Obould was nodding, slightly, but what caught Kaer'lic's attention most was the scowl stamped upon Gerti's face and the set of her blue eyes that never once left the specter of King Obould. There was more going on than the lack of recent progress in the march to Mithral Hall, Kaer'lic understood. First and foremost, Gerti was seething about the apparent transformation of Obould. Was it jealousy? Fear?
For a moment, the notion terrified Kaer'lic. A rift between the giants and the orcs at such a critical juncture could allow the dwarves to regroup and wipe out their gains.
It was but a fleeting thought, though, for it occurred to Kaer'lic that watching the giants and orcs turn against each other might be as fine a show as watching their combined forces rolling over the dwarves.
"The suggestion intrigues me," Obould said to Tos'un. "We will speak more on this. I have sent word to Proffit to turn east to the Surbrin and north to Mithral Hall's eastern gate, where we will meet with him as we chase the dwarves into their hole."
"We must go straight to the south and push the resistance from in front of your worthless son," Gerti demanded. "Urlgen's forces are being slaughtered, and while it pains me not at all to see orcs and goblins shredded, I fear that the losses are too great."
A look of utter contempt came over Obould at those remarks, and Kaer'lic immediately began preparing a spell that would provide cover so that she and Tos'un could flee should the orc king launch himself at Gerti.
But to his credit, Obould settled back, staring hard at the giantess.
"My ranks have swelled threefold since the fall of Shallows," the orc king reminded her.
"The dwarves are slaughtering your son's forces," Gerti replied.
"And the dwarves are taking heavy losses in the process," said the orc king. "And they are growing weary, with few to replace them on the battle line, while fresh warriors join Urlgen's ranks every day. If more giants joined in the fray, the dwarf losses would increase even more."
"I do not sacrifice my warriors."
Obould began to chuckle and said, "Giants will die in this campaign, Dame Orelsdottr."
The sheer power of his tone had Kaer'lic tilting her head to study his every movement. Clearly the ceremony had done something to Obould, had instilled in him the confidence to deal with Gerti in a manner even beyond that which the drow cleric had anticipated.
"The choice remains yours to make," Obould went on. "If you fear losses, then retreat to the Spine of the World and the safety of Shining White. If you wish the rewards, then press on. The Battlehammers will be beaten back into their hole, and the Spine is ours. Once secured, we will flush the dwarves from that hole, and Mithral Hall will be renamed the Citadel of Many-Arrows."
That bit of news brought surprise to everyone in the room who was not an orc. Since the day she had met Obould, Kaer'lic had seen in him a singular desire: to retrieve lost Citadel Felbarr. Had he abandoned that course in favor of the closer dwarven settlement of Mithral Hall?
"And how will King Emerus Warcrown react to this?" Gerti said slyly, Picking up on the same discrepancy and not-so-subtly reminding Obould of that other goal.
"We cannot cross the Surbrin," Obould countered without the slightest hesitation. "I'll not allow the greater powers of the North to ally against us—not now. Citadel Felbarr will send aid and warriors to Clan Battlehammer, of course, but when Mithral Hall is lost to them, with King Bruenor dead, the dwarves in the east will more likely welcome the refugees of Mithral Hall to their own deep holes. Then, once the adjoining tunnels are secured, our victory is complete and all the land from the mountains to the Surbrin, south to the Trollmoors, will be ours."
A smaller bite, Tos'un signaled to Kaer'lic.
A wiser course, Kaer'lic flashed back. Obould seeks more than vengeance and battle now. He seeks victory.
The notion astonished Kaer'lic even as her delicate fingers communicated it to Tos'un. While quite worthy among his inferior kin, Obould had always seemed to Kaer'lic so much less refined than that. From the day she'd met him, the orc king had spoken almost exclusively of retaking Citadel Felbarr, which, with the reclamation of Mithral Hall and the solidification of the alliances between the dwarven triumvirate—Mithral Hall, Citadel Felbarr, and Citadel Adbar—seemed completely unattainable. Even in fostering this alliance and campaign, the four plotting dark elves had always assumed that Obould would reach for that goal, to abject disaster. Kaer'lic and her associates had never considered any real and lasting victory, but rather a simple state of resulting chaos from which they could find enjoyment and profit.
Had the shaman Arganth's ceremony granted some sort of greater insight to the orc king? Had the dwarves' blasphemy with the idol of Gruumsh brought the possibility of true and lasting victory to Obould and his swelling ranks of minions?
Kaer'lic took care not to let those thought spiral out of control, reminding herself that they were but orcs, after all, whatever their numbers. All she had to do was look at the simmering hatred in Gerti's eyes to recognize that Obould's designs could splinter and shatter at any moment.
"We seal the region under our domain at the onset of winter," Obould explained. "Put the dwarves in their hole and secure all the land above to the corner of the mountain range. We will fight through Mithral Hall's tunnels throughout the winter."
"The dwarves will prove more formidable in their underground halls, Kaer'lic said.
"But how long will they deign to remain there in battle?" Obould asked. "King Bruenor is dead, and they will have no trade unless they try to break out."
It made a lot of sense, Kaer'lic had to admit to herself, and the thought was both optimistic and fear-inspiring. Perhaps Obould was making too much sense. Ever skeptical of the entire endeavor, the drow priestess could see both a higher potential climb and a higher potential fall.
The worst part of it was her confirmation that King Obould had suddenly become much less malleable to the designs and deceptions of the dark elves.
That could make him dangerous.
Kaer'lic looked at Gerti and recognized that the giantess was thinking along pretty much the same lines.
CHAPTER 11 UNSHACKLING
In a rare moment of respite, the exhausted Wulfgar leaned back against a boulder and stared out over Keeper's Dale, his gaze drawn to the western gates of MithralHall.
"Thinking of Bruenor," Catti-brie remarked when she joined him.
"Aye," the big man whispered. He glanced over at the woman and nearly laughed at the sight, though it would have been a chuckle of sheer resignation and nothing out of true amusement. For Catti-brie was covered in blood, her blond hair matted to her head, her clothing stained, her boots soaked with the stuff. "Your sword cuts too deep, I fear," he said.
Catti-brie ran a hand through her sticky hair and gave a helpless sigh.
"Never thought I'd admit to being sick of killing orcs and goblins," she said. "And no matter how many we kill, seems there're a dozen more to take the place of each."
Wulfgar just nodded and gazed back across the valley.
"Regis has given the order to all the clerics now that Bruenor is not to be tended," Catti-brie reminded.
"Should we be there when he dies?" Wulfgar asked, and it was all he could do to keep his voice from breaking apart.