1AllianceHe wore his masterwork plated armor as if it were an extension of his tough skin. Not a piece of the interlocking black metal was flat and unadorned, with flowing designs and overlapping bas-reliefs. A pair of great curving spikes extended from each upper arm plate, and each joint cover had a sharpened and tri-pointed edge to it. The armor itself could be used as a weapon, though King Obould Many-Arrows preferred the greatsword he always kept strapped to his back, a magnificent weapon that could burst into flame at his command.
Yes, the strong and cunning orc loved fire, loved the way it indiscriminately ate everything in its path. He wore a black iron crown, set with four brilliant and enchanted rubies, each of which could bring about a mighty fireball.
He was a walking weapon, stout and strong, the kind of creature that one wouldn’t punch, figuring that doing so would do more damage to the attacker than to the attacked. Many rivals had been slaughtered by Obould as they stood there, hesitating, pondering how in the world they might begin to hurt this king among orcs.
Of all his weapons, though, Obould’s greatest was his mind. He knew how to exploit a weakness. He knew how to shape a battlefield, and most of all, he knew how to inspire those serving him.
And so, unlike so many of his kin, Obould walked into Shining White, the ice and rock caverns of the mighty frost giantess, Gerti Orelsdottr, with his eyes up and straight, his head held high. He had come in as a potential partner, not as a lesser.
Taking his lead, Obould’s entourage, including his most promising son Urlgen Threefist (so named because of the ridged headpiece he wore, which allowed him to head-butt as if he had a third fist), walked with a proud and confident gait, though the ceilings of Shining White were far from comfortably low, and many of the blue-skinned guards they passed were well more than twice their height and several times their weight.
Even Obould’s indomitable nature took a bit of a hit, though, when the frost giant escort led him and his band through a huge set of iron-banded doors into a freezing chamber that was much more ice than stone. Against the wall to the right of the doors, before a throne fashioned of black stone and blue cloth, capped in blue ice, stood the giantess, the heir apparent of the Jarl, leader of the frost giant tribes of the Spine of the World.
Gerti was beautiful by the measure of almost any race. She stood more than a dozen feet tall, her blue-skinned body shapely and muscled. Her eyes, a darker shade of blue, focused sharp enough to cut ice, it seemed, and her long fingers appeared both delicate and sensitive, and strong enough to crush rock. She wore her golden hair long—as long as Obould was tall. Her cloak, fashioned of silver wolf fur, was held together by a gem-studded ring, large enough for a grown elf to wear as a belt, and a collar of huge, pointed teeth adorned her neck. She wore a dress of brown, distressed leather, covering her ample bosom, then cut to a small flap on one side to reveal her muscled belly, and slit up high on her shapely legs, giving her freedom of movement. Her boots were high and topped with the same silvery fur—and were also magical, or so said every tale. It was said they allowed the giantess to quicken her long strides and cover more ground across the mountainous terrain than any but avian creatures.
“Well met, Gerti,” Obould said, speaking nearly flawless frost giant.
He bowed low, his plated armor creaking.
“You will address me as Dame Orelsdottr,” the giantess replied curtly, her voice resonant and strong, echoing off the stone and ice.
“Dame Orelsdottr,” Obould corrected with another bow. “You have heard of the success of our raid, yes?”
“You killed a few dwarves,” Gerti said with a snicker, and her assembled guards responded in kind.
“I have brought you a gift of that significant victory.”
“Significant?” the giantess said with dripping sarcasm.
“Significant not in the number of enemies slain, but in the first success of our joined peoples,” Obould quickly explained.
Gerti’s frown showed that she considered the description of them as “joined peoples” a bit premature, at least, which hardly surprised or dismayed Obould.
“The tactics work well,” Obould went on, undaunted. He turned and motioned to Urlgen. The orc, taller than his father but not as thick of limb and torso, stepped forward and pulled a large sack off his back, bringing it around and spilling its gruesome contents onto the floor.
Five dwarf heads rolled out, including those of the brothers Stokkum and Bokkum, and Duggan McKnuckles.
Gerti crinkled her face and looked away.
“I would hardly call these gifts,” she said.
“Symbols of victory,” Obould replied, seeming a bit off balance for the first time in the meeting.
“I have little interest in placing the heads of lesser races upon my walls as trophies,” Gerti remarked. “I prefer objects of beauty, and dwarves hardly qualify.”
Obould stared at her hard for a moment, understanding well that she could easily and honestly have included orcs in that last statement. He kept his wits about him, though, and motioned for his son to gather up the heads and put them back away.
“Bring me the head of Emerus Warcrown of Felbarr,” Gerti said. “There is a trophy worthy of keeping.”
Obould narrowed his eyes and bit back his response. Gerti was playing him, and hard. King Obould Many-Arrows had once ruled the former Citadel Felbarr, until a few years previous, when Emerus Warcrown had returned, expelling Obould and his clan. It remained a bitter loss to Obould, what he considered his greatest error, for he and his clan had been battling another orc tribe at the time, leaving Warcrown and his dwarves an opportunity to retake Felbarr.
Obould wanted Felbarr back, dearly so, but Felbarr’s strength had grown considerably over the past few years, swelling to nearly seven thousand dwarves, and those in halls of stone fashioned for defense.
The orc king fought back his anger with tremendous discipline, not wanting Gerti to see the sting produced by her sharp words.
“Or bring me the head of the King of Mithral Hall,” Gerti went on. “Whether Gandalug Battlehammer, or as rumors now say, the beast Bruenor once again. Or, perhaps, the Marchion of Mirabar—yes, his fat head and fuzzy red beard would make a fine trophy! And bring me Mirabar’s sceptrana, as well. Isn’t she a pretty thing?”
The giantess paused for a moment and looked around at her amused warriors, a wicked grin spreading wide on her fine-featured face.
“You wish to deliver a trophy suitable for Dame Orelsdottr?” she asked slyly. “Then fetch me the pretty head of Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon. Yes, Obould—”
“
King Obould,” the proud orc corrected, drawing a hush from the frost giant soldiers and a gasp from his sorely out-powered entourage.
Gerti looked at him hard then nodded her approval.
They let their banter go at that, for both understood the preposterous level it had reached. Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon was a target far beyond them. Neither would put her and her enchanted city off the extended list of potential enemies, though. Silverymoon was the jewel of the region.
Both Gerti Orelsdottr and Obould Many-Arrows coveted jewels.
“I am planning the next assault,” Obould said after the pause, again, speaking slowly in the strange language, forcing his diction and enunciation to perfection.
“Its scope?”
Obould shrugged and shook his head. “Nothing major. Caravan or a town. The scope will depend upon our escorting artillery,” he ended with a sly grin.
“A handful of giants are worth a thousand orcs,” Gerti replied, taking the cue a bit further than Obould would have preferred.
Still, the cunning orc allowed her that boast without refute, well aware of her superior attitude and not really concerned about it at that time. He needed the frost giants behind his soldiers for diplomatic reasons more than for practical gain.
“My warriors did enjoy plunking the dwarves with their boulders,” Gerti admitted, and the giant to the side of the throne dais, who had been on the raid, nodded and smiled his agreement. “Very well, King Obould, I will spare you four giants for the next fight. Send your emissary when you are ready for them.”
Obould bowed, ducking his head as he did, not wanting Gerti to see his wide grin, not wanting her to know how important her additions would truly be to him and his cause.
He came up straight again and stomped his right boot, his signal to his entourage to form up behind him as he turned and left.
“They are your pawns,” Donnia Soldou said to Gerti soon after Obould and his orc entourage had departed.
Copyright © 2026 by R.A. Salvatore. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
