Mostly though, Urlgen focused on Obould, for the brash young orc was barely able to take his eyes off his father, off the bulging muscles of the intense ore's powerful arms, or the fierce set of Obould's face, seeming on the verge of an explosion. That was not so uncommon a thing with Obould, but Urlgen understood that the danger of Obould was somehow greater than ever before.
"You have not pushed them back into Mithral Hall," Obould stated.
Urlgen could not tell if the statement was meant as a mere recitation of the obvious or an indictment of his leadership.
"They are a difficult foe," Urlgen admitted. "They reached the high ground before we caught up to them and immediately set about preparing their defenses."
"And those defenses are now entrenched?"
"No!" Urlgen said with some confidence. "We have struck at them too often. They continue to work, but with arms weary from battle."
"Then strike at them again, and again after that," Obould demanded, coming forward suddenly and powerfully. "Let them die of exhaustion if not at the end of an orc spear. Let them grow so weary of battle that they retreat to their dark hole!"
"I need more warriors."
"You need nothing more!" Obould screamed right back at Urlgen, and he came right out of his seat then and put his face just an inch from his son's. "Fight them and stab them! Crush them and grind them into the stone!"
Urlgen tried hard to match his father's stare, but to no avail, for more than anger was driving the younger orc then. Obould had marched in with a force ten times the size of his own, and with a horde of giants beside him. One concentrated attack would force the dwarves into complete retreat, would chase them all the way back into Mithral Hall.
"I go east," Obould announced. "To seal the dwarves' gate along the Sur-brin and chase them underground. There I will meet with the troll Proffit, who has overrun Nesmй, and I will arrange for him to begin the underground press upon our dwarf enemies."
"Let us close this western gate first," Urlgen suggested, but his father was snarling and shouting "No!" before he ever finished.
"No," Obould repeated. "It will not be enough to let these smelly dwarves run back into Mithral Hall. Not anymore. They have chosen to stand against us, and so they will die! You must hold them and batter at them. Keep them in place, but keep them weary. I return soon, and we will see to the end of them."
"I have lost hundreds," Urlgen protested.
"And you have hundreds more to lose," Obould calmly replied.
"My warriors will break rank and flee," Urlgen insisted. "They splash through the blood of their kin. They climb over orc bodies to get to the dwarves."
Obould let out a long, extended growl. He reached up and grasped Urlgen by the front of his tunic. Urlgen grabbed Obould's hand with both of his own, and tried to twist free, but with a flick of his wrist, Obould sent his startled son flying across the room to crash down by the flap of the tent.
"They will not dare flee," Obould insisted. He turned to the red-robed shaman as he spoke. "They will see the glory of Obould."
"Obould is Gruumsh! Arganth Snarrl insisted.
Urlgen stared incredulously at his father, stunned by the sheer strength of Obould and the sheer intensity in his simmering yellow eyes. A glance to Gerti showed Urlgen that she was horrified by the display and similarly frustrated. Most of all, Urlgen recognized that frustration, and only then did it occur to him that Gerti had not said a word.
Gerti Orelsdottr, the daughter of the great Jarl Greyhand, who had always held the upper hand in all dealings with the orcs, had not said a word.
* * *
Like a great yawning river, the swarm of King Obould's orcs began their pivot and deliberate flow out to the east.
Urlgen Threefist, stung and afraid, watched the turn and march from a high ridge at the back of his own forces. His father had reinforced him, but with nothing substantial. Enough to hold on, enough to keep the dwarves under pressure, but not enough to dislodge them.
For suddenly King Obould didn't want to dislodge them. His reasoning had seemed sound—keep the dwarves fighting and separated so that they could completely cut them off and kill as many as possible before Mithral Hall's western door banged closed—but Urlgen could not dismiss the feeling that part of the delaying tactic was for no better reason than to push the credit for success squarely off of Urlgen's shoulders and squarely onto Obould's.
A noise from behind and below turned Urlgen from his contemplations.
"I feared you would not come," the orc said to Gerti as the giantess climbed up to stand just below him, which put her face level with his own.
"Was it not I who asked you to come out here at this time?" the giantess replied.
Urlgen bit back a sharp retort, for he still had not reconciled within himself the value of any dialogue with Gerti, whom he hated.
"You have come to fear my father," the orc did say.
"Can you state any differently?" Gerti asked.
"He has grown," Urlgen admitted.
"Obould seeks to dominate."
"King Obould," Urlgen corrected. "You would ask me to help the giants prevent the rise of the orcs?"
"Not of the orcs," Gerti clarified. "I would ask you, for the sake of Urlgen and not of Gerti, to check the rise of King Obould. Where will Urlgen fit in under the god-figure that Obould is fast becoming?"
In light of the weight of that question, Urlgen didn't question Gerti's omission of his father's title.
"Will Urlgen find any credit and glory?" Gerti asked. "Or will he serve as convenient scapegoat at the first sign of disaster?"
Urlgen's lip curled in a snarl, and as much as he wanted to lash out at the giantess (though of course he would never dare do anything of the sort!), his anger came more from the fact that Gerti's reasoning was sound than from the obvious insult to him. Obould was holding him from gaining a great victory there and, but should he fail, Urlgen held no doubts of the severity of his powerful father's judgment.
"What do you need from me?" Gerti surprised him by asking.
Urlgen glanced back at the marching thousands, then turned to Gerti once more, staring at her curiously, trying to read the message behind her words.
"When the time comes to destroy the dwarves before you, you wish to make certain that the orcs praise Urlgen," Gerti reasoned. "I will help you to do that."
Urlgen narrowed his eyes but was nodding despite his cynicism.
"And that the orcs praise Gerti," he remarked.
"If we share in Obould's glory, we will help ensure that we do not suffer all the blame."
It made sense, of course, but to Urlgen, it all seemed so surreal. He had never been close to Gerti in any form. He had often argued with his father against even enlisting the giants as allies. And for her part, Urlgen understood that Gerti despised him even more than she hated Obould and the other orcs. To Gerti, Urlgen had never been anything more than a wretch.
And yet, there they were, sharing plans behind the back of Obould.
Urlgen led Gerti's gaze to the south, to the steeply rising ground and the distant dwarven encampment.
"I need giants," he said. "To secure my lines and throw huge stones!"
"The high ground gives the dwarves the advantage of range," Gerti replied. "I will not see the orc bodies covered by those of my kin."
"Then what do you offer?" Urlgen asked, growing more and more frustrated.
Gerti and Urlgen both scanned the area.
"There," the giantess said, pointing to the high ridge far to the west. "From there, my kin will be out of the dwarves' range and on ground as high as that of our enemies. My kin will serve as your flank and your artillery."
"A long throw for a giant."