Rise of the King

by R. A. Salvatore

  His severe tone had Giselle off-balance, and even the barbarian’s friends seemed taken aback somewhat.

  “This is Nesmé land …” she tried to argue.

  “We are crossing this land,” he cut her short, “on our way to Mithral Hall. And if you or any others of Nesmé deign to stop us or even delay us with anything other than an offer of a fine meal, then you will be a meal for the birds, the worms, and the daisies.”

  “Enough, boy,” Giselle heard the dwarf say.

  But the barbarian shook his head, scowled even more fiercely, and lowered down so that he was closer and more imposing to the wounded and helpless woman. “I have been to Nesmé, so many years ago. I did not much like the people I found there on that occasion, and so the impression seems to hold true today. So mark my words and mark them well. You will find me less merciful than my companions.”

  With that, he turned around, and Giselle swallowed hard.

  “Listen to him,” Regis added solemnly, and his tone and demeanor showed that he was clearly shaken by the barbarian’s grim warning.

  Giselle rested back, turned away from the others, even bringing an arm up to shield her eyes, and said no more.

  “Surely unnatural,” Catti-brie said to the others, except for Drizzt and Regis, who had gone ahead to scout. They had come under the dark blanket that was Luruar’s sky, and as soon as the roiling blackness had gathered above them, it seemed as if night had descended in full. Looking back to the west, they could still see the sun, low and near the horizon, but its light was a meager thing indeed; they could stare at it with unshielded eyes, not even squinting. It was just an orange dot, far, far away.

  “I could have told you as much,” Giselle said from the back of the wagon. She was sitting up fully now, and feeling much better.

  “Aye, but ye didn’t,” said the dwarf called Bruenor—and Giselle thought it the height of presumption that a dwarf had named his child after that long ago king, and the height of absurdity that any dwarf of any clan would want to take the name of the dwarf who had imperiled the whole of Luruar out of such cowardice!

  “So busy are ye with throwing yer insults and yer threats, ye’ve not bothered to tell us anything worth hearing,” the dwarf went on. “So much akin to yer stupid ancestors. Bah!”

  “What would you know of that?” Giselle retorted, for clearly, this dwarf was younger than she!

  “Yeah, ye keep thinking that, stubborn fool,” the dwarf mumbled and turned away.

  Giselle stared after him and started to throw an insult, but Catti-brie spoke first. “Let your anger pass, both of you,” she begged. “There is no point to it. We are not enemies.”

  “Ain’t friends,” Bruenor insisted.

  “And no need to be,” said Catti-brie, and she turned to Giselle.

  “Just give me my horse and I will gladly take my leave,” the Rider of Nesmé said.

  Catti-brie shook her head. “Not yet, I beg. The halfling’s poison is a potent brew. The slumber might return, in mid-ride even. Just a bit longer, and I’ll renew my spells upon you, and you can safely go. Besides, our road is your road for a bit longer if you mean to return to Nesmé, in any case.”

  “I prefer a quieter road,” Giselle replied, and she stared at the back of the dwarf’s hairy head.

  “As would I,” said the huge man called Wulfgar, and he turned back to regard Giselle. “So would you please shut up?”

  Giselle glared at him, but he didn’t blink and didn’t back down. Indeed, a sly smile spread on his face, as if he knew something she did not, and under that intense gaze, Giselle felt herself blushing.

  Tucked into the leaves of a high branch, Regis looked upon the encampment with trepidation. The orc encampment, he believed, judging by the cut of the tents and the hunched forms he saw silhouetted against the central bonfire. Dark Arrow Keep lay many miles to the north and east, for he was on the very western edge of Luruar, a place not known for orcs.

  Or had the minions of Obould spread so far and wide, spilled from the borders of what had been their granted kingdom, expanding their lines with the sheer weight of numbers? Regis didn’t think that likely, particularly given the odd sky above and the rumors he had heard in the mead hall of Targ Kiefer.

  The notion, however, inspired a memory of Bruenor, sitting about a campfire one long-ago night, in the days of the first King Obould’s great invasion.

