cal, Exar...," he took a deep breath, "Ute, Fal."

Suddenly, a breeze blew out of nowhere, and the wood burst into flame, not a tiny spark, but a large conflagration as if the fire had been burning for some time.

Athgar let out a huge rush of air, then took a fresh breath like a man who had nearly drowned. He looked at the fire in surprise. "It worked," he proclaimed.

"So it did," said Artoch, "though it very nearly consumed you."

"I felt like I was going to explode."