The Thousand Orcs th-1

by Robert Salvatore

  The team went back into action, and Drizzt moved near his dwarf friend.

  "Challenging the dead?" he asked.

  "Bah, they don't mean nothing with their booing and floating about. Probably don't even know they're dead."

  "True enough."

  "Mark well this spot, elf," Bruenor instructed. "I'm thinking that it might be a good place to start our hunt for Gauntlgrym.

  With that, the unshakable Bruenor moved back to his wagon, patted Regis on the shoulder one more time, then led the clan forward as if nothing had happened.

  "Roll on. Bruenor Battlehammer," Drizzt whispered.

  "Don't he always?" Catti-brie asked, moving beside the drow and wrapping her arm comfortably around his waist.

  It took them three days to cross the broken ground of the Fell Pass. The ghosts hovered around them every step of the way and the wind did not cease its mournful song. Some areas were relatively clear, but others were thick with remnants of that long-ago battle. The signs weren't always physical, often just a general feeling of loss and pain, a thick, tangible aura of a land haunted by many lost souls.

  Late that third day, up high on one ridge, Catti-brie spotted a distant, welcomed sight, a silvery river running through the land to the east like a giant snake.

  "The Surbrin," Bruenor said with a smile when she told him, and all heads about began to bob in recognition, for the great River Surbrin passed only a few miles to the east of Mithral Hall, and the dwarves had actually opened an eastern gate right along its banks. "Couple o' days and we'll be home," the dwarf explained, and a great cheer went up for King Bruenor, who had conquered the Fell Pass.

  "I'm still not figuring why ye took us this way, if ye're just meaning to go home anyway," Catti-brie confided to the dwarf as the excitement continued around them.

  "Because I'm coming back out here, and so're yerself, the elf, Rumblebelly, and Wulfgar if he's wanting it. And so're Dagnabbit and some o' me best shield dwarves. Now we're knowing the ground, and we learned it under the protection of an army. Now we can start our looking."

  "Ye think the leaders in Mithral Hall are to let ye go out and run free?" Catti-brie asked. "Ye're their king, ye might be remembering."

  "Are they to let me? Well, I'm their king, ye might be remembering," Bruenor shot back. "I'm not thinking that I'm needing anyone's permission, girl, and so what makes ye think I'm to be askin'?"

  There wasn't really much that Catti-brie could say against that.

  "Ain't ye supposed to be out hunting with Drizzt?" Bruenor asked.

  "He took Regis with him today," Catti-brie answered, and she looked to the north, as if she expected to spot the pair running along a distant ridgeline.

  "The halfling howl about going?"

  "No. He asked if he could go."

  "Still wonderin' what's got into Rumblebelly," Bruenor admitted with a shake of his hairy head.

  Regis, once the lover of comfort, did indeed seem transformed. He had pressed on through the bitter cold of winter in the Spine of the World without complaint, indeed even lending rousing words for his friends. In every action, the halfling had tried to get involved, to somehow help out, whereas the Regis of old seemed amazingly adept at finding an out of the way shadow.

  The change was somehow unsettling to Bruenor and to all the others, a shifting of the sand beneath the world as they had known it. At least it seemed to be shifting in a positive direction.

  Not so far away, Wulfgar came upon Delly as she watched Catti-brie

  and Bruenor in their private discussion. The barbarian noted that his wife was focusing almost exclusively on Catti-brie, as if taking a measure of the woman. He walked up behind her and wrapped his huge arms around her waist.

  "She is a fine companion," he said.

  "I can see why ye loved her."

  Wulfgar gently turned Delly around to face him. "I did not…"

  "Oh, sure ye did, and stop trying to save me feelings!"

  Wulfgar stammered over a couple of responses, not knowing how he should respond.

  "She is a companion to me, on the road, in battle. ."

  "And in all yer life," Delly finished.

  "No," Wulfgar insisted. "Once I thought that I desired such a joining, but now I see the world differently. Now I see you, and Colson, and know that I am complete."

  "Who said ye weren't?"

  "You just said. ."

  "I said that yer Catti-brie was a companion in all yer life, and so she is, and so ye're better off for it," Delly corrected. "Ye don't be pullin'her back from yerself for me own sake!"

