Many dwarves would die here, he silently vowed, and he looked back to the broken mountainside once more and smiled, thinking that their desperation would cost King Connerad dearly. In breaking out, they had opened the way for Jarl Fimmel Orelson to break in.
All around the frost giant leader, orcs screamed and goblins burned and dwarves rained death from on high. By the doors, the orc ranks were already breaking and falling back—fleeing in full retreat, actually, and surely they meant to run across the bridge and far away.
But Jarl Fimmel Orelson would stop them, and would turn back the tide of the ambush in short order. He would fight the dwarves to a standstill, as he had reinforcements close at hand and they could not.
“Come quickly!” Wulfgar bade his halfling friend, splashing the last few feet from the cold water. The Silverymoon raiders had crossed the Surbrin and rushed to the Rauvin’s rocky ford. Led by Regis, they had gone around setting their traps. But now the worg-riding enemies were in sight, and approaching fast. Aleina and the others had already retreated to the small wood not far from either river, and Wulfgar could see the knight-commander at the tree line, waving to him, bidding him to hurry.
“Almost done,” replied Regis, who was still on a rock in the river, easing a ceramic ball under its raised edge.
“Now!” Wulfgar ordered. “We are out of time!”
“Go, go!” Regis said to him. The halfling looked back over his shoulder and noted the enemy approach—they could hear the worgs in the charge growling now. “Go, or they will see you.”
“I’ll not leave you to die!” Wulfgar argued.
“I do not intend to die!” Regis snapped back, and he held up a potion vial, one Wulfgar recognized as an elixir of speed. “Now go!” When Wulfgar hesitated, the halfling looked at him plaintively. “Trust me,” he said quietly.
Wulfgar nodded and sprinted away, and Regis went back to his work.
The barbarian tried not to look back too often in the short sprint, reminding himself repeatedly to trust in Regis. Aleina was waiting for him at the tree line, handing him the reins of his mount as he entered. He leaped astride beside the knight-commander and looked back, nodding, to see Regis at last running from the riverbank, his little legs pumping furiously under the influence of the potion, covering the ground with his speeding strides.
The worg riders were still some way back, and Wulfgar continued to nod, thinking his friend would surely make it.
But then he saw something else, and he stopped nodding, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping.
And the riders around him pulled hard on their reins, forcing their suddenly-nervous horses into a short backstep, shrinking back under the canopy.
Above the approaching worg riders came two great white forms, shining brilliantly even in the dim light of the Darkening, speeding fast for the river.
And there was Regis, running out in the open!
Wulfgar started to call out, but Aleina grabbed him, and surely he understood that he could not betray their position. He looked around frantically, the dragons coming fast, the halfling apparently oblivious …
Wulfgar rolled from the side of his mount, hit the ground in a spin, and hurled Aegis-fang long and far, spinning it past the approaching halfling. Clearly startled, Regis stopped and ducked, and reflexively turned to watch the hammer as it flew past. In that turn, he saw the wyrms, and before he ever turned back, the halfling was flat on the ground, trying to make himself very, very small.
Aleina, Wulfgar, and all the others faded back farther into the shadows of the trees, and then those trees began to shake wildly in the windy wake of the speeding dragons, the air crackling, the wind rushing like a tornado with their passing. Despite the best efforts of their skilled riders, the horses shrieked in terror, and more than one of the raiders fell to the ground, trembling.
But the dragons apparently did not notice. They were already long gone, flying fast to the north.
Wulfgar looked back to Regis, who to his credit was already up and running for the trees once more, but the barbarian could not keep his gaze there. He rushed to the side, to a small clearing, to view the departing wyrms. He had noted their passengers in their passing: a pair of dark elf warriors.
“What do we do?” he heard Aleina ask at length, and from her tone, Wulfgar realized that she had likely asked him that question many times by the time he had noted it.
“Lady, we should flee this place,” one of the other riders replied.
“Nay, we’ve come for a fight, and we’ve found one!” another argued, and so it went, back and forth.
