That was all the excuse the Mirabarran guards needed. The two to Torgar's left dropped their net between them and spurred their horses forward, running past on either side of the dwarf, plucking him from his seat and bouncing him down to the ground in the strong mesh.
Torgar went into a frenzy, tearing at the cords, trying to pull himself free, but the other two guards were right there, drawing forth solid clubs and dropping from their mounts. Torgar thrashed and kicked, even managed to bite one, but he was at an impossible disadvantage.
The soldiers had the dwarf beaten to semi-consciousness quickly, and managed to extricate him from the net soon after, unstrapping and removing his fine plate armor.
"Let the city find slumber before we return," Djaffar explained to them. "I have arranged with the Axe to ensure that no dwarves are on the wall this night."
Shoudra Stargleam was not truly surprised, when she thought about it, but she was surely dismayed that night. The sceptrana stood on her balcony, enjoying the night and brushing her long black hair when she noted a commotion by the city's eastern gate, of which her balcony provided a fine view.
The gates opened wide and some riders entered. Shoudra recognized Djaffar of the Hammers from his boastfully plumed helmet. Though she could make out few details, it wasn't hard for the Sceptrana to guess the identity of the diminutive figure walking behind the riders, stripped down to breeches and a torn shirt and with his hands chained before him, on a lead to the rear horse.
She held quiet but did nothing to conceal herself as the prisoner caravan wound its way right beneath her balcony.
There, shuffling along behind the four, and being prodded by the fifth, came Torgar Hammerstriker, bound and obviously beaten.
They hadn't even let the poor fellow put his boots on.
"Oh, Elastul, what have you done?" Shoudra quietly asked, and there was great trepidation in her voice, for she knew that the marchion might have erred and badly.
The knock on her door sounded like a wizard's thunderbolt, jarring Shoudra from her restless sleep. She leaped out of bed and scrambled reflexively to answer it, only half aware of where she was.
She pulled the door open, then stopped cold, seeing Djaffar standing there leaning on the wall outside her apartment. She noted his eyes, roaming her body head to toe, and became suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wearing very little that warm summer's night, just a silken shift that barely covered her.
Shoudra edged the door closed a bit and moved modestly behind it, peering out through the crack at the leering, grinning Hammer.
"Milady," Djaffar said with a tip of his open-faced helm, glinting in the torchlight.
"What is the hour?" she asked.
"Several before the dawn."
"Then what do you want?" Shoudra asked.
"I am surprised that you retired, milady," Djaffar said innocently. "It was not so long ago that I saw you, quite awake and standing on your balcony."
It all began to make sense to Shoudra then, as she came fully awake and remembered all that she had seen that far from ordinary night.
"I retired soon after."
"With many questions on your pretty mind, no doubt,"
"That is my business, Djaffar." Shoudra made sure that she injected a bit of anger into her tone, wanting to put the too confident man on the defensive. "Is there a reason you disturb my slumber? Is there some emergency concerning the marchion? Because, if there is not. ."
"We must discuss that which you witnessed from your balcony, milady," Djaffar said coolly, and if he was the slightest bit intimidated by Shoudra's powerful tone he did not show it.
"Who is to say that I witnessed anything at all?"
"Exactly, and you would do well to remember that."
Shoudra's blue eyes opened wide. "My dear Djaffar, are you threatening the Sceptrana of Mirabar?"
"I am asking you to do what is right," the Hammer replied without backing down. "It was under the orders of the marchion himself that the traitor Torgar was arrested."
"Brutally. ."
"Not so. He surrendered to the lawful authority without a fight," Djaffar argued.
Shoudra didn't believe a word of it. She knew Djaffar and the rest of the four Hammers well enough to know that they loved a fight when the odds were stacked in their favor.
"He was brought back to Mirabar under the cover of darkness for a reason, milady. Surely you can understand and appreciate that this is a sensitive matter."
"Because the dwarves of Mirabar, even those who disagree with Torgar, would not be pleased to learn that he was dragged into the city in chains," Shoudra replied.
