The Two Swords th-3

by Robert Salvatore

  With a helpless shrug, Nikwillig, who had never been much of a fighter anyway, had let it go at that. He didn't much care for the idea of being unarmed in hostile territory, with ugly orcs all around him, but he knew there was nothing more he could do.

  So as he had done after watching Nanfoodle's explosion and the dwarves' retreat, Nikwillig of Felbarr just shrugged with resignation. He continued on his way, moving generally east, though the trails were taking him more north than he had hoped.

  A few days later, the dwarf just stumbled along almost blindly. He kept repeating «Surbrin» over and over as a reminder, but most of the time, he didn't even know what the word meant. A dwarf's stubbornness alone kept him in motion.

  One foot in front of the other.

  He was on flatter ground, though he hardly knew it, and his progress was steady if not swift. Early in his journey, he had moved mostly at night, hiding in shallow caves during the daylight hours, but eventually it all seemed the same.

  It didn't matter. Nothing mattered, except putting one foot in front of the other and repeating the word, "Surbrin."

  Suddenly, though, something else did matter.

  It came to Nikwillig on the breeze. Not a sight, nor a sound, but a smell. Something was cooking.

  The dwarf's stomach growled in response and he stopped his march, a moment of clarity falling over him. In mere seconds, his feet were moving again, of their own accord, it seemed. He veered to the side—he knew not whether it was left or right, or what direction. The aroma of cooking meat pulled him inexorably forward, and he leaned as he walked, and began licking his cracked, dirty lips.

  His sensibilities clarified further when he came in sight of the cooking fire, and of the chef, with its sickly dull orange skin, shock of wild black hair, and protruding lower jaw.

  Nothing could sober a dwarf like the sight of a goblin.

  The creature seemed oblivious to him. It hunched over the spit, pouring some gravy from a stone bowl.

  Nikwillig licked his lips again as he watched the thick liquid splatter over the juicy dark meat.

  Leg of lamb, Nikwillig thought and it took every ounce of control the battered dwarf could muster to not groan aloud, and not rush ahead blindly.

  He held his ground long enough to glance left and right. Seeing no other monsters about, the dwarf launched into a charge, lowering his head and running straight for the unwitting goblin chef.

  The goblin straightened, then turned around curiously just in time to catch a flying dwarf in the shoulder. Over the pair flew, upsetting the spit and scattering bits of the fire. They crashed down hard, the hot gravy flying wildly, most of it splashing the goblin in the face. The creature howled from the burns and tried to cover up, but Nikwillig grabbed it by its skinny throat with both hands. He lifted up and slammed down several times, then scrambled away, leaving the goblin whimpering and curling in the dirt.

  The leg of lamb, too, had landed on the ground and rolled in the dirt, but the dwarf didn't even stop to brush it clean. He grabbed it up in both hands and tore at it eagerly, ripping off large chunks of juicy meat and swallowing them with hardly a chew.

  A few bites in, Nikwillig paused long enough to catch his breath and to savor the taste.

  Shouts erupted all around him.

  The dwarf staggered up from his knees and began to run. A spear clipped his shoulder, but it skipped past without digging in. Good sense would have told Nikwillig to throw aside the meat and run full out, but in his famishment, the dwarf was far from good sense. Clutching the leg of lamb to his chest as dearly as if it was his only child, he charged along, weaving in and out of boulders and trees, trying to keep as much cover between him and the pursuing monsters as possible.

  He came out the side of a small copse and skidded to a stop, for he found himself on the edge of a low but steep descent. Below him, barely fifty feet away, the broad, shining River Surbrin rolled along its unstoppable way.

  "The river…" Nikwillig muttered, and he remembered then his goal when he had left his perch high on the mountain ridge north of Mithral Hall. If only he could get across the river!

  A shout behind him sent him running again, stumbling down the slope— one step, two. Then he went down hard, face first, and tucked himself just enough to launch himself in a roll. He gathered momentum, but did not let go of his precious cargo, rolling and bouncing all the way down until he splashed into the cold water.

