The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  “Before she died, Kaer’lic called to them, to Menzoberranzan, my home. There was glory and wealth to be found, she promised them, and that call from a priestess of Lady Lolth could not go unheeded. And so they have come, to watch and to wait, at first. You are advancing toward Obould.”

  “Ob—King Obould,” Dnark corrected rather stiffly, “has summoned Chieftain Grguch to his side.”

  Tos’un wore a knowing grin. “The drow hold no love for Obould,” he explained, and indeed, it seemed to Drizzt as if the orc chieftain relaxed a bit at that.

  “You go to pay fealty? Or to wage war?”

  The two orcs looked at each other again.

  “King Obould summoned Clan Karuck, and so we go,” Ung-thol said with clear determination.

  “Grguch attacked the Moonwood,” Tos’un replied. “Grguch attacked Mithral Hall. Without Obould’s permission. He will not be pleased.”

  “Perhaps…” Dnark started.

  “He will not be pleased at all,” Tos’un interrupted. “You know this. It is why you brought Clan Karuck forth from their deep hole.”

  “Obould has no heart for the fight,” Dnark said with a sudden sneer. “He has lost the words of Gruumsh. He would barter and…” He stopped and took a deep breath, and Ung-thol picked up the thought.

  “Perhaps the presence of Grguch will inspire Obould and remind him of his duty to Gruumsh,” the shaman said.

  “It will not,” said Tos’un. “And so my people watch and wait. If Obould wins, we will travel back to the lower Underdark. If Grguch prevails, perhaps there is cause for us to come forth.”

  “And if Obould and Grguch join together to sweep the north-land?” Dnark asked.

  Tos’un laughed at the preposterous statement.

  Dnark laughed, too, after a moment.

  “Obould has forgotten the will of Gruumsh,” Dnark said bluntly. “He sent an emissary to parlay with the dwarves, to beg forgiveness for Grguch’s attack.”

  Tos’un could not hide his surprise.

  “An emissary who never arrived, of course,” the orc chieftain explained.

  “Of course. And so Grguch and Dnark will remind Obould?”

  The orc didn’t reply.

  “You will kill Obould, and replace him with Grguch, for the will of Gruumsh?”

  No answer again, but it was apparent from the posture and expressions of the two orcs that the last remark hit closer to the truth.

  Tos’un smiled at them and nodded. “We will watch, Chieftain Dnark. And we will wait. And I will take great pleasure in witnessing the death of Obould Many-Arrows. And greater pleasure in taking the head of King Bruenor and crossing the River Surbrin to lay waste to the wider lands beyond.”

  The drow gave a curt bow and turned away. “We are watching,” he warned as he started off. “All of it.”

  “Listen for the Horn of Karuck,” Dnark said. “When you hear it blow, know that King Obould nears the end of his reign.”

  Tos’un didn’t so much as offer a glance up at Drizzt as he crossed the clearing to the far side, but soon after the orcs had headed back to their encampment, the rogue drow returned to the base of the tree.

  “Your belt,” Drizzt whispered down, but Tos’un was already undoing it. He let it fall to the ground and stepped back.

  Drizzt hopped down and retrieved it.

  “You might have prepared them to say as much,” Drizzt remarked.

  “Ask the sword.”

  Drizzt looked down at Khazid’hea skeptically. “It is not to be trusted.”

  “Then demand of it,” said Tos’un.

  But Drizzt merely slung the sword belt over his shoulder, motioning for Tos’un to lead the way back to the waiting dwarves.

  Whatever Tos’un’s position, whether it was out of a change of heart or simple pragmatism, Drizzt had no reason to doubt what he had heard, and one statement in particular kept repeating in his thoughts, the orc’s claim that Obould had “sent an emissary to parlay with the dwarves, to beg forgiveness for Grguch’s attack.”

  Obould would not march. For the orc king, the war was at its end. But for many of his subjects, apparently, that was not so pleasing a thought.

  CHAPTER28

  FOR THE GREATER GOOD

  The scout pointed to a trio of rocky hills in the northwest, a few miles away. “Obould’s flag flies atop the centermost,” he explained to Grguch, Hakuun, and the others. “He has rallied his clan around him in a formidable defense.”