  "I do not wish to hurt you."

  Delly turned around to regard Catti-brie.

  "Nor does she. She's yer friend, and I'm liking it that way." She pulled away from Wulfgar but stood back and stared at him, a sincere smile wide on her pretty face. "To be sure, there's a part o' me fearing that ye'll want her for more than friendship. I can't be helping that, but I'm not to be giving in to it. I trust ye and trust in what me and ye have started here, but don't ye be putting Catti-brie away from yerself in trying to protect me, because that's not where she belongs. Most folks'd be glad to have a friend like her."

  "And I am," Wulfgar admitted. He looked curiously at Delly. "Why are you saying this now?"

  Delly couldn't suppress her telling grin.

  "Bruenor's talking about coming back out here. He's hoping that ye'll be joining him."

  "My place is with you and Colson."

  Delly was shaking her head even as he started that predictable response.

  "Yer place is with me and our girl when yer life permits. Yer place is on the road with Bruenor and Drizzt and Catti-brie and Regis. I'm knowing that, and it makes me love ye all the more!"

  'Their road is a dangerous one," Wulfgar reminded.

  "Then more the reason for ye to help them along it."

  "They're dwarfs!" Nikwillig exclaimed, his voice breaking with excitement and relief.

  Tred, who had not climbed the last part of the steep boulder tumble and so could not see the huge caravan rolling along the flat ground to the south, leaned back against a rock and put his head in his hands. His left leg was swollen and would not bend. He hadn't realized how badly it had been torn during their respite in the small village, and he knew that he would not be able to go on for much longer without some proper tending, maybe even some divine intervention, courtesy of a cleric.

  Of course, Tred hadn't complained at all and had fought with every ounce of his strength to keep up with Nikwillig in their flight. It had been a strong and valiant run, but both dwarves knew they were nearing the end of their endurance. They needed a break, and apparently, one had found them.

  "We can catch them if we angle out to the southeast," Nikwillig explained. "Ye up for one more run?"

  "We need to make the run, we make the run," Tred said. "Ain't come this far to lay down and die."

  Nikwillig nodded and turned around, gingerly beginning the steep descent. He stopped, though, freezing in place, his eyes locked across the way. Tred noted that look and followed that gaze to see a huge panther, black as the night sky, crouched on a ledge not so far away—not far enough away!

  "Don't ye move," Nikwillig whispered.

  Tred didn't even bother to answer, thinking exactly the same thing, though he understood that the great cat knew exactly where they were. He pondered what he might do if the cat sprang his way. How could he even begin to hurt that mass of muscle and claws?

  Well, he decided, if it comes on, it goes away bloody.

  The seconds slipped past, neither the cat nor the dwarves moving an inch.

  With a growl that seemed a challenge, Tred pushed out from the wall to stand straight and strong and put his heavy axe up at the ready beside him.

  The great panther looked his way but not threateningly. In fact, the cat seemed almost bored.

  "Please don't throw that at her," came a voice from below and to the side, and the two dwarves glanced down to see a brown-hair
ed halfling moving out onto an open, flat stone. "When Guenhwyvar gets an invitation to play, it's hard to stop her."

  "That yer cat?" Tred asked.

  "Not mine, no," the halfling answered. "She a friend and mastered by a friend, if you get my meaning."

  Tred nodded. "Well, who are ye then?"

  "I could be asking you the same question," the halfling answered. "In fact, I believe that I will."

  "And ye'll be getting yer answer after we're getting ours."

  The halfling bowed low. "Regis of Mithral Hall," he said. "Friend to King Bruenor Battlehammer, and scout for the caravan your friend sees below. Returning from Icewind Dale."

  Tred relaxed, and so did Nikwillig.

  "The King o' Mithral Hall keeps strange company," Tred remarked.

  "Stranger than you would ever believe," Regis was quick to answer.

  He glanced to the side, and so did both dwarves, to see a second dark figure, this one not feline, but a drow elf.

  Tred nearly fell over. Above him, Nikwillig did slip a bit, barely catching a hold before he tumbled from the climb.

