Rise of the King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Get your sleep where you will,” Jolen Firth said, for their expressions showed that there was no chance at changing their minds on this. “If what the drow claims is true, you will need it.”

  “If what the drow says is true, and it is, don’t you doubt,” said the woman who had been introduced as Ruqiah, “and you’re not listening to his warning, then your town’s lost … in one day.”

  “So I have been told,” said the First Speaker, and he waved them away.

  “At least he didn’t chase us out of Nesmé,” Wulfgar said when the group moved outside, heading for the northwestern corner of the wall. “A great improvement over our first journey through this town.”

  “Bah,” Bruenor replied and he spat upon the ground. “Sooner meself’s gone from here, sooner I’ll be smilin’ again.”

  “How many?” Wulfgar asked Drizzt.

  “Hundreds,” the drow answered. “At least. And more coming, by the thousands, no doubt. Nesmé will be hard-pressed.” He paused and looked squarely at Bruenor as he finished, “For many tendays, likely.”

  “Then here we stay,” Catti-brie said before Bruenor could argue against the drow’s look.

  “Nesmé’s in the war,” Bruenor replied, “and so Mithral Hall’s in the war. Don’t ye be tellin’ me me place.”

  “We do not know that,” said Drizzt.

  The dwarf stormed past them, heading straight for the ladder, and Catti-brie and Drizzt grinned at each other knowingly. For all of his complaining, Bruenor would not forsake the folk of Nesmé.

  The group of dark elves and Warlord Hartusk’s orc entourage arrived at the scene of the fight, where goblins and orcs lay tangled in bloody death. Hartusk’s scouts had alerted them to the grisly scene just after the dawn. They had come out expecting to find that the Riders of Nesmé had intercepted and slaughtered the troupe, but it was clear that these foot soldiers, goblins and orcs, had waged war against each other.

  “Such vermin,” a disgusted Ravel Xorlarrin said, drawing a severe look from Hartusk.

  The drow wizard merely smiled at that and continued, “A foolish troupe.” Again he paused, weighing the dangerous orc’s response as he placed boundaries around his insult, taking it from a general insult to orc-kind, which it surely had been, to a more narrow complaint against this particular group.

  Judging by the continuing scowl of Hartusk, the drow wizard wasn’t much succeeding.

  “Even the shaman,” Tos’un Armgo called from the side of the battlefield, the north rim of the small dell where the goblins and orcs had waged their fight.

  “The orc shaman,” Doum’wielle added, surprisingly from above, for she had climbed into a tree to take a wider look at the area. “His name?”

  “Innanig,” said Warlord Hartusk. “Where is the dirty goblin shaman?”

  His orcs began rummaging about the bodies, but came up shaking their heads.

  “So perhaps they are not all dead, at least,” said Ravel Xorlarrin. “And perhaps your orders were relayed to the battle group.”

  “Unlikely,” came the call from above, and when all looked up, they saw Doum’wielle pointing to the southwest.

  Hartusk and the two dark elves moved quickly to the southern rim of the small dell and climbed up to the highest nearby point. Before they even got to that high ground, however, they understood Doum’wielle’s call, for a cloud of dust rose before them, far away, into the dim daylight.

  An army was on the move, clearly.

  Hartusk began to growl, clenching his huge fists as his sides.

  “They march for Nesmé,” Tos’un said before Ravel could flash him a hand signal to shut up.

  Hartusk growled a bit louder. “It was a dark elf,” he grumbled.

  Tos’un looked to Ravel for some answers, for though the drow were marching under the common banner of House Do’Urden, the Xorlarrin Clan was most prominent in the Silver Marches at that time. The Menzoberranzan forces had arrived, but they remained in the north, other than Tos’un, Doum’wielle and Saribel, and Tiago and his group who had traveled back to the Sundabar siege. Ravel had been given the duty of magically transporting the orc warlord from force-to-force, taking the Armgo father and daughter with him.

  The Xorlarrin wizard shook his head.

  Which of your Xorlarrin brethren did this? Tos’un’s fingers subtly flashed.

  Ravel merely shrugged and shook his head again, having no answer. The Xorlarrins had many scouts out and about, of course, though few this far to the west. It was possible that the unpredictable Matron Mother Baenre had some of her own in the region, moving about secretly.

