The perimeter was thick with elves, so Tos’un melted away into the winter night.
Albondiel’s sword cut the air, and cut the throat of the orc. Gasping and clawing, the creature spun and stumbled. An arrow drove into its side, dropping it to the red-stained snow.
Another orc emerged from a house and shouted for the guards.
But the guards were all dead. All of them lay out on the perimeter, riddled with elven arrows. No alarms had sounded. The orcs of the village had not a whisper of warning.
The shouting, frantic orc tried to run, but an arrow drove her to her knees and an elf warrior was fast to her side, his sword silencing her forever.
After the initial assault, no orcs had come out in any semblance of defense. Almost all the remaining orcs were running, nothing more, to the edge of the village and beyond, willy-nilly into the snow. Most soon lay dead well within the village’s perimeter, for the elves were ready, and fast and deadly with their bows.
“Enough,” Albondiel called to his warriors and to the archers who moved to launch a barrage of death on the remaining fleeing orcs. “Let them run. Their terror works in our favor. Let them spread the word of doom, that more will flee beside them.”
“You have little taste for this,” noted another elf, a young warrior standing at Albondiel’s side.
“I shy not at all from killing orcs,” Albondiel answered, turning a stern gaze the upstart’s way. “But this is less battle than slaughter.”
“Because we were cunning in our approach.”
Albondiel smirked and shrugged as if it did not matter. For indeed it did not, the wizened elf understood. The orcs had come, had swept down like a black plague, stomping underfoot all before them. They were to be repelled by any means. It was that simple.
Or was it, the elf wondered as he looked down at his latest kill, an unarmed creature, still gurgling as the last air escaped its lungs. It wore only its nightclothes.
Defenseless and dead.
Albondiel had spoken the truth in his response. He did not shy from battle, and had killed dozens of orcs in combat. Raiding villages, however, left a sour taste in his mouth.
A series of cries from across the way told him that some of the orcs had not fled or come out from their homes. He watched as one emerged from an open door, staggering, bleeding. It fell down dead.
A small one, a child.
With brutal efficiency, the elf raiding party collected the bodies in a large pile. Then they began emptying the houses of anything that would burn, tossing furniture, bedding, blankets, clothes, and all the rest on that same pile.
“Lord Albondiel,” one called to him, motioning him to a small house on the village’s northern perimeter.
As he approached the caller, Albondiel noted a stain of blood running down the stones at the front of the house, to the left side of the door. Following his summoner’s movements, Albondiel saw the hole, a clean gash, through the stones—all the way through to the interior.
“Two were in there, dead before we arrived,” the elf explained. “One was beheaded, and the other stabbed against this wall.”
“Inside the wall,” Albondiel remarked.
“Yes, and by a blade that came right through.”
“Tos’un,” Albondiel whispered, for he had been in Sinnafain’s hunting party when she had captured the drow. The drow who carried Khazid’hea, the sword of Catti-brie. A sword that could cut through solid stone.
“When were they killed?” Albondiel asked.
“Before the dawn. No longer.”
Albondiel shifted his gaze outward, beyond the limits of the village. “So he is still out there. Perhaps even watching us now.”
“I can send scouts…”
“No,” Albondiel answered. “There is no need, and I would have none of our people confront the rogue. Be on with our business here, and let us be gone.”
Soon after, the pile of rags, wood, and bodies was set ablaze, and from that fire, the elves gathered brands with which to light the thatched roofs. Using fallen trees from the nearby woods, the elves battered down the sides of the burning structures, and any stones that could be pried from the smoking piles were quickly carried to the western side of the village, which was bordered by a long, steep slope, and were thrown down.
What the orcs had created on that windswept hilltop, the elves fast destroyed. To the ground. As if the ugly creatures had never been there.
When they left later that same morning, dark smoke still lifting into the air behind them, Albondiel swept his gaze long and wide across the rugged landscape, wondering if Tos’un might be looking back at him.
He was.
