The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  “That young priest is so full of spirit,” Jack said. “I almost walked out and joined in with Grguch myself! Oh, what a grand march they have planned!”

  “I didn’t ask you to come up here,” Hakuun remarked.

  “Did you not?” said Jack, and he hopped down from the tree and brushed the twigs from his fabulous robes. “Tell me, Shaman of Clan Karuck, what am I to think when I peer out from my work to find that the one to whom I have bestowed such great gifts has run off?”

  “I did not run off,” Hakuun insisted, trying to keep his voice steady, though he was visibly near panic. “Often does Clan Karuck go hunting.”

  Hakuun gave ground as the gnome walked up to him. Jack continued to advance as Hakuun retreated.

  “But this was no ordinary excursion.”

  Hakuun looked at Jack with dull curiosity, obviously not understanding him.

  “No ordinary hunt,” Jack explained.

  “I have told you.”

  “Of Obould, yes, and of his thousands,” said Jack. “A bit of mischief and a bit of loot to be found, so you said. But it is more than that, is it not?”

  Again Hakuun wore a puzzled expression.

  Jack snapped his stubby fingers in the air and whirled away. “Do you not feel it, shaman?” he asked, his voice full of excitement. “Do you not recognize that this is no ordinary hunt?”

  Jack spun back on Hakuun to measure his response, and still he saw that the shaman wasn’t quite catching on. For Jack, so perceptive and cunning, had deduced the subtext of Toogwik Tuk’s speech, and the implications it offered.

  “Perhaps it is just my own suspicion,” the gnome said, “but you must tell me all that you know. Then we should speak with that spirited young priest.”

  “I have told you…” Hakuun protested. His voiced trailed off and he retreated a step, knowing what awful thing was about to befall him.

  “No, I mean that you must tell me everything,” Jack said, all humor gone from his voice and his expression as he took a step toward the shaman. Hakuun shrank back, but that only made Jack stride more purposefully.

  “Ah, you do forget,” the gnome said as he closed the gap. “All that I have done for you, and so little have I asked in return. With great power, Hakuun, comes great expectations.”

  “There is nothing more,” the shaman started to plead, and he held up his hands.

  Jack the Gnome wore a mask of evil. He said not a word, but pointed to the ground. Hakuun shook his head feebly and continued to wave, and Jack continued to point.

  But it was no contest, the outcome never in doubt. With a slight whimper, Hakuun, the mighty shaman of Clan Karuck, the conduit between Grguch and Gruumsh, prostrated himself on the ground, face down.

  Jack looked straight ahead and lowered his arms to his sides as he quietly mouthed the words to his spell. He thought of the mysterious illithids, the brilliant mind flayers, who had taught him so much of one particular school of magic.

  His robes fluttered only briefly as he shrank, then they and all his other gear melded into his changing form. In an instant Jack the Gnome was gone and a sightless rodent padded across the ground on four tiny feet. He went up to Hakuun’s ear and sniffed for a few moments, hesitating simply because he recognized how uncomfortable it was making the cowering creature.

  Then Jack the Gnome-cum-brain mole crawled into Hakuun’s ear and disappeared from sight.

  Hakuun shuddered and jerked in agonized spasms as the creature burrowed deeper, through the walls of his inner ear and into the seat of his consciousness. The shaman forced himself up to all fours as he began to gag. He vomited and spat, though of course the feeble defenses of his physical body could not begin to dislodge his unwelcome guest.

  A few moments later, Hakuun staggered to his feet.

  There, said the voice of Jack in his head. Now I better understand the purpose of this adventure, and together we will learn the extent of this spirited young shaman’s plans.

  Hakuun didn’t argue—there was no way he could, of course. And for all his revulsion and pain, Hakuun knew that with Jack inside him, he was much more perceptive, and many times more powerful.

  A private conversation with Toogwik Tuk, Jack instructed, and Hakuun could not disagree.

  Even with their sensitive elf ears, Drizzt and Hralien could only make out the loudest chants from the gathered orcs. Still, the purpose of the march became painfully obvious.

