"Of course you would not," Drizzt continued. "You trust in her and let her run. You let her fight and have watched her get hurt—only recently. Not much of a father, if you ask me."
"Who asked ye?"
"Well, if you did…"
"If I did and ye telled me that, I'd kick ye in yer skinny elf arse!"
"If you did and I told you that, you'd kick empty air and wonder why a hundred blows were raining upon your thick head."
Bruenor scoffed and tossed his bowl to the ground, then pulled off his one-homed helm and began rapping hard on his head.
"Bah! Ye'd need more'n a hunnerd to get through this skull, elf!"
Drizzt smiled and didn't disagree.
Dagnabbit returned then to find his king in a fine mood. The younger dwarf looked at Drizzt, but the drow merely nodded and grinned all the wider.
"If we're wantin' to make Shallows in two days, we gotta set straight out," Dagnabbit remarked. "No more chasin' orcs after this group's dead."
"Then no more chasing orcs," said Drizzt.
Dagnabbit nodded, seeming neither surprised nor upset.
"Rushing me home, still," Bruenor said with a shake of his head, broth flying from his wild beard. He brought a hand up and wiped the beard down.
"Or we might be using Shallows as the front base," Dagnabbit offered. "Put a link line to Pwent an' his boys at both camps outside o' Mithral Hall, and spend the summer runnin' the mountains near to Shallows. The folks'll appreciate that, I'm thinking."
A look of astonishment melted into a smile on Bruenor's face.
"And I'm liking the way ye're thinking!" he said as he took the bowl for his third helping. "Making sure there's not too much for Rumblebelly when he gets in," Bruenor offered between gulps. "Can't let him get too fat again if we're walkin' mountain roads, now can we?"
Drizzt settled back comfortably and was quite pleased for his dwarf friend. It was one thing to know your heart, another thing to admit it.
And something altogether different to allow yourself to follow it.
Torgar walked his post on Mirabar's northern wall, a slight limp in his stride from a swollen knee he had suffered in the previous night's escapade. The wind was up strong this day, blowing sand all about the dwarf, but it was warm enough so that Torgar had loosened his heavy breastplate.
He was well aware of the many looks, scowls mostly, coming at him from the other sentries. His actions with Bruenor had resulted in downward spiral, with arguments growing across the city and with many fists being raised. Torgar was tired of it all. All he wanted was to be left alone to his duties, to walk the wall without conversation, without trouble.
When he noted the approach of a well-groomed dwarf wearing bright robes, he knew he wouldn't get his wish.
"Torgar Hammerstriker!" Councilor Agrathan Hardhammer called.
He moved to the base of the ladder leading to the parapet, hiked up his robes and began to climb.
Torgar kept walking the other way, looking out over the wall and feigning ignorance, but when Agrathan called again, more loudly, he realized that to delay would only bring him more frustration.
He paused and leaned his strong, bruised hands on the wall, staring out to the empty, open land.
Agrathan moved up beside him, and similarly leaned on the wall.
"Another battle last night," the councilor stated.
"When they're askin' for a fist, they're getting a fist," Torgar replied.
"And how many are ye to fight?"
"How many're needin' a good kick?"
He looked at Agrathan, and saw that the councilor was not amused.
"Yer actions're tearing Mirabar apart. Is that what ye're looking to do?"
"I'm not looking to do anything," Torgar insisted, and honestly. He turned to Agrathan, his eyes narrowing. "If me speaking me mind's doing what ye say, then the problem's been there afore I speaked it."
Agrathan settled more comfortably against the wall and seemed to relax, as if he was not disagreeing.
"Many of us have been shaking our heads at the Mithral Hall problem. Ye know that. We're all wishin' that our biggest rivals weren't Battle-hammer dwarvess! But they are. That's the way of it, and ye know it, and if ye keep pressing that point into everyone's nose, ye're to bend those noses out of shape."
"The rivalry and the arguin' are as much our own fault as the Battle-hammers'," Torgar reminded. "Might that a deal benefiting us both could be fashioned, but how're we to know unless someone tries?"
