The Two Swords th-3

by Robert Salvatore

  The sarcasm made Galen Firth narrow his eyes all the more.

  "We will settle nothing about our enemies if we cannot come to civil agreement among ourselves," the ever-diplomatic Alustriel put in. "Bury old grievances, King Bruenor and Galen Firth, I beg of you both. Our enemies press us—press your two peoples most of all—and that must be our paramount concern."

  Emerus Warcrown leaned back in his thick wooden chair and crossed his burly arms over his barrel-like chest.

  Bruenor regarded his counterpart, and offered an appreciate wink. Emerus was dwarf first, Bruenor understood clearly. The hierarchy of his loyalty placed Bruenor and Harbromm, and their respective clans, at the top of Emerus's concerns.

  As it should be.

  "All right then, them grievances are buried," Bruenor answered Alustriel. "And know that I lost more than a few good Battlehammers in helping Galen Firth there and his troubled town. And not a thing have we asked in kind."

  Galen started to say something, again in that petulant and negative tone of his, but Alustriel interrupted with a sudden and harsh, "Enough!" aimed directly at him.

  "We understand the plight of Nesme," Alustriel went on. "Are not the Knights in Silver doing battle there even now, securing the region so that the tradesmen can rebuild the houses and strengthen the wall? Are not my wizards patrolling those walls, the words of the fireball ready at their lips?"

  " 'Tis true, my good lady," Galen admitted, and he settled back in his chair.

  "The trolls are on the run, and will be put back in the Trollmoors," Alustriel promised all three of them. "Silverymoon and Everlund will help Nesme see to this need."

  "Good enough, and what's yer timetable?" asked Bruenor. "Will ye have them back afore winter settles in too deep?"

  The question seemed all the more urgent since the first snows had begun to accumulate that very day outside of Mithral Hall's eastern door.

  "That is our hope, so that the people of Nesme can return to their homes before the trails grow deep with snow," Alustriel answered.

  "And so that yer armies will be ready to fight beside me own when the winter lets go of the land?" Bruenor asked.

  Alustriel's face grew very tight. "If King Obould presses his attack on Mithral Hall, he will find Clan Battlehammer bolstered by the forces of Silverymoon, Everlund, and Sundabar, yes."

  Bruenor let a long and uncomfortable moment of silence pass before pressing the point: "And if King Obould decides that his advance is done?"

  "We have spoken of this before," Alustriel reminded him.

  "Speak of it again," Bruenor demanded.

  "By the time winter passes, Obould's army will be powerfully entrenched," said Alustriel. "That army was formidable enough when it was marching against defended positions. Your own people know that better than any."

  "Bah, but ye're giving up!" King Emerus interrupted. "Ye're all thinking to leave the orc to his gains!"

  "The cost in dislodging him will be terrible," Alustriel explained, not disagreeing. "Perhaps too great a price."

  "Bah!" Emerus growled. He slammed a fist onto the heavy wooden table—and it was fortunate that the table was built so sturdily, else Emerus's smash would have splintered it to kindling. "Ye're going to fight for Nesme, but Mithral Hall's not worthy of yer sacrifice?"

  "You know me better than to say that, King Emerus."

  Alustriel's statement did calm the dwarf, who was far more on his edge than normal after the catastrophe at the river. Earlier that same day, King Emerus had presided over the consecration of the River Surbrin, saying farewell to nearly a thousand good dwarves.

  He fell back in his seat, crossed his burly arms again, and gave a great, "Harrumph."

  "King Bruenor.. Bruenor, my friend, you must understand our thinking in this," Alustriel said. "Our desire from Silverymoon to Everlund to Sundabar to rid the land of Obould and his thousands is no less than your own. But I have flown over the occupied lands. I have seen the swarms and their preparations. To go against them would invite disaster on a scale heretofore unknown in the Silver Marches. Mithral Hall is open once more—your path across the Surbrin will be assured. You are now the lone outpost, the last bastion for the goodly folk in all the lands between the Trollmoors and the Spine of the World, the Surbrin and Fell Pass. You are not without friends or support. If Obould comes against you again, he will find the Knights in Silver standing shoulder to shoulder with Clan Battlehammer."