  Grguch nodded and stared toward his distant enemy. “How many?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “Not thousands?” the chieftain asked.

  “There are thousands south of his position, and thousands north,” the scout explained. “They could close before us and shield King Obould.”

  “Or swing around and trap us,” said Hakuun, but in a tone that showed he was not overly concerned—for Jack, answering that particular question through Hakuun’s mouth, held little fear of being trapped by orcs.

  “If they remain loyal to King Obould,” Toogwik Tuk dared interject, and all eyes turned his way. “Many are angry at his decision to halt his march. They have come to know Grguch as a hero.”

  Dnark started as if to speak, but changed his mind. He had caught Grguch’s attention, though, and when the fierce half-orc, half-ogre turned his gaze Dnark’s way, Dnark said, “Do we even know that Obould intends to do battle? Or will he just posture and paint with pretty words? Obould rules through wit and muscle. He will see the wisdom of coaxing Grguch.”

  “To build walls?” the chieftain of Clan Karuck said with a dismissive snicker.

  “He will not march!” Toogwik Tuk insisted.

  “He will speak enough words of war to create doubt,” said Dnark.

  “The only word I wish to hear from the coward Obould is ‘mercy,’” Grguch stated. “It pleases me to hear a victim beg before he is put to my axe.”

  Dnark started to respond, but Grguch held up his hand, ending any further debate. With a scowl that promised only war, Grguch nodded to Hakuun, who commanded forth the grotesque zombie of Oktule, still holding its head before it.

  “This is our parlay,” Grguch said. He swung his gaze out to the side, where the battered Nukkels hung by his ankles from poles suspended across the broad shoulders of a pair of ogres. “And our advanced emissary,” Grguch added with a wicked grin.

  He took up his dragon-fashioned axe and stalked toward Nukkels, who was too beaten and dazed to even register his approach. Nukkels did see the axe, though, at the last moment, and he gave a pathetic yelp as Grguch swung it across, cleanly severing the rope and dropping Nukkels on his head to the ground.

  Grguch reached down and hoisted the shaman to his feet. “Go to Obould,” he ordered, turning Nukkels around and shoving him toward the northwest so ferociously that the poor orc went flying headlong to the ground. “Go and tell Obould the Coward to listen for the sound of Kokto Gung Karuck.”

  Nukkels staggered back to his feet and stumbled along, desperate to be away from the brutal Karuck orcs.

  “Tell Obould the Coward that Grguch has come and that Gruumsh is not pleased,” Grguch shouted after him, and cheers began to filter through all of the onlookers. “I will accept his surrender…perhaps.”

  That sent the Karuck orcs and ogres into a frenzy, and even Toogwik Tuk beamed in anticipation. Dnark, though, looked at Ung-thol.

  This conspiracy had been laid bare, to the ultimate fruition. This was real, suddenly, and this was war.

  “Grguch comes with many tribes in his wake,” Obould said to General Dukka. “To parlay?”

  He and Obould’s other commanders stood on the centermost of the three rocky hills. The foundations of a small keep lined the ground behind the orc leader, and three low walls of piled stones ringed the hill. The other two hills were similarly outfitted, though the defenses were hardly complete. Obould looked over his shoulder and motioned to his attendants, who brought forth the battered, nearly dead Nukkels
.

  “He’s already spoken, it would seem,” the orc king remarked.

  “Then it will be war within your kingdom,” the general replied, and his doubts were evident for all to hear.

  Doubts offered for his benefit, Obould recognized. He didn’t blink as he stared at Dukka, though others around him gasped and whispered.

  “They are well-supported at their center,” Dukka explained. “The battle will be fierce and long.”

  They are well-supported indeed, Obould thought but did not say.

  He offered a slight nod of appreciation to Dukka, for he read easily enough between Dukka’s words. The general had just warned him that Grguch’s fame had preceded him, and that many in Obould’s ranks had grown restless. There was no doubt that Obould commanded the superior forces. He could send orcs ten-to-one against the march of Clan Karuck and its allies. But with the choice laid bare before them, how many of those orcs would carry the banner of Obould, and how many would decide that Grguch was the better choice?

