Our band wound its way up the path, our snowshoes giving us purchase on the thick ground covering, and the rothe managing to force their way though, but it was slow going. The wind was ice, snow was in our faces, and only Janare's spells were allowing us to keep going. As it was, none of us were exactly enjoying ourselves.
In my old life I would have been paralysed: I had never enjoyed heights, and I avoided cliffs and edges whenever I could. Huruk, however, actually enjoyed free climbing (often to reach the nests of birds to raid them for their eggs), and so this wide path up the side of the mountain was an easy walk for him.
"How much further!" cried Brigitte, her thick cloak flapping in the fierce wind, nearly stumbling under the weight of her pack.
"Not far!" I shouted back, grabbing her arm to haul her to her feet. On her other side, Janare grabbed the other arm, and over the human girl's head we shared a small, toothy grin. Really, the young human girl was holding up surprisingly well. She clearly wasn't as strong or as tough as even an orc girl of her age and size would be, but she was nevertheless doing her best.
Toughness was a trait that orcs admired, as was bloody-minded stubbornness.
It was about two hours later (I think: it's not exactly like I had a watch on, or could judge by the sun with all the clouds in the way) that our path up the mountain turned a final dog-leg, and up ahead was our destination. Before us lay a large curtain wall of roughly dressed stone and blocks of ice, with a massive gate guarded by a portcullis of black iron. As we drew closer, it became obvious that the scale was off: the gate was over twenty feet high, and the walls were enormous.
As we approached, a large head stuck out over the wall above the gate. "Ho there," bellowed the guard, wearing a horned helmet of heavy iron, the top half of his face covered by spectacles. "Who goes there? Speak, before we splat you!"
"I am Huruk," I cried out over the wind, "Chief of the Stonegrinder tribe! I would speak to your leader, on a matter of trade and war!"
"Humph," the guard complained. "Wait here, tiny." Then he disapeared.
We huddled together for about another half hour, until finally the portcullis was raised on a hinge, and two guards walked out, the horns of their helmets almost brushing the top of the gate as they passed through. Each carried a massive, broad bladed axe in their hands, and their hauberks of mail hung about their knees as they marched. Their skins were a ghostly white, and their long, braided hair and beards were pale blue. The snow under our feet shifted as their boots marched closer, until they were close enough for me to judge that each topped out at over sixteen feet, over twice even Garog's height. "Huruk of the Stonegrinder tribe," intoned the slightly broader one (other than that, there was little to tell them apart), you are invited, along with your companions, to sup with Jarl Bolg."
"Be polite," warned the other, "Or you'll wind up being served for breakfast."
Inside the frost giant fort was as roughly built as the outside: not a race known for their aesthetics. Blocky buildings were flush against the curtain wall, and several more dotted the courtyard. The biggest one was mostly of stone, with a heavy slate roof, clearly the Jarl's hall that seemed to jut directly out of the mountainside. It was to this enormous building that we were escorted.
Inside was dark and a little smoky, due to several large braziers hanging from the roof by heavy chains, but it was clear that they were for light, not warmth. The dominating feature of the hall (that was only half what we saw outside: clearly, the other half was literally cut out of the mountain), was an enormous trestle table, formed from an enormous tree, hauled up the mountain, split in half and the two halves propped up side by side to form the upper surface. The great table ran almost the length of the hall, with several benches on either side, while at the far end multiple large chairs were used. Many of these seats were taken by giants who ate or drank or talked in rumbles.
Hobgoblin servants, larger and smarter cousins to the more common goblin, rushed back and forth, bringing platters of food, stone and metal goblets of ale, and cleaning up when their masters splattered their dinner on the floor.
At the head of the table was a veritable throne, chiselled from a large block of grey marble, and upon it sat a giant among giants, the master of the hall, Jarl Bolg.
Massive even among his kin, he towered a full foot over the tallest frost giant even when seated. He wore no crown, but instead a mantle made from two winter wolf pelts, the enormous preadator's heads resting over each shoulder and down his back, joined below his throat by a heavy gold chain. Even at table he wore a chain shirt, and his titanic maul was propped up against the side of his throne. His goblet was a huge chunk of ice, and his plate was a slab of stone. He continued to eat what looked like a whole leg of rothe as we approached the foot of the table, and belched, wiping his greasy fingers on his tangled beard of blue and grey.
Putting down his meal, he peered down at us for a few minutes, and my companions bristled at the scrutiny, but I motioned for them to remain still. It was a simple game, with him trying to unsettle us, and with most orcs it would have succeeded. We had discussed this event, however, and we were as best prepared as we could be.
