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.
"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