Rise of the King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Ye’re Jolen Firth?” Bruenor asked, hands on hips and a scowl on his face.

  “First Speaker,” the burly guard beside him corrected. But the man at the base of the ladder held up his hand to calm the excitable soldier.

  “I am,” he answered.

  “Well, ye might want to be tellin’ yer boys’n’girls here to turn their eyes out to the night, as there be monsters out there lookin’ yer way.”

  “Yerself’d do well to listen to him,” remarked Athrogate, standing by the First Speaker. “That one there, he’s a lot more than he looks, I tell ye.”

  “Do tell me,” Jolen Firth bade the dwarf, but Athrogate merely answered with a belly-shaking “Bwahahaha!”

  “Or perhaps you would tell me, then,” the First Speaker called up to Bruenor.

  “Me friends’re soon to be coming in,” Bruenor replied. “We’re up here waiting for ’em.”

  “Come and speak with me,” Jolen Firth replied. “Nesmé’s sentries will watch for your friends and bring them to us when they arrive.”

  “No they won’t,” said Catti-brie, drawing a curious look from the man.

  “One’s a drow elf,” Bruenor said bluntly. “Are yer boys ready to let that one in?”

  “A dark elf?” Jolen Firth replied, and it seemed as if the words would stick in his throat.

  “Aye, and one once known in Nesmé, and not as any enemy.”

  The First Speaker held up his hands curiously.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden,” Catti-brie explained. “Once a great friend to Nesmé, once the champion of King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall. He is out there, scouting, and will come to us with …”

  “Battlehammer,” the burly guard beside Bruenor spat with clear disgust. “Aye, Bruenor Orc-Friend, and curse his ugly face and curse his wretched name.”

  Catti-brie looked to Bruenor as if expecting him to simply throw the man from the battlements. Down below, Athrogate laughed all the louder.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden?” Jolen Firth asked skeptically. “King Battlehammer?”

  “Aye, the same and the same,” Bruenor replied. “Once friends o’ Nesmé.”

  “I do not believe that Nesmé ever considered King Bruenor a friend,” said Jolen Firth.

  Bruenor snorted at that, but before he could launch into the obviously forthcoming tirade, Catti-brie stepped before him.

  “Galen Firth is your great-grandfather?” she asked.

  “My grandfather’s grandfather,” Jolen Firth corrected.

  The woman nodded, for the point would still stand. “When the first King Obould marched from the Spine of the World and Nesmé was overrun, her people sent fleeing across the open ground, Mithral Hall came to their aid, though Mithral Hall, too, was then under siege.”

  “I know the tale,” the First Speaker replied. “But that was not King Bruenor.”

  “No, it was his Steward, because he had been gravely wounded battling Obould’s orcs,” said Catti-brie. “His steward and dear friend, the halfling Regis. A desperate Galen Firth went to him for help, and feared help would not come because Galen Firth and the Riders of Nesmé had ill-treated Bruenor’s band when first they had come through Nesmé, and all because among that band was …”

  “A dark elf named Drizzt Do’Urden,” Jolen Firth admitted. “Aye, and you are clearly well-versed in the lore of the land, young woman.”

  “Still, Bruenor would have sent the same aid,” Catti-brie insisted. “Galen Firth knew it, and you cannot dispute it. Mithral Hall was no enemy to Nesmé in the days of the first King Obould, and even after that fight, when Nesmé was reclaimed and rebuilt, and dwarves of Mithral Hall sent aid and skilled builders. The very stones of your wall were cut in Mithral Hall, were they not?”

  Jolen Firth stared at her hard, but did not reply.

  “The dwarves of Mithral Hall were good friends to Nesmé,” Catti-brie finished.

  “Until Bruenor signed the treaty,” muttered the troublesome guard.

  “Aye,” others agreed.

  “A treaty forced …” Bruenor started to interject, but he looked to his girl and checked himself—actually, it was when the dwarf looked back at the First Speaker, and more pointedly, at the large barbarian standing on the wall beside him, within easy range of Jolen Firth and clearly simmering with near-explosive rage.

  Bruenor had never been fond of Nesmé, but Wulfgar had even less fondness for the town.

