Clan Grimm has turned north,” Toogwik Tuk told his two companions on a clear, calm morning in the middle of Ches, the third month of the year. “King Obould has granted Chieftain Grimsmal a favorable region, a sheltered and wide plateau.”

“To prepare?” asked Ung-thol.

“To build,” Toogwik Tuk corrected. “To raise the banner of Clan Grimm beside the flag of Many-Arrows above their new village.”

“Village?” Dnark asked, spitting the word with surprise.

“King Obould will claim that this is a needed pause to strengthen the lines of supply,” Toogwik Tuk said.

“A reasonable claim,” said Dnark.

“But one we know is only half true,” Toogwik Tuk said.

“What of General Dukka?” asked an obviously agitated Ung-thol. “Has he secured Keeper’s Dale?”

“Yes,” the other shaman answered.

“And so he marches to the Surbrin?”

“No,” said Toogwik Tuk. “General Dukka and his thousands have not moved, though there are rumors that he will assemble several blocks…eventually.”

Dnark and Ung-thol exchanged concerned glances.

“King Obould would not allow that collection of warriors to filter back to their tribes,” Dnark said. “He would not dare.”

“But will he send them around to strike at the dwarves at the Surbrin?” asked Ung-thol. “The dwarf battlements grow higher with each passing day.”

“We expected Obould would not proceed,” Toogwik Tuk reminded. “Is that not why we coaxed Grguch to the surface?”

Looking at his co-conspirators, Toogwik Tuk recognized that typical doubt right before the moment of truth. The three had long shared their concerns that Obould was veering from the path of conquest, and that was something they, as followers of Gruumsh One-eye, could not suffer. Their shared expectations, however, were that the war was not quite over, and that Obould would strike hard one more time at least, to gain a more advantageous position before his halt.

Leaving the dwarves open to the Surbrin had seemed a more distinct possibility over the past few months, and particularly the past few tendays. The weather was soon to turn, and the appropriate forces were not being moved into a strike position.

Still, in the face of it, the other two couldn’t help but be surprised—and concerned, as the weight of their conspiracy settled more heavily on their shoulders.

“Turn them against the elf raiders in the east,” Toogwik Tuk said suddenly, jolting his two companions, both of whom looked at him curiously, almost plaintively.

“We had hoped to use Grguch to force the charge to the Surbrin,” Toogwik Tuk explained. “But with Obould’s waiting to position the warriors, that is not presently an option. But we must offer Grguch some blood.”

“Or he will take ours,” Ung-thol muttered.

“There have been reports of elf skirmishers along the Surbrin, north of the dwarves,” Dnark said, aiming his comment mostly at Ung-thol.

“Grguch and Clan Karuck will build a reputation that will serve them—and us—well when at last it comes to dealing with King Bruenor’s troublesome beasts,” Toogwik Tuk nudged. “Let us go and bring the Kingdom of Many-Arrows its newest hero.”

Like a leaf fluttering silently on a midnight breeze, the dark elf slipped quietly to the side of the darkened stone and mud structure. The orc guards hadn’t noted his quiet passing, nor was he leaving any obvious tracks on the frozen snow.

No corporeal creature could move more stealthily than a trained drow, and Tos’un Armgo was proficient even by the lofty standards of his race.

He paused at the wall and glanced around at the cluster of structures—the village of Tungrush, he knew through the conversations he had overheard from various “villagers.” He noted the foundation, even a growing base in several places, of a wall that would eventually ring the compound.

Too late, the drow thought with an evil grin.

He inched toward an opening in the house’s back wall, though whether it was an actual window or just a gap that had not yet been properly fitted, he could not tell. Nor did it matter, for the missing stone provided ample egress for the lithe creature. Tos’un slithered in like a snake, walking his hands down the inside of the wall until they braced him against the floor. His roll, like all of his other movements, was executed without a whisper of sound.

The room was nearly pitch black, the meager starlight barely filtering through the many breaks in the stone. A surface dweller would have had little chance of quietly navigating the cluttered place. But to Tos’un, who had lived almost all of his life in the lightless corridors of the Underdark, the place verily glowed with brightness. He stood in the main room, twice the size of the smaller chamber sectioned by an interior wall that extended from the front wall to within three feet of the back. From beyond that partition, he heard snoring.

His two swords, one drow made and the other, the sentient and fabulous Khazid’hea, came out in his hands as he silently approached. At the wall, he peeked in to see a large orc sleeping comfortably, face down on a cot against the house’s outer side wall. In the corner near the front of the house rested a large pile of rags.

He meant to quietly slide his sword into the orc’s lungs, defeating its shout and finishing it quickly and silently. Khazid’hea, though, had other ideas, and as Tos’un neared and readied the strike, the sword overwhelmed him with a sudden and unexpected burst of sheer outrage.

Down came the blade, through the back of the orc’s neck, severing its head and cutting through the wooden frame of the cot with ease, sparking off the floor and drawing a deep line in the hard ground. The cot dropped at the break, clunking down.

Behind Tos’un the rags rose fast, for under them was another orc, a female. Purely on reflex, the drow drove his other arm around, his fine Menzoberranyr sword coming in hard against the female’s neck and pinning her up against the wall. That blade could have easily opened her throat, of course, but as he struck, Tos’un, for some reason that had not consciously registered, turned to the flat edge. He had the orc’s voice choked off, and a line of blood appeared above the blade, but the creature was not finished.

For Khazid’hea would not suffer that inferior sword to score a kill.

Tos’un shushed the orc, who trembled but did not, could not, resist.

Khazid’hea plunged through her chest, right out her back and into, and through, the stones of the house’s front wall.

Surprised by his own movement, Tos’un fast retracted the blade.

The orc stared at him with disbelief. She slipped down to the floor and died with that same expression.

Are you always so hungry? the drow’s thoughts asked the sentient sword.

He sensed that Khazid’hea was laughing in response.

It didn’t matter anyway, of course. It was just an orc, and even if it had been a superior being, Tos’un Armgo never shied from killing. With the witnesses dispatched, the alarms silenced, the drow went back into the main chamber and found the couple’s store of food. He ate and drank, and replenished his pack and his waterskin. He took his time, perfectly at ease, and searched the house for anything that might be of service to him. He even went back into the bedroom, and on a whim, placed the male orc’s severed head between its legs, its face pressed into its arse.

He considered his work with a resigned shrug. Like his food, the lonely drow had to take his amusement where he could find it.

He went out soon after, through the same window that had allowed him access. The night was dark—still the time of the drow. He found the orc guards no more alert than when he had come in, and he thought to kill them for their lack of discipline.