Ragged Dain nodded, and the smile that crossed his weathered old face was one of clear admiration, as if to assure the young King of Mithral Hall that he had just made a wise choice.
On the First of Flamerule, the seventh month of Dale reckoning 1484, the three dwarf kings of Luruar gathered with their commanders and trusted advisers in the war room of Citadel Felbarr.
The meeting began solemnly, with many muted toasts to King Bromm, the fallen twin brother of King Harnoth of Citadel Adbar. Several rounds of potent ale later, the toasts became more hearty, led by Harnoth himself, who recounted the good days he and his brother had shared under the tutelage of their legendary father, King Harbromm.
Toasts to salute Bromm became toasts promising retribution against the orcs of Many-Arrows, promising full payback for the disastrous Battle of the Cold Vale.
Flagons clapped together, foam flew from the side of tankards, and many a beard turned white as drinks were upended with too much vigor, and many a sleeve grew wet from wiping the foamy beards.
And so it began as a celebration, for Bromm, for the dwarves of Luruar.
That ended abruptly, though, as if all the puffing boasts expired all at once, when the clanking, the slurping and the cheering ceased, and an uneasy quiet settled over the room.
“Yerself takes the lead, out o’ respect,” King Emerus told King Harnoth, and the leader of Citadel Felbarr surrendered his chair at the head of the table to his friend from Citadel Adbar.
“Well, ye know that I’m wantin’ to kill every orc in the Silver Marches,” Harnoth began as he settled in. “And to line me porch with pikes topped in giant heads.”
A couple of cheers arose, but they were muted, for Harnoth’s voice was subdued, and it rang clear to all listening carefully that he was about to offer a rather large caveat.
“But I’m not for sending out me boys,” he said. “Not until we’re knowin’ what foul powers’re behind the orcs’ march. Giants, aye, and that’s to be expected, but me few boys who found their way home from the murder in the Cold Vale spoke of a dragon, a real one and a big one. And more than one saw himself a few dark elves.”
He looked directly at King Connerad as he spoke the last part, and the King of Mithral Hall could only nod in acceptance, if not agreement, for indeed, Mithral Hall among all the dwarf fortresses had more history with the dreaded drow elves.
“Th’orcs ain’t pressin’ us,” Harnoth continued.
“They be pressing me,” Connerad interjected. “Not coming against me doors, but keepin’ me doors closed, don’t ye doubt.”
“Aye,” Harnoth conceded. “But still the biggest force crossed the Redrun, movin’ south of all o’ us.”
“Aye,” agreed King Emerus, who also looked to Connerad. “Ragged Dain telled me about yer meetin’ with the Knight in Silver. Sure that ye’re to be hearin’ the calls from the human lands to the south, playing their great butt-eyeball vision against the treaty.”
King Connerad nodded grimly.
“I ain’t takin’ to hearing the name o’ Bruenor Battlehammer tossed about like that,” King Emerus promised. “The humans are writing new words into the history books, looking to send blame where they shouldn’t.”
“Battlehammers don’t care what the durned fools o’ Silverymoon and Sundabar’re saying,” Connerad insisted, but his tone, of course, showed that he did care, quite a bit, and that he wasn’t amused.
“Well, Felbarr’s caring, don’t ye doubt,” Emerus replied emphatically. “I was there with me friend Bruenor, and I’m knowin’ that it near killed him to put his mark on that treaty. Felbarr ain’t blaming Mithral Hall for this, ye should know.”
King Connerad nodded in gratitude.
“Nor’s Adbar!” King Harnoth shouted, and slammed his flagon down on the table. “Aye, not by a hair o’ me thick beard. Me Da telled me many the tales o’ King Bruenor. Weren’t no coward, yer old king. And I’m not taking well to hearin’ that the fools to the south’re shoutin’ at ye about a hunnerd years past.”
“Not just at me and me boys o’ the hall,” Connerad said, and nodded to King Emerus.
Emerus Warcrown nodded, grim-faced, and Connerad, who knew well that Silverymoon was hurling insults openly at Citadel Felbarr for not rushing out to the Crossings of the Redrun, returned the look and nod.
