The crowd grew quiet, orc-kind glancing all around, wondering, obviously, if the show had ended.
But the ogrillon executioner’s smile defeated that notion, and the brute reached under its filthy robe, brought forth a small vial, and held it up for all to see. The nearest creatures leaned forward in anticipation, not sure what to make of the item. Was this some new torture liquid, perhaps? Acid or poison, or maybe something to revive and partially repair the fallen human, that he could be tortured again for their pleasure?
But no, it wasn’t for him, they came to realize when the ogrillon started to turn, but swung back and hurled the small bottle out from the stage.
It soared out over the heads of the closest onlookers, past a hundred curious gazes, and crashed into the base of the bonfire, where the oil of impact promptly exploded, launching flaming logs and kindling, gouts of flame and stinging sparks, all around the back of the hall.
“Now!” the executioner, who was not an executioner, implored his barbarian friend, and Wulfgar put his feet under him and leaped away from the wall, his shackles falling free.
The ogrillon executioner lifted his hand again, displaying a cluster of small ceramic balls, though few in the confused and crazed and outraged audience noted the newest presentation.
Goblins screamed and orcs gasped, and few had sorted things out enough to make a move.
But some did, including an ogre near to the stage, who leaped up in one powerful movement.
Out went the executioner’s hand, ceramic pellets flying in a wide spread, and those balls hit and shattered, their concealed contents radiating light, magical light, divine, brilliant light!
The last of the ceramic balls hit the floor right in front of the approaching ogre, who growled in protest and hunched back, shielding its eyes, which had not seen such light in months!
“Follow! Run!” the ogrillon called to Wulfgar, and the barbarian did indeed.
But he paused after only a couple of steps, noting the crowd, dodging a spear that was flying his way, and focusing on one large orc in particular. That creature, large and fierce, seemed to be organizing the others, rallying it to its banner, which, held high as a standard, proved to be a most curious weapon indeed.
The ogrillon moved to the right side of the stage, to the tunnel that would take it from this place. Noting that the barbarian wasn’t right behind, the brute spun around—just in time to see Wulfgar, Aegis-fang somehow in hand, smash the ogre across the face and send it flopping from the stage onto a group of orcs that were trying to get up at him.
Hardly slowing, Wulfgar flung the hammer out into the audience, spinning it for one particularly large orc who stood there staring at its empty hands, hands that only a few moments before had held the very same warhammer that now caved in the side of its head.
Wulfgar and Regis, the phony ogrillon, rushed out of the room and down the hall to the torture chamber, a hundred monsters roaring in protest and charging in pursuit.
ON THE WINGS OF DRAGONS
TODAY,” TIAGO PROMISED WARLORD HARTUSK, THE DROW’S LONG WHITE hair blowing with every downbeat of great Arauthator’s wings. The ancient white dragon hovered above them, above the courtyard before the huge metal gates of the citadel of Sundabar.
Tiago looked up the side of the citadel, to the many ropes reaching out from it to the gigantic tree trunk Arauthator held in his powerful hind claws.
“Indeed, now,” the drow assured the warlord, and he moved Hartusk aside and looked up to, and called up to the dragon.
With a shriek that had orcs and goblins covering their ears for miles around, Arauthator dived down and away from the citadel, and when the ropes tugged, the dragon let go. The gigantic log, which sped down and swung in at the end of those many tethers, slammed full force into the doors of the keep.
The dragons had already weakened those portals, and now they tumbled in, both great doors and the metal jamb holding them plunging inward to the marble floor with a resounding crash.
In poured the goblin fodder, and behind them, Hartusk’s elite orc warriors, brandishing fine swords.
But the place was empty, as they had expected.
“The humans, dwarves, and their allies have fled,” came the reports, filtering back out from every possible location within the massive structure.
“Seal every exit from those granaries,” Hartusk ordered, nodding and unsurprised, for this had been predicted. Firehelm’s cowardly folk had fled to the Everfire Caverns below the granaries that lay beneath the great citadel. “Construct heavy doors within the tunnels, guard chambers all around. And heavier doors still at the granary entrances.”