Though there was a substantial amount of sarcasm in her voice, Djaffar ignored it completely and merely replied, "Exactly."
The Hammer gave a wry smile.
"We could have left him dead in the wilderness, buried in a place where none would ever find him. You do understand that, of course, as you understand that your silence in this matter is of prime importance?"
"Could you have done all of that? In good conscience?"
"I am a warrior, milady, and sworn to the protection of the marchion," Djaffar answered with that same grin. "I trust in your silence here."
Shoudra just stared at him hard. Finally recognizing that he wasn't going to get any more of an answer than that, Djaffar tipped his helm again and walked away down the corridor.
Shoudra Stargleam shut her door, then turned her back and leaned against it. She rubbed her eyes and considered the very unusual night.
"What are you doing, Elastul?" she asked herself quietly.
In the room next to Shoudra's, another was asking himself that very same question. Nanfoodle the alchemist had been in Mirabar for several years but had tried very hard to keep away from the politics of the place. He was an alchemist, a scholar, and a gnome with a bit of talent in illusion magic, but that was all. This latest debacle, concerning the arrival of the legendary King of Mithral Hall, whom Nanfoodle had dearly wanted to go and meet, had him more than a bit concerned, however.
He had heard the loud knock, and thinking it was on his own door, had scrambled from his bed and rushed to answer. When he had arrived there, though, he already heard the voices, Shoudra and Djaffar, and recognized that the man had come to speak with her and not him.
Nanfoodle had heard every word. Torgar Hammerstriker, one of the most respected dwarves in Mirabar, whose family had been in service to the various marchions for centuries, had been beaten on the road and dragged back, secretly, in chains.
A shiver ran up Nanfoodle's spine. The whole episode, from the time they had learned that Bruenor Battlehammer was knocking on their gate, had him quite unhinged.
He knew that it would all come to no good.
And though the gnome had long before decided to remain neutral on anything politic, to do his experiments and take his rewards, he found himself at the house of a friend the next day.
Councilor Agrathan Hardhammer was not pleased by the gnome's revelations. Not at all.
"I know," Agrathan said to Shoudra as soon as she opened her door that next morning, the dwarf having gone straight from his meeting with Nanfoodle to the sceptrana's apartment.
"You know what?"
"What you know, about the treatment and return of a certain disgruntled dwarf. Torgar was dragged in by the Hammers last night, in chains."
"By one Hammer, at least,"
"Djaffar, curse his name!" said Agrathan.
The dwarf's ire toward Djaffar surprised Shoudra, for she had never heard Agrathan speak of any of the individual Hammers at all before.
"Elastul Raurym is the source of the decision, not Djaffar or any of the other Hammers," she reminded.
Agrathan banged his head on the door jamb. "He is blowing the embers hot in a room full of smokepowder," the dwarf said.
Shoudra did not disagree—to a point. She understood Agrathan's frustration and fears, but she also had to admit that she understood Elastul's reluctance in l
etting the dwarf walk away. Agrathan knew Mirabar's defenses as well as any and knew their production capacities and the state of their various ore veins as well. The sceptrana didn't honestly believe that it would ever come to war between Mithral Hall and Mirabar, but if it did….
"T believe that Elastul felt he had no choice," Shoudra replied. "At least they did not murder the wayward dwarf on the road."
That statement didn't have the effect Shoudra had hoped for. Instead of calming Agrathan, the mere mention of that diabolical possibility had the dwarf's eyes going wide, and his jaw clenching tightly. He calmed quickly, though, and took a deep, steadying breath.
"It might have been the smarter thing for him to do," he said quietly, and it was Shoudra's turn to open her eyes wide. "When the dwarfs of Mirabar learn that Torgar's a prisoner in his own town, they're not to be a happy bunch—and they will learn of it, do not doubt." "Do you know where they're keeping him?" "I was hoping that you'd be telling me that very thing." Shoudra shrugged.