"Yer words aren't without merit," the councilor agreed. "It's been suggested and talked about at the Sparkling Stones."
"Where most o' the councilors ain't dwarfs," Torgar remarked, and Agrathan fixed him with a cold stare.
"The dwarves are spoken for, and their thoughts are heard at council."
Torgar knew from the dwarf's look and icy tone that he had hit a nerve with Agrathan, a proud and long-serving councilor. He thought for a moment to take back his bold and callous statement, or at least to exclude his present company, but he didn't. He felt as if he was being carried away by an inner voice that was growing independent of his common sense.
"When ye joined the Axe of Mirabar, you took an oath," Agrathan said. "Are ye remembering that oath, Torgar Hammerstriker?"
Now it was Torgar's turn to issue a cold stare.
"The oath was to serve the Marchion of Mirabar, not the King of Mithral Hall. Ye might be wise to think on that a bit."
The councilor patted Torgar on the shoulder—many seemed to be doing that lately—and took his leave.
Torgar remembered his oath and weighed that oath against the realities of present day Mirabar.
CHAPTER 14 THEY THOUGHT THEY HAD SEEN IT ALL
"Well, ain't this a keg o' beer in a commode," Ivan grumbled.
He was moving around the small lea that the elves were using as a temporary prison for the two intruders. Using some magic that Ivan did not understand, the moon elves had coaxed the trees around the lea in close together, blocking all exits with a nearly solid wall of trunks.
Ivan, of course, was none too happy with that. Pikel reclined in the middle of the field, hands tucked comfortably behind his head as he lay on his back, staring up at the stars. His sandals were off and the contented dwarf waggled his stubby toes happily.
"If they hadn't taked me axe, I'd be making a trail or ten!" Ivan blustered.
Pikel giggled and waggled his toes.
"Shut yer mouth," Ivan fumed, standing with hands on hips and staring defiantly at the tree wall.
He blinked a moment later and rubbed his eyes in disbelief as one of the trees drifted aside, leaving a clear path beyond. Ivan paused, expecting the elves to enter through the breach, but the moments slipped past with no sign the their captors. The dwarf hopped about, started for the break, then skidded to a stop and swung around when he heard his brother giggling.
"Ye did that," Ivan accused.
"Hee hee hee."
"Well if ye could do that, then why've we been sitting here for two days?"
Pikel propped himself on his elbows and shrugged.
"Let's go!"
"Uh uh," said Pikel.
Ivan stared at him incredulously. "Why not?"
Pikel hopped to his feet and jumped all around, putting a finger to pursed lips and saying "Shhhhhhr
"Who ye shushing?" Ivan asked, his expression going from angry to confused. "Ye’re talking to the damned trees," he realized.
Pikel looked at him and shrugged.
"Ye're meaning that the damned trees'll tell the damned elfs if we walk outta here?"
Pikel nodded enthusiastically.
"Well, shut 'em up!"
Pikel shrugged helplessly.
"Ye can move 'em, and ye can walk through 'em, but ye can't shut 'em up?"
Pikel shrugged again.
Ivan stomped a boot hard on the ground. "Well, let 'em tell the elfs! And let them elfs try to catch me!"
Pikel put his hands on his hips
and cocked his head to the side, his expression doubtful.
"Yeah, yeah," Ivan called to him, waving his hand and not wanting to hear any of it.
Of course he had no weapon. Of course he had no armor. Of course he had no idea of where he was or of how to get out of there. Of course he wouldn't likely get fifty feet into the forest before being recaptured, probably painfully.
But none of that really mattered to the outraged dwarf. He just wanted to do something, do anything, to stick his finger in the eyes of his captors. That was the way of dwarves, after all, and of Ivan beyond the norm for his taciturn race. It was better to head-butt your enemy, even if he was wearing a full-faced plated helmet, even if it was spiked, than to stand helplessly before him.
Determined, Ivan strode through the Pikel-made gap and down the forest trail.
Pikel sighed and moved to retrieve his sandals. Hearing a commotion beyond the lea, he merely shrugged yet again and fell back to the grass and stared up at the stars. Perfectly content.