  Looking at Wulfgar then, both of the companions on the battlements with him realized that they had to get past this debate—more pressing problems were staring them in the face at that time!

  “Perhaps this discussion would be better suited to my private halls in the main keep,” Jolen Firth offered.

  “Aye, but at another time,” Bruenor said. He turned and pointed out over the wall. “Our friends’re out there, and coming in soon, we’re hopin’. And we’re meaning to meet them, and so should yerself. Aye, and one o’ the two’s Drizzt Do’Urden. Ye go and ask yer rider Giselle about that one and his cat. Ye go and ask her if she’s alive now because o’ Drizzt, and if she’s not saying aye, then she’s lying to ye.”

  “Enough, I beg,” Jolen Firth said, holding his hands up in surrender. He started to continue, but a call from the wall of “Rider approaching!” interrupted him.

  A moment later, the tinkling of bells could be heard drifting in on the night air, a sweet melody from the barding of a magnificent steed named Andahar.

  “Drizzt,” Catti-brie announced.

  The guards looked to First Speaker Firth.

  “Open the gates,” he said to them.

  The goblin shaman confidently strode out to stand before the orc group. He looked them over, up and down, then nodded.

  “Where is Korock?” asked the orc leader, perhaps the ugliest and most imposing orc Regis had seen since the first King Obould himself. The tone of that question made it sound more like a command, and left no doubt in poor Regis that if he answered it incorrectly, the orc would murder him on the spot. Shaman Kllug might have been given some leadership role over the smaller group, but in the big scheme of things, he apparently wasn’t as important as Regis had hoped!

  Regis glanced back over his shoulder to the encampment, far in the distance. He had rushed out upon hearing that a sizable contingent from the main force was on its way across the leagues to speak with him.

  Regis turned around—to find the orc even closer, towering over him. The creature’s spittle and foul breath rained down on him, nearly gagging him. But a goblin wouldn’t be put off by that stench, Regis reminded himself, and so he worked hard to not even crinkle his nose.

  “Korock angered the drow,” Regis answered.

  The big orc put on a puzzled expression and snapped his hand down to grasp Regis—Shaman Kllug—by the front of his robe and easily hoist him from his feet.

  “Drow?” the beastly orc asked.

  “The dark elf who came to us,” the halfling-turned-goblin squeaked. This orc’s power amazed him; he thought he was about to be simply broken. A twist of the thick wrist and his neck would surely snap!

  The huge orc looked around at his entourage, and that, too, was full of impressive physical specimens, as if they had been hand-picked from across the reaches of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows.

  Indeed they had.

  “Warlord Hartusk,” said one of the others, “should I go and find the wizard Xorlarrin?”

  Xorlarrin—Regis had certainly heard that name before. He swallowed hard, wanting no part of any dark elves other than Drizzt. He couldn’t imagine his disguise would fool a drow wizard!

  Hartusk tossed Regis from his grasp, sending him tumbling into the dirt. The imposter goblin pulled himself up quickly and hopped from foot to foot, as if ready to sprint away at first sign of threat. And indeed he was thinking exactly that. He glanced around at his companions, mostly goblins and a few orcs, including shaman Innanig, who was looking rather pleased at the treatment the goblin shaman was getting.


  “Who is this drow?” Hartusk demanded.

  “Of House Do’Urden,” Innanig replied, and looking supremely satisfied, Innanig stepped past the goblin shaman to stand as a representative of the group.

  Regis was more than happy to allow that. He had a feeling that Innanig had just inadvertently saved his life.

  It became problematic, however, when the orc shaman began relaying all of Drizzt’s orders regarding a midday attack. Hartusk’s face twisted in anger as the orc shaman went on, and the beastly warlord was shaking his head forcefully by the end of the shaman’s story.

  “The third group is not in place,” Hartusk said, grabbing Innanig and shaking him with such terrible force and terrible ease. “They are too near to Silverymoon and will not arrive for three days.”

  “We do not attack?” the suddenly not-so-confident Innanig asked.

  “We will crush Nesmé in short order, when all three groups are in position,” Warlord Hartusk replied.

