“Ye’re thinkin’ we’re to dig in and let Obould play it as Obould wants?” the dwarf asked.
“I advise caution, good king,” Alustriel said.
“Caution?”
“The orcs did not hold the ground,” Alustriel noted. “They struck and then they ran—likely to evoke just such a response from you. They would have you roar out of Mithral Hall, all full of fight and rage. And out there”—she motioned to the wild north—“they would have their battle with you on the ground of their own choosing.”
“Her words make sense,” Catti-brie added, but Bruenor snorted again.
“And if they’re thinking that Clan Battlehammer’s to come out alone, then I’m thinkin’ their plan to be a good one,” Bruenor said. “But what a trap they’ll find when the trap they spring closes on all the force o’ the Silver Marches. On Alustriel’s wizards and the Knights in Silver, on Felbarr’s thousands and Adbar’s tens o’! On Sundabar’s army, guided in on Obould’s flank by them Moonwood elves, who’re not too fond o’ the damned orcs, in case ye’re missing the grumbles.”
Alustriel drew her lips very tight, as clear a response as she could possibly give.
“What?” Bruenor roared. “Ye’re not for calling them? Not now? Not when we seen what Obould’s all about? Ye hoped for a truce, and now ye’re seein’ the truth o’ that truce! What more’re ye needing?”
“It is not a matter of evidence, good dwarf,” Alustriel replied, calmly and evenly, though her voice rang much thinner than usual. “It is a matter of practicality.”
“Practicality, or cowardice?” Bruenor demanded.
Alustriel accepted the barb with a light, resigned shrug.
“Ye said ye’d be standin’ with me boys when we needed ye,” Bruenor reminded.
“They will…” Catti-brie started to say, but she shut up fast when Bruenor snapped his scowl her way.
“Ye’re friendship’s all pretty when it’s words and building, but when there’s blood….” Bruenor accused, and Alustriel swept her arm out toward Duzberyl, who lay on the ground with Cordio praying over him.
“Bah, so ye got caught in one fight, but I’m not talking about one!” Bruenor kept on. “Lost me a dozen good boys last night.”
“All the Silver Marches weep for your dead, King Bruenor.”
“I ain’t askin’ ye to weep!” Bruenor screamed at her, and all around, work stopped, and dwarf, human, and elf—including Hralien—stood and stared at the outraged king of Mithral Hall and the great Lady of Silverymoon, who not a one of them had ever imagined could be yelled at in such a manner. “I’m askin’ ye to fight!” the unrelenting Bruenor fumed on. “I’m askin’ ye to do what’s right and send yer armies—all yer durned armies! Obould’s belongin’ in a hole, and ye’re knowing that! So get yer armies, and get all the armies, and let’s put him where he belongs, and let’s put the Silver Marches back where the Silver Marches’re belonging!”
“We will leave all the ground between Mithral Hall and the Spine of the World stained with the blood of dwarves and men and elves,” Alustriel warned. “Obould’s thousands are well en—”
“And well meaning to strike out until they’re stopped!” Bruenor shouted over her. “Ye heared o’ the Moonwood and their dead, and now ye’re seein’ this attack with yer own eyes. Ye can’t be doubtin’ what that foul orc’s got in his head.”
“But to go out from defensive positions against that force—”
“Is to be our only choice, now or tomorrow, or me and me boys’ll forever be on yer point, fighting Obould one bridge, one door at a time,” said Bruenor. “Ye think we’re to take their hits? Ye think we can be keeping both our doors always sealed and secured, and our tunnels, too, lest the durned pigs tunnel in and pop up in our middle?”
Bruenor’s eyes narrowed, his expression taking on a clear look of suspicion. “Or would that arrangement please Alustriel and all th’ others about? Battlehammer dwarves’ll die, and that’s suitin’ ye all, is it?”
“Of course not,” Alustriel protested, but her words did little to soften the scowl of King Bruenor.
“Me girl beside ye just got back from Nesmé, and what a fine job yer knights’ve done pushing them trolls back into the swamp,” Bruenor went on. “Seems Nesmé’s grander than afore the attacks, mostly because o’ yer own work—and don’t that make Lady Alustriel proud?”
“Father,” Catti-brie warned, shocked by the sarcasm.
“But then, them folk’re more akin to yer own, in looks and thoughts.”
“We should continue this discussion in private, King Bruenor,” said Alustriel.
Bruenor snorted at her and waved his hand, turned on his heel, and stomped away, Thibble dorf Pwent in tow.
Regis remained, and he turned a concerned look at Alustriel then at Catti-brie.
“He will calm down,” Regis said unconvincingly.
“Not so sure I’m wantin’ him to,” Catti-brie admitted, and she glanced at Alustriel.
The Lady of Silverymoon had nothing more than helplessly upraised hands in reply, and so Catti-brie limped off after her beloved father.
“It is a dark day, my friend Regis,” Alustriel said when the woman had gone.
Regis’s eyes popped open wide, surprised at being directly addressed by one of Alustriel’s stature.
“This is how great wars begin,” Alustriel explained. “And do not doubt that no matter the outcome, there will be no winners.”
As soon as the priest had gone, Obould was glad of his decision not to call in his entourage. He needed to be alone, to vent, to rant, and to think things through. He knew in his heart that Grguch was no ally, and had not arrived by accident. Ever since the disaster in the western antechamber of Mithral Hall and the pushback of Proffit’s troll army, the orcs and dwarves had settled into a stalemate—and it was one that Obould welcomed. But one that he welcomed privately, for he knew that he was working against the traditions, instincts, and conditioning of his warrior race. No voices of protest came to him directly, of course—he was too feared by those around him for that kind of insolence—but he heard the rumbles of discontent even in the grating background of praises thrown his way. The restless orcs wanted to march on, back into Mithral Hall, across the Surbrin to Silverymoon and Sundabar, and particularly Citadel Felbarr, which they had once, long ago, claimed as their own.
“The cost…” Obould muttered, shaking his head.
He would lose thousands in such an endeavor—even if he only tried to dislodge fierce King Bruenor. He would lose tens of thousands if he went farther, and though he would have loved nothing more than to claim the throne of Silverymoon as his own, Obould understood that if he had gathered all the orcs from all the holes in all the world, he could not likely accomplish such a thing.
Certainly he might find allies—more giants and dark elves, perhaps, or any of the other multitude of races and monsters that lived solely for the pleasure of fighting and destruction. In such an alliance, though, he could never reign, nor could his minions ever gain true freedom and self-determination.
And even if he did manage greater conquests with his orc minions, even if he widened the scope of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, the lessons of history had taught him definitively that the center of such a kingdom could never hold. His reach was long, his grip iron strong. Long and strong enough to hold the perimeters of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows? Long and strong enough to fend off Grguch and any potential conspirators who had coaxed the fierce chieftain to the surface?
Obould clenched his fist mightily as that last question filtered through his mind, and he issued a long and low growl then licked his lips as if tasting the blood of his enemies.