To Seal An Alliance

Sir Harold was a peer of the realm, a landed knight and third in line to the Countship of Reinhold. To the king though, that still made him one relatively minor playing piece on the vast multidimensional gameboard which is international politics on The Continent of the Setting Sun. Sometimes you have to sacrifice minor pieces for tactical advantage, and in this case, it was Sir Harold's turn.

The Orc tribes of the Claw Tooth Range had, (for the first time in over a century,) been united by a powerful leader. Normally when this happened they would march to war with the neighboring kingdoms, destroy a lot of property, kill people, take slaves, and steal everything of value. Then they would either start squabbling among themselves and be soundly defeated, or head home, laden with booty, and start squabbling among themselves only after they were safe from easy reprisal. The vast alliances which made such hordes of greenskins possible were always short-lived; that is until this time.

This time, the orcish horde hadn't marched forth to raid and pillage. Instead, they had been training, upgrading their equipment, and fortifying the passes through the mountains.

Their leader: someone known only as Warvannax, next sent word to the surrounding kingdoms: five each of his best men and women would be sent to marry a like number of the members of their nobility. Those who accepted would be his allies and have "The Silver Horde"'s full support. Any who refused; well, his troops were spoiling for a fight...

So it was that King Arden had called Sir Harold to court and told him of the duty he must discharge, and the attendant burden he must bear up under. He and the others the king had commanded to act as sacrifices for this situation had marched under escort to the Sun's Gate pass and there they were met by a full Battalion of orcs.

Sir Harold was called out by name, the King's command having apparently been sent ahead. Five orcish maidens had been brought forward, each one, Sir Harold was to admit, a comely lass if one could look past all their porcine features and the green hues of their flesh.

Then, by their ranks, the human men were asked to choose. Sir Harold, being a mere knight and his line ennobled by his own deeds, was last to pick, but while his first choice among the five had been selected by another, he counted himself blessed that by some quirk of fate, the one he would have picked had he been second was left as the last girl standing.

The women who the king had sent, including his beloved Dame Margaretha, had found themselves in a much similar situation: with a notable exception: for them a stable of Twenty men was sent, and the women of the Kingdom of Garvin asked to pick four from amongst those brought to duel for her hand in a hastily erected arena. The duels were to first blood, the victors of the first two contests fighting again to select a winner. The men entered in nothing but a loincloth, belt, boots, and vambraces, but they were permitted to have their best weapons and if they owned any of the other types of item which were enchanted, that was in no wise considered an unfair advantage...

Sir Harold had watched Dame Margaretha's eyes during the whole set of duels, and he was in a small way comforted. Dame Margaretha's choice for her suitors had been just as limited as his own, but she had found herself 'courted' on the bloodied sands of that fifty foot across circle of Life and * by four younger members of those sent for the purpose.
*(Apparently the orcish concept of "first blood" was a little shaky: decapitation or severing the femoral artery, as long as that was the first injury inflicted, was not seen as bad form...)

The King had insisted that those sent for the exchange be at least eighteen years old, even though orcs typically were already parents by the time they had passed fifteen summers. For whatever reason Warvinax had agreed to this small stipulation, and the four who dueled for Dame Margaretha's hand was none of them much more than a month past their 18th birthdays. Two she had seemed antipathic toward, one because he resembled a pig in more than just facial structure, being both boorish and blubberous, and the other because he was boastful and quite sure of his victory. Neither had passed their first round. The other two were a pair of identical twin brothers and had spoken with her at some length before they took the floor. They didn't quite make a mockery of the traditional wedding duel, but some of the orcish spectators muttered all the same, for the two had changed weapons and clothes, carrying bastard swords and being dressed identically, so no one else except them knew who won, and rather than a display of cunning footwork they just went to opposite sides of the arena, saluted, and rushed each other. When they again broke apart seconds later one had a nasty gash on his bicep and the other's blade was bloody: but which brother was actually the one injured and which the victor, only they knew...

Now, let us hear Kurvannug's side of this tale...

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