  "Waist to shoulder, perhaps," Galen Firth quipped, but the scowls of the two dwarves showed him clearly that his feeble attempt at humor was not appreciated, and Alustriel went on without interruption.

  "This piece of ground between your eastern door and the Surbrin will not fall, if all of it is to be covered in layers of the dead from the three cities I represent at this meeting," she said. "We are all agreed on this. Winter's Edge will be expanded as a military encampment, and supplies and soldiers will flow through Silverymoon to that town unabated. We will relieve King Emerus's dwarves here, so that they can return to their work in securing the Underdark route between Felbarr and Mithral Hall. We will offer great wagons and drivers to King Harbromm, so that Citadel Adbar can easily enter the conflicted region as they see fit. We will spare no expense."

  "But you will spare yer warriors," Bruenor remarked.

  "We will not throw thousands against defended mountains for the sake of nearly barren ground," Alustriel bluntly answered.

  Bruenor, wearing the same expression and seated in the same posture as his dwarf counterpart, offered a grim nod in response. He wasn't thrilled with Alustriel's decision; he wanted nothing more than to sweep ugly Obould back to his mountain hole. But Bruenor's people had done battle with the orc king and his legions, and so Bruenor surely understood the reasoning.

  "Strengthen Winter's Edge, then," he said. "Work your soldiers in concert. Drill them and practice them. I wish that the Moonwood had chosen to attend this meeting. Hralien, who speaks for them, has promised his support, but from afar. Surely they fear that Obould is as likely to turn against their forest as against Mithral Hall, since they chose to enter the fray. I expect the same loyalty to them, from all o' ye, as ye're offering to Mithral Hall."

  "Of course," said Alustriel.

  "They saved me a thousand dwarves," Emerus agreed.

  Galen Firth sat quietly, but not still, Bruenor noted, the man obviously growing agitated that the discussion had so shifted from the fate of his beloved Nesme.

  "Ye go get yer town put back together," Bruenor said to him. "Ye make it stronger than ever before—I'll be sending caravans full o' the best weapons me smithies can forge. Ye keep them damned trolls in their smelly moor and off o' me back."

  The man visibly relaxed, even uncrossing his arms and coming forward as he replied, "Nesme will not forget the aid that Mithral Hall offered, though Mithral Hall was terribly pressed at the time."

  Bruenor responded with a nod, and noted out of the corner of his eye that Alustriel was smiling with approval for his generous offering and words. The King of Mithral Hall wasn't thrilled with the decisions made that day, but he well understood that they all had to stand together.

  For if they chose to stand alone, they would fall, one by one, to the swarms of Obould.

  * * * * *

  "You don't know that," Catti-brie said, trying to be comforting.

  "Delly is gone, Colson is gone, and Khazid'hea is gone," Wulfgar replied, and he seemed as if he could hardly stand up while uttering those dreaded words.

  He and Catti-brie had sent the news throughout Mithral Hall that Khazid'hea was missing, and had made it quite clear that the sword was not to be handled casually, that it was a weapon of great and dangerous power.

  It was obvious that someone had taken it, and few dwarves would be put under the spell of any sentient weapon. That left Delly, or one of the other human refugees who had set out across the river.

  It had to be Delly, Catti-brie silently agreed. She had come to Catti-brie's room be
fore, the woman knew. Half-asleep, she had once or twice seen Delly staring at her from the doorway, though out of concern or jealousy, she did not know. Was it possible that Delly had come in to speak with her and had been intercepted by the machinations of a bored and hungry Khazid'hea?

  For where had Delly gone? How dare she leave Mithral Hall with Colson, and without ever speaking to Wulfgar?

  The mystery had Wulfgar on the very edge of outrage. The man, battered as he had been, should have been resting, but he hadn't gone to his bed in more than a day, ever since the troubling report of Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder chasing after a lone figure running off to the north. The dwarves were betting it to be Cottie Cooperson, who was quite out of her mind with grief, but both Catti-brie and Wulfgar held a nagging feeling that someone else might be out of her mind, or at least that someone might have inadvertently let a malignant spirit into her mind.