  But there was no question among those on the three hills, Obould understood, for there stood Clan Many-Arrows, his people, his slavish disciples, who would follow him into Lady Alustriel’s own bedroom if he so commanded.

  “How many thousands will die?” he asked Dukka quietly.

  “And will not the dwarves come forth when the opportunity is seen?” the general bluntly replied, and again Obould nodded, for he could not disagree.

  A part of Obould did want to reach out and throttle Dukka for the assessment and for the lack of complete obedience and loyalty, but he knew in his heart that Dukka was right. If Dukka’s force, more than two thousand strong, joined battle on the side of Clan Karuck and her allies, the fight could well shift before first blood was spilled.

  Obould and his clan would be overwhelmed in short order.

  “Hold my flank from the orcs who are not Karuck,” Obould asked of his general. “Let Gruumsh decide which of us, Obould or Grguch, is more worthy to lead the kingdom forward.”

  “Grguch is strong with Gruumsh, so they say,” Dukka warned, and a cloud crossed over Obould’s face. But Dukka broke a smile before that cloud could become a full scowl. “You have chosen wisely, and for the good of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows. Grguch is strong with Gruumsh, it is said, but Obould protects the minions of the One-eye.”

  “Grguch is strong,” the orc king said, and he brought his great-sword from its scabbard strapped diagonally across his back. “But Obould is stronger. You will learn.”

  General Dukka eyed that sword for a long while, recalling the many occasions when he had seen it put to devastating use. Gradually, he began to nod then to grin.

  “Your flanks will be secure,” he promised his king. “And any fodder prodded before Grguch’s clan will be swept clean before they reach the hill. Clan Karuck alone will press the center.”

  “Ye lost yer wits, ye durned orc-brained, pointy-eared elf!” Bruenor bellowed and stomped the ground in frustration. “I come out here to kill the beast!”

  “Tos’un speaks the truth.”

  “I ain’t for trusting drow elfs, exceptin’ yerself!”

  “Then trust me, for I overheard much of his conversation with the orc conspirators. Obould dispatched an emissary to Mithral Hall to forbid the attack.”

  “Ye don’t know what Tos’un telled them orcs to say afore they got out to ye.”

  “True enough,” Drizzt conceded, “but I suspected that which Tos’un reports long before I ever caught up to him. Obould’s pause has run too long.”

  “He attacked me wall! And the Moonwood. Are ye so quick in forgetting Innovindil?”

  The accusation rocked Drizzt back on his heels, and he winced, profoundly stung. For he had not forgotten Innovindil, not at all. He could still hear her sweet voice all around him, coaxing him to explore his innermost thoughts and feelings, coaching him on what it was to be an elf. Innovindil had given to him a great and wondrous gift, and in that gift, Drizzt Do’Urden had found himself, his heart and his course. With her lessons, offered in the purest friendship, Innovindil had solidified the sand beneath Drizzt’ Do’Urden’s feet, which had been shifting unsteadily for so many years.

  He hadn’t forgotten Innovindil. He could see her. He could smell her. He could hear her voice and the song of her spirit.

  But her demise was not the work of Obould, he was certain. That terrible loss was the consequence of the absence of Obould, a prelude to the chaos that would ensue if that new threat, the beast Grguch, assumed command of Obould’s vast and savage army.

  “What are ye askin’ me for, elf?” Bruenor said after the long and uncomfortable pause.

  “It wasn’t Gauntlgrym.”

  Bruenor locked his gaze, unblinking.

  “But it was beautiful, was it not?” Drizzt asked. “A testament—”

  “An abomination,” Bruenor interrupted.

  “Was it? Would Dagna and Dagnabbit think it so? Would Shoudra?”

  “Ye ask me to dishonor them!”

  “I ask you to honor them with the most uncommon courage, will and vision. In all the recorded and violent histories of all the races, there are few who could claim such.”

  Bruenor tightened his grip on his many-notched axe and lifted it before him.

  “No one doubts the courage of King Bruenor Battlehammer,” Drizzt assured the dwarf. “Any who witnessed your stand against the tide of orcs on the retreat into Mithral Hall places you among the legends of dwarf warriors, and rightly so. But I seek in you the courage not to fight.”

