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CHAPTER
14
POSSIBILITIES
King Obould normally liked the cheering of the many orc
s that surrounded his temporary palace, a heavy tent set within a larger tent, set
within a larger tent. All three were reinforced with metal and wood, and their entrances
opened at different points for further security. Obould's most trusted guards, heavily
armored and with great gleaming weapons, patrolled the two outer corridors.
The security measures were relatively new, as the orc king cemented his grip and
began to unfold his strategy -
a plan, the cheering that day only reminded him, that might not sit well with the
warlike instincts of some of his subjects. He had already waged the first rounds
of what he knew would be his long struggle among the stones of Keeper's Dale. His
decision to stand down the attack on Mithral Hall had been met with more than a few
mutterings of discontent.
And that had only been the beginning, of course.
He moved along the outer ring of his tent palace to the opened flap and looked out
on the gathering on the plaza of the nomadic orc
village. At least two hundred of his minions were out there, cheering wildly, thrusting
weapons into the air, and clapping each other on the back. Word had come in of a
great
orc victory in the Moonwood, tales of elf heads spiked on the riverbank.
"We should go there and see the heads," Kna said to Obould as she curled at his side.
"It is a sight that would fill me with lust."
Obould swiveled his head to regard her, and he offered a smile, knowing that stupid
Kna would never understand it to be one of pity.
Out in the plaza, the cheering grew a backbone chant: "Karuck! Karuck! Karuck!"
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It was not unexpected. Obould, who had received word of the fight in the east the
previous night, before the public courier had arrived, motioned to the many loyalists
he had set in place, and on his nod, they filtered into the crowd.
A second chant bubbled up among the first, "Many-Arrows! Many-Arrows! Many-Arrows!"
And gradually, the call for kingdom overcame the cheer for clan.
"Take me there and I will love you," Kna whispered in the orc king's ear, tightening
her hold on his side.
Obould's bloodshot eyes narrowed as he turned to regard her again. He brought his
hand up to grab the back of her hair and roughly bent her head back so that she could
see the intensity on his face. He envisioned those elf heads he'd heard of, set on
tall pikes. His smile widened as he considered putting Kna's head in that very line.
Misconstruing his intensity as interest, the consort grinned and writhed against
him.
With almost godlike strength, Obould tugged her from his side and tossed her to the
ground. He turned back to the plaza and wondered how many of his minions - those
not in his immediate presence -
would add the chant of Many-Arrows to the praises of Clan Karuck as word of the victory
spread throughout the kingdom.
*****
The night was dark, but not to the sensitive eyes of Tos'un Armgo, who had known
the blackness of the Underdark. He crouched by a rocky jag, looking down at the silvery
snake known as the Surbrin River, and more pointedly at the line of poles before
it.
The perpetrators had moved to the south, along with the prodding trio of Dnark, Ung-thol,
and the upstart young Toogwik Tuk. They had talked of attacking the Battlehammer
dwarves at the Surbrin.
Obould would not be pleased to see such independence among his ranks. And strangely,
the drow wasn't overly thrilled at the prospect himself. He'd personally led the
first orc
assault on that dwarven position, infiltrating and silencing the main watchtower
before the
orc tide swept Clan Battlehammer back into its hole.
It had been a good day.
So what had changed, wondered Tos'un. What had left him with such melancholy when
battle was afoot, particularly a battle between orc
s and dwarves, two of the ugliest and smelliest races he had ever had the displeasure
of knowing?
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As he looked down at the river, he came to understand. Tos'un was a drow, had been
raised in Menzoberranzan, and held no love for his surface elf cousins. The war between
the surface and Underdark elves was among the fiercest rivalries in the world, a
long history of dastardly deeds and murderous raids that equaled anything the continually
warring demons of the Abyss and devils of the Nine Hells could imagine. Cutting out
the throat of a surface elf had never presented Tos'un with a moral dilemma, surely,
but there was something about the current situation, about those heads, that unnerved
him, that filled him with a sense of dread.
As much as he hated surface elves, Tos'un despised orcs even more. The idea that
orc
s could have scored such a victory over elves of any sort left the drow cold. He
had grown up in a city of twenty thousand dark elves, and with probably thrice that
number of
orc
, goblin, and kobold slaves. Was there, perhaps, a Clan Karuck in their midst, ready
to spike the heads of the nobles of House Barrison Del'Armgo or even of House Baenre?
He scoffed at the absurd notion, and reminded himself that surface elves were weaker
than their drow kin. This group fell to Clan Karuck because they deserved it, because
they were weak or stupid, or both.
Or at least, that's what Tos'un told himself over and over again, hoping that repetition
would provide comfort where reason could not. He looked to the south, where the receding
pennants of Clan Karuck had long been lost to the uneven landscape and the darkness.
Whatever he might tell himself about the slaughter in the Moonwood, deep inside the
true echoes of his heart and soul, Tos'un hoped that Grguch and his minions would
all die horribly.
*****
The sound of dripping water accompanied the wagon rolling east from Nesm?
, as the warm day nibbled at winter's icy grip. Several times the wagon driver grumbled
about muddy ruts, even expressing his hope that the night would be cold.
"If the night's warm, we'll be walking!" he warned repeatedly.
Catti-brie hardly heard him, and hardly noticed the gentle symphony of the melt around
her. She sat in the bed of the wagon, with her back up against the driver's seat,
staring out to the west behind them.
Wulfgar was out there, moving away from her. Away forever, she feared.
She was full of anger, full of hurt. How could he leave them with an army of orc
s encamped around Mithral Hall? Why would he ever want to leave the Companions of
the Hall? And how could he go without saying farewell to Bruenor, Drizzt, and Regis?
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Her mind whirled through those questions and more, trying to make sense of it all,
trying to come to terms with something she could not control. It wasn't the way things
were supposed to be! She had tried to say that to
Wulfgar, but his smile, so sure and serene, had defeated her argument before it could
be made.
She thought back to the day when she and Wulfgar had left Mithral Hall for Silverymoon.
She remembered the reactions of Bruenor and Drizzt -
too emotional for the former and too stoic for the latter, she realized.
Wulfgar
had told them. He'd said his good-byes before they set out, whether in explicit
terms or in hints they could not miss. It hadn't been an impulsive decision brought
about by some epiphany that had come to him on the road.
Catti-brie grimaced through a sudden flash of anger, at Bruenor and especially at
Drizzt. How could they have known and not have told her?
She suppressed that anger quickly, and realized that it had been Wulfgar's choice.
He had waited to tell her until after they'd recovered Colson. Catti-brie nodded
as she considered that. He'd waited because he knew that the sight of the girl, the
girl who had been taken from her mother and was to be returned, would make things
more clear for Catti-brie.
"My anger isn't for Wulfgar, or any of them," she whispered.
"Eh?" asked the driver, and Catti-brie turned her head and gave him a smile that
settled him back to his own business.
She held that smile as she turned back to stare at the empty west, and squinted,
putting on a mask that might counter the tears that welled within. Wulfgar
was gone, and if she sat back and considered his reasons, she knew she couldn't
fault him. He was not a young man any longer. His legacy was still to be made, and
time was running short. It would not be made in Mithral Hall, and even in the cities
surrounding the dwarven stronghold, the people, the humans, were not kin to
Wulfgar
in appearance or in sensibility. His home was Icewind Dale. His people were in Icewind
Dale. In Icewind Dale alone could he truly hope to find a wife.
Because Catti-brie was lost to him. And though he bore her no ill will, she understood
the pain he must have felt when he looked upon her and Drizzt.
She and Wulfgar had had their moment, but that moment had passed, had been stolen
by demons, both within Wulfgar
and in the form of the denizens of the Abyss. Their moment had passed, and there
seemed no other moments for
Wulfgar to find in the court of a dwarf king.
"Farewell," Catti-brie silently mouthed to the empty west, and never had she so meant
that simple word.
*****
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He bent low to bring Colson close to the flowering snowdrops, their tiny white bells
denying the snow along the trail. The first flowers, the sign of coming spring.
"For Ma, Dell-y," Colson chattered happily, holding the first syllable of Delly's
name for a long heartbeat, which only tugged all the more at Wulfgar's heart. "Flowvers,"
she giggled, and she pulled one close to her nose.
Wulfgar didn't correct her lisp, for she beamed as brightly as any "flowvers" ever
could.
"Ma for flowvers." Colson rambled, and she mumbled through a dozen further sounds
that Wulfgar could not decipher, though it was apparent to him that the girl thought
she was speaking in cogent sentences. Wulfgar was sure that Colson made perfect sense
to Colson, at least!
There was a little person in there - Wulfgar only truly realized at that innocent
moment. A thinking, rational individual. She wasn't a baby anymore, wasn't helpless
and unwitting.
The joy and pride that brought to Wulfgar was tempered, to be sure, by his realization
that he would soon turn Colson over to her mother, to a woman the girl had never
known in a land she had never called home.
"So be it," he said, and Colson looked at him and giggled, and gradually Wulfgar's
delight overcame his sense of impending dread. He felt the season in his heart, as
if his own internal, icy pall had at last been lifted. Nothing could change that
overriding sensation. He was free. He was content. He knew in his heart that what
he was doing was good, and right.
As he bent lower to the flower, he noted something else: a fresh print in the mud,
right on the edge of the hardened snow. It had come from a shod
dily-wrapped foot, and since it was so far from any town, Wulfgar recognized it at
once as the print of a goblinkin's foot. He stood back up and glanced all around.
He looked to Colson and smiled comfortingly, then hustled along down the broken trail,
his direction, fortunately, opposite the one the creature had taken. He wanted no
battle that day, or any other day Colson was in his arms.
All the more reason to get the child back where she belonged.
Wulfgar hoisted the girl onto his broad shoulder and whistled quietly for her as
his long legs carried them swiftly down the road, to the west.
Home.
*****
North of Wulfgar's position, four dwarves, a halfling, and a drow settled around
a small fire in a snowy dell. They had stopped their march early, that
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they could better light a fire to warm some stones that would get them more comfortably
through the cold night. After briskly rubbing their hands over the dancing orange
flames, Torgar, Cordio, and Thibbledorf set off to find the stones.
Bruenor hardly noticed their departure, for his gaze had settled on the sack of scrolls
and artifacts, and on a tied tapestry lying nearby.
While Regis began preparing their supper, Drizzt just sat and watched his dwarf friend,
for he knew that Bruenor was churning inside, and that he would soon enough need
to speak his mind.
As if on cue, Bruenor turned to the drow. "Thought I'd find Gauntlgrym and find me
answers," he said.
"You don't know whether you've found them or not," Drizzt reminded.
Bruenor grunted. "Weren't Gauntlgrym, elf. Not by any o' the legends o' the place.
Not by any stories I e'er heard."
"Likely not," the drow agreed.
"Weren't no place I ever heared of."
"Which might prove even more important," said Drizzt.
"Bah," Bruenor snorted half-heartedly. "A place of riddles, and none that I'm wanting
answered."
"They are what they are."
"And that be?"
"Hopefully revealed in the writings we took."
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted more loudly, and he waved his hands at Drizzt and at the sack
of scrolls. "Gonna get me a stone to warm me bed," he muttered, and started away.
"And one I can bang me head against."
The last remark brought a grin to Drizzt's face, reminding him that Bruenor would
follow the clues wherever they led, whatever the implications. He held great faith
in his friend.
"He's afraid," Regis remarked as soon as the dwarf was out of sight.
"He should be," Drizzt replied. "At stake are the very foundations of his world."
"What do you think is on the scrolls?" Regis asked, and Drizzt shrugged.
"And those statues!" the halfling went on undeterred. "Ores and dwarves, and not
in battle. What does it mean? Answers for us? Or just more questions?"
Drizzt thought about it for just a moment, and was nodding as he replied, "Possibilities."
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PART
3
A
WAR
WITHIN
A
WAR
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A
WAR
WITHIN
A
WAR
We construct our days, bit by bit, tenday by tenday, year by year. Our lives take
on a routine, and then we bemoan that routine. Predictability, it seems, is a double-edged
blade of comfort and boredom. We long for it, we build it, and when we find it, we
reject it.
Because while change is not always growth, growth is always rooted in change. A finished
person, like a finished house, is a static thing. Pleasant, perhaps, or beautiful
or admirable, but not for long exciting.
King Bruenor has reached the epitome, the pinnacle, the realization of every dream
a dwarf could fathom. And still King Bruenor desires change, though he would refuse
to phrase it that way, admitting only his love of adventure. He has found his post,
and now seeks reasons to abandon that post at every turn. He seeks, because inside
of him he knows that he must seek to grow. Being a king will make Bruenor old before
his time, as the old saying goes.
Not all people are possessed of such spirits. Some desire and cling to the comfort
of the routine, to the surety that comes with the completion of the construction
of life's details. On the smaller scale, they become wedded to their daily routines.
They
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become enamored of the predictability. They calm their restless souls in the confidence
that they have found their place in the multiverse, that things are the way they
are supposed to be, that there are no roads left to explore and no reason to wander.
On the larger scale, such people become fearful and resentful - sometimes to extremes
that defy logic -
of anyone or anything that intrudes on that construct. A societal change, a king's
edict, an attitude shift in the neighboring lands, even events that have nothing
to do with them personally can set off a reaction of dissonance and fear. When Lady
Alustriel initially allowed me to walk the streets of Silverymoon openly, she found
great resistance. Her people, well protected by one of the finest armies in all the
land and by a leader whose magical abilities are renowned throughout the world, did
not fear Drizzt Do'Urden. Nay, they feared the change that I represented. My very
presence in Silverymoon infringed upon the construct of their lives, threatened their
understanding of the way things were, threatened the way things were supposed to
be. Even though, of course, I posed no threat to them whatsoever.
That is the line we all straddle, between comfort and adventure. There are those
who find satisfaction, even fulfillment, in the former, and there are those who are
forever seeking.
It is my guess, and can only be my guess, that the fears of the former are rooted
in fear of the greatest mystery of all, death. It is no accident that those who construct
the thickest walls are most often rooted firmly, immovably, in their faith. The here
and now is as it is, and the better way will be found in the afterlife. That proposition
is central to the core beliefs that guide the faithful, with, for many, the added
caveat that the afterlife will only fulfill its promise if the here and now remains
in strict accord with the guiding principles of the chosen deity.
I count myself among the other group, the seekers. Bruenor,
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too, obviously so, for he will ever be the discontented king. Catti-brie cannot be
rooted. There is no sparkle in her eyes greater than the one when she looks upon
a new road. And even Regis, for all his complaints regarding the trials of the road,
wanders and seeks and fights. Wulfgar, too, will not be confined. He has seen his
life in Mithral Hall and has concluded, rightfully and painfully, that there is for
him a better place and a better way. It saddens me to see him go. For more than a
score of years he has been my friend and companion, a trusted arm in battle and in
life. I miss him dearly, every day, and yet when I think of him, I smile for him.
Wulfgar has left Mithral Hall because he has outgrown all that this place can offer,
because he knows that in Icewind Dale he will find a home where he will do more good
- for himself and for those around him.
I, too, hold little faith that I will live out my days in Brue
nor's kingdom. It is not just boredom that propels my steps along paths unknown,
but a firm belief that the guiding principle of life must be a search not for what
is, but for what could be. To look at injustice or oppression, at poverty or slavery,
and shrug helplessly, or worse to twist a god's "word" to justify such states, is
anathema to the ideal, and to me, the ideal is achieved only when the ideal is sought.
The ideal is not a gift from the gods, but a promise from them.
We are possessed of reason. We are possessed of generosity. We are possessed of sympathy
and empathy. We have within us a better nature, and it is one that cannot be confined
by the constructed walls of anything short of the concept of heaven itself. Within
the very logic of that better nature, a perfect life cannot be found in a world that
is imperfect.
So we dare to seek. So we dare to change. Even knowing that we will not get to "heaven"
in this life is no excuse to hide within the comfort of routine. For it is in that
seeking, in that continual desire to improve ourselves and to improve the world around
us, that we walk the road of enlightenment,
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that we eventually can approach the gods with heads bowed in humility, but with confidence
that we did their work, that we tried to lift ourselves and our world to their lofty
standards, the image of the ideal.
- Drizzt Do'Urden
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Chapter
CHAPTER
15
CONVERGENCE
OF
CRISES
Magical horses striding long, the fiery chariot cut a line of orange across the pre-dawn
sky. Flames whipped in the driving wind, but for the riders they did not burn. Standing
beside Lady Alustriel, Catti-brie felt that wind indeed, her auburn hair flying wildly
behind her, but the bite of the breeze was mitigated by the warmth of Alustriel's
animated cart. She lost herself in that sensation, allowing the howl of the wind
to deafen her thoughts as well. For a short time, she was free to just exist, under
the last twinkling stars with all of her senses consumed by the extraordinary nature
of the journey.
She didn't see the approaching silver line of the Surbrin, and was only vaguely aware
of a dip in altitude as Alustriel brought the conjured chariot down low over the
water, and to a running stop on the ground outside the eastern door of Mithral Hall.
Few dwarves were out at that early hour, but those who were, mostly those standing
guard along the northern wall, came running and cheering for the Lady of Silverymoon.
For of course they knew it was she, whose chariot had graced them several times over
the past few months.
Their cheering grew all the louder when they noted Alustriel's passenger, the Princess
of Mithral Hall.
"Well met," more than one of the bearded folk greeted.
"King Bruenor's not yet returned," said one, a grizzled old sort, with one eye lost
and patched over, and half his great black beard torn away. Catti-brie smiled as
she recognized the fierce and fiercely loyal Shingles McRuff, who had come to Mithral
Hall beside Torgar Hammerstriker. "Should be along any day."
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"And be knowin' that ye're all welcome, and that ye'll find all the hospitality o'
Mithral Hall for yerself," another dwarf offered.
"That is most generous," said Alustriel. She turned and looked back to the east as
she continued, "More of my people - wizards from Silverymoon -
will be coming in throughout the morn, on all manner of flight, some self-propelled
and some riding ebony flies, and two on broomsticks and another on a carpet. I pray
your archers will not shoot them down."
"Ebony flies?" Shingles replied. "Flying on bugs, ye mean?"
"Big bugs," said Catti-brie.
"Would have to be."
"We come armed with spells of creation, for we wish to see the bridge across the
Surbrin opened and secure as soon as possible," Alustriel explained. "For the sake
of Mithral Hall and for all the goodly kingdoms of the Silver Marches."
"More well met, then!" bellowed Shingles, and he led yet another cheer.
Catti-brie moved toward the back edge of the chariot, but Alustriel took her by the
shoulder. "We can fly out to the west and seek King Bruenor," she offered.
Catti-brie paused and looked that way, but shook her head and replied, "He will return
presently, I'm sure."
Catti-brie accepted Shingles's offered hand, and let the dwarf ease her down to the
ground. Shingles was quick to Alustriel, similarly helping her, and the Lady, though
not injured as was Catti-brie, graciously accepted. She moved back from her cart
and motioned for the others to follow.
Alustriel could have simply dismissed the flaming chariot and the horses made of
magical fire. Dispelling her own magic was easy work, of course, and the fiery team
and cart alike would have flared for an instant before they winked into blackness,
a final puff of smoke drifting and dissipating into the air.
But Lady Alustriel had been using that particular spell for many years, and had put
her own flavor into it, both in the construction of the cart and team and in the
dismissal of the magic. Figuring that the dwarves could use a bit of spirit-lifting,
the powerful wizardess performed her most impressive variation of the dispelling.
The horse team snorted and reared, flames shooting from swirling, fiery nostrils.
As one, they leaped into the air, straight up, the cart lurching behind them. Some
twenty feet off the ground, the many sinews of fire that held the form broke apart,
orange tendrils soaring every which way, and as they reached their limits, exploded
with deafening bangs, throwing showers of sparks far and wide.
The dwarves howled with glee, and Catti-brie, for all of her distress, couldn't contain
a giggle.
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When it ended a few heartbeats later, their ears ringing with the echoes of the retorts,
their eyes blinking against the sting of the brilliant flashes, Catti-brie offered
an appreciative smile to her friend and driver.
"It was just the enchantment they needed," she whispered, and Alustriel replied with
a wink.
They went into Mithral Hall side-by-side.
*****
Early the next morning, Shingles again found himself in the role of official greeter
in the region east of the hall's eastern gate, for it was he who first caught up
with the six adventurers returning from the place Bruenor had named Gauntlgrym. The
old Mirabarran dwarf had directed the watch overnight, and was sorting out assignments
for the workday, both along the fortifications on the northern mountain spur and
at the bridge. No stranger to the work of wizards, Shingles repeatedly warned his
boys
to stay well back when Alustriel'
s gang came out to work their dweomers. When word came that King Bruenor and the
others had returned, Shingles moved fast to the south to intercept them.
"Did ye find it, then, me king?" he asked excitedly, giving voice to the thoughts
and whispers of all the others around him.
"Aye," Bruenor replied, but in a tone surprisingly unenthusiastic. "We found something,
though we're not for knowing if it's Gauntlgrym just yet." He motioned to the large
sack that Torgar carried, and the rolled tapestry slung over Cordio's shoulder.
"We've some things for Nanfoodle and me scholars to look over. We'll get our answers."
"Yer girl's come home," Shingles explained. "Lady Alustriel flew her in on that chariot
o' fire. And the Lady's here, too, along with ten Silverymoon wizards, all come
to work on the bridge."
Bruenor, Drizzt, and Regis exchanged glances as Shingles finished.
"Me girl alone?" Bruenor asked.
"With the Lady."
Bruenor stared at Shingles.
"Wulfgar's not returned with 'em," the old Mirabarran dwarf said. "Catti-brie said
nothing of it, and I didn't think it me place to ask."
Bruenor looked to Drizzt.
"He is far west," the drow said quietly, and Bruenor inadvertently glanced out that
way then nodded.
"Get me to me girl," Bruenor instructed as he started off at a swift pace for Mithral
Hall's eastern door.
They found Catti-brie, Lady Alustriel, and the Silverymoon wizards not far
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down the corridor inside, the lot of them having spent the night in the hall's easternmost
quarters. After a quick and polite greeting, Bruenor begged the Lady's pardon, and
Alustriel and her wizards quickly departed the hall, heading for the Surbrin bridge.
"Where's he at?" Bruenor asked Catti-brie when it was just the two of them, Drizzt,
and Regis.
"You're knowing well enough."
"Ye found Colson, then?"
Catti-brie nodded.
"And he's taking her home," Bruenor stated.
Another nod. "I offered to journey with him," Catti-brie explained, and she glanced
at Drizzt and was relieved to see him smile at that news. "But he would not have
me along."
"Because the fool ain't for coming back," said Bruenor, and he spat and stalked off.
"Durned fool son of an over-sized orc."
Drizzt motioned to Regis to go with Bruenor, and the halfling nodded and trotted
away.
"I think Bruenor is right," Catti-brie said, and she shook her head in futile denial,
then rushed over and wrapped Drizzt in a tight hug and kissed him deeply. She put
her head on his shoulder, not relenting a bit in her embrace. She sniffed back tears.
"He knew that Wulfgar would not likely return," Drizzt whispered.
Catti-brie pushed him back to arms' length. "As did yourself, but you didn't tell
me," she said.
"I honored Wulfgar's wishes. He was not sure of where his road would lead, but he
did not wish discussion of it all the way to Silverymoon and beyond."
"If I had known along our road, I might've been able to change his mind," Catti-brie
protested.
Drizzt gave her a helpless look. "More the reason to not tell you."
"You agree with Wulfgar's choice?"
"I think it is not my place to agree or to argue," Drizzt said with a shrug.
"You think it's his place to be deserting Bruenor at this time of -?"
"This time or any time."
"How can you say that? Wulfgar is family to us, and he just left..."
"As you and I did those years ago, after the drow war when Wulfgar fell to the yochlol,"
Drizzt reminded her. "We longed for the road and so we took to the road, and left
Bruenor to his hall. For six years."
That reminder seemed to deflate Catti-brie's ire quite a bit. "But now Bruenor's
got an army of orcs on his doorstep," she protested, but with far less enthusiasm.
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"An army that will likely be there for years to come. Wulfgar told me that he could
not see his future here. And truly, what is there for him here? No wife, no children."
"And it pained him to look upon us."
Drizzt nodded. "Likely."
"He told me as much."
"And so you wear a mantle of guilt?"
Catti-brie shrugged.
"It doesn't suit you," Drizzt said. He drew her in close once more, and gently pushed
her head onto his shoulder. "Wulfgar's road is Wulfgar's own to choose. He has family
in Icewind Dale, if that is where he decides to go. He has his people there. Would
you deny him the chance to find love? Should he not sire children, who will follow
his legacy of leadership among the tribes of Icewind Dale?"
Catti-brie didn't respond for a long while then merely said, "I miss him already,"
in a voice weak with sorrow.
"As do I. And so too for Bruenor and Regis, and all else who knew him. But he isn't
dead. He did not fall in battle, as we feared those years ago. He will follow his
road, to bring Colson home, as he sees fit, and then perhaps to Icewind Dale. Or
perhaps not. It might be that when he is away, Wulfgar will come to realize that
Mithral Hall truly is his home, and turn again for Bruenor's halls. Or perhaps he'll
take another wife, and return to us with her, full of love and free of pain."
He pushed Catti-brie back again, his lavender eyes locking stares with her rich blue
orbs. "You have to trust in Wulfgar. He has earned that from us all many times over.
Allow him to walk whatever road he chooses, and hold confidence that you and I, and
Bruenor and Regis, all go with him in his heart, as we carry him in ours. You carry
with you guilt you do not deserve. Would you truly desire that Wulfgar not follow
his road for the sake of mending your melancholy?"
Catti-brie considered the words for a few heartbeats, then managed a smile. "My heart
is not empty," she said, and she came forward and kissed Drizzt again, with urgency
and passion.
*****
"Whate'er ye're needin', ye're gettin'," Bruenor assured Nanfoodle as the gnome gently
slid one of the parchment scrolls out of the sack. "Rumblebelly here is yer slave,
and he'll be running to meself and all me boys at the command o' Nanfoodle."
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The gnome began to unroll the document, but winced and halted, hearing the fragile
parchment crackle.
"I will have to brew oils of preservation," he explained to Bruenor. "I dare not
put this under bright light until it's properly treated."
"Whate'er ye need," Bruenor assured him. "Ye just get it done, and get it done quick."
"How quick?" The gnome seemed a bit unnerved by that request.
"Alustriel's here now," said Bruenor. "She's to be working on the bridge for the
next few days, and I'm thinkin' that if them scrolls're saying what I'm thinkin'
they're saying, it might be good for Alustriel to go back to Silverymoon muttering
and musing on the revelations."
But Nanfoodle shook his head. "It will take me more than a day to prepare the potions
-
and that's assuming that you have the ingredients I will require." He looked to Regis.
"Bat guano forms the base."
"Wonderful," the halfling muttered.
"We'll have it or we'll get it," Bruenor promised him.
"It will take more than a day to brew anyway," said Nanfoodle. "Then three days for
it to set on the parchment - at least three. I'd rather it be five."
"So four days total," said Bruenor, and the gnome nodded.
"Just to prepare the parchments for examination," Nanfoodle was quick to add. "It
could take me tendays to decipher the ancient writing, even with my magic."
"Bah, ye'll be faster."
"I cannot promise."
"Ye'll be faster," Bruenor said again, in a tone less encouraging and more demanding.
"Guano," he said to Regis, and he turned and walked from the room.
"Guano," Regis repeated, looking at Nanfoodle helplessly.
"And oil from the smiths," said the gnome. He drew another scroll from the sack and
placed it beside the first, then put his hands on his hips and heaved a great sigh.
"If they understood the delicacy of the task, they would not be so impatient," he
said, more to himself than to the halfling.
"Bruenor is well past delicacy, I'm guessing," said Regis. "Too many orcs about for
delicacy."
"Ores and dwarves," muttered the gnome. "Ores and dwarves. How is an artist to do
his work?" He heaved another sigh, as if to say "if I must," and moved to the side
of the room, to the cabinet where he kept his mortar and pestle, and assorted spoons
and vials.
"Always rushing, always grumbling," he griped. "Ores and dwarves, indeed!"
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*****
The companions had barely settled into their chambers in the dwarven hall west of
Garumn's Gorge when word came that yet another unexpected visitor had arrived at
the eastern gate. It wasn't often that elves walked through King Bruenor's door,
but those gates were swung wide for Hralien of the Moonwood.
Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Bruenor waited impatiently in Bruenor's audience chamber
for the elf.
"Alustriel and now Hralien," Bruenor said, nodding with every word. "It's all coming
together. Once we get the words from them scrolls, we'll get both o' them to agree
that the time's now for striking them smelly
orcs."
Drizzt held his doubts private and Catti-brie merely smiled and nodded. There was
no reason to derail Bruenor's optimism with an injection of sober reality.
"We know them Adbar and Felbarr boys'll
fight with us," Bruenor went on, oblivious to the detachment of his audience. "If
we're getting the Moonwood and Silverymoon to join in, we'll be puttin' them
orcs back in their holes in short order, don't ye doubt!"
He rambled on sporadically for the next few moments, until at last Hralien was led
into the chamber and formally introduced.
"Well met, King Bruenor," the elf said after the list of his accomplishments and
titles was read in full. "I come with news from the Moonwood."
"Long ride if ye've come just to break bread," said Bruenor.
"We have suffered an incursion from the orcs," Hralien explained, talking right past
Bruenor's little jest. "A coordinated and cunning attack."
"We know yer pain," Bruenor replied, and Hralien bowed in appreciation.
"Several of my people were lost," Hralien went on, "elves who should have known the
birth and death of centuries to come." He looked squarely at Drizzt as he continued,
"Innovindil among them."
Drizzt's eyes widened and he gasped and slumped back, and Catti-brie brought her
arm across his back to support him.
"And Sunset beneath her," said Hralien, his voice less steady. "It would appear that
the orcs had anticipated her arrival on the field, and were well prepared."
Drizzt's chest pumped with strong, gasping breaths. He looked as if he was about
to say something, but no words came forth and he had the strength only to shake his
head in denial. A great emptiness washed through him, a cold loss and callous reminder
of the harsh immediacy of change, a sudden and irreversible reminder of mortality.
"I share your grief," Hralien said. "Innovindil was my friend, beloved by all
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who knew her. And Sunrise is bereaved, do not doubt, for the loss of Innovindil and
of Sunset, his companion for all these years."
"Durned pig orcs," Bruenor growled. "Are ye all still thinkin' we should leave them
to their gains? Are ye still o' the mind that Obould's kingdom should stand?"
"Ores have attacked the Moonwood for years uncounted," Hralien replied. "They come
for wood and for mischief, and we kill them and send them running. But their attack
was better this time -
too much so for the simplistic race, we believe." As he finished, he was again looking
directly at Drizzt, so much so that he drew curious stares from Bruenor and Catti-brie
in response.
"Tos'un Armgo," Drizzt reasoned.
"We know him to be in the region, and he learned much of our ways in his time with
Albondiel and Sinnafain," Hralien explained.
Drizzt nodded, determination replacing his wounded expression. He had vowed to hunt
down Tos'un when he and Innovindil had returned Ellifain's body to the Moonwood.
Suddenly that promise seemed all the more critical.
"A journey full o' grief is a longer ride by ten, so the sayin' goes," said Bruenor.
"Ye make yerself comfortable, Hralien o' the Moonwood. Me boys'll see to yer every
need, and ye stay as long as ye're wantin'. Might be that I'll have a story for ye
soon enough
- one that'll put us all in better stead for ridding ourselves o' the curse of Obould.
A few days at the most, me friends're tellin' me."
"I am a courier of news, and have come with a request, King Bruenor," the elf explained,
and he gave another respectful and appreciative bow. "Others will journey here from
the Moonwood to your call, of course, but my own road is back through your eastern
door no later than dawn tomorrow." Again he looked Drizzt in the eye. "I hope I will
not be alone."
Drizzt nodded his agreement to go out on the hunt before he even turned to Catti-brie.
He knew that she would not deny him that.
*****
The couple were alone in their room soon after, and Drizzt began to fill his backpack.
"You're going after Tos'un," Catti-brie remarked, but did not ask.
"Have I a choice?"
"No. I only wish that I were well enough to go with you."
Drizzt paused in his packing and turned to regard her. "In Menzoberranzan, they say,
Aspis tu drow bed n'tuth drow. 'Only a drow can hunt a drow.' "
"Then hunt well," said Catti-brie, and she moved to the side wardrobe to aid Drizzt
in his preparations. She seemed not upset with him in the least, which
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was why she caught Drizzt completely off his guard when she quietly asked, "Would
you have married Innovindil when I am gone?"
Drizzt froze, and slowly mustered the courage to turn and look at Catti-brie. She
wore a slight smile and seemed quite at ease and comfortable. She moved to their
bed and sat on the edge, and motioned for Drizzt to join her.
"Would you have?" she asked again as he approached. "Innovindil was very beautiful,
in body and in mind."
"It is not something I think about," said Drizzt.
Catti-brie's smile grew wider. "I know," she assured him. "But I am asking you to
consider it now. Could you have loved her?"
Drizzt thought about it for a few moments then admitted, "I do not know."
"And you never wondered about it at all?"
Drizzt's thoughts went back to a moment he had shared with Innovindil when the two
of them were out alone among the orc
lines. Innovindil had nearly seduced him, though only to let him see more clearly
his feelings for Catti-brie, whom he had thought dead at the time.
"You could have loved her, I think," Catti-brie said.
"You may well be right," he said.
"Do you think she thought of you in her last moments?"
Drizzt's eyes widened in shock at the blunt question, but Catti-brie didn't back
down.
"She thought of Tarathiel, likely, and what was," he answered.
"Or of Drizzt and what might have been."
Drizzt shook his head. "She would not have looked there. Not then. Likely her every
thought was for Sunset. To be an elf is to find the moment, the here and now. To
revel in what is with knowledge and acceptance that what will be, will be, no matter
the hopes and plans of any."
"Innovindil would have had a fleeting moment of regret for Drizzt, and potential
love lost," Catti-brie said.
Drizzt didn't disagree, and couldn't, given the woman's generous tone and expression.
Catti-brie wasn't judging him, wasn't looking for reasons to doubt him. She confirmed
that a moment later, when she laughed and put her hand up to stroke his cheek.
"You will outlive me by centuries, in all likelihood," she explained. "I understand
the implications of that, my love, and what a selfish fool I would be if I expected
you to remain faithful to a memory. Nor would I want
- nor do I want - that for you."
"It doesn't mean that we have to speak of it," Drizzt retorted. "We know not where
our roads will lead, nor which of us will outlive the other. These are dangerous
times in a dangerous world."
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"I know."
"Then is this something we should bother to discuss?"
Catti-brie shrugged, but gradually her smile dissipated and a cloud crossed her fair
features.
"What is it?" Drizzt asked, and lifted his hand to turn her to face him directly.
"If the dangers do not end our time together, how will Drizzt feel, I wonder, in
twenty years? Or thirty?"
The drow wore a puzzled expression.
"You will still be young and handsome, and full of life and love to give," Catti-brie
explained. "But I will be old and bent and ugly. You will stay by my side, I am sure,
but what life will that be? What lust?"
It was Drizzt's turn to laugh.
"Can you look at a human woman who has seen the turn of seventy years and think her
attractive?"
"Are there not couples of humans still in love after so many years together?" Drizzt
asked. "Are there not human husbands who love their wives still when seventy is a
birthday passed?"
"But the husbands are not usually in the springtime of their lives."
"You err because you pretend that it will happen overnight, in the snap of fingers,"
Drizzt said. "That is far from the case, even for an elf looking upon the human lifespan.
Every wrinkle is earned, my love. Day by day, we spend our time together, and the
changes that come will be well earned. In your heart you know that I love you, and
I have no doubt but that my love will grow with the passage of years. I know your
heart, Catti-brie. You are blissfully predictable to me in some ways, never so in
others. I know where your choices will be, time and again, and ever are they on the
right side of justice and integrity."
Catti-brie smiled and kissed him, but Drizzt broke it off fast and pushed her back.
"If a dragon's fiery breath were to catch up with me, and scar my skin hideously,
blind me, and keep about me a stench of burnt flesh, would Catti-brie still love
me?"
"Wonderful thought," the woman said dryly.
"Would she? Would you stand beside me?"
"Of course."
"And if I thought otherwise, at all, then never would I have desired to be your husband.
Do you not similarly trust in me?"
Catti-brie grinned and kissed him again, then pushed him on his back on the bed.
The packing could wait.
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* * * * *
Early the next morning, Drizzt leaned over the sleeping Catti-brie and gently brushed
her lips with his own. He stared at her for a long while, even while he walked from
the bed to the door. He at last turned and nearly jumped back in surprise, for set
against the door was Taulmaril, the Heartseeker, Catti-brie's bow, and lying below
it was her magical quiver, one that never ran out of arrows. For a moment, Drizzt
stood confused, until he noticed a small note on the floor by the quiver. From a
puncture in its side, he deduced that it had been pressed onto the top of the bow
but had not held its perch.
He knew what it said before he ever brought it close enough to read the scribbling.
He looked back at Catti-brie once more. She couldn't be with him in body, perhaps,
but with Taulmaril in his hand, she'd be there in spirit.
Drizzt slung the bow over his shoulder then retrieved the quiver and did likewise.
He looked back once more to his love then left the room without a sound.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
16
TOOGWIK
TUK ' S
PARADE
The warriors of Clan Karuck paraded onto the muddy plaza centering a small orc
village one rainy morning, the dreary overcast and pounding rain doing nothing to
diminish the glory of their thunderous march.
"Stand and stomp!" the warriors sang in voices that resonated deeply from their massive
half-ogre chests. "Smash and crush! All for the glory of One-eye Gruumsh!"
Yellow pennants flapping in the wind, waves of mud splattering with every coordinated
step, the clan came on in tight and precise formation, their six flags moving, two-by-two,
in near perfect synchronization. The curious onlookers couldn't help but notice the
stark contrast between the huge half-ogre, half-ores and the scores of
orc
s from other tribes that had been swept up into their wake from the first villages
through which Chieftain Grguch had marched.
Only one full-blooded orc marched with Grguch, a young and fiery shaman. Toogwik
Tuk wasted no time as the villagers gathered. He moved out in front as Grguch halted
his march.
"We are fresh from victory in the Moonwood!" Toogwik Tuk proclaimed, and every orc
along the eastern reaches of Obould's fledgling kingdom knew well that hated place.
Thus, predictably, a great cheer greeted the news.
"All hail Chieftain Grguch of Clan Karuck!" Toogwik Tuk proclaimed, and that was
met with an uncomfortable pause until he added, "For the glory of King
Obould!"
Toogwik Tuk glanced back to Grguch, who nodded his agreement, and the
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young shaman started the chant, "Grguch! Obould! Grguch! Obould! Grguch! Grguch!
Grguch!"
All of Clan Karuck fell in quickly with the cadence, as did the orcs who had already
joined in with the march, and the villagers' doubts were quickly overwhelmed.
"As Obould before him, Chieftain Grguch will bring the judgment of Gru
umsh upon our enemies!" Toogwik Tuk cried, running through the mob and whipping them
into frenzy. "The snow retreats, and we advance!" With every glorious proclamation,
he took care to add, "For the glory of Obould! By the power of Grguch!"
Toogwik Tuk understood well the weight that had settled on his shoulders. Dnark and
Ung-thol had departed for the west to meet with Obould regarding the new developments,
and it fell squarely upon Toogwik Tuk to facilitate Grguch's determined march to
the south. Clan Karuck alone would not stand against Obould and his thousands, obviously,
but if Clan Karuck carried along with them the
orc warriors from the dozen villages lining the Surbrin, their arrival on the field
north of King Bruenor's fortifications would carry great import -
enough, so the conspirators hoped, to coerce the involvement of the army Obould had
likely already positioned there.
That sort of rabble rousing had been Toogwik Tuk's signature for years. His rise
through the ranks to become the chief shaman of his tribe -
almost all of whom were dead, crushed in the mysterious, devastating explosion of
a mountain ridge north of Keeper's Dale
- had been expedited by precisely that talent. He knew well how to manipulate the
emotions of the peasant orc
s, to conflate their present loyalties with what he wanted their loyalties to be.
Every time he mentioned Obould, he was quick to add the name Grguch. Every time he
spoke of Gruumsh, he was quick to add the name of Grguch. Mingle them, say them together
enough times so that his audience would unwittingly add "Grguch" whenever they heard
the names of the other two.
His energy again proved infectious, and he soon had all of the villagers hopping
about and chanting with him, always for the glory of Obould, and always by the power
of Grguch.
Those two names needed to be intimately linked, the three conspirators had decided
before Dnark and Ung-thol had departed. To even hint against Obould after such dramatic
and sweeping victories as the
orc king
had brought would have spelled a fast end to the coup. Even considering the disastrous
attempt to enter Mithral Hall's western gate, or the loss of the eastern ground between
the dwarven halls and the Surbrin, or the stall throughout winter and the whispers
that it might be longer than that, the vast majority of
orc
s spoke of Obould in the hushed tones usually reserved for Gruumsh himself. But Toogwik
Tuk and
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two companions planned to move the tribes to oppose their king, one baby-step at
a time.
"By the power of Grguch!" Toogwik Tuk cried again, and before the cheer could erupt,
he added, "Will the dwarven wall hold against a warrior who burned the Moonwood?"
Though he expected a cheer, Toogwik Tuk was answered with looks of suspicion and
confusion.
"The dwarves will flee before us," the shaman promised. "Into their hole they will
run, and we will control the Surbrin for King Obould! For the glory of King Obould!"
he
finished, screaming with all his power.
The orcs around him cheered wildly, insanely.
"By the power of Grguch!" the not-quite-so-out-of-control Toogwik Tuk cleverly added,
and many of the villagers, so used to the chant by then, shouted the words right
along beside him.
Toogwik Tuk glanced back at Chieftain Grguch, who wore a most satisfied grin.
Another step taken, Toogwik Tuk knew.
Taking many offered supplies, Clan Karuck soon resumed their march, and a new pennant
flew among the many in the mob behind them, and another forty warriors eagerly melded
into Chieftain Grguch's trailing ranks. With several larger villages before them,
both the chieftain and his shaman spokesman expected that they would number in the
thousands when they at last reached the dwarven wall.
Toogwik Tuk held faith that when they smashed that wall, the cries for Grguch would
be louder than those for Obould. The next cheers he led would hold fewer references
to the glory of Obould and more to the glory of Gruumsh. But he would not lessen
the number of his claims that all of it was being wrought by the power of Grguch.
*****
Jack could see that the sprout of hair on one side of Hakuun's misshapen, wart-covered
nose tingled with nervous energy as he walked out from the main host, among dark
pines and broken fir trees.
"By sprockets and elemental essences, that was exciting, wasn't it?" The orc
shaman froze in place at the all-too-familiar voice, composed himself with a deep
breath that greatly flared his nostrils, and slowly turned to regard a curious little
humanoid in brilliant purple robes sitting on a low branch, swinging his feet back
and forth like a carefree child. The form was new to Hakuun. Oh, he knew what a gnome
was, indeed, but he had never seen Jaculi in that state before.
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"That young priest is so full of spirit," Jack said. "I almost walked out and joined
in with Grguch myself! Oh, what a grand march they have planned!"
"I didn't ask you to come up here," Hakuun remarked.
