Dnark started off, but Ung-thol grabbed him by the arm. “We must not underestimate King Obould’s network of spies,” the shaman said. “He has sorted the various tribes carefully throughout the region, where those more loyal to him remain watchful of others he suspects. He may know that you and I were in the east. And he knows of the attack on the Moonwood, for Grguch’s name echoes through the valleys, a new hero in the Kingdom of Many-Arrows.”
Dnark paused and considered the words, then began to nod.
“Does Obould consider Grguch a hero?” Ung-thol asked.
“Or a rival?” asked Dnark, and Ung-thol was glad that they were in agreement, and that Dnark apparently understood the danger to them. “Fortunately for King Obould, he has a loyal chieftain”—Dnark patted his hand against his own chest—“and wise shaman who can bear witness here that Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck are valuable allies.”
With a nod at Ung-thol’s agreeing grin, Dnark turned and started for the tent. The shaman’s grin faded as soon as Dnark looked away. None of it, Ung-thol feared, was to be taken lightly. He had been at the ceremony wherein King Obould had been blessed with the gifts of Gruumsh. He had watched the orc king break a bull’s neck with his bare hands. He had seen the remains of a powerful drow priestess, her throat bitten out by Obould after the king had been taken down the side of a ravine in a landslide brought about by a priestess’s earth-shaking enchantment. Watching Grguch’s work in the east had been heady, invigorating and inspiring, to be sure. Clan Karuck showed the fire and mettle of the very best orc warriors, and the priest of Gruumsh could not help but feel his heart swell with pride at their fast and devastating accomplishments.
But Ung-thol was old enough and wise enough to temper his elation and soaring hopes against the reality that was King Obould Many-Arrows.
As he and Dnark entered the third and final off-set entrance into Obould’s inner chamber, Ung-thol was only reminded of that awful reality. King Obould, seeming very much the part, sat on his throne on a raised dais, so that even though he was seated, he towered over any who stood before him. He wore his trademark black armor, patched back together after his terrific battle with the drow, Drizzt Do’Urden. His greatsword, which could blaze with magical fire at Obould’s will, rested against the arm of his throne, within easy reach.
Obould leaned forward at their approach, dropping one elbow on his knee and stroking his chin. He didn’t blink as he measured the steps of the pair, his focus almost exclusively on Dnark. Ung-thol hoped that his wrath, if it came forth, would be equally selective.
“Wolf Jaw performs brilliantly,” Obould greeted, somewhat dissipating the tension.
Dnark bowed low at the compliment. “We are an old and disciplined clan.”
“I know that well,” said the king. “And you are a respected and feared tribe. It is why I keep you close to Many-Arrows, so that the center of my line will never waver.”
Dnark bowed again at the compliment, particularly the notion that Wolf Jaw was feared, which was about as high as orc praise ever climbed. Ung-thol considered his chieftain’s expression when he came back up from that bow. When the smug Dnark glanced his way, Ungthol shot him a stern but silent retort, reminding him of the truth of Obould’s reasoning. He was keeping Wolf Jaw close, indeed, but Dnark had to understand that Obould’s aim was more to keep an eye on the tribe than to shore up his center. After all, there was no line of battle, so there was no center to fortify.
“The winter was favorable to us all,” said Dnark. “Many towers have been built, and miles of wall.”
“Every hilltop, Chieftain Dnark,” said Obould. “If the dwarves or their allies come against us, they will have to fight over walls and towers on every hilltop.”
Dnark glanced at Ung-thol again, and the cleric nodded for him to let it go at that. There was no need to engage Obould in an argument of defensive versus offensive preparations, certainly. Not with their schemes unfolding in the east.
“You were gone from your tribe,” Obould stated, and Ung-thol started and blinked, wondering if the perceptive Obould had just read his mind.
“My king?” Dnark asked.
“You have been away in the east,” said Obould. “With your shaman.”
Dnark had done a good job keeping his composure, Ung-thol believed, but then the shaman winced when Dnark swallowed hard.
“There are many rogue orcs left over from the fierce battles with the dwarves,” Dnark said. “Some strong and seasoned warriors, even shamans, have lost all their kin and clan. They have no banner.”
As soon as he spoke the words, Dnark shrank back a step, for a murderous scowl crossed Obould’s powerful features. At either side of the tent chamber, guards bristled, a couple even growling.
“They have no banner?” Obould calmly—too calmly—asked.
“They have the flag of Many-Arrows, of course,” Ung-thol dared to interject, and Obould’s eyes widened then narrowed quickly as he regarded the shaman. “But your kingdom is arranged by tribe, my king. You send tribes to the hills and the vales to do the work, and those who have lost their tribes know not where to go. Dnark and other chieftains are trying to sweep up the rogues to better organize your kingdom, so that you, with great plans opening wide before your Gruumsh-inspired visions, are not cluttered by such minor details.”
Obould eased back in his throne and the moment of distress seemed to slip back from the edge of disaster. Of course with Obould, whose temper had left uncounted dead in his murderous wake, none could be sure.
“You were in the east,” Obould said after many heartbeats had passed. “Near the Moonwood.”
“Not so near, but yes, my king,” said Dnark.
“Tell me of Grguch.”
The blunt demand rocked Dnark back on his heels and crippled his denial as he replied with incredulity, “Grguch?”
“His name echoes through the kingdom,” said Obould. “You have heard it.”
“Ah, you mean Chieftain Grguch,” Dnark said, changing the inflection of the name to put emphasis on the “Gr,” and acting as if Obould’s further remarks had spurred recognition. “Yes, I have heard of him.”
“You have met him,” said Obould, his tone and the set of his face conveying that his assertion was not assumption, but known fact.
Dnark glanced at Ung-thol, and for a moment the shaman thought his chieftain might just turn on his heel and flee. And indeed, Ung-thol wanted to do the same. Not for the first time and not for the last time, he wondered how they could have been foolish enough to dare conspire against King Obould Many-Arrows.
A soft chuckle from Dnark settled Ung-thol, though, and reminded him that Dnark had risen through difficult trials to become the chieftain of an impressive tribe—a tribe that even then surrounded Obould’s tent.
“Chieftain Grguch of Clan Karuck, yes,” Dnark said, matching Obould’s stare. “I witnessed his movement through Teg’ngun’s Dale near the Surbrin. He was marching to the Moonwood, though we did not know that at the time. Would that I had, for I would have enjoyed witnessing his slaughter of the foolish elves.”
“You approve of his attack?”
“The elves have been striking at your minions in the east day after day,” said Dnark. “I think it good that the pain of battle was taken to their forest, and that the heads of several of the creatures were placed upon pikes at the river’s edge. Chieftain Grguch did you a great service. I had thought his assault on the Moonwood to be at your command.”
He ended with an inflection of confusion, even suspicion, craftily turning the event back upon the orc king.
“Our enemies do not avoid their deserved punishment,” Obould said without hesitation.