Time was running short. The worg riders were nearing the river’s southern bank even then, and Regis came to the tree line, unseen by their enemies.
Aleina Brightlance took it all in, but seemed at a loss, and surely Wulfgar understood. The enemy force was here, the moment of their fight had come to them, but if those dragons had noted them and meant to turn around …
“Hold and wait for it,” came the unexpected voice of Regis as he scrambled up on his pony. He had been lying in the open with a pair of white dragons soaring right over him, yet he, above all, seemed perfectly composed and ready for the fight. And Wulfgar couldn’t help but smile when he looked upon the gallant little one.
“When do we charge?” Aleina asked, deferring to Regis, who had prepped the battlefield.
“Oh, you will know, good lady,” Regis replied slyly, and he even tossed Aleina a knowing wink as he patted the pouch of holding he had belted on his hip. He looked to the river and nodded. “We’ll all know.”
And with that, Regis began handing out potions—to make his allies stronger, to make them faster, to protect them from fire, to protect them from cold, to imbue the drinker with a veteran’s understanding, to heal wounds. He emptied his pouch of holding at that time, every potion he had brewed over the last tendays that might be of use, because he looked at the approaching enemy, and thought of the enemy that had just flown past.
The group worked diligently and methodically, time running out, to get the best enhancements to the person who would benefit the most. The archers who would remain in the rear were protected from cold, in case the dragons returned with their frosty breath, where the archers would be the likely target. Strength and speed to the front ranks, that they could hit hard and wound their superior enemy quickly, for the sake of their allies in the north even if they were overrun here.
Regis kept a couple for himself, including only a single potion of healing. He had enough tricks he might play, with his hand crossbow and his strange dagger and his hat of disguise, and he did not need potions the way some others did.
He might be clever enough to survive, he tried to tell himself.
But there were drow.
He was full of resignation, full of steel, but full, too, of doubt.
They glided up nearer the Darkening, Tazmikella and Ilnezhara soaring around with hardly a flap of their wings, and with remarkable calm and silence.
Drizzt glanced over at the other dragon, at her rider, Afafrenfere, sitting serenely, and apparently reveling in the wind. He seemed to be looking inside, finding this flight a catalyst for his meditation.
Drizzt nodded. He understood the feeling. He wanted nothing more than for the dragons to climb through the roiling darkness so he could see the sky once more. But of course he could not have that. They were up here for a reason, and despite the dragon’s insistence that he and Afafrenfere should simply hold their place and worry about nothing at that time, Drizzt found himself peering down to the distant ground, far, far below.
They were over the orc encampment, the large northern one that housed the main army besieging Mithral Hall.
To the north, not so far now, a second army waited.
Drizzt’s eyes, though, were continually drawn to the south, along the snaking Surbrin River. He heard the distant explosions, he saw the fires burning around the eastern base of Fourthpeak. He noted the dark masses, orc armies and dwarven armies, r
olling together. As of this point, it didn’t seem like Bruenor and the secret army had joined in the battle, but it would not be long, Drizzt understood.
Catti-brie was down there, ready to go to battle. And Drizzt would not be beside her.
“Trust in her,” he whispered to himself, though the words were lost in the wind.
Tazmikella banked and swooped sidelong into a turning dive. Beside them, Ilnezhara followed suit, though she veered out suddenly to the south and began to climb again almost immediately.
Was she going to the fight at the bridge, Drizzt wondered? The thought nagged at him—he should be the one to go there, not the monk.
“They turn.” He heard Tazmikella, the dragon’s voice tugging him from his private contemplations.
The drow leaned over and tried to get a view beneath, and could indeed see the orc encampment, much closer now, stirring and elongating toward the southeast, along the pass that would take them east of the mountain, with a straight run to the Surbrin Bridge.
“Tell them,” Tazmikella ordered.
Drizzt brought up Taulmaril and aimed the bow to the north. He hesitated and shifted, though, and let fly his silver-streaking magical arrow to the distant east instead.
The flare flew and arced toward the Surbrin, cutting through the dark sky.
It informed King Harnoth and his thousands that their trial had begun.