"Did you not?" said Jack, and he hopped down from the tree and brushed the twigs
from his fabulous robes. "Tell me, Shaman of Clan Karuck, what am I to think when
I peer out from my work to find that the one to whom I have bestowed such great gifts
has run off?"
"I did not run off," Hakuun insisted, trying to keep his voice steady, though he
was visibly near panic. "Often does Clan Karuck go hunting."
Hakuun gave ground as the gnome walked up to him. Jack continued to advance as Hakuun
retreated.
"But this was no ordinary excursion."
Hakuun looked at Jack with dull curiosity, obviously not understanding him.
"No ordinary hunt," Jack
explained.
"I have told you."
"Of Obould, yes, and of his thousands," said Jack. "A bit of mischief and a bit of
loot to be found, so you said. But it is more than that, is it not?"
Again Hakuun wore a puzzled expression.
Jack snapped his stubby fingers in the air and whirled away. "Do you not feel it,
shaman?" he asked, his voice full of excitement. "Do you not recognize that this
is no ordinary hunt?"
Jack spun back on Hakuun to measure his response, and still he saw that the shaman
wasn't quite catching on. For Jack, so perceptive and cunning, had deduced the subtext
of Toogwik Tuk's speech, and the implications it offered.
"Perhaps it is just my own suspicion," the gnome said, "but you must tell me all
that you know. Then we should speak with that spirited young priest."
"I have told you ..." Hakuun protested. His voiced trailed off and he retreated a
step, knowing what awful thing was about to befall him.
"No, I mean that you must tell me everything," Jack said, all humor gone from his
voice and his expression as he took a step toward the shaman. Hakuun shrank back,
but that only made Jack stride more purposefully.
"Ah, you do forget," the gnome said as he closed the gap. "All that I have done for
you, and so little have I asked in return. With great power, Hakuun, comes great
expectations."
"There is nothing more," the shaman started to plead, and he held up his hands.
Jack the Gnome wore a mask of evil. He said not a word, but pointed to the ground.
Hakuun shook his head feebly and continued to wave, and Jack continued to point.
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But it was no contest, the outcome never in doubt. With a slight whimper, Hakuun,
the mighty shaman of Clan Karuck, the conduit between Grguch and Gruumsh, prostrated
himself on the ground, face down.
Jack looked straight ahead and lowered his arms to his sides as he quietly mouthed
the words to his spell. He thought of the mysterious illithids, the brilliant mind
flayers, who had taught him so much of one particular school of magic.
His robes fluttered only briefly as he shrank, then they and all his other gear melded
into his changing form. In an instant Jack the Gnome was gone and a sightless rodent
padded across the ground on four tiny feet. He went up to Hakuun's ear and sniffed
for a few moments, hesitating simply because he recognized how uncomfortable it was
making the cowering creature.
Then Jack the Gnome-cum-brain mole crawled into Hakuun's ear and disappeared from
sight.
Hakuun shuddered and jerked in agonized spasms as the creature burrowed deeper, through
the walls of his inner ear and into the seat of his consciousness. The shaman forced
himself up to all fours as he began to gag. He vomited and spat, though of course
the feeble defenses of his physical body could not begin to dislodge his unwelcome
guest.
A few moments later, Hakuun staggered to his feet.
There, said the voice of Jack in his head. Now I better understand the purpose of
this adventure, and together we will learn the extent of this spirited young shamans
plans.
Hakuun didn't argue - there was no way he could, of course. And for all his revulsion
and pain, Hakuun knew that with Jack inside him, he was much more perceptive, and
many times more powerful.
A private conversation with Toogwik Tuk, Jack instructed, and Hakuun could not disagree.
* * * * *
Even with their sensitive elf ears, Drizzt and Hralien could only make out the loudest
chants from the gathered orcs. Still, the purpose of the march became painfully obvious.
"They are the ones," Hralien remarked. "The yellow banner was seen in the Moonwood.
It appears that their numbers have ..."
He paused as he looked over at his companion, who didn't seem to be listening. Drizzt
crouched, perfectly still, his head turned back to the south, toward Mithral Hall.
"We have already passed several orc settlements," the drow said a few heartbeats
later. "No doubt this march will cross through each."
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"Swelling their numbers," Hralien agreed, and Drizzt finally looked at him.
"And they'll continue southward," the drow reasoned.
Hralien said, "This may be renewed aggression brewing. And I fear that there is an
instigator."
"Tos'un?" said Drizzt. "I see no dark elf among the gathering."
"He's likely not far afield."
"Look at them," Drizzt said, nodding his chin in the direction of the chanting, cheering
orcs. "If Tos'un did instigate this madness, could he still be in control of it?"
It was Hralien's turn to shrug. "Do not underestimate his cunning," the elf warned.
"The attack on the Moonwood was well-coordinated, and brutally efficient."
"Obould's orcs have surprised us at every turn."
"And they were not without drow advisors."
The two locked stares at that remark, a cloud briefly crossing Drizzt's face.
"I truly believe that Tos'un orchestrated the attack on the Moonwood," Hralien said.
"And that he is behind this march, wherever it may lead."
Drizzt glanced back to the south, toward Bruenor's kingdom.
"It may well be that their destination is Mithral Hall," Hralien conceded. "But I
beg you to continue on the road that led you out of Bruenor's depths. For all our
sakes, find Tos'un Armgo. I will shadow these
orcs, and will give ample warning to King Bruenor should it become necessary -
and I will err on the side of caution. Trust me in this, I beg, and free yourself
for this most important task."
Drizzt looked from the gathered orc
s back toward Mithral Hall yet again. He envisioned a battle fought along the Surbrin,
fierce and vicious, and felt the pangs of guilt in considering that Bruenor and Regis,
perhaps even Catti-brie and the rest of Clan Battlehammer, would yet again be fighting
for their survival without him by their side. He winced as he saw again the fall
of the tower at Shallows, with Dagnabbit, whom he had then thought to be Bruenor,
tumbling down to his death atop it.
He took a deep breath and turned back to the orc
frenzy, the chanting and dancing continuing unabated. If a dark elf from Barrison
Del'Armgo, one of the most formidable Houses of Menzoberranzan, was to blame then
the
orcs would no doubt prove many times more formidable than they appeared. Drizzt
nodded grimly, his responsibility and thus his path clear before him.
"Follow their every move," he bade Hralien.
"On my word," the elf replied. "Your friends will not be caught unprepared."
The orcs moved along soon after, and Hralien shadowed their southwestern
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march, leaving Drizzt alone on the mountainside. He considered going down to the
orc
village and snooping around, but decided that Tos'un, if he was about, would likely
be along the periphery, among the stones, as was Drizzt.
"Come to me, Guenhwyvar," the drow commanded, drawing forth the onyx figurine. When
the gray mist coalesced into the panther, Drizzt sent her out hunting. Guenhwyvar
could cover a tremendous amount of ground in short order, and not even a lone drow
could escape her keen senses.
Drizzt, too, set off, moving deliberately but with great caution in the opposite
direction from the panther, who was already cutting across the wake of the departing
army. If Hralien's guess was correct and Tos'un Armgo was directing the
orcs from nearby, Drizzt held all faith that he would soon confront the rogue.
His hands went to his scimitars as he considered Khazid'hea, Catti-brie's sword,
the weapon that had fallen into the hands of Tos'un. Any drow warrior was formidable.
A warrior of a noble House likely more so. Even thinking in those respectful terms,
Drizzt consciously reminded himself that the drow noble was even more potent, for
those who underestimated Khazid'hea usually wound up on the ground.
In two pieces.
*****
Interesting,
Jack said to Hakuun's mind when they walked away from their quiet little meeting
with Toogwik Tuk, one in which Jack had used the power of magical suggestion to complement
Hakuun's spells of lie detection, allowing the dual being to extract much more honest
answers from Toogwik Tuk than the young shaman had ever meant to offer.
So the conspirators have not brought you here to enhance Obould's forces.
"We must tell Grguch," Hakuun whispered.
Tell him what? That we have come to do battle?
"That our venture into the Moonwood and now against the dwarves will likely anger
Obould."
Inside his head, Hakuun could feel Jack laughing. orcs plotting against orcs, Jack
silently related. orcs manipulating orcs to plot against orc
s. All of this will be surprising news to old Chieftain Grguch, I am sure.
Hakuun's determined stride slowed, his tailwind stolen by Jack's cynical sarcasm
- sarcasm effective only because it held the ring of truth.
Let the play play, said Jack.
The plots of the conspirators will be bent to our favor when we need them to be.
For now, all the risk is theirs, for Clan Karuck is unwitting. If they have played
the part of fools to even consider such a plot, their
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fall will be enjoyable to witness. If they are not fools, then all to our gain.
"Our gain?" said Hakuun, emphasizing Jack's inclusion into it all.
"For as long as I am interested," Hakuun's voice replied, though it was Jack who
controlled it.
A not-so-subtle reminder, Hakuun understood, of who was leading whom.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
17
DEFINING
GRUUMSH
Chieftain Dnark did not miss the simmer behind King Obould's yellow eyes whenever
the orc king
's glance happened his and Ung-thol's way. Obould was continually repositioning his
forces, which all of the chieftains understood was the king's way of keeping them
in unfamiliar territory, and thus, keeping them dependent upon the larger kingdom
for any real sense of security. Dnark and Ung-thol had rejoined their clan, the tribe
of the Wolf Jaw, only to learn that Obould had summoned them to work on a defensive
position north of Keeper's Dale, not far from where Obould had settled to ride out
the fleeting days of winter.
As soon as Obould had met Wolf Jaw at the new site, the wise and perceptive Dnark
understood that there had been more to that movement than simple tactical repositioning,
and when he'd first met the
orc king's gaze, he had known beyond doubt that he and Ung-thol had been the focus
of Obould's decision.
The annoying Kna squirmed around his side, as always, and shaman Nuk
kels kept to a respectful two paces behind and to his god-figure's left. That meant
that Nukkels's many shamans were filtered around the common warriors accompanying
the king. Dnark presumed that all of the
orcs setting up Obould's three-layered tent were fanatics in the service of Nukkels.
Obould launched into his expected tirade about the importance of the mountain ridge
upon which the tent was being erected, and how the fate of the entire kingdom could
well rest upon the efforts of Clan Wolf Jaw in properly securing and fortifying the
ground, the tunnels, and the walls. They had heard it all before, of course, but
Dnark couldn't help but marvel at the
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rapt expressions on the faces of his minions as the undeniably charismatic king wove
his spell yet again. Predictability didn't diminish the effect, and that, the chieftain
knew, was no small feat.
Dnark purposely focused on the reactions of the other orcs, in part to keep himself
from listening too carefully to Obould, whose rhetoric was truly hard to resist -
sometimes so much so that Dnark wondered if Nukkels and the other priests weren't
weaving a bit of magic of their own behind the notes of Obould's resonating voice.
Wound in his contemplations, it took a nudge from Ung-thol to get Dnark to realize
that Obould had addressed him directly. Panic washing through him, the chieftain
turned to face the king squarely, and he fumbled for something to say that wouldn't
give away his obliviousness.
Obould's knowing smile let him know that nothing would suffice.
"My pennant will be set upon the door of my tent when it is ready for private audience,"
the orc king said - said again, obviously. "When you see it, you will come for a
private parlay."
"Private?" Dnark dared ask. "Or am I to bring my second?"
Obould, his smile smug indeed, looked past him to Ung-thol. "Please do," he said,
and it seemed to Dnark the enticing purr of a cat looking to sharpen its claws.
Wearing a smug and superior smile, Obould walked past him, carrying Kna and with
Nukkels scurrying in tow. Dnark scanned wider as the king and his entourage moved
off to the tent, noting the glances from the king's warriors filtering across his
clan, and identifying those likely serving the priests. If it came to blows, Dnark
would have to direct his own warriors against the magic-wielding fanatics, first
and foremost.
He winced as he considered that, seeing the futility laid bare before him. If it
came to blows with King Obould and his guard, Dnark's clan would scatter and flee
for their lives, and nothing he could say would alter that.
He looked to Ung-thol, who stared at Obould without blinking, watching the king's
every receding step.
Ung-thol knew the truth of it as well, Dnark realized, and wondered - not for the
first time - if Toogwik Tuk hadn't led them down a fool's path.
"The flag of Obould is on the door," Ung-thol said to his chieftain a short while
later.
"Let us go, then," said Dnark. "It would not do to keep the king waiting."
Dnark started off, but Ung-thol grabbed him by the arm. "We must not underestimate
King Obould's network of spies," the shaman said. "He has sorted the various tribes
carefully throughout the region, where those more loyal to him remain watchful of
others he suspects. He may know that you and I were
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in the east. And he knows of the attack on the Moonwood, for Grguch's name echoes
through the valleys, a new hero in the Kingdom of Many-Arrows."
Dnark paused and considered the words, then began to nod.
"Does Obould consider Grguch a hero?" Ung-thol asked.
"Or a rival?" asked Dnark, and Ung-thol was glad that they were in agreement, and
that Dnark apparently understood the danger to them. "Fortunately for King Obould,
he has a loyal chieftain" -
Dnark patted his hand against his own chest - "and wise shaman who can bear witness
here that Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck are valuable allies."
With a nod at Ung-thol's agreeing grin, Dnark turned and started for the tent. The
shaman's grin faded as soon as Dnark looked away. None of it, Ung-thol feared, was
to be taken lightly. He had been at the ceremony wherein King Obould had been blessed
with the gifts of Gruumsh. He had watched the
orc king
break a bull's neck with his bare hands. He had seen the remains of a powerful drow
priestess, her throat bitten out by Obould after the king had been taken down the
side of a ravine in a landslide brought about by a priestess's earth-shaking enchantment.
Watching Grguch's work in the east had been heady, invigorating and inspiring, to
be sure. Clan Karuck showed the fire and mettle of the very best
orc
warriors, and the priest of Gruumsh could not help but feel his heart swell with
pride at their fast and devastating accomplishments.
But Ung-thol was old enough and wise enough to temper his elation and soaring hopes
against the reality that was King Obould Many-Arrows.
As he and Dnark entered the third and final off-set entrance into Obould's inner
chamber, Ung-thol was only reminded of that awful reality. King Obould, seeming very
much the part, sat on his throne on a raised dais, so that even though he was seated,
he towered over any who stood before him. He wore his trademark black armor, patched
back together after his terrific battle with the drow, Drizzt Do'Urden. His greatsword,
which could blaze with magical fire at Obould's will, rested against the arm of his
throne, within easy reach.
Obould leaned forward at their approach, dropping one elbow on his knee and stroking
his chin. He didn't blink as he measured the steps of the pair, his focus almost
exclusively on Dnark. Ung-thol hoped that his wrath, if it came forth, would be equally
selective.
"Wolf Jaw performs brilliantly," Obould greeted, somewhat dissipating the tension.
Dnark bowed low at the compliment. "We are an old and disciplined clan."
"I know that well," said the king. "And you are a respected and feared tribe. It
is why I keep you close to Many-Arrows, so that the center of my line will never
waver."
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Dnark bowed again at the compliment, particularly the notion that Wolf Jaw was feared,
which was about as high as orc
praise ever climbed. Ung-thol considered his chieftain's expression when he came
back up from that bow. When the smug Dnark glanced his way, Ung-thol shot him a stern
but silent retort, reminding him of the truth of Obould's reasoning. He was keeping
Wolf Jaw close, indeed, but Dnark had to understand that Obould's aim was more to
keep an eye on the tribe than to shore up his center. After all, there was no line
of battle, so there was no center to fortify.
"The winter was favorable to us all," said Dnark. "Many towers have been built, and
miles of wall."
"Every hilltop, Chieftain Dnark," said Obould. "If the dwarves or their allies come
against us, they will have to fight over walls and towers on every hilltop."
Dnark glanced at Ung-thol again, and the cleric nodded for him to let it go at that.
There was no need to engage Obould in an argument of defensive versus offensive preparations,
certainly. Not with their schemes unfolding in the east.
"You were gone from your tribe," Obould stated, and Ung-thol started and blinked,
wondering if the perceptive Obould had just read his mind.
"My king?" Dnark asked.
"You have been away in the east," said Obould. "With your shaman."
Dnark had done a good job keeping his composure, Ung-thol believed, but then the
shaman winced when Dnark swallowed hard.
"There are many rogue orcs left over from the fierce battles with the dwarves," Dnark
said. "Some strong and seasoned warriors, even shamans, have lost all their kin and
clan. They have no banner."
As soon as he spoke the words, Dnark shrank back a step, for a murderous scowl crossed
Obould's powerful features. At either side of the tent chamber, guards bristled,
a couple even growling.
"They have no banner?" Obould calmly - too calmly - asked.
"They have the flag of Many-Arrows, of course," Ung-thol dared to interject, and
Obould's eyes widened then narrowed quickly as he regarded the shaman. "But your
kingdom is arranged by tribe, my king. You send tribes to the hills and the vales
to do the work, and those who have lost their tribes know not where to go. Dnark
and other chieftains are trying to sweep up the rogues to better organize your kingdom,
so that you, with great plans opening wide before your Gruumsh-inspired visions,
are not cluttered by such minor details."
Obould eased back in his throne and the moment of distress seemed to slip back from
the edge of disaster. Of course with Obould, whose temper had left uncounted dead
in his murderous wake, none could be sure.
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"You were in the east," Obould said after many heartbeats had passed. "Near the Moonwood."
"Not so near, but yes, my king," said Dnark.
"Tell me of Grguch."
The blunt demand rocked Dnark back on his heels and crippled his denial as he replied
with incredulity, "Grguch?"
"His name echoes through the kingdom," said Obould. "You have heard it."
"Ah, you mean Chieftain Grguch," Dnark said, changing the inflection of the name
to put emphasis on the "Gr," and acting as if Obould's further remarks had spurred
recognition. "Yes, I have heard of him."
"You have met him," said Obould, his tone and the set of his face conveying that
his assertion was not assumption, but known fact.
Dnark glanced at Ung-thol, and for a moment the shaman thought his chieftain might
just turn on his heel and flee. And indeed, Ung-thol wanted to do the same. Not for
the first time and not for the last time, he wondered how they could have been foolish
enough to dare conspire against King Obould Many-Arrows.
A soft chuckle from Dnark settled Ung-thol, though, and reminded him that Dnark had
risen through difficult trials to become the chieftain of an impressive tribe -
a tribe that even then surrounded Obould's tent.
"Chieftain Grguch of Clan Karuck, yes," Dnark said, matching Obould's stare. "I witnessed
his movement through Teg'ngun's Dale near the Surbrin. He was marching to the Moonwood,
though we did not know that at the time. Would that I had, for I would have enjoyed
witnessing his slaughter of the foolish elves."
"You approve of his attack?"
"The elves have been striking at your minions in the east day after day," said Dnark.
"I think it good that the pain of battle was taken to their forest, and that the
heads of several of the creatures were placed upon pikes at the river's edge. Chieftain
Grguch did you a great service. I had thought his assault on the Moonwood to be at
your command."
He ended with an inflection of confusion, even suspicion, craftily turning the event
back upon the orc king.
"Our enemies do not avoid their deserved punishment," Obould said without hesitation.
At Dnark's side, Ung-thol realized that his companion's quick-thinking had likely
just saved both their lives. For King Obould would not kill them and tacitly admit
that Grguch had acted independent of the throne.
"Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck will serve the kingdom well," Dnark pressed. "They
are as fierce as any tribe I have ever seen."
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"They breed with ogres, I am told."
"And carry many of the brutes along to anchor their lines."
"Where are they now?"
"In the east, I expect," said Dnark.
"Near the Moonwood still?"
"Likely," said Dnark. "Likely awaiting the response of our enemies. If the ugly elves
dare cross the Surbrin, Chieftain Grguch will pike more heads on the riverbank."
Ung-thol eyed Obould carefully through Dnark's lie, and he easily recognized that
the king knew more than he was letting on. Word of Grguch's march to the south had
reached Obould's ear. Obould knew that the chieftain of Clan Karuck was a dangerous
rival.
Ung-thol studied Obould carefully, but the cunning warrior king gave little more
away. He offered some instructions for shoring up the defense of the region, included
a punishing deadline, then dismissed the pair with a wave of his hand as he turned
his attention to the annoying Kna.
"Your hesitance in admitting your knowledge of Grguch warned him," Ung-thol whispered
to Dnark as they left the tent and crossed the muddy ground to rejoin their clan.
"He pronounced it wrong."
"You did."
Dnark stopped and turned on the shaman. "Does it matter?"
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Chapter
CHAPTER
18
THE
SURBRIN
BRIDGE
The wizard held his hand out, fingers locked as if it were the talon of a great hunting
bird. Sweat streaked his forehead despite the cold wind, and he locked his face into
a mask of intensity.
The stone was too heavy for him, but he kept up his telekinetic assault, willing
it into the air. Down at the riverbank, dwarf masons on the far bank furiously cranked
their come-alongs, while others rushed around the large stone, throwing an extra
strap or chain where needed. Still, despite the muscle and ingenuity of the dwarf
craftsmen, and magical aid from the Silverymoon wizard, the floating stone teetered
on the brink of disaster.
"Joquim!" another citizen of Silverymoon called.
"I ... can't ... hold ... it," the wizard Joquim grunted back, each word forced out
through gritted teeth.
The second wizard shouted for help and rushed down to Joquim's side. He had little
in the way of telekinetic prowess, but he had memorized a dweomer for just that eventuality.
He launched into his spellcasting and threw his magical energies out toward the shaking
stone. It stabilized, and when a third member of the Silverymoon contingent rushed
over, the balance shifted in favor of the builders. It began to seem almost effortless
as the combination of dwarf and wizard guided the stone out over the rushing waters
of the River Surbrin.
With a dwarf on the end of a beam guiding the way, the team with the come-alongs
positioned the block perfectly over the even larger stones that had already been
set in place. The guide dwarf called for a hold, rechecked the alignment, then lifted
a red flag.
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The wizards eased up their magic gradually, slowly lowering the block.
"Go get the next one!" the dwarf yelled to his companions and the wizards on the
near bank. "Seems the Lady's almost ready for this span!"
All eyes turned to the work at the near bank, the point closest to Mithral Hall,
where Lady Alustriel stood on the first length of span over the river, her features
serene as she whispered the words of a powerful spell of creation. Cold and strong
she appeared, almost godlike above the rushing waters. Her white robes, highlighted
in light green, blew about her tall and slender form. There was hardly a gasp of
surprise when a second stone span appeared before her, reaching out to the next set
of supports.
Alustriel's arms slipped down to her sides and she gave a deep exhale, her shoulders
slumping as if her effort had thrown out more than magical strength.
"Amazing," Catti-brie said, coming up beside her and inspecting the newly conjured
slab.
"The Art, Catti-brie," Alustriel replied. "Mystra's blessings are wondrous indeed."
Alustriel turned a sly look her way. "Perhaps I can tutor you."
Catti-brie scoffed at the notion, but coincidentally, as she threw her head back,
she twisted her leg at an angle that sent a wave of pain rolling through her damaged
hip, and she was reminded that her days as a warrior might indeed be at their end
- one way or another.
"Perhaps," she said.
Alustriel's smile beamed genuine and warm. The Lady of Silverymoon glanced back and
motioned to the dwarf masons, who flooded forward with their tubs of mortar to seal
and smooth the newest span.
"The conjured stone is permanent?" Catti-brie asked as she and Alustriel moved back
down the ramp to the bank.
Alustriel looked at her as if the question was completely absurd. "Would you have
it vanish beneath the wheels of a wagon?"
They both laughed at the flippant response.
"I mean, it is real stone," the younger woman clarified.
"Not an illusion, to be sure."
"But still the stuff of magic?"
Alustriel furrowed her brow as she considered the woman. "The stone is as real as
anything the dwarves could drag in from a quarry, and the dweomer that created it
is permanent."
"Unless it is dispelled," Catti-brie replied, and Alustriel said, "Ah," as she caught
on to the woman's line of thought.
"It would take Elminster himself to even hope to dispel the work of Lady Alustriel,"
another nearby wizard interjected.
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Catti-brie looked from the mage to Alustriel.
"A bit of an exaggeration, of course," Alustriel admitted. "But truly, any mage of
sufficient power to dispel my creations would also have in his arsenal evocations
that could easily destroy a bridge constructed without magic."
"But a conventional bridge can be warded against lightning bolts and other destructive
evocations," Catti-brie reasoned.
"As this one shall be," promised Alustriel.
"And so it will be as safe as if the dwarves had ..." Catti-brie started, and Alustriel
finished the thought with her, "dragged the stones from a quarry."
They shared another laugh, until Catti-brie added, "Except from Alustriel."
The Lady of Silverymoon stopped cold and turned to stare directly at Catti-brie.
"It is an easy feat for a wizard to dispel her own magic, so I am told," Catti-brie
remarked. "There will be no wards in place to prevent you from waving your hands
and making expanse after expanse disappear."
A wry grin crossed Alustriel's beautiful face, and she cocked an eyebrow, an expression
of congratulations for the woman's sound and cunning reasoning.
"An added benefit should the orcs overrun this position and try to use the bridge
to spread their darkness to other lands," Catti-brie went on.
"Other lands like Silverymoon," Alustriel admitted.
"Do not be quick to sever the bridge to Mithral Hall, Lady," Catti-brie said.
"Mithral Hall is connected to the eastern bank through tunnels in any case," Alustriel
replied. "We will not abandon your father, Catti-brie. We will never abandon King
Bruenor and the valiant dwarves of Clan Battlehammer."
Catti-brie's responding smile came easy to her, for she didn't doubt a word of the
pledge. She glanced back at the conjured slabs and nodded appreciatively, both for
the power in creating them and the strategy of Alustriel in keeping the power to
easily destroy them.
*****
The late afternoon sun reflected moisture in Toogwik Tuk's jaundiced brown eyes,
for he could hardly contain his tears of joy at the ferocious reminder of what it
was to be an orc
. Grguch's march through the three remaining villages had been predictably successful,
and after Toogwik Tuk had delivered his perfected sermon, every able-bodied
orc
warrior of those villages had eagerly marched out in Grguch's wake. That alone would
have garnered the fierce chieftain of Clan Karuck another two hundred soldiers.
But more impressively, they soon enough discovered, came the reinforcements
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from villages through which they had not passed. Word of Grguch's march had spread
across the region directly north of Mithral Hall, and the war-thirsty orc
s of many tribes, frustrated by the winter pause, had rushed to the call.
As he crossed the impromptu encampment, Toogwik Tuk surveyed the scores - no, hundreds
- of new recruits. Grguch would hit the dwarven fortifications with closer to two
thousand orc
s than one thousand, by the shaman's estimation. Victory at the Surbrin was all but
assured. Could King Obould hope to hold back the tide of war after that?
Toogwik Tuk shook his head with honest disappointment as he considered the once-great
leader. Something had happened to Obould. The shaman wondered if it might have been
the stinging defeat Bruenor's dwarves had handed him in his ill-fated attempt to
breach Mithral Hall's western door. Or had it been the loss of the conspiring dark
elves and Gerti
Ore
lsdottr and her frost giant minions? Or perhaps it had come about because of the
loss of his son, Urlgen, in the fight on the cliff tops north of Keeper's Dale.
Whatever the cause, Obould hardly seemed the same fierce warrior who had led the
charge into Citadel Adbar, or who had begun his great sweep south from the Spine
of the World only a few months before. Obould had lost his understanding of the essence
of the
orc. He had lost the voice of Gruumsh within his heart.
"He demands that we wait," the shaman mused aloud, staring out at the teeming swarm,
"and yet they come by the score to the promise of renewed battle with the cursed
dwarves."
Never more certain of the righteousness of his conspiracy, the shaman moved quickly
toward Grguch's tent. Obould no longer heard the call of Gruumsh, but Grguch surely
did, and after the dwarves were smashed and chased back into their holes, how might
King Obould claim dominion over the chieftain of Clan Karuck? And how might Obould
secure fealty from the tens of thousands of
orc
s he had brought forth from their holes with promises of conquest?
Obould demanded they sit and wait, that they till the ground like peasant human farmers.
Grguch demanded of them that they sharpen their spears and swords to better cut the
flesh of dwarves.
Grguch heard the call of Gruumsh.
The shaman found the chieftain standing on the far side of a small table, surrounded
by two of his Karuck warlords and with a much smaller orc
standing across from them and manipulating a pile of dirt and stones that had been
set upon the table. As he neared, Toogwik Tuk recognized the terrain being described
by the smaller
orc
, for he had seen the mountain ridge that stretched from the eastern end of Mithral
Hall down to the Surbrin.
"Welcome, Gruumsh-speaker," Grguch greeted him. "Join us."
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Toogwik Tuk moved to an open side of the table and inspected the scout's work, which
depicted a wall nearly completed to the Surbrin and a series of towers anchoring
it.
"The dwarves have been industrious throughout the winter," said Grguch. "As you feared.
King Obould's pause has given them strength."
"They will anticipate an attack like ours," the shaman remarked.
"They have witnessed no large movements of forces to indicate it," said Grguch.
"Other than our own," Toogwik Tuk had to remind him.
But Grguch laughed it off. "Possibly they have taken note of many orcs now moving
nearer to their position," he agreed. "They may expect an attack in the coming tendays."
The two Karuck warlords beside the brutish chieftain chuckled at that.
"They will never expect one this very night," said Grguch.
Toogwik Tuk's face dropped into a sudden frown, and he looked down at the battlefield
in near panic. "We have not even sorted out our forces ..." he started to weakly
protest.
"There is nothing to sort," Grguch replied. "Our tactic is swarm fodder and nothing
more."
"Swarm fodder?" asked the shaman.
"A simple swarm to and through the wall," said Grguch. "Darkness is our ally. Speed
and surprise are our allies. We will hit them as a wave flattens the ridge of a boot
print on a beach."
"You know not the techniques of the many tribes who have come into the fold."
"I don't need to," Grguch declared. "I don't need to count my warriors. I don't need
to place them in lines and squares, to form reserves and ensure that our flanks are
protected back far enough to prevent an end run by our enemies. That is the way of
the dwarf." He paused and looked around at the stupidly grinning warlords and the
excited scout. "I see no dwarves in this room," he said, and the others laughed.
Grguch looked back at Toogwik Tuk. His eyes went wide, as if in alarm, and he sniffed
at the air a couple of times. "No," he declared, looking again to his warlords. "I
smell no dwarves in this room."
The laughter that followed was much more pronounced, and despite his reservations,
Toogwik Tuk was wise enough to join in.
"Tactics are for dwarves," the chieftain explained. "Discipline is for elves. For
orcs, there is only ..." He looked directly at Toogwik Tuk.
"Swarm fodder?" the shaman asked, and a wry grin spread on Grguch's ugly face.
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"Chaos," he confirmed. "Ferocity. Bloodlust and abandon. As soon as the sun has set,
we begin our run. All the way to the wall. All the way to the Surbrin. All the way
to the eastern doors of Mithral Hall. Half, perhaps more than half, of our warriors
will find tonight the reward of glorious death."
Toogwik Tuk winced at that, and silently berated himself. Was he beginning to think
more like Obould?
Grguch reminded him of the words of Gruumsh One-eye. "They will die with joy," the
chieftain promised. "Their last cry will be of elation and not agony. And any who
die otherwise, with regret or with sorrow or with fear, should have been slaughtered
in sacrifice to Gruumsh before our attack commenced!"
The sudden volume and ferocity of his last proclamation set Toogwik Tuk back on his
heels and had both the Clan Karuck warlords and guards at the perimeter of the room
growling and gnashing their teeth. For a brief moment, Toogwik Tuk almost reconsidered
his call to the deepest holes to rouse Chieftain Grguch.
Almost.
"There has been no sign from the dwarves that they know of our march," Grguch told
a great gathering later that day, when the sunlight began to wane. Toogwik Tuk noted
the dangerous priest Hakuun standing at his side, and that gave the younger shaman
pause. He got the feeling that Hakuun had been watching him all along.
"They do not see the doom that has come against them," Grguch ordered. "Do not shout
out, but run. Run fast to the wall, without delay, and whispering praise for Gruumsh
with every stride."
There were no lines or coordinated movements, just a wild charge begun miles from
the goal. There were no torches to light the way, no magical lights conjured by Toogwik
Tuk or the other priests of Gruumsh. They were
orcs, after all, raised in the upper tunnels of the lightless Underdark.
The night was their ally, the dark their comfort.
*****
Once, when he was a child, Hralien had found a large pile of sand down by one of
the Moonwood's two lakes. From a distance, that mound of light-colored sand had seemed
discolored with streaks of red, and as he moved closer, young Hralien realized that
the streaks weren't discolored sand, but were actually moving upon the surface of
the mound. Being young and inexperienced, he had at first feared that he had happened
upon a tiny volcano, perhaps.
On closer inspection, though, the truth had come clear to him, for the pile
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of sand had been an ant mound, and the red streaks were lines of the six-legged creatures
marching to and fro.
Hralien thought of that long-ago experience as he witnessed the charge of the orc
s, swarming the small, rocky hills north of King Bruenor's eastern defenses. Their
movements seemed no less frenetic, and truly their march appeared no less determined.
Given their speed and intensity, and the obstacle that awaited them barely two miles
to the south, Hralien recognized their intent.
The elf bit his lip as he remembered his promise to Drizzt Do'Urden. He looked south,
sorting out the landscape and recalling the trails that would most quickly return
him to Mithral Hall.
Then he was running, and fearing that he could not keep his promise to his drow friend,
for the orc
line stretched ahead of him and the creatures had not far to travel. With great
grace and agility, Hralien sprang from stone to stone. He leaped up and grabbed a
low tree branch and swung out across a narrow chasm, landing lightly on the other
side and in a full run. He moved with hardly a whisper of sound, unlike the
orcs, whose heavy steps echoed in his keen elf's ears.
He knew that he should be cautious, for he could ill afford the delay if he happened
into a fight. But neither could he slow his run and carefully pick his path, for
some of the orc
s were ahead of him, and the dwarves would need every heartbeat of warning he could
give them. So he ran on, leaping and scrambling over bluffs and through low dales,
where the melting snow had streamed down and pooled in clear, cold pockets. Hralien
tried to avoid those pools as much as possible, for they often concealed slick ice.
But even with his great dexterity and sharp vision, he occasionally splashed through,
cringing at the unavoidable sound.
At one point, he heard an orc
cry out, and feared that he had been spotted. Many strides later, he realized that
the creature was just calling to a companion, a stark reminder that the lead runners
and scouts of the brutish force were all around him.
Finally he left the sounds of orcs behind, for though the brutes could move with
great speed, they could not match the pace of a dexterous elf, even across such broken
ground.
Soon after, coming up over a rocky rise, Hralien caught sight of squat stone towers
in the south, running down from tall mountains to the silvery, moonlit snake that
was the River Surbrin.
"Too soon," the elf whispered in dismay, and he glanced back as if expecting Obould's
entire army to roll over him. He shook his head and winced, then sprinted off for
the south.
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*****
"We will have it completed within the tenday," Alustriel said to Catti-brie, the
two sitting with some of the other Silverymoon wizards around a small campfire. One
of the wizards, a robust human with thick salt and pepper hair and a tightly trimmed
goatee, had conjured the flames and was playing with them, casting cantrips to change
their color from orange to white to blue and red. A second wizard, a rather eccentric
half-elf with shiny black hair magically streaked by a bloom of bright red locks,
joined in and wove enchantments to make the red flames form into the shape of a small
dragon. Seeing the challenge, the first wizard likewise formed blue flames, and the
two spellcasters set their fiery pets into a proxy battle. Almost immediately, several
other wizards began excitedly placing their bets.
Catti-brie watched with amusement and interest -
more than she would have expected, and Alustriel's words to her about dabbling in
the dark arts flitted unbidden through her thoughts. Her experience with wizards
was very limited, and mostly involved the unpredictable and dangerously foolish Harpell
family from Longsaddle.
"Asa Havel will win," Alustriel whispered to her, leaning in close and indicating
the half-elf wizard who had manipulated the red flame. "Duzberyl is far more powerful
at manipulating fire, but he has taxed his powers to their limit this day conjuring
bright hot flames to seal the stone. And Asa Havel knows
it.
"So he challenged," Catti-brie whispered back. "And his friends know, too, so they
wager."
"They would wager anyway," Alustriel explained. "It is a matter of pride. Whatever
is lost here will be reclaimed soon enough in another challenge."
Catti-brie nodded and watched the unfolding drama, the many faces, elf and human
alike, glowing in varying shades and hues in the uneven light, turning blue as the
blue dragon leaped atop the red, but then drifting back, green and yellow and toward
a feverish red as Asa Havel's drake filtered up through Duzberyl's and gradually
gained supremacy. It was all good-natured, of course, but Catti-brie didn't miss
the intensity etched onto the faces of the combatants and onlookers alike. It occurred
to her that she was looking into an entirely different world. She could relate it
to the drinking games, and the arm-wrestling and sparring that so often took place
in the taverns of Mithral Hall, for though the venue was different, the emotions
were not. Still, there remained enough of a difference to intrigue her. It was a
battle of strength, but of mental strength and concentration, and not of muscle and
intestinal fortitude.
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"Within a month, you could form flames into such shapes, yourself," Alus-triel teased.
Catti-brie looked at her and laughed dismissively, but that hardly hid her interest.
She looked back to the fire just in time to see Duzberyl's blue roll over and consume
Asa Havel's red, contrary to Alustriel's prediction. The backers of both wizards
gasped in surprise and Duzberyl gave a yelp that was more shock than of victory.
Catti-brie's gaze turned to Asa Havel, and her surprise turned to confusion.
The half-elf was not looking at the fight, and seemed oblivious to the fact that
his dragon had been consumed by the human's blue. He stared out to the north, his
sea-blue eyes scanning high above the flames. Catti-brie felt Alustriel turn beside
her, then stand. The woman glanced over her shoulder, up at the dark wall, but shook
her head slightly in confusion, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Beside her, Alustriel
cast a minor spell.
Other wizards rose and peered out to the north.
"An elf has come," Alustriel said to Catti-brie. "And the dwarves are scrambling."
"It's an attack," Asa Havel announced, rising and moving past the two women. He looked
right at Alustriel and the princess of Mithral Hall and asked, "Ores?"
"Prepare for battle," Alustriel said to her contingent. "Area spells to disrupt any
charge."
"We have little left this day," Duzberyl reminded her.
In response, Alustriel reached inside one of the folds of her robes and drew forth
a pair of slender wands. She half-turned and tossed one to Duzberyl. "Your necklace,
too, if needed," she instructed, and the human nodded and brought a hand to a gaudy
choker he wore, its golden links set with large stones like rubies of varying sizes,
including one so large that Catti-brie couldn't have closed her fist around it.
"Talindra, to the gates of the dwarven halls," Alustriel said to a young elf female.
"Warn the dwarves and help them sort the battle."
The elf nodded and took a few fast steps to the west, then disappeared with a flash
of blue-white light. A second flash followed almost instantly, over near the hall's
eastern gates, transporting Talindra to her assigned position, the surprised Catti-brie
assumed, for she couldn't actually see the young elf.
She turned back to hear Alustriel positioning Asa Havel and another pair. "Secure
fast passage to the far bank, should we need it. Prepare enough to carry any dwarves
routed from the wall."
Catti-brie heard the first shouts from the wall, followed by the blare of
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horns, many horns, from beyond to the north. Then came the blare of one that overwhelmed
all the others, a resonating, low-pitched grumble that shook the stones beneath Catti-brie's
feet.
"Damn Obould to the Nine Hells," Catti-brie whispered, and she grimaced at the realization
that she had loaned Taulmaril to Drizzt. She looked over at Alustriel. "I haven't
my bow, or a sword. A weapon, please? Conjure one or produce one from a deep pocket."
To Catti-brie's surprise, the Lady of Silverymoon did just that, pulling yet another
wand from inside her robes. Catti-brie took it, not knowing what to make of the thing,
and when she looked back at Alustriel, the tall woman was tugging a ring from her
finger.
"And this," she said, handing over the thin gold band set with a trio of sparkling
diamonds. "I trust you are not already in the possession of two magical rings."
Catti-brie took it and held it pressed between her thumb and index finger, her expression
dumbfounded.
"The command word for the wand is 'twell-in-sey,' " Alustriel explained. "Or 'twell-in-sey-sey'
if you wish to loose two magical bolts."
"I don't know ..."
"Anyone can use it," Alustriel assured her. "Point it at your target and speak the
word. For the bigger orcs, choose two."
"But..."
"Put the ring on your finger and open your mind to it, for it will impart to you
its dweomers. And know that they are powerful indeed." With that, Alustriel turned
away, and Catti-brie understood that the lesson was at its end.
The Lady of Silverymoon and her wizards, except for those working near the river
preparing a magical escape to the far bank, headed off for the wall, nearly all of
them drawing forth wands or rods, or switching rings and other jewelry. Catti-brie
watched it all with an undeniable sense of excitement, so much so that she was trembling
so badly she could hardly line up the ring to slip it on her finger.
Finally she did, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt as if she
were looking up at the heavens, to see stars shooting across the darkened night sky,
to see flashes of brilliance so magnificent that it seemed to her as if the gods
must be throwing bolts at each other.
The first sounds of battle shook her from her contemplation. She opened her eyes
and nearly fell over due to dizziness from the sudden change, as if she had just
stepped back to solid ground from the Astral Plane.
She started after Alustriel, inspecting the wand, and garnered quickly which end
to hold from a leather strap wrapped diagonally as a hand grip. At least she
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hoped it was the right end, and she winced at the thought of unloading enchanted
bolts of magic into her own face. She dismissed the worry, noting that she wasn't
gaining much on Alustriel, and noting more pointedly that the dwarves at the wall
scrambled and yelled for support in many places already. She dropped her arms down
beside her and ran as fast as her battered hip would allow.
"Twell-in-sey," she whispered, trying to get the inflection correct.
She did.
The wand discharged and a red dart of energy burst forth, snapping into the ground
with a hiss right before her running feet. Catti-brie yelped and stumbled, nearly
falling over. She caught her balance and her composure, and was glad that no one
seemed to notice.
On she ran, or tried to, but a wave of hot fire ran up her leg and nearly toppled
her yet again. She looked down to her boot, smoking and charred on the side just
back of her little toe. She paused again and composed herself, taking heart that
the wound was not too severe, and thanking Moradin himself that Lady Alustriel hadn't
given her a wand of lightning bolts.
* * * * *
The orc gained the wall in a wild rush, stabbing powerfully at the nearest dwarf,
who seemed an easy kill as he was busy driving a second orc back over the wall and
into the darkness.
But that dwarf, Charmorffe Dredgewelder of Fine Family Yellowbeard - so named because
none of the Dredgewelders was ever known to have a yellow beard -
was neither particularly surprised nor particularly impressed by the aggressive move.
Trained under Thibbledorf Pwent himself, having served more than a score of years
in the Gutbuster Brigade, Charmorffe had faced many a finer foe than that pathetic
creature.
As Charmorffe had never gotten familiar with a formal buckler, his plate-shielded
arm swooped down to intercept the spear, blocking it solidly and sweeping it back
behind him as he turned. That same movement brought his cudgel swinging around, and
a quick three-step forward caught the overbalanced
orc
cleanly in range. The creature grunted, as did the dwarf, as the cudgel slammed
it right behind the shoulder, launching it into a dive and spin forward, right off
the ten-foot parapet.
As the path before him cleared, Charmorffe looked down the tip of an arrow set on
a short bow. He yelped and fell over backward, buckling at both his knees, and as
soon as he was clear, Hralien let fly. The missile hummed through the air right above
the dwarf, and splattered into the chest of an
orc that had been sneaking up on him from behind.