"Never would I have believed that a dwarf could move a tree without using an axe," Innovindil remarked.
She stood at Tarathiel's side, on a low branch overlooking the lea, observing the brothers.
"He truly is possessed of druidic magic," Tarathiel agreed. "How is that possible?"
Innovindil giggled. "Perhaps the dwarves are moving to a higher state of consciousness, though it is hard to believe when you consider that one as the source."
Looking at Pikel and his waggling toes, Tarathiel found it hard to disagree with the last part of her statement.
The pair watched silently as Ivan stormed out of the meadow then patiently waited the few minutes it took for the struggling dwarf to be reunited forcibly with his brother, a trio of elves dragging him back.
"This could get dangerous," Innovindil remarked.
"We still can't be sure of their intentions," Tarathiel replied.
She had been pushing him all day to resolve the issue with the dwarves, leaning heavily in favor of escorting them to the edges of the Moonwood and letting them go.
'Then test him," Innovindil said, her tone showing that she had just found a revelation. "If he is a druid, as he seems, then there is one way to prove it. Let Pikel Bouldershoulder find his judge at Montolio's grove."
Tarathiel stroked his thin chin, a smile growing as he considered the words. Perhaps Innovindil was on to something, which really didn't surprise Tarathiel when he thought about it. Ever had Innovindil been the farsighted one, finding roads out of the darkest dilemmas.
He looked to her appreciatively, but she was eyeing the field, concern growing on her fair face. She nodded his way and bade him to follow, then hopped down from the branch and moved onto the field, where it looked like the confrontation between the yellow-bearded Bouldershoulder and the three elves might be about to explode.
"Hold fast, Ivan Bouldershoulder," she called, and the attention of all five turned to her. "Your ire is not justified."
"Bah!" the dwarf snorted, so predictably. "Ye're locking me in, elf? How'd ya think I'd take it?"
"And I am certain that if one of us went into your homeland, he would find himself welcomed with open arms," came the sarcastic reply.
"Probably would," Ivan retorted, offering a snort at Pikel, who merely giggled. "Cadderly's always been a soft one, even for a human!"
"Your dwarven homeland," the quick-on-her-feet Innovindil clarified.
"Nah," Ivan had to agree, "but why would an elf want to go there?"
"Why would a pair of dwarves walk out of a tree?" came the reply.
Ivan started to argue, but realized the futility of that.
"Point for yerself," he agreed.
"And how does a dwarf coax a tree to move aside?" the elf asked, looking at Pikel.
"Doo-dad," came the giggling response, with Pikel poking his thumb into his chest.
"Well, that is a common sight," Tarathiel said sarcastically.
"Nothing common about that one," Ivan agreed.
"So please excuse our confusion," said Innovindil. "We do not wish to hold you captive, Ivan Bouldershoulder, but neither can we readily dismiss you and your curious brother. You must appreciate that you have intruded into our home, and the security of that home remains above all else."
"I’ll give ye that point, too," the dwarf replied, "but ye gotta be appreciatin' that I got better things to do than sit here and watch the stars. Damned things don't even move!"
"Oh, but they do," Innovindil enthusiastically replied, thinking she may have found a commonality, a way to thin the ice, if not break it all together.
Her hopes only grew when Pikel hopped up and gave an assenting squeal.
"Some do, at least," the elf explained.
She moved closer to Ivan and pointed to one particularly bright star, low on the horizon, just above the tree line. She continued for just a
moment, until she took the time to look at Ivan and see him staring at her incredulously, hands on his hips.
"I think ye're missin' me point," he said dryly.
"True enough," the elf admitted.
"It ain't like we ain't been with elfs afore," Ivan explained. "Fought aside a whole flock o' them in Shilmista Forest, chasing off the orcs and goblins. They was glad for me and me brother!"
"Me brudder!" Pikel agreed.
"And perhaps we will come to be, as well," said Innovindil. "In truth, I predict exactly that, but I beg your patience. This is too important for us to make any hasty choices."