  “Yes, Warlord. All hail King Hartusk!” Innanig said, and as Hartusk let him go, the orc shaman fell to his knees.

  Regis had to consciously remember to close his eyes a bit, as they were bulging. King Hartusk?

  “Until my word, you stay in your hole,” Hartusk ordered. “Have the goblin tribes arrived?”

  “Yes, King Hartusk. Four tribes. They are in the tunnels and ready to come forth for the glory of Many-Arrows!”

  The ugly and massive orc growled and nodded. The brute kicked Innanig hard, sending him sprawling. “Warlord Hartusk,” he corrected. “Let the puny dwarves and humans have kings.

  “Do you understand?” Hartusk bellowed. Innanig started to answer, but not quickly enough, for Hartusk stepped over and grabbed Innanig, yanking the flustered orc to its feet. After a rough shake, Hartusk slapped Innanig aside, which left the warlord’s baleful stare falling squarely over Regis.

  “Yes, Warlord Hartusk,” the halfling-turned-goblin squeaked, and he genuflected repeatedly, and strategically backed a bit further away.

  “Who is this drow?” Hartusk demanded, turning back to his own entourage, and all the orcs there shook their heads, shrugged and whispered among themselves. “Find Ravel,” he ordered one group, and the orcs ran off into the darkness.

  With a growl and a scan of the group that had come out with the orc and goblin shamans, Warlord Hartusk, too, turned around and began his return to the main battle group. He looked back only once, to toss a threatening stare back at the shamans, both goblin and orc.

  With a look to Innanig, Shaman Kllug motioned for his band to head back the way they had come. Regis began barking out orders, but Innanig shoved him aside roughly and demanded that he shut up. “You do not lead anymore, puny goblin,” the orc explained. “Warlord Hartusk has come with thousands of Many-Arrows orcs. You will do as Innanig demands.” He widened his gaze to include the other goblins about. “All of you.”

  The battle group wasn’t going to attack, Regis realized. The whole plan he had devised with Drizzt was disintegrating, leaving his friends trapped in Nesmé with an overwhelming force about to fall upon them.

  He faded back from Innanig and the other orcs, moving among a group of goblins. “The orcs will kill us,” he whispered to those about him. “They will send us in first to die, and any who do not fall to the arrows of Nesmé will be killed for the orcs’ pleasure.”

  He filtered among the goblins, leaving them with astonished and nervous expressions.

  He delivered his message of doom repeatedly, but said nothing directly about any action they should undertake.

  No, he knew from his experience with goblins, it would be up to him to start anything definitive.

  He waited until the whole of the troupe had started down the rim of a small, tree-filled dell. His hand moved under his robe and he felt the dirk on his right hip, taking some solace in the fact that both of the side catch blades had regenerated enough for use again.

  He closed in on Innanig from behind.

  The orc shaman wheeled about, as did the orcs flanking him left and right. One of Innanig’s guards leaped immediately for the threatening goblin, but Regis’s hand came fast out from under his robes, a tiny serpent flying through the air to land upon the orc, to scramble up its chest and wrap about its neck.

  And the specter appeared and jerked the shocked creature back and to the ground, choking it with the garrote. Several nearby orcs noted that, but they fell back in fear.

  Regis was still moving, his right hand coming out now, holding a hand crossbow, and he wasted not the blink of an eye in firing the bolt into Innanig’s ugly face.

  The orc shaman cried out in pain, the other orcs came forward.

  A second serpent took down the closest as Regis dropped his hand crossbow to the end of its tether, his hand going fast back under the shaman robes, his hand coming back out almost instantly, this time holding a rapier that whipped across to turn aside the thrusting spear coming at him.

  The halfling quick-stepped forward, past that attacking orc and up to Innanig, who stood there trembling—battling the drow poison, no doubt. And the poison became the least of its troubles as the hated rival goblin shaman strode forward and thrust, then retreated in perfect balance and came forward a second time, and a third and a fourth, and all so quickly that it seemed like a singular attack.

  Blood streaming from four holes in his chest, drow poison coursing his veins, Innanig crumpled to his knees and fell over into the dirt.