  “They are the ones,” Hralien remarked. “The yellow banner was seen in the Moonwood. It appears that their numbers have…”

  He paused as he looked over at his companion, who didn’t seem to be listening. Drizzt crouched, perfectly still, his head turned back to the south, toward Mithral Hall.

  “We have already passed several orc settlements,” the drow said a few heartbeats later. “No doubt this march will cross through each.”

  “Swelling their numbers,” Hralien agreed, and Drizzt finally looked at him.

  “And they’ll continue southward,” the drow reasoned.

  Hralien said, “This may be renewed aggression brewing. And I fear that there is an instigator.”

  “Tos’un?” said Drizzt. “I see no dark elf among the gathering.”

  “He’s likely not far afield.”

  “Look at them,” Drizzt said, nodding his chin in the direction of the chanting, cheering orcs. “If Tos’un did instigate this madness, could he still be in control of it?”

  It was Hralien’s turn to shrug. “Do not underestimate his cunning,” the elf warned. “The attack on the Moonwood was well-coordinated, and brutally efficient.”

  “Obould’s orcs have surprised us at every turn.”

  “And they were not without drow advisors.”

  The two locked stares at that remark, a cloud briefly crossing Drizzt’s face.

  “I truly believe that Tos’un orchestrated the attack on the Moon-wood,” Hralien said. “And that he is behind this march, wherever it may lead.”

  Drizzt glanced back to the south, toward Bruenor’s kingdom.

  “It may well be that their destination is Mithral Hall,” Hralien conceded. “But I beg you to continue on the road that led you out of Bruenor’s depths. For all our sakes, find Tos’un Armgo. I will shadow these orcs, and will give ample warning to King Bruenor should it become necessary—and I will err on the side of caution. Trust me in this, I beg, and free yourself for this most important task.”

  Drizzt looked from the gathered orcs back toward Mithral Hall yet again. He envisioned a battle fought along the Surbrin, fierce and vicious, and felt the pangs of guilt in considering that Bruenor and Regis, perhaps even Catti-brie and the rest of Clan Battle hammer, would yet again be fighting for their survival without him by their side. He winced as he saw again the fall of the tower at Shallows, with Dagnabbit, whom he had then thought to be Bruenor, tumbling down to his death atop it.

  He took a deep breath and turned back to the orc frenzy, the chanting and dancing continuing unabated. If a dark elf from Barrison Del’Armgo, one of the most formidable Houses of Menzoberranzan, was to blame then the orcs would no doubt prove many times more formidable than they appeared. Drizzt nodded grimly, his responsibility and thus his path clear before him.

  “Follow their every move,” he bade Hralien.

  “On my word,” the elf replied. “Your friends will not be caught unprepared.”

  The orcs moved along soon after, and Hralien shadowed their southwestern march, leaving Drizzt alone on the mountainside. He considered going down to the orc village and snooping around, but decided that Tos’un, if he was about, would likely be along the periphery, among the stones, as was Drizzt.

  “Come to me, Guenhwyvar,” the drow commanded, drawing forth the onyx figurine. When the gray mist coalesced into the panther, Drizzt sent her out hunting. Guenhwyvar could cover a tremendous amount of ground in short order, and not even a lone drow could escape her keen senses.

  Drizzt, too, set off, moving deliberately b
ut with great caution in the opposite direction from the panther, who was already cutting across the wake of the departing army. If Hralien’s guess was correct and Tos’un Armgo was directing the orcs from nearby, Drizzt held all faith that he would soon confront the rogue.

  His hands went to his scimitars as he considered Khazid’hea, Catti-brie’s sword, the weapon that had fallen into the hands of Tos’un. Any drow warrior was formidable. A warrior of a noble House likely more so. Even thinking in those respectful terms, Drizzt consciously reminded himself that the drow noble was even more potent, for those who underestimated Khazid’hea usually wound up on the ground.

  In two pieces.

  Interesting, Jack said to Hakuun’s mind when they walked away from their quiet little meeting with Toogwik Tuk, one in which Jack had used the power of magical suggestion to complement Hakuun’s spells of lie detection, allowing the dual being to extract much more honest answers from Toogwik Tuk than the young shaman had ever meant to offer. So the conspirators have not brought you here to enhance Obould’s forces.

  “We must tell Grguch,” Hakuun whispered.

