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.”

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.”