In the span of a few heartbeats, it seemed, several orcs and an ogre lay dead.
The woman cried out, and Bruenor turned and retreated straight for her. The panther launched itself into a mighty leap that carried her over the ducking orcs. After dispatching yet another of the ugly brutes, Drizzt ran faster than Winko and the others could begin to believe. The speeding drow leaped just as Catti-brie’s tremendous fireball went off behind him, right in the midst of the pursuing monsters.
That moment, that image, became frozen into the minds of the onlooking dwarves: the drow high in the air, his dark form silhouetted by a brilliant explosion of roiling orange flames, his hands moving to sheath his scimitars even as he flew as if propelled by the blast. He landed on his feet, but threw himself forward and to the ground, tucking into a roll and turning as he went to come back to one knee facing the orcs, and somehow, impossibly, with his magical bow back in hand.
The fireball was still breaking apart when the first lightning arrow shot off into the diminishing conflagration, taking a smoking ogre right in the chest and sending it spinning to the ground.
Fires burned on tents, fires burned on orcs, fires burned on ogres, some still standing, many on the ground in the half-melted snow.
And one greater, living fire remained, and it, too, took to the battle, striding into the midst of a trio of coughing, smoking ogres. Already badly wounded by the fireball, the brutes had no chance against the wizard’s fire elemental, and as the first fell under the weight of a heavy, flaming punch, the other two tried to stagger away.
But the panther came back in full charge, the dwarf howling his battle cries, and the drow letting fly an arrow with every step, close behind.
“Cousin,” a subdued Rollo whispered, “you’re a bearded gnome.”
By the time Drizzt, Catti-brie, Bruenor, and Guenhwyvar rejoined the main dwarven battle group, the rout of the orc encampment was well in place, with few monsters still fighting.
“Ah, but here they come,” Bungalow Thump warned the companions when they roared in beside his Gutbusters. “Get ye ready for we’re in it now!”
His words seemed perfectly on target. They had charged out well aware that this encampment was nothing more than a stop-gap force, set to slow down any attempted breakout until the main force could arrive. And now, it seemed, that main force was indeed on its way, for up ahead, the mountain slopes were dark with swarms of orcs and goblins, with charging ogres and giants, rolling down in fury, it seemed, to overrun the dwarves.
“Brace!” came King Connerad’s call, echoed up and down by the undercommanders. “Shield wall!”
Drizzt looked to the dwarf king, who was not far away, and saw his doubts clearly on his face. “He will call for a retreat into the hall,” the drow said to Bruenor.
“Nah!” Bungalow Thump protested, but Bruenor couldn’t help but nod. The force charging down at them seemed truly overwhelming.
Unseen by the dwarves and their allies holding position in front of the gate, one man outran all the others, easily outpacing even the lithe elves and the dragon sisters, who were now back in elf form, in the wet spring snow. Afafrenfere felt as if his body was but a shell, an image created to give shape to his life-force, which was without weight. With huge, swift strides, he bounded after the retreating monsters, and whenever he came upon a straggler, he was swift to the attack.
Out lashed his hand or his foot, always properly aimed, always with the strength of a giant behind it, and always singularly lethal. Afafrenfere wasn’t striking with a corporeal punch, kick, or knee, or even headbutt, but rather with his very life energy, concentrated like a deadly spear.
Again, his physical form merely gave shape to the blow, following the flow of his inner strength into the unenlightened target.
He knew that Grandmaster Kane was guiding him now, shaping his energy and throwing it forth. He welcomed the intrusion, basked in the lesson.
Carry no doubts, the voice in his head told him as he bore down on a giant—one that had noticed him and was turning to meet the charge.
Afafrenfere felt as if he was flying when he launched into a running leap. Over the swinging club of the monster he flew, over the giant’s shoulder, and as he passed, he felt his hand shaking suddenly, tiny quivers moving in a blur. He slapped the giant across the face, not hard, but solidly, and Afafrenfere felt strangely weary, as if he’d just run the breadth of Faerûn.
He flew down past the behemoth, turning as he dived into a graceful roll that set him upright and on his way as if he had never missed a step, and by the second stride, he felt his strength returning anew.