  Tell him what? That we have come to do battle?

  “That our venture into the Moonwood and now against the dwarves will likely anger Obould.”

  Inside his head, Hakuun could feel Jack laughing. Orcs plotting against orcs, Jack silently related. Orcs manipulating orcs to plot against orcs. All of this will be surprising news to old Chieftain Grguch, I am sure.

  Hakuun’s determined stride slowed, his tailwind stolen by Jack’s cynical sarcasm—sarcasm effective only because it held the ring of truth.

  Let the play play, said Jack. The plots of the conspirators will be bent to our favor when we need them to be. For now, all the risk is theirs, for Clan Karuck is unwitting. If they have played the part of fools to even consider such a plot, their fall will be enjoyable to witness. If they are not fools, then all to our gain.

  “Our gain?” said Hakuun, emphasizing Jack’s inclusion into it all.

  “For as long as I am interested,” Hakuun’s voice replied, though it was Jack who controlled it.

  A not-so-subtle reminder, Hakuun understood, of who was leading whom.

  CHAPTER 17

  DEFINING GRUUMSH

  Chieftain Dnark did not miss the simmer behind King Obould’s yellow eyes whenever the orc king’s glance happened his and Ungthol’s way. Obould was continually repositioning his forces, which all of the chieftains understood was the king’s way of keeping them in unfamiliar territory, and thus, keeping them dependent upon the larger kingdom for any real sense of security. Dnark and Ung-thol had rejoined their clan, the tribe of the Wolf Jaw, only to learn that Obould had summoned them to work on a defensive position north of Keeper’s Dale, not far from where Obould had settled to ride out the fleeting days of winter.

  As soon as Obould had met Wolf Jaw at the new site, the wise and perceptive Dnark understood that there had been more to that movement than simple tactical repositioning, and when he’d first met the orc king’s gaze, he had known beyond doubt that he and Ung-thol had been the focus of Obould’s decision.

  The annoying Kna squirmed around his side, as always, and shaman Nukkels kept to a respectful two paces behind and to his god-figure’s left. That meant that Nukkels’s many shamans were filtered around the common warriors accompanying the king. Dnark presumed that all of the orcs setting up Obould’s three-layered tent were fanatics in the service of Nukkels.

  Obould launched into his expected tirade about the importance of the mountain ridge upon which the tent was being erected, and how the fate of the entire kingdom could well rest upon the efforts of Clan Wolf Jaw in properly securing and fortifying the ground, the tunnels, and the walls. They had heard it all before, of course, but Dnark couldn’t help but marvel at the rapt expressions on the faces of his minions as the undeniably charismatic king wove his spell yet again. Predictability didn’t diminish the effect, and that, the chieftain knew, was no small feat.

  Dnark purposely focused on the reactions of the other orcs, in part to keep himself from listening too carefully to Obould, whose rhetoric was truly hard to resist—sometimes so much so that Dnark wondered if Nukkels and the other priests weren’t weaving a bit of magic of their own behind the notes of Obould’s resonating voice.

  Wound in his contemplations, it took a nudge from Ung-thol to get Dnark to realize that Obould had addressed him directly. Panic washing through him, the chieftain turned to face the king squarely, and he fumbled for something to say that wouldn’t give away his obliviousness.

  Obould’s knowing smile let him know that nothing would suffice.

  “My pennant will be set upon the door of my tent when it is ready for private audience,” the orc king said—said again, obviously. “When you see it, you will come for a private parlay.”

  “Private?” Dnark dared ask. “Or am I to bring my second?”

  Obould, his smile smug indeed, looked past him to Ung-thol. “Please do,” he said, and it seemed to Dnark the enticing purr of a cat looking to sharpen its claws.

  Wearing a smug and superior smile, Obould walked past him, carrying Kna and with Nukkels scurrying in tow. Dnark scanned wider as the king and his entourage moved off to the tent, noting the glances from the king’s warriors filtering across his clan, and identifying those likely serving the priests. If it came to blows, Dnark would have to direct his own warriors against the magic-wielding fanatics, first and foremost.

  He winced as he considered that, seeing the futility laid bare before him. If it came to blows with King Obould and his guard, Dnark’s clan would scatter and flee for their lives, and nothing he could say would alter that.