  “Bah, but they breed like bunnies in a field o’ clover,” the dwarf had said. “And who’d think it, for who’d want to breed with a thing so ugly?”

  The halfling turned back in the direction of the wagon and his companions, thinking he should go and tell them.

  But where had Drizzt gone off to?

  And what would he tell them, exactly?

  He looked back to the encampment. His mind drifted back across the years, to what he had been, to what he had determined he would be, to what he had become.

  He tapped his blue beret, settling it more firmly upon his head and called upon its magic. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. He hadn’t encountered many orcs, but having seen one or two up close on occasion made it a hard image to forget. He pictured the lupine ears and the dry and rough skin—was it green or gray?

  “And the tusks,” he whispered to himself, and imagined a boar’s face. He brought his hand up to where his hat had been, and now found long and stringy black hair.

  He reached into his pouch and brought forth a small mirror, but in the dim light, he couldn’t be sure of the disguise.

  He looked back to where his friends might be, full of doubt, but then turned resolutely to the camp, bent low and grasped the tree, then rolled under the branch, holding to his full length by his hands before dropping easily to the ground below.

  Regis tucked his mirror away, hoping he now appeared very much like a small orc, and no halfling.

  He set out immediately for the camp, quietly reciting and recalling the Orcish tongue, a language he had not spoken in this lifetime, though one he had known—not fluently, but well enough—in his previous existence.

  The ground was more open between him and the encampment and he knew that he’d have a hard time indeed in getting to the orcs without being seen. He crept to the edge of a small cluster of trees and tucked in close to one, peering around and trying to pick his path.

  A branch snapped behind him and Regis froze.

  An orc grunted out an indecipherable blurb, and Regis realized that his knowledge of the language might not be as strong as he had hoped.

  Slowly he turned, to see the ugly creature coming up beside him, muttering curses—yes, Regis recognized a few of those colorful words—and carrying an armload of firewood.

  “Bricken brucken spitzipit!” the orc demanded, or something like that.

  “Spitspit?” Regis echoed in puzzlement.

  The orc called him a name he did not know, though nothing positive, he could tell, and lifted a small log free of its armload. With a grunt and snarl, the orc cocked its arm and flung the missile at Regis, who nimbly dodged aside.

  “Bricken brucken spitzipit!” the orc demanded, pointing to the log with its free hand.

  Spitzipit … firewood!

  Regis snorted and grumbled and ran to retrieve the log, then darted into the trees to collect more as the grumbling orc ambled out of the copse and made for the distant encampment.

  It occurred to Regis that he could catch up to this one easily enough, and dispatch it before it even came to realize that he was no ally. He would return to his friends with blood on his blade, and surely they’d think him no coward!

  But he shook his head and looked to the encampment, and knew there were more important tasks right here before him. Besides, he realized, despite his revulsion at the mere sight of the filthy, slobbering creature, he wasn’t even sure if these orcs were enemies. Many-Arrows was a legitimate kingdom in the Silver Marches, one established by Bruenor despite the dwarf’s recent change of heart.

  He quickly colle
cted an armload of firewood, hustled out of the trees, and made for the camp. He saw other orcs similarly burdened with firewood paralleling his course and knew that he could not turn back without causing a commotion.

  He entered tentatively, trying not to look as nervous as he felt, and fell into line behind the others depositing their firewood beside one of the main bonfires in the encampment. The wood-gatherers then went to a steaming pot off to the side, where a most ugly orc ladled some foul-smelling stew into shallow bowls for them. Regis glanced around as he dropped his armload, and noted that all of the wood-gatherers were going for their meal.

  Not wanting to direct any attention, the halfling-turned-orc moved over and picked up a bowl and spoon, and successfully stifled a retch as the filthy stew was plopped onto his plate.

  He moved aside, rolling the contents with his spoon to make it look like he was interested in the meal as he weaved his way through the orcs that were milling about. He was the smallest in the area, and by quite a lot. Orcs came in various sizes, of course, and many were half-goblin, making them smaller than the average. But even though the magic of the beret now made Regis appear taller, the top of his head barely reached the shoulders of any orc he passed by.