  "You still have not told me your name," Regis reminded, "and I am guessing that you're not from around here if you've not heard of Drizzt Do'Urden and his panther Guenhwyvar."

  "Wait, I heared o' him!" Nikwillig said from above Tred, and Tred looked up. "Bruenor's friend drow. Yeah, we heared o' that!"

  "And pray tell us where you were when you heard," Drizzt prompted.

  Nikwillig moved down fast, dropping beside Tred, and both dwarves set themselves more presentably, with Nikwillig brushing some of the road dust from his weathered tunic.

  "Tred McKnuckles's me name," Tred announced, "and this's me friend Nikwillig, outta Citadel Felbarr and the kingdom o* Emerus Warcrown."

  "Long way from home," Drizzt observed.

  "Longer than ye're thinking," Tred answered. "Been a road o' orcs and giants, and one wrong trail leading to another wrong trail."

  "A tale well worth hearing, I am sure," Drizzt replied, "but not here and not now. Let us get you down to Bruenor and the others."

  "Bruenor's in that caravan?" Nikwillig asked.

  "Returning from Icewind Dale to assume the throne of Mithral Hall, for word reached us that Gandalug Battlehammer is dead."

  "Moradin put him to work at his anvil," said Tred, a customary blessing for dead dwarves.

  Drizzt nodded. "Indeed. And may Moradin guide Bruenor well."

  "And may Moradin, or whatever good god is listening, guide us well, back to the caravan," Regis reminded.

  When Drizzt and the others regarded the halfling, they saw that he was looking around nervously, as if he expected that Tred and Nikwillig had led a host of giants to the ridge, giants that were preparing to rain stones on the five of them.

  "Keep scouting, Guenhwyvar," Drizzt instructed, and he started toward the dwarves.

  Both of the bearded fellows instinctively stiffened and the perceptive drow stopped his approach.

  "Regis, you accompany them to Bruenor," Drizzt decided. "I will keep the perimeter with Guenhwyvar." He saluted the dwarves and slipped away, and both Tred and Nikwillig visibly relaxed.

  "We're safe with Drizzt and Guenhwyvar flanking us," Regis assured the dwarves as he approached. "Safer than you can imagine."

  Tred and Nikwillig looked at each other, then back at the halfling, and nodded, though neither seemed overly confident in Regis's words.

  "Don't worry," the halfling said, offering an understanding wink. "You'll get used to him."

  So

  CHAPTER 6 SMARTER THAN AN ORC THOUGHT

  The arrival of the two dwarves brought much excitement to the village of Clicking Heels, and that deep into the wilds of the Spine of the World, excitement was not usually welcomed. After the two dwarves had gone on their way, the villagers settled back from the initial fear that they would be attacked and began to savor the story. Excitement within a larger cocoon of safety was always welcomed.

  Still, the villagers of Clicking Heels were seasoned enough to not fall too deeply into that cocoon. They limited their out-of-town travel over the next few days and doubled the daytime watch and tripled the nighttime watch.

  All through the nights, at short, regular intervals, the sentries would call out, "All clear!" from one checkpoint to another. Everyone kept his eyes peeled to the cleared ground around the village walls with that special vigilance that could only be learned through harsh experience.

  Even toward the end of the first tenday after the dwarves' departure, the watch held strong and steady, with no slacking, no sleeping or even dozing along the wall.

  Carelman Twopennies, one of the sentries that particular night seven days after Nikwillig and Tred had gone on their way, was tired, and so he wouldn't even lean against a pole for fear that he would nod off. Every time

  he heard the all clear call circling along the wall to his right, the man shook his head briskly and strained his eyes toward the dark field beyond his section of wall, ready for his turn to yell out.

  Soon after midnight, the calls circling, Carelman did just that, and peering into the emptiness beyond, he was fairly certain that his impending call would be an honest one. When it came to his turn, he yelled out, or started to, "All clear!"

  He heard a rush of air above him as the words began to leave his mouth, though, and was merely unfortunate enough to be standing in the way of the giant-thrown boulder, and so his "All clear!" came out as "All clea—ugh!"

  He felt the explosion, for just an instant, then he was dead, lying on the ground beneath the rubble of the wooden parapet and the heavy stone.

