Vengeance of the Iron Dwarf

by R. A. Salvatore

  He glanced at the first orc he had struck, dazed and down on one knee.

  He called Aegis-fang back to his hand and finished the beast with a heavy chop. Turning, he saw the sudden charge of another orc, the beast’s spear leveled for Wulfgar’s belly.

  Off flew Aegis-fang, the hammer exploding into the chest of the orc—the same orc Regis had shot in the face. The stubborn fool came on groggily, with a dart in its cheek, and then flew back into the darkness.

  Wulfgar heard Regis whimper behind him, and the sound spurred the barbarian on in rage. He turned and kicked out with all his strength, driving his foot into the throat of the slumping orc he had thrown into the wall. At his call, Aegis-fang returned, but he didn’t put it to use again. Instead he turned and rushed to his friend.

  Regis was standing, bent over slightly at the waist, so that the butt of the spear that was embedded in his chest was set upon the ground. He said not a word as Wulfgar approached, but gave Wulfgar a look that expressed remorse, as if he was sorry he had failed his friend.

  “We have to move,” Wulfgar said. The barbarian grabbed the spear shaft gently, but even that slight touch had Regis trembling in pain. Inspecting the wound, Wulfgar knew that he could not extract it; surely he’d take half of Regis’s lung with it if he tried.

  He set Aegis-fang on the ground and grasped the staff in both hands. “No choice, my friend,” he said to Regis. “Brace, I beg.”

  Regis tensed up and clenched his teeth. The knuckles on Wulfgar’s left hand, the hand gripping the shaft right by the entry point, whitened as the mighty Wulfgar locked his grip. The muscles in Wulfgar’s neck and along his arms corded then as he began his determined press. His hands were barely five finger breadths apart, giving him little room to bend the shaft, and it seemed impossible that a man could break the thick wood with only that small gap between his hands.

  But Wulfgar had made his reputation in both lifetimes on doing things that seemed impossible for a mortal man.

  His muscles corded more distinctly. He sucked in his breath.

  “Prepare!” he warned his little friend through clenched teeth, and Regis began to make a sound that seemed half whimper and half determined growl.

  Wulfgar, too, growled, and sucked in his breath again, and with a sudden jerk, he twisted his right hand down with tremendous force while keeping his bracing left hand level. The spear snapped, Regis swooned, and Wulfgar caught him before he hit the floor. For a moment, he thought the halfling might be dead, so still did Regis lie in his arms.

  It wasn’t until the halfling snored that Wulfgar was sure he was alive.

  “What?” Wulfgar asked quietly as soon as the absurd notion hit him.

  At around that same time, another missile soared in from the darkness behind them, not the second but the third missile to strike Regis in that fight, Wulfgar realized when the small hand crossbow dart hit the halfling’s shoulder.

  Wulfgar staggered backward, rising to his full height. He threw Regis over his left shoulder, grabbed up Aegis-fang in his right hand, and hurled it down the hallway at the dark elves he knew to be there.

  He spun around and fled, pausing only to gather up the torch in his free hand as he passed it. He hated the idea of carrying such a beacon, but without it he could not hope to press on. He kept his arm locked around the bouncing Regis, holding him in place, but freed up his hand to transfer the torch so he could recall his warhammer with his right hand. As soon as Aegis-fang appeared, Wulfgar wheeled and sent it spinning off into the darkness behind him yet again, and then again, over and over, scrambling as fast as he could and trying to hold back the drow.

  To his relief, the corridor split a short distance later, then spider-webbed into a myriad of side tunnels. Better still, these walls were lined with some quartz or mica or some other shiny mineral, and the torchlight bounced every which way.

  There was no method to the barbarian’s chosen course. He did not slow long enough to consider one. He just went on, turning at almost every junction, determined to not allow enough of a tunnel behind him for one of those sleeping darts to reach out and take him down.

  Regis was just beginning to stir when Wulfgar plodded on softer ground, on some light-colored powdery soil that he did not know.