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As soon as his back hit the stone, Charmorffe snapped all of his muscles forward,
throwing his arms up high, and brought himself right back to his feet.
"That's twice I'm owin' ye, ye durned elf!" the dwarf protested. "First for savin'
us all, and now for savin' meself!"
"I did neither, good dwarf," Hralien replied, running across the parapet to the waist-high
wall, where he set his bow to work immediately. "I've faith that Clan Battlehammer
is more than able to save itself."
He shot off an arrow as he spoke, but as soon as he finished, a large orc rose into
the air right before him, sword ready to strike a killing blow. The orc
landed lightly on the wall top and struck, but a spinning cudgel hit both the sword
and the
orc, turning its blow harmlessly short. And when the orc
managed to hold its balance and throw itself forward at Hralien, it too was intercepted,
by a flying Charmorffe Dredgewelder. The dwarf connected with a shoulder block, driving
the
orc tight against the wall. The orc
began raining ineffective blows upon the dwarf's back for Charmorffe's powerful
legs kept grinding, pressing in even tighter.
Hralien stabbed the orc in the eye with an arrow.
The elf jumped back fast, though, set the arrow and let fly, point blank into yet
another orc
flying up to the top of the wall. Hralien hit it squarely, and though its feet landed
atop the narrow rail, the jolt of the hit dropped it right
back off.
Charmorffe leaped up and clean-and-jerked the thrashing orc up high over his head.
The dwarf threw himself into the wall, which hit him about mid chest, and snapped
forward, tossing the orc
over. As he went forward, Charmorffe solved the riddle, for just below him, and
off to both sides as well, stood ogres, their backs tight against the wall. As each
bent low and cupped its hands down near the ground, another
orc ran up and stepped into that brace. A slight toss by the ogres had orcs sailing
up over the wall.
"Pig-faced goblin kissers," Charmorffe growled. He turned and shouted, "Rocks over
the wall, boys! We got ogres playing as ladders!"
Hralien rushed up beside Charmorffe, leaned far out and shot an arrow into the top
of the nearest ogre's head. He marveled at his handiwork, then saw it all the more
clearly as a fireball lit up the night, down to the east of his position, closer
to the Surbrin where the wall was far from complete.
When Hralien looked that way, he thought their position surely lost, for though Alustriel
and her wizards had entered the fray, a mass of huge orcs and larger foes swarmed
across the defenses.
"Run for Mithral Hall, good dwarf," the elf said.
"That's what I be thinking," said Charmorffe.
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*****
Duzberyl ambled toward the wall, grumbling incessantly. "Two hundred pieces of gold
for this one alone," he muttered, pulling another glittering red jewel from his enchanted
necklace. He reached back and threw it at the nearest
orc
s, but his estimate of distance in the low light was off and the jewel landed short
of the mark. Its fiery explosion still managed to engulf and destroy a couple of
the creatures, and the others fell back in full flight, shrieking with every stride.
But Duzberyl griped all the more. "A hundred gold an orc
," he grumbled, glancing back at Alustriel, who was far off to the side. "I could
hire an army of rangers to kill ten times the number for one-tenth the cost!" he
said, though he knew she was too far away to hear him.
And she wasn't listening anyway. She stood perfectly still, the wind whipping her
robes. She lifted one arm before her, a jeweled ring on her clenched fist sparking
with multicolored light.
Duzberyl had seen that effect before, but still he was startled when a bolt of bright
white lightning burst forth from Alustriel's ring, splitting the night. The powerful
wizard's aim was, as always, right on target, her bolt slamming an ogre in the face
as it climbed over the wall. Hair dancing wildly, head smoking, the brute flew back
into the darkness as Alustriel's bolt bounced away to hit another nearby attacker,
an
orc that seemed to simply melt into the stone. Again and again, Alustriel's chain
lightning leaped away, striking orc
or ogre or half-ogre, sending foes flying or spinning down with smoke rising from
bubbling skin.
But every vacancy was fast-filled, ten attackers for every one that fell, it seemed.
The apparent futility brought a renewed growl to Duzberyl's chubby face, and he stomped
along to a better vantage point.
*****
Limping from foot and hip, Catti-brie watched it all with equal if not greater frustration,
for at least Alustriel and her wizards were equipped to battle the monsters. The
woman felt naked without her bow, and even with the gifts Alustriel had offered,
she believed that she would prove more a burden than an asset.
She considered removing herself from the front lines, back to the bridge where she
might prove of some use to Asa Havel in directing the retreat, should it come to
that. That in mind, she glanced back -
and noted a small group of orcs sprinting along the riverbank toward the distracted
wizards.
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Catti-brie thrust forth the wand, but brought it back and punched out with her other
fist instead. The ring's teeming magical energies called out to her and she listened,
and though she didn't know exactly the effects of her call, she followed the magical
path toward the strongest sensation of stored energy.
The ring jolted once, twice, thrice, each burst sending forth a fiery ball at Catti-brie's
targets. Like twinkling little stars, they seemed, as if the ring had reached up
to the heavens and pulled celestial bodies down for its wielder to launch at her
enemies. At great speed, they shot out across the night, leaving fiery trails, and
when they reached the
orc
group, they exploded into larger blasts of consuming flames.
Ores shrieked and scrambled frantically, and more than one leaped into the river
to be washed away by cold, killing currents. Others rolled on the ground, trying
to douse the biting flames, and when that failed, they ran off like living torches
into the dark night, only to fall a few steps away, to crumble and burn on the frozen
ground.
It lasted only a heartbeat, but seemed like much longer to Catti-brie, who stood
transfixed, breathing hard, her eyes wide with shock. With a thought, she had blown
apart nearly a score of orc
s. As if they were nothing. As if she were a goddess, passing judgment on insignificant
creatures. Never had she felt such power!
At that moment, if someone had asked Catti-brie the Elvish name of her treasured
longbow, she would not have recalled it.
*****
"It's not to hold!" Charmorffe cried to Hralien, and a swipe of the dwarf's heavy
cudgel sent another orc flying aside.
Hralien wanted to shout back words of encouragement, but his view of the battlefield,
since he wielded a weapon that made it incumbent upon him to seek a wider perspective,
was more complete, and he understood that the situation was even worse than Charmorffe
likely believed.
Few dwarves came forth from Mithral Hall and a host of orcs poured through the lower,
uncompleted sections of the defensive wall. Huge orc
s, some two feet taller and more than a hundred pounds heavier than the dwarves.
Among them were true ogres, though it was hard for Hralien to distinguish where some
of the
orcs ended and the clusters of ogres began.
More orc
s came up over the wall, launched by their ogre stepstools, putting pressure on the
dwarves and preventing them from organizing a coordinated defense against the larger
mass rolling in from the east.
"It's not to hold!" Charmorffe yelled again, and the words rang true.
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Hralien knew that the end was coming fast. The wizards intervened -
one fireball then another, and a lightning chain that left many creatures smoking
on the ground. But that wouldn't be enough, and Hralien understood that the wizards
had been at their magical work all day long and had little power left to offer.
"Start the retreat," the elf said to Charmorffe. "To Mithral Hall!" Even as he spoke,
the orc mass surged forward, and Hralien feared that he and Charmorffe and the others
had waited too long.
* * * * *
"By the gods, and the gemstone vendors!" Duzberyl roared, watching the sudden break
in the dwarven line, the bearded folk sprinting back to the west along the wall,
leaping down from the parapets and veering straight for Mithral Hall's eastern door.
All semblance of a defensive posture had flown, creating a full and frantic retreat.
And it wouldn't be enough, the wizard calculated, for the orcs, hungry for dwarf
blood, closed with every stride. Duzberyl grimaced as a dwarf was swallowed in the
black cloud of the orc horde.
The portly wizard ran, and he reached up to his necklace, grasping the largest stone
of all. He tore it free, cursed the gemstone merchant again for good measure, and
heaved it with all his strength.
The magical grenade hit the base of the wall just behind the leading orc
s, and exploded, filling the area, even up onto the parapet, with biting, killing
fires. Those monsters immediately above and near the blast charred and died, while
others scrambled in an agonized and horrified frenzy, flames consuming them as they
ran. Panic hit the
orc line, and the dwarves ran free.
*****
"Mage," Grguch muttered as he alighted on the wall some distance back of the enormous
fireball.
"Of considerable power," said Hakuun, who stood beside him, having blessed himself
and Grguch with every conceivable ward and enhancement.
The chieftain turned back and fell prone on the parapet railing. "Hand it up," he
called down to the ogre who had flipped him up, indicating a weapon. A moment later,
Grguch stood again on the wall, hoisting on one shoulder a huge javelin at the end
of an atlatl.
"Mage," Grguch grumbled again with obvious disgust.
Hakuun held up a hand, motioning for the chieftain to pause. Then, from
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inside the orc priest, Jack the Gnome cast a most devious enchantment on the head
of the missile.
Grguch grinned and brought his shoulder back, shifting the angle of the ten-foot
missile. As Hakuun cast a second, complimentary spell upon the intended victim, Grguch
launched the spear with all his might.
* * * * *
The stubborn orc lurched toward her, one of its legs still showing flashes of biting
flame.
Catti-brie didn't flinch, didn't even start as the orc awkwardly threw a spear her
way. She kept her eyes locked on the creature, met its gaze and its hate, and slowly
lifted her wand.
She wished at that moment that she had Khazid'hea at her side, that she could engage
the vile creature in personal combat. The orc
took another staggering step, and Catti-brie uttered the command word.
The red missile sizzled into the orc
's chest, knocking it backward. Somehow it held its balance and even advanced another
step. Catti-brie said the last word of the trigger twice, as she had been schooled,
and the first red missile knocked the
orc back yet again, and the second dropped it to the ground where it writhed for
just a heartbeat before laying very still.
Catti-brie stood calm and motionless for a few moments, steadying herself. She turned
back to the wall, and blinked against the bursts of fiery explosions and the sharp
cuts of lightning bolts, a fury that truly left her breathless. In her temporary
blindness, she almost expected that the battle had ended, that the wizardly barrage
had utterly destroyed the attackers as she had laid low the small group by the river.
But there came the largest blast of all, a tremendous fireball some distance back
along the wall to the west, toward Mithral Hall. Catti-brie saw the truth of it,
saw the dwarves, and one elf, in desperate retreat, saw all semblance of defense
stripped from the wall, buried under the trampling boots of a charging
orc horde.
The wall was lost. All from Mithral Hall to the Surbrin was lost. Even Lady Alustriel
was withdrawing, not quite in full flight, but in a determined retreat.
Looking past Alustriel, Catti-brie noted Duzberyl. For a moment, she wondered why
he, too, was not in retreat, until she realized that he stood strangely, leaning
too far back for his legs to support him, his arms lolling limply at his sides.
One of the other wizards threw a lightning bolt - a rather feeble one - and in
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the flash, Catti-brie saw the huge javelin that had been driven half of its ten-foot
length through his chest, its tip buried into the ground, pinning the wizard in that
curious, angular stance.
* * * * *
"We have them routed! Now is the moment of victory!" a frustrated Hakuun said as
he stood alone behind the charging horde. He wanted to go with them, or to serve
as Jaculi's conduit, as he often had, to launch a barrage of devastating magic.
But Jaculi would not begin that barrage, and worse, the uninvited parasite interrupted
him every time he tried to use his more conventional shaman's magic.
A temporary moment, to be sure, Jack said in his thoughts.
"What foolishness ...?"
That is Lady Alustriel, Jack explained. Alustriel of the Seven Sisters. Do not draw
her attention!
"She is running!" Hakuun protested.
She will know me. She will recognize me. She will turn loose her army and all of
her wizards and all of her magic to destroy me, Jack explained.
It is an old grudge, but one that neither I nor she has forgotten! Do nothing to
draw her attention.
"She is running! We can kill her," said Hakuun.
Jack's incredulous laughter filled his head with dizzying volume, so much so that
the shaman couldn't even start off after Grguch and the others. He just stood there,
swaying, as the battle ended around him.
Inside Hakuun's head, Jack the brain mole breathed a lot easier. In truth, he had
no idea if Alustriel remembered the slight he had given her more than a century earlier.
But he surely remembered her wrath from that dangerous day, and it was nothing that
Jack the Gnome ever wanted to see again.
* * * * *
One of Lady Alustriel's wizards ran past Catti-brie at that moment, shouting, "Be
quick to the bridge!"
Catti-brie shook her head, but she knew it to be a futile denial. Mithral Hall hadn't
expected an assault of such ferocity so soon. They had been lulled by a winter of
inaction, by the many reports that the bulk of the
orc army remained in the west, near to Keeper's Dale, and by the widespread rumors
that King Obould had settled in place, satisfied with his gains.
"To the Nine Hells with you, Obould," she cursed under her breath. "I pray
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that Drizzt won't kill you, only that I may find the pleasure myself."
She turned and started for the bridge with as much speed as she could muster, stepping
awkwardly, as each time she brought her right foot forward, she felt the pangs from
her damaged hip, and each time she placed that foot onto the ground, she was reminded
by a burning sting of her foolishness with the magical wand.
When another wizard running by skidded to a stop beside her and offered her shoulder,
Catti-brie, for all her pride and all her determination to not be a burden, gratefully
accepted. If she had refused a hand, she would have fallen to the back of the line
and likely would have never made it to the bridge.
Asa Havel greeted the returning contingent, directing them to floating disks of glowing
magic that hovered nearby. As each seat filled, the wizard who had created it climbed
aboard, but for a few moments, none started out across the river, for none wanted
to leave the fleeing dwarves.
"Be gone!" Alustriel ordered them, coming in at the end of the line and with orc
pursuit not far behind. "Because of Duzberyl's sacrifice, the retreating dwarves
will make the safety of the hall, and I have sent a whisper on the wind to Talindra
to instruct them to hold fast their gates and wait for morning. Across the river
for us, to the safety of the eastern bank. Let us prepare our spells for a morning
reprisal that will leave our enemies melted between the river and King Bruenor's
hall."
Many heads nodded in agreement, and as Alustriel's eyes flashed with the sheerest
intensity, Catti-brie could only wonder what mighty dweomers the Lady of Silverymoon
would cast upon the foolish
orcs when dawn revealed them.
Seated on the edge of a disk, her feet dangling just inches above the cold and dark
rushing waters of the Surbrin, Catti-brie stared back at Mithral Hall with a mixture
of emotions, not least among them guilt, and fear for her beloved home and for her
beloved husband. Drizzt had gone to the north, and the army had descended from that
direction. Yet he had not returned in front of the marching force with a warning,
she knew, for she had not seen the lightning arrows of Taulmaril streaking through
the night sky.
Catti-brie looked down at the water and steeled her thoughts and her heart.
Asa Havel, sitting beside her, put a hand on her shoulder. When she looked at the
half-elf, he offered a warm and comforting smile. That smile turned a bit mischievous,
and he nodded down to her torn boot. Catti-brie followed his gaze then looked back
up at him, her face flushed with embarrassment.
But the elf nodded and shrugged, and lifted his red and black hair by his left ear,
turning his head to catch the moonlight so that she could take note of
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a white scar running up the side of his head. He took her wand and assumed a pensive
pose, tapping it against the side of his face, in line with the scar.
"You won't err like that again," he assured her with a playful wink, handing the
wand back. "And take heart, for your impressive meteor shower gave us the time to
complete the floating disks."
"It wasn't mine. It came from the ring Lady Alustriel loaned to me."
"However you accomplished it, your timing and your calm action saved our efforts.
You will find a role in the morning."
"When we avenge Duzberyl," Catti-brie said grimly.
Asa Havel nodded, and added, "And the dwarves who no doubt fell this dark night."
The shouting across the river ended soon after, silenced by a resounding bang
as Mithral Hall slammed shut her eastern door. But as the wizards and Catti-brie
set their camp for the evening, they heard more commotion across the dark water.
The
orc
s scrambled around the towers and the wizards' previous encampment, tearing and smashing
and looting, their grunts and assaults punctuated by the occasional
crack of a thrown boulder hitting the bridge abutments, and bouncing into the water.
Others settled down to sleep, but Catti-brie remained sitting, staring back at the
darkness, where an occasional fire sprang to life, consuming a tent or some other
item.
"I had an extra spellbook over there," one wizard grumbled.
"Aye, and I, the first twenty pages of a spell I was penning," said another.
"And I, my finest robes," a third wailed. "Oh, but orcs will burn for this!"
A short while later, a rustle from the other direction, back to the east, turned
Catti-brie and the few others who hadn't yet settled in for the night. The woman
rose and limped across to stand beside Alustriel, who greeted the Felbarran contingent
as they rushed in to investigate the night's tumult.
"We'd set off for Winter Edge to quarry more stones," explained the leader, a squat
and tough old character with a white beard and eyebrows so bushy that they hid his
eyes. "What in the grumble of a dragon's belly hit ye?"
"Obould," Catti-brie said before Alustriel could respond.
"So much then for the good intentions," said the Felbarran dwarf. "Never thought
them dogs'd sit quiet on the ground they'd taken. Mithral Hall get breached?"
"Never," said Catti-brie.
"Good enough then," said the dwarf. "We'll push 'em back north o' the wall in short
order."
"In the morning," said Alustriel. "My charges are preparing their spells. I have
ears and a voice in Mithral Hall to coordinate the counterattack."
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"Might be then that we'll kill 'em all and not let any be running," said the dwarf.
"More's the fun!"
"Set your camp by the river, and order your forces into small and swift groups,"
Alustriel explained. "We will open magical gates of transport to the other bank and
your speed and coordination in entering the battlefield will prove decisive."
"Pity them orcs, then," said the dwarf, and he nodded and bowed, then stormed off,
barking orders at his grim-faced forces.
He had barely gone a few strides, though, when there came a tremendous crash from
across the way, followed by wild orc cheering.
"A tower," Alustriel explained to the surprised stares of all around her.
Catti-brie cursed under her breath.
"We will extend our time at Mithral Hall," the Lady of Silverymoon promised her.
"Our enemies have exploited a vulnerability that cannot be allowed to hold. We will
sweep the orc
s back to the north and chase them far from the doors."
"Then finish the bridge," another nearby wizard offered, but Alustriel was shaking
her head.
"The wall first," she explained. "Our enemies did us a favor by revealing our weakness.
Woe to all in the North if the orc
s had taken this ground after the bridge's completion. So our first duty after they
are expelled is to complete and fortify that wall. Any
orc
excursion back to Mithral Hall's eastern door must come at a great cost to them,
and must provide the time for us to disassemble the bridge. We will finish the wall
and then we will finish the bridge."
"And then?" Catti-brie asked, and Alustriel and the other wizards looked at her curiously.
"You will return to Silverymoon?" Catti-brie asked.
"My duties are there. What else would you suggest?"
"Obould has shown his hand," Catti-brie replied. "There is no peace to be found while
he is camped north of Mithral Hall."
"You ask me to rally an army," said Alustriel.
"Have we a choice?"
Alustriel paused and considered the woman's words. "I know not," she admitted. "But
let us first concentrate on the battle at hand." She turned to the nearby wizards.
"Sleep well, and when you awaken, prepare your most devastating evocations. Join
with each other when you open your spellbooks, and coordinate your efforts and complement
your spells. I want these
orc
s utterly destroyed. Let their folly serve as a warning that will keep their kin
at bay long enough for us to strengthen the defenses."
Many nods came back at her, along with a sudden and unexpected shout, "For Duzberyl!"
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"Duzberyl!" another cried, and another, and even those Silverymoon wizards who had
settled down for the night rose and joined in the chant. Soon enough, even the Felbarran
dwarves joined in, though none of them knew what a "Duzberyl" might be.
It didn't matter.
More than once that night, Catti-brie awoke to the sound of a thunderous crash from
across the river. That only steeled her determination, though, and each time, she
fell back asleep with Lady Alustriel's promise in her thoughts. They would pay the
orcs back in full, and then some.
The preparations began before dawn, wizards ruffling the pages of their spellbooks,
dwarves sharpening weapons. With a wave of yet another wand, Lady Alustriel turned
herself into an owl, and flew off silently to scout out the coming battlefield.
She returned in mere moments, and reverted to her human form as the first rays of
dawn crept across the Surbrin, revealing to all the others what Alustriel had returned
to report.
Spellbooks snapped shut and the dwarves lowered their weapons and tools, moving to
the riverbank and staring in disbelief.
Not an orc was to be seen.
Alustriel set them to motion, her minions opening dimensional doors that soon enough
got all of them, dwarf, wizard, and Catti-brie alike, across the Surbrin, the last
of them crossing even as Mithral Hall's eastern door banged open and King Bruenor
himself led the charge out from the stronghold.
But all they found were a dozen dead dwarves, stripped naked, and a dead wizard,
still standing, held in place by a mighty javelin.
The wizards' encampment had been razed and looted, as had the small shacks the dwarf
builders had used. An assortment of boulders lay around the base of the damaged bridge
abutment, and all of the towers and a good portion of the northern wall had been
toppled.
And not an orc, dead or alive, was anywhere to be found.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
19
AN
ORC
KING'S
CONJECTURE
"By all the glories of Gruumsh!" Kna squealed happily when the reports of the victory
at the Surbrin made their way like wildfire back to King Obould's entourage. "We
have killed the dwarves!"
"We have stung them and left them vulnerable," said the messenger who had come from
the battle, an orc
named Oktule, who was a member of one of the many minor tribes that had been swept
up in the march of Chieftain Grguch
-
a name Oktule used often, Obould had sourly noted. "Their walls are reduced and the
winter is fast receding. They will have to work through the summer, building as they
defend their position at the Surbrin."
The orcs all around began to cheer wildly.
"We have severed Mithral Hall from their allies!"
The cheering only increased.
Obould sat there, digesting it all. He knew that Grguch hadn't done any such thing,
for the cunning dwarves had tunnels under the Surbrin, and many others that stretched
far to the south. Still, it was hard to dismiss the victory, from both practical
and symbolic terms. The bridge, had it been completed, would have provided a comfortable
and easy approach to Mithral Hall from Silverymoon, Winter Edge, the Moonwood, and
the other surrounding communities, and an easy way for King Bruenor to continue doing
his profitable business.
Of course, one orc's victory was another orc
's setback. Obould, too, had wanted to claim a piece of the Surbrin bridge, but not
in such a manner, not as an enemy. And certainly not at the cost of assuring the
mysterious Grguch all the glory. He fought hard to keep the scowl from his face.
To go against the tide
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of joy then was to invite suspicion, perhaps even open revolt.
"Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck did not hold the ground?" he asked, not so innocently,
for he knew well the answer.
"Lady Alustriel and a gang of wizards were with the dwarves," Oktule explained. "Chieftain
Grguch expected that the whole of the dwarven hall would come forth with the morning
light."
"No doubt with King Bruenor, Drizzt Do'Urden, and the rest of that strange companionship
at its head," Obould muttered.
"We did not have the numbers to hold against that," Oktule admitted.
Obould glanced past the messenger to the gathered crowd. He saw more trepidation
on their faces than anything else, along with an undercurrent of ... what? Suspicion?
The orc king stood up and stretched to his full height, towering over Oktule. He
looked up and let his gaze sweep in the mob then said with a wicked grin, "A great
victory anyway!"
The cheering reached new heights, and Obould, his anger beginning to boil within
him, used that opportunity to steal off into his tent, the ever-present Kna and the
priest Nukkels following close behind.
Inside the inner chamber, Obould dismissed all of his guards.
"You, too," Kna snapped at Nukkels, errantly presuming that the glorious news had
excited her partner as it had her.
Nukkels grinned at her and looked to Obould, who confirmed his suspicions.
"You, too," Obould echoed, but aimed the comment at Kna and not the priest. "Be gone
until I summon you back to my side."
Kna's yellow eyes widened in shock, and she instinctively moved to Obould's side
and began to curl sensually around him. But with one hand, with the strength of a
giant, he yanked her away.
"Do not make me ask you again," he said slowly and deliberately, as if he were a
parent addressing a child. With a flick of his wrist he sent Kna skipping and tumbling
backward, and she kept scrambling away, her eyes wide with shock as she locked her
stare on Obould's frightening expression.
"We must commune with Gruumsh to determine the next victory," Obould said to her,
purposely softening his visage. "You will play with Obould later."
That seemed to calm the idiot Kna a bit, and she even managed a smile as she exited
the chamber.
Nukkels started to talk then, but Obould stopped him with an upraised hand. "Give
Kna time to be properly away," the king said loudly. "For if my dear consort inadvertently
overhears the words of Gruumsh, the One-eye will demand her death."
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As soon as he finished, a rustling just to the side of the exit confirmed his suspicions
that his foolish Kna had been thinking to eavesdrop. Obould looked at Nukkels and
sighed.
"An informative idiot, at least," the priest offered, and Obould could only shrug.
Nukkels began spellcasting, waving his arms and releasing wards to silence the area
around himself and Obould.
When he finished, Obould nodded his approval and said, "I have heard the name of
Chieftain Grguch far too often of late. What do you know of Clan Karuck?"
It was Nukkels's turn to shrug. "Half-ogres, say the rumors, but I cannot confirm.
They are not known to me."
"And yet they heard my call."
"Many tribes have come forth from the deep holes of the Spine of the World, seeking
to join in the triumph of King Obould. Surely Clan Karuck's priests could have heard
of our march through communion with Gruumsh."
"Or from mortal voices."
Nukkels mulled that over for a bit. "There has been a chain of whispers and shouts,
no doubt," he replied cautiously, for Obould's tone hinted at something more nefarious.
"He comes forth and attacks the Moonwood then sweeps south and overruns the dwarves'
wall. For a chieftain who lived deep in the holes of the distant mountains, Grguch
seems to know well the enemies lurking on the borders of Many-Arrows."
Nukkels nodded and said, "You believe that Clan Karuck was called here with purpose."
"I believe I would be a fool not to find out if that was the case," Obould replied.
"It is no secret that many have disagreed with my decision to pause in our campaign."
"Pause?"
"As far as they know."
"So they bring forth an instigator, to drive Obould forward?"
"An instigator, or a rival?"
"None would be so foolish!" the priest said with proper and prudent astonishment.
"Do not overestimate the intelligence of the masses," Obould said. "But whether as
an instigator or a rival, Grguch has brought trouble to my designs. Perhaps irreparable
damage. We can expect a counterattack from King Bruenor, I am sure, and from many
of his allies if we are unlucky."
"Grguch stung them, but he left," Nukkels reminded the king. "If they see his strike
as bait, Bruenor will not be so foolish as to come forth from his defended halls."
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"Let us hope, and let us hope that we can quickly contain this eager chieftain. Send
Oktule back to Grguch, with word that I would speak to him. Offer an invitation to
Clan Karuck for a great feast in honor of their victories."
Nukkels nodded.
"And prepare yourself for a journey, my trusted friend," Obould went on, and that
reference took Nukkels off-guard, for he had only known Obould for a short time,
and had only spoken directly to the
orc king since Obould had climbed back up from the landslide that had nearly killed
him and the dark elf.
"I would go to Mithral Hall itself for King Obould Many-Arrows," Nukkels replied,
standing straight and determined.
Obould grinned and nodded, and Nukkels knew that his guess had been correct. And
his answer had been sincere and well-placed -
and expected, since it had, after all, come from the king's "trusted friend."
"Shall I invite Kna and your private guard to return to you, Great One?" Nukkels
asked, bowing low.
Obould paused for a moment then shook his head. "I will call for them when they are
needed," he told the priest. "Go and speak with Oktule. Send him on his way, and
return to me this night, with your own pack readied for a long and trying road."
Nukkels bowed again, turned, and swiftly departed.
* * * * *
"Ah, but it's good that ye're here, Lady," Bruenor said to Alustriel when they met
out by the wall. Catti-brie stood beside the Lady of Silverymoon, with Regis and
Thibbledorf Pwent close behind Bruenor.
Not far away, Cordio Muffinhead and another dwarf priest went to work immediately
on the poor, impaled Duzberyl, extricating the dead wizard as gently as possible.
"Would that we could have done more," Alustriel replied solemnly. "Like your kin,
we were lulled by the passing months of quiet, and so the orc
assault caught us by surprise. We had not the proper spells prepared, for our studies
have focused on working the Surbrin Bridge to completion."
"Ye did a bit o' damage to the pigs, and got most o' me boys back to the hall," said
Bruenor. "Ye did good by us, and we're not for forgettin' that."
Alustriel responded with a bow. "And now that we know, we will not be caught unawares
again," she promised. "Our efforts on the bridge will be slowed, of course, as half
our magical repertoire each day will be focused on spells for defending the ground
and repelling invaders. And indeed, we will have just a
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small crew at the bridge until the wall and towers are repaired and completed. The
bridge will serve no useful purpose until - "
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted. "The point's all moot. We seen the truth o' Obould, suren
as there is any. Put all yer spells for orc-killing -
excepting them ye'll be needin' to get yer Knights in Silver across the Surbrin.
When we're done with the damned
orcs, we can worry about the bridge and the wall, though I'm thinkin' we won't be
needing much of a wall!"
Behind him, Thibbledorf Pwent snorted, as did several others, but Alustriel just
looked at him curiously, as if she didn't understand. As her expression registered
to Bruenor, his own face became a scowl of abject disbelief. That look only intensified
as he noted Catti-brie's wince at Alustriel's side, confirmation that he wasn't misreading
the Lady of Silverymoon.
"Ye're thinkin' we're to dig in and let Obould play it as Obould wants?" the dwarf
asked.
"I advise caution, good king," Alustriel said.
"Caution?"
"The orcs did not hold the ground," Alustriel noted. "They struck and then they ran
-
likely to evoke just such a response from you. They would have you roar out of Mithral
Hall, all full of fight and rage. And out there"
- she motioned to the wild north - "they would have their battle with you on the
ground of their own choosing."
"Her words make sense," Catti-brie added, but Bruenor snorted again.
"And if they're thinking that Clan Battlehammer's to come out alone, then I'm thinkin'
their plan to be a good one," Bruenor said. "But what a trap they'll find when the
trap they spring closes on all the force o' the Silver Marches. On Alustriel's wizards
and the Knights in Silver, on Felbarr's thousands and Adbar's tens o'! On Sundabar's
army, guided in on Obould's flank by them Moonwood elves, who're not too fond o'
the damned
orcs, in case ye're missing the grumbles."
Alustriel drew her lips very tight, as clear a response as she could possibly give.
"What?" Bruenor roared. "Ye're not for calling them? Not now? Not when we seen what
Obould's all about? Ye hoped for a truce, and now ye're seein' the truth o' that
truce! What more're ye needing?"
"It is not a matter of evidence, good dwarf," Alustriel replied, calmly and evenly,
though her voice rang much thinner than usual. "It is a matter of practicality."
"Practicality, or cowardice?" Bruenor demanded.
Alustriel accepted the barb with a light, resigned shrug.
"Ye said ye'd be standin' with me boys when we needed ye," Bruenor reminded.
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"They will..." Catti-brie started to say, but she shut up fast when Bruenor snapped
his scowl her way.
"Ye're friendship's all pretty when it's words and building, but when there's blood....
" Bruenor accused, and Alustriel swept her arm out toward Duzberyl, who lay on the
ground with Cordio praying over him.
"Bah, so ye got caught in one fight, but I'm not talking about one!" Bruenor kept
on. "Lost me a dozen good boys last night."
"All the Silver Marches weep for your dead, King Bruenor."
"I ain't askin' ye to weep!" Bruenor screamed at her, and all around, work stopped,
and dwarf, human, and elf - including Hralien -
stood and stared at the outraged king of Mithral Hall and the great Lady of Silverymoon,
who not a one of them had ever imagined could be yelled at in such a manner. "I'm
askin' ye to fight!" the unrelenting Bruenor fumed on. "I'm askin' ye to do what's
right and send yer armies
- all
yer durned armies! Obould's belongin' in a hole, and ye're knowing that! So get yer
armies, and get all the armies, and let's put him where he belongs, and let's put
the Silver Marches back where the Silver Marches're belonging!"
"We will leave all the ground between Mithral Hall and the Spine of the World stained
with the blood of dwarves and men and elves," Alustriel warned. "Obould's thousands
are well en - "
"And well meaning to strike out until they're stopped!" Bruenor shouted over her.
"Ye heared o' the Moonwood and their dead, and now ye're seein' this attack with
yer own eyes. Ye can't be doubtin' what that foul
orc's got in his head."
"But to go out from defensive positions against that force - "
"Is to be our only choice, now or tomorrow, or me and me boys'll
forever be on yer point, fighting Obould one bridge, one door at a time," said Bruenor.
"Ye think we're to take their hits? Ye think we can be keeping both our doors always
sealed and secured, and our tunnels, too, lest the durned pigs tunnel in and pop
up in our middle?"
Bruenor's eyes narrowed, his expression taking on a clear look of suspicion. "Or
would that arrangement please Alustriel and all th' others about? Battlehammer
dwarves'll die, and that's suitin' ye all, is it?"
"Of course not," Alustriel protested, but her words did little to soften the scowl
of King Bruenor.
"Me girl beside ye just got back from Nesm? and what a fine job yer knights've done
pushing them trolls back into the swamp," Bruenor went on. "Seems Nesm?
's grander than afore the attacks, mostly because o' yer own work
- and don't that make Lady Alustriel proud?"
"Father," Catti-brie warned, shocked by the sarcasm.
"But then, them folk're more akin to yer own, in looks and thoughts."
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"We should continue this discussion in private, King Bruenor," said Alustriel.
Bruenor snorted at her and waved his hand, turned on his heel, and stomped away,
Thibbledorf Pwent in tow.
Regis remained, and he turned a concerned look at Alustriel then at Catti-brie.
"He will calm down," Regis said unconvincingly.
"Not so sure I'm wantin' him to," Catti-brie admitted, and she glanced at Alustriel.
The Lady of Silverymoon had nothing more than helplessly upraised hands in reply,
and so Catti-brie limped off after her beloved father.
"It is a dark day, my friend Regis," Alustriel said when the woman had gone.
Regis's eyes popped open wide, surprised at being directly addressed by one of Alustriel's
stature.
"This is how great wars begin," Alustriel explained. "And do not doubt that no matter
the outcome, there will be no winners."
* * * * *
As soon as the priest had gone, Obould was glad of his decision not to call in his
entourage. He needed to be alone, to vent, to rant, and to think things through.
He knew in his heart that Grguch was no ally, and had not arrived by accident. Ever
since the disaster in the western antechamber of Mithral Hall and the pushback of
Proffit's troll army, the
orcs and dwarves had settled into a stalemate -
and it was one that Obould welcomed. But one that he welcomed privately, for he knew
that he was working against the traditions, instincts, and conditioning of his warrior
race. No voices of protest came to him directly, of course
- he was too feared by those around him for that kind of insolence -
but he heard the rumbles of discontent even in the grating background of praises
thrown his way. The restless
orcs wanted to march on, back into Mithral Hall, across the Surbrin to Silverymoon
and Sundabar, and particularly Citadel Felbarr, which they had once, long ago, claimed
as their own.
"The cost..." Obould muttered, shaking his head.
He would lose thousands in such an endeavor -
even if he only tried to dislodge fierce King Bruenor. He would lose tens of thousands
if he went farther, and though he would have loved nothing more than to claim the
throne of Silverymoon as his own, Obould understood that if he had gathered all the
orcs from all the holes in all the world, he could not likely accomplish such a
thing.
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Certainly he might find allies -
more giants and dark elves, perhaps, or any of the other multitude of races and monsters
that lived solely for the pleasure of fighting and destruction. In such an alliance,
though, he could never reign, nor could his minions ever gain true freedom and self-determination.
And even if he did manage greater conquests with his orc
minions, even if he widened the scope of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, the lessons
of history had taught him definitively that the center of such a kingdom could never
hold. His reach was long, his grip iron strong. Long and strong enough to hold the
perimeters of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows? Long and strong enough to fend off Grguch
and any potential conspirators who had coaxed the fierce chieftain to the surface?
Obould clenched his fist mightily as that last question filtered through his mind,
and he issued a long and low growl then licked his lips as if tasting the blood of
his enemies.
Were Clan Karuck even his enemies?
The question sobered him. He was getting ahead of the facts, he realized. A ferocious
and aggressive orc clan had arrived in Many-Arrows, and had taken up the fight independently,
as orc
clans often did, and with great and glorious effect.
Obould nodded as he considered the truth of it and realized the limits of his conjecture.
In his heart, though, he knew that a rival had come, and a very dangerous one at
that.
Reflexively, the orc king
looked to the southwest, the direction of General Dukka and his most reliable fighting
force. He would need another courier, he realized immediately. As Oktule went to
summon Grguch, as Nukkels traveled to King Bruenor's Court with word of truce, so
he would need a third, the fastest of the three, to go and retrieve Dukka and the
warriors. For the dwarves might soon counterattack, and likely would be joined by
the dangerous and outraged Moonwood elves.
Or more likely, Clan Karuck would need to be taught a lesson.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
20
ON
SQUIGGLES
AND
EMISSARIES
With but one hand, for the chieftain was no minor warrior, Dnark pushed Oktule to
the side and stepped past him to the edge of a mountain-view precipice overlooking
King Obould's encampment. A group of riders exited that camp, moving swiftly to the
south, and without the banner of Many-Arrows flying from their midst.
"War pigs, and armored," the shaman Ung-thol remarked. "Elite warriors. Obould's
own."
Dnark pointed to a rider in the middle of the pack, and though they were far away
and moving farther, his headdress could still be seen.
"The priest, Nukkels," Ung-thol said with a nod.
"What does this mean?" Oktule asked, his tone concurring with his body posture to
relate his discomfort. Young Oktule had been chosen as a courier from the east because
of his speed and stamina, but he had not the experience or the wisdom to fathom all
that was going on around him.
The chieftain and his shaman turned as one to regard the orc. "It means that you
should tell Grguch to proceed with all caution," Dnark said.
"I do not understand."
"King Obould might not welcome him with the warmth promised in the invitation," Dnark
explained.
"Or might greet him with more warmth than promised," Ung-thol quipped.
Oktule stared at them, his jaw hanging open. "King Obould is angry?"
That brought a laugh from the two older and more worldly orcs.
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"You know Toogwik Tuk?" Ung-thol asked.
Oktule nodded. "The preacher orc. His words showed me to the glory of Grguch. He
proclaimed the power of Chieftain Grguch and the call of Gru-umsh to bring war to
the dwarves."
Dnark chuckled and patted the air with his hand, trying to calm the fool. "Deliver
your words to Chieftain Grguch as your king demanded," he said. "But seek out Toogwik
Tuk first and inform him that a second courier went out from Obould's"
- then he quickly corrected himself - "King Obould's camp, this one riding to the
south."
"What does it mean?" Oktule asked again.
"It means that King Obould expects trouble," Ung-thol interrupted, stopping Dnark
before he could respond. "Toogwik Tuk will know what to do."
"Trouble?" asked Oktule.
"The dwarves will likely counterattack, and more furious will they become when they
learn that both King Obould and Chieftain Grguch are in the same place."
Oktule began to nod stupidly, catching on.
"Be off at once," Dnark told him, and the young orc spun on his heel and rushed away.
A signal from Dnark sent a couple of guards off with him, to escort him on his important
journey.
As soon as they were gone, the chieftain and the shaman turned back to the distant
riders.
"Do you really believe that Obould would send an emissary to the Battlehammer dwarves?"
Ung-thol asked. "Has he become so cowardly as that?"
Dnark nodded through every word, and when Ung-thol glanced over at him, he replied,
"We should find out."
*****
"Ye tell Emerus that we'll be lookin' for all he's to bring," Bruenor said to Jackonray
Broadbelt and Nikwillig, the emissaries from Citadel Felbarr.
"The bridge'll be ready soon, I'm told," Jackonray replied.
"Forget the durned bridge!" Bruenor snapped, startling everyone in the room with
his unexpected outburst. "Alustriel's wizards'll be working more on the wall for
the next days. I'm wanting an army here afore the work's even begun on the bridge
again. I'm wanting Alustriel to see Felbarr side-by-side with Mithral Hall, that
when we're walking out that gate, she'll know the time for talkin's over and the
time for fightin's come."
"Ah," Jackonray replied, nodding, a smile spreading on his hairy and toothy face.
"So I'm seeing why Bruenor's the king. Ye've got me respect, good King
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Bruenor, and ye've got me word that I'll shove King Emerus out the durned tunnel
door meself if it's needin' to be!"
"Ye're a good dwarf. Ye do yer kin proud."
Jackonray bowed so low that his beard brushed the ground, and he and Nikwillig left
in a rush - or started to, until Bruenor's call turned them fast around.
"Go out through the eastern gate, under the open sky," Bruenor instructed with a
wry grin.
"Quicker through the tunnels," Nikwillig dared to argue.
"Nah, ye go out and tell Alustriel that I'm wantin' the two o' ye put outside o'
Felbarr in a blink," Bruenor explained, and snapped his stubby fingers in the air
to accentuate his point. All around Bruenor, dwarves began to chuckle.
"Never let it be said that a Battlehammer don't know a good joke when he's seein'
one," Bruenor remarked, and the chuckles turned to laughter.
Jackonray and Nikwillig left in a rush, giggling.
"Let Alustriel play a part in her own trap," Bruenor said to Cordio, Thib-bledorf,
and Banak Brawnanvil, who had a specially designed throne right beside Bruenor's
own, a place of honor for the heroic leader who had been crippled in the
orc assault.
"Suren she's to be scrunching up her pretty face," Banak said.
"When Mithral Hall and Citadel Adbar march right past her working wizards, to be
sure," Bruenor agreed. "But she'll be seeing, too, that the time's past hiding from
Obould's dogs. He's wantin' a fight and we're for givin' him one
- one that'll take him all the way back where he came from, and beyond."
The room erupted in cheering, and Banak reached out to grab Bruenor's offered hand,
clasping tight in a shake of mutual respect and determination.
"Ye stay here and take the rest o' the audiences," Bruenor instructed Banak. "I'm
for seeing Rumblebelly and the littler one. There's clues in them scrolls we brought
back, or I'm a bearded gnome, and I'm wantin' all the tricks and truths we can muster
afore we strike out against Obould."
He hopped down from his throne and from the dais, motioning for Cordio to follow
and for Thibbledorf to stand as Banak's second.
"Nanfoodle telled me that the runes on them scrolls weren't nothing he'd e'er seen,"
Cordio said to Bruenor as they started out of the audience cha mber. "Squiggles in
places squiggles shouldn't be."
"The littler one'll straighten 'em out, don't ye doubt. As clever as any I've ever
seen, and a good friend o' the clan. Mirabar's lost a lot when Torgar and his boys
come our way, and they lost a lot when Nanfoodle and Shoudra come looking for Torgar
and his boys."
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Cordio nodded his agreement and left it at that, following Bruenor down the corridors
and stairwells to a small cluster of secluded rooms where Nanfoodle had set up his
alchemy lab and library.
*****
No one in the tribe knew if it had gotten its name through its traditional battle
tactics, or if the succession of chieftains had fashioned the tactics to fit the
name. Whatever the cause-effect, their peculiar battle posture had been perfected
through generations. Indeed, the leaders of Wolf Jaw selected
orc
s at a young age based on size and speed to find the appropriate place in the formation
each might best fit.