Trust was all he heard when he instinctively and silently questioned what had just occurred.
Afafrenfere had no more time to consider the incident, or even that the giant was now giving chase. A group of orcs had stopped in front of him, turning for a fight, weapons bared and ready.
And without a thought, Afafrenfere willingly leaped into their midst, scattering them with his unexpectedly bold assault. They were back soon, though, in a circle around him, a dozen enemies closing in methodically.
Closer, closer, close enough to prod at him with their weapons.
He leaped straight up into the air and spun. Around he went, lashing out with his foot, with his hand, and again, blocking each and every stab or slash with his hardened shin, or simply the delicate turn of a well-placed hand.
He turned a second circuit and a third, and the orcs fell away, one kicked in the face, a second swept over its own spear, a third taking a fast triple punch in the face as the monk finally touched down.
And up he went again, right away, just as high and spinning once more. Too fast for his enemies, too quick to the strike or the block.
When he landed that second time, only a handful remained. Out lashed Afafrenfere’s side kick, shattering an orc’s kneecap. Around went the monk with a full circle kick, driving that wounded orc into the next in line, and as those two tangled, a third tripped up and dived in at the monk.
Out went Afafrenfere’s open palm, square in the face of the bending, overbalanced orc, using its momentum against it and shattering its neck bone.
Without even thinking of the movement, Afafrenfere backflipped right over the trio of orcs coming in behind him with leveled spears. He landed behind them instead, squarely and ready, his stabbing fingers diving into one’s kidney, shattering a second’s spine, and as the third turned, so did the monk, his rising circle kick snapping the spear shaft and driving through and up under the creature’s chin.
It flew away, leaving Afafrenfere gaping in disbelief at the power that coursed through his body.
He could hardly register what had just occurred, and only the closing giant snapped him from his trance.
What do I do? he silently asked. He was no match for a frost giant.
But his answer came as the energy coalesced inside of him, gathering into a tangible ball. His body trembled, his eyes rolled up to show the whites, his arms reached forward, shaking.
And he felt this energy thrown from his corporeal form, thrown into the charging giant, and there, it lashed like lightning.
Afafrenfere staggered back a step and stared incredulously as the giant skidded to a halt, shaking and trembling, slightly at first, but gaining momentum with each passing heartbeat.
Soon spasms rocked its body, bouncing it around. The behemoth held its feet for a few more heartbeats, though its massive sword went flying away.
Then to the ground it went, to its back, where it jerked and thrashed violently, ending with a sudden scream, arms reaching to the sky, mouth wide, and as if that scream took with it the last of the giant’s energy, the behemoth simply fell limp.
Before he even went to it, Afafrenfere knew that it was dead.
From a slap.
From a trembling hand, Grandmaster Kane’s quivering palm.
As King Connerad’s call echoed along the line, the dwarves formed a tight shield wall, ready for a tremendous
impact. But the monsters weren’t charging—the horde was in full flight, a terrified frenzy. Those heading directly for Mithral Hall seemed suddenly to realize their error and veered left and right, scattering to the side trails—even the giants.
“What?” Bungalow Thump demanded, clearly dismayed. “Catch ’em, boys, and kill ’em to death!”
Off went Thump and his brigade, hollering and giving chase—until General Dagnabbet ordered them back.
“Close ranks!” she called. “They’re baiting us to split asunder!”
More than one Gutbuster grumbled in protest, but these were Battlehammer dwarves, loyal and obedient.
Despite the monstrous flight, the fighting surely wasn’t finished, and the sounds of battle erupted once more just north of the gates of Mithral Hall. Catti-brie threw more devastating fireballs and brought forth a second elemental. Drizzt sent lines of magical arrows burning into monstrous flesh. Bungalow Thump got his wish and launched his furious Gutbuster Brigade headlong into the midst of a swarm of orcs.
And Bruenor and Connerad fought side by side, two great kings of Mithral Hall joined in common cause.