Tos’un Armgo let his gaze linger on the thickest line of black smoke drifting skyward and dissipating into the smothering gray of the continuing overcast. Though he didn’t know the specific players in that scene—whether or not Albondiel or Sinnafain, or any of the others he had met, even traveled with, might be up there—they were Moonwood elves. Of that he had no doubt.
They were growing bolder, and more aggressive, and Tos’un knew why. The clouds would soon break, and the wind would shift southward, ferrying the milder breezes of spring. The elves sought to create chaos among the orc ranks. They wanted to inspire terror, confusion, and cowardice, to erode King Obould’s foundations before the turn of the season allowed for the orc army to march against the dwarves in the south.
Or even across the river to the east, to the Moonwood, their precious home.
A pang of loneliness stabbed at Tos’un’s thoughts and heart as he looked back at the burned village. He would have liked to join in that battle. More than that, the drow admitted, he would have liked departing with the victorious elves.
CHAPTER
FAREWELL
A thousand candles flickered on the northern side of the twenty-five foot square chamber, set in rows on a series of steps carved into the wall for just that purpose. A slab of gray stone leaned against the eastern wall, beside the closed wooden door. It had been expertly cut from the center of the floor, and on it, engraved in the Dethek runes of the dwarves:
DELENIA CURTIE OF LUSKAN AND MITHRAL HALL
WIFE OF WULFGAR, SON OF KING BRUENOR
MOTHER OF COLSON
WHO FELL TO THE DARKNESS OF OBOULD
IN THE YEAR OF THE UNSTRUNG HARP
1371 DALERECKONING
TO THIS HUMAN
MORADIN OFFERS HIS CUP
AND DUMATHOIN WHISPERS HIS SECRETS
BLESSED IS SHE
Over the hole that had been made when the slab was removed, a stone sarcophagus rested on two heavy wooden beams. A pair of ropes ran out to either side from under it. The box was closed and sealed after Wulfgar paid his final respects.
Wulfgar, Bruenor, Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Regis stood solemnly in a line before the sarcophagus and opposite the candles, while the other guests attending the small ceremony fanned out in a semi-circle behind them. Across from them, the cleric Cordio Muffinhead read prayers to the dead. Wulfgar paid no heed to those words, but used the rhythms of Cordio’s resonant voice to find a state of deep contemplation. He recalled the long and arduous road that had brought him there, from his fall in the grasp of the yochlol in the battle for Mithral Hall, to his years of torment at the hands of Errtu. He looked at Catti-brie only once, and regretted what might have been.
What might have been but could not be reclaimed, he knew. There was an old Dwarvish saying: k’niko burger braz-pex strame—“too much rubble over the vein”—to describe the point at which a mine simply wasn’t worth the effort anymore. So it was with him and Catti-brie. Neither of them could go back. Wulfgar had known that when he had taken Delly as his wife, and he had been sincere in their relationship. That gave him comfort, but it only somewhat mitigated the pain and guilt. For though he had been sincere with Delly, he had not been much of a husband, had not heard her quiet pleas, had not placed her above all else.
Or could he even do that? Were his loyalties to D
elly or to Mithral Hall?
He shook his head and pushed that justification away before it could find root. His responsibility was to bring both of those responsibilities to a place of agreement. Whatever his duties to Bruenor and Mithral Hall, he had failed Delly. To hide from that would be a lie, and a lie to himself would destroy him.
Cordio’s chanting anesthetized him. He looked at the casket, and he remembered Delly Curtie, the good woman who had been his wife, and who had done so well by Colson. He accepted his own failure and he moved past it. To honor Delly would be to serve Colson, and to make of himself a better man.
Delly forgave him, he knew in his heart, as he would forgive her if the situation had been reversed. That was all they could do in the end, really. Do their best, accept their mistakes, and go on to a better way.
He felt her spirit all around him, and in him. His mind scrolled through images of the woman, flashes of Delly’s smile, the tenderness on her face when they finished making love—a look, he knew without asking, that was reserved for him alone.
