"It is true that a few orcs were killed when the weapon was released," the spy master said, deliberately choosing his words to minimize the loss. Although mere centuries of evolution separated the scro from their orc ancestors, the scro considered all other goblin races to be inferior and barbaric.

"As a rule, the death of a few orcs would not be a matter for concern," Grimnosh conceded, folding his well-manicured hands on the polished wood of his desk, "but few orcs have the ability to control this weapon. Seven orc priests and three hobgoblin witch doctors are therefore a significant loss. Is it possible that the depleted ranks will prove insufficient to keep the situation, shall we say, under control?"

"Our allies on Armistice assure me that this is not the case," K'tide said firmly.

"I should hope not, for all our sakes." The statement was calm, offered in the deep, rounded tones that often made listeners pause and puzzle to identify an accent.

K'tide nodded briefly, acknowledging the implied threat. A wise person never took any scro threat lightly, and K'tide was a highly trained observer who was not fooled by Grimnosh's cultured manner or elegant surroundings.

The office in which they met was a civilized marvel of polished wood and deep leather chairs, tastefully decorated with objets d'art from a dozen worlds. Books from many cultures lined the walls, as well as exquisite framed maps and star charts. It was, without doubt, a gentleman's study.

The gentleman in question, however, still was a scro. Over seven feet tall and powerfully muscled, the general was the single discordant note in his elegant study. Grimnosh was a rare albino, with a white hide and almost colorless eyes. He wore the regulation black leather armor studded with small sharp spikes, but, while many scro painted the studs in bright patterns or even substituted cut gems, his studs were fashioned from a dull, expensive silver-toned metal. The scro version of understated elegance, K'tide noted.

Although Grimnosh's garments suggested a certain refinement, his ornaments revealed his true nature. His large canine teeth had been sharpened and decorated with mini-totems," and his pointed, wolflike ears were festooned with tatoos. About his neck hung a toregkh, a necklace made of teeth taken from opponents who had met their deaths upon the general's fangs. By scro custom, no other tokens of battle prowess were worn, though the scro carried many weapons and were expert with each. It was taken for granted that a scro warrior had many kills to his credit. The toregkh was therefore a nose-thumb gesture, a way of saying that scro could kill quite handily with no weapons other than those granted by nature. Perhaps Grimnosh had taken the recent evolution toward culture farther than most scro-indeed, farther than most members of any race-but he was no less deadly for it.

Other scro tended to overlook Grimnosh's pretensions, as snide comments tended to lead to dismemberment. In fact, the general's assistant, a sullen olive-green scro who skulked in a nearby corner, was missing one ear and the small fingers of both hands. Rumor had it that Nimick had offered some small insult to Grimnosh during their training. Grimnosh kept the green scro around as his adjutant, knowing that the maimed soldier's presence was a powerful object lesson to others.

"Perhaps it is time to rethink our strategy," Grimnosh suggested. "This weapon might not be worth the risks."

K'tide inclined his head, acknowledging the scro's remark while respectfully disagreeing. "Its first use was highly successful. The creature was catapulted aboard an elven armada, and it destroyed the entire crew. More than one hundred elves," he concluded, weighing each word with quiet emphasis.

The scro seemed somewhat mollified. "Most impressive," he murmured, fingering his toregkh reflectively. "What of the armada?"

"It is virtually unharmed."

"This is good news," Grimnosh said, at last visibly pleased. "Has the ship been secured?"

"Not yet." K'tide paused, choosing his words carefully. "It will be some time before the weapon runs its natural course. We needn't fear losing the armada. Since it is much closer to Radole than to Armistice, it will escape discovery by the elven patrols that protect the ice planet. If anyone should find the ship and attempt to board, the creature will simply destroy them."

"How long before we can claim the armada?" Grimnosh demanded.

The spy considered. "Once the supply of elven flesh is depleted, the creature and its inevitable offspring will turn on each other. The whole process will take only a few score days. The creatures do not live long without a food supply."

"Excellent." The scro general nodded crisply. "Our first concern, however, must be getting the new troops spacebound. To do so we need spelljamming battle wizards and priests. At this point we cannot afford to risk more goblinkin mages to this weapon."

"Perhaps we cannot afford not to," the spy said.

Dark, cold wrath welled through the scro's cultured veneer. The expression on Grimnosh's face would have sent most battle-hardened scro warriors into flight. "I should hope you have a good reason for contradicting me," he said in clipped tones. "It is not an experience I enjoy."

K'tide held his ground. "Indeed I do. We are preparing a second target, one even more attractive than a mighty elven armada."

Grimnosh raised one bone-white brow. "You have my attention."

"Lionheart."

A long silence followed K'tide's triumphant announcement. "Lionheart," repeated the scro commander, his colorless eyes lighting with interest. "An intriguing notion."

"In your estimation, destroying the elven high command would be worth a risk?"

"If such a thing can be accomplished, certainly," Grimnosh agreed pleasantly, "though I'm not certain that your smug tone is worth the risk that accompanies it." The scro smiled, baring gleaming tusks. "Now, your progress report."

"The Armistice goblinkin soon will be flight ready," the spy master assured him. "We are building a small fleet of ships and training the orc priests in the basics of spelljamming." K'tide's fleeting sneer spoke of utter contempt for the orcs. "Progress in that matter, you understand, is painfully slow."

"Indeed," returned Grimnosh dryly as he leaned back in his chair. "As depleted as scro ranks have become, I sometimes question the wisdom of seeking orc allies on Armistice. Centuries of living underground has hardly improved the strain. That Ubiznik fellow of yours looks like some unholy cross between a dwarf and a goblin. Appalling chap."

"The orc chief is a strong ally. All the Armistice orcs have great physical strength," pointed out K'tide. "The gravity on the ice planet is three times that of most worlds. Once the goblin races are spacebound or fighting world-to-world, their strength will give them a distinct advantage in close combat. I'm assuming that you intend to use them as, shall we say-"

"Cannon fodder," supplied Grimnosh with uncharacteristic bluntness. He glanced down at his hands, grimaced, and held up a thumbnail for closer inspection. "Oh, Nimick," he said, looking over toward his adjutant, "be a good fellow and put an edge on this claw, won't you? While you're at it, you might touch up the engravings as well."

The greenish scro shot his general a look of pure hatred, but he rose with instant obedience and retrieved a small set of tools from a nearby desk drawer. He dragged a stool over to Grimnosh's side, and, taking up a tiny chisel, Nimick began to work on the huge white paw, tracing the tiny, elaborate scenes carved onto each of the general's claws. The murderous expression on the adjutant's face left no doubt that he was contemplating other, more satisfying uses for the tool. Grimnosh took this in with a bland, urbane smile and turned back to K'tide.