transition 01 The Orc King

by R . A. Salvatore

  “Yeah, but I’m not thinking that stoppin’ to wipe out a fort o’ them orcs is wastin’ time,” Thibble dorf Pwent remarked as he eagerly led the other two across in front of Drizzt and Regis and over to Bruenor. “Might that we’ll find the dog Obould himself and be rid o’ the beast all at once.”

  “Simply wonderful,” Regis muttered, taking the pack and slinging it over his shoulder. He gave another sigh, one full of annoyance, when he saw that his small mace was strapped to the flap of the pack. Bruenor had taken care of every little detail, it seemed.

  “The road to adventure, my friend,” said Drizzt.

  Regis smirked at him, but Drizzt only laughed. How many times had he seen that same look from the halfling over the years? Always the reluctant adventurer. But Drizzt knew, and so did everyone else in the room, that Regis was always there when needed. The sighs were just a game, a ritual that somehow allowed Regis to muster his heart and his resolve.

  “I am pleased that we have an expert to lead us down this hole,” Drizzt remarked quietly as they fell into line behind the trio of dwarves.

  Regis sighed.

  It occurred to Drizzt as they passed the room where Delly had just been interred that some were leaving who wanted to stay, and some were staying who wanted to leave. He thought of Wulfgar and wondered if that pattern would hold.

  CHAPTER

  THAT TINGLING FEELING

  It looked like a simple bear den, a small hole covered by a crisscross of broken branches blanketed by snow. Tos’un Armgo knew better, for he had built that facade. The bear den was at the end of a long but shallow tunnel, chosen because it allowed Tos’un to watch a small work detail composed mostly of goblins, constructing a bridge over a trench they apparently hoped would serve as an irrigation canal through the melt.

  Northeast of that, sheltered in a ravine, the elves of the Moon-wood plotted. If they decided on an attack, it would come soon, that night or the next day, for it was obvious that they were running short on supplies, and shorter on arrows. Tos’un, following them south to north then northeast, realized that they were heading for their preferred ford across the Surbrin and back to the sheltering boughs of the Moonwood. The drow suspected that they wouldn’t ignore a last chance at a fight.

  The sun climbed in the sky behind him, and Tos’un had to squint against the painful glare off the wet snow. He noted movement in the sky to the north, and caught a glimpse of a flying horse before it swerved out of sight behind a rocky mountain jag.

  The elves favored midday assaults against the usually nocturnal goblins.

  Tos’un didn’t have to go far to find a fine vantage point for the coming festivities. He slipped into a recess between a pair of high stones, settling back just in time to see the first volley of elven arrows lead the way into the goblin camp. The creatures began howling, hooting, and running around.

  So predictable, Tos’un’s fingers signaled in the intricate, silent drow code.

  Of course, he had seen many goblins in his decades in the Under-dark, in Menzoberranzan, where the ugly things were more numerous among the slaves than any other race—other than the kobolds who lived in the channels along the great chasm known as the Claw rift. Goblins could be molded into fierce fighting groups, but the amount of work that required made it hardly worth the effort. Their natural “fight or flight” balance leaned very heavily in the direction of the latter.

  And so it was in the valley below him. Goblins rushed every which way, and on came the skilled and disciplined elf warriors, their fine blades gleaming in the sun. It looked to be a fast and uneventful rout.

  But then a yellow banner, shot with red so that it looked like the bloodshot eye of an orc, appeared in the west, moving quickly through a pass between a pair of small, round-topped hills. Tos’un peered hard, and harder still as the standard-bearer and its cohorts came into view. He could almost smell them from his perch. They were orcs, but huge by orc standards, even more broad-shouldered than Obould’s elite guards, some even bigger than Obould himself.

  So caught up in the spectacle, Tos’un stood up and leaned forward, out of the shelter of the stones. He looked back to the rout, and saw that there, too, things had changed, for other groups of those hulking orcs had appeared, some coming up from under the snow near the center of the battle.

  “A trap for the elves,” the drow whispered in disbelief. A myriad of thoughts flitted through his mind at that realization. Did he want the elves destroyed? Did he care?

  He didn’t allow himself time to sort through those emotions, though, for the drow realized that he, too, might get swept up in the tumult—and that was something he most certainly did not want.

  He looked back to the approaching banner, then to the fight, then back again, measuring the time. With a quick glance all around to ensure his own safety, he rushed out from his perch and back to the hidden tunnel entrance. When he got there, he saw that the battle had been fully joined, and fully reversed.

  The elves, badly outnumbered, were on the run. They didn’t flee like the goblins, though, and kept their defenses in place against incursions from the brutish orcs. They even managed a couple of stop-and-pivot maneuvers that allowed them to send a volley of arrows at the orc mass.

  But that dark wall rolled on after them.