  And the orcs came on and Regis knew he was doomed.

  But the goblins came on, as well, meeting the orc charge, fighting as if their very lives depended on victory here.

  In the sudden tumult, Regis used his prism ring and warp-stepped past the closest orcs, rushing into the few in the trailing rank with fury and devastating stabs. Behind him the battle became a general melee, all chaos and confusion. In his little sphere, the first two orcs fell before they even realized he was there, and the third and last went down a moment later.

  Regis turned back to the melee, looking to pick his spots.

  Not to kill orcs, necessarily. He just wanted to keep it as even a fight as he could until both sides were whittled down.

  The orcs fought fiercely, but the goblins outnumbered them. With Regis’s help and instructions, one group of three goblins finished off the last nearby orc, and it seemed as if the fight was won, with only a single orc remaining alive, though it was gravely wounded and down on one knee.

  Regis reached into his pouch and produced a ceramic ball. He joined in a cheer with the goblins and sent them after the last orc, but barely had they gone past him when Regis crushed the ceramic ball, freeing the magic within the sealed container.

  A globe of impenetrable darkness covered the goblins. They began calling out and, judging from the sounds, bumping into each other.

  “Yes, drow,” Regis lied, and to the goblins he added, “Stop! The drow have come.”

  The area inside the darkness went silent.

  Regis disguised his voice and whispered something, then answered himself as Shaman Kllug. “Yes, Lord Do’Urden,” he said, “I will throw down my weapon. We will explain.”

  He waited a moment, then reiterated loudly, “I will throw down my weapon!”

  Still nothing, and the halfling-turned-goblin had to sigh and shake his head, muttering “idiots,” under his breath. He shouted explicit instructions into the darkness, “Throw out your weapons!”

  Two spears and a short sword came flying to the ground at his feet.

  With a wry smile, Regis waded into the darkness behind the weapons, rapier and dagger in hand.

  Very soon after, Shaman Kllug stabbed dead the last thrashing goblin and cut the throat from the last writhing orc. He ran off into the night and, terrified, almost veered south to make for Nesmé.

  Almost.

  He didn’t stop running until he had come again into the orc and goblin encampment, where he deflected the many questions coming at him regarding the ba
ttle noises in the night with a stern warning that “Warlord Hartusk is there. Warlord Hartusk has come!

  “And Shaman Innanig will ride with the war chief,” Regis told them, as would the others who had traveled out with him. He explained to the eager audience that those few goblins and orcs he had left behind would coordinate the movements of the massive central battle group in reinforcement of the glorious charge of this battle group.

  “Glory will still be ours, but we must be quick,” Shaman Kllug warned them all. “Warlord Hartusk will see us overrun Nesmé, and he will be grateful. Into the caves, everyone! Riders of Nesmé are about. If we are discovered, we will ruin Warlord Hartusk’s glorious plans, and he will eat us, every one.”

  He got them all back into the caverns of the upper Underdark, below the boulder tumble.

  Perhaps the hardest moment of either of Regis’s lives came when the last of the giants went into the tunnel and he had to go in behind them.

  “You have given me much to consider,” Jolen Firth said to the companions after a short meeting in his audience chamber.

  “We’ve given ye the chance to save yer city,” Bruenor, still posing as Bonnego, replied. He shot a concerned look Drizzt’s way, for the drow’s tale of a huge enemy encampment ready to strike at Nesmé had unnerved him, as well. “Question’s bein’, are ye too thickheaded to hear it?”

  Jolen Firth arched his eyebrows at that, and Athrogate gave another riotous laugh.

  “Indeed,” the First Speaker said a moment later. “I will consider what you have told me.” He signaled to a guard, and as the woman came walking over, instructed her, “Set rooms for them and get them a meal.”

  “We will take your meal,” said Wulfgar, the only one besides Drizzt who was using his real name—or at least, his real name from his former life. “But not your rooms. We’ve a friend out there in the night and so we’ll stay out at the wall.”

  “Ready to go runnin’ out if we’re needed,” Athrogate added, drawing curious looks from the others, to which he just shrugged and laughed.