Obould let his posture relax, wanting to seem perfectly at ease. From the murmurs around him, he took satisfaction that he had hit just the right physical timbre. "We have achieved a great victory here, Dame Orelsdottr. We have taken the northland in as great a sweep as has ever been known."
"Our enemies have barely begun to rise against us," Gerti pointed out.
Obould conceded the point with a nod. "Do not deny our progress, I pray you," he said. "We have closed both doors of Mithral Hall. Nesme is likely destroyed and the Surbrin secured. This is not the time for us to allow our alliance to …" He paused and slowly swiveled his head so that he spent a moment looking every giant in the room directly in the eye.
"Dame Orelsdottr, I speak for the orcs. Tens of thousands of orcs." He put added weight into that last, impressive, estimate. "You speak for the giants. Let us go to parlay in private."
Gerti assumed a pose that Obould had seen many times before, one both obstinate and pensive. She put one hand on her hip and turned, just enough to let her shapely legs escape the slit in her white dress, and she let her lips form into a pucker that might have been a pout and might have been that last moment of teasing before she reached out and throttled an enemy.
Obould answered that with a bow of respect.
"Come along," Gerti bade him, and when the giant nearest her started to protest, she silenced him with one of the fiercest scowls Obould had ever seen.
Yes, it was going splendidly, the orc king thought.
At Gerti's bidding, Obould followed her down a short corridor. The orc took a moment to study the walls that had been widened by the giants, obviously, with new cuts in the stone clearly showing. The ceiling, too, was much more than a natural formation, with all the low points chipped out so that the tallest of Gerti's minions could walk the length of the corridor without stooping. Impressive work, Obould thought, especially given the efficiency and speed with which it had been accomplished. He hadn't realized that the giants were so good at shaping the stone quickly, a revelation that he figured might be useful if he did indeed crash the gates into Mithral Hall.
The chamber at the end of the hall was obviously Gerti's own, for it was blocked by a heavy wooden door and appointed with many thick and lush bearskins. Gerti pointedly kicked several aside, leaving a spot of bare stone floor, and indicated that to be Obould's seat.
The orc king didn't question or complain, and was smiling still when he melted down to sit cross-legged, drawing out his greatsword as he descended. Its impressive length would not allow him to sit in that position with it still on his back. He lay the blade across his crossed legs, in easy reach, but he relaxed back and kept his hands far from it, offering not the slightest bit of a threat.
Gerti watched his every move closely, he recognized, though she was trying to feign indifference as she moved to close the door. She strode across the room to the thickest pile of furs and demurely sat herself down, which still had her towering over the lower-seated and much smaller orc king.
"What do you want of me, Obould?" Gerti bluntly asked, her tone short and crisp, her eyes unblinking.
"We were angered, both of us, at the return of King Bruenor and the loss of a great opportunity," Obould replied.
"At the loss of frost giants."
"And orcs for me—more than a thousand of my kin, my own son among them."
"Are not worth a single of my kin to me," Gerti replied.
Obould accepted the insult quietly, reminding himself to think long-term and not jump up and slaughter the witch.
"The dwarves value their kin no less than do we, Dame Orelsdottr," he said. "They claim no victory here."
"Many escaped."
"To a hole that has become a prison. To tunnels that perhaps already reek with the stench of troll."
"If Donnia Soldou and Ad'non Kareese were not dead, perhaps we could better sort out information concerning Proffit and his wretches," said Gerti, referring to two of the four drow elves who had been serving as advisors and scouts to her and to Obould, both of whom had been found dead north of their current position.
"Do you lament their deaths?"
The question gave Gerti pause, and she even betrayed her surprise with a temporary lift of her evenly trimmed eyebrows.
"They were using us for their own enjoyment and nothing more, you know that of course," Obould remarked.
Again, Gerti cocked her eyebrow, but held it there longer.
"Surprised?" the orc king added.
"They are drow," Gerti said. "They serve only themselves and their own desires. Of course I knew. Only a fool would have ever suspected differently."
But you are surprised that I knew, Obould thought, but did not say.
"And if the other two die with Proffit in the south, then so much the better," said Gerti.
"After we are done with them," said Obould. "The remaining drow will prove important if we intend to break through the defenses of Mithral Hall."
"Break through the defenses?"
Obould could hardly miss the incredulity in her voice, or the obvious doubt.
"I would take the hall."
"Your orcs will be slaughtered by the thousands."
"Whatever price we must pay will be worth the gain," Obould said, and he had to work hard to keep the very real doubts out of his voice. "We must continue to press our enemies before they can organize and coordinate their attacks. We have them on their heels, and I do not mean to allow them firm footing. And I will have Bruenor Battlehammer's head, at long last."
"You will crawl over the bodies of orcs to get to him, then, but not the bodies of frost giants."
Obould accepted that with a nod, confident that if he managed to take the upper tunnels of Mithral Hall, Gerti would fall into line.
"I need your kin only to break through the outer shell," he said.
"There are ways to dislodge the greatest of doors," an obviously and suddenly intrigued Gerti remarked.
"The sooner you crack the shell, the sooner I will have King Bruenor's head."
Gerti chuckled and nodded her agreement. Obould realized, of course, that she was likely more intrigued by the prospect of ten thousand dead orcs than of any defeat to the dwarves.
Obould used the great strength in his legs to lift him up from his seated position, to stand straight, as he swept his sword back over his shoulder and into its sheath. He returned Gerti's nod and walked out, holding fast to his cocky swagger as he passed through the waiting lines of giant guards.
Despite that calm and confident demeanor, though, Obould's insides churned. Gerti would swing into swift action, of course, and Obould had little doubt that she would deliver him and his army into the hall, but even as he pondered the execution of his request, the thought of it gnawed at him. Once again, Obould envisioned orc fortresses dotting every hilltop of the region, with defensible walls forcing any attackers to scramble for every inch of ground. How many dwarves and elves and humans would have to lie dead among those hilltops before the wretched triumvirate gave up their thoughts of dislodging him and accepted his conquest as final? How many dwarves and elves and humans would Obould have to kill before his orcs were allowed their kingdom and their share of the bounty of the wider world?
Many, he hoped, for he so enjoyed killing dwarves, elves, and humans.
As he exited the cave and was afforded a fairly wide view of the northern expanses, Obould let his gaze meander over each stony mountain and windblown slope. His mind's eye built those castles, all flying the pennants of the One-Eyed God and of King Many-Arrows. In the shadows below them, in the sheltered dells, he envisioned towns—towns like Shallows, sturdy and secure, only inhabited by orcs and not smelly humans. He began to draw connections, trade routes and responsibilities, riches and power, respect and influence.