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.

Were Clan Karuck even his enemies?

The question sobered him. He was getting ahead of the facts, he realized. A ferocious and aggressive orc clan had arrived in Many-Arrows, and had taken up the fight independently, as orc clans often did, and with great and glorious effect.

Obould nodded as he considered the truth of it and realized the limits of his conjecture. In his heart, though, he knew that a rival had come, and a very dangerous one at that.

Reflexively, the orc king looked to the southwest, the direction of General Dukka and his most reliable fighting force. He would need another courier, he realized immediately. As Oktule went to summon Grguch, as Nukkels traveled to King Bruenor’s Court with word of truce, so he would need a third, the fastest of the three, to go and retrieve Dukka and the warriors. For the dwarves might soon counterattack, and likely would be joined by the dangerous and outraged Moonwood elves.

Or more likely, Clan Karuck would need to be taught a lesson.

CHAPTER 20

ON SQUIGGLES AND EMISSARIES

With but one hand, for the chieftain was no minor warrior, Dnark pushed Oktule to the side and stepped past him to the edge of a mountain-view precipice overlooking King Obould’s encampment. A group of riders exited that camp, moving swiftly to the south, and without the banner of Many-Arrows flying from their midst.

“War pigs, and armored,” the shaman Ung-thol remarked. “Elite warriors. Obould’s own.”

Dnark pointed to a rider in the middle of the pack, and though they were far away and moving farther, his headdress could still be seen.

“The priest, Nukkels,” Ung-thol said with a nod.

“What does this mean?” Oktule asked, his tone concurring with his body posture to relate his discomfort. Young Oktule had been chosen as a courier from the east because of his speed and stamina, but he had not the experience or the wisdom to fathom all that was going on around him.

The chieftain and his shaman turned as one to regard the orc. “It means that you should tell Grguch to proceed with all caution,” Dnark said.

“I do not understand.”

“King Obould might not welcome him with the warmth promised in the invitation,” Dnark explained.

“Or might greet him with more warmth than promised,” Ungthol quipped.

Oktule stared at them, his jaw hanging open. “King Obould is angry?”

That brought a laugh from the two older and more worldly orcs.

“You know Toogwik Tuk?” Ung-thol asked.

Oktule nodded. “The preacher orc. His words showed me to the glory of Grguch. He proclaimed the power of Chieftain Grguch and the call of Gruumsh to bring war to the dwarves.”

Dnark chuckled and patted the air with his hand, trying to calm the fool. “Deliver your words to Chieftain Grguch as your king demanded,” he said. “But seek out Toogwik Tuk first and inform him that a second courier went out from Obould’s”—then he quickly corrected himself—“King Obould’s camp, this one riding to the south.”

“What does it mean?” Oktule asked again.

“It means that King Obould expects trouble,” Ung-thol interrupted, stopping Dnark before he could respond. “Toogwik Tuk will know what to do.”

“Trouble?” asked Oktule.

“The dwarves will likely counterattack, and more furious will they become when they learn that both King Obould and Chieftain Grguch are in the same place.”

Oktule began to nod stupidly, catching on.

“Be off at once,” Dnark told him, and the young orc spun on his heel and rushed away. A signal from Dnark sent a couple of guards off with him, to escort him on his important journey.

As soon as they were gone, the chieftain and the shaman turned back to the distant riders.

“Do you really believe that Obould would send an emissary to the Battlehammer dwarves?” Ung-thol asked. “Has he become so cowardly as that?”

Dnark nodded through every word, and when Ung-thol glanced over at him, he replied, “We should find out.”

“Ye tell Emerus that we’ll be lookin’ for all he’s to bring,” Bruenor said to Jackonray Broadbelt and Nikwillig, the emissaries from Citadel Felbarr.

“The bridge’ll be ready soon, I’m told,” Jackonray replied.

“Forget the durned bridge!” Bruenor snapped, startling everyone in the room with his unexpected outburst. “Alustriel’s wizards’ll be working more on the wall for the next days. I’m wanting an army here afore the work’s even begun on the bridge again. I’m wanting Alustriel to see Felbarr side-by-side with Mithral Hall, that when we’re walking out that gate, she’ll know the time for talkin’s over and the time for fightin’s come.”

“Ah,” Jackonray replied, nodding, a smile spreading on his hairy and toothy face. “So I’m seeing why Bruenor’s the king. Ye’ve got me respect, good King Bruenor, and ye’ve got me word that I’ll shove King Emerus out the durned tunnel door meself if it’s needin’ to be!”

“Ye’re a good dwarf. Ye do yer kin proud.”