CHAPTER 34 - A Time for Action

Grom Ten-Kill was not a happy orc. His plans, which up until now had
been a perfect picture of the way well-made plans should unfold, were no
longer unfolding as he had planned.
True, things were not going too badly. Yet. Still, he couldn’t shake the
fear that before long they would be. He had been counting on that fire
elemental to take the fortress for him. He’d worked long and hard to be
able to summon the creature, a powerful native of the lower plains, and he
had hoped that it would simply melt the walls of the fortress and allow The
People to walk in without casualties.
That plan had failed, sadly. More important than the failure of his plan
was the death of several of his most powerful shamen. That really is the
bad part. He had not counted on the pinkskins having a shaman skilled
enough to bring down the arcane shield he had summoned to protect them.
Nor had he counted on them having a shaman who could summon enough
fire kill a hand’s worth of his best shamen, and nearly two score of the elite
warriors guarding them from less arcane forms of reprisal.
Despite all of that, he found he could live with the failure. His men
had nearly completed the “siege weapons,” and the last of the clans battle-
sworn to him, the Broken Shields, had arrived the night before. He now
had twelve thousand warriors of The People with him, all surrounding the
human fortress, ready to assault the place at his command. And, if his
scouts were correct, there were fewer than five hundred trained pinkskin
warriors inside the great stone fortress, and little more than twice that
number capable of bearing arms at all
For the first time in several days, a smile came to his face. The resto-
ration of the fortunes of The People, begun over ten turnings of the sun
ago with his father’s death, was nearing completion. Now, if only all those
things he could not control would work out as well as the ones he could….
A pity he’d had to leave Mahl in charge of the horde lands. He trusted
her as far as he trusted anybody – that is to say, not at all. He learned long
ago that it was foolish to place trust in people. If you trusted anyone, all
you were likely to get for your trouble was a knife in the back – if you were
lucky.
Which does explain, he thought, why I’ve trusted so much to my sister.
We are like two of a kind, she and I. Both of us freaks, and so both depen-
dant upon the other for our power. After all, if I can’t trust my sister, who can
I trust? Yet despite the fact that he’d protected her so that she would be
loyal to him and only him, Grom couldn’t escape the voice in the back of
his head that kept saying, “Trust no one!”
He looked around his tent and took stock of all the chieftains gathered
there. Next to him sat Fhein Warg Smasher, chief of Clan Gnashing Teeth,
hale and hardy, his primary lieutenant and the one responsible for his
siege weapons. Beyond Fhein sat old Keindar Mahlet, chief of Clan Broken
Shields, only recently sworn into Grom’s alliance, and a slow marcher, he
mused, limp in his step or not. Grom stifled another chuckle. His warriors
say his name comes from the way his face looks, not from the way he fights.

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After seeing him again, Grom supposed they were right. It did look like
someone had smashed the old chief’s face in with a mallet. Grom also took
note of the chiefs of Clan Dancing Knives, Clan Smashing Hammers, and
Clan Throat Ripper who sat around his fire.
He looked across the tee-pee at Tanth Wing Ripper, champion of Clan
Dragon Claw. He’d never seen the boy fight, but according to the tales, he’d
earned his warrior’s name by defeating a dragon in single combat, tearing
the beast’s wing with a spear. Rumors said that the dragon had been a
mere whelp, barely a few seasons old, but that didn’t make the feat any
less startling. A dragon at any age was more than most warriors could
handle. He knew he wouldn’t want to try such a task, and he was a trained
and powerful Shaman. A worthy second to his aged chief. Looking like that,
like some sort of Grummish-hewn avatar of our god, one wonders how long
before the boy kills him off.
This meeting had not been his choice. Some of the blood-sworn chiefs
less harnessed to his cause were worried about why the siege was taking
so long. He suppressed a laugh. So long! They hadn’t even been here for the
time the pinkskins called a week, and already they were chomping at the
bit. All they had already accomplished – the large swaths of territory taken
back, many pinkskin villages captured or destroyed with their inhabit-
ants now living as slaves of The People – these events alone made him the
greatest chief of The People in living memory. Beyond that, he had taken
the human city of Traazon Keep, and the fortress at its heart would soon
follow. He had plans to turn the citadel into his new capital. After that, with
the clans unified behind him, who knew where his new empire would end?
Keindar Mahlet spoke first. “We tire of this waiting, Grom! We march
and fight for many turnings of moon, taking much plunder and booty. But
now, with victory in our grasp, you stop to build these ‘siege weapons.’
Why? We’ve never needed them before, and we don’t need them now! My
warriors wait to feel the blood of the pinkskins on their tusks. Yet here they
sit, banging their axes on their shields to ‘intimidate’ them! I followed you
because you promised my clan glory, Ten-Kill, not this endless waiting!”
Chief Warg Smasher spoke up, saving Grom the trouble of arguing with
his impatient lieutenant. “Your warriors will have more than enough blood
to satisfy them, Mahlet. Patience will win us the victory that bloodthirsty
charges have failed to before.”
“Bah! You have not the balls of a true warrior, Fhein! Were your warriors
more than craven females, they would be begging to join mine in a chal-
lenge to take that great stone trash heap the pinkskins call a ‘hold.’ ”
Grom half expected his lieutenants to come to blows after an insult
like that, but to his surprise, Chief Warg Smasher bellowed out a deep,
guttural laugh. “Have you looked at those walls, Mahlet? And do you pay
any attention to the songs of our lore masters? That place has not ever been
in danger of falling to The People! What makes you think that yet another
glorious charge will take it this time?”
Mahlet pressed on with his ill-conceived argument. “The courage of our
warriors always has been more than enough, you coward! Now you prove
your cowardice by hiding behind Ten-Kill’s skirts!”

