Kara’s spellscar seemed to writhe and itch under the skin of her left forearm, but she made no move to cover the serpent-shaped mark. “I have heard of Morag the Slayer,” she answered in Orcish. Years ago he had led a bold raid that sacked a caravan on the Coastal Way west of Thentia. He was an important Bloodskull chief. She met the old warrior’s eyes, and she bared her teeth in what passed among orcs as a gesture indicating both respect and a fierce willingness to face challenge without quailing.
Morag grunted in approval and showed his own fangs before he strode boldly to the center of the horseshoe-shaped table. He stood motionless and silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Harmach Grigor, paying no attention to the mailed swordsmen who surrounded the dais or the council members who waited on him. Then he threw out his chest and spoke.
“You are weak,” the gray-haired orc snarled at the harmach. “Your town counts thirty score spears, but King Mhurren counts six times that number. Once, many years ago, all the lands north of the Moonsea belonged to the King of Thar. Then came the humans of the south and the burkhushk dwarves-” that was a word in Orcish Kara was frankly glad no one else in the room understood-“from out of their mountains to dig Thar’s gold, to cut Thar’s stone, to hunt in Thar’s hills, and drink Thar’s water. Yet never once did you bargain with Thar’s rightful masters for these things. You came and you took. You slew our sons where you found them and then hid behind your walls of stone to deny us just revenge.
“King Mhurren will stand this no more. You must pay for the things you have taken from our lands, or we will take our lands back and drive you into the sea.”
The Hulburgans stirred and muttered at that. Some of the fainter-hearted paled or looked uncertainly to the faces of those around them, hoping they had not heard the Bloody Skull messenger correctly. Most of the Shieldsworn tightened their grips on their weapons until knuckles whitened, lips pressed together and eyes cold.
Sergen Hulmaster stood, leaning on the table with his hands, and looked the old orc in the eye. “You come here to issue threats? We will not be cowed by vain orc boasts in the Harmach’s Hall!”
“I do not make threats,” Morag scoffed. “I speak truths, pinkskin. We are strong; you are weak. Give us what is ours or we will take it from you-and more. If you do not hear the iron in my words, then you are deaf.” He grasped the red-painted skull hanging by his hip, ripped it free of its chain, and tossed it onto the table in front of Sergen. Bone cracked, and chips fell to the floor. “Ask the Overmaster of Glister if the Bloody Skulls make threats. There he sits on your table, speaking truth to you. Do you hear him?”
Sergen’s handsome face darkened, and he straightened up. But before he could say anything, Grigor spoke. “I hear you, Morag. Mhurren of Bloodskull Keep demands tribute. What does he think I will give him?”
“Five wagons of gold. Two hundred cattle and one thousand sheep or goats. Two hundred casks of wine or ale. Two hundred coats of mail, two hundred steel swords, five hundred steel axeheads or knife blades.” Morag grinned in challenge. “And you will present one hundred slaves between ten and thirty years of age. Twenty at least must be women suitable to be taken as wives. All this you will do at Highsun each year, or Mhurren will lower his spear against you, and all that you have he will take.”
The room erupted with protests. Wulreth Keltor, the Keeper of Keys, simply stared at Morag with his jaw slack and his face stricken. No doubt he was staggered by the enormity of the orc’s demands.
Beside Kara, Lord Marstel pushed himself to his feet and barked, “We will not give you a copper piece, let alone condemn our women to rape and drudgery in some filthy cave, you ill-bred louts!”
Hearing that, Kara leaped up herself to defend the empty-headed lord against the mortal insult he had just issued to Morag-but fortunately others were shouting too. The lord assayer shouted, “That would ruin us! The demand is outrageous!”
And one of the Veruna mercenaries behind Lady Darsi actually drew his blade and shook it as he snarled, “Kill them! Kill them for their insolence, and perhaps Mhurren will learn to send messengers with better manners next time!”
“And perhaps Mhurren will learn that he should kill those we send to speak to him!” Kara snapped. “You fool. The day may come when we need to talk with the chieftains in Thar, and if we kill their messengers, how will they treat ours?”
“Enough,” Harmach Grigor said. The shouting went on around the table, and the harmach slowly got to his feet and struck his cane to the floor with a resounding crack! “Enough!” he shouted, and this time he managed to quiet the hall. “No messenger before me will be killed because I do not like his words. Put down your swords, those of you who drew your weapons. You will not violate the ancient rules of parley in my hall.” Morag grinned again at that, but the harmach turned and pointed at him next. “And you, Morag, be glad that you speak under a flag of truce. You will not be killed for what you say, but if you insult me in my own hall, you will be driven from my door with nothing but your bare hands to take back to your master.”
The old chief’s grin faded to a sour frown. “If you dishonor me, human, you dishonor my king.”
“If I decide that your king means to march against me no matter what I do, then I see no reason why I should concern myself with his honor,” Grigor retorted.
“As you say, then,” Morag growled. “So what is your answer, Chief of Hulburg? Will you render tribute or will you choose war?”
The harmach leaned on his cane and studied the orc for a time. Then he sighed. “I must weigh your words, Morag. I will give you my answer soon. Now go.”
The gray-haired chief snorted. “King Mhurren said that humans can decide nothing without endless talk. He told me to grant you three days. If you do not give me an answer by sunset of the third day, I will tell Mhurren that you have chosen war. I go to wait at my camp.” He turned slowly, contemptuously turning his back on the harmach and striding back to the door. His escort of warriors followed, snarling at anyone who came too close.
In a few moments the Bloody Skull emissary was gone, and the Shieldsworn pushed the heavy doors of the hall closed with a resounding boom.
Harmach Grigor gazed after the orc messengers. Then he sighed and sagged back down into his seat. Quietly he said, “Well, you’ve all heard Mhurren’s demand. What say you?”
“The Bloody Skulls are blustering,” Maroth Marstel said at once. “They have never threatened us in the past. Their keep is more than a hundred miles from here. I say that they hope to extort a kingly ransom from us by simply baring their filthy fangs and snarling. Well, I for one am not impressed!”
Ravenscar, the master mage, cleared his throat and looked to Kara. “Lady Kara, you know the tribes of Thar as well as any. Is Morag telling the truth about Bloody Skull numbers?”
“He could be. I would guess that they could muster about two thousand warriors from their various strongholds, but if they managed to subjugate some of the nearby tribes and add their numbers to their own… yes, it could be close to four thousand. But they wouldn’t all get along with each other.”
“What of his words about Glister?” the mage asked. “Have the Bloody Skulls sacked it?”
“They may have,” Kara answered. “Yesterday a man from Glister came into town with his wife and children. They fled Glister seven days ago because they’d seen orc scouts and marauders in great numbers, and they had word that orcs were marching against the town. What might have befallen Glister after they fled, I can’t say. But I’ll have scouts on fast horses sent out within the hour to see.”
The High Magistrate, Theron Nimstar, leaned forward to look at Kara. He was a stout man with a heavy beard of rusty gray, thoughtful and deliberate in his words. “Assume that Morag is telling the truth. Can the Shieldsworn defend Hulburg against so large a horde?”