Finally, he gave up, and gulped down some mead, then belched again. "Well," he rumbled, rapping his knuckles on the table, the sound echoing throughout the hall like a battering ram, "The hour grows late, a deeply pleasant winter is setting in, and suddenly the gate of my holdfast is breached by an orc. Not only an orc," he added, raising a hand, "But Chief Huruk, no less, of the Stonegrinders." The other giants of Bolg's clan mumbled amongst themselves, sounding like waves crashing against the shore.
I lowered the hood of my cloak, snow falling from me to the dirt floor. "You have heard of me?" I asked in a genuine tone.
Bolg barked a laugh like falling boulders. "Hah! It seems it is impossible not to hear! Huruk Dragon Slayer, Huruk Tribe Crusher! All autumn and into the winter, all travellers and traders through my lands have said little that did not concern you!" He tore off a hunk of black bread and sopped up some grease from his plate. "When the kobolds send their envoys with tribute of iron and amber, they speak of you. When the Hearteaters trade grain for my copper, they speak of you. Honestly, I tire of nothing but 'Huruk, Hurik, Huruk.'" He raised a blue eyebrow at me, but I remained stoic.
Finally, he growled and swallowed the bread. "So," he continued when his mouth was free, "You told my man that you wished to speak of trade and war. Speak, then ... begin with either, but speak quickly."
I took a breath. "Jarl Bolg," I began, "The two are inextricably linked." He frowned, and not without reason: orcish didn't use a word like 'inextricably' all that often, and he probably had to work it out through context. "First, since you know of our victory over the Stormcrows, then you must know that there was considerable loot." I nodded to Gurog, who moved over to one of the rothe, and pulled out a heavy leather bundle, which he passed to one of the younger giants. The lad looked at his jarl, who nodded and waved him over.
It was almost like watching a child unwrap a present (if the child were a seventeen-foot tall monster with a penchant for eating sophants). Tearing the rope like string, he unfolded the leather to reveal a large sword and a similarly sized axe, both with grips intended for large hands. "We found these among the Stormcrows," I continued, as Bolg lifted the sword (a greatsword even to Garog, but a one-handed weapon for a giant) to examine the blade. "They were of fine craft, but clearly meant to be weilded by one of your stature, rather than clumbsily by one of my own folk."
"These were forged by our fire-loving cousins," Bold grunted, "But good workmanship for all that. Filthy beasts they may be, but they craft well." He nodded. "And you are right: these are meant for greater hands than yours," he observed, but not, likely, meant to cause offense. Again, I had to signal to my companions not to react.
"The weapons are not all of our gifts: we also bring good silver, and jewellery for the women of the jarl." This time Bar came forth with a heavy bag of silver coins in one hand, and a handful of necklaces in the other. Even Bolg raised both eyebrows at this gifting, and the mumbles of the giants grew louder.
As the coins were spilt out onto his plate (two hundred coins, a sizable part of the dragon hoard, but thankfully not cutting into the goods that were my fallback if the hoard had not been there), he pushed several around with a massive fingertip. "Generous ... most generous," he rumbled, then looked at us with eyes of frozen flint. "Which makes this giant wonder what the orc wants in return? Ah, but it comes to me," he raised his hands as though enlightened, "This brings us to war, yes? The mighty war chief wishes to add a force of giants to his army, to throw us against the walls of his enemies, yes? You seek to destroy the Hearteaters as you did the Stormcrows? No, do not bother to deny it, were I in your position I would want the same!
"But I am not! I am Jarl Bolg, King over the Mountain! Beneath my fortress, hundreds of slaves labour to carve ore from my mines! All land that lies within a day's march of my gate is indisputably my domain, and fear of my hammer reaches even further! I have wealth, and power, and glory, and you would have me sacrifice the strongest of my fighting men by hurling them against the stone fortress of the Hearteaters?" He grabbed a handful of coins and hurled them across the hall. "No! No, not for a hundred times this much silver! I trade with whom I please, I slay whom I please, I do none of this for you!" His bellow filled the hall and echoed off the roof, and the building was silent.
Throughout his fury, I was calm, I was still, I was scared out of my mind. Of all my gambles so far, this one was the greatest, and possibly the least necessary. I could succeed without this ... but it would make things much easier in the long run.
After a few moments, I spoke up. "Did I ask for warriors to fight and die for me, Jarl Bolg? While I respect the might of your people, I fear your very size precludes you from joining our peculiar new style of fighting. No, Jarl Bolg, I do not come seeking warriors, although, when the time comes, I would not pass up the opportunity to see my foes crushed under stones hurled by your kin.
"Although you are right in one respect: I come seeking your help against the Hearteaters. I have a great need of your strength, although not to swing axes. If you choose not to join our efforts?" I shrugged. "Then I shall go, and you will liekly enjoy my gifts long after you have forgotten my name. However," I grinned fiercely, "If you would but listen, I feel we may come to an accord that would not only profit both of our peoples, but win you even grerater fame than you already possess, with not one drop of giant blood spilt."
