Wulfgar had walked his road of redemption, since Auckney, with manipulation and falsity. He understood that finally. He had been so determined to put everything into a neat and trim little box, a perfectly controlled scene, that he had denied the very essence of who he was, the very fires that had forged Wulfgar son of Beornegar.
He looked at Aegis-fang leaning against the wall then hefted the mighty warhammer in his hand, bringing its crafted head up before his icy-blue eyes. The battles he had waged recently, on the cliff above Keeper’s Dale, in the western chamber, and to the east in the breakout to the Surbrin, had been his moments of true freedom, of emotional clarity and inner calm. He had reveled in that physical turmoil, he realized, because it had calmed the emotional confusion.
That was why he had neglected Delly and Colson, throwing himself with abandon into the defenses of Mithral Hall. He had been a lousy husband to her, and a lousy father to Colson.
Only in battle had he found escape.
And he was still engaged in the self-deception, Wulfgar knew as he stared at the etched head of Aegis-fang. Why else had he allowed the trail to Colson to grow stale? Why else had he been turned back by a mere winter storm? Why else…?
Wulfgar’s jaw dropped open, and he thought himself a fool indeed. He dropped the hammer to the floor and swept on his trademark gray wolf cloak. He pulled his backpack out from under the bed and stuffed it with his blankets, then slung it over one arm and gathered up Aegis-fang with the other.
He strode out of his room with fierce determination, heading east past Bruenor’s audience chamber.
“Where are you going?” he heard, and paused to see Regis standing before a door in the hallway.
“Out to check on the weather and the ferry.”
“Drizzt is back.”
Wulfgar nodded, and his smile was genuine. “I hope his journey went well.”
“He’ll be in with Bruenor in a short while.”
“I haven’t time. Not now.”
“The ferry isn’t running yet,” Regis said.
But Wulfgar only nodded, as if it didn’t matter, and strode off down the corridor, turning through the doors that led to the main avenue that would take him over Garumn’s Gorge.
Thumbs hooked in his suspenders, Regis watched his large friend go. He stood there for a long while, considering the encounter, then turned for Bruenor’s audience chamber.
He paused after only a few steps, though, and looked back again to the corridor down which Wulfgar had so urgently departed.
The ferry wasn’t running.
CHAPTER 2
THE WILL OF GRUUMSH
Grguch blinked repeatedly as he moved from the recesses of the cave toward the pre-dawn light. Broad-shouldered and more than seven feet in height, the powerful half-orc, half-ogre stepped tentatively with his thick legs, and raised one hand to shield his eyes. The chieftain of Clan Karuck, like all of his people other than a couple of forward scouts, had not seen the light of day in nearly a decade. They lived in the tunnels, in the vast labyrinth of lightless caverns known as the Underdark, and Grguch had not undertaken his journey to the surface lightly.
Scores of Karuck warriors, all huge by the standards of the orc race—approaching if not exceeding seven feet and weighing in at nearly four hundred pounds of honed muscle and thick bone—lined the cave walls. They averted their yellow eyes in respect as the great warlord Grguch passed. Behind Grguch came the merciless war priest Hakuun, and behind him the elite guard, a quintet of mighty ogres fully armed and armored for battle. More ogres followed the procession, bearing the fifteen-foot Kokto Gung Karuck, the Horn of Karuck, a great instrument with a conical bore and a wide, upturned bell. It was fashioned of shroomwood, what the orcs named the hard skin of certain species of gigantic Underdark mushrooms. To the orc warriors looking on, the horn was deserving of, and receiving of, the same respect as the chieftain who preceded it.
Grguch and Hakuun, like their respective predecessors, would have had it no other way.
Grguch moved to the mouth of the cave, and out onto the mountainside ledge. Only Hakuun came up beside him, the war priest signaling the ogres to wait behind.
Grguch gave a rumbling laugh as his eyes adjusted and he noted the more typical orcs scrambling among the mountainside’s lower stones. For more than two days, the second orc clan had been frantically keeping ahead of Clan Karuck’s march. The moment they’d at last broken free of the confines of the Underdark, their desire to stay far, far away from Clan Karuck grew only more apparent.
“They flee like children,” Grguch said to his war priest.
“They are children in the presence of Karuck,” Hakuun replied. “Less than that when great Grguch stands among them.”
The chieftain took the expected compliment in stride and lifted his eyes to survey the wider view around them. The air was cold, winter still gripped the land, but Grguch and his people were not caught unprepared. Layers of fur made the huge orc chieftain appear even larger and more imposing.
“The word will spread that Clan Karuck has come forth,” Hakuun assured his chieftain.