  "Or is it that we have been infiltrated by stealthy allies of Obould?" Wulfgar asked. "Have spies come into Mithral Hall? Have they stolen your sword, and my wife and child?"

  "We will sort through all of this," Catti-brie assured him. "We will find Delly's trail soon enough. The storms have lessened and the ferry will soon be running again. Or Alustriel and King Emerus will aid us in our search. When they come out from their meeting with Bruenor, bid them to find the refugees who went across the river. There we will find answers, I'm sure."

  Wulfgar's expression showed that perhaps he was afraid of finding those answers.

  But there was nothing else to be done. Dozens of dwarves were searching the halls, for the sword, the woman, and the toddler. Cordio and some of his fellow priests were even using divining spells to try to help the search.

  So far, there were only questions.

  Wulfgar slumped against the wall.

  * * * * *

  "Obould will be dead in three days," Stormsinger the giant growled. "That was your promise, Princess Gerti, yet Obould is alive and more powerful than ever, and our prizes—pegasus, dark elf, and that magical panther he carries—have flown from our grasp."

  "We are better off having Drizzt Do'Urden working toward the same goal as we," Gerti argued, and she had to raise her voice to lift it above the tumult of protest that was rising all around her. Once again the weight of events pressed down on the giantess. It had all seemed so simple just a few tendays past: She would lend a few giants here and a few giants there to throw boulders from afar at settlements the orcs had surrounded, softening up the defenses so that Obould could overrun the towns. She would gain spoils of war for the cost of a few rocks.

  So she had thought. The explosion at the ridge, where twenty of her giants had been immolated, had irrevocably changed all of that. The assault into Mithral Hall, where several more had fallen to tricks and traps, had irrevocably changed all of that. The ceremony of Gruumsh, where Obould had seemingly taken on godlike proportions, had irrevocably changed all of that.

  Gerti was left just trying to bail out of it all, to let Obould and the dwarves battle it out to the last and leave herself and her kin playing on both sides of the equation so that, whoever proved victorious, the battle would not come to Shining White.

  The grumbling around her showed her clearly that her kin weren't holding much faith in her or her curious choices.

  If only Drizzt Do'Urden had slaughtered the wretched Obould!

  "Drizzt is a formidable opponent," Gerti said, following that notion. "He will find a way to strike hard at Obould."

  "And at Shining White?"

  Gerti narrowed her eyes and scowled at the petulant Stormsinger. Clearly the large warrior was positioning himself as an alternative to her when the great Jarl Orel finally let go of life. And just as clearly, many of the other giants were beginning to look favorably on that positioning.

  "Drizzt will not, by his word, and he will dissuade others from coming against us, should Bruenor defeat Obould."

  "It is all a waste," Stormsinger groused. "We have lost friends, all of us, and for what gain? Have we more slaves to serve our needs? Have we more wealth than we knew before we followed King Obould of the orcs? Have we more territory, rich mines or wondrous cities? Have we even a single winged horse, one handed over to us and now handed away?"

  "We have …" Gerti started to say, but a chorus of complaining rose up in the room. "We have …" she said more loudly, and repeated it over and over until at last the din lessened. "We have gained position," she explained. "We could not have avoided this war. If we had not joined with Obould initially, then we would likely find him as an enemy soon enough, if not already. Now that will not happen, for he is indebted to us. And now King Bruenor and all of his allies are indebted to us, despite our waging war on them, because of Drizzt Do'Urden. We have gained position, and in a time as conflicted and confusing as this, that is no small thing!"

  She spoke her words with conviction and with the weight of her royal position behind her, and the room did quiet.

  But they would stir again, Gerti feared, and Stormsinger, though he did not respond at that time, would not let the matter drop there.

  Far from it.

  CHAPTER 28 THE WAVE OF EMOTION

  "Well, that's that, then," Ivan Bouldershoulder said.

  He and his brother stood over the woman's body. She was lying on her belly, but with one arm reaching up above her and shoulders turned so that they could clearly see her face.

  A couple of inches of snow had gathered around the still form. Pikel bent over and gently brushed some from Delly's cold face, and he tried unsuccessfully to close her eyes.

  "Poor Wulfgar," said Ivan.

  "Oooo," Pikel agreed.