  “Ye’re bats, elf, and I knowed ye’d be nothing but trouble when I first laid eyes on ye on the side o’ Kelvin’s Cairn.”

  Drizzt drew out Twinkle and Icingdeath and tapped them on either side of Bruenor’s axe.

  “I’ll be watchin’ the fight afore us,” Bruenor promised. “And when I find me place in it, don’t ye be blocking me axe, where’er it’s aimed.”

  Drizzt snapped his scimitars away and bowed before Bruenor. “You are my king. My counsel has been given. My blades are ready.”

  Bruenor nodded and started to turn away, but stopped abruptly and swiveled his head back at Drizzt, a sly look in his eye. “And if ye send yer durned cat to pin me down, elf, I’ll be cooking kitty, don’t ye doubt.”

  Bruenor stomped away and Drizzt looked back at the probable battlefield, where the distant lines of orcs were converging. He pulled the onyx figurine from his belt pouch and summoned Guenhwyvar to his side, confident that the fight would ensue long before the panther began to tire.

  Besides, he needed the surety of Guenhwyvar, the nonjudgmental companionship. For as he had asked for courage from Bruenor, so Drizzt had demanded it of himself. He thought of Tarathiel and Shoudra and all the others, dead now because of the march of Obould, dead at Obould’s own hand. He thought of Innovindil, always he thought of Innovindil, and of Sunset, and he knew that he would carry that pain with him for the rest of his life. And though he could logically remove that last atrocity from the bloody hands of Obould, would any of it have happened in the Moonwood, in Mithral Hall, in Shallows and Nesmé, and all throughout the Silver Marches, had not Obould come forth with designs of conquest?

  And yet, there he was, asking for uncommon courage from Bruenor, betting on Tos’un, and gambling with all the world, it seemed.

  He brought his hand down to stroke Guenhwyvar’s sleek black coat, and the panther sat down then collapsed onto her belly, her tongue hanging out between her formidable fangs.

  “If I am wrong, Guenhwyvar, my friend, and to my ultimate loss, then I ask of you this one thing: dig your claws deep into the flesh of King Obould of the orcs. Leave him in agony upon the ground, dying of mortal wounds.”

  Guenhwyvar gave a lazy growl and rolled to her side, calling for a scratching on her ribs.

  But Drizzt knew that she had understood every word, and that she, above all others, would not let him down.

  CHAPTER 29

  DWARVEN KING, DWARVEN AR
ROW

  Shingles and Torgar stood quietly, staring at Bruenor, letting him lead without question, while an eager Pwent hopped around them. Cordio kept his eyes closed, praying to Moradin—and to Clangeddin, for he understood that the road to battle was clear. For Hralien, there showed only grim determination, and beside him, the bound Tos’un matched that intensity. Regis shifted from foot to foot nervously. And Drizzt, who had just delivered the assessment that battle was soon to be joined, and that the time had come for them to either leave or engage, waited patiently.

  All focus fell to Bruenor, and the weight of that responsibility showed clearly on the face of the agitated dwarf. He had brought them there, and on his word they would either flee to safety or leap into the jaws of a tremendous battle—a battle they could not hope to win, or likely even survive, but one that they might, if their gods blessed them, influence.

  To the south, Obould saw Dukka’s force rolling forward like a dark cloud, streaming toward a line of orcs moving west to flank the hills. The clan of the Wolf Jaw, he knew, and he nodded and growled softly, imagining all the horrors he would inflict upon Dnark when his business with Grguch was over.

  Confident that General Dukka would keep Wolf Jaw at bay, Obould focused his gaze directly to the east, where rising dust showed the approach of a powerful force, and yellow banners shot with red proclaimed Clan Karuck. The orc king closed his eyes and fell within his thoughts, imagining again his great kingdom, full of walls and castles, and teeming cities of orcs living under the sun and sharing fully in the bounty of the world.

  Kna’s shriek brought him from his quiet meditation, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Obould understood her distress.

  An orc approached, a zombie orc, holding its head plaintively in its hands before it. Before any of his warriors and guards could react, Obould leaped the low wall before him and charged down, drawing his greatsword as he went. A single swing cleaved the zombie in half and sent the head flying.