Choosing the enemy and the battleground was more important even than that, if the
dangerous maneuver was to work. And no orc
in the tribe's history had been better at such tasks than the present chieftain,
Dnark of the Fang. He was descended from a long line of point warriors, the tip of
the fangs of the wolf jaw that snapped over its enemies. For years, young Dnark had
spearheaded the top line of the V formation, sliding out along the left flank of
an intended target, while another
orc
, often a cousin of Dnark's, led the right, or bottom, jaw. When the lines stretched
to their limit, Dnark would swing his assault group to a sharp right, forming a fang,
and he and his counterpart would join forces, sealing the escape route at the rear
of the enemy formation.
As chieftain, though, Dnark anchored the apex. His jaws of warriors went out north
and south of the small encampment, and when the signals came back to the chieftain,
he led the initial assault, moving forward with his main battle group.
They did not charge, and did not holler and hoot. Instead, they approached calmly,
as if nothing was amiss - and indeed, why would King Obould's shaman advisor suspect
anything different?
The camp did stir at the approach of so large a contingent, with calls for Nukkels
to come forth from his tent.
Ung-thol put his hand on Dnark's arm, urging restraint. "We do not know his purpose,"
the shaman reminded.
Nukkels appeared a few moments later, moving to the eastern end of the small plateau
he and his warriors had used for their pause. Beside him, Obould's powerful guards
lifted heavy spears.
How Dnark wanted to call for the charge! How he wanted to lead the way up the rocky
incline to smash through those fools!
But Ung-thol was there, reminding him, coaxing him to patience.
"Praise to King Obould!" Dnark called out, and he took his tribe's banner
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from an orc to the side and waved it around. "We have word from Chieftain Grguch,"
he lied.
Nukkels held up his hand, palm out at Dnark, warning him to hold back.
"We have no business with you," he called down.
"King Obould does not share that belief," Dnark replied, and he began his march again,
slowly. "He has sent us to accompany you, as more assurance that Clan Karuck will
not interfere."
"Interfere with what?" Nukkels shouted back.
Dnark glanced at Ung-thol, then back up the rise. "We know where you are going,"
he bluffed.
It was Nukkels's turn to look around at his entourage. "Come in alone, Chieftain
Dnark," he called. "That we might plot our next move."
Dnark kept moving up the slope, calm and unthreatening, and he did not bid his force
to lag behind.
"Alone!" Nukkels called more urgently.
Dnark smiled, but otherwise changed not a thing. The orcs beside Nukkels lifted their
spears.
It didn't matter. The bluff had played its part, allowing Dnark's core force to close
nearly half the incline to Nukkels. Dnark held up his hands to Nukkels and the guards
then turned to address his group
- ostensibly to instruct them to wait there.
"Kill them all - except for Nukkels and the closest guards," he instructed instead,
and when he turned back, he had his sword in hand, and he raised it high.
The warriors of Clan Wolf Jaw swept past him on either side, those nearest swerving
to obstruct their enemies' view of their beloved chieftain. More than one of those
shield orc
s died in the next moments, as spears flew down upon them.
But the jaws of the wolf closed.
By the time Dnark got up to the plateau, the fighting was heavy all around him and
Nukkels was nowhere to be found. Angered by that, Dnark threw himself into the nearest
battle, where a pair of his
orcs attacked a single guard, wildly and ineffectively.
Obould had chosen his inner circle of warriors well.
One of the Wolf Jaw orc
s stabbed in awkwardly with his spear, but the guard's sword swept across and shattered
the hilt, launching it out to confuse the attacker's companion. With the opening
clear, the guard retracted and stepped forward for the easy kill.
Except that Dnark came in fast from the side and hacked the fool's sword arm off
at the elbow.
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The guard howled and half-turned, falling to its knees and clutching its stump. Dnark
stepped in and grabbed it by the hair, tugging its head back, opening its neck for
a killing strike.
And always before, the chieftain of Clan Wolf Jaw would have taken that strike, would
have claimed that kill. But he held back his sword and kicked the guard in the throat
instead, and as it fell away, he instructed his two warriors to make sure that the
fallen enemy didn't die.
Then he went on to the next fight in a long line of battles.
When the skirmish on the plateau ended, though, Shaman Nukkels was not to be found,
either among the seven prisoners or the score of dead. He had gone off the back end
at the first sign of trouble, so said witnesses.
Before Dnark could begin to curse that news, however, he found that his selections
for the fangs of the formation had done his own legacy proud, for in they marched,
Nukkels and a battered guard prodded before them with spears.
"Obould will kill you for this," Nukkels said when presented before Dnark.
Dnark's left hook left the shaman squirming on the ground.
*****
"The symbol is correct," Nanfoodle proudly announced. "The pattern is unmistakable."
Regis stared at the large copy of the parchment, its runes separated and magnified.
On Nanfoodle's instruction, the halfling had spent the better part of a day transcribing
each mark to that larger version then the pair had spent several days cutting out
wooden stencils for each
- even for those that seemed to hold an obvious correlation to the current Dwarvish
writing.
Mistaking that tempting lure, accepting the obvious runes for what they supposed
them to be, Dethek runes of an archaic orc
tongue called Hulgorkyn, had been their downfall through all of their early translation
attempts, and it wasn't until Nanfoodle had insisted that they treat the writing
from the lost city as something wholly unrecognizable that the pair had begun to
make any progress at all.
If that was indeed what they were making.
Many other stencils had been crafted, multiple representations of every Dwarvish
symbol. Then had come the trial and error - and error, and error, and error -
for more than a day of painstaking rearranging and reevaluation. Nanfoodle, no minor
illusionist, had cast many spells, and priests had been brought in to offer various
auguries and inspired insights.
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Thirty-two separate symbols appeared on the parchment, and while a thorough statistical
analysis had offered hints of potential correlations to the traditional twenty-six
runes of Dethek, the fact that none of those promising hints added up to anything
substantial made much of that analysis no more than guesswork.
Gradually, though, patterns had taken shape, and spells seemed to confirm the best
guesses time and time again.
More than a tenday into the work, an insight from Nanfoodle - after hearing all of
Regis's stories of the strange city -
proved to be the tipping point. Instead of using Dwarvish as his basis for the analysis,
he decided upon a double-basis and began incorporating the Orcish tongue
- in which, of course, he was fluent. More stencils were cut, more combinations
explored.
Early one morning, Nanfoodle presented Regis with his completed conclusion for translation,
a correlative identifying every symbol on the parchment, some that mirrored current
Dwarvish or Orcish lettering.
The halfling went to work over the transcribed, larger-lettered parchment, diligently
placing above each symbol the stencil Nanfoodle believed correlative. Regis didn't
pause at all to consider familiar patterns, but simply placed them all as fast as
he could.
Then he stepped back and stood up on the high bench Nanfoodle had placed beside the
work table. The gnome was already there, staring back incredulously, his mouth hanging
open, and when he took his place beside Nanfoodle, Regis understood.
For the gnome's guesses had been correct, obviously, and the translation of the text
was clear to see, and to read. It wasn't unknown for orc
s to steal and incorporate Dethek runes, of course, as was most evident with Hulgorkyn.
But there was something more than that, a willful blending of related but disparate
languages in a balanced manner, one that indicated compromise and coordination between
dwarf and
orc linguists.
The translation was laid bare for them to see. Digesting the words, however, proved
more difficult.
"Bruenor won't like this," Regis remarked, and he glanced around as if expecting
the dwarf king to crash into the room in a tirade at any moment.
"It is what it is," Nanfoodle replied. "He will not like it, but he must accept it."
Regis looked back at the translated paragraph and read again the words of the orc
philosopher Duugee.
"You place too much value in reason," the halfling muttered.
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PART
4
STEPPING
BACK FROM
ANGER
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235
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STEPPING
BACK FROM
ANGER
The questions continue to haunt me. Are we watching the birth of a civilization?
Are the orc
s, instead of wanting us dead, wishing to become more like us, with our ways, our
hopes, our aspirations? Or was that wish always present in the hearts of the primitive
and fierce race, only they saw not how to get to it? And if this is the case, if
the
orc
s are redeemable, tamable, how then are we best to facilitate the rise of their more
civilized culture? For that would be an act of great self-defense for Mithral Hall
and all of the Silver Marches.
Accepting the premise of a universal desire among rational beings, a commonality
of wishes, I wonder, then, what might occur should one kingdom stand paramount, should
one city-state somehow attain unquestioned superiority over all the rest. What responsibilities
might such predominance entail? If
Bruenor has his way, and the Silver Marches rise up and drive Obould's orc
s from the land and back to their individual tribes, what will be our role, then,
in our resulting, unquestioned dominance?
Would the moral road be the extermination of the orc
s, one tribe at a time? If my suspicions regarding Obould are correct, then that
I cannot reconcile. Are the dwarves to become neighbors or oppressors?
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It is all premised on a caveat, of course, on a hunch - or is it a deep-rooted prayer
in the renegade soul of Drizzt Do'Urden? I desperately want to be right about Obould
-
as much as my personal desires might urge me to kill him!
- because if I am, if there is in him a glint of rational and acceptable aspirations,
then surely the world will benefit.
These are the questions for kings and queens, the principal building blocks of the
guiding philosophies for those who gain power over others. In the best of these kingdoms
-
and I name Bruenor's among that lot
-
the community moves constantly to better itself, the parts of the whole turn in harmony
to the betterment of the whole. Freedom and community live side-by-side, a tandem
of the self and the bigger tapestry. As those communities evolve and ally with other
like-minded kingdoms, as roads and trade routes are secured and cultures exchanged,
what of the diminishing few left behind? It is incumbent, I believe, for the powerful
to bend and grasp the hand of the weak, to pull them up, to share in the prosperity,
to contribute to the whole. For that is the essence of community. It is to be based
on hope and inspiration and not on fear and oppression.
But there remains the truth that if you help an orc to stand, he will likely stab
your heart on the way to his feet.
Ah, but it is too much, for in my heart I see the fall of Tarathiel and want to cut
the vicious orc king apart! It is too much because I know
of Innovindil's fall! Oh, Innovindil, I pray you do not think less of me for my musing!
I feel the sting of paradox, the pain of the irresolvable, the stark and painful
imperfections of a world of which I secretly demand perfection. Yet for all the blemishes,
I remain an optimist, that in the end the ideal will prevail. And this too I also
know, and it is why my weapons sit comfortably in my hands. Only from a position
of unquestioned strength can true change be facilitated. For it is not in the hands
of a rival to affect change. It is not in the hands of the weaker to grant peace
and hope to the stronger.
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I hold faith in the kingdom of common voices that Bruenor has created, that Alustriel
has similarly created in Silverymoon. I believe that this is the proper order of
things -
though perhaps with some refining yet to be found
-
for theirs are kingdoms of freedom and hope, where individual aspirations are encouraged
and the common good is shared by all, in both benefit and responsibility. How different
are these two places from the darkness of Menzoberranzan, where the power of House
presided over the common good of the community, and the aspirations of the individual
overwhelmed the liberty, even the life, of others.
My belief in Mithral Hall as nearer the ideal brings with it a sense of Mithral Hall's
responsibilities, however. It is not enough to field armies to thwart foes, to crush
our enemies under the stamp of well-traveled dwarven boots. It is not enough to bring
riches to Mithral Hall, to expand power and influence, if said power and influence
is to the benefit only of the powerful and influential.
To truly fulfill the responsibilities of predominance, Mithral Hall must not only
shine brightly for Clan Battlehammer, but must serve as a beacon of hope for all
of those who glimpse upon it. If we truly believe our way to be the best way, then
we must hold faith that all others
- perhaps even the orcs! -
will gravitate toward our perspectives and practices, that we will serve as the shining
city on the hill, that we will influence and pacify through generosity and example
instead of through the power of armies.
For if it is the latter, if dominance is attained and then maintained through strength
of arm alone, then it is no victory, and it cannot be a permanent ordering. Empires
cannot survive, for they lack the humility and generosity necessary to facilitate
true loyalty. The wont of the slave is to throw off his shackles. The greatest aspiration
of the conquered is to beat back their oppressors. There are no exceptions to this.
To the victors I warn without doubt that those you conquer will never accept your
dominion. All desire to emulate your better way, even if the conquered agree
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with the premise, will be overwhelmed by grudge and humiliation and a sense of their
own community. It is a universal truth, rooted in tribalism, perhaps, and in pride
and the comfort of tradition and the sameness of one's peers.
And in a perfect world, no society would aspire to dominance unless it was a dominance
of ideals. We believe our way is the right way, and thus we must hold faith that
others will gravitate similarly, that our way will become their way and that assimilation
will sheathe the swords of sorrow. It is not a short process, and it is one that
will be played out in starts and stops, with treaties forged and treaties shattered
by the ring of steel on steel.
Deep inside, it is my hope that I will find the chance to slay King Obould Many-Arrows.
Deeper inside, it is my prayer that King Obould Many-Arrows sees the dwarves standing
higher on the ladder in pursuit of true civilization, that he sees Mithral Hall as
a shining city on the hill, and that he will have the strength to tame the
orcs long enough for them to scale the rungs of that same ladder.
- Drizzt Do'Urden
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Chapter
CHAPTER
21
PUTTING
HIS
WORLD
TOGETHER
The wagon rocked, sometimes soothing, sometimes jarring, as it rolled along the rocky
path, heading north. Sitting on the open bed and looking back the way they had come,
Wulfgar watched the skyline of Luskan recede. The many points of the wizard's tower
seemed like a single blur, and the gates were too far for him to make out the guards
pacing the city wall.
Wulfgar smiled as he considered those guards. He and his accomplice Morik had been
thrown out of Luskan with orders never to return, on pain of death, yet he had walked
right into the city, and at least one of the guards had surely recognized him, even
tossing him a knowing wink. No doubt Morik was in there, too.
Justice in Luskan was a sham, a scripted play for the people to make them feel secure
and feel afraid and feel empowered over the specter of death itself, however the
authorities decided was timely.
Wulfgar had debated whether or not to return to Luskan. He wanted to join in with
a caravan heading north, for that would serve as his cover, but he feared exposing
Colson to the potential dangers of entering the forbidden place. In the end, though,
he found that he had no real choice. Arumn Gardpeck and Josi Puddles deserved to
learn of Delly Curtie's sad end. They had been friends of the woman's for years,
and far be it from Wulfgar to deny them the information.
The tears shed by all three - Arumn, Josi, and Wulfgar - had felt right to the barbarian.
There was so much more to Delly Curtie than the easy, clich閐
idea that many in Luskan had of her, and that Wulfgar had initially bought
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into himself. There was an honesty and an honor beneath the crust that circumstance
had caked over Delly. She'd been a good friend to all three, a good wife to Wulfgar,
and a great mother to Colson.
Wulfgar tossed off a chuckle as he considered Josi's initial reaction to the news,
the small man practically launching himself at Wulfgar in a rage, blaming the barbarian
for the loss of Delly. With little effort, Wulfgar had put him back in his seat,
where he had melted into his folded arms, his shoulders bobbing with sobs
-
perhaps enhanced by too many drinks, but likely sincere, for Wulfgar had never doubted
that Josi had secretly loved Delly.
The world rolled along, stamping its events into the books of history. What was,
was, Wulfgar understood, and regrets were not to be long held -
no longer than the lessons they imparted regarding future circumstance. He was not
innocent of Josi's accusations, though not to the extent the distraught man had taken
them, surely.
But what was, was.
After one particularly sharp bounce of the wagon, Wulfgar draped his arm over Colson's
shoulder and glanced down at the girl, who was busying herself with some sticks Wulfgar
had tied together to approximate a doll. She seemed content, or at least unbothered,
which was the norm for her. Quiet and unassuming, asking for little and accepting
less, Colson just seemed to go along with whatever came her way.
That road had not been fair so far in her young life, Wulfgar knew. She had lost
Delly, by all measures her mother, and nearly as bad, Wulfgar realized, she had suffered
the great misfortune of being saddled with him as her surrogate father. He stroked
her soft, wheat-colored hair.
"Doll, Da," she said, using her moniker for Wulfgar, one that he had heard only a
couple of times over the last tendays.
"Doll, yes," he said back to her, and tousled her hair.
She giggled, and if ever a sound could lift Wulfgar's heart....
And he was going to leave her. A momentary wave of weakness flushed through him.
How could he even think of such a thing?
"You don't remember your Ma," he said quietly, not expecting a response as Colson
went back to her play. But she looked up at him, beaming a huge smile.
"Dell-y. Ma," she said.
Wulfgar felt as if her little hand had just flicked against his heart. He realized
how poor a father he had been to her. Urgent business filled his every day, it seemed,
and Colson was always placed behind the necessities. She had been with him for many
months, and yet he hardly knew her. They had traveled hundreds of miles to the east,
and then back west, and only on that return trip had he
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truly spent time with Colson, had he tried to listen to the child, to understand
her needs, to hug her.
He gave a helpless and self-deprecating chuckle and patted her head again. She looked
up at him with that unending smile, and went immediately back to her doll.
He hadn't done right by her, Wulfgar knew. As he had failed Delly as a husband, so
he had failed Colson as her father. "Guardian" would be a better term to describe
his role in the child's life.
So he was on that road that would pain him greatly, but in the end it would give
to Colson all that she deserved and more.
"You are a princess," he said to her, and she looked up at him again, though she
knew not what it meant.
Wulfgar responded with a smile and another pat, and turned his eyes back toward Luskan,
wondering if he would ever travel that far south again.
* * * * *
The village of Auckney seemed to have changed not at all in the three years since
Wulfgar had last seen it. Most of his last visit, of course, had been spent in the
lord's dungeon, an accommodation he hoped to avoid a second time. It amused him to
think of how his time with Morik had so ingratiated him to the towns of that region,
where the words "on pain of death" seemed to accompany his every departure.
Unlike those guards in Luskan, though, Wulfgar suspected that Auckney's crew would
follow through with the threat if they figured out who he was. So for the sake of
Colson, he took great pains to disguise himself as the trading caravan wound its
way along the rocky road in the westernmost reaches of the Spine of the World, toward
the Auckney gate. He wore his beard much thicker, but his stature alone distinguished
him from the great majority of the populace, being closer to seven feet tall than
to six, and with shoulders wide and strong.
He bundled his traveling cloak tight around him and kept the cowl up over his head
-
not an unusual practice in the early spring in that part of the world, where the
cold winds still howled from on high. When he sat, which was most of the time, he
kept his legs tucked in tight so as not to emphasize the length of the limbs, and
when he walked, he crouched and hunched his shoulders forward, not only disguising
his true height somewhat, but also appearing older, and more importantly, less threatening.
Whether through his cleverness, or more likely sheer luck and the fact that he was
accompanied by an entire parade of merchants in that first post-winter caravan, Wulfgar
managed to get into the town easily enough, and once past
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the checkpoint, he did his best to blend in with the group at the circled wagons,
where kiosks were hastily constructed and goods displayed to the delight of the winter-weary
townsfolk.
Lord Feringal Auck, seeming as petulant as ever, visited on the first full day of
the caravan faire. Dressed in impractical finery, including puffy pantaloons of purple
and white, the foppish man strutted with a perpetual air of contempt turning up his
thin, straight nose. He glanced at goods but never seemed interested enough to bother
-
though his attendants often returned to purchase particular pieces, obviously for
the lord.
Steward Temigast and the gnome driver - and fine fighter -
Liam Wood-gate, stood out among those attendants. Temigast, Wulfgar trusted, but
he knew that if Liam spotted him, the game was surely up.
"He casts an impressive shadow, don't he?" came a sarcastic voice from behind, and
Wulfgar turned to see one of the caravan drivers looking past him to the lord and
his entourage. "Feringal Auck....
" the man added, chuckling.
"I am told that he has a most extraordinary wife," Wulfgar replied.
"Lady Meralda," the man answered, rather lewdly. "As pretty as the moon and more
dangerous than the night, with hair blacker than the darkest of 'em and eyes so green
that ye're thinking yerself to be in a summer's meadow whenever she glances yer way.
Aye, but every man doing business in Auckney would want to bed that one."
"Have they children together?"
"A son," the man answered. "A strong and sturdy lad, and with features favoring his
mother and not the lord, thank the gods. Little lord Ferin. All in the town celebrated
his first birthday just a month ago, and from what I'm hearing, they'll be buying
extra stores to replenish that which they ate at the feast. Finished off their winter
stores, by some accounts, and there's more truth than lie to those, judging by the
coins that've been falling all the morning."
Wulfgar glanced back at Feringal and his entourage as they wound their way along
the far side of the merchant caravan.
"And here we feared that the market'd be thinner with the glutton Lady Priscilla
gone."
That perked up Wulfgar's ears, and he turned fast on the man. "Feringal's ...?"
"Sister," the man confirmed.
"Died?"
The man snorted and didn't seem the least bit bothered by that possibility, something
that Wulfgar figured anyone who had ever had the misfortune of meeting Priscilla
Auck would surely appreciate.
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"She's in Luskan -
been there for a year. She went back with this same caravan after our market here
last year," the man explained. "She never much cared for Lady Meralda, for 'twas
said she'd had Feringal's ear until he married that one. I'm not for knowing what
happened, but that Priscilla's time in Castle Auck came to an end soon after the
marriage, and when Meralda got fat with Feringal's heir, she likely knew her influence
here would shrink even more. So she went to Luskan, and there she's living, with
enough coin to keep her to the end of her days, may they be mercifully short."
"Mercifully for all around her, you mean?"
"That's the way they tell it, aye."
Wulfgar nodded and smiled, and that genuine grin came from more than the humor at
Priscilla's expense. He looked back at Lord Feringal and narrowed his crystalline
blue eyes, thinking that one major obstacle, the disagreeable Lady Priscilla, had
just been removed from his path.
"If Priscilla was at Castle Auck, as much as he'd be wanting to leave, Lord Feringal
wouldn't dare be out without his wife at his side. He wouldn't leave them two together!"
the man said.
"I would expect that Lady Meralda would wish to visit the caravan more than would
the lord," Wulfgar remarked.
"Ah, but not until her flowers bloom."
Wulfgar looked at him curiously.
"She's put in beds of rare tulips, and they're soon to bloom, I'm guessing," the
man explained. " 'Twas so last year -
she didn't come down to the market until our second tenday, not until the white petals
were revealed. Put her in a fine, buying mood, and finer still, for by that time,
we knew that Lady Priscilla would be journeying from Auckney with us."
He began to laugh, but Wulfgar didn't follow the cue. He stared across the little
stone bridge to the small island that housed Castle Auck, trying to remember the
layout and where those gardens might be. He took note of a railing built atop the
smaller of the castle's square keeps. Wulfgar glanced back at Feringal, to see the
man making his way out of the far end of the market, and with the threat removed,
Wulfgar also set out, nodding appreciatively at the merchant, to find a better vantage
point for scouting the castle.
Not long after, he had his answer, spotting the form of a woman moving along the
flat tower's roof, behind the railing.
* * * * *
There were no threats to Auckney. The town had known peace for a long time. In that
atmosphere, it was no surprise to Wulfgar to learn that the
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guards were typically less than alert. Even so, the big man had no idea how he might
get across that little stone bridge unnoticed, and the waters roiling beneath the
structure were simply too cold for him to try to swim
- and besides, both the near bank and the island upon which the castle stood had
sheer cliffs that rose too steeply from the pounding surf below.
He lingered long by the bridge, seeking the answer to his dilemma, and he finally
came to accept that he might have to simply wait for those flowers to bloom, so he
could confront Lady Meralda in the market. That thought didn't sit well with him,
for in that setting he would almost surely need to face Lord Feringal and his entourage
as well. It would be easier if he could speak with Meralda first, and alone.
He leaned against the wall of a nearby tavern one afternoon, staring out at the bridge
and taking note of the guards' maneuvers. They weren't very disciplined, but the
bridge was so narrow that they didn't have to be. Wulfgar stood up straight as a
coach rambled across the structure, heading out of the castle.
Liam Woodgate wasn't driving. Steward Temigast was.
Wulfgar stroked his beard and weighed his options, and purely on instinct - for he
knew that if he considered his movements, he would lose heart -
he gathered up Colson and moved out to the road, to a spot where he could intercept
the wagon out of sight of the guards at the bridge, and most of the townsfolk.
"Good trader, do move aside," Steward Temigast bade him, but in a kindly way. "I've
some paintings to sell and I wish to see the market before the light wanes. Dark
comes early to a man of my age, you know."
The old man's smile drifted to nothingness as Wulfgar pulled back the cowl of his
cloak, revealing himself.
"Always full of surprises, Wulfgar is," Temigast said.
"You look well," Wulfgar offered, and he meant it. Temigast's white hair had thinned
a bit, perhaps, but the last few years had not been rough on the man.
"Is that....?" Temigast asked, nodding to Colson.
"Meralda's girl."
"Are you mad?"
Wulfgar merely shrugged and said, "She should be with her mother."
"That decision was made some three years ago."
"Necessary at the time," said Wulfgar.
Temigast sat back on his seat and conceded the point with a nod.
"Lady Priscilla is gone from here, I am told," said Wulfgar, and Temigast couldn't
help but smile - a reassurance to Wulfgar that his measure of the steward was correct,
that the man hated Priscilla.
"To the joy of Auckney," Temigast admitted. He set the reins on the seat,
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and with surprising nimbleness climbed down and approached Wulfgar, his hands out
for Colson.
The girl shoved her hand in her mouth and whirled away, burying her face in Wulfgar's
shoulder.
"Bashful," Temigast said. Colson peeked out at him and he smiled all the wider. "And
she has her mother's eyes."
"She is a wonderful girl, and sure to become a beautiful woman," said Wulfgar. "But
she needs her mother. I cannot keep her with me. I am bound for a land that will
not look favorably on a child, any child."
Temigast stared at him for a long time, obviously unsure of what he should do.
"I share your concern," Wulfgar said to him. "I never hurt Lady Meralda, and never
wish to hurt her."
"My loyalty is to her husband, as well."
"And what a fool he would be to refuse this child."
Temigast paused again. "It is complicated."
"Because Meralda loved another before him," said Wulfgar. "And Colson is a reminder
of that."
"Colson," said Temigast, and the girl peeked out at him and smiled, and the steward's
whole face lit up in response. "A pretty name for a pretty girl." He grew more serious
as he turned back to Wulfgar, though, and asked bluntly, "What would you have me
do?"
"Get us to Meralda. Let me show her the beautiful child her daughter has become.
She will not part with the girl again."
"And what of Lord Feringal?"
"Is he worthy of your loyalty and love?"
Temigast paused and considered that. "And what of Wulfgar?"
Wulfgar shrugged as if it did not matter, and indeed, regarding his obligation to
Colson, it did not. "If he desires to hang me, he will have to - "
"Not that," Temigast interrupted, and looked at Colson.
Wulfgar's shoulders slumped and he heaved a deep sigh. "I know what is right. I know
what I must do, though it will surely break my heart. But it will be a temporary
wound, I hope, for in the passing months and years, I will rest assured that I did
right by Colson, that I gave her the home and the chance she deserved, and that I
could not provide."
Colson looked at Temigast and responded to his every gesture with a delighted smile.
"Are you certain?" the steward asked.
Wulfgar stood very straight.
Temigast glanced back at Castle Auck, at the short keep where Lady Meralda
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kept her flowers. "I will return this way before nightfall," he said. "With an empty
carriage. I can get you to her, perhaps, but I disavow myself of you from that point
forward. My loyalty is not to Wulfgar, not even to Colson."
"One day it will be," said Wulfgar. "To Colson, I mean."
Temigast was too charmed by the girl to disagree.
*****
One hand patted the soft soil at the base of the stem, while the fingers of Meralda's
other hand gently brushed the smooth petals. The tulips would bloom soon, she knew
-
perhaps even that very evening.
Meralda sang to them softly, an ancient rhyme of sailors and explorers lost in the
waves, as her first love had been taken by the sea. She didn't know all the words,
but it hardly mattered, for she hummed to fill in the holes in the verses and it
sounded no less beautiful.
A slap on the stone broke her song, though, and the woman stood up suddenly and retreated
a fast step when she noted the prongs of a ladder. Then a large hand clamped over
the lip of the garden wall, not ten feet from her.
She brushed back her thick black hair, and her eyes widened as the intruder pulled
his head up over the wall.
"Who are you?" she demanded, retreating again, and ignoring his shushing plea.
"Guards!" Meralda called, and turned to run as the intruder shifted. But as his other
hand came up, she found herself frozen in place, rooted as if she was just another
plant in her carefully cultivated garden. In the man's other hand was a young girl.
"Wulfgar?" Meralda mouthed, but had not the breath to say aloud.
He put the girl down inside, and Colson turned shyly away from Meralda. Wulfgar grabbed
the wall with both hands and hauled himself over. The girl went to his leg and wrapped
one arm around it, the thumb of her other hand going into her mouth as she continued
to shy away.
"Wulfgar?" Meralda asked again.
"Da!" implored Colson, reaching up to Wulfgar with both hands. He scooped her up
and set her on his hip, then pulled back his cowl, revealing himself fully.
"Lady Meralda," he replied.
"You should not be here!" Meralda said, but her eyes betrayed her words, for she
stared unblinkingly at the girl, at her child.
Wulfgar shook his head. "Too long have I been away."
"My husband would not agree."
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"It is not about him, nor about me," Wulfgar said, his calm and sure tone drawing
her gaze back to him. "It is about her, your daughter."
Meralda swayed, and Wulfgar was certain that a slight breeze would have knocked her
right over.
"I have tried to be a good father to her," Wulfgar explained. "I had even found her
a woman to serve as her mother, though she is gone now, taken by foul orcs. But it
is all a ruse, I know."
"I never asked - "
"Your husband's actions demanded it," Wulfgar reminded her, and she went silent,
her gaze locking once more on the shy child, who had buried her face in her da's
strong shoulder.
"My road is too arduous," Wulfgar explained. "Too dangerous for the likes of Colson."
"Colson?" Meralda echoed.
Wulfgar merely shrugged.
"Colson ..." the woman said softly, and the girl looked her way only briefly and
flashed a sheepish smile.
"She belongs with her mother," Wulfgar said. "With her real mother."
"I had thought her father had demanded her to raise as his princess in Ice
wind Dale," came a sharp retort from the side, and all three turned to regard the
entrance of Lord Feringal. The man twisted his face tightly as he moved near to his
wife, all the while staring hatefully at Wulfgar.
Wulfgar looked to Meralda for a clue, but found nothing on her shocked face. He struggled
to figure out which way to veer the conversation, when Meralda unexpectedly took
the lead.
"Colson is not his child," the Lady of Auckney said. She grabbed Feringal by the
hands and forced him to look at her directly. "Wulfgar never ravished - "
Before she could finish, Feringal pulled one of his hands free and lifted a finger
over her lips to silence her, nodding his understanding.
He knew, Meralda realized and so did Wulfgar. Feringal had known all along that the
child was not Wulfgar's, not the product of a rape.
"I took her to protect your wife ...
and you," Wulfgar said after allowing Feringal and Meralda a few heartbeats to stare
into each other's eyes. Feringal turned a scowl his way, to which Wulfgar only shrugged.
"I had to protect the child," he explained.
"I would not..." Feringal started to reply, but he stopped and shook his head then
addressed Meralda instead. "I would not have hurt her," he said, and Meralda nodded.
"I would not have continued our marriage, would not have borne you an heir,
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if I had thought differently," Meralda quietly replied.
Feringal's scowl returned as he glanced back at Wulfgar. "What do you want, son of
Icewind Dale?" he demanded.
Some noise to the side clued Wulfgar in to the fact that the Lord of Auckney hadn't
come to the garden alone. Guards waited in the shadows to rush out and protect Feringal.
"I want only to do what is right, Lord Feringal," he replied. "As I did what I thought
was right those years ago." He shrugged and looked at Colson, the thought of parting
with her suddenly stabbing at his heart.
Feringal stood staring at him.
"The child, Colson, is Meralda's," Wulfgar explained. "I would not cede her to another
adoptive mother without first determining Meralda's intent."
"Meralda's intent?" Feringal echoed. "Am I to have no say?"
As the lord of Auckney finished, Meralda put a hand to his cheek and turned him to
face her directly. "I cannot," she whispered.
Again Feringal silenced her with a finger against her lips, and turned back to Wulfgar.
"There are a dozen bows trained upon you at this moment," he assured the man. "And
a dozen guards ready to rush out and cut you down, Liam Woodgate among them
- and you know that he holds no love for Wulfgar of Icewind Dale. I warned you that
you return to Auckney only under pain of death."
A horrified expression crossed Meralda's face, and Wulfgar squared his shoulders.
His instincts told him to counter the threat, to bring Aegis-fang magically to his
hand and explain to the pompous Feringal in no uncertain terms that in any ensuing
fight, he, Feringal, would be the first to die.
But Wulfgar held his tongue and checked his pride. Meralda's expression guided him,
and Colson, clutching his shoulder, demanded that he diffuse the situation and not
escalate a threat into action.
"For the sake of the girl, I allow you to flee, straightaway," Feringal said, and
both Wulfgar and Meralda widened their eyes with shock.
The lord waved his hands dismissively at Wulfgar. "Be gone, foul fool. Over the wall
and away. My patience wears thin, and when it is gone, the whole of Auckney will
fall over you."
Wulfgar stared at him for a moment then looked at Colson.
"Leave the girl," Feringal demanded, lifting his voice for the sake of the distant
onlookers, Wulfgar realized. "She is forfeit, a princess of Icewind Dale no more.
I claim her for Auckney, by Lady Meralda's blood, and do so with the ransom of Wulfgar's
promise that the tribes of Icewind Dale will never descend upon my domain."
Wulfgar spent a moment digesting the words, shaking his head in disbelief
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all the while. When it all sorted out, he dipped a quick and respectful bow to the
surprising Lord Feringal.
"Your faith in your husband and your love for him were not misplaced," he said quietly
to Meralda, and he wanted to laugh out loud and cry all at the same time, for never
had he expected to see such growth in the foppish lord of that isolated town.
But for all of Wulfgar's joy at the confirmation that he had been right to return
there, the price of his, and Feringal's, generosity could not be denied.
Wulfgar pulled Colson out to arms' length then brought her in and hugged her close,
burying his face in her soft hair. "This is your mother," he whispered, knowing that
the child wouldn't begin to understand. He was reminding himself, though, for he
needed to do that. "Your ma will always love you. I will always love you."
He hugged her even closer and kissed her on the cheek then stood fast and offered
a curt nod to Feringal.
Before he could change his mind, before he surrendered to the tearing of his heart,
Wulfgar thrust Colson out at Meralda, who gathered her up. He hadn't even let go
of the girl when she began to cry out, "Da! Da!" reaching back at him plaintively
and pitifully.
Wulfgar blinked away his tears, turned, and went over the wall, dropping the fifteen
feet and landing on the grass below in a run that didn't stop until he had long crossed
through Auckney's front gates.
A run that carried with every step the frantic cries of "Da! Da!"
"You did the right thing," he said to himself, but he hardly believed it. He glanced
back at Castle Auck and felt as if he had just betrayed the one person in the world
who had most trusted him and most needed him.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
22
THE
PRACTICAL
MORALITY
Certain that no orc
s were about, for he could hear their revelry far over a distant hill, Tos'un Armgo
settled against a natural seat of stone. Or perhaps it wasn't natural, he mused,
situated as it was in the middle of a small lea, roughly circular and sheltered by
ancient evergreens. Perhaps some former occupant had constructed the granite throne,
for though there were other such stones scattered around the area, the placement
of those two, seat and back, was perhaps a bit too convenient.
Whatever and however it had come to be, Tos'un appreciated the chair and the view
it afforded him. He was a creature of the nearly lightless Underdark, where no stars
shone, where no ceiling was too far above, too vast and distant, otherworldly or
extraplanar, even. The canopy that floated above him every night was far beyond his
experience, reaching into places that he did not know he possessed. Tos'un was a
drow, and a drow male, and in that role his life remained solidly grounded in the
needs of the here-and-now, in the day-to-day practicality of survival. As his goals
were ever clear to him, based on simple necessity, so his limitations stayed crystalline
clear as well
-
the boundaries of House walls and the cavern that was Menzoberranzan. For all of
his life, the limits of Tos'un's aspirations hung over him as solidly as the ceiling
of Menzoberranzan's stone cavern.
But those limitations were one of the reasons he had abandoned his House on their
journey back to Menzoberranzan after the stunning defeat at the hands of Clan Battlehammer
and Mithral Hall. Aside from the chaos that was surely to ensue following that catastrophe,
when Matron Yvonnel Baenre
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herself had been cut down, Tos'un understood that whatever the reshuffling that chaos
resolved, his place was set. Perhaps he would have died in the House warfare -
as a noble, he made a fine trophy for enemy warriors, and since his mother thought
little of him, he would have no doubt wound up on the front lines of any fight. But
even had he survived, even had House Bar-rison DePArmgo used the vulnerability of
the suddenly matron-less House Baenre to ascend to the top rank in Menzoberranzan's
hierarchy, Tos'un's life would be as it had always been, as he could not dare hope
it would be anything but.
So he had seized the opportunity and had fled, not in search of any particular opportunity,
not to follow any ambition or fleeting dream. Why had he fled, then, he wondered
as he sat there under the stars?
You will be king, promised a voice in his head, startling Tos'un from his contemplations.
Without a word, with hardly a thought, the drow climbed out of the seat and took
a few steps across the meadow. The snow had settled deep on that spot not long ago,
but had melted, leaving spongy, muddy ground behind. A few steps from the throne,
Tos'un unstrapped his sword belt and lay it upon the ground, then went back to his
spot and leaned back, letting his thoughts soar up among the curious points of light.
"Why did I flee?" he asked himself quietly. "What did I desire?"
He thought of Kaer'lic, Donnia, and Ad'non, the drow trio he had joined up with after
wandering aimlessly for tendays. Life with them had been good. He had found excitement
and had started a war -
a proxy war, which was the best kind, after all. It had been heady and clever and
great fun, right up until the beastly Obould had bitten the throat out of Kaer'lic
Suun Wett, sending Tos'un on the run for his life.
But even that excitement, even controlling the destiny of an army of orc
s, a handful of human settlements, and a dwarven kingdom, had been nothing Tos'un
had ever desired or even considered, until circumstance had dangled it before him
and his three co-conspirators.
No, he realized in that moment of clarity, sitting under a canopy so foreign to his
Underdark sensibilities. No tangible desire had brought him from the ranks of House
Barrison Del'Armgo. It was, instead, the desire to eliminate the boundaries, the
need to dare to dream, whatever dream may come to him. Tos'un and the other three
drow
- even Kaer'lic, despite her subservience to Lady Lolth -
had run to their freedom for no reason more than to escape from the rigid structure
of drow culture.
The irony of that had Tos'un blinking repeatedly as he sat there. "The rigid structure
of drow culture," he said aloud, just to bask in the irony. For drow
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culture was premised on the tenets of Lady Lolth, the Spider Queen, the demon queen
of chaos.
"Controlled chaos, then," he decided with a sharp laugh.
A laugh that was cut short as he noted movement in the trees.
Never taking his eyes from that spot, Tos'un rolled backward from the stone seat,
flipping to his feet in a crouch with the stone between him and the shadowy form
- a large, feline form -
filtering in and out of the darker lines of the tree trunks.
The drow eased his way to the edge of the stone nearest his discarded sword belt,
preparing his dash. He held still, though, not wanting to alert the creature to his
presence.
But then he stood taller, blinking, for the great cat seemed to diminish, to dematerialize
into a dark mist that filtered away to nothingness. For just a moment, Tos'un wondered
if his imagination was playing tricks on him in that strange environment, under a
sky that he had still not grown accustomed to or comfortable with.
When he realized the truth of the beast, when he recalled its origins, the drow leaped
out from the stone, dived into a forward roll retrieving his belt as he went, and
came up so perfectly that he had already buckled it in place before he stood once
more.
Drizzt's cat!'
his thoughts screamed.
Pray that it is! came the unexpected and unasked for answer from his intrusive sword.
A glorious victory is at hand!
Tos'un winced at the thought. In Lolth's favor... he imparted to the sword, recalling
Kaer'lic's fears about Drizzt Do'Urden.
The priestess had been terrified at the prospect of battling the rogue from Menzoberranzan,
fearing, with solid reasoning, that the trouble Drizzt had brought upon the drow
city was just the sort of chaos that pleased Lady Lolth. Add to that Drizzt's uncanny
luck and almost supernatural proficiency with the blade, and the idea that he was
secretly in the favor of Lolth seemed not so far-fetched.
And Tos'un, for all of his irreverence, understood well that anyone who crossed Lolth's
will could meet a most unpleasant end.
All of those thoughts followed his intentional telepathic message to Khazid'hea,
and the sword went strangely quiet for the next few moments. Indeed, to Tos'un's
sensibilities, everything seemed to go strangely quiet. He strained his eyes in the
direction of the pines where he had last seen the feline shape, his hands wringing
on the hilt of Khazid'hea and his other, drow-made sword. Every passing moment drew
him farther into the shadows. His eyes, his ears, his sense of smell, every instinct
within him honed in on that spot where
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the cat had disappeared as he tried desperately to discern where it had gone.
And so he nearly leaped out of his low, soft boots when a voice behind him, speaking
in the drow language with perfect Menzoberranyr inflection, said, "Guenhwyvar was
tired, so I sent her home to rest."
Tos'un whirled, slashing the empty air with his blades as if he believed the demon
Drizzt to be right behind him.
The rogue drow was many steps away, though, standing easily, his scimitars sheathed,
his forearms resting comfortably on their respective hilts.
"A fine sword you carry, son of Barrison Del'Armgo," Drizzt said, nodding toward
Khazid'hea. "Not drow made, but fine."
Tos'un turned his hand over and regarded the sentient blade for a moment before turning
back to Drizzt. "One I found in the valley, below ..."
"Below where I fought King Obould," Drizzt finished, and Tos'un nodded.
"You have come for it?" Tos'un asked, and in his head, Khazid'hea simmered and imparted
thoughts of battle.
Leap upon him and cut him down! I would drink the blood of Drizzt Do'Urden!
Drizzt noted Tos'un's uncomfortable wince, and suspected that Khazid'hea had been
behind the grimace. Drizzt had carried the annoying sentient blade long enough to
understand that its ego simply would not let it remain silent through any conversation.
The way Tos'un had measured his cadence, as if he was listening to the sound of his
own words coming back at him in an echo from a stone wall, revealed the continual
intrusions of the ever-present Khazid'hea.
"I have come here to see this curiosity I find before me," Drizzt replied. "A son
of Barrison Del'Armgo, living on the surface world, alone."
"Akin to yourself."
"Hardly," Drizzt said with a chuckle. "I carry my surname out of habit alone, and
toward no familiarity or relationship with the House of Matron Malice."
"As I have abandoned my own House," Tos'un insisted, again in that stilted cadence.
Drizzt wasn't about to argue with that much of his claim, for indeed it seemed plausible
enough -
though of course, the events that drove Tos'un from the ranks of his formidable House
might be anything but exculpatory. "To trade service to a matron mother for service
to a king," Drizzt remarked. "For both of us, it seems."
Whatever Tos'un meant to reply, he bit it back and tilted his head to the side, searching
the statement, no doubt.
Drizzt didn't hide his wry and knowing grin.
"I serve no king," Tos'un insisted, and with speed enough and force enough to prevent
any interruptions from the intrusive blade.
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"Obould names himself a king."
Tos'un shook his head, his face curling into a snarl.
"Do you deny your part in the conspiracy that prompted Obould to come south?" Drizzt
asked. "I have had this conversation with two of your dead companions, of course.
Or do you deny your partnering with the pair I killed? Recall that I saw you standing
with the priestess when I came to battle Obould."