  The winged horse appeared again, flying low over the battlefield then climbing gradually as it passed over the orcs, who of course threw a few spears in its direction. The rider and pegasus went up even higher as they glided over the elves.

  The rider meant to direct the retreat, obviously, and good fortune sent the winged horse in Tos’un’s general direction. As it neared, the drow’s eyes widened, for though looking up at the midday sky surely stung his sensitive eyes, he recognized that elf rider, Sinnafain.

  For a moment, the drow held his position just inside the tunnel, not sure whether to retreat through the passage or go back out into Sinnafain’s view.

  Hardly aware of his movements, he came out of that hole and waved at Sinnafain, and when she didn’t look his way, he called out to her.

  What are you doing? Khazid’hea imparted to him.

  The sudden jerk of the reins had the pegasus banking sharply and told Tos’un that Sinnafain had spotted him. He took some comfort in the fact that her next movement was not to draw out her bow.

  You would go back to them? Khazid’hea asked and the telepathic communication was edged with no small amount of anger.

  Sinnafain brought the winged horse in a slow turn, her eyes locked on the drow the entire time. She was too far away for Tos’un to see her face or fathom what she might be thinking, but still she did not draw her bow. Nor had she signaled to her retreating friends to veer away.

  Drizzt will kill you! Khazid’hea warned. When he takes me from you, you will find yourself defenseless against the truth-finding spells of elf clerics!

  Tos’un lifted the twig barrier that covered his hole, and began motioning to the entrance.

  Sinnafain continued to guide the pegasus in a slow circle. When she at last turned back to her companions, Tos’un sprinted off to the side, disappearing into the shadows of the foothills, much to the relief of his demanding sword.

  The drow glanced back only one time, to see the elves filtering into the tunnel. He looked up for the pegasus, but it had flown over the ridge and out of sight at that moment.

  But Sinnafain had trusted him.

  Unbelievably, Sinnafain had trusted him.

  Tos’un wasn’t sure whether he should take pride in that, or whether his respect for the elves had just diminished.

  Perhaps a bit of both.

  Sinnafain couldn’t track their progress, nor could she join her comrades in the tunnel, obviously, while riding Sunrise. She came back over the high ridge and flew near the entrance of the small cave. She drew out her bow and began peppering the leading edge of the orc advance.

  She kept up her barrage even after all the elves had disappeared underground. But the huge orcs car
ried heavy shields to frustrate such attacks, and Sinnafain could only hope that she had held them back long enough for her friends to escape. She put Sunrise up higher then, and angled back the other way, over the rise once more. She looked for Tos’un as much as for her friends, but there was no sign of the drow.

  A long while later, with Sunrise tiring beneath her, the elf was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief, as a flash of white from a copse of trees some distance to the east signaled to her that Albondiel and the other elves had gotten through the tunnel.

  Sinnafain took a roundabout route to get to them, not wanting to tip off any orc spotters who might watch her descending from on high, and by the time she got down to the ground, much activity was already underway. Deep in the woods, in a small clearing, the wounded had been laid out side by side, with priests tending them. Another group carried heavy logs and stones to seal the tunnel exit, and the rest had taken to the trees on the perimeter of the copse, setting up a defensive line that allowed them many overlapping angles of fire on approaching enemies.

  As she walked Sunrise along a path through the trees, Sinnafain heard whispers of King Obould over and over again, many of the elves certain that he had come. She found Albondiel near the wounded, standing off to the side of the field and sorting the extra packs and weapons.

  “You saved many,” Albondiel greeted when she approached. “Had you not directed us to that tunnel, more of us would have fallen. Perhaps a complete rout.”

  Sinnafain thought to mention that it was not her doing, but that of a certain drow, but she kept the thought to herself. “How many were taken down?”

  “Four casualties,” Albondiel said grimly. He nodded toward the small field, where the quartet of wounded lay on blankets on the snow. “Two of them were wounded seriously, perhaps mortally.”

  “We…I, should have seen the trap from on high,” Sinnafain said, turning back to the ridge in the east that blocked the view of the battlefield.

  “The orc ambush was well set,” Albondiel replied. “Those who prepared this battlefield understood our tactics well. They have studied us and learned to counter our methods. Perhaps it is time for us to head back across the Surbrin.”

  “We are low on supplies,” Sinnafain reminded him.

  “Perhaps it is time for us to stay across the Surbrin,” Albondiel clarified.

  Again, thoughts of a certain dark elf popped into Sinnafain’s mind. Had Tos’un betrayed them? He had fought beside them for a short while, and he knew much of their tactics. Plus, he was a drow, and no race in all the world knew better how to lay an ambush than the treacherous dark elves. Though of course, he had shown the elves the way to escape. With any other race, that alone might serve to dispel Sinnafain’s suspicions. But Sinnafain could not allow herself to forget that Tos’un was a dark elf, and no Drizzt Do’Urden, who had proven himself repeatedly over a matter of years. Perhaps Tos’un was playing the elves and orcs against each other for personal gain, or simply for his own amusement.