  That was always the problem in coordinating a drow march, Ravel silently lamented. Excessive secrecy was no friend to complementary movements!

  “This is not the plan,” Doum’wielle called down. “The third battle group is not yet on the field.”

  “Saribel?” Ravel asked under his breath, as the half-drow’s remark reminded him that his sister was leading that third group, and had attendants with her. Had she sent some scouts ahead to stir up trouble, perhaps?

  Tos’un moved over to him, shaking his head, having caught the quiet question. “She does not know the land and would not be so bold as to order a charge.”

  “What do we do, drow?” Warlord Hartusk demanded, marching over to stand before the two.

  “We could go back to your forces and begin our own charge beside them,” Tos’un offered.

  “Too far,” Hartusk and Ravel replied together, and Hartusk’s tone showed that he was not amused, and understandably so. The siege at Sundabar, a city many times the size of Nesmé, was proceeding according to plan. The Sundabar garrison was hard-pressed and could not hope to break out from the walled city, and the people inside, no doubt, were feeling the hunger pains as their rations diminished day by day. And the tunnelers were hard at work, and what a surprise it would be to the folk of Sundabar when a huge portion of their formidable high wall collapsed before them!

  But while that was in process, Warlord Hartusk had grown restless, and so Tiago and the others had convinced the impatient orc to travel about the battlefields, perhaps to grab at the low-hanging fruit, such as Nesmé, with a population of barely three thousand and a garrison, though hardened by many fights with bog blokes and trolls, numbering no more than a few hundred.

  The plan the drow leaders had set in motion back at Dark Arrow Keep was simple: first to isolate the three dwarf citadels, then to go against the line of Luruar’s human cities, Sundabar, Silverymoon, and the least of them, little Nesmé. Little, but strategic, for with Nesmé down, the western flank of the war would belong to Many-Arrows, and when Sundabar fell soon after, the south-central cities of Silverymoon and Everlund would be isolated from any remaining allies in the Luruar alliance.

  The war would be all but won, and Many-Arrows from that point forward could surely set the terms of any treaty—terms that would tear Silverymoon and Everlund away from the dwarf citadels in any meaningful way and allow the minions of rising Warlord Hartusk, with secret help from the drow, to pick off the dwarf fortresses one by one.

  Much of the timetable depended on what would transpire here, at Nesmé. A swift and inexpensive victory would solidify the western flank and offer Hartusk a large and menacing force in the west, and curling back to Silverymoon. If the destruction of Nesmé could be accomplished quickly and completely, no aid for Hartusk’s enemies would dare enter the Silver Marches from the west.

  “They will be at Nesmé’s wall before we muster the battle groups and begin our march in earnest,” Doum’wielle lamented, lithely swinging down from her high perch to land on the ground near Ravel and the orc warlord.

  “Go and stop them,” Hartusk demanded, pointing back to the distant army.

  “They are halfway …” Doum’wielle started to protest, but her voice trailed away under Hartusk’s withering gaze.

  The orc warlord dropped his demanding stare over Ravel.

  “I’ve one spell,” the
wizard replied. “A teleport, to take you and our entourage back to our ranks outside of Sundabar.”

  Hartusk began a low growl.

  “Perspective, Warlord Hartusk,” Ravel said. “This is not the important battle, and it is one we will win despite the foolishness of those now charging Nesmé’s walls. When Saribel’s force is positioned in the east, Nesmé will surely crumble.” He looked to the considerable cloud of dust in the southwest. “If it has not fallen beforehand.”

  “Let us lead the other group …” the orc began, but Ravel dared to interrupt.

  “I understand your eagerness, for you are a creature of Gruumsh, a true orc warrior,” he said, and knew it was likely the compliment had saved him a violent confrontation then and there. He pointed to the distant force running for Nesmé. “This,” he explained, “is a flank, and one made mostly of goblins, who are surely expendable. Send runners to scout, I beg. They will not catch the charge in time to avert the fight, but they will return with news, either glorious or informative.”

  Ravel gave a little laugh, trying to put everyone at ease. “Indeed, perhaps this will play out for the best. Let this serve as our test assault—your commanders will better know the battlefield, and the strength of our enemies.”

