The Thousand Orcs th-1

by Robert Salvatore

Pikel bowed again and motioned for Ivan to lead.

  Ivan deferred again and motioned more emphatically.

  Pikel bowed yet again, still with complete calm, and motioned for Ivan to lead.

  Ivan started to motion back yet again but changed his mind in mid-swing, and shoved his brother through instead, then turned and charged the tree.

  To smack face-first into the solid trunk.

  With his pale, almost translucent skin, and blue eyes so rich in hue they seemed to reflect the colors around him, the elf Tarathiel seemed a tiny thing. Though not very tall, he was lean and seemed all the more so with his angular features and long pointed ears. That was all an errant vision, though, for the elf warrior was a formidable force indeed and certainly would be seen as no tiny thing to any enemy tasting the bite of his fiercely-sharp, slender sword.

  Crouching in the high, windblown pass, a day's flight from his home in the Moonwood, Tarathiel recognized the sign clearly enough. Ores had been through. Many orcs, and not too long ago. Normally that wouldn't have concerned Tarathiel too much—ores were a common nuisance in the wilds of the valley between the Spine of the World and the Rauvin Mountains— but Tarathiel had tracked the band, and he knew from whence they'd had come. They'd come out of the Moonwood, out of his beloved forest home, bearing many, many felled trees.

  Tarathiel gnashed his teeth together. He and his clan had failed, and miserably, in the defense of their forest home, for they had not even located the orcs quickly enough to chase them off. Tarathiel feared what that might mean for the near future. Would the lack of defense prompt the ugly brutes to return?

  "If they do, then we will slaughter them," the moon elf remarked, turning to speak to his mount, who stood grazing off to the side.

  The pegasus snorted in reply, almost as if he'd understood. He threw his head about and tucked his white-feathered wings in tighter over his back.

  Tarathiel smiled at the beautiful creature, one of a pair he had rescued a few years earlier from these same mountains, after their sire and dam had been killed by giants. Tarathiel had found the felled pair, smashed down by thrown boulders into a rocky dell. He could tell from the dead mare's teats that she had recently given birth, and so he had spent the better part of a tenday searching the area before finding the pair of foals. That pair had done well in the Moonwood, growing strong and straight under the guidance — not the ownership—of Tarathiel's small clan. This one, which he had named Sunset because of the reddish tinges in his white hair all along his long, glistening mane, welcomed him as a rider. Tarathiel had named Sunset's twin Sunrise, because her shining white mane was highlighted by a brighter color red, a yellowish pink hue. Both pegasi were about the same height, sixteen hands, and both were well-muscled, with strong, thick legs and wide, solid hooves.

  "Let us go and find these orcs and show them a little rain," the elf said slyly, tossing a wink at his mount.

  Sunset, as if he had understood again, pawed the ground.

  They were up in the air soon after, Sunset's huge, powerful wings driving hard or spreading wide to catch the updrafts off the mountain cliffs. They soon spotted the orc band, a score of the creatures, trudging along a trail higher up in the mountains.

  So attuned were mount and rider that Tarathiel was easily able to guide Sunset with just his legs, swooping the pegasus down from on high, flashing through the air some fifty yards above the orcs. The elf's bow worked furiously, firing arrow after arrow down at the orcs.

  They scrambled and shouted curses, and Tarathiel guessed that more got hurl by diving frantically behind rocks or over ridges than felt the sting of his arrows. He went up and around the bend and flew on for some distance before turning Sunset around. He wanted to give the orcs time to regroup, time to think that the danger had passed. And he wanted to come in faster this time. Much faster.

  The pegasus climbed higher into the sky, then banked a sharp turnabout and went into a powerful dive, wings working hard. They came around the comer much lower, just above the reach of the orcs had any been carrying a pole arm or long spear. From that height, despite the swift flight, Tarathiel’s bow rang true, plugging one unfortunate orc right in the chest, throwing it back and to the ground.

  Sunset soared past, a host of thrown missiles climbing harmlessly into the air behind them.

  Tarathiel didn't push his luck for a third run. He banked to the southeast and set off from the mountains, soaring fast for home.