Grguch considered the fleeing tribe again and scanned the horizon. “It will be known faster than the words of running children,” he replied, and turned back to motion to the ogres.
The guard quintet parted to grant passage to Kokto Gung Karuck. In moments, the skilled team had the horn set up, and Hakuun properly blessed it as Grguch moved into place.
When the war priest’s incantation was complete, Grguch, the only Karuck permitted to play the horn, wiped the shroomwood mouthpiece and took a deep, deep breath.
A great bass rumbling erupted from the horn, as if the largest bellows in all the world had been pumped by the immortal titans. The low-pitched roar echoed for miles and miles around the stones and mountainsides of the lower southern foothills of the Spine of the World. Smaller stones vibrated under the power of that sound, and one field of snow broke free, creating a small avalanche on a nearby mountain.
Behind Grguch, many of Clan Karuck fell to their knees and began swaying as if in religious frenzy. They prayed to the great One-eye, their warlike god, for they held great faith that when Kokto Gung Karuck was sounded, the blood of Clan Karuck’s enemies would stain the ground.
And for Clan Karuck, particularly under the stewardship of mighty Grguch, it had never been hard to find enemies.
In a sheltered vale a few miles to the south, a trio of orcs lifted their eyes to the north.
“Karuck?” asked Ung-thol, a shaman of high standing.
“Could it be any other?” replied Dnark, chieftain of the tribe of the Wolf Jaw. Both turned to regard the smugly smiling shaman Toogwik Tuk as Dnark remarked, “Your call was heard. And answered.”
Toogwik Tuk chuckled.
“Are you so sure that the ogre-spawn can be bent to your will?” Dnark added, stealing the smile from Toogwik Tuk’s ugly orc face.
His reference to Clan Karuck as “ogre-spawn” rang as a clear reminder to the shaman that they were not ordinary orcs he had summoned from the lowest bowels of the mountain range. Karuck was famous among the many tribes of the Spine of the World—or infamous, actually—for keeping a full breeding stock of ogres among their ranks. For generations untold, Karuck had interbred, creating larger and larger orc warriors. Shunned by the other tribes, Karuck had delved deeper and deeper into the Underdark. They were little known in recent times, and considered no more than a legend among many orc tribes.
But the Wolf Jaw orcs and their allies of tribe Yellow Fang, Toogwik Tuk’s kin, knew better.
“They are only three hundred strong,” Toogwik Tuk reminded the doubters.
A second rumbling from Kokto Gung Karuck shook the stones.
“Indeed,” said Dnark, and he shook his head.
“We must go and find Chieftain Grguch quickly,” Toogwik Tuk said. “The eagerness of Karuck’s warriors must be properly steered. If they come upon other tribes and do battle and plunder…”
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“Then Obould will use that as more proof that his way is better,” Dnark finished.
“Let us go,” said Toogwik Tuk, and he took a step forward. Dnark moved to follow, but Ung-thol hesitated. The other two paused and regarded the older shaman.
“We do not know Obould’s plan,” Ung-thol reminded.
“He has stopped,” said Toogwik Tuk.
“To strengthen? To consider the best road?” asked Ung-thol.
“To build and to hold his meager gains!” the other shaman argued.
“Obould’s consort has told us as much,” Dnark added, and a knowing grin crossed his tusky face, his lips, all twisted from teeth that jutted in a myriad of random directions, turning up with understanding. “You have known Obould for many years.”
“And his father before him,” Ung-thol conceded. “And I have followed him here to glory.” He paused and looked around for effect. “We have not known victory such as this—” he paused again and lifted his arms high—“in living memory. It is Obould who has done this.”
“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 h
unger 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.
Toogwik Tuk led the way up the rocky incline that ramped up between those banners. Hulking orc guards stood to block the way, holding pole arms of various elaborate designs, with side blades and angled spear tips. Half axe and half spear, the weight of the weapons was intimidating enough, but just to enhance their trepidation, the approaching trio couldn’t miss the ease with which the Karuck guards handled the heavy implements.
“They are as large as Obould,” Ung-thol quietly remarked. “And they are just common guards.”
“The orcs of Karuck who do not achieve such size and strength are slave fodder, so it is said,” Dnark said.
“And so it is true,” Toogwik Tuk said, turning back to the pair. “Nor are any of the runts allowed to breed. They are castrated at an early age, if they are fortunate.”
“And my eagerness grows,” said Ung-thol, who was the smallest of the trio. In his younger years, he had been a fine warrior, but a wound had left him somewhat infirm, and the shaman had lost quite a bit of weight and muscle over the intervening two decades.
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