  He pulled himself to his feet and staggered to the bank and tried to run along.

  Something punched him hard in the back, but he only yelled and continued his run.

  If only he could find a log. He'd drag it into the river, and freezing water be damned, he'd grab onto it and push himself out from the bank.

  Some trees ahead looked promising, but the shouts were sounding closer and Nikwillig feared he would not make it.

  And for some reason he did not immediately comprehend, his legs were moving more slowly, and were tingling as if they were going numb.

  The dwarf stopped and looked down, and saw blood—his own blood— dripping down to the ground between his widespread feet. He reached around and only then did he understand that the punch he'd felt had been no punch at all, for his hand closed over the shaft of a goblin spear.

  "O Moradin, ye're teasing me," Nikwillig said as he dropped to his knees.

  Behind him, he heard the hoots and shouts of charging goblins.

  He looked down at his hands, to the leg of lamb he still held, and with a shrug, he brought it up and tore off another chunk of meat.

  He didn't swallow as fast, though, but chewed that bite and rolled it around in his mouth, savoring its sweetness, its texture, and the warmth of it. It occurred to him that if he had a mug of mead in his other hand that would be a good way for a dwarf to die.

  He knew the goblins were close, but was surprised when a club smacked him off the back of the head, launching him face down in the dirt.

  Nikwillig of Citadel Felbarr tried to concentrate on the taste of the lamb, tried to block out the pain.

  He hoped that death would take him quickly.

  Then he knew no more.

  CHAPTER 12 FOOL ME ONCE, SHAME ON ME, FOOL ME TWICE. .

  "You cannot even think of continuing back toward Nesme," Rannek scolded after he had taken Galen Firth off to the side of the main encampment.

  They had run for many hours after the heroic intervention of General Dagna and his dwarves, going back to the foothills in the north near where the dwarves had found the tunnels that would take them to Mithral Hall.

  "Would you make the sacrifice of those fifty dwarves irrelevant for the sake of your pride?" Rannek pressed.

  "You are one to be speaking of pride," Galen Firth replied, and his adversary did back down at that.

  But only for a moment, then Rannek squared his shoulders and puffed out his broad chest. "I will never forget my error, Galen Firth," he admitted. "But I will not complicate that error now by throwing our entire force into the jaws of the trolls and bog blokes."

  "They were routed!" Galen yelled, and both he and Rannek glanced back to the main group to note several curious expressions coming back at them. "They were routed," he said again, more quietly. "Between the dwarves' valiant stand and Alustriel's firestorm, the enemy forces were sliced apart. Did they even offer any pursuit? No? Then is it not also possible that the monsters have gone home to their dung-filled moor? Are you so ready to run away?"

  "And are you truly stupid enough to walk back into them? Care you not for those who cannot fight? Should our children die on your gamble, Galen Firth?"

  "We do not even know where the caves are," Galen argued. "We cannot simply wander the countryside blindly and hope we find the right hole in the ground."

  "Then let us march to Silverymoon," offered Rannek.

  "Silverymoon will march to us," Galen insisted. "Did you not see Alustriel?

  Rannek chewed his lip and it took all of his control not to just spit on the man. "Ar
e you that much the fool?" he asked. "The ungrateful fool?"

  "I am not the fool who put us out here, far from our homes," Galen answered without hesitation, and in the same calm tone that Rannek had just used on him. "That man stands before me now, errantly thinking he has the credibility to question me."

  Rannek didn't blink and didn't back down, but in truth, he knew that he had no practical answer to that. He was not in command. The beleaguered folk of Nesme would not listen to him over the assurances and orders of the proven Galen Firth.

  He stared at the man a while longer, then just shook his head and turned away. He didn't allow his grimace to stop the smooth flow of his departure when he heard Galen Firth's derisive snort behind him.

  * * * * *

  The next dawn made the argument to Galen Firth that Rannek had been unable to make, for the scouts from the refugee band returned with news that a host of trolls was fast closing from the south.