  "How was I to know yer stupid spell had run out?" Ivan bellowed against his brother's continuing laughter. The yellow-bearded dwarf rubbed some blood off his scraped nose. "I didn't see no stupid door when ye said there was a door, so how'm I to be knowing when the door that ain't there anyway ain't there no more?"

  Pikel howled with laughter.

  Ivan stepped forward and launched a punch, but Pikel knew it was coming, of course, and he snapped his head forward, dropping his cooking pot helmet into his waiting, and blocking, hand.

  Bong! And Ivan was hopping about in pain once more.

  "Hee hee hee."

  Ivan recovered in a few moments and went hard for his brother, but Pikel stepped into the tree, disappearing from sight.

  Ivan stopped short and settled his senses then jumped in behind his brother. The world turned upside down for the poor dwarf.

  Literally.

  Pikel's tree-transport was not an easy ride, nor was it a level or even upright one. The brothers were rushed along the root network, magically melded into the trees, flowing through the roots of one to the adjoining roots of another. They went up fast and dropped suddenly—Pikel howling "Weeee!" and Ivan trying hard to keep his stomach out of his mouth.

  They spun corkscrew motions along one winding route, then went through a series of sharp turns so violent that Ivan bit the inside of one cheek then the other.

  It went on for many minutes, and finally, mercifully, the brothers came out. Ivan, who had somehow caught up to and surpassed Pikel, stumbled face-down in the dirt. Pikel came out hard and fast behind him, landing right atop his brother.

  It always seemed to happen exactly like that.

  With a great heave, Ivan had his brother bouncing away, but even that shove did little to stop Pikel's continuing laughter.

  Ivan leaped up to throttle him, or tried to, for he was too disoriented,

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  too dizzy, and his stomach was churning a bit too much. He ambled a step forward, two to the side, then after a pause, a third and a fourth to the side, to bang against a tree. He almost caught himself but tripped over a root and went down to his knees.

  Ivan looked up and started to rise, but a rush of dizziness held him there, clutching at his churning stomach.

  Pikel, too, was dizzy, but he wasn't fighting it. Like one of Cadderly's little children, he was up and laughing, trying to walk a straight line and inevitably falling to the ground, enjoying every second of it.

  "Stupid doo-dad," Ivan muttered before he threw up.

  Tarathiel watched the play of Sunset and Sunrise, the pegasi obviously glad to be reunited. They trotted across the small lea, whinnying and playfully nipping at each other.

  "You never grow tired of watching them," came a higher-pitched, beautifully melodic voice behind him.

  He turned to see Innovindil, his dearest friend and lover, walking onto the lea. She was smaller than he, with hair as yellow as his was black, and eyes as strikingly blue. She had that look on her face that so enchanted Tarathiel, a smile just a little bit crooked on the left, rising up sharply there to give her a mysterious, I-know-more-than-you-know look.

  She moved beside him, to take his waiting hand.

  "You've been gone too long," she scolded.

  She brought her free hand up and tousled Tarathiel's hair, then dropped it lower and gently caressed his slender, strong chest.

  His expression, which had been soft and bright as he had observed the pegasi at play, and brighter still at Innovindil's approach, darkened.

  Sh
e asked, "Did you find them?"

  Tarathiel nodded and said, "A band of orcs, as we suspected. Sunset and I came upon them in the mountains to the north, dragging trees they felled from the Moonwood."

  "How many?"

  "A score."

  Innovindil gave that wry smile. "And how many are now alive?"

  "I killed at least one," Tarathiel replied, "and sent the others scrambling."

  "Enough to make them reconsider any return?"

  Again the elf nodded.

  "We two could go out and find them again," Tarathiel offered, returning the smile. "It will take a day at least to catch up to them, but if we kill them all, we can be sure they will not return."

  "I have a better way to spend the next few days," Innovindil replied. She moved closer and gently kissed her husband on the lips. "I'm glad you have returned," she said, her voice growing more husky, more serious.

  "As am I," he agreed, with all his heart.

  The pair walked off from the lea, leaving the two pegasi to their play. They headed in the direction of the small village of Moonvines, their home, the home of their clan.

