And so they went, bouncing back and forth, Pikel grabbing at the crossbow and at Ivan's pumping arm, and Ivan punching Pikel, though they were too tightly embraced for him to do any real damage. All the while, the stubborn branch held strong, and the two struggling dwarves only seemed to gain momentum on their back and forth and all-around ride.
They were nearing the highest point of one such bounce when Pikel's enchantment let go, sending a ball of Bouldershoulder soaring into the air, to land with a communal "oof" and go rolling away.
They rolled past the fire, very close, and Ivan yelped when he burned the tip of his nose. They crashed through the lean-to Pikel had constructed, sending twigs flying. At one point, Pikel managed to wriggle away enough to begin casting another enchantment, so Ivan slapped his strong hand over his brother's mouth. Pikel promptly bit him.
It would have gone on for many minutes—it usually did when the Bouldershoulder brothers were involved, but a low growl from the fire pit stopped both dwarves dead in their roll, each with a fist heading in strong for the other's face. As one, the prone brothers turned their heads, to see a large black bear pawing at the hot vegetable stew.
Ivan shoved Pikel away and leaped to his feet.
"Praise Moradin!" he yelled as he looked around for his mighty axe. "Got me a new cloak!"
Pikel's shriek rent the night air and silenced every night bird for a hundred yards around.
"Shut yer trap!" Ivan ordered.
He rushed out to the side, spying his weapon, and heard his brother chanting again as he started past. Ivan expected to get his with another relatively harmless but ultimately annoying trick of nature.
When the excited Ivan had his axe in hand, he turned back to the fire … to see Pikel sitting in front of the contented bear, resting comfortably against its thick fur.
"Ye didn't," Ivan moaned.
"Hee hee hee."
With a growl, Ivan lifted his arm and sent his axe twirling down to stick into the sod.
"Damned Cadderly," he bitched, for in Ivan's eyes, Cadderly had created a monster in Pikel.
It was Cadderly who had first made a pet of a wild animal, a white squirrel he had named Percival, of all things. Taking that cue, Pikel had become rather famous for the friends he had made (infamous to Ivan, who thought the whole thing quite embarrassing) at the Spirit Soaring cathedral, particularly among Cadderly and Danica's children. To date, those friends included a great eagle, a pair of bald-headed vultures, a weasel family, three chickens, and a stubborn donkey named Bobo.
And now a bear.
Ivan sighed.
The bear gave a soft moan and seemed to fall over, settling comfortably on the ground, where it started snoring almost immediately. So did Pikel.
Ivan sighed more deeply.
"I do not demand applause, no," the gnome Nanfoodle explained, his little arms crossed over his thin chest, one large foot tapping anxiously on the floor, "but it would be appreciated, yes!"
Standing at no more than three and a half feet, with a long, pointy, crooked nose, his head bald but for a semicircular mane of wild white hair that stuck straight out above his ears and all the way back around, Nanfoodle was not an imposing figure. He was, however, one of the most celebrated alchemists in the North, a fact that Elastul and Shoudra Stargleam knew well.
The Marchion of Mirabar began clapping, his smile wide and sincere, for Nanfoodle has just brought him a piece of specially treated metal, smelted and fashioned of ore taken from the mines just a tenday before.
Coated with the new formula the ingenious gnome had concocted, this plate was stronger than the others made of the same batch.
To the side, the Sceptrana was too busy continuing her inspection of the various pieces to join in the applause, but she did offer an appreciative nod to the gnome, which Nanfoodle gladly accepted. The two were great friends and had been since before Elastul had hired Nanfoodle and brought him to Mirabar, mostly on the recommendation of Shoudra.
"And with your new treatment for the metals, our pieces will prove the best in the North," Elastul said.
"Well…" The gnome hesitated. "They will be better than they were, but. ."
"But? There can be no 'buts, my dear Nanfoodle. Sceptrana Shoudra has contracts to secure, and it will take the finest—not merely better, but the finest! — to reclaim much of the commerce lost in recent years."
