transition 01 The Orc King

by R . A. Salvatore

  CHAPTER

  TAKING CARE IN WHAT THEY WISHED FOR

  Clan Wolf Jaw lined both sides of the trail, their formidable array of warriors stretching out for hundreds of feet, beyond the bend and out of Chieftain Grguch’s line of sight. None moved to block the progress of Clan Karuck, or to threaten the hulking orcs in any way, and Grguch recognized the pair who did step out in the middle of the trail.

  “Greetings again, Dnark,” Grguch said. “You have heard of our assault on the ugly dwarves?”

  “All the tribes of Many-Arrows have heard of the glory of Grguch’s march,” Dnark answered, and Grguch smiled, as did Toogwik Tuk, who stood to the side and just behind the ferocious chieftain.

  “You march west,” remarked Dnark, glancing back over his shoulder. “To the invitation of King Obould?”

  Grguch spent a few moments looking over Dnark and his associate, the shaman Ung-thol. Then the huge orc warrior glanced back at Toogwik Tuk and beyond him, motioning to a trio of soldiers, two obviously of Clan Karuck, with wide shoulders and bulging muscles, and a third that Dnark and Ung-thol had parted company with just a few days earlier.

  “Obould has sent an emissary, requesting parlay,” Grguch explained. Behind him, Oktule saluted the pair and bowed repeatedly.

  “We were there among King Obould’s entourage when Oktule was sent forth,” Dnark replied. “Know you, though, that he was not the only emissary sent out that day.” He finished and met Grguch’s hard stare for a few heartbeats, then motioned behind to the Wolf Jaw ranks. Several warriors stepped out, dragging a beaten and battered orc. They took him around Dnark, and on his signal closed half the distance to Grguch before dropping their living cargo unceremoniously onto the dirt.

  Priest Nukkels groaned as he hit the ground, and squirmed a bit, but Ung-thol and Dnark had done their work extremely well and there was no chance of him getting up from the ground.

  “An emissary sent to you?” Grguch asked. “But you said that you were with Obould.”

  “No,” Toogwik Tuk explained, reading correctly the smug expressions worn by his co-conspirators. He stepped forward, daring to pass Grguch as he moved toward the battered priest. “No, this is Nukkels,” he explained, looking back at Grguch.

  Grguch shrugged, for the name meant nothing to him.

  “King Obould’s advisor,” Toogwik Tuk explained. “He would not be sent to deliver a message to Chieftain Dnark. No, not even to Chieftain Grguch.”

  “What?” Grguch demanded, and though his tone was calm and even, there remained behind it a hint of warning to Toogwik Tuk to tread lightly, where he seemed on the verge of insult.

  “This emissary was for no orc,” Toogwik Tuk explained. He looked to Dnark and Ung-thol. “Nor was he heading north, to Gerti Orelsdottr, was he?”

  “South,” Dnark answered.

  “Southeast, precisely,” added Ung-thol.

  Toogwik Tuk could barely contain his amusement—and his elation that King Obould had so perfectly played into their plans. He turned to Grguch, certain of his guess. “Priest Nukkels was sent by King Obould to parlay with King Bruenor Battlehammer.”

  Grguch’s face went stone cold.

  “We believe the same,” said Dnark, and he moved forward to stand beside Toogwik Tuk—and to ensure that Toogwik Tuk did not claim an overdue amount of the credit for that revelation. “Nukkels has resisted our…methods,” he explained, and to accentuate his point, he stepped over and kicked the groaning Nukkels hard in the ribs, sending him into a fetal curl. “He has offered many explanations for his journey, including that of going to King Bruenor.”

  “This pathetic dwarf-kisser in the dirt was sent by Obould to meet with Bruenor?” Grguch asked incredulously, as if he could not believe his ears.

  “So we believe,” Dnark answered.

  “It is easy enough to discern,” came a voice from behind, among Clan Karuck’s ranks. All turned, Grguch with a wide, knowing smile, to see Hakuun step forward to stand beside his chieftain. “Would you like me to question the emissary?” Hakuun asked.

  Grguch laughed and glanced around, motioning at last to a dark cluster of trees off to the side of the path. Dnark began signaling to his ranks for orcs to drag the prisoner over, but Grguch cut him short as Hakuun launched into a spell. Nukkels contorted as if in pain, and curled up on the ground—until he was not on the ground, but floating in the air. Hakuun walked for the trees, and Nukkels drifted behind him.

  Away from the others, Hakuun obediently put his ear in line with that of Nukkels. The transfer took only a moment, with Jack the brain mole slipping out of Hakuun’s ear and into Nukkels’s.

  As he realized what was happening to him, Nukkels began thrashing wildly in the air, but with nothing to orient him, with no pull of gravity to keep him upright or even on his side, he began to spin—which dizzied him, of course, and only made Jack’s intrusion that much easier.

  Jack came back out, and back into his more usual host a short while later, having ripped Nukkels’s brain of every detail. He knew, and soon Hakuun knew, of Obould’s true designs, confirming the fears of the trio who had summoned Clan Karuck from the bowels of the Spine of the World.

  “Obould seeks peace with the dwarves,” Hakuun remarked in disbelief. “He wants the war to be at its end.”