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 Grom knew he could not let such an insult go unchallenged. He grabbed
his dagger from its sheath on his hip and thrust it into the air. His voice
was barely louder than a whisper as he said, “I suggest you re-think that
statement, Chief.”
“Or what? Will you kill me for saying that which we all know is true?
I’m beginning to wonder why I followed you here, Ten-Kill. Your reputation
won’t win you anything with me, you fatherless son-of-a-centaur.”
While the first insult had been a challenge he couldn’t refuse, the
second was beyond the pale. He would not see this tent sullied by blows
among chiefs, however; this was a Chiefs’ Council, after all. He whistled
once softly, and looked at the surrounded chiefs. None of them knew what
was coming, but all of them looked pensive.
Then, with explosive fury, Gazak bounded into the tent and pounced
on the obstinate chief with blinding speed. The big wolf dog shoved the
much larger shaman back down in a furious blow of motion that left the
onlookers breathless. Grom tried hard, but couldn’t suppress a smile as
Mahlet blanched, fear of death evident on his face.
The now defenseless chief began begging as the dog’s saliva dripped on
him. “Grom, get it off me! I give! I give!” Gazak growled deeply and pushed
the wayward chief’s shoulders down, dripping more spittle on his face.
Grom tried hard to maintain his composure, for as serious as the situa-
tion was, he could sense Gazak’s enjoyment of the situation. “Recant, fool.”
The other chief was almost to the point of blubbering. Grom was
sickened at the cowardice he heard there, but even so, he didn’t want to kill
him. A succession struggle was something he simply couldn’t tolerate right
now. Recant, fool!
“I yield, Grom! I yield! Please…. Let me live!”
“Gazak!” Grom barked. “Heel!” He looked down at Mahlet, who was
slowly beginning to regain his composure. “Your words, you cowardly son
of an elf whore, have earned you a death sentence. Normally, I would fight
you in a challenge circle and claim your tribe after slaying you.
“Now is not the time for such a struggle, so I will say this: Question
my plans, fine. That is why I called this meeting. But if you question my
motives again, I will kill you where you stand. I do what I do for the good of
The People. The blessings of Grummish are upon me; you have heard the
words of our priests yourself. Now, get out of my tent, and I will let you live
long enough to think about what you have said here this day, and maybe
long enough to prove you have reconsidered your foolish actions.”
Mahlet looked up. Fear was now mixed with surprise. He pushed off
the ground with his axe and fled, leaving the tent before anyone could
respond.
Grom looked around the tent again. “Now, do any of the rest of you feel
the need to insult my ancestry?” He smiled as he said so, and the returning
laughter was more than a little forced, but it was there. Good that they are
on edge. What was the old pinkskin proverb? It is better to be feared than
loved? Much truth in that.

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 “Well, then, my friends. Our plans proceed as well as can be hoped.
Now, though, we have further details to discuss – such as what will happen
after Shaman Warg Smasher finishes up with his duties.”
Grom leaned over, grabbing a convenient stick, and began to draw his
plan out in the dirt. As the smiles on his chiefs faces grew, Grom’s tension
fell with every passing moment. By Grummish, maybe we’ll be able to pull
this off after all. Now, if the humans will fulfill their half of the plan.

***

Earl Sir Tohmas Stoutheart, Knight-Protector of the Eastern Marches,

Lord of Harrow Keep, and the man whom tens of thousands of people relied
upon for protection from the orcs, looked at the latest missive from Baron
Mournfall with disgust. The Baron demanded – demanded! – that he imme-
diately raise an army and come rescue him from the orc horde that had
invaded his lands. Like troops grow on trees. Pity this boy seemed to think
so.
Well, Aahron always had seemed a little too cautious for his position.
Tohmas had never understood why the boy’s father had virtually turned
his fiefdom over to him at fourteen summers. Yes, he couldn’t deny that the
man was gifted with numbers. But so what? After all, didn’t an Earl like
himself have scribes and clerics to take care of such chores for him? No,
the man was far too concerned with account ledgers and not concerned
anywhere near enough with running his barony. And now look what’s
happened. Orcs running rampant across the countryside while those idiots
back west fought with each other instead of looking out for the realm. No
one minding the store, it seemed.
And where did that leave the Lord of the Eastern Marches? With
nothing. As long as the other three Earls kept fighting amongst themselves,
he couldn’t rely on them to do anything but to keep fighting. That left
marauders and mercenaries, as well as common bandits, running willy-
nilly across his domain, and he had nowhere near enough troops to stop
the banditry and patrol his borders, let alone stop orc hordes.
As he looked at it, that left him with no choice. An orc horde was
dangerous, but it could be controlled. Used. Manipulated. If only the boy
left in charge out there was man enough to do something about it.
But he wasn’t.
It was time for Earl Tohmas Stoutheart to stand up and do something
to save his realm. He only hoped it wasn’t too late.

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