"The ore from our rivals is richer, and their techniques impeccable," Nanfoodle explained. "My treatment will increase the strength and durability of our products by a fair amount, but I doubt that we'll outshine the ore of Mithral Hall."
Elastul seemed to collapse in his seat, his hands clenched at his side.
"But we have improved!" Nanfoodle said with great enthusiasm, hoping the emotion would prove infectious.
It didn't.
"I do believe that this is the first time any measurable improvement through alchemical treatments has ever been honestly noted," Shoudra Stargleam added, and she quietly tossed a wink Nanfoodle's way. "Despite the outlandish claims of many alchemists, there have been few — nay, not few, but no, improvements that are not magical in nature.
"And any improvement will help," Shoudra went on. "There arc many previous clients who are on the borderline of decisions between Mirabar and Mithral Hall, and if we can improve our quality without raising our prices, then I believe I may sway more than a few our way."
Elastul did begin to brighten at that, even started to nod, but Nanfoodle chimed in, "Well.."
"Well?" the marchion asked suspiciously.
"The adamantine flakes needed in the treating solution do not come cheap," the gnome admitted.
Elastul dropped his head into his hands. Behind him, the four Hammers muttered a few select curses.
"You are using adamantine?" Shoudra asked. "I thought you were experimenting with lead."
"I was," the gnome answered. "And all of the blending formula was developed with lead as the additive base." He gave a shrug. "But that only weakened the end product, unfortunately."
"Wait," Elastul bade him with biting and obvious sarcasm. The marchion came up straight in his chair, his finger pointing as if he had suddenly caught on to the big picture. "You have found a way to blend the metals? And in doing so, if you use a stronger metal, you get a better product, but if you use a cheaper one, well, then you get a weaker product?"
"Yes, Marchion," Nanfoodle admitted, lowering his huge head against the biting sarcasm.
"Ever heard of alloys, dear Nanfoodle?"
"Yes, Marchion."
"Because I think you just re-invented them all over again."
"Yes, Marchion."
"How much am I paying you?"
"Enough," Shoudra Stargleam cut in, moving near to the marchion and dropping her hand on his forearm to calm him. "This may be the first step to a great benefit. If Nanfoodle's technique eases the expensive process, then it is not without benefit. In any case, this seems the first step on a potentially profitable road. A good start, I would say!"
Her exuberance did make the gnome stand a bit straighter, but Marchion Elastul merely offered a sarcastic smirk in response.
"Well, by all means, good Nanfoodle," he said. "Do not waste my time and coin in easing me along the whole of the process. Back to work, for you, and not to return until we are much farther along."
The gnome gave a curt bow and scampered out of the room. When he was gone, Marchion Elastul gave a great, frustrated roar.
"Alchemy is the science of boast," Shoudra said.
It was advice she had offered many times in the past. Elastul was spending huge sums on his team of alchemists and in truth, this was the greatest advance they had heard of thus far.
"This will not do," he said somberly, as if his anger had been thrown out in that previous roar. "King Bruenor walks into our city and sets it all into confusion. They are beating us with their ore and with their demeanor.
This will not do."
"Our markets remain str
ong for all the items that do not need the fine and expensive Mithral Hall ore," Shoudra reminded. "Those items, the hoes and plows, the hinges and wheel strips, outnumber the swords and breastplates by far. Mithral Hall has cut down one portion of our business alone."
"The one portion that defines a mining city."
"True enough," Shoudra had to agree, but she merely shrugged.
She had never been overly excited about the return of the neighboring dwarven stronghold and had always figured that Clan Battlehammer were better neighbors than the previous inhabitants of the place, the evil grey dwarves.
"Their momentum mounts," Elastul said, and he seemed to be talking more to himself than to Shoudra. "King Bruenor, the legend, returns to them now."
"King Gandalug Battlehammer was fairly well known himself," Shoudra sarcastically replied. "Returning from the ages lost, and all."
Elastul shook his head with every word. "Not like Bruenor, who wrested back control of the hall in our time. With his strange friends and hearty clan, Bruenor reshaped the northland, and his return is significant, I fear. With Bruenor back on the throne, you will find an even harder time in securing the contracts we need to prosper."