Drizzt reached for another arrow, smiling grimly, thinking that Tazmikella would swoop down upon the monstrous army, affording him some wonderful shots. Giants, he thought. He would focus his deadly rain on the giants.
But Tazmikella was not diving any longer but climbing, lifting up once more into the magical darkness of the sky.
“Are we not engaging?” Drizzt yelled to her.
“Wait for my sister’s return,” came the reply.
Drizzt looked to the south, but Ilnezhara was long out of sight. He glanced down, shaking his head. He thought the dragons were supposed to ensure the rout here.
“She is nowhere near!” he protested.
“If you are so eager, I could roll about until you fall from the saddle,” the dragon replied. “Perhaps you will crash upon a giant and help Harnoth’s cause.”
“I … what is this about?” he demanded.
“It is about something for which you are inconsequential,” Tazmikella answered. “And about something for which you would be wise to remain quiet.”
There was something in her tone, a deep unease, that gave Drizzt pause. He wanted to ask her. He looked again to the south, where Ilnezhara still was not to be seen.
She hadn’t gone to the battle at the Surbrin Bridge, he understood then.
“Perhaps when he has his trophy, we can return to Menzoberranzan,” Ravel said to Saribel, as they moved north among the rear ranks of the raider force. “I am eager to see what gains we might make for House Do’Urden when word of our grand victory spreads wide. And no doubt Matron Mother Quenthel will be eager to spread that word!”
He looked to Saribel for some response, some sign that she agreed with him, but she remained impassive, sitting atop her floating light blue disc, followed by other priestesses of House Xorlarrin and Saribel’s own handmaidens in appropriate ranks behind her.
“We will find great glory,” said a voice at the side, and Matron Mother Zeerith’s two children glanced over and cast a sour look at Doum’wielle Armgo, riding a wretched-looking horse. She was the only one of the drow contingent riding a living creature, and not a fine one at that, while the handful of priestesses glided on their discs and Ravel and the other ten Xorlarrins, associates of his in the days before he became the archmage of House Do’Urden, all sat astride summoned spectral mounts of light that resembled the Underdark lizards they rode in the deep tunnels.
They hadn’t expected to be on this particular road this day. They had been traveling with Warlord Hartusk’s vast army as it made its sprawling way to the south and the great city of Everlund. Word from Bregan D’aerthe had abruptly turned back Tiago and his companions, though, and they had enlisted fourscore orc worg riders to ride with them for Mithral Hall’s eastern gate and the Surbrin Bridge.
“What do you know of glory, child?” Saribel asked Doum’wielle in the most condescending manner she could manage.
High Priestess … High Priestess … a voice in Doum’wielle’s mind warned, her sentient sword reminding her of her place. Doum’wielle was glad of that, for never had she felt so naked and alone.
“Killing Drizzt Do’Urden will bring us great glory,” she remarked, but quietly.
Saribel laughed at her, a horrible, mocking cackle.
“Us?” Ravel asked with a smirk.
“You will know no glory, child of the darthiir,” Saribel chided. “Your veins run thick with the blood of the betrayers.”
“Not as much so as the blood of our matron mother,” Doum’wielle responded without hesitation, and clearly without thinking it through.
The Xorlarrin siblings scowled back at her with hateful, even murderous, expressions. Doum’wielle recognized her mistake immediately, and understood, too, at that moment, that if she had expected Matron Mother Dahlia or anyone else in Menzoberranzan to protect her, she was sadly mistaken.
Without even thinking of the movement, Doum’wielle glanced to the north, hoping against hope that she’d see her father flying back on Aurbangras.
But alas, she was alone.
Idiot, the sentient sword said in her thoughts. Know your place!
She looked back to the Xorlarrin siblings, and felt like a rabbit looking up at a pair of hungry bobcats. Even that image would be foreign to the dark elves then scowling at her.
Doum’wielle’s heart sank as she thought of the rabbits—she loved rabbits!—skipping around the boughs of the Glimmerwood. Perhaps she would see some this day.
More likely, she would never see them again.
