The Hall of Wings
Each warring faction in Mount Gundabad would require a different approach. The Hobgoblins were craven, and would become excellent slaves, while the Dourhands were suspicious, and would become hirelings, while the Orcs under were rebellious under their leader Gorgar, and would be utterly destroyed. Of the Frost Giants he had seen none, and it was only a matter of time until Azrazôr discovered where that band of Angmarim priests was hiding.
The two men passed into another cavern just beyond the waterfall. It was smaller than the previous one, owing to thick pearlescent stone formations that hung on the floor and ceiling of the cave. Some had melded together over the long millenia, and looked like a vast frozen waterfall, or the wingfeathers of a giant raptor. As they looked about in wonder, a thin ray of daylight that filtered in through a fissure in the mountain made the rock wall sparkle, and producing his knife, Naraal dug at the curtain-like formation. “A golden statue, encrusted within muck and mire!” he exclaimed, and after swishing it clean in the milky blue water of the cavern, held it up in the dim light. “Behold the artistry of the Dwarves, Sire!” It was a small gold figurine of an ox, perfectly formed, with two small rubies for eyes.
The heir of Castamir gazed at the superbly-crafted statue for a moment. “And we declare this is the Hall of Wings,’” he said, throwing out an arm with a sweeping gesture.
Naraal bowed. “Perhaps the Dwarves can delve carvings for you.”
“The Dwarves shall improve upon our Hall of Kings and carve out a palace fortress therein,” said Azrazôr, referring to the preceding cavern that he had claimed. Glaring underneath his golden dragon helm, he said, “Let us find those black robe heretics. And if, like the Orcs, their knees are too weak to bend before us, we shall hew off their legs."