"Where was I, a Houseless rogue, to turn?" Tos'un replied. "I happened upon the trio
of which you speak in my wandering. Alone and without hope, they offered me sanctuary,
and that I could not refuse. We did not raid your dwarf friends, nor any human settlements."
"You prompted Obould and brought disaster upon the land."
"Obould was coming with his thousands with no prompt from us - from my companions,
for I had no part in that."
"So you would have to say."
"So I do say. I serve no orc king. I would kill him if given the chance."
"So you would have to say."
"I watched him bite out the throat of Kaer'lic Suun Wett!" Tos'un roared at him.
"And I killed your other two friends," Drizzt was quick to reply. "By your reasoning,
you would kill me if given the chance."
That gave Tos'un pause, but only for a moment. "Not so," he said.
But he winced again as Khazid'hea emphatically shot, Do not let him strike first!
into his thoughts.
The sword continued its prompting, egging Tos'un to leap forward and dispatch Drizzt,
as the drow continued, "There is no honor in Obould, no honor in the smelly orcs.
They are iblith."
Again his comments were broken, his cadence uneven, and Drizzt knew that Khazid'hea
was imploring him. Drizzt took a slight step and shift to Tos'un's right, for in
that hand he held Khazid'hea.
"You may be correct in your assessment," Drizzt replied. "But then, I found little
honor in your two friends before I killed them." He half-expected his words to prompt
a charge, and shifted his hands appropriately nearer his hilts, but Tos'un stayed
in place.
He just stood there, trembling, waging an inner battle against the sword's murderous
intent, Drizzt surmised.
"The orc
s have gone on the attack once again," Drizzt remarked, and his tone changed, and
his thoughts went dark, as he reminded himself of the fate of Innovindil. "In the
Moonwood and against the dwarves."
"They are old enemies." Tos'un replied, as if the whole news was matter-of-fact and
hardly unexpected.
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"Spurred by instigators who revel in chaos - indeed, who worship a demon queen who
thrives on a state of utter confusion."
"No," Tos'un answered flatly. "If you are referring to me - "
"Are there other drow about?"
"No, and no," said Tos'un.
"You would have to say that."
"I fought beside the Moonwood elves."
"Why would you not, in the service of chaos? I doubt that you care which side wins
this war, as long as Tos'un realizes his gain."
The drow shook his head, unconvinced.
"And in the Moonwood," Drizzt continued, "the orcs' attacks were cunning and coordinated
-
more so than one might expect from a band of the dimwitted goblinkin." As he finished,
Drizzt's scimitars appeared in his hands as if they had simply materialized there,
so fast and fluid was his motion. Again he sidled to his left, reminding himself
that Tos'un was a drow warrior, trained at Melee-Magthere, likely under the legendary
Uthegental. House Barrison Del'Armgo's warriors were known for their ferocity and
straightforward attacks. Formidable, to be sure, Drizzt knew, and he could not forget
for one instant that sword Tos'un carried.
Drizzt went to the right, trying to keep Tos'un using only short strokes with Khazid'hea,
a weapon powerful enough to perhaps sever one of Drizzt's enchanted blades if swung
with enough weight behind the blow.
"There is a new general among them, an orc most cunning and devious," Tos'un replied,
his face twisting with every word - arguing against the intrusions of Khazid'hea,
Drizzt clearly recognized.
That obvious truth of Tos'un's inner struggle had Drizzt somewhat hesitant, for why
would this drow, if everything Drizzt presumed was true, be arguing against the murderous
sword?
Before his thoughts could even go down that road, however, Drizzt thought again of
Innovindil, and his face grew very dark. He turned his blades over and back again,
anxious to exact revenge for his lost friend.
"More cunning than a warrior trained in Melee-Magthere?" he asked. "More devious
than one raised in Menzoberranzan? More hateful of elves than a drow?"
Tos'un shook his head through all of the questions. "I was with the elves," he argued.
"And you deceived them and ran - and ran with knowledge of their tactics."
"I killed none as I left, though I surely could - "
"Because you are more cunning than that," Drizzt interrupted. "I would
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expect nothing less from a son of House Barrison Del'Armgo. You knew that if you
struck and murdered some in your escape, the elves of the Moonwood would have understood
the depths of your depravity and would have known that an attack was soon to befall
them."
"I did not," Tos'un said, shaking his head helplessly. "None of..." He stopped and
grimaced as Khazid'hea assaulted his thoughts.
He will take from you his friend's sword! Without me, your lies will not withstand
the interrogations of the elf clerics. They would know your heart.
Tos'un found it hard to breathe. He was trapped in a way he never wanted, facing
a foe he believed he could not defeat. He couldn't run away from Drizzt as he had
Obould.
Kill him! Khazid'hea demanded. With me in your grasp, Drizzt Do'Urden will fall.
Take his head to Obould!
"No!" Tos'un shot back audibly - and Drizzt smiled in understanding -
instinctively recoiling from the orc king, an emotion that Khazid'hea surely understood.
Then take his head to Menzoberranzan,
the sword offered, and again Tos'un's reasoning argued, for he hadn't the strength
to return to the drow city alone along the unmerciful corridors of the Underdark.
But again the sword had the answers waiting. Promise Dnark the friendship of
Menzoberranzan. He will give you warriors to accompany you to the city, where you
will betray them and assume your place as a hero of
Menzoberranzan.
Tos'un tightened his grip on both his swords and thought of Kaer'lic's warning regarding
Drizzt. Before Khazid'hea could even begin to argue, though, the drow did it for
himself, for Kaer'lic's warning that Drizzt might be in the graces of Lolth had been
but a suspicion, and an outlandish one at that, but that mortal predicament standing
before him loomed all too real.
And Drizzt watched it all, and recognized many of the fears and emotions playing
through Tos'un's thoughts, and so when the son of House Barrison Del'Armgo leaped
toward him, his scimitars rose in a sudden and effortless cross before him.
Tos'un executed a double-thrust wide, Khazid'hea and his other sword stabbing past
the axis of Drizzt's blades. Drizzt threw his hands out wide to their respective
sides, the called-for defense, each of his blades taking one of Tos'un's.
Advantage taken, Drizzt went for the greater stance offered by his curved blades.
A more conventional warrior would have reversed the thrust back at his opponent,
but Tos'un, expecting that, would have been too quick on the retreat for any real
advantage to be realized. So Drizzt turned his scimitars over Tos'un's swords, using
the curve of his blades to draw the swords in tighter, that he could
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send them out with more authority and perhaps even knock his foe off-balance enough
that he could score a quick kill.
He rolled the scimitars over with a snap of his wrists.
But Khazid'hea....
Tos'un countered by jamming the powerful sword hard into the hilt of Drizzt's scimitar
-
and the impossibly sharp blade cut in, catching a hold that halted Drizzt's move.
Tos'un pressed forward with his right and stepped back with his left, keeping perfect
balance as he disengaged his left from Drizzt's rolling blade.
Seeing disaster, Drizzt reversed suddenly, bringing Icingdeath, his right-hand blade,
across hard instead of ahead, which would have left him off-balance and lunging.
He drove Twinkle down hard directly away from the terrible blade of Khazid'hea, for
that was the only chance to disengage before the mighty sword cut half of Twinkle's
crosspiece away. Tos'un followed until the disengagement, then thrust forward at
Drizzt, of course, and Icingdeath came across in the last instant, scraping along
Khazid'hea's blade, shearing a line of sparks into the air.
Drizzt was half-turned, though, and Tos'un stabbed forward with his left for the
ranger's exposed side.
But Twinkle came up from under Drizzt's other arm, neatly picking off the attack,
and Drizzt uncrossed his arms suddenly, Icingdeath slashing back across to knock
Tos'un's sword aside. Twinkle slapped back against Khazid'hea with equal fury. Tos'un
leaped back, as did Drizzt, the two again circling, taking a measure of each other.
He was good, Drizzt realized. Better than he had anticipated. He managed a glance
at Twinkle to note the clear tear where Khazid'hea had struck, and noted, too, a
nick on Icingdeath's previously unblemished blade.
Tos'un came ahead with a lazy thrust, a feint and a sudden flurry, leading with his
left then rattling off several quick blows with Khazid'hea. He moved forward with
every strike, forcing Drizzt to block and not dodge. Every time Khazid'hea slapped
against one of his blades, Drizzt winced, fearing that the awful sword would cut
right through.
He couldn't play it Tos'un's way, he realized. Not with Khazid'hea in the mix. He
couldn't use a defensive posture, as he normally would against a warrior who had
trained under Uthegental, an overly aggressive sort that would allow him to simply
let Tos'un's rage wear him out.
As soon as the attacks of Khazid'hea played out, Drizzt sprang forward, putting his
blades up high and rolling his hands in a sudden blur. Over and over went his scimitars,
as he rolled his hands left and right, striking rapidly at Tos'un from varying angles.
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Tos'un's defense mirrored Drizzt's movements, hands rolling, blades turning in and
out, rolling over each other with equal harmony.
Drizzt kept in tight and kept the strokes short, not willing to let Tos'un put any
weight behind Khazid'hea. He thought that to be Tos'un's only possible advantage,
the sheer viciousness and power of that sword, and without it, Drizzt, who had defeated
the greatest weapons master of Menzoberranzan, would find victory.
But Tos'un matched his rolling fury, anticipated his every move, and even managed
several short counterstrikes that interrupted Drizzt's rhythm, and one that nearly
got past Drizzt's sudden reversal and defense and would have surely gutted him. Surprised,
Drizzt pressed the attack even more, rolling his hands more widely, changing the
angles of attack more dramatically.
He slashed - one, two, three -
downward at Tos'un's left shoulder, spun suddenly as the last parry sounded, and
turned lower as he went so that as he came around, both his swords tore for Tos'un's
right side. He expected a down-stroke parry from Khazid'hea, but Tos'un turned inside
the attack, bringing his drow blade across to block. As he turned, he stabbed
Khazid'hea back and down over his right shoulder.
Drizzt ducked the brunt of it, but felt the bite as the sword sliced down his shoulder
blade, leaving a long and painful gash. Drizzt ran straight out from the engagement
and dived forward in a roll, turning as he came up to face the pursuing Tos'un.
It was Tos'un's turn, and he came on with fury, stabbing and slashing, spinning completely
around and with perfect balance and measured speed.
Ignoring the pain and the warm blood running down the right side of his back, Drizzt
matched that intensity, parrying left and right, up and down, the blades ringing
in one long note as they clanged and scraped. With every parry of Khazid'hea, Drizzt
caught the sword more softly, retreating his own blade upon contact, as he might
catch a thrown egg to avoid breaking it. That was more taxing, though, more precise
and time-consuming, and the necessity of such a concentrated defense prevented
him from regaining the momentum and the offense.
Around and around the sheltered lea they went, Tos'un pressing, not tiring, and growing
more confident with every strike.
He had a right to do so, Drizzt had to admit, for he fought brilliantly, flu-idly,
and only then did Drizzt begin to understand that Tos'un had done with Khazid'hea
that which Drizzt had refused to allow. Tos'un was letting the sword infiltrate
his thoughts, was following the instincts of Khazid'hea as if they were his own.
They had found a complementary relationship, a joining of sword and wielder.
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Worse, Drizzt realized, Khazid'hea knew him, knew his movements as intimately as
a lover, for Drizzt had wielded the sword in a desperate fight against King Obould.
He understood then, to his horror, how Tos'un had so easily anticipated his rollover
and second throw move after the initial cross and parry. He understood then, to his
dilemma, his inability to set up a killing strike. Khazid'hea knew him, and though
the sword couldn't read his thoughts, it had taken a good measure of the fighting
techniques of Drizzt Do'Urden. Just as damaging, since Tos'un had apparently given
over to Khazid'hea's every intrusion, the sword and the trained drow warrior had
found a symbiosis, a joining of knowledge and instinct, of skill and understanding.
For a fleeting moment, Drizzt wished that he had not dismissed Guenhwyvar, as tired
as she had been after finally leading him to Tos'un Armgo.
A fleeting moment indeed, for Tos'un and Khazid'hea came on again, hungrily, the
drow stabbing high and low simultaneously then spinning his blades over in a cross,
and back again with a pair of backhand slashes.
Drizzt backed as Tos'un pursued. He parried about half the strikes - mostly those
of the less dangerous drow blade -
and dodged the other half cleanly. He offered no counters, allowing Tos'un to press,
as he tried to find the answers to the riddle of the drow warrior and his mighty
sword.
Back he stepped, parrying a slash. Back he stepped again, and he knew that he was
running out of room, that the stone throne was near. He began to parry more and retreat
less, his steps slowing and becoming more measured, until he felt at last the thick
granite of the throne behind his trailing heel.
Apparently sensing that Drizzt had run out of room, Tos'un came forward more aggressively,
executing a double thrust low. Surprised by the maneuver, Drizzt launched a double-cross
down, the appropriate parry, where he crossed his scimitars down over the two thrusting
swords. Drizzt had long ago solved the riddle of that maneuver. Before, the defender
could hope for no advantage beyond a draw.
Tos'un would know that, he realized in the instant it took him to begin the second
part of his counter, kicking his foot through the upper cross of his down-held blades,
and so when Tos'un reacted, Drizzt already had his improvisation ready.
He kicked for Tos'un's face, so it appeared. Tos'un leaned back and drove his swords
straight up, his intent to knock the kicking Drizzt, already in an awkward maneuver,
off his balance.
But Drizzt shortened his kick, which could have no more than glanced Tos'un's face
anyway, and changed the angle of his momentum upward then used Tos'un's push from
below to bolster that directional change. Drizzt leaped
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right up and tucked in a tight turn that spun him head-over-heels to land lightly
atop the seat of the stone throne, and it was Tos'un who overbalanced as the counterweight
disappeared in a back flip, the drow staggering back a step.
Typical of an Armgo, Tos'un growled and came right back in, slashing across, which
Drizzt hopped easily. Up above, Drizzt had the advantage, but Tos'un tried to use
sheer aggressiveness to dislodge him from the seat, slashing and stabbing with abandon.
One swipe cut across short of Drizzt, who threw back his hips, and sent Khazid'hea
hard into the back of the stone throne. With a crack and a spark, the sword slashed
through, leaving a gouge in the granite.
"I will not let you win, and I will not let you flee!" Drizzt cried in that moment,
when the stone, though it hadn't stopped the sword, surely broke Tos'un's rhythm.
Drizzt went on the offensive, hacking down at Tos'un with powerful and straightforward
strokes, using his advantageous angle to put his weight behind every blow. Tos'un
tried to not retreat as a drum roll of bashing blades landed against his upraised
swords, sending shivers of numbness down his arms, but Drizzt had him defending against
angles varying too greatly for him to ever get his feet fully under him. Soon he
had no choice but to fall back, stumbling, and Drizzt was there, leaping from the
seat and coming down with a heavy double chop of his blades that nearly took Tos'un's
swords from his hands.
"I will not let you win!' Drizzt cried again, throwing out the words in a release
of all his inner strength as he backhanded across with Icingdeath, smashing Tos'un's
drow-made sword out to the side.
And that was the moment when Drizzt could have ended it, for Twinkle's thrust, turn,
and out-roll had Khazid'hea too far to the side to stop the second movement of Icingdeath,
a turn and stab that would have plunged the blade deep into Tos'un's chest.
Drizzt didn't want the kill, for all the rage inside him for Innovindil. He played
his trump.
"I will again wield the magnificent Khazid'hea!" he cried, disengaging instead of
pressing his advantage. He went back just a couple of steps, and only for a few heartbeats
-
long enough to see a sudden wave of confusion cross Tos'un's face.
"Give me the sword!" Drizzt demanded.
Tos'un cringed, and Drizzt understood. For he had just given Khazid'hea what it had
long desired, had just spoken the words Khazid'hea could not ignore. Khazid'hea's
loyalty was to Khazid'hea alone, and Khazid'hea wanted, above all else, to be wielded
by Drizzt Do'Urden.
Tos'un stumbled, hardly able to bring his blades up in defense as Drizzt charged
in. In came Twinkle, in came Icingdeath, but not the blades. The hilts
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smashed Tos'un's face, one after another. Both Tos'un's swords went flying, and he
went with them, back and to the ground. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough.
Drizzt's boot slammed down upon his chest and Icingdeath came to rest against his
neck, its diamond edge promising him a quick death if he struggled.
"You have so much to answer for," Drizzt said to him.
Tos'un fell back and gave a great exhale, his whole body relaxing with utter resignation,
for he could not deny that he was truly doomed.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
23
BLACK
AND
WHITE
Nanfoodle lifted one foot and drew little circles on the floor with his toes. Standing
with his hands clasped behind his back, the gnome presented an image of uncertainty
and trepidation. Bruenor and Hralien, who had been sitting discussing their next
moves when Nanfoodle and Regis had entered the dwarf's private quarters, looked at
each other with confusion.
"Well if ye can't get it translated, then so be it," Bruenor said, guessing at the
source of the gnome's consternation. "But ye're to keep working on it, don't ye doubt!"
Nanfoodle looked up, glanced at Regis, then bolstered by Regis's nod, turned back
to the dwarf king and squared his shoulders. "It is an ancient language, based on
the Dwarvish tongue," he explained. "It has roots in Hulgorkyn, perhaps, and Dethek
runes for certain."
"Thought I'd recognized a couple o' the scribbles," Bruenor replied.
"Though it is more akin to the proper Orcish," Nanfoodle explained, and Bruenor gasped.
"Dworcish?" Regis remarked with a grin, but he was the only one who found any humor
in it.
"Ye're telling me that the durned orcs took part of me Delzoun ancestors' words?"
Bruenor asked.
Nanfoodle shook his head. "How this language came about is a mystery whose answer
is beyond the parchments you brought to me. From what I can tell of the proportion
of linguistic influence, you've juxtaposed the source and
add."
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"What in the Nine Hells are ye babblin' about?" Bruenor asked, his voice beginning
to take on an impatient undercurrent.
"Seems more like old Dwarvish with added pieces from old Orcish," Regis explained,
drawing Bruenor's scowl his way and taking it off of Nanfoodle, who seemed to be
withering before the unhappy dwarf king with still the most important news forthcoming.
"Well, they needed to talk to the dogs to tell them what's what," said Bruenor, but
both Regis and Nanfoodle shook their heads with every word.
"It was deeper than that," Regis said, stepping up beside the gnome. "The dwarves
didn't borrow orc phrases, they integrated the language into their own."
"Something that would have taken years, even decades, to come into being," said Nanfoodle.
"Such language blending is common throughout the history of all the races, but it
occurs, every time, because of familiarity and cultural bonds."
Silence came back at the pair, and Bruenor and Hralien looked to each other repeatedly.
Finally, Bruenor found the courage to ask directly, "What are ye saying?"
"Dwarves and orcs lived together, side-by-side, in the city you found," said Nanfoodle.
Bruenor's eyes popped open wide, his strong hands slapped against the arms of his
chair, and he came forward as if he meant to leap out and throttle both the gnome
and the halfling.
"For years," Regis added as soon as Bruenor settled back.
The dwarf looked at Hralien, seeming near panic.
"There is a town called Palishchuk in the wastes of Vaasa on the other side of Anauroch,"
the elf said with a shrug, as if the news was not as unexpected and impossible as
it seemed. "Half-ores, one and all, and strong allies with the goodly races of the
region."
"Half-orcs?"Bruenor roared back at him. "Half-orcs're half-humans, and that lot'd
take on a porcupine if the durned spines didn't hurt so much! But we're talkin' me
kin here. Me ancestors!"
Hralien shrugged again, as if it wasn't so shocking, and Bruenor stopped sputtering
long enough to catch the fact that the elf might be having a bit of fun with the
revelation, at the dwarf's expense.
"We don't know that these were your ancestors," Regis remarked.
"Gauntlgrym's the home o' Delzoun!" Bruenor snapped.
"This wasn't Gauntlgrym," said Nanfoodle, after clearing his throat. "It wasn't,"
he reiterated when Bruenor's scowl fell over him fully.
"What was it, then?"
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"A town called Baffenburg," said Nanfoodle.
"Never heared of it."
"Nor had I," the gnome replied. "It probably dates from around the time of Gauntlgrym,
but it was surely not the city described in your histories. Not nearly that size,
or with that kind of influence."
"That which we saw of it was probably the extent of the main town," Regis added.
"It wasn't Gauntlgrym."
Bruenor fell back in his seat, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. He
wanted to argue, but had no facts with which to do so. As he considered things, he
recognized that he'd never had any evidence that the hole in the ground led to Gauntlgrym,
that he had no maps that indicated the ancient Del-zoun homeland to be anywhere near
that region. All that had led him to believe that it was indeed Gauntlgrym was his
own fervent desire, his faith that he had been returned to Mithral Hall by the graces
of Moradin for that very purpose.
Nanfoodle started to talk, but Bruenor silenced him and waved both him and Regis
away.
"This does not mean that there is nothing of value ..." Regis started to say, but
again, Bruenor waved his hand, dismissing them both -
then dismissing Hralien with a gesture, as well, for at that terrible moment of revelation,
with
orcs attacking and Alustriel balking at decisive action, the crestfallen dwarf king
wanted only to be alone.
* * * * *
"Still here, elf?" Bruenor asked when he saw Hralien inside Mithral Hall the next
morning. "Seeing the beauty o' dwarf ways, then?"
Hralien shared the dwarf king's resigned chuckle. "I am interested in watching the
texts unmasked. And I would be re -
" He stopped and studied Bruenor for a moment then added, "It is good to see you
in such fine spirits this day. I had worried that the gnome's discovery from yesterday
would cloak you in a dour humor."
Bruenor waved a hand dismissively. "He's just scratched the scribblings. Might be
that some dwarves were stupid enough to trust the damned orc
s. Might be that they paid for it with their city and their lives
-
and that might be a lesson for yer own folk and for Lady Alustriel and the rest of
them that's hesitating in driving Obould back to his hole. Come with me, if ye're
wantin', for I'm on me way to the gnome now. He and Rumblebelly have worked the night
through, on me orders. I'm to take their news to Alustriel and her friends out working
on the wall. Speak for the Moonwood in that discussion, elf, and let's be setting
our plans together."
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Hralien nodded and followed Bruenor through the winding tunnels and to the lower
floors, and a small candlelit room where Regis and Nanfoodle were hard at work. Parchment
had been spread over several tables, held in place by paperweights. The aroma of
lavender permeated the room, a side-effect from Nanfoodle's preservation potions
that had been carefully applied to each of the ancient writings, and to the tapestry,
which had been hung on one wall. Most of its image remained obscured, but parts of
it had been revealed. That vision made Bruenor cringe, for the
orc
s and dwarves visible in the drawing were not meeting in battle or even in parlay.
They were together, intermingled, going about their daily business.
Regis, who sat off to the side transcribing some text, greeted the pair as they entered,
but Nanfoodle didn't even turn around, hunched as he was over a parchment, his face
pressed close to the cracked and faded page.
"Ye re not looking so tired, Rumblebelly," Bruenor greeted accusingly.
"I'm watching a lost world open before my eyes," he replied. "I'm sure that I will
fall down soon enough, but not now."
Bruenor nodded. "Then ye're saying that the night showed ye more o' the old town,"
he said.
"Now that we have broken the code of the language, the pace improves greatly," said
Nanfoodle, never turning from the parchment he was studying. "You retrieved some
interesting texts on your journey."
Bruenor stared at him for a few heartbeats, expecting him to elaborate, but soon
realized that the gnome was fully engulfed by his work once more. The dwarf turned
to Regis instead.
"The town was mostly dwarves at first," Regis explained. He hopped up from his chair
and moved to one of the many side tables, glanced at the parchment spread there,
and moved along to the next in line. "This one," he explained, "talks about how the
orcs were growing more numerous. They were coming in from all around, but most of
the dwarven ties remained to places like Gaunt
lgrym, which was of course belowground and more appealing to a dwarf's sensibilities."
"So it was an unusual community?" Hralien asked.
Regis shrugged, for he couldn't be certain.
Bruenor looked to Hralien and nodded smugly in apparent vindication, and certainly
the elf and the halfling understood that Bruenor did not want his history intertwined
with that of the foul orcs!
"But it was a lasting arrangement," Nanfoodle intervened, finally looking up from
the parchment. "Two centuries at least."
"Until the orcs betrayed me ancestors," Bruenor insisted.
"Until something obliterated the town, melting the permafrost and dropping
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the whole of it underground in a sudden and singular catastrophe," Nanfoodle corrected.
"And not one of orc making. Look at the tapestry on the wall -
it remained in place after the fall of Baffenburg, and certainly it would have been
removed if that downfall had been precipitated by one side or the other. I don't
believe that there were 'sides,' my king."
"And how're ye knowing that?" Bruenor demanded. "That scroll tellin' ye that?"
"There is no indication of treachery on the part of the orcs -
at least not near the end of the arrangement," the gnome explained, hopping down
from his bench and moving to yet another parchment across from the table where Regis
stood. "And the tapestry
... Early on, there were problems. A single orc chieftain held the orcs in place
beside the dwarves. He was murdered."
"By the dwarves?" Hralien asked.
"By his own," said Nanfoodle, moving to another parchment. "And a time of unrest
ensued."
"Seemin' to me that the whole time was a time of unrest," Bruenor said with a snort.
"Ye can't be living with damned orcs!"
"Off and on unrest, from what I can discern," Nanfoodle agreed. "And it seemed to
get better through the years, not worse."
"Until the orcs brought an end to it," Bruenor grumbled. "Suddenly, and with orc
treachery."
"I do not believe ..." Nanfoodle started to reply.
"But ye're guessin', and not a thing more," said Bruenor. "Ye just admitted that
ye don't know what brought the end."
"Every indication - "
"Bah! But ye're guessing."
Nanfoodle conceded the point with a bow. "I would very much like to go to this city
and build a workshop there, in the library. You have uncovered something fascinating,
King Bru - "
"When the time's for it," Bruenor interrupted. "Right now I'm seeing the call of
them words. Get rid of Obould and the orcs'll fall apart, as we were expecting from
the start. This is our battle call, gnome. This is why Moradin sent me back here
and told me to go to that hole, Gauntlgrym or not!"
"But that's not..." Nanfoodle started to argue, but his voice trailed away, for it
was obvious that Bruenor paid him no heed.
His head bobbing with excitement and vigor, Bruenor had already turned to Hralien.
He swatted the elf on the shoulder and swept Hralien up in his wake as he quick-stepped
from the room, pausing only to berate Nanfoodle, "And I'm still thinking it's Gauntlgrym!"
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Nanfoodle looked helplessly at Regis. "The possibilities...." the gnome remarked.
"We've all our own way of looking at the world, it would seem," Regis answered with
a shrug that seemed almost embarrassed for Bruenor.
"Is this find not an example?"
"Of what?" asked Regis. "We do not even know how it ended, or why it ended."
"Drizzt has whispered of the inevitability of Obould's kingdom," Nanfoodle reminded
him.
"And Bruenor is determined that it will not be. The last time I looked, Bruenor,
and not Drizzt, commanded the army of Mithral Hall and the respect of the surrounding
kingdoms."
"A terrible war is about to befall us," said the gnome.
"One begun by King Obould Many-Arrows," the halfling replied.
Nanfoodle sighed and looked at the many parchment sheets spread around the room.
It took all his willpower to resist the urge to rush from table to table and crumble
them to dust.
*****
"His name was Bowug Kr'kri," Regis explained to Bruenor, presenting more of the deciphered
text to the dwarf king.
"An orc?"
"An orc philosopher and wizard," the halfling replied. "We think the statues we saw
in the library were of him, and maybe his disciples."
"So he's the one who brought the orcs into the dwarf city?"
"We think."
"The two of ye do a lot o' thinking for so little answering," Bruenor growled.
"We have only a few old texts," Regis replied. "It's all a riddle, still."
"Guesses."
"Speculation," said Regis. "But we know that the orcs lived there with the dwarves,
and that Bowug Kr'kri was one of the leaders of the community."
"Any better guesses on how long that town lived? Ye said centuries, but I'm not for
believin' ye."
Regis shrugged and shook his head. "It had to be over generations. You saw the structures,
and the language."
"And how many o' them structures were built by the dwarfs afore the orcs came in?"
Bruenor asked with a sly smile.
Regis had no answer.
"Might've been a dwarf kingdom taken down by trusting the damned orcs,"
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Bruenor said. "Fool dwarfs who took much o' the orc tongue to try to be better neighbors
to the treacherous dogs."
"We don't think - "
"Ye think too much," Bruenor interrupted. "Yerself and the gnome're all excited about
finding something so different than that which we're knowin' to be true. If ye're
just finding more o' the same, then it's just more o' the same. But if ye're findin'
something to make yer eyes go wide enough to fall out o' their holes, then that's
something to dance about."
"We didn't invent that library, or the statues inside it," Regis argued, but he was
talking into as smug and sure an expression as he had ever seen. And he wasn't sure,
of course, that Bruenor's reasoning was wrong, for indeed, he and Nanfoodle were
doing a lot of guessing. The final puzzle picture was far from complete. They hadn't
even yet assembled the borders of the maze, let alone filled in the interior details.
Hralien walked into the room then, answering a summons Bruenor had sent out for him
earlier.
"It's coming clear, elf," Bruenor greeted him. "That town's a warning. If we're following
Alustriel's plans, we're to wind up a dead and dust-covered artifact for a future
dwarf king to discover."
"My own people are as guilty as is Alustriel in wanting to find a stable division,
King Bruenor," Hralien admitted. "The idea of crossing the Surbrin to do battle with
Obould's thousands is daunting -
it will not be attempted without great sorrow and great loss."
"And what's to be found by sitting back?" Bruenor asked.
Hralien, who had just lost a dozen friends in an orc
assault on the Moon-wood, and had just witnessed first-hand the attack on the dwarven
wall, didn't need to use his imagination to guess the answer to that question.
"We can't be fightin' them straight up," Bruenor reasoned. "That's the way o' doom.
Too many o' the stinking things." He paused and grinned, nodding his hairy head.
"Unless they're attacking us, and in bits and pieces. Like the group that went into
the Moonwood and the one that come over me wall. If we were ready for them, then
there'd be a lot o' dead
orcs."
Hralien gave a slight bow in agreement.
"So Drizzt was right," said Bruenor. "It's all about the one on top. He tried to
get rid of Obould, and almost did. That'd've been the answer, and still is. If we
can just get rid o' the durned Obould, we'll be tearing it all down."
"A difficult task," said Hralien.
"It's why Moradin gave me back to me boys," said Bruenor. "We're goin' to kill him,
elf."
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" 'We're'?" asked Hralien. "Are you to spearhead an army to strike into the heart
of Obould's kingdom?"
"Nah, that's just what the dog's wantin'. We'll do it the way Drizzt tried it. A
small group, better'n ..." He paused and a cloud passed over his face.
"Me girl won't be going," Bruenor explained. "Too hurt."
"And Wulfgar has left for the west," said Hralien, catching on to the source of Bruenor's
growing despair.
"They'd be helpin', don't ye doubt."
"I do not doubt at all," Hralien assured him. "Who, then?"
"Meself and yerself, if ye're up for the fight."
The elf gave a half-bow, seeming to agree but not fully committing, and Bruenor knew
he'd have to be satisfied with that.
The dwarf looked over to Regis, who nodded with increased determination, his face
as grim as his cherubic features would allow.
"And Rumblebelly there," the dwarf said.
Regis took a step back, shifting uncomfortably as Hralien cast a doubtful look his
way.
"He's knowing how to find his place," Bruenor assured the elf. "And he's knowin'
me fightin' ways, and them o' Drizzt."
"We will collect Drizzt on our road?"
"Can ye think o' anyone ye'd want beside ye more than the drow?"
"Indeed, no, unless it was Lady Alustriel herself."
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted. "Ye won't be getting that one to agree. Meself and a few
o' me boys, yerself and Drizzt, and Rumblebelly."
"To kill Obould."
"Crush his thick skull," said Bruenor. "Me and some o' me best boys. We'll be cuttin'
a quiet way, right to the head o' th' ugly beast, and then let it fall where it may."
"He is formidable," Hralien warned.
"Heared the same thing about Matron Baenre o' Menzoberranzan," Bruenor replied, referring
to his own fateful strike that had decapitated the drow city and ended the assault
on Mithral Hall. "And we got Moradin with us, don't ye doubt. It's why he sent me
back."
Hralien's posture and expression didn't show him to be completely convinced by any
of it, but he nodded his agreement just the same.
"Ye help me find me drow friend," Bruenor said to him, seeing that unspoken doubt.
"Then ye make yer mind up."
"Of course," Hralien agreed.
Off to the side, Regis shifted nervously. He wasn't afraid of adventuring beside
Bruenor and Drizzt, even if it would be behind orc lines. But he did fear
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that Bruenor was reading it all wrong, and that their mission would turn out badly,
for them perhaps, and for the world.
* * * * *
The gathering fell quiet when Banak Brawnanvil looked Bruenor in the eye and declared,
"Ye're bats!"
Bruenor, however, didn't blink. "Obould's the one," he said evenly.
"Not doubtin' that," replied the irrepressible Banak, who seemed to tower over Bruenor
at that moment despite the fact that he was confined to a sitting position because
of his injury in the orc
war. "So send Pwent and yer boys to go and get him, like ye're wantin'."
"It's me own job."
"Only because ye're a thick-headed Battlehammer!"
A few gasps filtered about the room at that proclamation, but they were diffused
by a couple of chortles, most notably from the priest Cordio. Bruenor turned on Cordio
with a scowl, but it fast melted against the reality of Banak's words. Truer words
regarding the density of Bruenor's skull, Cordio
- and Bruenor - knew, had never been spoken.
"Was meself that went to Gauntlgrym," Bruenor said. He snapped his head to Regis's
direction, as if expecting the halfling to argue that it wasn't Gauntlgrym. Regis,
though, wisely stayed silent. "Was meself that anchored the retreat from Keeper's
Dale. Was meself that battled Obould's first attack in the north." He was gaining
speed and momentum, not to
bang drums for meself,
as the dwarven saying went, but to justify his decision that he would personally
lead the mission. "Was meself that went to Calimport to bring back Rumblebelly. Was
meself that cut the damned Baenre in half!"
"I drunk enough toasts to ye to appreciate the effort," said Banak.
"And now I'm seeing one more task afore me."
"The King o' Mithral Hall's plannin' to march off behind an orc army and kill the
orc king
," Banak remarked. "And if ye're caught on the way? Won't yer kin here be in fine
straits then in trying to bargain with Obould?"
"If ye're thinkin' I'm to be caught livin', then ye're not knowing what it is to
be a Battlehammer," Bruenor retorted. "Besides, ain't no different than if Drizzt
got himself caught already, or any o' the rest of us. Ye're not for changing yer
ways with
orcs for meself any more than ye would for any of our boys."
Banak started to respond, but really had no answer for that.
"Besides, besides," Bruenor added, "once I'm walking out that gate, I'm not the king
o' Mithral Hall, which is the whole point in us being here, now ain't it?"
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"I'll be yer steward, but no king is Banak," the crippled Brawnanvil argued.
"Ye'll be me steward, but if I'm not returning then yerself is the Ninth King o'
Mithral Hall and don't ye be doubting it. And not a dwarf here would agree with ye
if ye were."
Bruenor turned and led Banak's gaze around the room with his own, taking in the solemn
nods of all the gathering, from Pwent and his Gutbusters to Cordio and the other
priests to Torgar and the dwarves from Mirabar.
"This is why Moradin sent me back," Bruenor insisted. "It's me against Obould, and
ye're a fool betting if ye're betting on Obould!"
That elicited a cheer around the room.
"Yerself and the drow?" Banak asked.
"Me and Drizzt," Bruenor confirmed. "And Rumblebelly's up for it, though me girl's
in no place for it."
"Ye telled her that, have ye?" Banak asked with a snicker that was echoed around
the room.
"Bah, but she can't be running, if running we're needing, and she'd not ever put
her friends in a spot o' staying behind to protect her," said Bruenor.
"Then ye ain't telled her," said Banak, and again came the snorts.
"Bah!" Bruenor said, throwing up his hands.
"So yerself, Drizzt, and Regis," said Banak. "And Thibbledorf Pwent?"
"Try to stop me," Pwent replied, and the Gutbuster brigade cheered.
"And Pwent," said Bruenor, and the Gutbusters cheered again. Nothing seemed to excite
that group quite so much as the prospect of one of their own walking off on an apparent
suicide mission.
"Begging yer pardon, King Bruenor," Torgar Hammerstriker said from the other side
of the room. "But me thinking is that the Mirabar boys should be represented on yer
team, and me thinking's that meself and Shingles here"
-
he reached to the side and pulled forward the scarred old warrior, Shingles McRuff
- "be just the two to do Mirabar proud."
As he finished, the other five Mirabarran dwarves in the room exploded into cheers
for their mighty leader and the legendary Shingles.
"Make it seven, then," Cordio Muffinhead added. "For ye can't be goin' on a march
for Moradin without a priest o' Moradin, and I'm that priest."
"Eight, then," Bruenor corrected, "for I'm thinking that Hralien o' the Moonwood
won't be leaving us after we find Drizzt."
"Eight for the road and eight for Obould!" came the cheer, and it grew louder as
it was repeated a second then a third time.
Then it ended abruptly, as a scowling Catti-brie came in through the door, staring
hard at Bruenor with a look that had even the doubting Banak
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Brawnanvil looking at the dwarf king with sympathy.
"Go and do what needs doin'," Bruenor instructed them all, his voice suddenly shaky,
and as the others scattered through every door in the room, Catti-brie limped toward
her father.
"So you're going for Obould's head, and you're to lead it?" she asked.
Bruenor nodded. "It's me destiny, girl. It's why Moradin put me back here."
"Regis brought you back, with his pendant."
"Moradin let me go from his hall," Bruenor insisted. "And it was for a reason!"
Catti-brie stared at him long and hard. "So now you're to go out, and to take my
friend Regis with you, and to take my husband with you. But I'm not welcome?"
"Ye can't run!" Bruenor argued. "Ye can hardly walk more than a few dozen yards.
If we're turning from orcs, then are we to wait for yerself?"
"There'll be less turning from orcs if I'm there."
"Not for doubtin' that," said Bruenor. "But ye know ye can't do it. Not now."
"Then wait for me."
Bruenor shook his head. Catti-brie's lips grew tight and she blinked her blue eyes
as if fighting back tears of frustration.
"I could lose all of you," she whispered.
Bruenor caught on then that part of her difficulty at least had to do with Wulfgar.
"He'll come back," the dwarf said. "He'll walk the road that's needin' walking, but
don't ye doubt that Wulfgar'll be coming back to us."
Catti-brie winced at the mention of his name, and her expression showed her to be
far less convinced of that than was her father.
"But will you?" she asked.
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted, throwing up a hand as if the question was ridiculous.
"And will Regis come back? And Drizzt?"
"Drizzt is out there already," Bruenor argued. "Are ye doubtin' him?"
"No."
"Then why're ye doubting me?" asked Bruenor. "I'm out for doing the same thing Drizzt
set out to do afore the winter. And he went out alone! I won't be out there alone,
girl, and ye'd be smarter if ye was worrying about the damned
orcs."
Catti-brie continued to look at him, and had no answer.
Bruenor opened wide his arms, inviting her to a hug that she could not resist. "Ye
won't be alone, girl. Ye won't ever be alone," he whispered into her ear.
He understood fully her frustration, for would his own have been any less if he was
to be left out of such a mission, when all of his friends were to go?
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Catti-brie pulled back from him far enough to look him in the eye and ask, "Are you
sure of this?"
"Obould's got to die, and I'm the dwarf to kill him," said Bruenor.
"Drizzt tried, and failed."
"Well Drizzt'll try again, but this time he's got friends trying with him. When we
come back to ye, the orc lines'll be breaking apart. Ye'll
find plenty o' fighting then, to be sure, and most of it outside our own doors.
But the orcs'll be scattered and easy to kill. Take me bet now, girl, that I'll kill
more than yerself."
"You're going out now, and getting a head start," Catti-brie answered, her face brightening
a bit.
"Bah, but I won't count the ones I'm killing on the road," said Bruenor. "When I
get back here and the orcs come on, as they're sure'n to do when Obould's no more,
then I'll be killing more orc
s than Catti-brie's to fell."
Catti-brie wore a sly grin. "I'll have me bow back from Drizzt then," she said, assuming
a Dwarvish accent as she threw out the warning. "Every arrow's taking one down. Some'll
take down two, or might even be three."
"And every swipe o' me axe is cutting three in half," Bruenor countered. "And I'm
not for tiring when there're orcs to cut."
The two stared at each other without blinking as each extended a hand to shake on
the bet.
"The loser represents Mithral Hall at the next ceremony in Nesm?" Catti-brie said,
and Bruenor feigned a grimace, as though he hadn't expected the stakes to be quite
so high.
"Ye'll enjoy the journey," the dwarf said. He smiled and tried to pull back, but
Catti-brie held his hand firmly and stared him in the eye, her expression solemn.
"Just get back to me, alive, and with Drizzt, Regis, and the others alive," she said.
"Plannin' on it," said Bruenor, though he didn't believe it any more than did Catti-brie.
"And with Obould's ugly head."
Catti-brie agreed. "With Obould's head."
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Chapter
CHAPTER
24
TAKING
CARE
IN
WHAT
THEY
WISHED
FOR
Clan Wolf Jaw lined both sides of the trail, their formidable array of warriors stretching
out for hundreds of feet, beyond the bend and out of Chieftain Grguch's line of sight.
None moved to block the progress of Clan Karuck, or to threaten the hulking
orcs in any way, and Grguch recognized the pair who did step out in the middle of
the trail.
"Greetings again, Dnark," Grguch said. "You have heard of our assault on the ugly
dwarves?"
"All the tribes of Many-Arrows have heard of the glory of Grguch's march," Dnark
answered, and Grguch smiled, as did Toogwik Tuk, who stood to the side and just behind
the ferocious chieftain.
"You march west," remarked Dnark, glancing back over his shoulder. "To the invitation
of King Obould?"
Grguch spent a few moments looking over Dnark and his associate, the shaman Ung-thol.
Then the huge orc
warrior glanced back at Toogwik Tuk and beyond him, motioning to a trio of soldiers,
two obviously of Clan Karuck, with wide shoulders and bulging muscles, and a third
that Dnark and Ung-thol had parted company with just a few days earlier.
"Obould has sent an emissary, requesting parlay," Grguch explained. Behind him, Oktule
saluted the pair and bowed repeatedly.
"We were there among King Obould's entourage when Oktule was sent forth," Dnark replied.
"Know you, though, that he was not the only emissary sent out that day." He finished
and met Grguch's hard stare for a few heartbeats, then motioned behind to the Wolf
Jaw ranks. Several warriors stepped
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out, dragging a beaten and battered orc. They took him around Dnark, and on his signal
closed half the distance to Grguch before dropping their living cargo unceremoniously
onto the dirt.
Priest Nukkels groaned as he hit the ground, and squirmed a bit, but Ung-thol and
Dnark had done their work extremely well and there was no chance of him getting up
from the ground.
"An emissary sent to you?" Grguch asked. "But you said that you were with Obould."
"No," Toogwik Tuk explained, reading correctly the smug expressions worn by his co-conspirators.
He stepped forward, daring to pass Grguch as he moved toward the battered priest.
"No, this is Nukkels," he explained, looking back at Grguch.
Grguch shrugged, for the name meant nothing to him.