“Do you understand?” she heard then, Saribel’s voice. She nodded meekly and said, “Yes, Prie—High Priestess,” knowing full well that if she had admitted that she hadn’t even heard Saribel’s instructions or admonitions that she was apparently supposed to understand, she would likely feel the bite of the vicious priestess’s snake-headed whip.
A disgusted look upon her face, Saribel shook her head and glanced at her equally-disgusted brother.
“I will leave her punishment to you,” she heard Saribel say quietly to Ravel.
Ravel Xorlarrin chuckled wickedly at that. “Perhaps I will summon a demon to join in our tryst,” he told his sister.
Doum’wielle knew that it wasn’t a bluff.
They neared the swift-flowing Rauvin then, with the lead orc riders already picking their way across the rocky debris, the broken stone remains of a shattered bridge. Worgs leaped gracefully from stone to stone, following the familiar path to the north embankment. Several dark elf males paced them on their summoned lizard mounts, and of course the priestesses, Saribel in their lead, would just float above it all.
Doum’wielle just sighed, knowing that she was going to have a difficult crossing with this old and wretched horse they had given her.
They reached the edge of the river, Saribel floating right out, Ravel moving his mount with practiced ease from stone to stone. The remaining drow continued behind and Doum’wielle let them pass. She’d take her time and cross last, then catch up to the group in the fields beyond.
“Smoke in the north!” one of the orcs yelled then, pointing eagerly from his position halfway across the Rauvin. Following his lead, the others began to cheer, for, indeed, a line of black smoke was rising to the northwest, across the perpendicular River Surbrin, in the region of the eastern door of Mithral Hall.
As Bregan D’aerthe had predicted, the battle had begun.
The orcs whooped and urged their worgs forward, eager to join in the murder.
At the front of their line, a lanky orc with one eye missing and a mouth that opened all the way to its ear on one side picked up its pac
e and began a battle song, spittle pouring over its torn cheek. The orc’s ugly lupine mount leaped far to the last stone, ready to spring from there to the north bank of the Rauvin. But when its paws touched down on the stone, the mount and its uglier rider found that the stone was not secure, and indeed, it flipped forward.
Flipped forward and crushed some cleverly hidden ceramic balls.
The worg yelped, the orc shrieked, and all those around grimaced and turned away in a hurry. The area was bathed in bright yellow light, as if the sun had suddenly found its way through the Darkening. The startled worg stumbled and splashed into the swift river, taking its rider with it.
Not far behind, a second orc rider hit a tilted stone in just the right manner to send it levering over, and more light pellets cracked open, bathing the area in still more light. And worse, a vial shattered between the stones, a vial that turned out to be a flask of explosive oil.
The orc and worg went flying in the blast, the rock beneath them lifting into the air and throwing out other stones in a spray like a volley of sling bullets. An unfortunate drow wizard just to the side was cut in half by the spray, and sent flying into the water, his lizard mount disappearing with a dark flash and a whiff of smoke.
A second explosion sounded as the lead orcs leaped to the north bank, and more magical light, stinging and awful, filled drow eyes.
And then they heard the horns, what sounded to them like a thousand horns blowing, and from the north came the charge of the Knights in Silver.
Near the rear of the Many-Arrows train, Ravel and Saribel shielded their eyes from the infernal light. They heard the shouts and the roars and the horns and knew they had to suffer the stinging brightness long enough to fight free. They saw the charge, orcs scrambling to the bank to meet it. The enemy, a full cavalry unit, was closing fast, bows lifted, arrows flying.
Those volleys were not general, the dark elves—all the dark elves—immediately recognized. They were concentrated, and aiming for drow targets.
Ravel winced as a wizard associate, riding up near the front and nearly to the riverbank, found a score of arrows descending upon him. His magical wards deflected the brunt of the barrage, sending arrows skipping every which way with flashes and sparks of purplish light. But then came another missile, spinning end over end, and before it hit, Ravel knew, and so did the poor wizard, that there was no protection from this one.
Vengeance of the Iron Dwarf Page 30