Beside him, Tiago Baenre nodded his approval. They had anticipated this flight, and Hartusk, of course, had declared that he would chase after the fleeing Sundabar citizenry. But Tiago had offered a different course, this course, to secure the city, to seal the Underdark routes fully and claim the great Citadel of Sundabar for Many-Arrows.
“We will have the whole of the winter,” Tiago had explained to Hartusk, and so he and his fellow drow explained again at the first meeting within the citadel. “Let us block any return by Firehelm’s minions. Let us rebuild the walls of Sundabar.”
The orc warlord nodded, but still didn’t seem overly thrilled with the idea.
“Let us rebuild the walls of Hartusk Keep,” Tiago offered, and Hartusk seemed more amenable to the idea.
So it was, and so it went, with goblins and orcs working furiously to repair the walls and blasted structures of proud Sundabar for their own filthy uses.
In short days, the plan was going along splendidly, better than the drow could have hoped. This was the third city of Luruar, behind Silverymoon, which was also under heavy siege, and Everlund, sitting nervously just to the south.
“Conquering Sundabar so efficiently allows us to hold the siege,” Tiago explained to his fellow dark elves, Ravel and Tos’un, and to Doum’wielle and Hartusk and the great orc’s advisors. “From here, we can easily resupply and reinforce our hordes about Silverymoon’s gates throughout the deepest of the winter snows. There will be no reprieve for Luruar.”
“None,” Warlord Hartusk agreed, slamming his fist down hard on the oaken table, the same table King Firehelm and his commanders had often used, and from the same throne Firehelm had sat upon, and Frosthelm before him, and great King Helm before him.
“It is unfortunate that so many escaped,” Ravel Xorlarrin put in, and Tiago shot him an angry look. “We could have put them to use in rebuilding Warlord Hartusk’s city,” the wizard explained.
“Our victory is no less complete,” Tiago insisted. “In short months, we have trapped the dwarves in their three holes. We have slain King Bromm of Adbar and taken his head to Dark Arrow Keep.”
He marched about the table now, growing more animated with every word.
“We have thrown aside the line of Obould, for the greater glory of Gruumsh and his chosen, Warlord Hartusk.”
That brought cheers from the orcs.
“Nesmé is caught and held, Silverymoon besieged and helpless, and Sundabar has fallen. Already fallen!”
“Victory,” Warlord Hartusk growled, and the other orcs echoed.
“All of Luruar is doomed,” Tiago told them. “Soon after the spring melt, the only city above ground to remain in the hands of our enemies will be Everlund, and they will beg for mercy.”
“They will find no mercy,” said Hartusk, and the orcs cheered more wildly.
Ravel cast a sidelong glance at Tiago at that, however, for they had discussed this very matter privately. Menzoberranzan’s goals were not directly aligned with those of Warlord Hartusk. He wanted war, wanted blood, and there would never be enough to satisfy the brutal warlord.
But the drow understood the balance and the timing they must find. If they pushed too far—and Everlund might indeed be that one city too far—they would invite the wrath of outside powers, great kingdoms who themselves would feel threatened by an expanding orc empire. How might the
Kingdom of Many-Arrows, even with her gains, fare against the forces of Waterdeep and Mirabar, or the armies of Cormyr?
Tiago shook his head to comfort his companion. It did not matter. As they had discussed, Warlord Hartusk was their pawn and not the other way around. The white dragons would not side with the orcs above the commands of Gromph Baenre and Matron Mother Baenre herself. The giants would adhere to the orders of the phony three brothers of their god Thrym, and those three, too, were mere puppets of Gromph, and fully under the control of Methil.
Hartusk’s forces would go as far as the dark elves allowed, and if beyond that, they would be on their own.
“The Silver Marches will be ours,” Tiago promised anyway. “From the throne room of Silverymoon will we plot the fall of the dwarven kingdoms Adbar, Felbarr, and filthy Mithral Hall. And when they are ours, from their mines will come fine metals, and from their forges will come greater power. By the turn of 1486, Warlord Hartusk will know seven great cities in his domain, three from the dwarves and three from the humans, to complement Dark Arrow Keep.”