  Carelman Twopennies didn't hear the cries erupting around him or the subsequent explosions as heavy boulders smashed through the walls and buildings, softening the defenses of the small village. He didn't hear the shouts of alarm after that as a horde of orcs, many riding fierce worgs, swept down upon the battered town.

  He didn't hear the deaths of his family, his friends, his home.

  Marchion Elastul stroked his wild red whiskers, a movement that many dwarves took as a proud gesture, one used for showing off one's beard. Of course, Torgar wasn't overly impressed by the red whiskers of the human marchion, for no human could grow a beard to match the worst of dwarf beards.

  "What am I to do with you, Torgar Hammerstriker?" Elastul asked.

  Behind him, his four guardsmen, the Hammers, bristled and whispered amongst themselves.

  "Didn't think ye was to do anything with me, your honorness," the dwarf answered. "Been going about me business in Mirabar since before ye was born and before yer daddy was born. I'm not needing ye to do much."

  The marchion's sour look showed that he was not overly impressed with the statement or the not-so-subtle reminder that Torgar had been in service to Mirabar for a long, long time.

  "It is just that heritage that brings me a quandary," Elastul explained.

  "Quandary?" Torgar asked, and he scratched his own beard. "That a place where ye get both rocks and milk?"

  The marchion's face screwed up with confusion.

  "A dilemma," he explained.

  "What is?" asked the dwarf.

  Torgar worked hard to hide his grin. One thing he knew about humans was that they carried an internal superiority belief, and playing dumb was the easiest way a dwarf could deflect ire.

  "What is what?" the marchion replied.

  "Yeah, that."

  "Enough!" the marchion cried. He was visibly trembling, to which Torgar only shrugged, as if he understood none of it. "Your actions present me with a dilemma."

  "How's that?"

  "The people of Mirabar look up to you. You're one of the most trusted commanders in the Axe, a dwarf of fine reputation and honor."

  "Bah, Marchion Elastul, ye're bringing a blush to me bearded cheeks and to me other ones, as well." He finished the sentence by twisting to look over his shoulder. "Though I'm guessing them nether ones're becoming about as hairy as old age begins to s
et in."

  Elastul looked as if he wanted to slap himself across the face, which pleased Torgar greatly.

  The man gave a great sigh and started to respond, but the door to the audience chamber banged open and Sceptrana Shoudra Stargleam entered.

  "Marchion," she greeted with a bow.

  "We are discussing whether or not I should have you melt the Axe symbol off of Torgar's armor," the marchion replied, throwing aside Torgar's distracting remarks.

  "We are?" the dwarf asked innocently.

  "Enough!" Elastul scolded again. "You know well enough that we are, and you know well enough why I have summoned you here. To think that you, of all dwarves, would go consorting with our enemies."

  Torgar held up his stubby-fingered hands, his expression going suddenly grim.

  "Ye take care on who ye're calling our enemies," he warned Elastul.

  "Need I remind you of the wealth that Bruenor Battlehammer and his dwarves have stolen from us?"

  "Bah, they've stolen not a thing! I made me a couple o' pretty deals from where I'm looking."

  "Not their caravan! Their mines to the cast. Need I remind you of the drop in business since Mithral Hall's forges began to burn once more? Ask Shoudra there. She above all others can tell you of the difficulty in renewing contracts and attracting new buyers."

  "True enough," the woman added. "Since the return of Mithral Hall, my job has become far more difficult."

  "As have all of our jobs," Torgar agreed. "And that'll make us better, from where I'm looking."

  "Clan Battlehammer is no friend of Mirabar!" Elastul declared.

  "Nor are they our enemy," Torgar replied, "and ye should be careful afore ye go callin' them such."

  The marchion came forward in his chair so suddenly that Torgar reflexively brought a hand up by his right shoulder, near to the hilt of the large axe he always kept strapped across his back, and that movement, in turn, made the marchion and his four Hammers start and widen their eyes.

  "King Bruenor came in as a friend," Torgar remarked when things had settled a bit. "He came here on his way through, as a friend, and he was let in as a friend."

  "Or to take a measure of his greatest rivals," Shoudra remarked, but Torgar just shrugged that thought away.