  They had barely left the lea, though, when they spotted a campfire in the distance.

  A campfire in the Moonwood!

  Tarathiel handed his bow over to Innovindil and drew out his slender sword. The two set out at once, moving with absolute silence through the dark trees. Before they had gotten halfway to the distant fire, they were met by others of their clan, also armed and ready for battle.

  "Ye made a stew again!" Ivan bellowed. "Ain't no wonder me belly's always growling at me of late! Ye won't let me eat any meat!"

  "Uh-uh," said Pikel, waggling that finger, a gesture that was growing more and more annoying to Ivan, spawning fantasies of biting that stubby and crooked finger off at the top knuckle. At least then, he'd have some meat, he mused.

  "Well, I'm getting me some real food!" Ivan roared, hopping to his feet and hoisting his heavy axe. "And it'd be a lot easier on the deer, or whatever I'm findin', if ye'd use yer spells to hold the thing still so lean kill it clean."

  Pikel crinkled his nose in disgust and stood tapping one foot, his arms crossed over his chest.

  "Bah!" Ivan snorted at him, and he started away.

  He stopped, seeing an elf perched on a branch before and above him, bow drawn back.

  "Pikel," the dwarf said quietly, hardly moving, and hardly moving his lips. "Ye think ye might talk to this tree afore me?"

  "Uh oh," came Pikel's response.

  Ivan glanced back, to see his brother standing perfectly still, hands in the air in a sign of surrender, with several grim-faced elves all around him, their bows ready for the kill.

  All the forest came alive around the brothers, elf forms slipping from every shadow, from behind every tree.

  With a shrug, Ivan dropped his heavy axe over his shoulder and to the ground.

  CHAPTER 11 ON A FIELD OF THEIR CHOOSING

  They seemed nervous as they moved along the trail, a single giant among the horde, with the other three inexplicably missing.

  Watching them from the boughs of an evergreen, concealed at a height just above the giant, Drizzt Do'Urden recognized that level of alertness clearly and knew that he and his friends would have to be even more precise. The giant was the key to it all, the drow recognized, and had explained as much to Dagnabbit and Bruenor when they were setting out the forces. With that belief firmly in hand, Drizzt had taken a bit of his own initiative, moving up ahead of the concealed dwarves. He was ready, with his formidable panther ally, to make what he hoped would be the decisive first strike.

  The trail was clearly defined as it moved through the copse of trees in the small, sheltered dell. Drizzt held his breath and tightened against the trunk of the pine when the orcs wisely sent lead runners in to inspect the area. He was glad that he had convinced Bruenor and Dagnabbit to set the ambush just past that place.

  The orc scouts milled about down below, slipping in and out of the shadows, kicking through leafy piles. A pair took up defensive positions, while another pair headed back out the way they had entered, signaling for the approach.

  On came the caravan, marching easily and without too much apparent concern.

  The lead orcs passed below Drizzt's position. He looked across the trail, to Guenhwyvar, motioning for the cat to be calm, but be ready.

  More and more orcs filtered below, then came the giant, walking alone and with a great scowl upon his face.

  Drizzt set himself upon the branch he had specifically selected, drawing out his scimitars slowly and keeping them low, under the sides of his cloak so that their gleaming metal and magical glow would not give him away.

  The giant marched through, one long stride after another, eyes straight ahead.

  Drizzt leaped out, landing on the giant's huge shoulder, his scimitars slashing fast as he scrambled away, leaping off the other side and into the second pine as the giant reached up to grab at him. The drow ranger hadn't done much damage—he hadn't intended to—but he did turn the behemoth, just enough, and got its arms, eyes, and chin moving upward.

  When Guenhwyvar leaped out the other way, she had an open path to the giant's throat, and there she lodged and dug in, tearing and biting.

  The giant howled, or tried to, and snapped his huge hands onto the cat. Guenhwyvar didn't relent, digging deeper, biting harder, tearing and crushing the behemoth's windpipe, opening arteries.

  Below, the orcs scrambled to get out of the way of stomping boots and breaking branches.

  "What's it?" one orc yelled.

  "A damned mountain cat!" another howled. "A great black one!"