The orc warlord let out a long and low growl of approval at that promise.
“But only,” Tiago warned, “if we strictly adhere to the designs my war-skilled brethren have lain before us.”
Warlord Hartusk narrowed his yellow eyes at that not-so-subtle reminder of who was directing this war.
The very next day, Tiago’s proclamation was put to a great test, as drow couriers arrived from the west into Hartusk Keep, the new city of orcs.
Tiago caught up to the dark elf scouts as they entered Warlord Hartusk’s throne room. Across the way, the huge orc seemed quite at home, bedecked in a thick purple robe and a crown of jewels.
“What news?” Tiago asked as he made his way with them to the seated orc leader.
“From Nesmé,” explained a female Tiago recognized as one of Saribel’s handmaidens.
Tiago reached for her arm to slow her, but wisely deferred from touching her. She was a priestess of substantial rank, judging from her dress, and likely, he prudently reminded himself, a noble of House Baenre. He could not touch her without permission.
“Cousin?” he asked, and stopped, and the woman stopped, too, and turned to regard him.
“You are Do’Urden now, and not Baenre,” she reminded.
“I am always Baenre,” he dared to respond, and he stiffened his jaw with resolve. “I serve the matron mother first, Matron Darthiir second.”
The smile on the female’s face told him he had passed the test.
“What news from Nesmé?” he quietly asked. “Pray tell me before we inform the orc.”
“From Saribel,” the priestess explained. “Nesmé holds strong, and has found mighty heroes among her ranks.”
“We were warned that it was a stout town, not unused to battle.”
“What is the delay?” Warlord Hartusk shouted from the other end of the hall, but Tiago held up his hand to bid patience from the brute. Hartusk, of course, immediately sent his soldiers to gather the pair.
“A drow is named among those heroes,” the priestess quickly and quietly explained. “One with purple eyes, who rides a unicorn and throws lightning from his mighty bow.”
Tiago found it hard to draw breath.
“Drizzt?” he whispered as the orcs gathered him and the priestess up and hustled them to stand before Warlord Hartusk.
The priestess grinned at him, all the answer he needed.
“What news?” Hartusk demanded.
“Fine news,” Tiago said before the priestess could speak. He could hardly get the words out, for he was trembling with excitement. “Nesmé is near to surrender, Warlord. My wife Saribel has softened their walls. Before the first snows, Nesmé, too, will be ours.”
Hartusk slammed his fist upon the arm of his throne, his eyes shining hungrily. “I wish to stomp them under my own boots,” he growled, seeming more angry than pleased.
“And so you shall,” Tiago assured him. “You and I—the dragons will take us there. We will see the fall of a second Luruar city before the first snows descend upon the land.”
Later that same day, Hartusk and Tiago stood in the courtyard before the citadel, the Old White Death, Arauthator, crouched on the cobblestones before them.
“Plunder, you promised, and so there is,” the dragon warned, seeming less than pleased by Tiago’s demands that they fly far to the west. “Jewels and gems are here, in this place, and they are mine.”
Warlord Hartusk narrowed his yellow eyes and turned a baleful glare over Tiago.
“Indeed, they are, great wyrm of the north,” the drow answered, ignoring the brutish orc. What was Hartusk about to say, after all, in the face of an angry dragon? “Will you convey them, or will your son Aurbangras fly the load to your lair in the mountains?”
The dragon tilted its head, staring at him curiously. Up above, gliding back and forth across the city, the younger wyrm roared.
“Only one will be needed in the west, in Nesmé, the city of the marketplace of Luruar,” Tiago explained, making sure to accentuate the word “marketplace” to the insatiable wyrm.
“Spread a thick net wide across this square,” Arauthator ordered. “Fill crates with gems and jewels and gold, and cover the net with these crates. If I deem it enough, I will grant your passage to Nesmé.”
“And if not?” Hartusk said before Tiago could make the foolish orc shut up.
Arauthator let out a low growl that rumbled through the foundations of every house and structure in Sundabar. Far away from that central square, the vibrations dislodged a huge slab of stone from the wall Arauthator had smashed. It slid free, cleaving a goblin mason in half before splashing down in the eel-infested moat.