He recalled a moment when he had observed Delly dancing with Colson, unaware of his presence. In all the time he had known her, never had Wulfgar seen her so animated, so free, so full of life. It was as if, through Colson, and for just that moment, she had found a bit of her own childhood—or the childhood that harsh circumstances had never allowed her to truly experience. That had been Wulfgar’s rawest glance into the soul of Delly Curtie, more so even than in their lovemaking.
That was the image that lingered, the image he burned into his consciousness. Forever after, he decided, when he thought of Delly Curtie, he would first envision her dancing with Colson.
A wistful smile creased his face by the time Cordio stopped his chanting. It took Wulfgar a few moments to realize that everyone was looking at him.
“He asked if you wished to say a few words,” Drizzt quietly explained to Wulfgar.
Wulfgar nodded and looked around at the dwarves, and at Regis and Catti-brie.
“This is not where Delly Curtie would have chosen to be buried,” he said bluntly. “For all of her love for Clan Battlehammer, she was not fond of the tunnels. But she would be…she is honored that so fine a folk have done this for her.”
He looked at the casket and smiled again. “You deserved so much more than life ever offered to you. I am a better man for having known you, and I will carry you with me forever. Farewell, my wife and my love.”
He felt a hand clasp his own, and turned to see Catti-brie beside him. Drizzt put his hand over both of theirs, and Regis and Bruenor moved to join in.
Delly deserved better, Wulfgar thought, and I am not deserving of such friends as these.
The sun climbed into the bright blue sky across the Surbrin before them. To the north along the battlements, the hammers rang out, along with a chorus of dwarf voices, singing and whistling as they went about their important work. Across the Surbrin, too, many dwarves and humans were hard at work, strengthening the bridge abutments and pillars and bringing up many of the materials they’d need to properly construct the bridge that summer. For a strong hint of spring was surely in the air that fifth day of Ches, and behind the five friends, rivulets of water danced down the stony mountainside.
“It will be a short window, I am told,” Drizzt said to the others. “The river is not yet swollen with the spring melt, and so the ferry can cross. But once the melt is on in full, the pilots do not expect to execute many crossings. If you cross, you may not be able to get back until after the onset of Tarsakh, at least.”
“There is no choice in the matter,” said Wulfgar.
“It will take you tendays to get to Silverymoon and Sundabar and back anyway,” said Regis.
“Especially since my legs aren’t ready for running,” said Catti-brie. She smiled as she spoke to let the others know that there was no regret or bitterness in her off-handed comment.
“Well, we ain’t waitin’ for Ches to become an old man,” Bruenor grumbled. “If the weather’s holding, then we’re out for Gauntlgrym in days. I’m not for knowin’ how long that’s to take, but it’ll be tendays, I’m guessing. Might be the whole durned summer.”
Drizzt watched Wulfgar in particular, and noted the distance in the man’s blue eyes. Bruenor might as well have been talking about Menzoberranzan or Calimport for all Wulfgar seemed to note or to care. He looked outward—to Colson.
And farther, Drizzt knew. It didn’t matter to Wulfgar whether or not the Surbrin could be crossed again.
A few moments of silence slipped past, the five friends standing there in the morning sun. Drizzt knew that he should savor that moment, should burn it into his memory. Across from Bruenor, Regis shifted uneasily, and when Drizzt looked that way, he saw the halfling looking back at him, as if at a loss. Drizzt nodded at him and offered an accepting smile.
“The ferry docks,” said Catti-brie, turning their attention to the river, where the boat was being quickly off-loaded. “Our road awaits.”
Wulfgar nodded for her to lead on and make the arrangements, and with a curious glance at him, she did so, limping slightly and using Taulmaril as a crutch. As she went, Catti-brie kept glancing back, trying to decipher the curious scene. Wulfgar wore a serious expression as he spoke to the three, then he hugged each of them in turn. He ended with his hand firmly grasping Drizzt’s wrist, the drow similarly holding him, and the two staring long at each other, with respect and what seemed to Catti-brie to be solemn agreement.
She suspected what that might foretell, but she turned her attention back to the river and the ferry, and cast those suspicions aside.
“Come on, elf,” Bruenor said before Wulfgar had even caught up to Catti-brie at the ferry. “I’m wanting to get our maps in order for the trip. No time for wasting!”