"King Obould's advisor," Toogwik Tuk explained. "He would not be sent to deliver
a message to Chieftain Dnark. No, not even to Chieftain Grguch."
"What?" Grguch demanded, and though his tone was calm and even, there remained behind
it a hint of warning to Toogwik Tuk to tread lightly, where he seemed on the verge
of insult.
"This emissary was for no orc," Toogwik Tuk explained. He looked to Dnark and Ung-thol.
"Nor was he heading north, to Gerti Orelsdottr, was he?"
"South," Dnark answered.
"Southeast, precisely," added Ung-thol.
Toogwik Tuk could barely contain his amusement -
and his elation that King Obould had so perfectly played into their plans. He turned
to Grguch, certain of his guess. "Priest Nukkels was sent by King Obould to parlay
with King Bruenor Battlehammer."
Grguch's face went stone cold.
"We believe the same," said Dnark, and he moved forward to stand beside Toogwik Tuk
-
and to ensure that Toogwik Tuk did not claim an overdue amount of the credit for
that revelation. "Nukkels has resisted our
...
methods," he explained, and to accentuate his point, he stepped over and kicked
the groaning Nukkels hard in the ribs, sending him into a fetal curl. "He has offered
many explanations for his journey, including that of going to King Bruenor."
"This pathetic dwarf-kisser in the dirt was sent by Obould to meet with Bruenor?"
Grguch asked incredulously, as if he could not believe his ears.
"So we believe," Dnark answered.
"It is easy enough to discern," came a voice from behind, among Clan Karuck's ranks.
All turned, Grguch with a wide, knowing smile, to see Hakuun step forward to stand
beside his chieftain. "Would you like me to question the emissary?" Hakuun asked.
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Grguch laughed and glanced around, motioning at last to a dark cluster of trees off
to the side of the path. Dnark began signaling to his ranks for orc
s to drag the prisoner over, but Grguch cut him short as Hakuun launched into a spell.
Nukkels contorted as if in pain, and curled up on the ground
-
until he was not on the ground, but floating in the air. Hakuun walked for the trees,
and Nukkels drifted behind him.
* * * * *
Away from the others, Hakuun obediently put his ear in line with that of Nukkels.
The transfer took only a moment, with Jack the brain mole slipping out of Hakuun's
ear and into Nukkels's.
As he realized what was happening to him, Nukkels began thrashing wildly in the air,
but with nothing to orient him, with no pull of gravity to keep him upright or even
on his side, he began to spin -
which dizzied him, of course, and only made Jack's intrusion that much easier.
Jack came back out, and back into his more usual host a short while later, having
ripped Nukkels's brain of every detail. He knew, and soon Hakuun knew, of Obould's
true designs, confirming the fears of the trio who had summoned Clan Karuck from
the bowels of the Spine of the World.
"Obould seeks peace with the dwarves," Hakuun remarked in disbelief. "He wants the
war to be at its end."
A very un-orc orc, said the voice in his head.
"He defiles the will of Gruumsh!"
As I said.
Hakuun stalked out of the tree cluster, Jack's magic yanking the shivering, slobbering,
floating Nukkels along behind him. When Hakuun got back to the others on the trail,
he waved Nukkels in and let him drop hard to the ground.
"He was bound for King Bruenor," the shaman of Clan Karuck stated. "To undo the damage
wrought by Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck."
"Damage?" Grguch asked, furrowing his thick brow. "Damage!"
"As we explained to you upon your arrival," said Ung-thol.
"It is as our friends have told us," Hakuun confirmed. "King Obould has lost his
heart for war. He wishes no further battle with Clan Battlehammer."
"Cowardice," spat Toogwik Tuk.
"Has he found enough spoils to return to his home?" Grguch asked, his tone mocking
and derogatory.
"He has conquered empty rocks," Dnark proclaimed. "All that is of value lies within
the halls of the Battlehammer dwarves, or across the river in the
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realm of Silverymoon. But Obould - " he paused, turned, and kicked Nukkels hard -
"Obould would parlay with Bruenor. He would seek a treaty!"
"With dwarves?" Grguch. bellowed.
"Exactly that," said Hakuun, and Grguch nodded, having seen Hakuun at his work too
many times to doubt a word he spoke.
Ung-thol and Toogwik Tuk exchanged knowing grins. It was all for show, all to rouse
the rabble around the two chieftains, to garner outrage at the utter ridiculousness
of the apparent designs of Obould.
"And he would parlay with Grguch," Dnark reminded the ferocious orc
chieftain. "He would summon you to his side to gain your approval. Or perhaps to
scold you for attacking the elves and dwarves."
Grguch's bloodshot eyes opened wide and a great snarl rumbled behind his trembling
lips. He seemed as if he would leap forward and bite off Dnark's head, but the Chieftain
of Wolf Jaw did not relent. "Obould intends to show Grguch who controls the Kingdom
of Many-Arrows. He will coax you to join his way, so certain is he that he follows
the true vision of Gruumsh."
"To parlay with dwarves?" Grguch roared.
"Cowardice!" Dnark cried.
Grguch stood there, clenching his fists, the muscles in his neck straining, his chest
and shoulders bulging as if their sinewy power could not be contained by the orc's
skin.
"Oktule!" he cried, wheeling to face the orc who had arrived with King Obould's invitation.
The emissary shrank back, as did every orc around him.
"Come here," Grguch demanded.
Oktule, trembling and sweating, gave a quick shake of his head and stumbled back
even more -
or would have, had not a pair of Clan Karuck's powerful warriors grabbed him by the
arms and walked him forward. He tried to dig his feet in, but they just dragged him,
depositing him before the wild gaze of Chieftain Grguch.
"King Obould would scold me?" Grguch asked.
A line of wetness ran down poor Oktule's leg, and he shook his head again -
though whether in response to the question or in simple, desperate denial, no one
around could tell. He focused on Dnark, pleading with the chieftain who knew that
his role was unwitting.
Dnark laughed at him.
"He would scold me?" Grguch said again, louder. He leaned forward, towering over
the trembling Oktule. "You did not tell me that."
"He would not ... he ... he ... he told me to come to get you," Oktule stammered.
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"That he might scold me?" Grguch demanded, and Oktule seemed about to faint.
"I did not know," the pathetic courier protested meekly.
Grguch whirled to regard Dnark and the others, his expression brightening as if he
had just sorted everything out. "To gain the favor of Bruenor, Obould would have
to offer something," Grguch realized. He spun back on Oktule and slapped him with
a backhand across the face, launching him to the side and to the ground.
Grguch turned on Dnark again, his smile wry, nodding his head knowingly. "He would
offer to Bruenor the head of the warrior who struck against Mithral Hall, perhaps."
Behind him, Oktule gulped.
"Is there truth in that?" Dnark asked Nukkels, and he kicked the prone orc hard again.
Nukkels grunted and groaned, but said nothing decipherable.
"It is reasonable," Ung-thol said, and Dnark quickly nodded, neither of them wishing
to let Grguch calm from his self-imposed frenzy. "If Obould wishes to convince Bruenor
that the attack was not of his doing, he would have to prove his claim."
"With the head of Grguch?" the chieftain of Clan Karuck asked as he turned to Hakuun,
and Grguch laughed as if it was all absurd.
"The foolish priest showed me nothing of this," Hakuun admitted. "But if Obould truly
wishes peace with Bruenor, and he does, then Chieftain Grguch has quickly become
... an inconvenience."
"It is past time I meet this Obould fool, that I can show him the truth of Clan Karuck,"
said Grguch, and he gave a little laugh, clearly enjoying the moment. "It may be
unfortunate that you interrupted the journey of the one in the dirt," he said, nodding
toward the still-squirming Nukkels. "Greater would be King Bruenor's surprise and
fear when he looked into that basket, I say! I would pay in women and good gold to
see the face of the dwarf when he pulled out Obould's head!"
The orc
s of Clan Karuck began to howl at that, but Dnark, Ung-thol, and Toogwik Tuk just
looked at each other solemnly and with nods of understanding. For there it was, the
conspiracy spoken clearly, openly proclaimed, and there could be no turning back.
They offered their nods of thanks to Hakuun, who remained impassive, the part of
him that was Jack the Gnome not wishing to even acknowledge their existence, let
alone allow them the illusion that they were somehow his peers.
Grguch hoisted his two-bladed axe, but paused then set it aside. Instead, he drew
a long and wicked knife from his belt and glanced back to the Karuck
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ores standing around Oktule. His smile was all the impetus those orcs needed to drag
the poor courier forward.
Oktule's feet dug small trenches in the wet spring ground. He shook his head in denial,
crying, "No, no, please no!"
Those pleas only seemed to spur Grguch on. He strode behind Oktule and grabbed a
handful of the fool's hair, roughly yanking his head back, exposing his throat.
Even the orcs of Oktule's own clan joined in the cheering and chanting, and so he
was doomed.
He screamed and shrieked in tones preternatural in their sheer horror. He thrashed
and kicked and fought as the blade came against the soft skin of his throat.
Then his screams became watery, and Grguch bore him to the ground, face down, the
chieftain's knees upon his back, pinning him, while Grguch's arm pumped furiously.
When Grguch stood up again, presenting Oktule's head to the frenzied gathering, the
three conspirators shared another glance, and each took a deep and steadying breath.
Dnark, Toogwik Tuk, and Ung-thol had made a deal with as brutal a creature as any
of them had ever known. And they knew, all three, that there was more than a passing
chance that Chieftain Grguch would one day present their heads for the approval of
the masses.
They had to be satisfied with the odds, however, because the other choice before
them was obedience to Obould, and Obould alone. And that course of cowardice they
could not accept.
*****
"There will be nothing subtle about Grguch's challenge to Obould," Ung-thol warned
his comrades when the three were alone later that same night. "Diplomacy is not his
way."
"There is no time for diplomacy, nor is there any need," said Toogwik Tuk, who clearly
stood as the calmest and most confident of the trio. "We know the options before
us, and we chose our road long ago. Are you surprised by Grguch and Clan Karuck?
They are exactly as I portrayed them to you."
"I am surprised by their ... efficiency," said Dnark. "Grguch walks a straight line."
"Straight to Obould," Toogwik Tuk remarked with a snicker.
"Do not underestimate King Obould," warned Dnark. "That he sent
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Nukkels to Mithral Hall tells us that he understands the true threat of Grguch. He
will not be caught unawares."
"We cannot allow this to become a wider war," Ung-thol agreed. "Grguch's name is
great among the orc
s in the east, along the Surbrin, but the numbers of warriors there are few compared
to what Obould commands in the west and the north. If this widens in scope, we will
surely be overwhelmed."
"Then it will not," Toogwik Tuk said. "We will confront Obould with his small group
around him, and Clan Karuck will overwhelm him and be done with it. He does not have
the favor of Gruumsh -
have we any doubt of that?"
"His actions do not echo the words of Gruumsh," Ung-thol reluctantly agreed.
"If we are certain of his actions," said Dnark.
"He will not march against Mithral Hall!" Toogwik Tuk snarled at them. "You have
heard the whimpers of Nukkels! Grguch's priest confirmed it."
"Did he? Truly?" Dnark asked.
"Or is it all a ruse?" Ung-thol posed. "Is Obould's pause a feint to fully unbalance
our enemies?"
"Obould will not march," Toogwik Tuk protested.
"And Grguch will not be controlled," said Dnark. "And are we to believe that this
half-ogre creature will hold the armies of Many-Arrows together in a unified march
for wider glory?"
"The promise of conquest will hold the armies together far better than the hope of
parlay with the likes of King Bruenor of the dwarves," Toogwik Tuk argued.
"And that is the truth," said Dnark, ending the debate. "And that is why we brought
Clan Karuck forth. It unfolds before us now exactly as we anticipated, and Grguch
meets and exceeds every expectation. Now that we are finding that which we decided
we wished to find, we must hold fast to our initial beliefs that led us to this point.
It is not the will of Gruumsh that his people should pause when great glory and conquest
awaits. It is not the will of Gruumsh that his people should parlay with the likes
of King Bruenor of the dwarves. Never that! Obould has pushed himself beyond the
boundaries of decency and common sense. We knew that when we called to Clan Karuck,
and we know that now." He turned his head and spat upon Nukkels, who lay unconscious
and near death in the mud. "We know that with even more certainty now."
"So let us go and witness Grguch as he answers the summons of Obould," said Toogwik
Tuk. "Let us lead the cheers to King Grguch, as he leads our armies against King
Bruenor."
Ung-thol still wore doubts on his old and wrinkled face, but he looked to Dnark and
shared in his chieftain's assenting nod.
In a tree not far away, a curious winged snake listened to it all with amusement.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
25
POLITICS
AND
ALLIANCES
Raised in Menzoberranzan, a male drow in the matriarchal city of Menzober
ranzan, Tos'un Armgo didn't as much as grimace when Drizzt tugged his arms back hard
and secured the rope on the other side of the large tree. He was caught, with nowhere
to run or hide. He glanced to the side
- or tried to, for Drizzt had expertly looped the rope under his chin to secure
him against the tree trunk -
where Khazid'hea rested, stabbed into a stone by Drizzt. He could feel the sword
calling to him, but he couldn't reach out to it.
Drizzt studied Tos'un as if he understood the silent pleas exchanged between drow
and sentient sword - and likely, he did, Tos'un realized.
"You have nothing further to gain or lose," Drizzt said. "Your day in the service
of Obould is done."
"I have not been in his service for many tendays," Tos'un stubbornly argued. "Not
since before the winter. Not since that day you battled him, and even before that,
truth be told."
"Truth told by a son of House Barrison Del'Armgo?" Drizzt asked with a scoff.
"I have nothing to gain or lose, just as you said."
"A friend of mine, a dwarf named Bill, would speak with you about that," Drizzt said.
"Or whisper at you, I should say, for his throat was expertly cut to steal the depth
of his voice."
Tos'un grimaced at that inescapable truth, for he had indeed cut a dwarf's throat
in preparation for Obould's first assault on Mithral Hall's eastern door.
"I have other friends who might have wished to speak with you, too," said
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Drizzt. "But they are dead, in no small part because of your actions."
"I was fighting a war," Tos'un blurted. "I did not understand - "
"How could you not understand the carnage to which you contributed? Is that truly
your defense?"
Tos'un shook his head, though it would hardly turn to either side.
"I have learned," the captured drow added. "I have tried to make amends. I have aided
the elves."
Despite himself and his intentions that he would bring no harm to his prisoner, Drizzt
slapped Tos'un across the face. "You led them to the elves," he accused.
"No," said Tos'un. "No."
"I have heard the details of the raid."
"Facilitated by Chieftain Grguch of Clan Karuck, and a trio of conspirators who seek
to force Obould back to the road of conquest," said Tos'un. "There is more afoot
here than you understand. Never did I side with those who attacked the Moonwood,
and who have marched south, I am sure, with intent to strike at Mithral Hall."
"Yet you just said that you were no ally of Obould," Drizzt reasoned.
"Not of Obould, nor of any other orc
," said Tos'un. "I admit my role, though it was a passive one, in the early stages,
when Donnia Soldou, Ad'non Kareese, and Kaer'lic Suun Wett decided to foster an alliance
between Obould and his
orcs, Gerti Orelsdottr and her giants, and the two-headed troll named Proffit. I
went along because I did not care -
why would I care for dwarves, humans, and elves? I am drow!"
"A point I have never forgotten, I assure you."
The threat took much of Tos'un's bluster, but he pressed on anyway. "The events surrounding
me were not my concern."
"Until Obould tried to kill you."
"Until I was chased away by the murderous Obould, yes," said Tos'un. "And into the
camp of Albondiel and Sinnafain of the Moonwood."
"Whom you betrayed,"
Drizzt shouted in his face.
"From whom I escaped, though I was not their captive," Tos'un yelled back.
"Then why did you run?"
"Because of you!" Tos'un cried. "Because of that sword I carried, who knew that Drizzt
Do'Urden would never allow me to keep it, who knew that Drizzt Do'Urden would find
me among the elves and strike me down for possessing a sword that I had found abandoned
in the bottom of a ravine."
"That is not why, and you know it," said Drizzt, backing off just a step. " 'Twas
I who lost the sword, recall?"
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As he spoke he glanced over at Khazid'hea, and an idea came to him. He wanted to
believe Tos'un, as he had wanted to believe the female, Donnia, when he had captured
her those months before.
He looked back at Tos'un, smiled wryly, and said, "It is all opportunity, is it not?"
"What do you mean?"
"You ally with Obould as he gains the upper hand. But he is held at bay, and you
face his wrath. So you find your way to Sinnafain and Albondiel and the others and
think to create new opportunities where your old ones have ended. Or to recreate
the old ones, at the expense of your new 'friends.' Once you have gained their trust
and learned their ways, you again have something to offer to the
orcs, something that will perhaps bring Obould back to your side."
"By helping Grguch? You do not understand."
"But I shall," Drizzt promised, moving off to the side, toward Khazid'hea. Without
hesitation, he grabbed the sword by the hilt. Metal scraped and screeched as he withdrew
the blade from the stone, but Drizzt didn't hear that, for Khazid'hea already invaded
his thoughts.
I
had thought you lost to me.
But Drizzt wasn't listening to any of that, had not the time for it. He forced his
thoughts into the sword, demanding of Khazid'hea a summary of its time in the hands
of Tos'un Armgo. He did not coddle the sword with promises that together they would
find glory. He did not offer to the sword anything. He simply asked of it,
Were you in the Moonwood? Have you tasted the blood of elves?
Sweet blood...
Khazid'hea admitted, but with that thought came to Drizzt a sense of a time long
past. And the sword had not been in the Moonwood. Of that much, the drow was almost
immediately certain.
In light of Khazid'hea's open admission of its fondness for elf blood, Drizzt considered
the unlikely scenario that Tos'un could have been an integral part of the planning
for that raid and yet still have remained on the western side of the Surbrin. Would
Khazid'hea have allowed that participation from afar, knowing that blood was to be
spilled, and particularly since Khazid'hea had been in Tos'un's possession when he
had been with the elves?
Drizzt glanced back at the captured drow and considered the relationship between
Tos'un and the sword. Had Tos'un so dominated Khazid'hea?
As that very question filtered through Drizzt's thoughts, and thus was offered to
the telepathic sword, Khazid'hea's mocking response chimed in.
Drizzt put the sword down for a few moments to let it all sink in. When he retrieved
the blade, he directed his questioning toward the newcomer.
Grguch, he imparted.
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A fine warrior. Fierce and powerful.
A worthy wielder for Khazid'hea? Drizzt asked.
The sword didn't deny it.
More worthy than Obould? Drizzt silently asked.
The feeling that came back at him seemed not so favorably impressed. And yet, Drizzt
knew that King Obould was as fine a warrior as any orc
he had ever encountered, as fine as Drizzt himself, whom the sword had long coveted
as a wielder. Though not of that elite class, Catti-brie, too, was a fine warrior,
and yet Drizzt knew from his last experience with the sword that she had fallen out
of Khazid'hea's favor, as she opted to use her bow far too often for Khazid'hea's
ego.
A long time passed before Drizzt set the sword down once again, and he was left with
the impression that the ever-bloodthirsty Khazid'hea clearly favored Grguch over
Obould, and just for the reasons that Tos'un had said. Obould was not pressing for
conquest and battle.
Drizzt looked at Tos'un, who rested as comfortably as could be expected given his
awkward position tied to the tree. Drizzt could not dismiss the plausibility of Tos'un's
claims, all of them, and perhaps, whether through heartfelt emotion or simple opportunity,
Tos'un was not now an enemy to him and his allies.
But after his experiences with Donnia Soldou - indeed, after his experiences with
his own race from the earliest moments of his conscious life, Drizzt Do'Urden wasn't
about to take that chance.
*****
The sun had long set, the dark night made murkier by a fog that curled up from the
softening snow. Into that mist disappeared Bruenor, Hralien, Regis, Thibbledorf Pwent,
Torgar Hammerstriker and Shingles McRuff of Mirabar, and Cordio the priest.
On the other side of the ridgeline, behind the wall where Bruenor's dwarves and Alustriel's
wizards worked vigilantly, Catti-brie watched the receding group with a heavy heart.
"I should be going with them," she said.
"You cannot," said her companion, Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon. The tall woman moved
nearer to Catti-brie and put her arm around the woman's shoulders. "Your leg will
heal."
Catti-brie looked up at her, for Alustriel was nearly half a foot taller than she.
"Perhaps this is a sign that you should consider my offer," Alustriel said.
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"To train in wizardry? Am I not too old to begin such an endeavor?"
Alustriel laughed dismissively at the absurd question. "You will take to it naturally,
even though you were raised by the magically inept dwarves."
Catti-brie considered her words for a moment, but soon turned her attention to the
view beyond the wall, where the fog had swallowed her father and friends. "I had
thought that you would walk beside my father, as he bade," she said, and glanced
over at the Lady of Silverymoon.
"As you could not, neither could I," Alustriel replied. "My position prevented me
from it as fully as did your wounded leg."
"You do not agree with Bruenor's goal? You would side with Obould?"
"Surely not," said Alustriel. "But it is not my place to interject Silverymoon in
a war."
"You did exactly that when you and your Knights in Silver rescued the wandering Nesmians."
"Our treaties with Nesm?demanded no less," Alustriel explained. "They were under
attack and running for their lives. Small friends we would be if we did not come
to them in their time of need."
"Bruenor sees it just that way right now," said Catti-brie.
"Indeed he does," Alustriel admitted.
"So he plans to eradicate the threat. To decapitate the orc army and send them scattering."
"And I hope and pray that he succeeds. To have the orc
s gone is a goal agreed upon by all the folk of the Silver Marches, of course. But
it is not my place to bring Silverymoon into this provocative attack. My council
has determined that our posture is to remain defensive, and I am bound to abide by
their edicts."
Catti-brie shook her head and did not hide her disgusted look. "You act as if we
are in a time of peace, and Bruenor is breaking that peace," she said. "Does a needed
pause in the war because of the winter's snows cancel what has gone before?"
Alustriel hugged the angry woman a bit tighter. "It is not the way any of us wish
it to be," she said. "But the council of Silverymoon has determined that Obould has
stopped his march, and we must accept that."
"Mithral Hall was just attacked," Catti-brie reminded. "Are we to sit back and let
them strike at us again and again?"
Alustriel's pause showed that she had no answer for that. "I cannot go after Obould
now," she said. "In my role as leader of Silverymoon, I am bound by the decisions
of the council. I wish Bruenor well. I hope with all my heart and soul that he succeeds
and that the
orcs are chased back to their holes."
Catti-brie calmed, more from the sincerity and regret in Alustriel's tone than from
her actual words. Alustriel had helped, despite her refusal to go along, for
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she had given to Bruenor a locket enchanted to lead the dwarf toward Drizzt, an identical
locket to the one she had given to Catti-brie many years before when she, too, had
gone off to find a wandering Drizzt.
"I hope that Bruenor is correct in his guess," Alustriel went on, trepidation in
her voice. "I hope that killing Obould will bring the results he desires."
Catti-brie didn't reply, but just stood there and absorbed the words. She couldn't
bring herself to believe that Obould, who had started the war, might actually have
become a stabilizing force, and yet she could not deny her doubts.
*****
The two orc
s stood under a widespread maple, the sharp, stark lines of its branches not yet
softened by the onset of buds. They talked and chuckled at their own stupidity, for
they were completely lost, and far separated from their kin at the small village.
A wrong turn on a trail in the dark of night had put them far afield, and they had
long ago abandoned the firewood they had come out to collect.
One lamented that his wife would beat him red, to warm him up so he could replace
the fire that wouldn't last half the night.
The other laughed and his smile lingered long after his mirth was stolen by an elven
arrow, one that neatly sliced into his companion's temple. Standing in confusion,
grinning simply because he hadn't the presence of mind to remove his own smile, the
orc didn't even register the sudden thump
of heavy boots closing in fast from behind him. He was caught completely unawares
as the sharp tip of a helmet spike drove into his spine, tearing through muscle and
bone, and blasted out the front of his chest, covered in blood and pieces of his
torn heart.
He was dead before Thibbledorf Pwent straightened, lifting the orc
's flopping body atop his head. The dwarf hopped around, looking for more enemies.
He saw Bruenor and Cordio scrambling in the shadows south of the maple, and noted
Torgar and Shingles farther to the east. With Hralien in the northwest, and Regis
following in the shadows behind Pwent, the group soon surmised that the pair had
been out alone.
"Good enough, then," said Bruenor, nodding his approval. He held up the locket Alustriel
had given him. "Warmer," he explained. "Drizzt is nearby."
"Still north?" Hralien asked, coming in under the maple to stand beside Bruenor.
"Back from where ye just walked," Bruenor confirmed, holding forth his fist, which
held the locket. 'And getting warmer by the step."
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A curious expression showed on Bruenor's face. "And getting warmer as we're standin'
here," he explained to the curious glances that came his way.
"Drizzt!" Regis cried an instant later.
Following the halfling's pointing finger, the others spied a pair of dark elves coming
toward them, with Tos'un bound and walking before their friend.
"Taked ye long enough to find him, eh?" Thibbledorf Pwent said with a snort. He bent
and slapped his leg for effect, which sent the dead orc flopping weirdly.
Drizzt stared at the bloody dwarf, at the cargo he carried on his helmet spike. Realizing
that there was simply nothing he might say against the absurdity of that image, he
just prodded Tos'un on, moving to the main group.
"They hit the wall east of Mithral Hall," Hralien explained to Drizzt. "As you had
feared."
"Aye, but know that we sent them running," Bruenor added.
Drizzt's confused expression didn't change as he scanned the group.
"And now we're out for Obould," Bruenor explained. "I'm knowing ye were right, elf.
We got to kill Obould and break it all apart, as ye thought afore when ye went after
him with me girl's sword."
"We're out for him?" Drizzt asked doubtfully, looking past the small group. "You've
brought no army, my friend."
"Bah, an army'd just muddle it all," Bruenor said with a wave of his hand.
It wasn't hard for Drizzt to catch the gist of that, and in considering it for a
moment, in considering Bruenor's leadership methodology, he realized that he should
not be the least bit surprised.
"We wish to get to Obould, and it seems that we have a captive who might aid in exactly
that," Hralien remarked, stepping up before Tos'un.
"I have no idea where he is," Tos'un said in his still-stinted command of the Elvish
tongue.
"You would have to say that," said Hralien.
"I helped you ... your people," Tos'un protested. "Grguch had them caught in the
failed raid and I showed them the tunnel that took them to safety."
"True," Hralien replied. "But then, isn't that what a drow would do? To gain our
trust, I mean?"
Tos'un's shoulders sagged and he lowered his eyes, for he had just fought that same
battle with Drizzt, and there seemed no way for him to escape it. Everything he had
done leading up to that point could be interpreted as self-serving, and for the benefit
of a larger and more nefarious plot.
"Ye should've just killed him and been done with it," Bruenor said to Drizzt. "If
he's not for helping us then he's just slowing us down."
"Meself'll be there for the task in a heartbeat, me king!" Pwent shouted
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from the side, and all eyes turned to see the dwarf, bent low with head forward,
backing through the narrow opening between a pair of trees. Pwent set the back of
the dead orc
's thighs against one trunk, the poor creature's shoulder blades against another,
and with a sudden burst, the dwarf tugged backward. Bones and gristle popped and
ground as the barbed spike tore back through, freeing the dwarf of his dead-weight
burden.
Pwent stumbled backward and fell to his rump, but hopped right back to his feet and
bounced around to face the others, shaking his head so vigorously that his lips flapped.
Then, with a smile, Pwent brought his hands up before him, palms facing out, extended
thumbs touching tip-to-tip, lining up his charge.
"Turn the dark-skinned dog just a bit," he instructed.
"Not just yet, good dwarf," Drizzt said, and Pwent straightened, disappointment clear
on his face.
"Ye thinkin' to take him along?" Bruenor asked, and Drizzt nodded.
"We could divert our course to the Moonwood, or back to Mithral Hall," Hralien offered.
"We would lose no more than a day or so, and would be rid of our burden."
But Drizzt shook his head.
"Easier just to kill him," said Bruenor, and to the side, Pwent began scraping his
feet across the ground like a bull readying for a charge.
"But not wiser," Drizzt said. "If Tos'un's claims are true, he might prove to be
a valuable asset to us. If not, we have lost nothing because we have risked nothing."
He looked to his fellow drow. "If you do not deceive us, on my word I will let you
leave when we are done."
"You cannot do this," said Hralien, drawing all eyes his way. "If he has committed
crimes against the Moonwood, his fate is not yours alone to decide."
"He has not," Drizzt assured the elf. "He was not there, for Khazid'hea was not there."
Bruenor yanked Drizzt aside, pulling him away from the others. "How much o' this
is yer way o' hoping for a drow akin to yerself?" the dwarf asked bluntly.
Drizzt shook his head, with sincerity and certainty. "On my word, Bruenor, this I
do because I think it best for us and our cause - whatever that cause may be."
"What's that meaning?" the dwarf demanded. "We're for killing Obould, don't ye doubt!"
He raised his voice with the proclamation, and the others all looked his way.
Drizzt didn't argue. "Obould would kill Tos'un if given the chance, as Obould murdered
Tos'un's companion. We will gamble nothing with Tos'un, I promise you, my friend,
and the possibility of gain cannot be ignored."
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Bruenor looked long and hard at Drizzt then glanced back at Tos'un, who stood calmly,
as if resigned to his fate - whatever that fate may be.
"On my word," Drizzt said.
"Yer word's always been good enough, elf," said Bruenor. He turned and started back
for the others, calling to Torgar and Shingles as he went. "Think yerselves are up
to guardin' a drow?" he asked, or started to, for as soon as his intent became clear,
Drizzt interrupted him.
"Let Tos'un remain my responsibility," he said.
Again Bruenor granted Drizzt his wish.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
26
CROSSROAD
Wulfgar lingered around the outskirts of Auckney for several days. He didn't dare
show his face in the town for fear that connecting himself to the new arrival at
Castle Auck would put undue pressure on Lord Feringal, and create dangerous ramifications
for Colson. But Wulfgar was a man comfortable in the wilds, who knew how to survive
through the cold nights, and who knew how to keep himself hidden.
Everything he heard about the lord and lady's new child brought him hope. One of
the prevalent rumors whispered by excited townsfolk hinted that the girl was Feringal's
and Meralda's own, and that she had been born in a sleep-state from which they had
never expected her to awaken. And what joy now for the couple and the town that the
child had recovered!
Another rumor attached Colson to barbarian nobility, and claimed that her presence
with Lord Feringal ensured security for the folk of Auckney -
a wonderful thing in the tough terrain of the frozen North.
Wulfgar absorbed it all with a growing sense that he had done well for Colson, for
himself, and for Delly. Truly he had a hole in his heart that he never expected to
fill, and truly he vowed that he would visit Auckney and Colson in the coming years.
Feringal would have no reason to dismiss him or arrest him as time passed, after
all, and indeed Wulfgar might find a level of bargaining power in the future, since
he knew the truth of the girl's parentage. Lord Feringal wouldn't want him for an
enemy, physically or politically.
That was the barbarian's hope, the one thing that kept him from breaking down and
rushing back into the town to "rescue" Colson.
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He continued to linger, to listen and to watch, for on more than one occasion he
chanced to see Colson out with her new parents. He was truly amazed and heartened
to see how quickly the young girl had adapted to her new surroundings and new parents,
from afar at least. Colson smiled as often as she had in Mithral Hall, and she seemed
at ease holding Meralda's hand and walking along in the woman's shadow.
Similarly, the love Meralda held for her could not be denied. The look of serenity
on her face was everything Wulfgar had hoped it would be. She seemed complete and
content, and in addition to those promising appearances, what gave Wulfgar more hope
still was the posture of Lord Feringal whenever he was near to the girl. There could
be no doubt that Feringal had grown greatly in character over the years. Perhaps
it was due to the support of Meralda, a woman Wulfgar knew to be possessed of extraordinary
integrity, or perhaps it was due to the absence of Feringal's shrill sister.
Whatever the cause, the result was clear for him to see and hear, and every day he
lingered near to Auckney was a day in which he grew more certain of his decision
to return the child to her rightful mother. It did Wulfgar's heart good, for all
the pain still there, to think of Colson in Meralda's loving arms.
So many times he wanted to run into Auckney to tell Colson that he loved her, to
crush her close to him in his arms and assure her that he would always love her,
would always protect her. So many times he wanted to go in and simply say goodbye.
Her cries of "Da!' still echoed in his mind and would haunt him for years and years,
he knew.
But he could not go in, and so as the days became a tenday, Wulfgar melted away down
the mountain road to the east, the way he had come. The next day, he arrived at the
end of the eastern pass, where the road ran south through the foothills to Luskan,
and north to the long dale that traversed the Spine of the World and opened up into
Icewind Dale.
Wulfgar turned neither way at first. Instead he crossed the trail and scaled a rocky
outcropping that afforded him a grand view of the rolling lands farther to the east.
He perched upon the stone and let his mind's eye rove beyond the physical limitations
of his vision, imagining the landscape as it neared Mithral Hall and his dearest
friends. The place he had called home.
He turned suddenly back to the west, thinking of his daughter and realizing just
how badly he missed her - much more so than he'd anticipated.
Then back to the east went his thoughts and his eyes, to the tomb of Delly, lying
cold in Mithral Hall.
"I only ever tried to do the best I could," he whispered as if talking to his dead
wife.
It was true enough. For all of his failures since his return from the Abyss,
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Wulfgar had tried to do the best he could manage. It had been so when he'd first
rejoined his friends, when he'd failed and assaulted Catti-brie after a hallucinatory
dream. It had been so during his travels with Morik, through Luskan and up to Auckney.
So many times had he failed during those dark days.
Looking west then looking east, Wulfgar accepted the responsibility for all of those
mistakes. He did not couch his admission of failure with self-serving whining about
the trials he had suffered at the claws of Errtu. He did not make excuses for any
of it, for there were none that could alter the truth of his behavior.
All he could do was do the best he could in all matters before him. That was what
had led him to retrieve Delly's body. It was the right thing to do. That was what
had led him not only to retrieve Colson from Cottie and the refugees, but to bring
her home to Meralda. It was the right thing to do.
And now?
Wulfgar had thought he'd sorted it all out, had thought his plans and road determined.
But with the stark reality of those plans before him, he was unsure. He knelt upon
the stone and prayed to Delly for guidance. He called upon her ghost to show him
the way.
Was Obould pounding on the doors of Mithral Hall yet again?
Bruenor might need him, he knew. His adoptive father, who had shown him nothing but
love for all those years, might need his strength in the coming war. Wulfgar's absence
could result in Bruenor's death!
The same could be true of Drizzt, or Regis, or Catti-brie. They might find themselves
in situations in the coming days where only Wulfgar could save them.
"Might," Wulfgar said, and as he heard the word, he recognized that that would forever
be the case. They might need him as he might need any of them, or all of them. Or
perhaps even all of them together would one day soon be overcome by a black tide
like the one of Obould.
"Might," he said again. "Always might."
Aside from the grim possibilities offered by the nearly perpetual state of war, however,
Wulfgar had to remind himself of important questions. What of his own needs? What
of his own desires? What of his own legacy?
He was approaching middle age.
Reflexively, Wulfgar turned from the east to face north, looking up the trail that
would lead him to Icewind Dale, the land of his ancestors, the land of his people.
Before he could fully turn that way, however, he looked back to the east, toward
Mithral Hall, and envisioned Obould the Awful towering over Bruenor.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
27
TRUST,
AND
VERIFY
"
This Toogwik Tuk is aggressive," Grguch said to Hakuun, and to Jack, though of course
Grguch didn't know that. They stood off to the side of the gathering force as it
realigned itself for a march to the west. "He would have us wage war with Obould."
"He claims that Obould would wage war with us," the shaman agreed after a quick internal
dialogue with Jack.
Grguch grinned as if nothing in the world would please him more. "I like this Toogwik
Tuk," he said. "He speaks with Gruumsh."
"Are you not curious as to why Obould halted his march?" Hakuun asked, though the
question had originated with Jack. "His reputation is for ferocity, but he builds
walls instead of tearing them down."
"He fears rivals," Grguch assumed. "Or he has grown comfortable. He walks away from
Gruumsh."
"You do not intend to convince him otherwise."
Grguch grinned even more wickedly. "I intend to kill him and take his armies. I speak
to Gruumsh, and I will please Gruumsh."
"Your message will be blunt, or coaxed at first?"
Grguch looked at the shaman curiously then motioned with his chin toward a bag set
off to the side, a sack that held Oktule's head.
A wry smile widened on Hakuuns face. "I can strengthen the message," he promised,
and Grguch was pleased.
Hakuun looked back over his shoulder and spoke a few arcane words, strung together
with dramatic inflection. Jack had predicted all of it, and had already
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worked the primary magic for it. Out of the shadows walked Oktule, headless and grotesque.
The animated zombie strode stiff-legged to the sack and shifted aside the flaps.
It stood straight a moment later and moved slowly toward the pair, cradling its lost
head in both hands at its midsection.
Hakuun looked to Grguch and shrugged sheepishly. The chieftain laughed.
"Blunt," he said. "I only wish that I might view Obould's face when the message is
delivered."
Inside Hakuun's head, Jack whispered, and Hakuun echoed to Grguch, "It can be arranged."
Grguch laughed even louder.
With a bellow of "Kokto Gung Karuck,"
Grguch's orc
force, a thousand strong and growing, began its march to the west, the clan of the
Wolf Jaw taking the southern flank, Clan Karuck spearheading the main mass.
In the very front walked the zombie Oktule, holding a message for Obould.
*****
They heard the resonating grumble of "Kokto Gung Karuck,"
and from a high mountain ridge not far northeast of Mithral Hall, Drizzt, Bruenor,
and the others saw the source of that sound, the march of Clan Karuck and its allies.
"It is Grguch," Tos'un told the group. "The conspirators are leading him to Obould."
"To fight him?" Bruenor asked.
"Or to convince him," said Tos'un.
Bruenor snorted at him, but Tos'un just looked at Drizzt and Hralien and shook his
head, unwilling to concede the point.
"Obould has shown signs that he wishes to halt his march," Drizzt dared say.
"Tell it to the families of me boys who died at the wall a couple o' nights ago,
elf," Bruenor growled.
"That was Grguch, perhaps," Drizzt offered, careful to add the equivocation.
"That was orcs," Bruenor shot back. "Ores is orcs is orcs, and th' only thing they're
good for is fertilizing the fields. Might that their rotting bodies'll
help grow trees to cover the scars in yer Moonwood," he added, addressing Hralien,
who blanched and rocked back on his heels.
"To cover the blood of Innovindil," Bruenor added, glaring at Drizzt.
But Drizzt didn't back from the stinging comment. "Information is both our
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weapon and our advantage," he said. "We would do well to learn more of this march,
its purpose, and where it might turn next." He looked down and to the north, where
the black swarm of Grguch's army was clear to see along the rocky hills. "Besides,
our trails parallel anyway."
Bruenor waved his hand dismissively and turned away, Pwent following him back to
the food spread out at the main encampment.
"We need to get closer to them," Drizzt told the remaining half a dozen. "We need
to learn the truth of their march."
Regis took a deep breath as Drizzt finished, for he felt the weight of the task on
his shoulders.
"The little one will be killed,"
Tosun said to Drizzt, using the drow language, Low Drow, that only he and Drizzt
understood.
Drizzt looked at him hard.
"They are warriors, fierce and alert,"
'Tos'un explained.
"Regis is more than he seems," Drizzt replied in the same Underdark language.
"So is Grguch."
As he finished, Tos'un glanced at Hralien, as if to invite Drizzt to speak to the
elf for confirmation.
"Then I will go," said Drizzt.
"There is a better way," Tos'un replied. "I know of one who can walk right in and
speak with the conspirators."
That gave Drizzt pause, an expression of doubt clouding his face and obvious to everyone
nearby.
"Ye plannin' to tell us what ye're talking about?" Torgar said impatiently.
Drizzt looked at him then back at Tos'un. He nodded, to both.
After a brief private conversation with Cordio, Drizzt pulled Tos'un off to the side
to join the priest.
"Ye sure?" Cordio asked Drizzt when they were alone. "Ye're just gonna have to kill
him."
Tos'un tensed at the words, and Drizzt fought hard to keep the smile from his face.
"He might be full o' more information that we can coax out o' him," Cordio went on,
playing his role perfectly. "Might be that a few tendays o' torture'll bring us answers
about Obould."
"Or lies to stop the torture," Drizzt replied, but he ended the forthcoming debate
with an upraised hand, for it didn't matter anyway. "I am sure," he said simply,
and Cordio heaved an "oh-if-I-must" sigh, the perfect mix of disgust and resignation.
Cordio began to chant and slowly dance around the startled Tos'un. The dwarf cast
a spell - a harmless dweomer that would have cured any diseases
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that Tos'un might have contracted, though of course, Tos'un didn't know that, and
recognized only that the dwarf had sent some magical energy into his body. Another
harmless spell followed, then a third, and with each casting, Cordio narrowed his
eyes and sharpened his inflection just a bit more, making it all seem quite sinister.
"The arrow," the dwarf commanded, holding a hand out toward Drizzt though his intense
stare never left Tos'un.
"What?" Drizzt asked, and Cordio snapped his fingers impatiently. Drizzt recovered
quickly and drew an arrow from his magical quiver, handing it over as demanded.
Cordio held it up before his face and chanted. He waggled the fingers of his free
hand over the missile's wicked tip. Then he moved it toward Tos'un, who shrank back
but did not retreat. The dwarf lifted the arrow up to Tos'un's head then lowered
it.
"The head, or the heart?" he asked, turning to Drizzt.
Drizzt looked at him curiously.
"Telled ye it was a good spell," Cordio lied. "Not that it'll much matter with that
durned bow o' yers. Blast his head from his shoulders or take out half his chest?
Yer choice."
"The head," said the amused drow. "No, the chest. Shoot center mass...."
"Ye can't miss either way," the dwarf promised.
Tos'un stared hard at Drizzt.
"Cordio has placed an enchantment upon you," Drizzt explained as Cordio continued
to chant and wave the arrow before Tos'un's slender chest. The dwarf ended by tapping
the arrowhead against the drow, right over his heart.
"This arrow is now attuned to you," Drizzt said, taking the arrow from the dwarf.
"If it is shot, it will find your heart, unerringly. You cannot dodge it. You cannot
deflect it. You cannot block it."
Tos'un's look was skeptical.
"Show 'im, elf," Cordio said.
Drizzt hesitated for effect.
"We're shielded from the damned orcs," the priest insisted. "Show 'im."
Looking back at Tos'un, Drizzt still saw doubt, and that he could not allow. He drew
Taulmaril from his shoulder, replaced the "enchanted" arrow in his quiver and took
out a different one. As he set it, he turned and targeted, then let fly at a distant
boulder.
The magical bolt split the air like a miniature lightning bolt, flashing fast and
true. It cracked into the stone and blasted through with a sharp retort that had
Regis and the other dwarves jumping with surprise. It left only a smoking hole in
the stone where it had hit.
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"The magic of the surface dwellers is strange and powerful, do not doubt," Drizzt
warned his fellow drow.
"Ye ain't got a chest plate thick enough," Cordio added, and he tossed an exaggerated
wink at Tos'un then turned with a great laugh and ambled away.
"What is this about?"
Tos'un asked in the drow tongue.
"You wish to play the role of scout, so I will let you."
"But with the specter of death walking beside me."