  “Welcome back,” he whispered to the halfling, and was about to add the suggestion that Regis stay very quiet when the ground gave out beneath him. Then they were sliding, not tumbling, riding the powdery soil down to a lower level. The torch sparkled off a million reflective surfaces. They were in a vast cavern, columned with stalagmites and stalactites—but only for a moment.

  He rolled over as he slid and had to abandon both the torch and Regis or risk rolling right atop the halfling, perhaps driving the spearhead in deeper. He came to a stop against the side of a stalagmite, Regis sliding into him with a groan and the torch disappearing under a sandpile on the floor.

  Then there was only blackness, and no sound except the whimpering of Regis beside him. Gradually Wulfgar’s eyes adjusted enough for him to make out general shapes. There were illuminating plants in here, though sparse in number.

  He couldn’t make out Regis on the ground, so he gingerly felt around to gauge the halfling’s position before gently lifting him once more. He could see the shadows of the stalagmites and stalactites, though, just barely, and so he went on. They had fallen a long way, but not long enough, not with dark elves on their trail.

  Wulfgar plodded through, ankle deep in the soft sand. Gradually his eyes grew more accustomed and gradually the ground firmed up once more, and Wulfgar gained speed and confidence.

  He knew he was nearing the edge of the cavern, knew that a tunnel lay ahead, and one with enough illumination for him to continue along, it seemed.

  But not enough illumination to reveal to Wulfgar that the lip of the tunnel entrance was about a hands’ breadth too low for him to run under it while standing upright.

  He felt the hot explosion as his forehead smashed into the stone. He felt his legs running out in front of him, felt himself falling backward. He even heard Regis cry out in surprise and fear.

  Somewhere, Wulfgar was conscious of all of that, but he was falling, falling, far, far away.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHEN HAMMER FALLS

  YE GOIN’ OUT TODAY?” BRUENOR ASKED DRIZZT ONE MORNING LATE IN the month of Hammer.

  Drizzt shook his head.

  “No more,” Catti-brie answered from behind him as she walked up to join the two.

  “Our enemies have tightened their grip on the tunnels about the lower levels,” Drizzt explained. “Unless you know another way for me to get out into the Underdark, we’ll not be leaving Mithral Hall anytime soon.”

  “Might be that we could get out to the surface,” Bruenor offered.

  “Like last time?” Catti-brie sarcastically answered.

  “Nah,” said the dwarf. “Just the four of us, yerselfs and me and Athrogate. Out quiet in the night.”

  “To do what?” Catti-brie asked.

  “I’ve been thinking the same,” Drizzt unexpectedly put in, and Catti-brie turned her surprised expression to him. “But alone. Just me. Perhaps I can find ways to sting our enemy and make their wintertime siege even more unpleasant.”

  “I was thinkin’ more that we might get to Felbarr or Adbar,” Bruenor explained. “Ain’t heared a thing from ’em since we last met in Emerus’s hall. No doubt but that they’re farin’ worse than us ’specially me brothers in Adbar. They been living their winters on trade, so says Connerad, but now there’s none to be had.”

  “Unless they opened the way to Felbarr,” Drizzt offered.

  “Ye don’t believe that, elf.”

  Drizzt couldn’t disagree.

  “There’s no point in going out,” Catti-brie offered. “Not now. The snows are blowing deep. The wind will freeze your bones—”

  “The snow will provide cover for me, and you can protect me from the cold,” Drizzt replied.

  “And
the dragon?” the woman answered.

  “We canno’ just sit here, girl!” Bruenor roared suddenly. “Three dwarven armies stuck in their holes while the cities fall and them orcs tighten their fist about us! We canno’ have it, no. I need to know o’ me brothers. Connerad needs to know what’s what in Felbarr and Adbar. How’s he to plan blind?”

  “I can get there,” Catti-brie said. “To Felbarr at least, where I’ve been only recently.”

  The other two looked at her curiously.

  “Drow elf ranger can’t cross the tunnels, but yerself can?” Bruenor asked doubtfully.

  “With spells,” Catti-brie explained. “Clairvoyance and clairaudience. I can send my eyes and ears to King Emerus’s Court … I think.”

  “Well why didn’t ye say so afore now?” Bruenor demanded.

