He took a deep breath and turned back to the orc frenzy, the chanting and dancing continuing unabated. If a dark elf from Barrison Del’Armgo, one of the most formidable Houses of Menzoberranzan, was to blame then the orcs would no doubt prove many times more formidable than they appeared. Drizzt nodded grimly, his responsibility and thus his path clear before him.
“Follow their every move,” he bade Hralien.
“On my word,” the elf replied. “Your friends will not be caught unprepared.”
The orcs moved along soon after, and Hralien shadowed their southwestern march, leaving Drizzt alone on the mountainside. He considered going down to the orc village and snooping around, but decided that Tos’un, if he was about, would likely be along the periphery, among the stones, as was Drizzt.
“Come to me, Guenhwyvar,” the drow commanded, drawing forth the onyx figurine. When the gray mist coalesced into the panther, Drizzt sent her out hunting. Guenhwyvar could cover a tremendous amount of ground in short order, and not even a lone drow could escape her keen senses.
Drizzt, too, set off, moving deliberately but with great caution in the opposite direction from the panther, who was already cutting across the wake of the departing army. If Hralien’s guess was correct and Tos’un Armgo was directing the orcs from nearby, Drizzt held all faith that he would soon confront the rogue.
His hands went to his scimitars as he considered Khazid’hea, Catti-brie’s sword, the weapon that had fallen into the hands of Tos’un. Any drow warrior was formidable. A warrior of a noble House likely more so. Even thinking in those respectful terms, Drizzt consciously reminded himself that the drow noble was even more potent, for those who underestimated Khazid’hea usually wound up on the ground.
In two pieces.
Interesting, Jack said to Hakuun’s mind when they walked away from their quiet little meeting with Toogwik Tuk, one in which Jack had used the power of magical suggestion to complement Hakuun’s spells of lie detection, allowing the dual being to extract much more honest answers from Toogwik Tuk than the young shaman had ever meant to offer. So the conspirators have not brought you here to enhance Obould’s forces.
“We must tell Grguch,” Hakuun whispered.
Tell him what? That we have come to do battle?
“That our venture into the Moonwood and now against the dwarves will likely anger Obould.”
Inside his head, Hakuun could feel Jack laughing. Orcs plotting against orcs, Jack silently related. Orcs manipulating orcs to plot against orcs. All of this will be surprising news to old Chieftain Grguch, I am sure.
Hakuun’s determined stride slowed, his tailwind stolen by Jack’s cynical sarcasm—sarcasm effective only because it held the ring of truth.
Let the play play, said Jack. The plots of the conspirators will be bent to our favor when we need them to be. For now, all the risk is theirs, for Clan Karuck is unwitting. If they have played the part of fools to even consider such a plot, their fall will be enjoyable to witness. If they are not fools, then all to our gain.
“Our gain?” said Hakuun, emphasizing Jack’s inclusion into it all.
“For as long as I am interested,” Hakuun’s voice replied, though it was Jack who controlled it.
A not-so-subtle reminder, Hakuun understood, of who was leading whom.
CHAPTER 17
DEFINING GRUUMSH
Chieftain Dnark did not miss the simmer behind King Obould’s yellow eyes whenever the orc king’s glance happened his and Ungthol’s way. Obould was continually repositioning his forces, which all of the chieftains understood was the king’s way of keeping them in unfamiliar territory, and thus, keeping them dependent upon the larger kingdom for any real sense of security. Dnark and Ung-thol had rejoined their clan, the tribe of the Wolf Jaw, only to learn that Obould had summoned them to work on a defensive position north of Keeper’s Dale, not far from where Obould had settled to ride out the fleeting days of winter.
As soon as Obould had met Wolf Jaw at the new site, the wise and perceptive Dnark understood that there had been more to that movement than simple tactical repositioning, and when he’d first met the orc king’s gaze, he had known beyond doubt that he and Ung-thol had been the focus of Obould’s decision.
The annoying Kna squirmed around his side, as always, and shaman Nukkels kept to a respectful two paces behind and to his god-figure’s left. That meant that Nukkels’s many shamans were filtered around the common warriors accompanying the king. Dnark presumed that all of the orcs setting up Obould’s three-layered tent were fanatics in the service of Nukkels.
Obould launched into his expected tirade about the importance of the mountain ridge upon which the tent was being erected, and how the fate of the entire kingdom could well rest upon the efforts of Clan Wolf Jaw in properly securing and fortifying the ground, the tunnels, and the walls. They had heard it all before, of course, but Dnark couldn’t help but marvel at the rapt expressions on the faces of his minions as the undeniably charismatic king wove his spell yet again. Predictability didn’t diminish the effect, and that, the chieftain knew, was no small feat.
Dnark purposely focused on the reactions of the other orcs, in part to keep himself from listening too carefully to Obould, whose rhetoric was truly hard to resist—sometimes so much so that Dnark wondered if Nukkels and the other priests weren’t weaving a bit of magic of their own behind the notes of Obould’s resonating voice.
Wound in his contemplations, it took a nudge from Ung-thol to get Dnark to realize that Obould had addressed him directly. Panic washing through him, the chieftain turned to face the king squarely, and he fumbled for something to say that wouldn’t give away his obliviousness.
Obould’s knowing smile let him know that nothing would suffice.
“My pennant will be set upon the door of my tent when it is ready for private audience,” the orc king said—said again, obviously. “When you see it, you will come for a private parlay.”
“Private?” Dnark dared ask. “Or am I to bring my second?”
Obould, his smile smug indeed, looked past him to Ung-thol. “Please do,” he said, and it seemed to Dnark the enticing purr of a cat looking to sharpen its claws.
Wearing a smug and superior smile, Obould walked past him, carrying Kna and with Nukkels scurrying in tow. Dnark scanned wider as the king and his entourage moved off to the tent, noting the glances from the king’s warriors filtering across his clan, and identifying those likely serving the priests. If it came to blows, Dnark would have to direct his own warriors against the magic-wielding fanatics, first and foremost.
He winced as he considered that, seeing the futility laid bare before him. If it came to blows with King Obould and his guard, Dnark’s clan would scatter and flee for their lives, and nothing he could say would alter that.
He looked to Ung-thol, who stared at Obould without blinking, watching the king’s every receding step.
Ung-thol knew the truth of it as well, Dnark realized, and wondered—not for the first time—if Toogwik Tuk hadn’t led them down a fool’s path.
“The flag of Obould is on the door,” Ung-thol said to his chieftain a short while later.
“Let us go, then,” said Dnark. “It would not do to keep the king waiting.”