"Of course," said Drizzt. "Were it just me, I might trust you."
Tos'un tilted his head, curious, trying to get a measure of Drizzt.
"Fool that I am," Drizzt added.
"But it is not just me, and if I am to entrust you with this, I need to ensure that
my friends will not be harmed by my decision. You hinted that you can walk right
into their camp."
"The conspirators know that I am no friend of Obould's."
"Then I will allow you to prove your worth. Go and learn what you may. I will be
near, bow in hand."
"To kill me if I deceive you."
"To ensure the safety of my friends."
Tos'un began to slowly shake his head.
"You will not go?"
Drizzt asked.
"You need not do any of this, but I understand," Tos'un replied. "I
will go as I offered. You will come to know that I am not deceiving you."
By the time the two dark elves got back to the rest of the group, Cordio had informed
the others of what had transpired, and of the plan going forward. Bruenor stood with
his hands on his hips, clearly unconvinced, but he merely gave a "harrumph" and turned
away, letting Drizzt play out his game.
*****
The two drow set off from the others after nightfall, moving through the shadows
with silent ease. They picked their way toward the main orc
encampment, dodging guards and smaller camps, and always with Tos'un several steps
in the lead. Drizzt followed with Taulmaril in hand, the deadly "enchanted" arrow
set on its string
-
at least, Drizzt hoped he had taken out the same arrow Cordio had played with, or
that if he had not, Tos'un hadn't noticed.
As they neared the main group, crossing along the edge of a clearing that was centered
by a large tree, Drizzt whispered for Tos'un to stop. Drizzt paused for a few heartbeats,
hearing the rhythm of the night. He waved for Tos'un to follow out to the tree. Up
Drizzt went, so gracefully that it seemed as if he had walked along a fallen log
rather than up a vertical trunk. On the lowest branch, he paused and looked around
then turned his attention on Tos'un below.
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Drizzt dropped a sword belt, both of Tos'un's weapons sheathed.
You would trust me? the son of House Barrison Del'Armgo signaled up with his fingers,
using the intricate silent language of the drow.
Drizzt's answer was simple, and reflected on his impassive expression. I
have nothing to lose. I care nothing for that sword -
it destroys more than it helps. You will drop it and your other blade to the ground
when you return to the tree, or I will retrieve it from the grasp of the dying
orc who took it from you after I put an arrow through your heart.
Tos'un stared at him long and hard, but had no retort against the simple and straightforward
logic. He looked down at the sword belt, at the hilt of Khazid'hea, and truly he
was glad to have the sword back in hand.
He disappeared into the darkness a moment later, and Drizzt could only hope that
his guess regarding Tos'un's veracity had been correct. For there had been no spell,
of course, Cordio's grand exhibition being no more than an elaborate ruse.
*****
Tos'un was truly torn as he crossed the orc lines to the main encampment. Known by
the Wolf Jaw orc
s sprinkled among the Clan Karuck sentries, he had no trouble moving in, and found
Dnark and Ung-thol easily enough.
"I have news," he told the pair.
Dnark and Ung-thol exchanged suspicious looks. "Then speak it," Ung-thol bade him.
"Not here." Tos'un glanced around, as if expecting to find spies behind every rock
or tree. "It is too important."
Dnark studied him for a few moments. "Get Toogwik ..." he started to say to Ung-thol,
but Tos'un cut him short.
"No. For Dnark and Ung-thol alone."
"Regarding Obould."
"Perhaps," was all the drow would answer, and he turned and started away. With another
look at each other, the two orc
s followed him into the night, all the way back to the edge of the field where Drizzt
Do'Urden waited in a tree.
"My friends are watching," Tos'un said, loudly enough for Drizzt, with his keen drow
senses, to hear.
Drizzt tensed and drew back Taulmaril, wondering if he was about to be revealed.
Tos'un would die first, he decided.
"Your friends are dead," Dnark replied.
"Three are," said Tos'un.
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"You have made others. I salute you."
Tos'un shook his head with disgust at the pathetic attempt at sarcasm, wondering
why he had ever suffered such creatures to live.
"There is a sizable drow force beneath us," he explained, and the two orcs, predictably,
blanched. "Watching us - watching you."
He let that hang there for a few heartbeats, watching the two shift uncomfortably.
"Before she died, Kaer'lic called to them, to Menzoberranzan, my home. There was
glory and wealth to be found, she promised them, and that call from a priestess of
Lady Lolth could not go unheeded. And so they have come, to watch and to wait, at
first. You are advancing toward Obould."
"Ob - King Obould," Dnark corrected rather stiffly, "has summoned Chieftain Grguch
to his side."
Tos'un wore a knowing grin. "The drow hold no love for Obould," he explained, and
indeed, it seemed to Drizzt as if the orc chieftain relaxed a bit at that.
"You go to pay fealty? Or to wage war?"
The two orcs looked at each other again.
"King Obould summoned Clan Karuck, and so we go," Ung-thol said with clear determination.
"Grguch attacked the Moonwood," Tos'un replied. "Grguch attacked Mithral Hall. Without
Obould's permission. He will not be pleased."
"Perhaps ..." Dnark started.
"He will not be pleased at all," Tos'un interrupted. "You know this. It is why you
brought Clan Karuck forth from their deep hole."
"Obould has no heart for the fight," Dnark said with a sudden sneer. "He has lost
the words of Gruumsh. He would barter and ...
" He stopped and took a deep breath, and Ung-thol picked up the thought.
"Perhaps the presence of Grguch will inspire Obould and remind him of his duty to
Gruumsh," the shaman said.
"It will not," said Tos'un. "And so my people watch and wait. If Obould wins, we
will travel back to the lower Underdark. If Grguch prevails, perhaps there is cause
for us to come forth."
"And if Obould and Grguch join together to sweep the northland?" Dnark asked.
Tos'un laughed at the preposterous statement.
Dnark laughed, too, after a moment.
"Obould has forgotten the will of Gruumsh," Dnark said bluntly. "He sent an emissary
to parlay with the dwarves, to beg forgiveness for Grguch's attack."
Tos'un could not hide his surprise.
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"An emissary who never arrived, of course," the orc chieftain explained.
"Of course. And so Grguch and Dnark will remind Obould?"
The orc didn't reply.
"You will kill Obould, and replace him with Grguch, for the will of Gruumsh?"
No answer again, but it was apparent from the posture and expressions of the two
orcs that the last remark hit closer to the truth.
Tos'un smiled at them and nodded. "We will watch, Chieftain Dnark. And we will wait.
And I will take great pleasure in witnessing the death of Obould Many-Arrows. And
greater pleasure in taking the head of King Bruenor and crossing the River Surbrin
to lay waste to the wider lands beyond."
The drow gave a curt bow and turned away. "We are watching," he warned as he started
off. "All of it."
"Listen for the Horn of Karuck," Dnark said. "When you hear it blow, know that King
Obould nears the end of his reign."
Tos'un didn't so much as offer a glance up at Drizzt as he crossed the clearing to
the far side, but soon after the orc
s had headed back to their encampment, the rogue drow returned to the base of the
tree.
"Your belt," Drizzt whispered down, but Tos'un was already undoing it. He let it
fall to the ground and stepped back.
Drizzt hopped down and retrieved it.
"You might have prepared them to say as much," Drizzt remarked.
"Ask the sword."
Drizzt looked down at Khazid'hea skeptically. "It is not to be trusted."
"Then demand of it," said Tos'un.
But Drizzt merely slung the sword belt over his shoulder, motioning for Tos'un to
lead the way back to the waiting dwarves.
Whatever Tos'un's position, whether it was out of a change of heart or simple pragmatism,
Drizzt had no reason to doubt what he had heard, and one statement in particular
kept repeating in his thoughts, the
orc's claim that Obould had "sent an emissary to parlay with the dwarves, to beg
forgiveness for Grguch's attack."
Obould would not march. For the orc king, the war was at its end. But for many of
his subjects, apparently, that was not so pleasing a thought.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
28
FOR
THE
GREATER
GOOD
The scout pointed to a trio of rocky hills in the northwest, a few miles away. "Obould's
flag flies atop the centermost," he explained to Grguch, Hakuun, and the others.
"He has rallied his clan around him in a formidable defense."
Grguch nodded and stared toward his distant enemy. "How many?"
"Hundreds."
"Not thousands?" the chieftain asked.
"There are thousands south of his position, and thousands north," the scout explained.
"They could close before us and shield King Obould."
"Or swing around and trap us," said Hakuun, but in a tone that showed he was not
overly concerned -
for Jack, answering that particular question through Hakuun's mouth, held little
fear of being trapped by
orcs.
"If they remain loyal to King Obould," Toogwik Tuk dared interject, and all eyes
turned his way. "Many are angry at his decision to halt his march. They have come
to know Grguch as a hero."
Dnark started as if to speak, but changed his mind. He had caught Grguch's attention,
though, and when the fierce half-ore, half-ogre turned his gaze Dnark's way, Dnark
said, "Do we even know that Obould intends to do battle? Or will he just posture
and paint with pretty words? Obould rules through wit and muscle. He will see the
wisdom of coaxing Grguch."
"To build walls?" the chieftain of Clan Karuck said with a dismissive snicker.
"He will not march!" Toogwik Tuk insisted.
"He will speak enough words of war to create doubt," said Dnark.
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"The only word I wish to hear from the coward Obould is 'mercy,' " Grguch stated.
"It pleases me to hear a victim beg before he is put to my axe."
Dnark started to respond, but Grguch held up his hand, ending any further debate.
With a scowl that promised only war, Grguch nodded to Hakuun, who commanded forth
the grotesque zombie of Oktule, still holding its head before it.
"This is our parlay," Grguch said. He swung his gaze out to the side, where the battered
Nukkels hung by his ankles from poles suspended across the broad shoulders of a pair
of ogres. "And our advanced emissary," Grguch added with a wicked grin.
He took up his dragon-fashioned axe and stalked toward Nukkels, who was too beaten
and dazed to even register his approach. Nukkels did see the axe, though, at the
last moment, and he gave a pathetic yelp as Grguch swung it across, cleanly severing
the rope and dropping Nukkels on his head to the ground.
Grguch reached down and hoisted the shaman to his feet. "Go to Obould," he ordered,
turning Nukkels around and shoving him toward the northwest so ferociously that the
poor orc
went flying headlong to the ground. "Go and tell Obould the Coward to listen for
the sound
of
Kokto Gung
Karuck."
Nukkels staggered back to his feet and stumbled along, desperate to be away from
the brutal Karuck orcs.
"Tell Obould the Coward that Grguch has come and that Gruumsh is not pleased," Grguch
shouted after him, and cheers began to filter through all of the onlookers. "I will
accept his surrender ...
perhaps."
That sent the Karuck orcs and ogres into a frenzy, and even Toogwik Tuk beamed in
anticipation. Dnark, though, looked at Ung-thol.
This conspiracy had been laid bare, to the ultimate fruition. This was real, suddenly,
and this was war.
*****
"Grguch comes with many tribes in his wake," Obould said to General Dukka. "To parlay?"
He and Obould's other commanders stood on the centermost of the three rocky hills.
The foundations of a small keep lined the ground behind the orc
leader, and three low walls of piled stones ringed the hill. The other two hills
were similarly outfitted, though the defenses were hardly complete. Obould looked
over his shoulder and motioned to his attendants, who brought forth the battered,
nearly dead Nukkels.
"He's already spoken, it would seem," the orc king remarked.
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"Then it will be war within your kingdom," the general replied, and his doubts were
evident for all to hear.
Doubts offered for his benefit, Obould recognized. He didn't blink as he stared at
Dukka, though others around him gasped and whispered.
"They are well-supported at their center," Dukka explained. "The battle will be fierce
and long."
They are well-supported indeed, Obould thought but did not say.
He offered a slight nod of appreciation to Dukka, for he read easily enough between
Dukka's words. The general had just warned him that Grguch's fame had preceded him,
and that many in Obould's ranks had grown restless. There was no doubt that Obould
commanded the superior forces. He could send
orc
s ten-to-one against the march of Clan Karuck and its allies. But with the choice
laid bare before them, how many of those
orcs would carry the banner of Obould, and how many would decide that Grguch was
the better choice?
But there was no question among those on the three hills, Obould understood, for
there stood Clan Many-Arrows, his people, his slavish disciples, who would follow
him into Lady Alustriel's own bedroom if he so commanded.
"How many thousands will die?" he asked Dukka quietly.
"And will not the dwarves come forth when the opportunity is seen?" the general bluntly
replied, and again Obould nodded, for he could not disagree.
A part of Obould did want to reach out and throttle Dukka for the assessment and
for the lack of complete obedience and loyalty, but he knew in his heart that Dukka
was right. If Dukka's force, more than two thousand strong, joined battle on the
side of Clan Karuck and her allies, the fight could well shift before first blood
was spilled.
Obould and his clan would be overwhelmed in short order.
"Hold my flank from the orcs who are not Karuck," Obould asked of his general. "Let
Gruumsh decide which of us, Obould or Grguch, is more worthy to lead the kingdom
forward."
"Grguch is strong with Gruumsh, so they say," Dukka warned, and a cloud crossed over
Obould's face. But Dukka broke a smile before that cloud could become a full scowl.
"You have chosen wisely, and for the good of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows. Grguch is
strong with Gruumsh, it is said, but Obould protects the minions of the One-eye."
"Grguch is strong," the orc king said, and he brought his greatsword from its scabbard
strapped diagonally across his back. "But Obould is stronger. You will learn."
General Dukka eyed that sword for a long while, recalling the many occasions when
he had seen it put to devastating use. Gradually, he began to nod then to grin.
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"Your flanks will be secure," he promised his king. "And any fodder prodded before
Grguch's clan will be swept clean before they reach the hill. Clan Karuck alone will
press the center."
*****
"Ye lost yer wits, ye durned orc-brained, pointy-eared elf!" Bruenor bellowed and
stomped the ground in frustration. "I come out here to kill the beast!"
"Tos'un speaks the truth."
"I ain't for trusting drow elfs, exceptin' yerself!"
"Then trust me, for I overheard much of his conversation with the orc conspirators.
Obould dispatched an emissary to Mithral Hall to forbid the attack."
"Ye don't know what Tos'un telled them orcs to say afore they got out to
"True enough," Drizzt conceded, "but I suspected that which Tos'un reports long before
I ever caught up to him. Obould's pause has run too long."
"He attacked me wall! And the Moonwood. Are ye so quick in forgetting Innovindil?"
The accusation rocked Drizzt back on his heels, and he winced, profoundly stung.
For he had not forgotten Innovindil, not at all. He could still hear her sweet voice
all around him, coaxing him to explore his innermost thoughts and feelings, coaching
him on what it was to be an elf. Innovindil had given to him a great and wondrous
gift, and in that gift, Drizzt Do'Urden had found himself, his heart and his course.
With her lessons, offered in the purest friendship, Innovindil had solidified the
sand beneath Drizzt' Do'Urden's feet, which had been shifting unsteadily for so many
years.
He hadn't forgotten Innovindil. He could see her. He could smell her. He could hear
her voice and the song of her spirit.
But her demise was not the work of Obould, he was certain. That terrible loss was
the consequence of the absence
of Obould, a prelude to the chaos that would ensue if that new threat, the beast
Grguch, assumed command of Obould's vast and savage army.
"What are ye askin' me for, elf?" Bruenor said after the long and uncomfortable pause.
"It wasn't Gauntlgrym."
Bruenor locked his gaze, unblinking.
"But it was beautiful, was it not?" Drizzt asked. "A testament - "
"An abomination," Bruenor interrupted.
"Was it? Would Dagna and Dagnabbit think it so? Would Shoudra?"
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"Ye ask me to dishonor them!"
"I ask you to honor them with the most uncommon courage, will and vision. In all
the recorded and violent histories of all the races, there are few who could claim
such."
Bruenor tightened his grip on his many-notched axe and lifted it before him.
"No one doubts the courage of King Bruenor Battlehammer," Drizzt assured the dwarf.
"Any who witnessed your stand against the tide of orc
s on the retreat into Mithral Hall places you among the legends of dwarf warriors,
and rightly so. But I seek in you the courage
not to fight."
"Ye're bats, elf, and I knowed ye'd be nothing but trouble when I first laid eyes
on ye on the side o' Kelvin's Cairn."
Drizzt drew out Twinkle and Icingdeath and tapped them on either side of Bruenor's
axe.
"I'll be watchin' the fight afore us," Bruenor promised. "And when I find me place
in it, don't ye be blocking me axe, where'er it's aimed."
Drizzt snapped his scimitars away and bowed before Bruenor. "You are my king. My
counsel has been given. My blades are ready."
Bruenor nodded and started to turn away, but stopped abruptly and swiveled his head
back at Drizzt, a sly look in his eye. "And if ye send yer durned cat to pin me down,
elf, I'll be cooking kitty, don't ye doubt."
Bruenor stomped away and Drizzt looked back at the probable battlefield, where the
distant lines of orc
s were converging. He pulled the onyx figurine from his belt pouch and summoned Guenhwyvar
to his side, confident that the fight would ensue long before the panther began to
tire.
Besides, he needed the surety of Guenhwyvar, the nonjudgmental companionship. For
as he had asked for courage from Bruenor, so Drizzt had demanded it of himself. He
thought of Tarathiel and Shoudra and all the others, dead now because of the march
of Obould, dead at Obould's own hand. He thought of Innovindil, always he thought
of Innovindil, and of Sunset, and he knew that he would carry that pain with him
for the rest of his life. And though he could logically remove that last atrocity
from the bloody hands of Obould, would any of it have happened in the Moonwood, in
Mithral Hall, in Shallows and
Nesm? and all throughout the Silver Marches, had not Obould come forth with designs
of conquest?
And yet, there he was, asking for uncommon courage from Bruenor, betting on Tos'un,
and gambling with all the world, it seemed.
He brought his hand down to stroke Guenhwyvar's sleek black coat, and the panther
sat down then collapsed onto her belly, her tongue hanging out between her formidable
fangs.
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"If I am wrong, Guenhwyvar, my friend, and to my ultimate loss, then I ask of you
this one thing: dig your claws deep into the flesh of King Obould of the orc
s. Leave him in agony upon the ground, dying of mortal wounds."
Guenhwyvar gave a lazy growl and rolled to her side, calling for a scratching on
her ribs.
But Drizzt knew that she had understood every word, and that she, above all others,
would not let him down.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
29
DWARVEN
KING,
DWARVEN
ARROW
Shingles and Torgar stood quietly, staring at Bruenor, letting him lead without question,
while an eager Pwent hopped around them. Cordio kept his eyes closed, praying to
Moradin -
and to Clangeddin, for he understood that the road to battle was clear. For Hralien,
there showed only grim determination, and beside him, the bound Tos'un matched that
intensity. Regis shifted from foot to foot nervously. And Drizzt, who had just delivered
the assessment that battle was soon to be joined, and that the time had come for
them to either leave or engage, waited patiently.
All focus fell to Bruenor, and the weight of that responsibility showed clearly on
the face of the agitated dwarf. He had brought them there, and on his word they would
either flee to safety or leap into the jaws of a tremendous battle
- a battle they could not hope to win, or likely even survive, but one that they
might, if their gods blessed them, influence.
*****
To the south, Obould saw Dukka's force rolling forward like a dark cloud, streaming
toward a line of orc
s moving west to flank the hills. The clan of the Wolf Jaw, he knew, and he nodded
and growled softly, imagining all the horrors he would inflict upon Dnark when his
business with Grguch was over.
Confident that General Dukka would keep Wolf Jaw at bay, Obould focused his gaze
directly to the east, where rising dust showed the approach of a powerful force,
and yellow banners shot with red proclaimed Clan Karuck. The
orc king
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closed his eyes and fell within his thoughts, imagining again his great kingdom,
full of walls and castles, and teeming cities of orcs living under the sun and sharing
fully in the bounty of the world.
Kna's shriek brought him from his quiet meditation, and as soon as he opened his
eyes, Obould understood her distress.
An orc approached, a zombie orc
, holding its head plaintively in its hands before it. Before any of his warriors
and guards could react, Obould leaped the low wall before him and charged down, drawing
his greatsword as he went. A single swing cleaved the zombie in half and sent the
head flying.
So it was, the orc king knew as he executed the swing. Grguch had stated his intent
and Obould had answered. There was no more to be said.
Not so far to the east, a great horn blared.
*****
From over the very next ridge came the sound of a skirmish, orc against orc.
"Obould and Grguch," Tos'un stated.
In the distance to the northeast, a great horn, Kokto Gung Karuck, sounded.
"Grguch," Drizzt agreed.
Bruenor snorted. "I can't be asking any o' ye to come with me," he started.
"Bah, but just ye try to stop us," said Torgar, with Shingles nodding beside him.
"I would travel to the Abyss itself for a try at Obould," Hralien added.
Beside him, Tos'un shook his head.
"Obould's to be found on them hills," Bruenor said, waving his axe in the general
direction of the trio of rocky mounds they had determined to be Obould's main encampment.
"And I'm meaning to get there. Right through, one charge, like an arrow shot from
me girl's bow. I'm not for knowing how many I'll be leavin' in me wake. I'm not for
knowin' how I'm getting back out after I kill the dog. And I'm not for caring."
Torgar slapped the long handle of his greataxe across his open palm, and Shingles
banged his hammer against his shield.
"We'll get ye there," Torgar promised.
The sounds of battle grew louder, some close and some distant. The great horn blew
again, its echoes vibrating the stones beneath their feet.
Bruenor nodded and turned to the next ridge, but hesitated and glanced back, focusing
his gaze on Tos'un. "Me elf friend telled me that ye done nothing worth killin' ye
over," he said. "And Hralien's agreeing. Get ye gone, and
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don't ye e'er give me a reason to regret me choice."
Tos'un held his hands out wide. "I have no weapons."
"There'll be plenty for ye to find in our wake, but don't ye be following too close,"
Bruenor replied.
With a helpless look to Drizzt, then to all the others, Tos'un gave a bow and walked
back the way they had come. "Grguch is your nightmare, now, "he called to Drizzt,
in the drow tongue.
"What's that?" Bruenor asked, but Drizzt only smiled and walked over to Hralien.
"I'll be moving fast beside Bruenor," the drow explained, handing Tos'un's weapon
belt over. "If any are to escape this, it will be you. Beware this sword. Keep it
safe." He glanced over at Regis, clearly nervous. "This will not unravel the way
we had intended. Our run will be frantic and furious, and had we known the lay of
the land and the
orc forces, Bruenor and I would have come out -
"Alone, of course," finished the elf.
"Keep the sword safe," Drizzt said again, though he looked not at Khazid'hea, but
at Regis as he spoke, a message all too clear for Hralien.
"And live to tell our tale," the drow finished, and he and Hralien clasped hands.
"Come on, then!" Bruenor called.
He scraped his boots in the dirt to clear them of mud, and adjusted his one-horned
helmet and his foaming mug shield. He started off at a brisk walk, but Thibbledorf
Pwent rushed up beside him, and past him, and swept Bruenor up in his eagerness.
They were in full charge before they crested the ridge.
They found the fighting to the west of them, back toward Obould's line, but there
were orcs aplenty right below, running eagerly to battle -
so eagerly that Pwent had already lowered his head spike before the nearest one turned
to regard the intruders.
That orc
's scream became a sudden gasp as the helmet spike prodded through its chest, and
a lip-flapping head wag from Pwent sent the mortally wounded creature flying aside.
The next two braced for the charge, ready to dive aside, but Pwent lifted his head
and leaped at them, spiked gauntlets punching every which way.
*****
Drizzt and Bruenor veered to the right, where orc reinforcements rushed past the
trees and the stones. Torgar and Shingles ran straight ahead off their wake,
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following Pwent in his attempt to punch through this thin flank and toward the main
engagement, which was still far to the north.
With his long strides, Drizzt moved ahead of Bruenor. He lifted Taulmaril, holding
the bow horizontal before his chest, for the orc
s were close enough and plentiful enough that he didn't even need to aim. His first
shot took one in the chest and blasted it backward and to the ground. His second
went through another
orc
so cleanly that the creature hardly jerked, and Drizzt thought for a moment that
he had somehow missed
- he even braced for a counter.
But blood poured forth, chest and back, and the creature died where it stood, too
fast for it to even realize that it should fall over.
"Bend right!" Bruenor roared, and Drizzt did, sidestepping as the dwarf charged past
him, barreling into the next group of orcs, shield bashing and axe flying left, right,
and center.
With a single fluid movement, Drizzt shouldered the bow and drew forth his scimitars,
and went in right behind Bruenor. Dwarf and drow found themselves outnumbered three
to one in short order.
The orcs never had a chance.
*****
Regis didn't argue as Hralien pulled him to the side, still well behind the other
six and moving from cover to cover.
"Protect me," the elf bade as he put up his longbow and began streaming arrows at
the plentiful orcs.
His little mace in hand, Regis was in no position to argue -
though he suspected that Drizzt had arranged it for his protection. For Hralien,
Regis knew, was the one Drizzt most expected to escape the insanity.
His anger at the drow for pushing him to the side of the fight lasted only the moment
it took Regis to view the fury of the engagement. To the right, Pwent spun, punched,
butted, kicked, kneed, and elbowed with abandon, knocking
orcs aside with every twist and turn.
But they were orcs of Wolf Jaw, warriors all, and not all of the blood on the battlerager
was from an orc.
Back-to-back behind him, Torgar and Shingles worked with a precision wrought of years
of experience, a harmony of devastating axe-work the pair had perfected in a century
of fighting together as part of Mirabar's vaunted watch. Every routine ended with
a step
- either left or right, it didn't seem to matter - as each dwarf behind moved in
perfect complement to keep the defense complete.
"Spear, down!" Torgar yelled.
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He ducked, unable to deflect the missile. It flew over his head, apparently to crack
through the back of Shingles's skull, but hearing the warning, old Shingles threw
his shield up behind his head at the last instant, turning the crude spear aside.
Shingles had to fall away as the orc before him seized the opening.
But of course there was no opening, as Shingles rolled out to the side and Torgar
came in behind him with a two-handed slash that disemboweled the surprised creature.
Two orcs took its place and Torgar got stabbed in the upper arm - which only made
him madder, of course.
Regis swallowed hard and shook his head, certain that if he'd followed the charge,
he'd already have been dead. He nearly fainted as he saw an orc
, stone axe high for a killing blow, close in on Shingles, an angle that neither
dwarf could possibly block.
But the orc fell away, an arrow deep in its throat.
That startled Regis from his shock, and he looked up to Hralien, who had already
set another arrow and swiveled back the other way.
For there Bruenor and Drizzt worked their magic, as only they could. Drizzt's scimitars
spun in a blur, too quick for Regis to follow their movements, which he measured
instead by the angles of the
orc
s falling away from the furious drow. What Bruenor couldn't match in finesse, he
made up for with sheer ferocity, and it occurred to Regis that if Thibbledorf Pwent
and Drizzt Do'Urden collided with enough force to meld them into a single warrior,
the result would be Bruenor Battlehammer.
The dwarf sang as he cut, kicked, and bashed. Unlike the other trio, who seemed stuck
in a morass and tangle of orc
s, Drizzt and Bruenor kept moving across and to the north, chopping and slashing
and dancing away. At one point, a group of
orcs formed in their path, and it seemed as if they would be stopped.
But Hralien's arrows broke the integrity of the orc line, and a flying black panther
crashed into the surprised creatures, scattering them and sending them flying.
Drizzt and Bruenor ran by, breaking clear of the conflict.
At first, that thought panicked Regis. Shouldn't the two turn back to help Pwent
and the others? And shouldn't he and Hralien hurry to keep up?
He looked at the elf and realized it wasn't about them, any of them. It was about
Bruenor getting to Obould, about Bruenor killing Obould.
Whatever the cost.
*****
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Cordio wanted to keep up with Bruenor, to protect his beloved king at all costs,
but the priest could not pace the fiery dwarf and his drow companion, and once he
noted the harmony of their movements, attacks and charges, he recognized that he
would likely only get in their way.
He turned for the dwarf trio instead, angling to get into the melee near to Torgar,
whose right arm drooped low from a nasty stab.
Still fighting fiercely, the Mirabarran dwarf nevertheless grunted his approval as
Cordio reached toward him, sending waves of magical healing energy into him. When
Torgar turned to note his appreciation more directly, he saw that Cordio's help hadn't
come without cost, for the priest had sacrificed his own position against one particularly
large and nasty
orc
for the opportunity to help Torgar. Cordio bent low under the weight of a rain of
blows against his fine shield.
"Pwent!" Torgar roared, motioning for the priest as the battlerager turned his way.
"For Moradin!" came Pwent's roar and he disengaged from the pair he was battering
and charged headlong for Cordio.
The two orcs gave close chase, but Torgar and Shingles intercepted and drove them
aside.
By the time Pwent reached Cordio, the priest was back to an even stance against the
orc
. No novice to battle, Cordio Muffinhead had covered himself with defensive enchantments
and had brought the strength of his gods into his arms, swinging his flail with powerful
strokes.
That didn't slow Pwent, of course, who rushed past the startled priest and leaped
at the orc.
The orc's sword screeched against Pwent's wondrous armor, but it hardly bit through
before Pwent slammed against the orc and began to thrash, the ridges on his plate
mail tearing apart the orc
's leather jerkin and slicing into its flesh beneath. With a howl of pain, the
orc tried to disengage, but a sudden left and right hook from Pwent's spiked gauntlets
held it in place like harvest corn.
Cordio used the opportunity to cast some healing magic into the battlerager, though
he knew that Pwent wouldn't feel any difference. Pwent didn't really seem to feel
pain.
*****
The back of the small clearing dipped even lower, down into a dell full of boulders
and a few scraggly tree skeletons. Drizzt and Bruenor rushed through, leaving their
fighting companions behind, and with his longer strides, Drizzt took the lead.
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Their goal was to avoid battle while they closed the ground to the trio of rocky
hills and King Obould. As they came up the far side of the dell, they saw the orc
king
, picking him out from the flames engulfing his magical greatsword.
An ogre tumbled away from him then he shifted back and stabbed up over his shoulder,
skewering another ten-foot behemoth. With strength beyond all reason, Obould used
his sword to pull that ogre right over his shoulder and send it spinning down the
side of the hillock.
All around him the battle raged, as Clan Karuck and Clan Many-Arrows fought for supremacy.
And in truth, with Obould and his minions holding the high ground, it didn't seem
as if it would be much of a fight.
But then a fireball exploded, intense and powerful, right behind the highest wall
on the hill to Obould's left, the northernmost of the three, and all of the Many-Arrows
archers concealed there flailed about, immolated by the magical flames. They shrieked
and they died, curling up on the ground in blackened, smoking husks.
Clan Karuck warriors swarmed over the stones.
"What in the Nine Hells ...?" Bruenor asked Drizzt. "Since when are them orcs throwing
fireballs?"
Drizzt had no answer, other than to reinforce his feelings about the entire situation,
simply by stating, "Grguch."
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted, so predictably, and the pair ran on.
*****
"Keep to the high ground," Hralien instructed Regis as he led the halfling along
to the east. They pulled up amidst a boulder tumble, beside a single maple tree,
Hralien sighting targets and lifting his bow.
"We have to go and join them!" Regis cried, for the four dwarves moved out of sight
over the near ridge of the dell.
"No time!"
Regis wanted to argue, but the frantic hum of Hralien's bowstring, the elf firing
off arrow after arrow, denied him his voice. More orc
s swarmed along before them from the east, and a darker cloud had formed in the west
as a vast army began its approach.
Regis cast a plaintive gaze to the north, where Drizzt and Bruenor had gone, where
Cordio, Pwent, and the others had run. He believed that he would never see his friends
again. Drizzt had done it, he knew. Drizzt had put him with Hralien, knowing that
the elf would likely find a way out, where there could be no retreat for Drizzt and
Bruenor.
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Bitterness filled the back of Regis's throat. He felt betrayed and abandoned. In
the end, when the circumstances had grown darkest, he had been set aside. Logically
he could understand it all -
he was, after all, no hero. He couldn't fight like Bruenor, Drizzt, and Pwent. And
with so many
orcs around, there really wasn't any way for him to hide and strike from points
of opportunity.
But that did little to calm the sting.
He nearly jumped out of his boots when a form rose up beside him, an orc
springing from concealment. Purely on instinct, Regis squealed and shouldered the
thing, knocking it off-balance just enough so that its stab at Hralien only grazed
the distracted archer.
Hralien turned fast, smashing his bow across the orc's face. The bow flew free as
the orc tumbled, Hralien going for his sword.
Regis lifted his mace to finish the orc
first, except that as he retracted his arm for the strike, something grabbed him
and yanked that arm back viciously. He felt his shoulder pop out of joint. His hand
went numb as his mace fell away. He managed to half turn then to duck, bringing his
other arm up over his head defensively as he noted the descent of a stone hammer.
A blinding explosion spread over the back of his head, and he had no idea of whether
his legs had buckled or simply been driven straight into the ground as he fell face-down
in the stony dirt. He felt a soft boot come in tight against his ear and heard Hralien
battling above him.
He tried to put his hands under him, but one arm would not move to his call, and
the attempt sent waves of nauseating agony through him. He managed to lift his head,
just a bit, and tasted the blood streaming down from the back of his skull as he
half-turned to try to get his bearings.
He was back on the ground again, though he knew not how. Cold fingers reached up
at him, as if from the ground itself. He had his eyes open, but the darkness crept
in from the edges.
The last thing he heard was his own ragged breathing.
*****
Ore armor proved no match for the fine elven sword as Hralien slid the blade deep
into the chest of the newest attacker, who held a stone hammer wet with Regis's blood.
The elf slashed out to the side, finishing the first one, who stubbornly tried to
regain its footing, then spun to meet the charge of a third creature coming in around
the tree. His sword flashed across, turning the
orc's spear in against the bark and knocking the creature off balance. The tree
alone stopped it from
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falling aside, but that proved an unfortunate thing for the orc, as Hralien leaped
out to the side and stabbed back in, catching the creature through the armpit.
It shrieked and went into a frenzy, spinning and stumbling away, grabbing at the
vicious wound.
Hralien let it go, turning back to Regis, who lay so very still on the cold ground.
More orc
s had spotted him, he knew. He had no time. He grabbed the halfling as gently as
he could and slid him down into a depression at the base of the maple, between two
large roots. He kicked dirt and twigs and leaves, anything he could find to disguise
the poor halfling. Then, for the sake of the fallen Regis, Hralien grabbed up his
bow and sprang away, running again to the east.
Ores closed on him from behind and below. More rose up before him, running at an
angle to prevent him from going over the ridge to the south.
Hralien dropped his second sword belt, the one Drizzt had given him, and threw aside
his bow, needing to be nimble.
He charged ahead, desperate to put as much ground between himself and Regis as possible,
in the faint hope that the orc
s would not find the wounded halfling. The run lasted only a few strides, though,
as Hralien skidded to a stop, turning frantically to bring his sword around to deflect
a flying spear. Swords came in at him from every angle,
orc
s closing for the kill. Hralien felt the hot blood of his elders coursing through
his veins. All the lessons he had learned in two centuries of life flooded through
him, driving him on. There was no thought, only instinct and reaction, his shining
sword darting to block, angling to turn a spear and stabbing ahead to force an attacker
into a short retreat.
Beautiful was his dance, magnificent his turns, and lightning-quick his thrusts and
ripostes.
But there were too many - too many for him to even consider them separately as he
tried to find some answer to the riddle of the battle.
Images of Innovindil flitted through his mind, along with those others he had lost
so recently. He took hope in the fact that they had gone before him, that they would
greet him in Arvandor when a single missed block let a sword or a spear slip through.
Behind him, back the way he had come, Regis sank deeper into the cold darkness. And
not so far away, perhaps halfway to the tree, a black hand closed over Khazid'hea's
hilt.
*****
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They had intended to follow in the wake of Bruenor and Drizzt, but the four dwarves
found the route blocked by a wall of orc
s. They came out of the dell to the east instead, and there, too, they met resistance.
"For Mirabar and Mithral Hall!" Torgar Hammerstriker called, and shoulder to shoulder
with his beloved and longtime friend Shingles, the leader of the Mirabarran exodus
met the orcs.
To the side of them, Thibbledorf Pwent snarled and bit and found within himself yet
another frenzy. Flailing his arms and legs, and butting his head so often that his
forward movements seemed the steps of a gawky, long-necked seabird, Pwent had the
orc
s on that side of the line in complete disarray. They threw spears at him, but so
intent were they on getting out of his way that they threw as they turned, and thus
with little or no effect.
It couldn't hold, though. Too many orcs stood before them, and they would have to
pile the orc bodies as thick as the walls of a dwarf-built keep before they could
even hope to find a way through.
Bruenor and Drizzt were lost to them, as was any route that would get them back to
the south and the safety of Mithral Hall. So they did what dwarves do best, they
fought to gain the highest ground.
Cordio wanted to tap some offensive magic, to stun the orc
s with a blast of shocking air, perhaps, or to hold a group in place so that Torgar
and Shingles could score quick kills. But blood flowed freely from all the dwarves
in short order, and the priest could not keep up with the wounds, though his every
spell cast was one of healing. Cordio was filled with Moradin's blessing, a priest
of extraordinary power and piety. It occurred to him, though, that Moradin himself
was not possessed of enough magical healing to win that fight. They were known, the
clear spectacle of the most-hated enemy in the midst of the
orcs, and behind the immediate fighting, the ugly creatures stalked all around them,
preparing to overwhelm them.
Not a dwarf was afraid, though. They sang to Moradin and Clangeddin and Dumathoin.
They sang of bar wenches and heavy mugs of ale, of killing orcs and giants, of chasing
dwarf ladies.
And Cordio led a song to King Bruenor, of the fall of Shimmergloom and the reclamation
of Mithral Hall.
They sang and they fought. They killed and they bled, and they looked continually
to the north, where Bruenor their king had gone.
For all that mattered was that they had served him well that day, that they had given
him enough time and enough of a distraction to get to the hills and to end, once
and for all, the threat of Obould.
*
*
*
*
*
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Hralien felt the sting of a sword across his forearm, and though the wound was not
deep, it was telling. He was slowing, and the orcs had caught on to the rhythms of
his dance.
He had nowhere to run.
An orc to his right came on suddenly, he thought, and he spun to meet the charge
- then saw that it was no charge at all, for the tip of a sword protruded from the
falling creature's chest.
Behind the orc, Tos'un Armgo retracted Khazid'hea and leaped out to the side. An
orc
lifted its shield to block, but the sword went right through the shield, right through
the arm, and right through the side of the creature's chest.
Before it had even fallen away, another orc fell to Tos'un's second weapon, an orc-made
sword.
Hralien had no time to watch the spectacle or to even consider the insanity of it
all. He spun back and took down the nearest orc
, who seemed dumbfounded by the arrival of the drow. On the elves pressed, light
and dark, and
orcs fell away, or threw their weapons and ran away, and soon the pair faced off,
Hralien drawing a few much-needed deep breaths.
"Clan Wolf Jaw," Tos'un explained to Hralien. "They fear me."
"With good reason," Hralien replied.
The sound of battle to the north, and the sound of dwarf voices lifted in song, stole
their conversation, and before Tos'un could begin to clarify, he found that he did
not have to, for Hralien led their run down from the ridgeline.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
30
OLD
AND
NEW
BEFORE
HIM
It had to come down to the two of them, for among the orcs, struggles within and
among tribes were ultimately personal.
King Obould leaped atop a stone wall and plunged his sword into the belly of a Karuck
ogre. He stared the behemoth in the face, grinning wickedly as he called upon his
enchanted sword to burst into flame.
The ogre tried to scream. Its mouth stretched wide in silent horror.
Obould only smiled wider and held his sword perfectly still, not wanting to hurry
the death of the ogre. Gradually, the dimwitted behemoth leaned back, back, then
slid off the blade, tumbling down the hill, wisps of smoke coming from the already
cauterized wound.
Looking past it, Obould saw one of his guards, an elite Many-Arrows warrior, go flying
aside, broken and torn. Tracing its flight back to the source, he saw another of
his warriors, a young orc
who had shown great promise in the battles with the Battlehammer dwarves, leap back.
The warrior stood still for a curiously long time, his arms out wide.
Obould stared at his back, shaking his head, not understanding, until a huge axe
swept up from in front of the warrior, then cut down diagonally with tremendous,
jolting force, cleaving the warrior in half, left shoulder to right hip. Half the
orc fell away, but the other half stood there for a few long heartbeats before buckling
to the ground.
And there stood Grguch, swinging his awful axe easily at the end of one arm.
Their eyes met, and all the other orcs and ogres nearby, Karuck and
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Many-Arrows alike, took their battles to the side.
Obould stretched his arms out wide, fires leaping from the blade of his greatsword
as he held it aloft in his right hand. He threw back his head and bellowed.
Grguch did likewise, axe out wide, his roar echoing across the stones, the challenge
accepted. Up the hill he ran, hoisting his axe in both hands and bringing it back
over his left shoulder.
Obould tried for the quick kill, feigning a defensive posture, but then leaping down
at the approaching chieftain and stabbing straight ahead. Across came Grguch's axe
with brutal and sudden efficiency, the half-ogre chopping short to smash his dragon-winged
weapon against Obould's blade. He turned it sidelong as he swiped, the winged blades
perpendicular to the ground, but so strong was the beast that the resistance as he
brought the axe across didn't slow his swing in the least. By doing it that way,
his blade obscuring nearly three feet top-to-bottom, Grguch prevented Obould from
turning his greatsword over the block.
Obould just let his sword get knocked out to his left, and instead of letting go
with his right hand, as would be expected, the cunning orc
let go with his left, allowing him to spin in behind the cut of Grguch's axe. He
went forward as he went around, lowering his soon-leading left shoulder as he collided
with Grguch.
The pair slid down the stony hill, and to Obould's amazement, Grguch did not fall.
Grguch met his heavy charge with equal strength.
He was taller than Obould by several inches, but Obould had been blessed by Gruumsh,
had been given the strength of the bull, a might of arm that had allowed him to bowl
over Gerti Ore
lsdottr of the frost giants.
But not Grguch.
The two struggled, their weapon arms, Obould's right and Grguch's left, locked at
one side. Obould slugged Grguch hard in the face, snapping his head back, but as
he recoiled from that stinging blow, Grguch snapped his head forward, inside the
next punch, and crunched his forehead into Obould's nose.
They clutched, they twisted, and they postured, and both tried to shove back at the
same time, sending themselves skidding far apart.
Right back they went with identical blows, axe and sword meeting with tremendous
force, so powerfully that a gout of flames flew free of Obould's sword and burst
into the air.
*****
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"As Tos'un told us," Drizzt said to Bruenor as they slipped between fights to come
in view of the great struggle.
"Think they'd forget each other and turn on us, elf?" Bruenor asked hopefully.
"Likely not - not Obould, at least," Drizzt replied dryly, stealing Bruenor's mirth,
and he led the dwarf around a pile of stones that hadn't yet been set on the walls.
"Bah! Ye're bats!"
"Two futures clear before us," Drizzt remarked. "What does Moradin say to Bruenor?"
Before Bruenor could answer, as Drizzt came around the pile, a pair of orc
s leaped at him. He snapped up both his blades and threw himself backward, quickstepping
across Bruenor's field of vision and dragging the bloodthirsty
orcs with him.
The dwarf's axe came crashing down, and then there was one.
And that orc twisted and half-turned, startled by Bruenor and never imagining that
Drizzt could be nimble enough to reverse his field so quickly.
