The orcs of Clan Karuck began to howl at that, but Dnark, Ungthol, and Toogwik Tuk just looked at each other solemnly and with nods of understanding. For there it was, the conspiracy spoken clearly, openly proclaimed, and there could be no turning back. They offered their nods of thanks to Hakuun, who remained impassive, the part of him that was Jack the Gnome not wishing to even acknowledge their existence, let alone allow them the illusion that they were somehow his peers.
Grguch hoisted his two-bladed axe, but paused then set it aside. Instead, he drew a long and wicked knife from his belt and glanced back to the Karuck orcs standing around Oktule. His smile was all the impetus those orcs needed to drag the poor courier forward.
Oktule’s feet dug small trenches in the wet spring ground. He shook his head in denial, crying, “No, no, please no!”
Those pleas only seemed to spur Grguch on. He strode behind Oktule and grabbed a handful of the fool’s hair, roughly yanking his head back, exposing his throat.
Even the orcs of Oktule’s own clan joined in the cheering and chanting, and so he was doomed.
He screamed and shrieked in tones preternatural in their sheer horror. He thrashed and kicked and fought as the blade came against the soft skin of his throat.
Then his screams became watery, and Grguch bore him to the ground, face down, the chieftain’s knees upon his back, pinning him, while Grguch’s arm pumped furiously.
When Grguch stood up again, presenting Oktule’s head to the frenzied gathering, the three conspirators shared another glance, and each took a deep and steadying breath.
Dnark, Toogwik Tuk, and Ung-thol had made a deal with as brutal a creature as any of them had ever known. And they knew, all three, that there was more than a passing chance that Chieftain Grguch would one day present their heads for the approval of the masses.
They had to be satisfied with the odds, however, because the other choice before them was obedience to Obould, and Obould alone. And that course of cowardice they could not accept.
“There will be nothing subtle about Grguch’s challenge to Obould,” Ung-thol warned his comrades when the three were alone later that same night. “Diplomacy is not his way.”
“There is no time for diplomacy, nor is there any need,” said Toogwik Tuk, who clearly stood as the calmest and most confident of the trio. “We know the options before us, and we chose our road long ago. Are you surprised by Grguch and Clan Karuck? They are exactly as I portrayed them to you.”
“I am surprised by their…efficiency,” said Dnark. “Grguch walks a straight line.”
“Straight to Obould,” Toogwik Tuk remarked with a snicker.
“Do not underestimate King Obould,” warned Dnark. “That he sent Nukkels to Mithral Hall tells us that he understands the true threat of Grguch. He will not be caught unawares.”
“We cannot allow this to become a wider war,” Ung-thol agreed. “Grguch’s name is great among the orcs in the east, along the Surbrin, but the numbers of warriors there are few compared to what Obould commands in the west and the north. If this widens in scope, we will surely be overwhelmed.”
“Then it will not,” Toogwik Tuk said. “We will confront Obould with his small group around him, and Clan Karuck will overwhelm him and be done with it. He does not have the favor of Gruumsh—have we any doubt of that?”
“His actions do not echo the words of Gruumsh,” Ung-thol reluctantly agreed.
“If we are certain of his actions,” said Dnark.
“He will not march against Mithral Hall!” Toogwik Tuk snarled at them. “You have heard the whimpers of Nukkels! Grguch’s priest confirmed it.”
“Did he? Truly?” Dnark asked.
“Or is it all a ruse?” Ung-thol posed. “Is Obould’s pause a feint to fully unbalance our enemies?”
“Obould will not march,” Toogwik Tuk protested.
“And Grguch will not be controlled,” said Dnark. “And are we to believe that this half-ogre creature will hold the armies of Many-Arrows together in a unified march for wider glory?”
“The promise of conquest will hold the armies together far better than the hope of parlay with the likes of King Bruenor of the dwarves,” Toogwik Tuk argued.
“And that is the truth,” said Dnark, ending the debate. “And that is why we brought Clan Karuck forth. It unfolds before us now exactly as we anticipated, and Grguch meets and exceeds every expectation. Now that we are finding that which we decided we wished to find, we must hold fast to our initial beliefs that led us to this point. It is not the will of Gruumsh that his people should pause when great glory and conquest awaits. It is not the will of Gruumsh that his people should parlay with the likes of King Bruenor of the dwarves. Never that! Obould has pushed himself beyond the boundaries of decency and common sense. We knew that when we called to Clan Karuck, and we know that now.” He turned his head and spat upon Nukkels, who lay unconscious and near death in the mud. “We know that with even more certainty now.”
“So let us go and witness Grguch as he answers the summons of Obould,” said Toogwik Tuk. “Let us lead the cheers to King Grguch, as he leads our armies against King Bruenor.”
Ung-thol still wore doubts on his old and wrinkled face, but he looked to Dnark and shared in his chieftain’s assenting nod.
In a tree not far away, a curious winged snake listened to it all with amusement.
CHAPTER 25
POLITICS AND ALLIANCES
Raised in Menzoberranzan, a male drow in the matriarchal city of Menzoberranzan, Tos’un Armgo didn’t as much as grimace when Drizzt tugged his arms back hard and secured the rope on the other side of the large tree. He was caught, with nowhere to run or hide. He glanced to the side—or tried to, for Drizzt had expertly looped the rope under his chin to secure him against the tree trunk—where Khazid’hea rested, stabbed into a stone by Drizzt. He could feel the sword calling to him, but he couldn’t reach out to it.
Drizzt studied Tos’un as if he understood the silent pleas exchanged between drow and sentient sword—and likely, he did, Tos’un realized.
“You have nothing further to gain or lose,” Drizzt said. “Your day in the service of Obould is done.”
“I have not been in his service for many tendays,” Tos’un stubbornly argued. “Not since before the winter. Not since that day you battled him, and even before that, truth be told.”
“Truth told by a son of House Barrison Del’Armgo?” Drizzt asked with a scoff.
“I have nothing to gain or lose, just as you said.”
“A friend of mine, a dwarf named Bill, would speak with you about that,” Drizzt said. “Or whisper at you, I should say, for his throat was expertly cut to steal the depth of his voice.”
Tos’un grimaced at that inescapable truth, for he had indeed cut a dwarf’s throat in preparation for Obould’s first assault on Mithral Hall’s eastern door.
“I have other friends who might have wished to speak with you, too,” said Drizzt. “But they are dead, in no small part because of your actions.”
“I was fighting a war,” Tos’un blurted. “I did not understand—”
“How could you not understand the carnage to which you contributed? Is that truly your defense?”
Tos’un shook his head, though it would hardly turn to either side.
“I have learned,” the captured drow added. “I have tried to make amends. I have aided the elves.”
Despite himself and his intentions that he would bring no harm to his prisoner, Drizzt slapped Tos’un across the face. “You led them to the elves,” he accused.