  “I’m not very good at such divination magic,” the woman admitted. She remembered her days in Lady Avelyere’s Coven in the floating Netherese city called Shade Enclave. So many of the sisters there studied the divination spells diligently. They thrived on information. But Catti-brie had little interest in that school of magic. Ever had she preferred invocation, throwing fireballs and shaking the ground with thunderous bolts of lightning.

  “Can ye do it or can’t ye?”

  “I can try, but I’m never certain of what I see.”

  “If yer eyes’re there, ye’re seein’ what ye’re seein’,” said Bruenor.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Catti-brie replied. “Divination magic is … interpretive, bits and pieces of information, some true, some inferred, some wrongly perceived. It is an art form, and one I did not learn as I should have.”

  She looked from Drizzt to Bruenor and nodded. “But I will try.”

  “Can’t be askin’ for more, me girl,” said Bruenor. He moved over and put his hand on Catti-brie’s shoulder, but turned to regard Drizzt with a wink. “And see what ye might see up above while ye’re at yer spellcasting. Might be that me and th’elf can find us some fun outside the hall, eh?”

  Tears in his eyes, Regis gently piled the last stone on the tomb he had built for Wulfgar. The halfling’s shoulder ached and blood still streamed from the wound. He knew that he didn’t have much longer before he succumbed, but at the same time, he had no idea what to do.

  He had gone back the way they’d come, into the large sandy chamber, and had found no promising outlets—indeed, everything seemed to lead back to where they had been, where the orcs and dark elves had been.

  The other way, down this side tunnel where Wulfgar had cracked his skull, the corridor dived, and the air grew thick with moisture. Around a bend and down a chute, Regis had been led by the sound of water, dripping like a heartbeat, occasionally splashing. He hadn’t gone farther, figuring that anything lurking in Underdark ponds wasn’t something he would wish to engage.

  But now he had to go there, he told himself, and he had to do so decisively and straight away. He was running out of time.

  He assumed the form of a goblin shaman once more and started off, hugging a wall in the slick corridor. He heard the water again, dripping, the cadence too fast for a normal heartbeat, but too slow for his own at that moment.

  Around the next bend, the halfling found himself in more complete darkness, and before his sensitive eyes could fully adjust, he inadvertently dipped his foot in the water.

  Running water. It was an underground river, not a pond.

  Regis knelt on the bank and spent a long while allowing his vision to acclimate. Gradually he could make out the flowing water—a wide and yawning river. There was some lichen on the opposite bank, revealing a wall that marked the end of this cavern. He dipped his hand in the flow. It was not strong. Slowly, crouching all the way, he made his way to the end of the cavern to the right, where the water exited, and left to where it entered. To move beyond this place in either direction meant going into the river, likely even under the water.

  Regis glanced back the way he’d come, back in the direction of Wulfgar.

  He couldn’t go back, and he couldn’t stay here.

  He put his hand in the water again. It was chilly, but not too cold.

  “By the gods,” the halfling whispered. He removed most of his gear and his clothing, tucking all of it into his magical belt pouch’s extra-dimensional space.

  He pulled his dagger back out almost immediately, but looked at it forlornly. The snake-blades had not yet reformed. Back in went the dagger and out came the rapier, which he tucked under his belt, opposite the pouch.

  He was taking too long, the pain in his shoulder reminded him. With a last glance back, Regis steeled himself and went into the water, finding it to be about waist deep. He started downstream, but quickly reversed, thinking that if the current increased, he would not be able to return to this place.

  To the left he went, soon coming to the small chamber’s wall.

  He shuddered. He knew what he had to do.

  Half swimming, half crawling in utter blackness, he moved only his right hand forward, keeping his left pinched in tight against the wound. He couldn’t see the blood staining the water around him, but he knew it was there, and knew too that marine predators could often smell blood.

  It was almost too much for the poor halfling. At one point, he tried to stand up, but found there was no room between the water and the ceiling.

  He continued along stubbornly, and still the ceiling pressed in on him, not enough room to stand, not even enough for him to turn around and catch a breath.

  Was there even a point to this, he wondered, for surely he had already gone far beyond the distance that anyone without genasi blood could possibly cover?