The orc got hit four times by Drizzt's scimitars, and Bruenor creased its skull for
good measure, and the pair rambled along.
Before them, much closer, Obould and Grguch clutched again, and traded a series of
brutal punches that splattered blood from both faces.
"Two roads before us," Drizzt said, and he looked at Bruenor earnestly.
The dwarf shrugged then tapped his axe against Drizzt's scimitars. "For the good
o' the world, elf," he said. "For the kids o' me kin and me trust for me friends.
And ye're still bats."
*****
Every swing brought enough force to score a kill, every cut cracked through the air.
They were orcs, one half ogre, but they fought as giants, titans even, gods among
their respective people.
Bred for battle, trained in battle, hardened as his skin had calloused, and propped
by magical spells from Hakuun, and secretly from Jack the Gnome, Grguch moved his
heavy axe with the speed and precision with which a Calim-port assassin might wield
a dagger. None in Clan Karuck, not the largest and the strongest, questioned Grguch's
leadership role, for none in that clan would dare oppose him. With good reason, Obould
understood all too quickly, as the chieftain pressed him ferociously.
Blessed by Gruumsh, infused with the strength of a chosen being, and veteran of so
many battles, Obould equaled his opponent, muscle for muscle. And
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unlike so many power-driven warriors who could smash a weapon right through an opponent's
defenses, Obould combined finesse and speed with that sheer strength. He had matched
blades with Drizzt Do'Urden, and overmatched Wul-fgar with brawn. And so he met Grguch's
heavy strikes with powerful blocks, and so he similarly pressed Grguch with mighty
counterstrikes that made the chieftain's arms strain to hold back the deadly greatsword.
Grguch rushed around to Obould's left, up the hill a short expanse. He turned back
from that higher ground and drove a tremendous overhand chop down at the orc king
, and Obould nearly buckled under the weight of the blow, his feet sliding back dangerously
beneath him.
Grguch struck again, and a third time, but Obould went out to the side suddenly,
and that third chop cut nothing but air, forcing Grguch down the hill a few quick
steps.
They stood even again, and with the miss, Obould gained an offensive posture. Both
hands grasping his sword, he smashed it in from the right then the left then right
again. Grguch moved to a solely defensive posture, axe darting left and right to
block.
Obould quickened the pace, slashing with abandon, allowing Grguch no chance for a
counter. He brought forth fire on his blade then winked it out with a thought -
and brought it forth again, just to command more of his opponent's attention, to
further occupy Grguch.
Left and right came the greatsword, then three overhead chops, battering Grguch's
blocking blade, sending shivers through the chieftain's muscled arms. Obould did
not tire, and more furious came his strikes, backing his opponent.
Grguch was no longer looking for an opening to counter, Obould knew. Grguch tried
only to find a way to disengage, to put them back on even ground.
Obould wouldn't give it to him. The chieftain was worthy, indeed, but in the end,
he was no Obould.
A blinding flash and a thunderous retort broke the orc king
's momentum and rhythm, and as he recovered from the initial, stunning shock of it,
he realized that he had lost more than advantage. His legs twitched and could hardly
hold him upright. His greatsword trembled violently and his teeth chattered so uncontrollably
that he tore strips of skin from the inside of his mouth.
A wizard's lightning bolt, he understood somewhere deep in the recesses of his dazed
mind, and a mighty one.
His block of Grguch's next attack was purely coincidental, his greatsword fortunately
in the way of the swing. Or maybe Grguch had aimed for the weapon, Obould realized
as he staggered back from the weight of the blow,
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fighting to hold his balance with every stumbling, disoriented step.
He offered a better attempt to block the next sidelong swing, turning to the left
and presenting his sword at a perfect angle to intercept the flying axe.
A perfect parry, except that Obould's twitching legs gave out under the weight of
the blow. He skidded half-backward and half-sidelong down the hill and went down
to one knee.
Grguch hit his sword again, knocking it aside, and as the chieftain stepped forward,
bringing his blade back yet again, Obould realized that he had little defense.
A booted foot stomped hard on the back of Obould's neck, driving him low, and he
tried to turn and lash out at what he deemed to be a new attacker.
But Bruenor Battlehammer's target was not Obould, and he had used the battered and
dazed orc king merely as a springboard to launch himself at his real quarry.
Grguch twisted frantically to get his axe in line with the dwarf's weapon, but Bruenor,
too, turned as he flew, and his buckler, emblazoned with the foaming mug of Clan
Battlehammer, crashed hard into Grguch's face, knocking him back.
Grguch leaped up and came right back at Bruenor with a mighty chop, but Bruenor rushed
ahead under the blow, butting his one-horned helmet into Grguch's belly and sweeping
his axe up between the
orc
chieftain's legs. Grguch leaped, and Bruenor grabbed and leaped back and over with
him, the pair flying away and tumbling down the hill. As they unwound, Grguch, caught
with his back to the dwarf, rushed away and shoulder-rolled over the hill's lowest
stone wall.
Bruenor pursued furiously, springing atop the wall, then leaping from it, swooping
down from on high with a mighty chop that sent the blocking Grguch staggering backward.
The dwarf pressed, axe and shield, and it took Grguch many steps before he could
begin to attain even footing with his newest enemy.
Back on the hill, Obould stubbornly gained his feet and tried to follow, but another
crackling lightning bolt flattened him.
*****
Hralien darted out in front as the pair crossed the narrow channel. He leaped a stone,
started right, then rolled back left around the trunk of a dead tree, coming around
face up against an unfortunate
orc, whose sword was still angled the other way to intercept his charge. The elf
struck hard and true, and the orc fell away, mortally wounded.
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Hralien retracted the blade as he ran past the falling creature, which left his sword
arm out behind him.
As his sword pulled free, a sudden sting broke the elf's grasp on it, and he glanced
back in shock to see Tos'un flipping the blade over between his two swords. With
amazing dexterity, the drow slid his own sword into its sheath and caught Hralien's
flipping weapon by the hilt.
"Treacherous dog!" Hralien protested as the dark elf moved in behind him, prodding
him along.
"Just shut up and run," Tos'un scolded him.
Hralien stopped, though, and the tip of Khazid'hea nicked him. Tos'un's hand came
against his back then, and shoved him roughly forward.
"Run!" he demanded.
Hralien stumbled forward and Tos'un didn't let him dig in, keeping up and pushing
him along with every stride.
*****
Drizzt hated breaking away from Bruenor with both the orc leaders so close, but the
magic-using orc
, nestled in a mixed copse of evergreen and deciduous trees to the east of Obould's
defenses, demanded his attention. Having lived and fought beside the wizards of the
drow school Sorcere, who were skilled in the tactics of wizardry combined with sword-fighters,
Drizzt understood the danger of those thunderous, blinding lightning bolts.
And there was something more, some nagging suspicion in Drizzt's thoughts. How had
the orc
s taken Innovindil and Sunset from the sky? That puzzle had nagged at Drizzt since
Hralien had delivered the news of their fall. Did he have his answer?
The wizard wasn't alone, for he had set other orcs, large Karuck half-ogre orc
s, around the perimeter of the copse. One of them confronted Drizzt as he reached
the tree line, leaping forward with a growl and a thrusting spear.
But Drizzt had no time for such nonsense, and he shifted, throwing himself to the
left, and brought both of his scimitars down and back to the right, double-striking
the spear and driving it harmlessly aside. Drizzt continued right past the off-balance
spear-wielder, lifting Twinkle expertly to slash a line across the
orc's throat.
As that one fell away, though, two more charged at the drow, from left and right,
and the commotion also drew the attention of the wizard, still some thirty feet away.
Drizzt pasted an expression of fear on his face, for the benefit of the wizard, then
darted out to the right, quick-stepping to intercept the charging orc. He
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turned as they came together, rolling right around and to the left, tilting his shoulders
out of horizontal as he turned so that his sweeping blades lifted the orc's sword
up high.
Drizzt sprinted right for the trunk of a nearby tree, both orc
s closing. He ran up it and leaped off, threw his head and shoulders back, and tucked
into a tight somersault. He landed lightly, exploding into a barrage of whirling
blades, and one
orc fell away, the other running off to the side.
Drizzt came out from behind the tree as he pursued, to see the orc wizard waggling
his fingers in spellcasting, aiming his way.
It was exactly as Drizzt had planned, for the surprise on the wizard orc's face was
both genuine and delicious as Guenhwyvar crashed in from the side, bearing the creature
to the ground.
*****
"For the lives of your dwarven friends," Tos'un explained, pushing the stubborn elf
forward. The surprising words diminished Hralien's resistance, and he did not fight
against the shift when the flat of Tos'un's blade turned him, angling him more directly
to the east.
"The Wolf Jaw standard," Tos'un explained to the elf. "Chieftain Dnark and his priest."
"But the dwarves are in trouble!" Hralien protested, for not far away, Pwent and
Torgar and the others fought furiously against an orc force thrice their number.
"To the head of the serpent!" Tos'un insisted, and Hralien could not disagree.
He began to understand as they passed several orcs, who glanced at the dark elf deferentially
and did not try to intercept them.
They sprinted around some boulders and broken ground, down past a cluster of thick
pines and across a short expanse to the heart of Dnark's army. Tos'un spotted the
chieftain immediately, Toogwik Tuk and Ung-thol at his side as expected.
"A present for Dnark," the drow called at the stunned expressions, and he pushed
Hralien harder, nearly toppling the elf.
Dnark waved some guards toward Hralien to take the elf from Tos'un.
"General Dukka and his thousands approach," Dnark called to the drow. "But we will
not fight until it is settled between the chieftains."
"Obould and Grguch," Tos'un agreed, and as the orc guards approached, he went past
Hralien.
"Left hip," the dark elf whispered as he crossed past Hralien, and he brushed
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close enough for the surface elf to feel the hilt of his own belted sword.
Tos'un paused and nodded at both the orcs, drawing their attention and giving Hralien
ample time to draw forth the blade. And so Hralien did, and even as the orc
guards noted it and called out in protest, the flash of elven steel left them dead.
Tos'un stumbled away from Hralien, stumbled toward Dnark's group, looking back and
scrambling as if fleeing the murderous elf. He turned fully as he put his feet under
him, and saw that Toogwik Tuk had begun spellcasting, with Dnark directing other
orcs toward Hralien.
"Back to the elf and finish him!" Dnark protested as Tos'un continued his flight.
"Dukka is coming and we must prepare ..."
But Dnark's voice trailed off as he finished, as he came to realize that Tos'un,
that treacherous drow, wasn't running away from the elf, but was, in fact, charging
at him.
Standing at Dnark's left, Toogwik Tuk gasped as Khazid'hea rudely interrupted his
spellcasting, biting deep into his chest. To Chieftain Dnark's credit, he managed
to get his shield up to block Tos'un's other blade as it came in at him. He couldn't
anticipate the power of Khazid'hea, though, for instead of yanking the blade out
of Toogwik Tuk's chest, Tos'un just drove it across, the impossibly fine edge of
the sword known as Cutter slicing through bone and muscle as easily as if it were
parting water. The blade came across just under Dnark's shoulder, and before the
chieftain even realized the attack enough to spin away, his left arm was taken, falling
free to the ground.
Dnark howled and dropped his weapon, reaching across to grab at the blood spurting
from his stumped shoulder. He fell back and to the ground, thrashing and roaring
empty threats.
But Tos'un wasn't even listening, turning to strike at the nearest orcs. Not Ung-thol,
though, for the shaman ran away, taking a large portion of Dnark's elite group with
him.
"The dwarves!" Hralien called to the drow, and Tos'un followed the Moon-wood elf.
He forced back his nearest attackers with a blinding, stabbing routine, then angled
away, turning back toward Hralien, who had already swung around in full charge toward
the dell in the west.
*****
Bruenor rolled his shield forward, picking off a swing, then advanced, turning his
shoulders and rolling his axe at the dodging Grguch. He swung his shield arm up to
deflect the next attack, and swiped his axe across underneath it, forcing Grguch
to suck in his gut and throw back his hips.
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On came the dwarf, pounding away with his shield, slashing wildly with his axe. He
had the much larger half-ogre off balance, and knew from the craftsmanship and sheer
size of Grguch's axe that he would do well to keep it that way!
The song of Moradin poured from his lips. He swung across and reversed in a mighty
backhand, nearly scoring a hit, then charged forward, shield leading. That is why
he had been returned to his people, Bruenor knew in his heart. That was the moment
when Moradin needed him, when Clan Battlehammer needed him.
He threw out the confusion of the lost city and its riddles, of Drizzt's surprising
guesses. None of that mattered -
it was he and that newest, fiercest foe, battling to the death, old enemies locked
in mortal combat. It was the way of Moradin and the way of Gruumsh, or at least,
it was the way it had always been.
Light steps propelled the dwarf, spinning, advancing and retreating out of every
swing and every block with perfect balance, using his speed to keep his larger, stronger
foe slightly off balance.
Every time Grguch tried to wind up for a mighty stroke of that magnificent axe, Bruenor
moved out of range, or came in too close, or too far to the same side as the retracted
weapon, shortening Grguch's strike and stealing much of its power.
And always Bruenor's axe slashed at the orc. Always, the dwarf had Grguch twisting
and dodging, and cursing.
Like sweet music to Bruenor's ears did those orc curses sound.
In utter frustration, Grguch leaped back and roared in protest, bringing his axe
up high. Bruenor knew better than to pursue, dropping one foot back instead, then
rushing back and to the side, under the branch of a leafless maple.
Grguch, too outraged by the frustrating dwarf to hold back, rushed forward and swung
with all his might anyway -
and the dragon-axe crashed right through that thick limb, splintering its base and
driving it back at the dwarf. Bruenor threw up his shield at the last second, but
the weight of the limb sent him staggering backward.
By the time he recovered, Grguch was there, roaring still, his axe cutting a line
for Bruenor's skull.
Bruenor ducked and threw up his shield, and the axe hit it solidly -
too solidly! The foaming mug shield, that most recognizable of Mithral Hall's artifacts,
split in half, and below it, the bone in Bruenor's arm cracked, the weight of the
blow driving the dwarf to his knees.
Agony burned through Bruenor's body, and white flashes filled his vision.
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But Moradin was on his lips, and Moradin was in his heart, and he scrambled forward,
slashing his axe with all his might, forcing Grguch before him in his frenzy.
*****
Pwent, Torgar, and Shingles formed a triangle around Cordio. The priest directed
their movements, mostly coordinating Shingles and Torgar with the wild leaps and
surges of the unbridled fury that was Thibbledorf Pwent. Pwent had never viewed battle
in terms of defensive formations. To his credit, though, the wild-eyed battlerager
did not completely compromise the integrity of their defensive stand, and the bodies
of dead
orcs began to pile up around them.
But more took the places of the fallen -
many more, an endless stream. As weapon arms drooped from simple weariness, the three
frontline dwarves took more and more hits, and Cordio's spells of healing came nearly
constant from his lips, depleting his magical energies.
They couldn't keep it up for much longer, all three knew, and even Pwent suspected
that it would be their last, glorious stand.
The orc immediately before Torgar rushed forward suddenly. The Mira
barran dwarf turned the long handle of his axe at the last moment to deflect the
creature aside, and only when it started to fall away did Torgar recognize that it
was already mortally wounded, blood pouring from a deep wound in its back.
As the dwarf turned to face any other nearby orc
s, he saw the way before him cleared of enemies, saw Hralien and Tos'un fighting
side by side. They backed as Torgar shifted to his right, moving beside Shingles,
and the defensive triangle became two, two and one, and with an apparent escape route
open to the east. Hralien and Tos'un started that flight, Cordio bringing the others
in behind.
But they became bogged down before they had ever really started, as more and more
orcs joined the fray - orcs thirsty for vengeance for their fallen chieftain, and
orc
s simply thirsty for the taste of dwarf and elf blood.
*****
The panther's claws raked the fallen orc
's body, but Jack's wards held strong and Guenhwyvar did little real damage. Even
as Guenhwyvar thrashed, Hakuun began to mouth the words of a spell as Jack took control.
Guenhwyvar understood well the power of wizards and priests, though, and the panther
clamped her jaws over the orc's face, pressing and twisting. Still
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the wizard's defensive wards held, diminishing the effect. But Hakuun began to feel
the pain, and knowing that the magical shields were being torn asunder, the orc panicked.
That mattered little to Jack, safe within Hakuun's head. Wise old Jack was worldly
enough to recognize Guenhwyvar for what she was. In the shelter of Hakuun's thick
skull, Jack calmly went about his task. He reached into the Weave of magical energy,
found the nearby loose ends of enchanting emanations, and tied them together, filling
the area with countering magical force.
Hakuun screamed as panther claws tore through his leather tunic and raked lines of
blood along his shoulder. The cat retracted her huge maw, opened wide and snapped
back at his face, and Hakuun screamed louder, certain that the wards were gone and
that the panther would crush his skull to dust.
But that head dissipated as the panther bit down, and gray mist replaced the dispelled
Guenhwyvar.
Hakuun lay there, trembling. He felt some of the magical wards being renewed about
his disheveled frame.
Get up, you idiot!
Jack screamed in his thoughts.
The orc
shaman rolled to his side and up to one knee. He struggled to stand then stumbled
away and back to the ground as a shower of sparks exploded beside him, a heavy punch
knocking him backward.
He collected his wits and looked back in surprise to see the drow lifting a bow his
way.
A second lightning-arrow streaked in, exploding, throwing him backward. But inside
of Hakuun, Jack was already casting, and while the shaman struggled, one of his hands
reached out, answering the drow's third shot with a bolt of white-hot lightning.
When his blindness cleared, Hakuun saw that his enemy was gone. Destroyed to a smoking
husk, he hoped, but only briefly, as another arrow came in at him from a different
angle.
Again Jack answered with a blast of his own, followed by a series of stinging magical
missiles that weaved through the trees to strike at the drow.
Dual voices invaded Hakuun's head, as Jack prepared another evocation and Hakuun
cast a spell of healing upon himself. He had just finished mending the panther's
fleshy tear when the stubborn drow hit him with another arrow.
He felt the magical wards flicker dangerously.
"Kill him!" Hakuun begged Jack, for he understood that one of those deadly arrows,
maybe the very next one, was going to get through.
* * * * *
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They had fought minor skirmishes, as anticipated, but nothing more, as word arrived
along the line that Grguch and Obould had met in battle. Never one to play his hand
fully, General Dukka moved his forces deliberately and with minimal risk. However
things turned out, he intended to remain in power.
The Wolf Jaw orcs gave ground to Dukka's thousands, rolling down the channel on Obould's
southern flank like floodwaters.
Always ready for a fight, Dukka stayed near the front, and so he was not far away
when he heard a cry from the south, along the higher ridge, and when he heard the
sound of battle to the northeast, and to the north, where he knew Obould to be. Lightning
flashes filled the air up there, and Dukka could only imagine the carnage.
*****
His arm ached and hung practically useless, and Bruenor understood that if he lost
his momentum, he would meet a quick and unpleasant end. So he didn't relent. He drove
on and on, slashing away with his many-notched axe, driving the oversized
orc before him.
The orc could hardly keep up, and Bruenor scored minor hits, clipping him across
one hand and nicking his thigh as he spun away.
The dwarf could win. He knew he could.
But the orc began calling out, and Bruenor understood enough Orcish to understand
that he called for help. Not just orc
help, either, the dwarf saw, as a pair of ogres moved over at the side of his vision,
lifting heavy weapons.
Bruenor couldn't hope to win against all three. He thought to drive the orc leader
back before him, then break off and head back the other way -
perhaps Drizzt was finished with the troublesome wizard.
But the dwarf shook his head stubbornly. He had come to win against Obould, of course,
until his dark-skinned friend had shown him another way. He had never expected to
return to Mithral Hall, had guessed from the start that his reprieve from Moradin's
halls had been temporary, and for a single purpose.
That purpose stood before him in the form of one of the largest and ugliest orcs
he had ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on.
So Bruenor ignored the ogres and pressed his attack with even more fury. He would
die, and so be it, but that bestial orc would fall before him.
His axe pounded with wild abandon, cracking against the blocking weapon of his opponent.
He drew a deep line in one of the heads on Grguch's axe then nearly cracked through
the weapon's handle when the
orc brought it up horizontally to intercept a cut.
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Bruenor had intended that cut to be the coup de grace, though, and he winced at the
block, expecting that his time was over, that the ogres would finish him. He heard
them off to the side, stalking in, growling
... screaming.
Before him, the orc roared in protest, and Bruenor managed to glance back as he wound
up for another strike.
One of the ogres had fallen away, its leg cleaved off at the hip. The other had turned
away from Bruenor, to battle King Obould.
"Bah! Haha!" Bruenor howled at the absurdity of it all, and he brought his axe in
at the same chopping downward angle, but more to his right, more to his opponent's
left. The orc
shifted appropriately and blocked, and Bruenor did it again, and again more to his
right.
The orc
decided to change the dynamics, and instead of just presenting the horizontal handle
to block, he angled it down to his left. Since Bruenor was already leaning that way,
there was no way for him to avoid the rightward slide.
The huge orc howled, advantage gained.
*****
The orc had dispelled Guenhwyvar! From its back, claws and fangs digging at it, the
orc had sent Drizzt's feline companion back to the Astral Plane.
At least, that's what the stunned drow prayed had happened, for when he had finished
with the pair of orc
s at the trees, he had come in sight just in time to watch his friend dissolve into
smoky nothingness.
And that orc, so surprising, so unusual for one of the brutish race, had taken the
hits of Drizzt's arrows, and had met his barrage with lightning-bolt retorts that
had left Drizzt dazed and wounded.
Drizzt continued to circle, firing as he found opportunities between the trees. Every
shot hit the mark, but every arrow was stopped just short, exploding into multicolored
sparks.
And every arrow was met with a magical response, lightning and insidious magic missiles,
from which Drizzt could not hide.
He went into the thickness of some evergreens, only to find other orc
s already within. Bow in hand instead of his scimitars, and still dazed from the
magical assaults, Drizzt had no intention of joining combat at that difficult moment,
and so he cut to his right, back away from the magic-using
orc, and ran out of the copse.
And just in time, for without regard to its orc comrades, the wizard dropped a fireball
on those trees, a tremendous blast that instantly consumed the copse and everyone
within.
Drizzt continued his run farther to the side before turning back at the orc.
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He dropped Taulmaril and drew forth his blades, and he thought of Guenhwyvar, and
called out plaintively for his lost cat.
In sight of the wizard again, Drizzt dived behind a tree.
A lightning bolt split it down the middle before him, opening the ground to the orc
wizard again, stealing Drizzt's protective wall, and so he ran on, to the side again.
"I won't run out of magic, foolish drow!"
the
orc called - and in High Drow, with perfect inflection!
That unnerved Drizzt almost as much as the magical barrage, but Drizzt accepted his
role, and suspected that Bruenor was no less hard-pressed.
He swung out away from the orc wizard then veered around, finding a direct path to
his enemy that would take him under a widespread maple and right beside another cluster
of evergreens.
He roared and charged. He saw a tell-tale movement beside him, and grinned as he
recognized it.
Drizzt reached inside himself as the wizard began casting, and summoned a globe of
absolute darkness before him, between him and the mage.
Into the darkness went Drizzt. To his right, the evergreens rustled, as if he had
cut fast and leaped out that way.
*****
Dull pain and cold darkness filled Regis's head. He was far from consciousness, and
sliding farther with every passing heartbeat. He knew not where he was, or what had
put him there, in a deep and dark hole.
Somewhere, distantly, he felt a heavy thud against his back, and the jolt sent lines
of searing pain into the halfling.
He groaned then simply let it all go.
The sensation of flying filled him, as if he had broken free of his mortal coil and
was floating ... floating.
*****
"Not so clever, drow," Jack said through Hakuun's mouth as they both noted the movement
in the limbs of the evergreens. A slight turn had the fiery pea released from Jack's
spell lofting out that way, and an instant later, those evergreens exploded into
flames, with, Jack and Hakuun both presumed, the troublesome drow inside.
But Drizzt had not gone out to his right. That had been Guenhwyvar, resummoned from
the Astral Plane by his call, heeding his quiet commands to
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serve her role as diversion. Guenhwyvar had gone across right behind Drizzt to leap
into the evergreens, while Drizzt had tumbled headlong, gaining momentum, into the
darkness.
In there, he had leaped straight up, finding the maple's lowest branch.
"Be gone, Guen," he whispered as he ran along that branch, feeling the heat of the
flames to his side. "Please be gone," he begged as he came out of the blackness,
bearing down on the wizard, who was still looking at the evergreens, still apparently
oblivious to Drizzt.
The drow came off the branch in a leaping somersault, landing lightly in a roll before
the orc
, who nearly jumped out of his boots and threw his hands up defensively. As Drizzt
came out of that roll, he sprang and rolled again, going right past the
orc, right over the orc's shoulder as he turned back upright.
Anger drove him, memories of Innovindil. He told himself that he had solved the riddle,
that that creature had been the cause.
Fury driving his arms, he slashed back behind him and down with Icing-death as he
landed, and felt the blade slash hard through the orc
's leather tunic and bite deeply into flesh. Drizzt skidded to an abrupt stop and
pirouetted, slashing hard with Twinkle, gashing the back-bending
orc
across the shoulder blades. Drizzt stepped back toward him, moving around him on
the other side, and cut Twinkle down hard across the creature's exposed throat, driving
it to the ground on its back.
He moved for the kill, but stopped short, realizing that he needn't bother. A growl
from over by the burning pines showed him that Guenhwyvar hadn't heeded his call
to be gone, but neither had the panther, so swift and clever, been caught in the
blast.
Relief flooded through Drizzt, but with the diversion, he didn't take notice of a
small winged snake slithering out of the dead orc's ear.
*****
Bruenor's axe slid down hard to the side, and Bruenor stumbled that way. He saw the
huge orc's face twist in glee, in the belief of victory.
But that was exactly the look he had hoped for.
For Bruenor was not stumbling, and had forced the angled block for that very reason,
to disengage his axe quickly and down to the side, far to the right of his target.
In his stumble, Bruenor was really just re-setting his stance, and he spun away from
the
orc, daring to turn his back on it for a brief moment.
In that spin, Bruenor sent his axe in a roundabout swing at the end of his arm, and
the orc, readying a killing strike, could not redirect his heavy two-bladed axe in
time.
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Bruenor whirled around, his axe flying out wide to the right, setting himself in
a widespread stance, ready to meet any attack.
None came, for his axe had torn the orc's belly as it had come around, and the creature
crumbled backward, holding its heavy axe in its right hand, but clutching at its
spilling entrails with its left.
Bruenor stalked forward and began battering it once more. The orc managed to block
a blow, then a second, but the third slipped past and gashed its forearm, tearing
its hand clear of its belly.
Guts spilled out. The orc howled and tried to back away.
But a flaming sword swept in over Bruenor's one-horned helmet and cut Grguch's misshapen
head apart.
*****
Guenhwyvar's roar saved him, for Drizzt glanced back at the last moment, and ducked
aside just in time to avoid the brunt of the winged snake's murderous lightning strike.
Still the bolt clipped the drow, and lifted him into the air, flipping him over more
than a complete rotation, so that he landed hard on his side.
He bounced right back up, though, and the winged snake dropped to the ground and
darted for the trees.
But the curved edge of a scimitar hooked under it and flipped it into the air, where
Drizzt's other blade slashed against it.
Against it, but not through it, for a magical ward prevented the cut - though the
force of the blade surely bent the serpent over it!
Undeterred, for that mystery within a mystery somehow confirmed to Drizzt his suspicions
about Innovindil's fall, the drow growled and pushed on. Whether his guess was accurate
or not hardly mattered, for Drizzt transformed that rage into blinding, furious action.
He flipped the serpent again, then went into a frenzy, slashing left, right, left,
right, over and over again, holding the serpent aloft by the sheer speed and precision
of his repeated hits. He didn't slow, he didn't breathe, he simply battered away
with abandon.
The creature flapped its wings, and Drizzt scored a hit at last, cutting up and nearly
severing one where it met the serpent's body.
Again the drow went into a fury, slashing back and forth, and he ended by turning
one blade around the torn snake. He fell into a short run and turn behind that strike
and used his scimitar to fling the snake out far.
In mid-air, the snake transformed, becoming a gnome as it hit the ground in a roll,
turning as it came up and slamming its back hard against a tree.
Drizzt relaxed, convinced that the tree was the only thing holding the surprising
creature upright.
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"You summoned ... the panther ... back," the gnome said, his voice weak and fading.
Drizzt didn't reply.
"Brilliant diversion," the gnome congratulated.
A curious expression came over the diminutive creature, and it held up one trembling
hand. Blood poured from out of his robe's voluminous sleeve, though it did not stain
the material -
material that showed not a tear from the drow's assault.
"Hmm," the gnome said, and looked down, and so did Drizzt, to see more blood pouring
out from under the hem of the robe, pooling on the ground between the little fellow's
boots.
"Good garment," the gnome noted. "Know you a mage worthy?"
Drizzt looked at him curiously.
Jack the Gnome shrugged. His left arm fell off then, sliding out of his garment,
the tiny piece of remaining skin that attached it to his shoulder tearing free under
the dead weight.
Jack looked at it, Drizzt looked at it, and they looked at each other again.
And Jack shrugged. And Jack fell face down. And Jack the Gnome was dead.
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Chapter
CHAPTER
31
GARUMN'S
GORGE
Bruenor tried to stand straight, but the pain of his broken arm had him constantly
twitching and lowering his left shoulder. Directly across from him, King Obould stared
hard, the fingers of his hand kneading the hilt of his gigantic sword. Gradually
that blade inched down toward the ground, and Obould dismissed its magical flames.
"Well, what of it, then?" Bruenor asked, feeling the eyes of orcs boring into him
from all around.
Obould let his gaze sweep across the crowd, holding them all at bay. "You came to
me," he reminded the dwarf.
"I heared ye wanted to talk, so I come to talk."
Obould's expression showed him to be less than convinced. He glanced up the hill,
motioning to Nukkels the priest, the emissary, who had never made it near to Bruenor's
court.
Bruenor, too, looked up at the battered shaman, and the dwarf's eyes widened indeed
when Nukkels was joined by another orc
, dressed in decorated military garb, who carried a bundle of great interest to Bruenor.
The two
orcs walked down to stand beside their king, and the second, General Dukka, dropped
his cargo, a bloody and limp halfling, at Obould's feet.
All around them, the orcs stirred, expecting the fight to erupt anew.
But Obould silenced them with an upraised hand, as he looked Bruenor in the eye.
Before him, Regis stirred, and Obould reached down and with surprising gentleness,
lifted the halfling to his feet.
Regis could not stand on his own, though, his knees buckling. But Obould
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held him upright and motioned to Nukkels. Immediately, the shaman cast a spell of
healing over the halfling, and though it only marginally helped, it was enough for
Regis to stand at least. Obould pushed him toward Bruenor, but again, without any
evident malice.
"Grguch is dead," Obould proclaimed to all around, ending as he locked stares with
Bruenor. "Grguch's path is not the way."
Beside Obould, General Dukka stood firm and nodded, and Bruenor and Obould both understood
that the orc king had all the support he needed, and more.
"What are you wantin', orc?" Bruenor asked, and he held his hand up as he finished,
looking past Obould.
Many orcs turned, Obould, Dukka, and Nukkels included, to see Drizzt Do'Urden standing
calmly, Taulmaril in hand, arrow resting at ease on its string, and with Guenhwyvar
beside him.
"What are ye wanting?" Bruenor asked again as Obould turned back.
The dwarf already knew, of course, and the answer was one that filled him with both
hope and dread.
Not that he was in any position to bargain.
*****
"It won't make her more than a surcoat, elf," Bruenor said as Drizzt folded up the
fabulous garment of Jack the Gnome, wrapping it over a few rings and other trinkets
he had taken from the body.
"Give it to Rumblebelly," said Bruenor, and he propped Regis up a bit more, for the
halfling leaned on him heavily.
"A wizard's ... robe," the still-groggy Regis slurred. "Not for me."
"Not for me girl, neither," Bruenor declared.
But Drizzt only smiled and tucked the fairly won gains into his pack.
Somewhere in the east, fighting erupted again, a reminder to them all that not everything
was settled quite yet, with remnants of Clan Karuck still to be rooted out. The distant
battle sounds also reminded them that their friends were still out there, and though
Obould, after conferring with Dukka, had assured them that four dwarves, an elf,
and a drow had gone back over the southern ridge when Dukka's force had sent Wolf
Jaw running, the relief of the companions showed clearly on their faces when they
came in sight of the bedraggled, battered, and bloody sextet.
Cordio and Shingles ran to take Regis off of Bruenor's hands, while Pwent fell all
over himself, hopping around Bruenor with unbridled glee.
"Thought ye was sure'n dead," Torgar said. "Thought we were suren dead, to
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boot. But them orcs held back and let us run south. I'm not for knowin' why."
Bruenor looked at Drizzt then at Torgar and the others. "Not sure that I'm knowin'
why, meself," he said, and he shook his head helplessly, as if none of it made any
sense to him. "Just get me home. Get us all home, and we'll figure it out."
It sounded good, of course, except that one of the group had no home to speak of,
none in the area, at least. Drizzt stepped past Bruenor and the others and motioned
for Tos'un and Hralien to join him off to the side.
Back with the others, Cordio tended to Bruenor's broken arm, which of course had
Bruenor cursing him profusely, while Torgar and Shingles tried to figure out the
best way to repair the king's broken shield, an artifact that could not be left in
two pieces.
"Is it in your heart, or in your mind?" Drizzt asked his fellow drow when the three
of them were far enough away.
"Your change, I mean," Drizzt explained when Tos'un did not immediately answer. "This
new demeanor you wear, these possibilities you see before you -
are they in your heart, or in your mind? Are they born of feelings, or is it pragmatism
that guides your actions?"
"He was dismissed and running free," Hralien said. "Yet he came back to save me,
perhaps to save us all."
Drizzt nodded his acceptance of that fact, but it didn't change his posture as he
continued to stare at Tos'un.
"I do not know," Tos'un admitted. "I prefer the elves of the Moonwood to Obould's
orcs. That much I can tell you. And I will not go against the Moon-wood elves, on
my word."
"The word of a drow," Drizzt remarked, and Hralien snorted at the absurdity of the
statement, given the speaker.
Drizzt held his hand out, and motioned toward the sentient sword belted on Tos'un's
hip. With only a moment's hesitation, Tos'un drew the blade and handed it over.
"I cannot allow him to keep it," Drizzt explained to Hralien.
"It is Catti-brie's sword," the elf agreed, but Drizzt shook his head.
"It is a corrupting, evil, sentient being," Drizzt said. "It will feed the doubts
of Tos'un and play into his fears, hoping to incite him to spill blood." To Hralien's
surprise, Drizzt handed it over to him. "Nor does Catti-brie wish it returned to
Mithral Hall. Take it to the Moonwood, I beg, for your wizards and priests are better
able to deal with such weapons."
"Tos'un will be there," Hralien warned, and he glanced at the wandering drow and
nodded, and relief showed clearly on Tos'un's face.
"Perhaps your wizards and priests will be better able to discern the heart and
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mind of the dark elf, too," said Drizzt. "If trust is gained then return the sword
to him. It is a choice beyond my judgment."
"Elf! Ye done jabberin'?" Bruenor called. "I'm wanting to go see me girl."
Drizzt looked to Hralien and Tos'un in turn. "Indeed," he offered. "Let us
all go home."
*****
The wind howled out its singular, mournful note, a constant blow that sounded to
Wulfgar of home.
He stood on the northeastern slopes of Kelvin's Cairn, not far below the remnants
of the high ridge once known as Bruenor's Climb, looking out over the vast tundra,
where the snows had receded once more.
Slanting light crossed the flat ground, the last rays of day sparkling in the many
puddles dotting the landscape.
Wulfgar stayed there, unmoving, as the last lights faded, as the stars began to twinkle
overhead, and his heart leaped again when a distant campfire appeared out in the
north.
His people.
His heart was full. This was his place, his home, the land where he would build his
legacy. He would assume his rightful place among the Tribe of the Elk, would take
a wife and live as his father, his grandfather, and all of his ancestors had lived.
The simplicity of it, the lack of the deceitful trappings of civilization, welcomed
him, heart and soul.
His heart was full.
The son of Beornegar had come home.
*****
The dwarven hall in the great chamber known as Garumn's Gorge, with its gently arcing
stone bridge and the new statue of Shimmergloom the shadow dragon, ridden to the
bottom of the gorge to its death by heroic King Bruenor, had never looked so wondrous.
Torches burned throughout the hall, lining the gorge and the bridge, their firelight
changing through the spectrum of colors due to th
e enchantments of Lady Alustriel'
s wizards.
On the western side of the gorge before the bridge stood hundreds of Battlehammer
dwarves, all dressed in their full, shining armor, pennants flying, spear tips gleaming
in the magical light. Across from them stood a contingent of
orc warriors, not nearly as well-outfitted, but standing with equal discipline and
pride.
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Dwarf masons had constructed a platform at the center of the long bridge, and on
it had built a three-tiered fountain. Nanfoodle's alchemy and Alustriel'
s wizards had done their work there, as well, for the water danced to the sound of
haunting music, its flowing streams glowing brightly and changing colors.
Before the fountain, on a mosaic of intricate tiles fashioned to herald that very
day, stood a mithral podium, and on it rested a pile of identical parchments, pinned
by weights sculpted into the form of a dwarf, an elf, a human, and an
orc. The bottom paper of that pile had been sealed atop the podium, to remain there
throughout the coming decades.
Bruenor stepped out from his line and walked the ten strides to the podium. He looked
back to his friends and kin, to Banak in his chair, sitting impassive and unconvinced,
but unwilling to argue with Bruenor's decision. He matched stares with Regis, who
solemnly nodded, as did
Cordio. Beside the priest, Thibbledorf Pwent was too distracted to return Bruenor's
look. The battle
rager, as clean as anyone in the hall had ever seen him, swiveled his head around,
sizing up any threats that might materialize from the strange gathering
-
or maybe, Bruenor thought with a grin, looking for Alustriel's dwarf friend, Fret,
who had forced a bath upon Pwent.
To the side lay Guenhwyvar, majestic and eternal, and beside her stood Drizzt, calm
and smiling, his mithral shirt, his belted weapons, and Taulmaril over his shoulder,
reminding Bruenor that no dwarf had ever known a better champion. In looking at him,
Bruenor was amazed yet again at how much he had come to love and trust that dark
elf.
Just as much, Bruenor knew, as his gaze slipped past Drizzt to Catti-brie, his beloved
daughter, Drizzt's wife. Never had she looked as beautiful to Bruenor as she did
just then, never more sure of herself and comfortable in her place. She wore her
auburn hair up high on one side, hanging loosely on the other, and it caught the
light of the fountain, reflected off the rich, silken colors of her blouse, the garment
of the gnome wizard. It had been a full robe on the gnome, of course, but it reached
only to mid-thigh on Catti-brie, and while the sleeves had nearly covered the gnome's
hands, they flared halfway down Catti-brie's delicate forearms. She wore a dark blue
dress under the blouse, a gift from Lady Alustriel, her new tutor
- working through Nanfoodle -
that reached to her knees and matched exactly the blue trim of her blouse. High boots
of black leather completed the outfit, and seemed so appropriate for Catti-brie,
as they were both delicate and sturdy all at once.
Bruenor chuckled, recalling so many images of Catti-brie covered in dirt and in the
blood of her enemies, dressed in simple breeches and tunic, and fighting in the mud.
Those times were gone, he knew, and he thought of Wulfgar.
So much had changed.
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Bruenor looked back to the podium and the treaty, and the extent of the change weakened
his knees beneath him.
Along the southern rim of the center platform stood the other dignitaries: Lady Alustriel
of Silverymoon, Galen Firth of Nesm? King Emerus Warcrown of Citadel Felbarr -
looking none too pleased, but accepting King Bruenor's decision
-
and Hralien of the Moonwood. More would join in, it was said, including the great
human city of Sundabar and the largest of the dwarven cities in the region, Citadel
Adbar.
If it held.
That thought made Bruenor look across the podium to the other principal, and he could
not believe that he had allowed King Obould Many-Arrows to enter Mithral Hall. Yet
there stood the orc
, in all his terrible splendor, with his black armor, ridged and spiked, and his
mighty greatsword strapped diagonally across his back.
Together they walked to opposite sides of the podium. Together they lifted their
respective quills.
Obould leaned forward, but even though he was a foot and a half taller, his posture
did not diminish the splendor and strength of King Bruenor Battlehammer.
"If ye're e'er to deceive ..." Bruenor started to whisper, but he shook his head
and let the thought drift away.
"It is no less bitter for me," Obould assured him.
And still they signed. For the good of their respective peoples, they put their names
to the Treaty of Garumn's Gorge, recognizing the Kingdom of Many-Arrows and forever
changing the face of the Silver Marches.
Calls went out from the gorge, and horns blew along the tunnels of Mithral Hall.
And there came a greater blast, a rumble and resonance that vibrated through the
stones of the hall and beyond, as the great horn once known as
Kokto Gung Karuck, a gift from Obould to Bruenor, sounded from its new perch on the
high lookout post above Mithral Hall's eastern door.
The world had changed, Bruenor knew.
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EPILOGUE
"How different might the world now be if King Bruenor had not chosen such a course
with the first Obould Many-Arrows," Hralien asked Drizzt. "Better, or worse?"
"Who can know?" the drow replied. "But at that time, a war between Obould's thousands
and the gathered armies of the Silver Marches would have changed the region profoundly.
How many of Bruenor's people would have died? How many of your own, who now flourish
in the Glimmerwood in relative peace? And in the end, my friend, we do not know who
would have prevailed."
"And yet here we stand, a century beyond that ceremony, and can either of us say
with absolute truth that Bruenor chose correctly?"
He was right, Drizzt knew, to his ultimate frustration. He reminded himself of the
roads he had walked over the last decades, of the ruins he had seen, of the devastation
of the Spellplague. But in the North, instead of that, because of a brave dwarf named
Bruenor Battlehammer, who threw off his baser instincts, his hatred and his hunger
for revenge, in light of what he believed to be the greater good, the region had
known a century and more of relative peace. More peace than ever it had known before.
And that while the world around had fallen to shadow and despair.
Hralien started away, but Drizzt called after him.
"We both supported Bruenor on that day when he signed the Treaty of Garumn's Gorge,"
he reminded. Hralien nodded as he turned.
"As we both fought alongside Bruenor on the day he chose to stand beside Obould against
Grguch and the old ways of Gruumsh," Drizzt added. "If I
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recall that day correctly, a younger Hralien was so taken by the moment that he chose
to place his trust in a dark elf, though that same drow had marched to war against
Hralien's people only months before."
Hralien laughed and held up his hands in surrender.
"And what resulted from that trust?" Drizzt asked. "How fares Tos'un Armgo, husband
of Sinnafain, father of Teirflin and Doum'wielle?"
"I will ask him when I return to the Moonwood," the beaten Hralien replied, but he
managed to get in the last arrow when he directed Drizzt's gaze to the prisoners
they had taken that day.
Drizzt conceded the point with a polite nod. It wasn't over. It wasn't decided. The
world rolled on around him, the sand shifted under his feet.
He reached down to pet Guenhwyvar, needing to feel the comfort of his panther friend,
the one constant in his surprising life, the one great hope along his ever-winding
road. |
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发表于 2007-11-23 14:40:18