  The giant finally tugged stubborn Guenhwyvar free, not even realizing that he was taking a good portion of his own neck along with the cat. With another great effort, the giant brought the cat in close, under his huge arms, and began to crush her. Guenhwyvar gave a loud, pitiful wail.

  Drizzt, wincing at the sound, dismissed her to her astral home. The giant folded a bit more tightly, the panther it had been squeezing turning to insubstantial mist.

  The behemoth reached up to his neck, patting the spurting blood wildly, frantically. He stumbled to and fro, scattering terrified orcs, before finally staggering to his knees, then falling down, gasping, into the dirt.

  "It kilt the cat!" one orc yelled. "Buried the damned thing right under it!"

  A couple of orcs rushed to aid the giant, but the floundering, terrified behemoth slapped them aside. Scores of orcs had their attention squarely on the prone behemoth, wondering if it would rise again.

  Which is why they didn't notice the stealthy dark elf, slipping down the tree and into position.

  Which is why they didn't notice the dwarves moving in a bit closer, hammers ready to throw, melee weapons in easy reach.

  There was much yelling, screaming, suggestions and pleas from the confused orcs, when finally one turned enough to see the force creeping in against them. Its eyes went wide, it lifted its finger to point, and it opened its mouth to cry out.

  That yell became a communal thing, as a score or more dwarves joined in the chorus, running forward suddenly, launching their first missile barrage, then wading in, axes, hammers, swords, and picks going to fast and deadly work.

  In the back, one orc tried to direct the response—until a scimitar slashed into its back and through a lung. Off to the side, another orc took up the lead—until an arrow split the air, knocking into a tree beside its head. More concerned with its own safety than with organizing against the dwarves, the would-be leader ducked, scrambled, and simply ran away.

  Just when those orcs closest to the dwarves seemed to begin some semblance of a defense, in came Wulfgar, his warhammer swatting furiously, slapping aside orcs two at a time. He took a few stinging hits but didn't begin to slow, and he didn't begin to lessen his hearty song to Tempus, his god of battle.

  Off to the side of the battle, Catti-brie was both pained and overjoyed. She kept taking up he
r bow and lowering it in frustration. Her battered fingers simply would not allow for enough accuracy for her to dare shooting anywhere near to her friends. That, plus the fact that she had no idea where Drizzt might be in that morass of scrambling, screaming orcs.

  It pained her greatly to be out of the fight, but she saw that it was going as well as they could have hoped. They had taken the orcs completely off their guard, and the fierce dwarves would not begin to relent such an advantage.

  Even more brilliant and inspiring to Catti-brie were the movements of Wulfgar. He strode with confidence, such ferocity, with a surety of his every deadly strike. This was not the man she had been engaged to, who became unsure, fearful, and protective. This was not the man who had walked away from them when they had set out to destroy the Crystal Shard.

  This was the Wulfgar she had known in Icewind Dale, the man who had charged gladly beside Drizzt into the lair of Biggrin. This was the Wulfgar who had led the barbarian countercharge against the minions of Akar Kessell back in that frozen place. This was the son of Beornegar, returned to them, and fully so, from the clutches of Errtu.

  Catti-brie could not hide her smile as she watched him wade among the enemies, for she somehow instinctively knew that no sword or club would harm him this day, that somehow he was above the rest of them. Aegis-fang tossed orcs aside as if they were mere children, mere inconveniences. One orc rushed behind a sapling, and so Wulfgar growled more loudly, shouted more loudly, and swung more powerfully, taking out the tree and the huddling creature behind it.

  By the time Catti-brie managed to tear her stare away from the man, the fight was over, with the remaining orcs, still outnumbering the dwarves at least three to one. fleeing in every direction, many throwing down their weapons as they ran.

  Bruenor and Dagnabbit moved their troops fast and sure, to cut off as many as possible, and Wulfgar paced all fleeing near him, chopping them down.

  Off to the other side, Catti-brie saw one group of three rush into the trees, and she lifted her bow but was too late to catch them with an arrow.

  The shadows within the group of trees deepened, engulfed in magical darkness, and the ensuing screams told her that Drizzt was in there and that he had that situation well in hand.