  "But I'm not for seeing her little one anywhere near," said Ivan. "Ye think them damned orcs might've taken the kid?"

  Pikel shrugged.

  Both dwarves scanned the area. It had been a small camp, obviously, for the remnants of a campfire could be seen in the snow, and a collection of branches that had likely served as a lean-to. Delly's body hadn't been there long—no more than a couple of days, Pikel confirmed for his brother.

  Ivan moved around the area, kicking at the snow and poking about every rock or log for some sign of Colson. After many minutes, he finally turned back to his brother, who was standing on the highest ground not so far away, his back to Ivan and looking up at the sky, shielding his eyes with one hand.

  "Well, that's that, then," Ivan said again. "Delly Curtie's lost to us, and the little kid's not anywhere to be found. Let's get her wrapped up and take her back to Mithral Hall so Wulfgar can properly say farewell."

  Pikel didn't turn around, but began hopping up and down excitedly.

  "Come on, then," Ivan called to him, but the green-bearded Pikel only grew more agitated.

  "Well, what're ye seein?" Ivan asked, finally catching on. He walked toward his brother. "Sign o' where them stupid orcs might've gone? Are ye thinking that we should go and see if the little kid's a prisoner?"

  "Oo oi!" Pikel shouted, hopping anxiously then and pointing off to the north.

  "What?" Ivan demanded, and he broke into a trot, coming up beside Pikel.

  "Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel squealed.

  "What?"

  "Drizzit Dudden! Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel shouted, hopping even higher and jabbing his stubby finger out toward the north sky. Ivan squinted, shielded his eyes from the glare, and saw a large flying form. After a few moments, he made it out as a flying horse.

  "Pegasus," he muttered. "Might be them elfs from the Moonwood."

  "Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel corrected, and Ivan looked at him curiously. He guessed that Pikel was once again using those magical abilities that could grant him attributes of various animals. Ivan had seen Pikel imbue himself with the eyes of an eagle before, eyes that could pick out a field mouse running across a meadow from hundreds of yards away.

  "Ye got them bird eyes on, don't ye?" Ivan asked.

  "Hee hee hee."

  "And ye're telling me that's Drizzt up on tha
t flying horse?"

  "Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel confirmed.

  Ivan looked back at the far distant pegasus, and shook his hairy head. He glanced back at Delly Curtie. If they left her there, the next snow would bury her, perhaps until the spring thaw.

  "Nah, we got to find Drizzt," Ivan said after a moment of weighing the options. "Poor Delly and poor Wulfgar, but many've been left out for the birds since Obould come charging down. Stupid orc."

  "Stupit orc," Pikel echoed.

  "Drizzt?" Ivan asked.

  "Drizzit Dudden," his green-bearded brother answered.

  "Well, lead on, ye durned fool doo-dad! If we find them orcs and them orcs got Wulfgar's little one, then who better'n Drizzt Do'Urden to take the kid away from them?"

  "Hee hee hee."

  * * * * *

  The sentient sword had worked its way through five wielders since Delly Curtie. Using its insidious telepathic magic, Khazid'hea invaded the thoughts of each successive owner, prying from it the identity of the nearest orc it feared the most. After that, with a more worthy wielder identified, Khazid'hea had little trouble in instigating a fight among the volatile creatures, and in shaping that fight so that the more worthy warrior proved victorious.

  Then news had come that the dark elf friend of Bruenor Battlehammer was working in the area once more, slaughtering orcs, and Khazid'hea found its most lofty goal within apparent reach. Ever since the companions had come to possess the sword, Khazid'hea had longed to be wielded by Drizzt Do'Urden. Catti-brie was worthy enough, but Drizzt, the sword knew, was a warrior quite different. In Drizzt's hands, Khazid'hea would find the promise of victory after victory, and would not be hidden away in a scabbard while the drow warrior fired from afar with a bow.

  A bow was a cowardly weapon, to Khazid'hea's thinking.

  How great will your glory be, how wonderful the riches, when you bring King Obould the head of Drizzt Do'Urden, the sword told its current wielder, a slender and smallish orc who relied on finesse and speed instead of brute strength, as was usually so with his brutish race.