  He was out of options. He was surely doomed.

  But then Regis saw a flicker of light up ahead, just a reflection of a reflection, and nothing substantial. It was gone even as he consciously registered it.

  Lichen, perhaps?

  The halfling drove ahead against the meager current with all the strength he could muster. Then he saw more lights, flickering and dancing as they entered the moving liquid.

  He pressed ahead, and now even his deep-diver lungs were beginning to ache for air. The lights were all around him, and he barely resisted the urge to spring up when he realized they were torches.

  Slowly he moved upward. Goblins? Orcs? Drow?

  He peeked out and his heart lifted. These were not his monstrous enemies but men and women, humans and elves, and even some dwarves—a large encampment.

  Regis stood and whimpered, and some nearby men spotted him.

  Their eyes went wide, but no wider than the halfling’s smile.

  Regis’s smile disappeared when a wall of spears came flying at him.

  Catti-brie splashed her hand in the water, shattering its stillness, her frustration mounting. She had created the scrying pool perfectly, and yet her spells would show her nothing more than her own reflection.

  She heard Lady Avelyere’s voice in her head, scolding her for her stubborn focus on explosions and battle, when information and knowledge were the key to true success.

  With a sigh, the woman walked from the scrying pool, pushed through the curtain, and fell into a comfortable chair in front of the burning hearth.

  So many thoughts swirled in her mind. She knew that Drizzt and Bruenor would indeed go out into the blizzards, and yet, she couldn’t even glance up there magically to guide them or forewarn them.

  She felt helpless. She felt useless.

  What had she done wrong? She felt the divination magic still burning within her, and yet she could not see the halls of Citadel Adbar, or peer through the whiteness of winter above, or glance into the throne room of Felbarr, which she knew quite well.

  She visualized it again in her mind’s eye, remembering her last visit there. She thought of Emerus and Ragged Dain and Parson Glaive.

  She stared into the hearth, into the flames. Without even realizing it, she clenched her hand on the powerful ring Drizzt had given her.


  A subtle peace washed over her, a feeling that the fire in the hearth, that all fires, were one, reaching back from the Prime Material Plane to the Elemental Plane of Fire. All connected …

  The image of Felbarr’s throne room appeared to her, but distantly, hazily, behind the flames of the hearth.

  Catti-brie sucked in her breath and leaned closer, staring and listening. She was there, in the flames of the fire burning in King Emerus’s hearth. She could see the old dwarf king and his advisors.

  “We’re to lose him, I fear,” she heard Emerus say.

  “He’s young and reckless, that one,” agreed another—it sounded to Catti-brie like Parson Glaive, but she couldn’t really see him and didn’t know him well enough to be certain.

  “Young and heartbroken for the loss o’ his twin, ye mean,” said Ragged Dain, sitting beside Emerus.

  “And desperate,” King Emerus agreed. “Adbar’s feeling the hunger more’n ourselves, and all in Felbarr’ve bellies grumblin’. Can’t hold. Not for them and not for us.”

  “Hammer’s just fallen,” Ragged Dain lamented with a shake of his head. “And Alturiak’s just begun. We’ve not got the food …”

  “We’ll get out,” King Emerus said determinedly, but Catti-brie felt a quiver in the back of his voice, and in that tremor, in that lament, the image of a battle flashed in the diviner’s mind, a fight in a blizzard, Felbarr dwarves against a huge force of orcs and giants and in the midst of a terrible storm.

  Was it a memory? A premonition?

  The confusion threw Catti-brie from the scene, and she could not recreate it. She put aside her anger—wasn’t this always the way with divination spells, so full of half-truths and symbols and so divorced from time and space?—and stubbornly held to the remaining bits of magic. She saw a torch, then, and through a torch’s flame, along some dwarven halls.

  Was it Felbarr still? Adbar? Perhaps even the lower reaches of Mithral Hall?

  Dwarves, shivering and gaunt, their expressions sullen, stalked about as the image of the Undercity widened in Catti-brie’s vision. It was not Mithral Hall, and it didn’t look much like Felbarr, either, for it seemed to be partially, at least, aboveground.