  Watching Galen Firth as he heard that grim report, Rannek almost expected the man to order the warriors to close ranks and launch an attack, but even the stern and stubborn Galen was not that foolhardy.

  "Gather up and prepare to march, and quickly," he called to those around him. He turned to the scouts. "Some of you monitor the approach of our enemies. Others take swift flight to the northeast. Find our scouts who are searching for the tunnels to Mithral Hall and secure our escape route."

  As he finished, the man turned a glare over Rannek, who nodded in silent approval. Galen Firth's face grew very tight at that, as if he took the expression as a smarmy insult.

  "We will lure our enemies into a long run, and circumvent them so that we might reclaim our home," Galen stubbornly told his soldiers, and Rannek's jaw dropped open.

  Having grown adept at running, the Nesme band was on the move in minutes, and in proper formation so that the weakest were well supported near the center of the march. Few said anything. They knew that trolls were in close pursuit, and that that day could mark the end of all their lives.

  They came to higher and more broken ground by mid-morning, and from an open vantage point, Galen, Rannek, and some others got their first look at the pursuing force. It seemed to be trolls exclusively, for nowhere among the approaching mob did they see the treelike appendages of bog blokes. Still, there were more than a few trolls down there, including several very large specimens and some of those sporting more than one head.

  Rannek knew that they had done right in retreating, as he had suggested many hours before. Any satisfaction he took from that was lost, though, in his fears that they would not be able to outrun that monstrous force.

  "Keep them moving as fast as possible," Galen Firth ordered, his voice grave and full of similar fears, Rannek knew, whether Galen would admit them or not—even to himself. "Have we found those tunnels yet?"

  "We've found some tunnels," one of the other men explained. "We do not know how deep they run."

  Galen Firth pinched his lip between his thumb and index finger.

  "And if we run in before we know for certain, and run into a dead end…." the man went on.

  "Hurry, then," Galen ordered. "Stretch lines of scouts into the tunnel. We seek one that will loop around and bring us out behind our pursuing enemies. We will have to either run by or run in—there will be no time to dally!"

  The man nodded and rushed away.

  Galen turned to regard Rannek.

  "And so you believe that you were right," he said.

  "For what that's worth," Rannek replied. "It does not matter." He looked back at the pursuing force, drawing Galen's eyes with his own. "Never could we have anticipated such dogged pursuit from an enemy as chaotic and undisciplined as trolls! In all my years…"

  "Your years are not all that long," Galen reminded him. "Thus were you fooled that night you headed the watch."

  "As you were fooled now into thinking the pursuit would not come," Rannek shot back, but the words sounded feeble even to him, and certainly Galen's smug expression did little to give him any thought that he had stung the man.

  "I welcome their pursuit," Galen said. "If I'm surprised, it is pleasantly so. We run them off, farther from Nesme. When we get behind our walls once more, we will find the time we need to fortify our defenses."

  "Unless there are more trolls waiting for us there."

  "Your failure has led you to a place where you overestimate our enemy, Rannek. They are trolls. Stupid and vicious, and little more. They have shown perseverance beyond expectation, but it will not hold."

  Galen gave a snort and started away, but Rannek grabbed him by the arm. The Rider turned on him angrily.

  "You would gamble the lives of all these people on that proposition?" Rannek asked.

  "Our entire existence in Nesme has been a gamble—for centuries," Galen replied. "It is what we do. It is the way we live."

  "Or the way we die?"

  "So be it."

  Galen yanked himself free of Rannek's grasp. He stared at the man a while longer, then turned around and started shouting orders to those around him. He was cut short, though, almost immediately, for somewhere among the lines of refugees, a man shouted, "The Axe! The Axe of Mirabar is come!"

  "All praise Mirabar!" another shouted, and the cheer was taken up across the gathering.

  Rannek and Galen Firth charged through the throng, crossing the crowd to get a view of the source of the commotion.