  “I will see this town destroyed!”

  Ravel nodded. “Then let the battles begin, and let the siege of Nesmé commence. Wear them down and wound them while Sundabar falls. Sundabar, King Hartusk, mighty Sundabar. Ten times the size of Nesmé, with walls thrice the height and fortitude. What might the great city of Silverymoon think when that is done, when Sundabar is in ruin?

  “Yes, Warlord Hartusk, let Nesmé sit in siege and let the first shock be the greatest. Sundabar is hard-pressed, the plans are underway. They’ll not hold. That is the prize to claim before winter.”

  Unbeknownst to his companions, Ravel had edged his voice with minor magical spells as he promised glory to the orc warlord. The wizard glanced at Tiago, who was nodding hopefully. Despite the earlier plans for burying Nesmé, Tiago wanted Saribel alone to claim this victory, and surely not the orc warlord. All of them, Tiago, Ravel, Tos’un, Doum’wielle and Saribel needed that prized feather in the cap of House Do’Urden, their House, to gain leverage with Matron Mother Baenre. Do’Urden was their House now, and a Noble House, eighth in the city.

  Eighth. A position that could be improved, given the pedigree of the House Do’Urden nobles.

  The orc warlord’s assenting nods told the wizard that the magic, the argument, or a combination of both, was having the desired effect.

  “Let us go and inform your commanders,” Ravel coaxed. “And then back to Sundabar for us, to drive on the tunnelers that we might find a great victory before the snows settle on the land.”

  With one last look at the receding dust cloud in the southwest, King Hartusk grunted and started back to the east.

  “If the goblin shaman is found alive after the battle, keep him alive,” Ravel and his two companions heard Hartusk instruct one of the brutes marching beside him. “Bring him to me alive. His flesh will taste better if it is peeled while he still draws breath.”

  Doum’wielle cast a concerned glance at both her father and Ravel, but they each shrugged it away as if the orc warlord’s gruesome demand was nothing out of the ordinary. They were drow, after all, raised in Menzoberranzan.

  They had seen worse.

  “Two thousand, at least,” Wulfgar told his friends, who, along with hundreds of Nesmé citizens, crouched quietly behind the city walls. First Speaker Jolen Firth had heeded their warnings and in the dark of night had called up every able-bodied man and woman.

  Scores of archers kneeled or sat behind the battlements. The entirety of the Riders of Nesmé, some hundred armored warriors, milled about near the gate, their horses saddled and ready. Every cleric in the city had been called up, placed strategically about the northwestern corner of the wall—a wall that was now thick with extra ladders, to get reinforcements up quickly and efficiently, and to get the inevitable wounded down to the courtyard to be healed. The handful of magic-users in the city had also been roused from their beds early that morning, and clustered now about Catti-brie, the woman who called herself Ruqiah.

  Catti-brie had taken charge of that group. She showed them her spells-cars and told of her training among the Netherese in the City of Shade, and her extensive study with the Harpells of Longsaddle.

  “Well, we’ll likely all be inadvertently turned into frogs, then,” one wizard in blue robes lamented playfully at her admission of the latter training, for wide indeed was the reputation of the exotic and eccentric Harpell clan.

  Catti-brie shared in the mirth, but her face went grim immediately as she recounted the battle she had fought the previous night.

  “Fireballs, and other spells of fire,” she told them.

  “My strongest spell is an ice storm,” one replied.

  “Keep it away from the giants, then,” said the old wizard in the blue robes.

  “Fire spells,” Catti-brie reiterated. “A finger’s wash of flames to clear a ladder top. A fireball to make a frost giant turn about.”

  “I’ve a spell of powerful digging at my disposal,” an old woman boasted. “Let them put up their ladders and I’ll drop them all in a hole! Haha!”

  “Keep it far from the wall,” another warned. “Sure that you’ll collapse the stones of Nesmé, old fool.”

  “Aye,” agreed the wizard in the blue robes, who seemed to Catti-brie to be a friend of the old woman. “If you undermine the wall, the giants will have no trouble knocking it down.”

  The old wizard-woman nodded and glanced about at the riders, who were moving to their horses. “Thousands, your friend said. Let’s hope our warriors do not need to ride out from behind our walls.”