Muttering to himself and rubbing his hands together, the dwarf moved back into the complex. Regis and Drizzt waited just a bit longer then turned and followed. They slowed in unison as they neared the open doors and the darkness of the corridor, and turned to look back to the river, and to the sun climbing into the sky beyond.
“Summer cannot come quickly enough for me,” said Regis.
Drizzt didn’t answer, but his expression wasn’t one of disagreement.
“Though I almost fear it,” Regis added, more quietly.
“Because the orcs will come?” asked Drizzt.
“Because others may not,” said Regis, and he tossed a glance at the departing duo, who had boarded the ferry and were looking to the east, and not back.
Again, Drizzt didn’t disagree. Bruenor was too preoccupied to see it, perhaps, but Regis’s fears had confirmed Drizzt’s suspicions about Wulfgar.
“Pwent’s going with us,” Bruenor announced to Drizzt and Regis when they caught up to him in his audience chamber later that day. As he spoke, he reached down to the side of his stone throne, lifted a pack, and tossed it to Drizzt.
“Just you three?” Regis asked, but he bit off the question as Bruenor reached down again and brought up a second pack, and tossed it the halfling’s way.
Regis gave a little squeak and managed to get out of the way. The pack didn’t hit the floor, though, for Drizzt snapped out his hand and plucked it from the air. The drow kept his arm extended, holding the pack out to the startled halfling.
“I’m needin’ a sneak. Yerself’s a sneak,” Bruenor explained. “Besides, ye’re the only one who’s been into the place.”
“Into the place?”
“Ye fell in the hole.”
“I was only in there for a few moments!” Regis protested. “I didn’t see anything other than the wag—”
“That makes yerself the expert,” stated Bruenor.
Regis looked to Drizzt for help, but the drow just stood there holding out the satchel. With a look back to Bruenor and his unrelenting grin, the halfling gave a resigned sigh and took the pack.
“Torgar’s coming, too,” said Bruenor. “I’m wantin’ them Mirabar boys in this from th
e beginning. Gauntlgrym’s a Delzoun place, and Delzoun’s including Torgar and his boys.”
“Five, then?” asked Drizzt.
“And Cordio’s making it six,” Bruenor replied.
“In the morning?” asked Drizzt.
“The spring, the first of Tarsakh,” Regis argued—rather helplessly, since he was holding a full pack, and since, as he spoke, he noted that Pwent, Torgar, and Cordio all entered the room from a side door, all with heavy packs slung over their shoulders, and Pwent in his full suit of ridged and spiked armor.
“No time better’n this time,” said Bruenor. He stood up and gave a whistle, and a door opposite from the one the three dwarves had just used pushed open and Banak Brawnanvil rolled himself out. Behind him came a pair of younger dwarves, carrying Bruenor’s mithral armor, his one-horned helmet, and his old and battle-worn axe.
“Seems our friend has been plotting without us,” Drizzt remarked to Regis, who didn’t seem amused.
“Yerself’s got the throne and the hall,” Bruenor said to Banak, and he moved down from the dais and tightly clasped his old friend’s offered hand. “Ye don’t be too good a steward, so that me folk won’t want me back.”
“Not possible, me king,” said Banak. “I’d make ’em take ye back, even if it’s just to guard me throne.”
Bruenor answered that with a wide, toothy smile, his white teeth shining through his bushy orange-red beard. Few dwarves of Clan Battlehammer, or elsewhere for that matter, would speak to him with such irreverence, but Banak had more than earned the right.
“I’m goin’ in peace because I’m knowing that I’m leaving yerself in charge behind me,” Bruenor said in all seriousness.
Banak’s smile disappeared and he gave his king a grateful nod.
“Come on, then, elf, and yerself, Rumblebelly,” Bruenor called, slipping his mithral mail over his head and dropping his battered old one-horned helm on his head. “Me boys’ve dug us a hole out in the west so that we’re not needing to cross all the way back over Garumn’s Gorge, then back around the mountain. No time for wasting!”
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