  Dwarves, dozens and dozens of dwarves, marched toward them, many of them bearing the black axe of Mirabar on their shields. They moved in tight and disciplined formation, their ranks holding steady as they crossed the broken ground in their determined advance.

  "Not of Mirabar," one scout explained to Galen, huffing and puffing with every word, for he had run all the way back to precede the newcomers. "More of Clan Battlehammer, they claim to be."

  "They wear the emblem of Mirabar's famed Axe," said Galen.

  "And so they once were," the scout explained. He stopped and stepped aside, watching with the others as the dwarves closed.

  A pair of battle-worn dwarves approached, one with a thick black beard and the other ancient and one of the ugliest dwarves either man had ever seen. He was shorter and wider than his companion, with half his black beard torn away and one eye missing. His ruddy, weathered face had seen the birth and death of centuries, the humans easily surmised. The pair approached Galen's position, guided by yet another of the scouts the Nesmians had sent forth. They walked up before the man and the younger dwarf dropped the head of his heavy warhammer on the stone before him, then leaned on it heavily.

  "Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker of Clan Battlehammer at yer service," he said. "And me friend Shingles."

  "You wear the symbol of Mirabar, good Torgar," said Galen. "And glad we are to have your service."

  "We were of Mirabar," Shingles offered. "We left to serve a king of more generous heart. And so ye see the end of that, for here we are, to support ye and support General Dagna, who came out here with ye."

  Several of the nearby humans looked to each other with concern, expressions that were not lost on the dwarves.

  "I will tell you of Dagna's fall when the time permits a tale that would do him justice," Galen Firth said, straightening his shoulders. "For now, our enemies close fast from behind. Trolls—many trolls."

  Most of the dwarves mumbled to each other about "Dagna's fall," but Torgar and Shingles kept their expressions stoic.

  "Then let's get to the tunnels," Torgar decided. "Me and me boys'll do better against the gangly brutes when they're bending low so as not to bump their ugly heads on the ceiling."

  "We fight them there and push them back," Galen agreed. "Perhaps we can break them and gain a path through their lines."

  "Through?" asked Torgar. "Mithral Hall's at the other end of them tunnels, and that's where we're for."

  "We have word that Silverymoon will soon join in the fight," Galen explained, and no one around him dared point out that he was stretching the t
ruth quite a bit. "Now is the day of our victory, when Nesme will be restored and the region secured!"

  The dwarves both looked at him curiously for a moment, then looked to each other and just shrugged.

  "Not to matter," Shingles said to Torgar. "Either choice we're to make, we're to make it from the tunnels."

  "So to the tunnels we go," the other dwarf agreed.

  * * * * *

  "Side run's open!" came a relayed shout along the dwarven line.

  "Torch 'em!" Shingles cried.

  Twenty dwarves from the second rank rushed forward, flaming torches in hand, and as one they threw the fiery brands over Shingles and the first line of fighters, who were engaged heavily with the leading lines of troll pursuit.

  They had run down a long tunnel that spread into a wider chamber, and had made their stand at the funnel-like opening, allowing a score of dwarves to stand abreast, where only a few trolls could come through to battle them. The torchbearers aimed their flaming missiles at the narrower tunnel entrance, where several pieces of seasoned kindling, soaked with lamp oil, had been strategically placed.

  The fires roared to life.

  Trolls weren't afraid of much, but fire, which defeated their incredible regenerative powers, ranked foremost among that short list.

  The torches loosened the pursuit considerably, and Shingles put his line, and those who had come behind, into a sudden, devastating charge, driving back those few trolls that had been caught on the near side of the conflagration. A couple were forced back into the flames, while others were chopped down and stabbed where they stood.

  The dwarves broke and ran in perfect formation. The side passage had been declared open, and the refugees were already well on their way.

  Yet again, for the third time that afternoon, Torgar's boys had fended off the stubborn troll pursuit.

  The monsters would come on again, though, they all knew, and so those dwarves leading the line of retreat were busy inspecting every intersection and every chamber to see if they could find a suitable location for their next inevitable stand.