  That fact alone got him shoved a few times by the bullying brutes, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before the unwanted attention turned rougher.

  He moved to the far side of the camp, where the firelight was less, and sat down upon a fallen log, hoping that his seated posture would draw less attention. Then he lowered his eyes and went at the gruel with his spoon, shifting it about and occasionally looking up and pretending to chew, as if he had taken a mouthful—which he most certainly had no intention of doing!

  And mostly, he listened.

  The word he heard most and actually recognized was “Nesmé.”

  This was no hunting party out beyond the borders of Many-Arrows, he soon discerned. Nor was it a rogue band of raiders.

  No, this was the western flank of an army, an orc army marching to lay waste to the town of Nesmé.

  Regis glanced about, looking for some way to slip off into the darkness and make his escape. When he turned back to the campfire, though, he found his plans altered, as an orc walked over and sat down beside him, glowering at him.

  The brute muttered something Regis couldn’t understand, and when the poor and confused halfling-turned-orc didn’t respond, the orc slugged him in the shoulder.

  The jolt nearly dislodged Regis from the log, and he bit his tongue so hard that he could feel the warmth of blood in his mouth. The orc motioned to the shallow bowl and uttered another growling demand.

  Regis looked to the gruel and caught on, and immediately, obediently—and ultimately happily—handed the wretched stew over.

  The orc pulled it from his grasp and thrust its own platter, licked clean, into Regis’s hands, then went at the new bowl furiously, slobbering and spitting the contents all over itself. With the orc engaged, the halfling slipped off the far side of the log and started out, picking a shadowy route to the field and tree line.

  An argument gave him pause, though, for he recognized a different language than common Orcish. Indeed, it was a goblin speaking, he believed, and he quickly recognized that he understood that language much better than the tongue of the orcs. Despite his very real fears at getting caught and thrown into the next batch of ugly stew, Regis crept about to the corner of a nearby tent and eavesdropped.

  He spotted the goblin—a shaman, judging from the tattered and garishly-colored robes it wore, along with a necklace of assorted teeth and feathers and small bones.

  “We do not attack until the others come,” the goblin insisted.

  “Farmers! Outside the walls,” the orc counterpart argued, speaking the goblin tongue as well.

  “Coordinated!” the goblin cried, wagging a finger at the orc, who, to Regis’s surprise, did shrink back a bit. “We go when we are told to go.”

  “And if they see us?”

  “Then we are hunters and well met. Well met, human folk. We will not kill your cows and sheep. No, we eat wolf, and many wolfs will we take for pets. Yes, glad you will be that we came here. Your night is full of wolfs,” the goblin recited, and it was clearly a practiced speech.

  The orc growled and spat upon the ground, but it was obvious that the goblin held the upper hand, amazingly. Perhaps it was because of the shaman status, but in any event, it became evident to Regis that this group was not independent, and that someone of a higher rank had determined that the orc should listen to the goblin.

  That was a good thing, the halfling thought, though he wasn’t sure of why until he found himself inexplicably creeping behind the goblin as it moved along the avenues between the many tents and into a wide boulder tumble.

  A boulder tumble that contained a deep cave, burrowing under a hillock, Regis discovered. With a glance around, the halfling tapped his beret once more and became a goblin, then slipped into the cave without a whisper of sound.

  The tunnel broke into three, forking left and right and continuing straight ahead into a deeper room where torches blazed. Regis crept ahead and flattened himself beside a rock, gaining a good viewing angle. A score and more of goblins moved about a small pool of water, carrying bowls of similarly disgusting stew, while others danced and prayed and still others sat in the shadows against the far wall sharpening their spears.

  A noise from the left-hand side tunnel behind him froze Regis in place, and he pressed himself more fully against the stone.

  A group of goblins came into the intersection behind him and headed out.

  “Take food,” he heard a voice down the side passage tell them, and it sounded very much like the shaman he had seen outside. “More will come, yes?”

  “More,” one of the departing goblins replied. “Two tribes, but the tunnels are deep and they will not be here this day.”