"Might be time for us two to go and talk to Elastul." Shoudra Stargleam did not disagree, though she understood better than Agrathan, apparently, that the meeting would do little to resolve the present problem. In Elastul's eyes, obviously, Torgar Hammerstriker had committed an act of betrayal, of treason even, and Shoudra doubted that the unfortunate dwarf would be seeing the world outside his prison cell anytime soon.
She did go with Agrathan to the marehion's palace, though, and the two were ushered in to Elastul's audience chamber forthwith. Shoudra noted that all of the normal guards and attendants in the room were absent, other than the four Hammers, who stood in their typical position behind the marchion. She also noted the look that Djaffar shot her way, one suggestive and uncomfortable, one that made her want to pull her robe tighter about her.
"What is the urgency?" the marchion asked at once, before any formal greetings. "I have much to attend this day."
"The urgency is that you've put Torgar Hammerstriker in prison, Marchion," Agrathan bluntly replied, and he added with great emphasis, "Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker."
"He is not being mistreated," Elastul replied, and he added, "As long as he does not resist," when he took note of Shoudra's doubtful look.
"I have asked for, and expect, discretion on this matter," the marchion went on, obviously aiming this remark at Shoudra.
"She wasn't the one who told me," Agrathan answered.
"Then who?"
"Not important," the dwarf replied. "If you intend to hunt any who'd speak of this, then ye'd do better trying to hold water from dripping through your fingers."
Elastul didn't seem pleased at all by that remark, and he turned a frown upon Djaffar, who merely shrugged.
"This is important, Marchion," Agrathan said. "Torgar is not just any citizen."
"Torgar is not a citizen," Elastul corrected. "Not anymore, and by his own volition. I am charged with the defense of Mirabar, and so I have taken steps to just that effect. He is jailed, and he shall remain jailed until such time as he recants his position on this matter, publicly, and forsakes this ludicrous idea of traveling to Mithral Hall."
Agrathan started to respond, but Elastul cut him off.
"There is no debate over this, Councilor."
Agrathan looked to Shoudra for support, but she shrugged and shook her head.
And so it was. Marchion Elastul considered Mithral Hall an enemy, obviously, and every step he took seemed to ensure that his perception would become reality.
Both Agrathan and Shoudra hoped that Elastul understood fully the implications of this latest action, for both feared the reaction should the truth of Torgar's imprisonment become general knowledge around the city.
The dwarf's remark about hot embers in a smokepowder filled room seemed quite insightful to Shoudra Stargleam at that moment.
CHAPTER 16 THE HERO
Catti-brie crept silently to the edge of the rocky lip, peering over. As she had expected, the orc's camp lay below her on a flat rock with strewn boulders all around it. There wasn't much of a fire, just a pit of glowing embers. The orcs huddled close to it, blocking most of the glow.
Catti-brie scanned the area, allowing her eyes to shift into the spectrum of heat instead of light, and she was glad that she had her magical circlet with her when she spotted the soft glow of a second orc, not so far away, whittling away at a broken branch. She did a quick scan of the area then let her vision shift back to the normal spectrum. Her circlet was a marvelous item indeed, one that helped her to see in the dark, but it was not without its limitations. It operated far better underground, allowing her vision where she would have had none at all than under the night sky. When the stars were out or near the glow of a fire, the magical circlet often only added to the woman's confusion, distorting distances, particularly on heat-neutral surfaces such as broken stones.
Catti-brie paused and stood perfectly still, her eyes unblinking as they adjusted to the dim light. She had already picked a route that would take her down to the orc and had confirmed that route with the magical circlet, intending to go down and capture or slay the creature.
But now there were two.
Catti-brie reached instinctively for Taulmaril as she considered the new odds, but her hand stopped short of grabbing the bow that was strapped across her back. Her fingers remained swollen and bruised, with at least one broken. After practicing earlier that day, she knew she could hardly hope to hit the orcs from that distance.