  “Let us hope that our arrows and spells will turn our enemies about and thin their ranks, that the riders might destroy them all,” Catti-brie said, and she nodded across the courtyard, to where Drizzt was even then calling mighty Andahar to his side. He would keep the unicorn near him, below his place on the battlement. He’d put Taulmaril to good use this day, but if the Riders of Nesmé did go out from the walls, Drizzt meant to ride beside them.

  The other mages, and everyone else watching, gasped at the magical appearance of the great unicorn. First it appeared tiny, as if far, far away, but it doubled in size with a running stride, then again and a third time, so that when it arrived beside Drizzt, it stood seventeen hands and more, with rippling muscles showing under its snowy coat all along its powerful neck. Andahar pawed the ground and tossed its head, the long ivory horn shining despite the dim light, as if in defiance of the darkened sky.

  A pair of dwarves walked over to the mage group. “Girl, ye get me a mount for when them gates fling open,” the one called Bonnego told Ruqiah.

  “When needed,” she answered. “We’ll be hard-pressed here, I fear.” She looked to the other dwarf and asked, “And you?”

  Athrogate produced a small obsidian boar statue. “Snort,” he said with a wry smile.

  Catti-brie nodded and turned back to confer with the wizards.

  “You’ve some colorful friends,” the old wizard in the blue robes remarked.

  “Colored red with orc blood by the end of the day, no doubt,” Catti-brie answered.

  Soon after, they heard the sound of the enemy charge, though they were still quite far away. They heard the shouts—the orcs and goblins weren’t trying to disguise their attack at all. They had fallen for the ruse Drizzt and Regis had coaxed upon them. To their thinking, according to Drizzt, Nesmé was nearly deserted now, and with almost all of her warriors out to the south.

  That was their chance.

  Catti-brie looked around at the men and women up on the wall, shoulder-to-shoulder in this section. Every other one, it seemed, tapped an index finger over his or her pursed lips, calling for absolute silence.

  She noted Drizzt climbing a ladder, Taulmaril in hand. He made the wall a
nd peered out between the battlements.

  He looked down to Catti-brie and pointed to another position on the wall, the one in line with the frost giants.

  “There is our place,” Catti-brie quietly instructed her wizard companions. “Kill as many of our enemies as you can, to be sure, but focus your strongest spells on the giants.”

  FIELD OF BLOOD AND FIRE

  DISGUISED AS SHAMAN KLLUG, REGIS HAD PATROLLED THE ENTRANCE TO the Underdark caverns diligently that previous night, making sure that none of his monstrous minions slipped outside into the open air. He had to keep their morning charge a secret until they were well away from this spot, well away from the main battle group and Warlord Hartusk and the dark elves.

  But would it all work anyway?

  The halfling in the guise of the goblin shaman paced the corridors, mumbling to himself. Even if they were successful with the plan he and Drizzt had hatched, causing a rout of this group of monsters, what then? Thousands of orcs and other vicious enemies had assembled and more were on the way. How long could Nesmé, even if tomorrow brought an overwhelming victory, withstand the weight of the orc press?

  Perhaps he should slip out in the night, he had pondered many times, and run to Nesmé with word for his friends and for all the townsfolk that it was time to flee that doomed place. Surrender the city—it had happened in the first Obould war—and flee to Silverymoon or Everlund.

  The option seemed plausible to him, except that he knew he couldn’t begin to execute it. He would never get to Nesmé in time to facilitate an evacuation, even if they would listen—and when had the stubborn people of Nesmé ever listened to anything? And if Hartusk’s arrayed forces caught the folk out on the road, out from behind their high walls, the slaughter would be that much easier.

  So Regis had found himself trapped here with no good options.

  “Play for the day,” he told himself. “Win the day, each day, and so you will win the war.”

  His resolve hardened, but later on, he found himself faltering yet again, when a huge tribe of ogres—scores of the brutes—came in to join the goblin and orc force. And not just any ogres, no. These giants were heavily armored and armed with fine weapons. And with them came ogrillon—so many of the squat and powerful troops. Ogrillon were the offspring of ogres and orcs, more the height of the latter, but thicker and stronger by far. These monsters, too, were wonderfully arrayed for battle.