"Not so."
"It is not a chance I wish to take," Elastul snapped. "Witness what his reputation alone did to shake our own city. A simple pass through, and half the dwarves are muttering his praises. No, this cannot stand."
He sat back and put a finger to his pursed lips. Behind them, a smile gradually widened, as if some devious plan was formulating.
Shoudra looked at him curiously and said, "You cannot be thinking.
"There are ways to see that Mithral Hall's reputation drops a few notches."
"Ways?" an incredulous Shoudra asked.
"We have dwarves here who have befriended King Bruenor, yes? We have dwarves among us who now cal I the King of Mithral Hall their friend, and he returns the compliment."
"Torgar will commit no sabotage against Mithral Hall," Shoudra reasoned, seeing easily enough where this was leading.
"He will if he doesn't know he's doing it," Elastul said mysteriously, and for the first time since Nanfoodle had arrived with the initial, misguided news, the marchion's smile was wide and genuine.
Shoudra Stargleam just looked at the man doubtfully. She had often heard his devious plotting, for he spent a great portion of his time on his throne doing just that. Almost always, though, it was just his wishful thinking at work. Despite his bluster, and even more than that, the bluster of the four Hammers who always stood behind him, Elastul wasn't really a man of action. He wanted to protect what he had and even try to improve it in a safe and secure manner, such as hiring alchemists, but to go an extra step, to actually attempt sabotage against Mithral Hall, for example, and thus risk starting a war, simply was not the man's style.
It was entertaining to watch, though, Shoudra had to admit.
CHAPTER 9 BECAUSE THAT'S HOW WE DO IT
For Tred McKnuckles, the sight was as painful as anything he had ever witnessed. By his estimation, the people of Clicking Heels had treated him and Nikwillig with generosity and tender care, had jeopardized their own safety by getting into a conflict that had not even involved them. Nikwillig and he had done that to them by approaching their town, and they had reacted with more kindness and openness than a pair of lost dwarves from a distant citadel could have expected.
And now they had paid the price.
Tred walked about the ruins of the small village, the blasted and burned houses, and the bodies. He chased away the carrion birds from one corpse, then closed his eyes against the pain, recognizing the woman as one of the caring faces he had seen when he had first opened his eyes after resting against the weariness of the difficult road that had brought him there.
Bruenor Battlehammer watched the dwarf's somber movements, noting always the look on Tred's face. Before there had been a desire for vengeance—the dwarves' caravan had been hit and destroyed, and Tred had lost friends and a brother. Dwarves could accept such tragedies as an inevitability of their existence. They usually lived on the borderlands of the wilderness, and almost always faced danger of one sort or another, but the look on Tred's tough old face was somewhat different, more subdued, and in a way, more pained. A good measure of guilt had been thrown into the tumultuous mix. Tred and Nikwillig had stumbled into Clicking Heels on their desperate road, and as a result, the town was gone.
Simply, brutally, gone.
That frustration and guilt showed clearly as Tred made his way about the smoldering ruins, especially whenever he came upon one of the many orc corpses, always giving it a good kick in the face.
"How many're ye thinking?" Bruenor asked Drizzt when the drow returned from the outlying countryside, checking tracks and trying to get a clearer picture of what had occurred at the ruins of Clicking Heels.
"A handful of giants," the drow explained. He pointed up to a ridge in the distance. "Three to five, I would make it, based on the tracks and the remaining cairns of stones."
"Cairns?"
"They had prepared well for the attack," Drizzt reasoned. "I would guess that the giants rained boulders on the village in the dark of night, softening up the defenses. It went on for a long time, hours at least."
"How're ye knowing that?
"There are places where the walls were hastily repaired—before being knocked down once more," the drow explained. He pointed to a remote corner of the village. "Over there, a woman was crushed under a boulder, yet the townsfolk had the time to remove the stone and drag her away. In desperation, as the bombardment continued, a group even left the village and tried to sneak up on the giants' position." He pointed up toward the ridgeline, to a boulder tumble off to the side of where he had found the giant tracks and the cairns. "They never got close, with a host of orcs laying in wait."