“Aye, and with all respect to yerself and yers, King Connerad,” Harnoth said, “the cries from the south calling the dwarves o’ Felbarr cowards’re angering me even more than the slight to yer King Bruenor. One thing to go back and change the truth o’ the past for yer own feelings, but to call me friends …”
“Ye’re in no need o’ explaining,” Connerad interrupted. “And aye, when the emissary from Silverymoon spoke ill o’ Bruenor, he got me words o’ wrath. When he spoke ill o’ me boys for not breaking out to rush south, he got a shake o’ me head, the fool. But aye, when he spoke ill o’ me kin’n’kind o’ Felbarr, he near got me fist and a wad o’ spit for his faceplate.”
“Aye and so King Connerad did, and so’d his Gutbuster, Bungalow Thump. Huzzah and heigh-ho to King Connerad and the boys’ o’ Mithral Hall!” Ragged Dain, who of course had been in Mithral Hall for that very meeting, agreed and cheered, and the flagons came up with a rowdy cheer of solidarity, three dwarf citadels standing as one.
“So what’re we to do, I’m asking?” Connerad said when the commotion died away. “Seems we’re agreed that we’re standing as one.”
“Three as one,” said Harnoth, and Emerus nodded.
“How tough’s yer breakout?” Emerus asked Connerad.
“I got more orcs about me doors than I e’er seen,” the King of Mithral Hall admitted. “I can punch ’em in the mouth, true enough, but they’ll be yapping at me heels anywhere I’m meaning to go.”
“If me and me boys crossed the Surbrin north of ye and come running down, and Emerus and his boys came to the bridge aside ye’re eastern door and kept the orcs in a skirmish there, we might be swatting them good,” King Harnoth said, and Connerad nodded, thinking it a proper plan.
“Aye, but what o’ them orcs that ain’t there?” asked King Emerus, by far the eldest and most experienced of the three. “They split into four armies, so we’re hearin’, counting the one on Mithral Hall’s door.”
“Heading south,” said Harnoth.
“So we’re guessing,” Emerus replied slyly.
“Ye’re thinking they’re layin’ a trap to lure us out,” Connerad said, for he had mentioned the same possibility back in Mithral Hall. Orcs would prefer the dwarf citadels to the feeble human cities, no doubt.
“The prize for the orcs’s got to be the dwarf homes,” Emerus reasoned. “We got the mines, the forges—Citadel Adbar’s providing the war ordnance for all o’ Luruar.”
“They’ll not get Adbar,” Harnoth strongly replied. “We got oil a’plenty ready to dump into the maze if them ugly orcs try.”
The others in the room, king and commoner alike, nodded at that proclamation, for the defenses of Citadel Adbar were quite legendary among all the people of the Silver Marches, and greatly respected by the dwarves of Felbarr and Mithral Hall. Of the three dwarf strongholds, Adbar had by far the most access to the surface world. The citadel itself was actually constructed above ground, and a sizable portion of the populace were housed under dwarf-made ceilings instead of tons of rock. But those realities didn’t make Citadel Adbar vulnerable to enemies on the surface—not at all. The surface fortress itself lay in the center of a maze of rings of towering stone wall, mostly natural, but with added dwarven touches, like the multitude of strategically placed gates that could be lifted at a moment’s notice to send a deluge of burning oil among any of the rock channels, and great stone bridges cleverly designed to drop at the pull of a lever from the guard towers, or even worse for the invaders, designed to swing down into the oil-filled channels.
Orc hordes had attacked the jewel of Adbar no less than five dozen times over the centuries, and the place had
been besieged by armies numbering in the tens of thousands.
Adbar had not fallen, and would not, to orc hordes.
“Aye, but how well will yer rings and oil protect ye if the orcs get through one o’ the other citadels to the underground tunnels?” King Emerus reminded, for indeed, the dwarves had done a fine job of connecting the three fortresses with subterranean passageways.
“Aye, if one falls, th’other two are more vulnerable,” King Connerad agreed. “And more alone. Only way anything’s getting into or out o’ Mithral Hall right now’s through the tunnels, and if I’m needin’ to shut them down, the place’ll grow tight about me boys soon enough.”