  “Two tribes,” Regis mouthed silently. He held his place for many heartbeats, then slipped back the way he had come and eased down the left-hand tunnel.

  The tunnel ended only a short way down, around a sharp bend, with an oval natural chamber lying before him and a second one off to his right. He crept up to the makeshift, ill-fitting door and peered in.

  There stood the goblin shaman, the goblin leader, it seemed, fiddling with stones set in lines on rough shelves along one wall, arranged like some crude abacus. In the center of the room, a ladder protruded from a hole in the floor.

  “Deep tunnels,” Regis silently recounted, and he realized that this was a hole into the Underdark, likely, and that the goblins were gathering reinforcements.

  He moved to the other room, noted the makeshift cot and bedroll, and with a glance behind, crept in.

  He found a bundle of parchments, written in stylish letters and rich ink, neither of which could have goblins as its source. Flipping through, he noted rolls, names, and orders.

  And noted, too, the signature of the author: Tos’un Do’Urden.

  The halfling-turned-orc-turned-goblin’s jaw dropped open. He knew of one named Tos’un, but that drow was surely no Do’Urden!

  Regis swallowed hard, not knowing what to make of all of this.

  He heard the shaman coming his way.

  There were no other exits.

  EYES TO THE EAST

  OH, THEY WILL HEAD EAST, NO DOUBT,” BENIAGO SAID TO JARLAXLE. The pair walked the streets of Luskan one warm evening. The wind blew off the water, offering a bit of relief to the muggy and hot weather that had settled over the Sword Coast this midsummer month of Flamerule.

  Jarlaxle looked out at the boats bobbing in the harbor and shook his head. Drizzt and the Companions of the Hall returned and together again, youthful and ready for adventure.

  And ready to go to war, no doubt, and likely Quenthel’s war in Luruar.

  “What word from the Silver Marches?” Jarlaxle asked.

  Beniago shrugged and shook his head. “I have spent the last tendays reorgani
zing the Bregan D’aerthe soldiers you slipped out of House Do’Urden and have sent my way. And in hunting down the stragglers from Entreri’s group, as you asked.”

  “The Darkening has been cast, to full effect?”

  “That much I know, yes,” Beniago confirmed. “And there are rumors that the orcs have marched in force.”

  “And what of Entreri?”

  Beniago snorted and wore a perplexed expression, and Jarlaxle took a deep breath and steadied himself. He was all over the place, his questions bouncing back and forth with little logical guidance.

  “I am relieved to be out of Menzoberranzan, and out from under the thumb of dear Matron Mother Baenre,” he said calmly in explanation.

  “And I am relieved to have you back in command,” Beniago replied, and he dipped a respectful bow. “To your question, Artemis Entreri got out of Gauntlgr—Q’Xorlarrin. This much I know, and I have been told by one of the Xorlarrin commoners that Priestess Berellip was murdered in her bed. Matron Mother Zeerith has whispered it to be the work of Drizzt Do’Urden, but I think not.”

  “Entreri,” Jarlaxle stated more than asked, and Beniago nodded.

  “So he is out and about, though as to where, I cannot begin to guess,” Beniago went on. “He has not found the trail of Drizzt and the others, it would seem, and did not go to or through Port Llast. Of that I am certain, or as certain as one can be with the likes of Artemis Entreri. Beyond that, however, I can find no sign of him. Perhaps he winds his own road to intercept Drizzt at some future, agreed-upon place.”

  “And Drizzt’s trail?”

  “Through the forest and the east road to Longsaddle. Perhaps he and his companions remain there, or perhaps they have already moved on farther to the east. They have not come back west, I am sure.”

  The pair approached the bridge to Closeguard Isle and the castle of Ship Kurth. Just to the side loomed the walled ruins of Illusk, the ancient city that predated Luskan. Kimmuriel was there, Jarlaxle knew, deep down in the catacombs of old Illusk with Gromph. Jarlaxle nodded farewell to Beniago and veered to the ruins. He picked up his pace, anxious to find answers.