"How many?" Bruenor asked him. "Ye say a handful o' giants, but how many orcs came against the village?"
Drizzt looked around at the wreckage, at the bodies, human and orc.
"A hundred," he guessed. "Maybe less, maybe more, but somewhere around that number. They left only a dozen dead on the field, and that tells me that the villagers were completely overwhelmed. Giant-thrown boulders killed many and methodically tore away the defensive positions. A third of the village's fighting force were slaughtered out by the ridge, and that left but a score of strong, hearty frontiersmen here to defend. T don't think the giants even came into the town to join in the fight." His lips grew very tight, his voice very grave. "I don't think they had to."
"We gotta pay 'em back, ye know?"
Drizzt nodded.
"A hunnerd, ye say?" Bruenor went on, looking around. "We're outnumbered four to one."
When the dwarf looked back at the drow, he saw Drizzt standing easily, hands on his belted scimitars, a look both grim and eager stamped upon his face—that same look that inspired both a bit of fear and the thrill of adventure in Bruenor and all the others who knew the drow.
"Four to one?" Drizzt asked. "You should send half our force back to Pwent and Mithral Hall. . just to make it interesting."
A crooked smile creased Bruenor's weathered old face. "Just what I was thinking."
"Ye're the king, damn ye! Ain't ye knowin' what that means?"
Dagnabbit's less than enthusiastic reaction to Bruenor's announcement that they would hunt down the orcs and giants to avenge the destruction of the town and the attack on Tred's caravan came as no surprise to the dwarf king. Dagnabbit was seeing things through the lens offered by his position as Bruenor's appointed protector—and Bruenor did have to admit that at times he needed protecting from his own judgment.
But this was not one of those limes, as far as he was concerned. His kingdom was but a few days of easy marching from Clicking Heels, and it was his responsibility, and his pleasure, to aid in cleansing the region of foul creature like orcs and renegade giants.
"One thing it means is that I can't be lettin' the damned orcs come
down and kill the folks about me kingdom!"
"Ores and giants," Dagnabbit reminded. "A small army. We didn't come out here to—"
"We come out here to kill them that killed Tred's companions," Bruenor interrupted. "Seems likely it's the same band to me."
To the side, Tred nodded his agreement.
"And a bigger band than we thinked," the stubborn Dagnabbit argued. 'Tred was saying that there were a score and a couple of giants, but 'twas more 'n that that leveled this town! Ye let me go back and get Pwent and his boys, and a hunnerd more o' me best fighters, and we'll go and get the durned orcs and giants."
Bruenor looked over at Drizzt. "Trail'll be cold by then?" he pleaded more than asked.
Drizzt nodded and said, "And we'll find little advantage in the way of surprise with an army of dwarves marching across the hills."
"An army that'll kill yer orcs and giants just fine," said Dagnabbit.
"But on a battlefield of their choosing," Drizzt countered. He looked to Bruenor, though it was obvious that Bruenor needed little convincing. "You get an army and we can, perhaps, find a new trail to lead to our enemies. Yes, we will defeat them, but they will see us coming. Our charge will be through a rain of giant boulders and against fortified positions — behind rock walls, or worse, up on the cliff ledges, barely accessible and easily defended. If we go after them now and hunt them down quickly and with surprise, then we will choose and prepare the battlefield. There will be no flying boulders and no defended ledges, unless we are the ones defending them."
"Sounds like ye're looking to have a bit o' fun," Catti-brie snidely remarked, and Drizzt's smile showed that he couldn't honestly deny that.
Dagnabbit started to argue, as was, in truth, his place in all of this, but Bruenor had heard enough. The king held up his hand, silencing his commander.
"Go find the trail, elf," he ordered Drizzt. "Our friend Tred's looking to spill a bit o' orc blood. Dwarf to dwarf, I'm owing him that."
Tred's expression showed his appreciation at the favorable end to the debate. Even Dagnabbit seemed to accept the verdict, and he said no more.
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