  He looked to Ung-thol, who stared at Obould without blinking, watching the king’s every receding step.

  Ung-thol knew the truth of it as well, Dnark realized, and wondered—not for the first time—if Toogwik Tuk hadn’t led them down a fool’s path.

  “The flag of Obould is on the door,” Ung-thol said to his chieftain a short while later.

  “Let us go, then,” said Dnark. “It would not do to keep the king waiting.”

  Dnark started off, but Ung-thol grabbed him by the arm. “We must not underestimate King Obould’s network of spies,” the shaman said. “He has sorted the various tribes carefully throughout the region, where those more loyal to him remain watchful of others he suspects. He may know that you and I were in the east. And he knows of the attack on the Moonwood, for Grguch’s name echoes through the valleys, a new hero in the Kingdom of Many-Arrows.”

  Dnark paused and considered the words, then began to nod.

  “Does Obould consider Grguch a hero?” Ung-thol asked.

  “Or a rival?” asked Dnark, and Ung-thol was glad that they were in agreement, and that Dnark apparently understood the danger to them. “Fortunately for King Obould, he has a loyal chieftain”—Dnark patted his hand against his own chest—“and wise shaman who can bear witness here that Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck are valuable allies.”

  With a nod at Ung-thol’s agreeing grin, Dnark turned and started for the tent. The shaman’s grin faded as soon as Dnark looked away. None of it, Ung-thol feared, was to be taken lightly. He had been at the ceremony wherein King Obould had been blessed with the gifts of Gruumsh. He had watched the orc king break a bull’s neck with his bare hands. He had seen the remains of a powerful drow priestess, her throat bitten out by Obould after the king had been taken down the side of a ravine in a landslide brought about by a priestess’s earth-shaking enchantment. Watching Grguch’s work in the east had been heady, invigorating and inspiring, to be sure. Clan Karuck showed the fire and mettle of the very best orc warriors, and the priest of Gruumsh could not help but feel his heart swell with pride at their fast and devastating accomplishments.

  But Ung-thol was old enough and wise enough to temper his elation and soaring hopes against the reality that was King Obould Many-Arrows.

  As he and Dnark entered th
e third and final off-set entrance into Obould’s inner chamber, Ung-thol was only reminded of that awful reality. King Obould, seeming very much the part, sat on his throne on a raised dais, so that even though he was seated, he towered over any who stood before him. He wore his trademark black armor, patched back together after his terrific battle with the drow, Drizzt Do’Urden. His greatsword, which could blaze with magical fire at Obould’s will, rested against the arm of his throne, within easy reach.

  Obould leaned forward at their approach, dropping one elbow on his knee and stroking his chin. He didn’t blink as he measured the steps of the pair, his focus almost exclusively on Dnark. Ung-thol hoped that his wrath, if it came forth, would be equally selective.

  “Wolf Jaw performs brilliantly,” Obould greeted, somewhat dissipating the tension.

  Dnark bowed low at the compliment. “We are an old and disciplined clan.”

  “I know that well,” said the king. “And you are a respected and feared tribe. It is why I keep you close to Many-Arrows, so that the center of my line will never waver.”

  Dnark bowed again at the compliment, particularly the notion that Wolf Jaw was feared, which was about as high as orc praise ever climbed. Ung-thol considered his chieftain’s expression when he came back up from that bow. When the smug Dnark glanced his way, Ungthol shot him a stern but silent retort, reminding him of the truth of Obould’s reasoning. He was keeping Wolf Jaw close, indeed, but Dnark had to understand that Obould’s aim was more to keep an eye on the tribe than to shore up his center. After all, there was no line of battle, so there was no center to fortify.

  “The winter was favorable to us all,” said Dnark. “Many towers have been built, and miles of wall.”

  “Every hilltop, Chieftain Dnark,” said Obould. “If the dwarves or their allies come against us, they will have to fight over walls and towers on every hilltop.”

  Dnark glanced at Ung-thol again, and the cleric nodded for him to let it go at that. There was no need to engage Obould in an argument of defensive versus offensive preparations, certainly. Not with their schemes unfolding in the east.