Despite the fact that most of the supposed orc reinforcements had run away left and right, the battle wavered on the edge of disaster for a short while, until a barrage of arrows swarmed down from the hills, thinning the orc press. On came the elves of the Glimmerwood in tight ranks, three hundred strong, three hundred longbows working as one, sweeping aside the nearest monsters as they patiently made their way to the dwarves.
“Well met again, King Connerad,” Sinnafein said to him when the allies had united, the battle all but over with only a few pockets of resistance remaining.
“Aye, and all for yer hugs,” said another woman, and the group noted the approach of Ambergris and Athrogate, both with weapons covered in the blood of their enemies set on their shoulders. “But be quick about it, eh?”
Drizzt could hardly contain his smile when yet another walked up, a man who seemed to be carrying no weapons at all, yet who, Drizzt was certain, had played a large role in the victory.
“Well met again,” Drizzt said to Afafrenfere, who bowed respectfully.
The monk started to reply, but Ambergris cut him short. “Time for that later, eh?” she reminded him.
“Indeed,” said Sinnafein. “Have you properly divided your forces?” she asked King Connerad.
“Bruenor’s leaving with yerself,” the young King of Mithral Hall answered. “And them that’s going with him know their place.”
“Then we must be away at once, to the boats on the Surbrin’s banks and across the river into the cover of the Glimmerwood,” Sinnafein answered.
“Aye,” Connerad agreed. He looked to Bruenor. “How I wish I might be going with ye, me king.”
“Yer place is in the hall,” Bruenor replied.
“Would Bruenor’ve said the same for himself when he’d been king?”
“No,” Drizzt answered before Bruenor could.
Connerad nodded and smiled. “Aye, but Bruenor didn’t have Bruenor to go and lead his army,” he said. “I’m knowin’ me place in this, for the good o’ Clan Battlehammer, and I’m knowin’ Bruenor’s place is out there.” He nodded his chin to the east.
“And I’m knowing that we’ll be together again afore summer’s on in full,” Bruenor replied, and the two shared a solid handshake.
Then Bruenor and his companions, along with Bungalow Thump and the Gutbusters, and three hundred of General Dagnabbet’s finest soldiers, went off with Sinnafein and the elves. King Connerad and General Dagnabbet watched them go, while the remaining dwarves around them raided the orc encampment of all its worthwhile supplies, returning to Mithral Hall with arms full of much-needed food.
The orcs and their monstrous allies were back to the battlefield in short order, a huge force prepared now for the surprises that had befallen them that late afternoon. They chased the last of Connerad’s forces back into Mithral Hall, then argued and grumbled that the dwarves had found a way to resupply, and that the wretched elves had helped them.
And the angry forces of Many-Arrows had no idea that the elves had not been alone in their retreat back across the Surbrin.
CHAPTER 11
THE POSSESSED
GROMPH GAVE A LITTLE CHUCKLE, ONE THAT SURELY DID NOTHING TO bolster Tiago’s hopes.
“The orcs are fracturing,” the archmage said.
“But that is not true,” Tiago protested, a bit too vehemently, he realized when Gromph scowled.
No one ever wanted to look into one of Gromph Baenre’s scowls.
“Hartusk is gathering his forces in Hartusk Keep …”
“In Sundabar, you mean,” Gromph quickly corrected, and in a tone that would brook no dissent. He had already made it quite clear to Tiago that he fully expected the powers of Luruar to retake the blasted city before the next winter.
“The warlord gathers his forces, all of them, and Arauthator and his son are soon to return, by your own account,” Tiago reiterated.
“The wizards of Silverymoon will fight them to the end,” Gromph replied. “Arauthator has already said that he wants no part of that powerful city.”
“Then we will bypass it,” Tiago said, and he turned to Ravel for some support.
“Everlund’s defenses are surely more conventional and less rooted in the arcane arts,” the wizard son of Matron Mother Zeerith Xorlarrin agreed.
“Moving Hartusk farther from Dark Arrow Keep and from Sundabar,” said Gromph with a chortle.
“It will be a quick and brutal assault,” Tiago insisted. “We will cripple Everlund, though not likely topple her, and then turn fast to strengthen our gains—”
“ ‘Our’?”