Jarl Bolg glowered down at me for a moment, and for that moment, I feared that I would end up on a spit. Fortunately, Ilneval smiled on my boldness, and Bolg nodded. "Lad," he spoke to the younger giant, "Fetch some plates and mugs for these orcs: they stay to be fed dinner, not for dinner." He paused. "And find something to put under their asses, so they can reach the table top."
The next day we headed down the mountain again, our packs restocked with trail rations, our riches a little less, but our hope for the future brighter than ever. The next few days passed without incident as we returned to the Underdark, and headed back in the direction of the winter caves.
Of course, we had to make a stop, first.
We approached the cavern without stealth, largely because there was no point. For hours, we had been shadowed by small, stealthy figures in the dark: they knew that we were coming. "I have never seen one in the flesh," whispered Brigitte as we walked, her hand gripping the hilt of her blade. "Some say they look like rats, others like small, wingless wyverns."
Up ahead, chittering sounds echoed through the tunnel. "More like a cross between a goblin and a crocodile," I corrected.
"What's a cro-" she cut off as several figures, none more than five foot tall, stepped out from behind stalagmites. "Ah, I see," she observed.
Short, slender, with bony limbs and scaly skin, the kobolds had long snouts, large luminous eyes and moved with lightning suddenness. "They prefer to think of themselves as dragonkin, though," I added.
"Really small dragons," rumbled Garog as the kobold guards surrounded us, waving their spears about as they chittered at us and encouraged us to enter the cavern.
Within were more kobolds, both on the ground and clinging to the walls, most with spears and clubs, but others carrying slings or short bows at the ready. While most wore scraps of cloth or leather, near the centre of the cave was a tall kobold dressed in a robe of decent wool, dyed a deep red and carring a staff. Kobold sorcerer, identifies as a red. Little guy's got an ego ... maybe he's earned it.
"I speak orc," the leader proclaimed as we approached. "You are Stonegrinders? We not trade with you, Hearteaters say. Say, 'only send iron to us, only send amber and gemstones, and we send food. Grain, birds, rothe.'" He spat on the floor, and around us hundreds of kobolds copied the gesture. "Wevils in grain, birds are skinny, rothe are old. Still, in grandsire's day, tried to say no. Hearteaters come and kill many. Say next time, prices higher." He leveled his staff at us. "How high the prices after we trade with you? How many eggs smashed, how many of clan killed?"
I cocked my head to one side. He copied the motion. "I come to trade, but not for iron, not for amber, and not for gemstones."
He hissed. "Hoo. Then what you want to trade in, Stonegrinder? That is what we burrow for, what the rocks offer."
I smiled, baring my tusks, and many kobolds drew back, clutching their weapons, but Red didn't. "It is your burrowers I seek. I hear kobolds dig fast, and well."
He hissed again, and I realised it was kobold laughter. "Dig. Yes, we dig! Faster than dwarves, better than gnomes," he spat on the ground again, and again the others copied him. Note to self: watch where I step. "Why need us? Orcs dig, too!"
I nodded. "Aye, we do, and well. But for what I have in mind, I need a lot more dug than my own people can do ... and besides, we'll be rather busy with," I hefted my spear, "other work."
Red tilted his head back the other way. "And if we do this? What we get?"
"Well," I began, "If we succeed, then it won't be the Hearteaters trading with you. You will be able to trade with whoever you choose ... but I hope you will be willing to settle on some fair prices," I grinned. "And, if you want something more concrete ..." I pulled a large, heavy bag from my belt, and tossed it to him. He deftly caught it from the air, and with a sharp claw cut it open. A mixture of silver and gold coins fell out. He hissed again, but in a different tone.
"Well? Do we have an agreement? Dig for gold now, and dig for good trade later?"
Red caught a gold piece as it fell, and held it up to the dim light. "We ... have deal."
"But how do we know we can trust them? The giants, the kobolds," wondered Brigitte as we continued along the tunnel towards home.
I shrugged. "Call it ... enlightened self interest. Besides," I grinned at her, "Never underestimate the value of a reputation. Specifically, the reputation of the Hearteaters being a bunch of assholes who don't bargain fairly, and often forget they've made the deals in the first place. Whereas, the Stonegrinders have a reputation for living up to our word."
"Really?" she asked.
I shrugged again. "My father promised that the Stormcrows would be crushed so that none would speak their name with anything but scorn and derision, that their bloodlines would be taken by other tribes, that their sons would never call out to the gods. He vowed that they would be utterly destroyed. I kept his promise for him. And I'll keep my word with these, as well.
"Of course, if they betray me, they know that I keep all kinds of promises."