"Well, ain't that like an elf," Ivan replied with a resigned, but clearly accepting, sigh. "Seen one in Carradoon, gone to market to buy some wine. Took her time, she did, moving front to back and back to front across the winery, then course she bought the first bottle she'd seen."
"And that elf enjoyed the experience of the purchase, as we wish to enjoy the experience of learning about Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder," Innovindil explained.
"Ye'd be learning more if ye'd let us off this stupid field."
"Perhaps, and perhaps soon."
As she finished Innovindil glanced at Tarathiel, who obviously wasn't sharing her generous thoughts. She gave him a hard nudge in the ribs.
"We shall see," was all that he would admit, and that grimly.
Thibbledorf Pwent kicked a stone, launching it many feet through the air.
"Bruenor's expecting better of ye," scolded Cordio Muffinhead, the cleric who had accompanied the wounded back to Mithral Hall.
They had found Pwent and the Gutbuster Brigade camped along the high ground north of Keeper's Dale, the battlerager having gone back out after escorting the main force into Mithral Hall.
What a sight that meeting had been, with Cordio and the others waving frantically to slow down the insane charge of Pwent and his boys. The relief had been palpable when Cordio had at last been able to explain that Bruenor and the others were fine and were moving along a different and roundabout course on their way back to Mithral Hall, checking in with the various settlements, as a good king must now and again.
"If he's knowin' me at all, then he should be knowin' that I'm about to set off to find the fool!" Pwent argued.
"He's knowing that ye're a loyal warrior, who's to do what ye're told to do!" Cordio yelled back at him.
Pwent hopped aside and did a three-step to another stone, kicking it with all his strength. This one was much larger, though, and not quite detached from the ground, and so it hardly moved. Pwent did well to hide his newly-acquired limp.
"Ye got two camps to organize," Cordio said sternly. "Quit breakin' yer toes and get yer runners to Mithral Hall. Ye build a camp here and get one set up on the Surbrin, north o' the mines."
Pwent spat and grumbled, but he nodded and went to work, barking orders that sent the Gutbusters scrambling. That same day, what had been a casual camp awaiting Bruenor's return was transformed into a small fortress with walls of piled stones, perched on the north side of a mountain north of Keeper's Dale.
&nbs
p; The next morning, two hundred warriors left Mithral Hall, heading north to join up with the Gutbusters, while at the same time a hundred and fifty warriors moved out of Mithral Hall's eastern gate and marched north along the banks of the Surbrin, laden with supplies for constructing the second forward outpost.
Thibbledorf Pwent immediately set his Gutbusters into a liaison mode, working the direct trails between the two camps.
It tormented Pwent to stay so far south and wait, but he did his job, though he continually sent scouting parties to the north and northeast, searching for some sign of his beloved, and absent, king. It remained foremost in his thoughts that Bruenor wouldn't have ordered the establishment of advanced camps unless he believed they might be needed.
That only made the waiting all the more unsettling.
"He truly is a druid?" Tarathiel asked, hardly believing his ears as a pair of his clan reported the news to him that Pikel's spells were not some trick, that the dwarf did indeed seem to have druidic magic about him.
Beside him, Innovindil could hardly contain her grin. She was truly enjoying these unexpected guests, and indeed, she had been spending quite a bit of time with Ivan, the surly one, who was about as perfectly dwarflike as any dwarf she had ever seen. She and Ivan had swapped many fine tales over the past few days, and though he remained a prisoner it was fairly obvious that Innovindil's contact with Ivan had brightened his mood and lessened the trouble he was causing.
Still, Tarathiel thought her a fool for bothering.
"He prays, sincerely so, to Mielikki," said one of the observers, "and there can be no doubt of his magical abilities, many of which could not be replicated by any cleric of a dwarf god.”
"It makes little sense," Tarathiel remarked.
"Pikel Bouldershoulder makes little sense," said the other, "but he is what he appears to be, by all that we can discern. He is a woodland priest, a 'Doo-dad, as he himself puts it."
"How powerful is his magic?" asked Tarathiel, who had always held druids in great respect.
The two observers looked at each other, their expressions showing clearly that this was a question they had feared.
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