“Hartusk’s,” Tiago quickly corrected. “With Everlund wounded, Silverymoon will sue for peace.”
“You have forgotten three dwarven citadels and the forces of the Glimmerwood,” said Gromph.
He could not have been more wrong. The place that never left Tiago’s thoughts was one of those dwarven citadels, Mithral Hall, where Drizzt Do’Urden had taken refuge.
“Felbarr is fully sealed, Adbar in disarray by all accounts, and the folk of Mithral Hall have tried to break out—twice—and were put back in their filthy hole both times by the forces still arrayed about the three gates,” said Tiago. “The elves are a nuisance and little more. I would take Arauthator and his son over their lands and send the elves in full flight—those few who survived!”
Gromph seemed to be mulling that proposal over, at least.
“Please, Archmage,” Tiago pleaded. “We can inflict more pain and use that to secure the gains for Warlord Hartusk. He and his giant allies will keep the kingdoms of Luruar engaged for years to come. If we are taken from Hartusk’s side now, with Everlund and Silverymoon intact, the collapse will be swift for Hartusk and our enemies, I fear, will fast turn their eyes to Menzoberranzan and Q’Xorlarrin.”
The anxious tremor in his voice could not be missed, he realized, and so he was betraying his true designs. But it could not be helped, and Tiago could not turn away, not with Drizzt Do’Urden so near!
Gromph began to chuckle again, but this time it seemed more with true amusement. “Tarsakh is upon us,” he said, referring to the fourth month of 1485, which had just dawned. “You and your cohorts have until the dusk of Eleasis. Fifteen tendays, and then I will come for you and will hear no arguments.”
“Matron Mother Quenthel will agree to this?” Ravel dared to ask, for Gromph had made it clear that he had returned to them this day under orders to bring the drow home.
“The drow of Menzoberranzan, excluding the nobles of House Do’Urden, return to Menzoberranzan with me this day,” Gromph explained. “The soldiers of Q’Xorlarrin are Matron Mother Zeerith’s to recall, should she so choose.”
Ravel nodded eagerly, Tiago noted, for his wizard friend had already told him that Matron Mother Zeerith did not agree with Matron Mother Quenthel’s desire to so abruptl
y end this war. There were gains to be made here, Zeerith believed, and so, likely, Ravel and his friends would have some dark elf support here, at least.
“Thank you, Archmage,” Tiago said with a deep and respectful bow.
Gromph looked at him one last time, chuckled again, and disappeared with a snap of his fingers.
“Are we truly alone?” Tiago asked Ravel, who was already casting a spell of divination.
Ravel nodded.
“Fifteen tendays,” said Tiago. “Mithral Hall will come forth within that time, surely, and Drizzt Do’Urden will be mine.”
“Your thoughts of the rogue possess you like a canker worm, my friend,” said Ravel. “We were never here to hunt for Drizzt, as has been made clear to you repeatedly.”
“We are House Do’Urden! Deny not the connection.”
“To humiliate him,” Ravel argued. “To foul his name.”
“You speak like a priestess,” said Tiago. “Like your sniveling sister, my wife. When I enter Menzoberranzan with the head of Drizzt Do’Urden, none will deny the glory, and all will give praise to Lolth that her betrayer has fallen.”
“Praise to Tiago, you mean.”
“Well-earned,” Tiago replied, and he looked out the window of his makeshift palace in the ruins of Nesmé and smiled wickedly.
Doum’wielle sat on the edge of her bed in a candlelit room, staring across at Khazid’hea. The sword was in its sheath, leaning against the wall, but it was in her head as well, calling to her.
Their games are not beyond you, Little Doe, the sword whispered in her mind, for it knew that she was considering Tiago and Ravel and the others, and their constant maneuvers to gain advantage.
Or power. Tiago had taken her to gain power over her, and over her father, and she knew, too, that was hardly the farthest Tiago would go to get what he wanted. Perhaps he would think it advantageous to murder Tos’un, and if so, then surely her father was doomed. Or perhaps he would enslave her, and use that to control Tos’un, a noble of a rival House, to his advantage.
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