She went to Khazid'hea instead. Her fabulous sword, nicknamed Cutter because of its fine and deadly blade, could shear through armor as easily as it could cut through cloth. She felt the energy, the eagerness, of the sentient, hungry sword as soon as her hand closed around the hilt. Khazid'hea wanted this fight, as it wanted any fight.
That pull only strengthened as she slowly and silently slid the sword out of its scabbard, holding it low behind the rocky barricade. Its fine edge could catch the slightest glimmer of light and reflect it clearly.
The sword's hunger called out to her, bade her to start moving down the trail and toward the first victim.
Catti-brie almost started away, but she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. She should go and get some of the others, she realized. Drizzt had gone off" earlier, but her other friends could not be far away.
it is only a pair of orcs after all, and if you strike first and fast, it will be one against one, she thought—or perhaps it was her sword suggesting that thought to her.
Either way, it seemed a logical argument to Cattie-brie. She had never met an orc that could match her in swordplay.
Before she could further second-guess herself, Catti-brie slipped out from behind the rocky lip and started slowly and quietly down the nearest trail that would get her to the plateau and the encampment.
Soon she was at the orc's level and barely ten feet away. The oblivious creature remained huddled over the embers, stirring them occasionally, while its equally-oblivious companion continued its whittling far to the side. She moved a half step closer, then another. Barely five feet separated her from the orc then. Apparently sensing her, the creature looked up, gave a cry —
– and fell over backward, rolling and scrambling as Catti-brie stuck it, once and again, before having to turn back to face its charging companion.
The second orc skidded to a stop when Khazid'hea flashed up before it in perfect balance. The orc stabbed viciously with its crude spear, but Catti-brie easily turned her hips aside. It struck again, to similar non-effect, then came forward, retracted suddenly, and thrust again, this time to the anticipated side.
The wrong side.
Catti-brie dodged the second thrust, then started to dodge the third, but stopped as the orc retracted, and dodged out the other way as the spear charged ahead.
She had her chance, and it was one she didn't miss. Across went Khazid'hea, the fabulous blade cleanly shearing the last fool off the orc's spear. The creature howled and jumped back, throwing the remaining shaft at th
e woman as it did, but a flick of Catti-brie's wrist had that spear shaft spinning off into the darkness.
She rushed ahead, sword leading, ready to thrust the blade into the orc's chest.
And she stopped, abruptly, as a stone whistled across, right before her.
And as she turned to face this newest attacker, she got hit in the back by a second stone, thrown hard.
And a third skipped by, and a fourth hit her square in the shoulder, and her arm, suddenly gone numb, slipped down.
Ores crawled over the strewn rocks all around the encampment, waving their weapons and throwing more rocks to keep her dancing and off-balance.
Catti-brie's mind raced. She could hardly believe that she had so foolishly walked into a trap. She felt Khazid'hea's continuing urging to her to jump into battle, to slay them all, and wondered for a moment how much control she actually held over the ever-hungry sword.
But no, she realized, this was her mistake and not the weapon's. Normally in this position, she'd play defensively, letting her enemy come to her, but the orcs showed little sign of wanting to advance. Instead they bent to retrieve more stones and came up hurling them at her. She dodged and danced and got hit a few times, some stinging. She picked what she perceived to be the most vulnerable spot in the ring and charged at it, her sword flashing wildly.
It was pure instinct then for Catti-brie, her muscles working faster than her conscious thoughts could follow. Nothing short of brilliant, the woman parried a sword, an axe, and another spear—one, two, three — and still managed to step out to the side suddenly, stabbing an orc who had expected her to move forward. Clutching its belly, that one fell away.
And a second orc joined it, dropping to the stone and writhing wildly while trying to stem the blood flow from its slashed neck.
A twist of Catti-brie's wrist had the weapon of a third orc turned tip down to the stone, leaving her an easy opening for a deadly strike, but as Khazid'hea started its forward rush, a stone clipped the woman's already wounded hand, sending a burst of fiery pain up her arm. To her horror, before she even realized the extent of what had happened, she heard Khazid'hea go bouncing away across the stones.
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