“No trade, no support,” said Emerus. ‘Winter’ll come soon enough.”
“And I’m not for thinking that Sundabar, Silverymoon, Everlund or any o’ the rest’ll march north to help any of us,” Connerad added. “The Knights in Silver didn’t go runnin’ to the Redrun for to help Felbarr—nay, if that’d’ve been the case, they’d have telled King Emerus they were coming, aye? They went for glory, and fought on the ford to protect Sundabar, I’m thinking. The tall folk’re thinking of each other above us, as has always been, and so for meself I’m o’ the mind that we ought do the same.”
“Aye, three tankards lifted as one,” King Harnoth replied, and he hoisted his drink to tap the raised mugs of Emerus and Connerad.
“I’m not for thinking that there’s any gain to us in breaking out now,” King Emerus said after a giant gulp of drink, foam still hanging thick around his beard. “Sit tight and let me play me own counsel.”
“And tighten the underground ties,” Connerad added. “Armies set in place along the connecting tunnels, ready to run to one or th’other if the orcs try to find their way in.”
“So ends Luruar and the Confederation o’ the Silver Marches,” King Harnoth warned, and the others couldn’t disagree, for they all understood that if the dwarves didn’t come forth now and the great cities were attacked, the anger would run deep. The sole King of Adbar shrugged as he finished and digested the responding looks, for in truth, Adbar had been the last to join the confederation, and was the farthest removed, geographically, from the wars that had now begun to boil.
“Were it e’er really there, then why’s an orc army sitting atop Mithral Hall?” asked Connerad.
“Aye, and how’d the orcs get an army through the Glimmerwood to ambush yer brother in the Cold Vale?” Emerus agreed. “And why weren’t them boys from Silverymoon knockin’ on me door, that we could put a plan to fight aside each other? Bah, but there ain’t no Luruar. Never been one.”
He slammed his flagon down on the table, foam and ale flying everywhere, and wetting his beard and cheeks in such a way as to make the old warrior look even fiercer in the torchlight.
“If I’m getting one more letter blaming King Bruenor, may his beard smell o’ Moradin’s fine beer, then might that me boys’ll come out and march aside them orcs in breaking the southern cities!” King Connerad roared, and so the toasts began anew, to Bruenor and to Mithral Hall.
Late the next day, the contingents from Mithral Hall and from Citadel Adbar shook hands in the tunnels below Citadel Felbarr, and each set off for home, Connerad to the west, Harnoth to the northeast.
When each arrived in their respective stronghold, they were met with the news that mighty Sundabar, the great city on the eastern bank of the River Rauvin just two days’ march from Citadel Felbarr’s southern gate, was under siege by a vast army of orcs and their dark allies. A thousand giant-thrown boulders flew over the walls each day, so it was rumored, and great dragons had been seen circling high above the city.
A flurry of correspondences rushed to and fro between the three dwarf strongholds over the next tenday, and when it was done, it was decided that they would send supplies through the tunnels to support the besieged citizens of Sundabar.
But they would not march to break the siege.
Frantic pleas from Sundabar, Silverymoon, and Everlund came back with every returning dwarf caravan.
But the dwarves stayed tight behind their iron walls and stone mountains.
The Confederation of the Silver Marches lay in ruins, and soon too, it seemed, would mighty Sundabar.
THE BELCHING HORN
FROM THE HIGH ROAD ATOP THE ROCKY SEASIDE SOUTH OF PORT LLAST, Effron looked back to the towering stone ridges that surrounded and harbored the city he had left behind.
So much had he left behind.
A part of him wanted to rush back to the cave of Stonecutter’s Solace, to find Drizzt and join in with the drow ranger and his new companions. A very substantial part of him, and that surprised Effron more than a little. He had come to trust Drizzt, to like Drizzt, and indeed, to look up to the courageous rogue. Drizzt had escaped his trials unscathed, it seemed, at least in comparison to Effron.
But now Effron had come to believe that he could scale those same emotional heights as the drow who had become as a hero to him, that he could straighten his way and heal his heart. Because of Drizzt and the others, because of the circumstance that had put him face-to-face with Dahlia, and because of Dahlia’s graciousness toward him, her willingness to admit her errors, her willingness—nay desire, nay desperate need—to apologize to him, the road of hope and health lay before Effron.