“If not, perhaps I will eat the crown from your head, puny orc,” the dragon answered, and Arauthator smiled—or perhaps it was more a mere display of the dragon’s massive teeth than an actual smile!
Whatever the source of that wicked grin, the effect proved immediate and complete.
Before the sun was halfway to the western horizon, Aurbangras lifted away from Sundabar with a huge net of crates. To the north, the son of Arauthator flew to the cavern lair of Old White Death.
Arauthator’s journey was to the east. The dragon would never admit it to Tiago, certainly, but Arauthator was quite enjoying this play. For too long, Arauthator had remained high in the Spine of the World, away from the civilized lands. Now the wyrm enjoyed again the smell of battle and the thrill of slaughter.
With Tiago, Ravel, and Hartusk upon its back, the Old White Death set off for the east, for Nesmé.
“And Drizzt,” Tiago whispered, thinking that his moment of ultimate glory would soon be upon him.
He would find the favor of Lolth, the blessing of the matron mother, the honor of Menzoberranzan, and the burning envy of Andzrel.
Glory to Tiago, glory to House Do’Urden, for the head of its wayward son.
Ambergris and Brother Afafrenfere walked out of the Monastery of the Yellow Rose one crisp and sunny autumn morning, the dwarf dragging a litter of supplies behind her. The drow named Jarlaxle was waiting for them, Master Perrywinkle Shin had informed them, when he had personally roused them from their slumber.
All of the masters of the Monastery of the Yellow Rose were there to bid farewell to the departing Afafrenfere, forming a long line to the great doors leading out of the main building. Each offered good thoughts and blessings as the monk passed, Mistress Savahn even went up on her tiptoes to kiss the man on the cheek.
“Be well and be wise,” she said to him. “We wait anxiously for your return, young brother. I do expect to learn from you, as you learn from your spirit guide.”
It was an odd remark, Afafrenfere thought, and he almost reached up to touch the gem set in the middle of his forehead. He couldn’t help but smile as he considered again the beauty of Grandmaster Kane, who had dissolved to butterfly lights, sprinkling to and through the floorboards. And even that had not been the end o
f the man, they all knew. Afafrenfere lifted his eyes to the heights of the grand foyer of the monastery, imagining Kane up there, walking his rounds.
Or perhaps even watching the departure, he realized, and he thought he did note some movement on one of the higher balconies.
Determination carried the monk out of the monastery and down the long trail to his destiny. He looked back only once, to see the masters watching him from the porch of the great building.
He lifted his gaze, and noted, too, another witness, in one of the high windows. Yes, he was not alone, he knew, not even excluding Jarlaxle and Ambergris.
Kane, Grandmaster of Flowers, who had transcended death itself, watched him from that high window, but also walked with him, walked within him.
The pair spotted the drow down the trail, sitting astride his nightmare, and as they approached, Jarlaxle turned around and walked his mount away, leading them far from the monastery’s gates, indeed long out of sight of the place, before he allowed them to catch up.
“Ye know, elf, ye might’ve slowed to let me hitch this durned litter to yer horse.” Ambergris grumbled when at last Jarlaxle turned his mount back to the pair.
“I would not want your masters to see our mounts,” the drow explained, slipping down from the saddle.
“They could see you from the doorway,” said the monk.
Jarlaxle smiled, and to the surprise of the other two, dismissed his nightmare, picking up the onyx figurine it left behind and dropping it into a deep belt pouch.
“Why, then?” the dwarf asked. “What?”
“Not that mount,” Jarlaxle replied, and he slowly turned to the side, to his left, and the others looked that way, too.
The trees shook and branches crackled, and through the tangle came their mounts, apparently.
Ambergris dropped her litter, and nearly dropped to her knees.
Afafrenfere, too, sucked in his breath.
Courage, the voice in his head assured him.
“Wondrous experiences,” the monk whispered aloud.
“Oh, indeed,” Jarlaxle agreed with a laugh. “Are you to faint away, dwarf?”
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