“Rise, you two,” Yevelda said. “See to the kitchens and make sure our guests are looked after. They judge our husband by the table you set. Do not disappoint me.”
The junior wives scrambled quickly out of the furs. Yevelda had shown more than once that she was quick to beat one, the other, or both if she had to repeat herself. Kansif was a young, full-blooded girl who was thoroughly cowed by the half-orc woman and desperate to please her. Sutha, on the other hand… Sutha was an older and far more cunning woman, the first of the three to have shared Mhurren’s furs and a strong-willed priestess in her own right. She was a strong, fit mixed-blood who was not at all happy about having been supplanted by Yevelda as Mhurren’s favorite. The chieftain guessed that Sutha was well along in several plots against Yevelda, but it wouldn’t do to intervene. If the favorite couldn’t keep the lesser wives in their place, then she wasn’t fit to be the favorite, was she? As she left, Sutha brushed by him with a sly smile and let her hand trail over the thick mail of his broad chest, moving just quickly enough to deprive Yevelda of a reason to chastise her.
Mhurren grinned in appreciation as he watched his lesser wives dress themselves and hurry from his chambers. Then he moved over to the slitlike window and brushed the heavy curtain out of the way. The day was bright, and faint hints of green growth speckled the gray hills and moorlands surrounding Bloodskull Hold. Thar was a hard land, barely suitable for a few scrawny herds of livestock, but with the coming of spring the passes would soon open, and he’d be able to send hunting parties to the mountain vales and the open steppeland beyond. It would be good for his warriors to have something to do. Too many of his orcs were growing bored and restless after the long winter, and that usually spelled trouble.
He glanced to his left and scowled. The camp of the Vaasans was still there, perched in the shelter of a rocky tor a quarter-mile from the hold’s walls. In the center of the humans’ tents stood a small tower of iron, summoned up out of nothing at all by the Vaasan lord’s magic. The humans had shown his tribe every respect, sending fine gifts ahead of their emissaries, and his scouts had counted an escort of almost two hundred spears for the lord they sent to speak to him-a sign of the man’s importance. But the fact remained that if negotiations were to take an ugly turn, he was not sure that he could drive the Vaasan company away from his keep, not with the sort of magic the black-clad humans evidently commanded.
“What do they want with me?” he growled.
Yevelda stretched out atop the furs, deliberately not covering herself to remind him why she was his favorite. She answered him, even though he had not meant the question for her. “You will find out soon enough,” she said in her throaty purr. “But if you must guess, then ask yourself this: What does the Vaasan lack?”
Mhurren grimaced in annoyance. Along with her straight, smooth limbs and dusky beauty, Yevelda’s human blood blessed her with the same sort of fiery ambition and quick curiosity he himself possessed. She had a mind every bit as sharp as his own and seemed to feel that entitled her to help him rule over the Bloody Skulls. In truth, Yevelda might just be clever, strong, and ruthless enough to govern the tribe without him, but it was rare indeed for any woman, no matter how exceptional, to rule as queen over orc warriors. “He’s here to bribe me to attack the Skullsmashers,” he guessed. “The stupid ogres don’t have enough sense to leave the Vaasans alone, so they send this man Terov to find my price for an alliance against King Guld and his band of dimwits.”
“What price would you demand for your aid?”
“Gold, furs, wine, good steel… and some assurance that the Vaasans will actually fight. I’ll be damned if I let my warriors get mashed to bloody pulp by the ogres while the Vaasans sit back and watch us kill each other.”
Yevelda rolled over onto her belly and looked up at him. “It depends which warriors, doesn’t it? I can think of a couple I wouldn’t be sorry to lose.”
Mhurren barked a short, harsh laugh. “True enough. The warriors grow restless, and it would be good to find someone to fight. My berserkers are ready to turn on each other. But I can’t let the tribe think the Vaasans played me for a fool. That would look weak.” He reached out and slapped her shapely flank. “I go to see what he thinks my price is.”
He buckled on his weapon harness and padded out of his den. Six fierce warriors with the elaborate facial scarring of the Skull Guard waited for him. They grounded the butts of their spears against the stone and shouted, “Kai! Kai!” when Mhurren appeared.
Without another word they fell in around him and escorted him through the keep’s tortuous passageways and cramped guardchambers, brutally striking and shouldering aside any who got in their way. Mhurren was as sure of their loyalty as he could be. He made sure that his personal guards freely plundered the rest of the tribe. Should anything ever happen to him, the warriors of the Skull Guard would not long survive his demise. And, just to be sure, years ago he’d had Sutha lay fearsome curses and compulsions on each Skull Guard with her priestess magic. But Sutha was likely not very pleased with him at the moment, not as long as Yevelda was first among his wives… he would be wise to have one of the battle-sorcerers or priests of Gruumsh test the spells that ensured his guards’ loyalty. If, of course, he could find a spellcaster other than Sutha that he trusted.
No matter, he told himself. The game was to remain chief as long as he could, father a son strong enough to succeed him, and try not to kill the whelp-or let the whelp kill him-before he was ready. But that day was still many long years off.
The warchief marched into the keep’s great hall, a long, low-ceilinged room with thick pillars holding up a simple masonry vault. Four heavy braziers full of red-glowing coals illuminated the room. The walls were bedecked with the trophies the tribe had taken over the years-the crudely preserved skulls of hundreds of enemies, steeped in a crimson dye so that they always looked as if they were fresh and gory. Dwarves, humans, goblins, orcs, ogres, gnolls, even a handful of giants, all were represented among the dangling bones. The tribe’s priests knew the story of each one. Some were mighty enemies the Bloody Skulls had bested. Some were enemies known to have fallen beneath the axe or spear of a legendary Bloodskull chief or champion. But most expressed contempt, not respect. The skulls of women and children taken near places such as Glister or Hulburg or Thentia cluttered the walls, mocking enemies too weak to defend their families and homesteads from Bloodskull raids. Scores of orc warriors and their women slept in this room, and they were just beginning to stir when Mhurren and his guards made their appearance. “Kai! The warchief! The warchief!” shouted the Skull Guards as they kicked and prodded careless orcs out of the way.
Mhurren threw himself into the thronelike seat on its dais at the end of the hall, one hand resting on a short sword at his side. More than once he’d been attacked in that very seat, and he’d learned to keep steel close at hand. He surveyed the warriors in the hall for a moment and spotted one that would do. “Huwurth, take five spears and bring the Vaasan,” he commanded. “Tell him that I summon him, and that I am ready to hear him out. Give him time to make himself ready, and let him bring two hands of bodyguards if he wants. If he wants more than that, tell him no. Come back if he refuses.”
Huwurth, a young warleader, nodded. “I go, warchief,” he said. Despite his youth he was quite clever and patient, a rare combination. He gathered five warriors from his band and led them from the hall. Huwurth was smart enough to ignore almost any offense the humans might give, as long as he was doing Mhurren’s bidding. Others among the Bloodskull warleaders and berserkers simply couldn’t have walked into that camp without finding some mortal quarrel with a human who met the eye too long, or looked away too quickly, or turned his back, or found some new way to invite a battle.