  A very un-orc orc, said the voice in his head.

  “He defiles the will of Gruumsh!”

  As I said.

  Hakuun stalked out of the tree cluster, Jack’s magic yanking the shivering, slobbering, floating Nukkels along behind him. When Hakuun got back to the others on the trail, he waved Nukkels in and let him drop hard to the ground.

  “He was bound for King Bruenor,” the shaman of Clan Karuck stated. “To undo the damage wrought by Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck.”

  “Damage?” Grguch asked, furrowing his thick brow. “Damage!”

  “As we explained to you upon your arrival,” said Ung-thol.

  “It is as our friends have told us,” Hakuun confirmed. “King Obould has lost his heart for war. He wishes no further battle with Clan Battlehammer.”

  “Cowardice,” spat Toogwik Tuk.

  “Has he found enough spoils to return to his home?” Grguch asked, his tone mocking and derogatory.

  “He has conquered empty rocks,” Dnark proclaimed. “All that is of value lies within the halls of the Battlehammer dwarves, or across the river in the realm of Silverymoon. But Obould—” he paused, turned, and kicked Nukkels hard—“Obould would parlay with Bruenor. He would seek a treaty!”

  “With dwarves?” Grguch bellowed.

  “Exactly that,” said Hakuun, and Grguch nodded, having seen Hakuun at his work too many times to doubt a word he spoke.

  Ung-thol and Toogwik Tuk exchanged knowing grins. It was all for show, all to rouse the rabble around the two chieftains, to garner outrage at the utter ridiculousness of the apparent designs of Obould.

  “And he would parlay with Grguch,” Dnark reminded the ferocious orc chieftain. “He would summon you to his side to gain your approval. Or perhaps to scold you for attacking the elves and dwarves.”

  Grguch’s bloodshot eyes opened wide and a great snarl rumbled behind his trembling lips. He seemed as if he would leap forward and bite off Dnark’s head, but the Chieftain of Wolf Jaw did not relent. “Obould intends to show Grguch who controls the Kingdom of Many-Arrows. He will coax you to join his way, so certain is he that he follows the true vision of Gruumsh.”

  “To parlay with dwarves?” Grguch roared.

  “Cowardice!” Dnark cried.

  Grguch stood there, clenching his fists, the muscles in his neck straining, his chest and shoulders bulging as if their sinewy power could not be contained by the orc’s skin.

  “Oktule!” he cried, wheeling to face the orc who had arrived with King Obould’s invitation.

  The emissary shrank back, as did every orc around him.

  “Come here,” Grguch demanded.

  Oktule, trembling and
sweating, gave a quick shake of his head and stumbled back even more—or would have, had not a pair of Clan Karuck’s powerful warriors grabbed him by the arms and walked him forward. He tried to dig his feet in, but they just dragged him, depositing him before the wild gaze of Chieftain Grguch.

  “King Obould would scold me?” Grguch asked.

  A line of wetness ran down poor Oktule’s leg, and he shook his head again—though whether in response to the question or in simple, desperate denial, no one around could tell. He focused on Dnark, pleading with the chieftain who knew that his role was unwitting.

  Dnark laughed at him.

  “He would scold me?” Grguch said again, louder. He leaned forward, towering over the trembling Oktule. “You did not tell me that.”

  “He would not…he…he…he told me to come to get you,” Oktule stammered.

  “That he might scold me?” Grguch demanded, and Oktule seemed about to faint.

  “I did not know,” the pathetic courier protested meekly.

  Grguch whirled to regard Dnark and the others, his expression brightening as if he had just sorted everything out. “To gain the favor of Bruenor, Obould would have to offer something,” Grguch realized. He spun back on Oktule and slapped him with a backhand across the face, launching him to the side and to the ground.

  Grguch turned on Dnark again, his smile wry, nodding his head knowingly. “He would offer to Bruenor the head of the warrior who struck against Mithral Hall, perhaps.”

  Behind him, Oktule gulped.

  “Is there truth in that?” Dnark asked Nukkels, and he kicked the prone orc hard again.

  Nukkels grunted and groaned, but said nothing decipherable.

  “It is reasonable,” Ung-thol said, and Dnark quickly nodded, neither of them wishing to let Grguch calm from his self-imposed frenzy. “If Obould wishes to convince Bruenor that the attack was not of his doing, he would have to prove his claim.”

  “With the head of Grguch?” the chieftain of Clan Karuck asked as he turned to Hakuun, and Grguch laughed as if it was all absurd.

  “The foolish priest showed me nothing of this,” Hakuun admitted. “But if Obould truly wishes peace with Bruenor, and he does, then Chieftain Grguch has quickly become…an inconvenience.”

  “It is past time I meet this Obould fool, that I can show him the truth of Clan Karuck,” said Grguch, and he gave a little laugh, clearly enjoying the moment. “It may be unfortunate that you interrupted the journey of the one in the dirt,” he said, nodding toward the still-squirming Nukkels. “Greater would be King Bruenor’s surprise and fear when he looked into that basket, I say! I would pay in women and good gold to see the face of the dwarf when he pulled out Obould’s head!”

  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.
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  In a tree not far away, a curious winged snake listened to it all with amusement.

  CHAPTER

  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.”