“It is the start, and not the end,” Dnark replied.
“Many great warriors fall along the road of conquest,” added Toogwik Tuk. “That is the will of Gruumsh. That is the glory of Gruumsh.”
All three started in surprise as the great bass note of Kokto Gung Karuck again resonated across the stones.
Toogwik Tuk and Dnark stood quiet then, staring at Ung-thol, awaiting his decision.
The older orc shaman gave a wistful look back to the southwest, the area where they knew Obould to be, then nodded at his two companions and bade them to lead on.
The young priestess Kna curled around him seductively. Her lithe body slowly slid around the powerful orc, her breath hot on the side of his neck, then the back of his neck, then the other side. But while Kna stared intensely at the great orc as she moved, her performance was not for Obould’s benefit.
King Obould knew that, of course, so his smile was double-edged as he stood there before the gathering of shamans and chieftains. He had chosen wisely in making the young, self-absorbed Kna his consort replacement for Tsinka Shinriil. Kna held no reservations. She welcomed the stares of all around as she writhed over King Obould. More than welcomed, Obould knew. She craved them. It was her moment of glory, and she knew that her peers across the kingdom clenched their fists in jealousy. That was her paramount pleasure.
Young and quite attractive by the standards of her race, Kna had entered the priesthood of Gruumsh, but was not nearly as devout or fanatical as Tsinka had been. Kna’s god—goddess—was Kna, a purely self-centered view of the world that was so common among the young.
And just what King Obould needed. Tsinka had served him well in her tenure, in bed and out, for she had always spoken in the interests of Gruumsh. Feverishly so. Tsinka had arranged the magical ceremony that had imbued in Obould great prowess both physical and mental, but her devotion was absolute and her vision narrow. She had outlived her usefulness to the orc king before she had been thrown from the lip of the ravine, to fall to her death among the stones.
Obould missed Tsinka. For all of her physical beauty, practiced movements and enthusiasm for the position, Kna was no Tsinka in lovemaking. Nor was Kna possessed of Tsinka’s intellect and cunning, not by any means. She could whisper nothing into Obould’s ear worth listening to, regarding anything other than coupling. And so she was perfect.
King Obould was clear in his vision, and it was one shared by a collection of steady shamans, most notably a small, young orc named Nukkels. Beyond that group, Obould needed no advice and desired no nay-saying. And most of all, he needed a consort he could trust. Kna was too enamored of Kna to worry about politics, plots and varying interpretations of Gruumsh’s desires.
He let her continue her display for a short while longer then gently but solidly pried her from his side and put her back to arms’ length. He motioned for her to go to a chair, to which she returned an exaggerated pout. He gave her a resigned shrug to placate her and worked hard to keep his utter contempt for her well suppressed. The orc king motioned again to the chair, and when she hesitated, he forcefully guided her to it.
She started to protest, but Obould held up his huge fist, reminding her in no uncertain terms that she was nearing the limits of his patience. As she settled into a quiet pout, the orc king turned back to his audience, and motioned to Tornfang Brakk, a courier from General Dukka, who oversaw the most important military region.
“The valley known as Keeper’s Dale is well secured, God-king,” Tornfang reported. “The ground has been broken to prevent easy passage and the structures topping the northern wall of the valley are nearly complete. The dwarves cannot come out.”
“Even now?” Obould asked. “Not in the spring, but even now?”
“Even now, Greatness,” Tornfang answered with confidence, and Obould wondered just how many titles his people would bestow upon him.
“If the dwarves came forth from Mithral Hall’s western doors, we would slaughter them in the valley from on high,” Tornfang assured the gathering. “Even if some of the ugly dwarves managed to cross the ground to the west, they would find no escape. The walls are in place, and the army of General Dukka is properly entrenched.”
“But can we go in?” asked Chieftain Grimsmal of Clan Grimm, a populous and important tribe.
Obould flashed the impertinent orc a less-than-appreciative glare, for that was the most loaded and dangerous question of all. That was the point of contention, the source of all the whispers and all the arguing between the various factions. Behind Obould they had trampled the ground flat and had marched to glory not known in decades, perhaps centuries. But many were openly asking, to what end? To further conquest and plunder? To the caves of a dwarf clan or to the avenues of a great human or elven city?
As he considered things, however, particularly the whispers among the various shamans and chieftains, Obould came to realize that Grimsmal might have just done him a favor, though inadvertently.
“No,” Obould declared solidly, before the bristling could really begin. “The dwarves have their hole. They keep their hole.”
“For now,” the obstinate Grimsmal dared utter.
Obould didn’t answer, other than to grin—though whether it was one of simple amusement or agreement, none could tell.
“The dwarves are out of their hole in the east,” reminded another of the gathering, a slight creature in a shaman’s garb. “They build through the winter along the ridgeline. They now seek to connect and strengthen walls and towers, from their gates to the great river.”
“And foundations along the bank,” another added.
“They will construct a bridge,” Obould reasoned.
“The foolish dwarves do our work for us!” Grimsmal roared. “They will grant us easier passage to wider lands.”
The others all nodded and grinned, and a couple slapped each other on the back.
Obould, too, grinned. The bridge would indeed serve the Kingdom of Many-Arrows. He glanced over at Nukkels, who returned his contented look and offered a slight nod in reply.
Indeed, the bridge would serve, Obould knew, but hardly in the manner that Grimsmal and many of the others, so eager for war, now envisioned.
While the chatter continued around him, King Obould quietly imagined an orc city just to the north of the defenses the dwarves were constructing along the mountain ridge. It would be a large settlement, with wide streets to accommodate caravans, and strong buildings suitable for the storage of many goods. Obould would need to wall it in to protect from bandits, or overeager warrior orcs, so that the merchants who arrived from across King Bruenor’s bridge would rest easy and with confidence before beginning their return journey.
The sound of his name drew the orc king from his contemplations, and he looked up to see many curious stares aimed at him. Obviously he had missed a question.
It did not matter.
He offered a calm and disarming smile in response and used the hunger for battle permeating the air around him to remind himself that they were a long, long way from constructing such a city.
But what a magnificent achievement it would be.
“The yellow banner of Karuck,” Toogwik Tuk informed his two companions as the trio made their way along a winding, snow-filled valley below the cave that served as the primary exit point for orcs leaving the Underdark.
Dnark and Ung-thol squinted in the midday glare, and both nodded as they sorted out the two yellow pennants shot with red that flew in the stiff, wintry wind. They had known they were getting close, for they had crossed through a pair of hastily abandoned campsites in the sheltered valley. Clan Karuck’s march had apparently sent other orcs running fast and far.