At this moment, though, his heart was heavy, both from the news of his lost mother and from having to walk away from Drizzt. He knew it was the best course, though, and he reminded himself of that with a determined nod and started off along the south road at a strong pace. For some reason, Effron sensed that Ambergris and Afafrenfere were more suited to serve as his companions in this leg of his personal, spiritual journey.
He paused as that notion struck him profoundly, and oddly. He looked back once more to the north, his steps slowing, then stopping all together as he reflexively eased around.
“They are as troubled as I am,” he said quietly. “They too seek a truer road.” He heaved a great sigh, one that sent his dead arm behind his back swinging, and nodded—it would not be fair to throw his personal turmoil into the group with Drizzt and his friends. He had heard enough about that troupe to realize that he didn’t belong with them. Not yet, and perhaps not ever. Surely they had more important tasks to accomplish than helping a wayward and confused young half-tiefling warlock find his way.
“She would not approve,” he said with a laugh as he considered his bone staff. What might the reaction of Catti-brie be the first time Effron performed his, to her eyes, unsavory magic?
He nodded again, more convinced that he had done the right thing, for himself and for Drizzt, by departing Port Llast. With what he thought a last glance, he turned around once more.
A magic alarm went off in his thoughts.
Traveling alone down a dangerous road, Effron often enacted such divination spells, and now his magical ward, a spell to detect living creatures, told him that something, someone likely, was nearby.
He scanned carefully, but saw nothing. He quietly cast a spell to reveal invisible beings, but that, too, showed him nothing.
He completed a slow turn, ending with him facing out to the sea, looking out over a sheer drop. Slowly, he inched up to the lip of the low cliff.
Effron leaped back as a tall, red-haired man came over that lip, suddenly and so easily.
“Well met,” the man said, “again.”
Effron stared at him hard, unable to place him. He thought he had seen this man before, but under very different circumstances, likely, for in this place, in this time, he could not recall.
“Again?” Effron asked, leaning on his staff, and ready to put the powerful item into action.
“I know you, Effron son of Dahlia, even if you do not recognize me,” the stranger said. “Several times have you come through my city.”
The way he spoke the last two words, my city, sparked a bit of recognition in Effron. “High Captain Kurth?” he asked as much as stated.
“Good, you recognize
me,” the red-haired man replied. “That saves me the trouble of convincing you that I am one worthy of your time and attention.”
“It was a guess,” Effron said, for the two had never actually met. But Effron had seen this man from afar. After he, Drizzt, and the others had been rescued from Draygo Quick’s dungeons by Jarlaxle, they had gone through Luskan, and in that journey through the streets to a waiting wagon north of the city, he and the others had passed by Closeguard Isle. This man, or one who looked very much like him, had been watching them intently from the bridge, and Drizzt had whispered his name to Effron.
Effron’s eyes went wide, though, as he placed the man, for that had been before he had gone into the enchanted forest on the banks of a lake in Icewind Dale.
That had been nearly two decades earlier, yet this man standing before him would have been but a child …
The twisted warlock backed away a step and brought his staff before him. “Who are you?”
“You just said.”
“Who are you?” Effron demanded.
“I am Beniago, more commonly known as High Captain Kurth, as you stated.”
Effron shook his head, muttering, “It has been two decades, yet you seem a young man still.”
“Ah, I see,” Beniago said, and he gave a bow. “I am half-elven.”
Effron narrowed his eyes doubtfully.
“You left Drizzt in Port Llast?” Beniago asked.
“Your presumptions do not impress.”
“Please, must we play this game?”
“You could leave, or I could kill you,” Effron replied.
Beniago’s casual and amused smile warned him that such a task wouldn’t likely prove easy, but Effron kept faith that this one didn’t understand the truth of the dark power he was now facing. Surely most people underestimated this broken and frail-looking tiefling when first they saw him.
“When Jarlaxle pulled you from Draygo Quick’s tower, when Athrogate led you and Drizzt and Ambergris to the waiting caravan, who do you think … arranged all of that?” Beniago asked.
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