  “Sinnafain?” Albondiel asked, drawing her from her contemplations. “The Surbrin? The Moonwood?”

  “You believe that we are finished here?” Sinnafain asked.

  “The weather warms, and the orcs will find it easier to move in the coming days. They will be less isolated from each other and so our work here will become more difficult.”

  “And they have taken note of us.”

  “It is time to leave,” said Albondiel.

  Sinnafain nodded and looked to the east. In the distance, the silvery line of the Surbrin could just be seen, flickering out on the horizon.

  “Would that we could collect Tos’un on our way,” said Sinnafain. “I have much to ask that one.”

  Albondiel looked at her with surprise for just a few moments then nodded his agreement. Though seemingly out of context, it sounded like a reasonable desire—of course they both knew that they weren’t going to catch a drow in those wilds anytime soon.

  I know them, Tos’un assured the doubting Khazid’hea. Dnark is chieftain of an important tribe. I was the one who coaxed him into Obould’s coalition before they ever marched from the Spine of the World.

  Much has happened, Khazid’hea reminded him, between Tos’un and Obould. If these three know of your last encounter with the orc king, they will not welcome you.

  They were not there, Tos’un assured the sword.

  They have not heard of the fall of Kaer’lic Suun Wett? Khazid’hea asked. Can you be certain?

  Even if they have, they are well aware of Obould’s temper, Tos’un imparted. They will accept that he was outraged at Kaer’lic, and so he killed her. Do you believe that any of these orcs have not lost friends to the temper of Obould? And yet they remain loyal to him.

  You risk much.

  I risk nothing, Tos’un argued. If Dnark and his friends know that Obould hunts for me, or if they have concluded that I am in league with the elves, then I…then we, will have to kill them. I did not expect that such a result would displease Khazid’hea.

  There, he had communicated the magic words, he knew, for the sword fell silent in his thoughts, and he even sensed eagerness coming from it. He considered the exchange as he made his way down toward the trio of orcs, who had drifted off to the side of the construction area where the unusually large orcs had gathered. He came to the conclusion that he had been paid a compliment, that Khazid’hea did not want to be pried from his grasp.

  He chose his path to the three orcs carefully, allowing himself a fast route of escape should the need arise—and he feared it would. Several times he paused to search the surrounding area for any guards he might have missed.

  Still some distance from the three, he called out the expected, respectful refrain to the chieftain. “Hail Dnark, may the Wolf Jaw bite strong,” he said in his best Orcish, but with no attempt to hide his Underdark drow accent. He watched carefully then to gauge their initial reaction, knowing that to be the bare truth.

  All three turned his way, their expressions showing surprise, even shock. Tellingly, however, not one flinched toward a weapon.

  “To the throat of your enemy,” Tos’un finished the Wolf Jaw tribe’s salute. He continued his approach, noting that Ung-thol, the older shaman, visibly relaxed, but that the younger Toogwik Tuk remained very much on edge.

  “Well met, again,” Tos’un offered, and he climbed the last small rise to gain the sheltered flat ground the trio had staked out. “We have come far from the holes in the Spine of the World, as I predicted to you those months ago.”

  “Greetings, Tos’un of Menzoberranzan,” said Dnark.

  The drow measured the chieftain’s voice as cautious, and neither warm or cold.

  “I am surprised to see you,” Dnark finished.

  “We have learned the fate of your companions,” Ung-thol added.

  Tos’un stiffened, and had to consciously remind himself not to grasp his sword hilts. “Yes, Donnia Soldou and Ad’non Kareese,” he said. “I have heard their sad fate, and a curse upon the murderous Drizzt Do’Urden.”

  The three orcs exchanged smug grins. They knew of the murdered priestess, Tos’un realized.

  “And pity to Kaer’lic,” he said lightly, as if it didn’t really matter. “Foolish was she who angered mighty Obould.” He found a surprising response to that from Toogwik Tuk, for the young orc’s smile disappeared, and his lips grew tight.

  “She and you, so it is said,” Ung-thol replied.

  “I will prove my value again.”

  “To Obould?” asked Dnark.

  The question caught the drow off-balance, for he had no idea of where the chieftain might be going with it.

  “Is there another who would seek that value?” he asked, keeping enough sarcasm out of his tone so that Dnark might seize it as an honest question if he so chose.

  “There are many above ground now, and scattered throughout the Kingdom of Many-Arrows,” said Dnark. He glanced back at the hulking orcs milling around the construction ar
ea. “Grguch of Clan Karuck has come.”

  “I just witnessed his ferocity in routing the cursed surface elves.”

  “Strong allies,” said Dnark.

  “To Obould?” Tos’un asked without hesitation, turning the question back in similar measure.

  “To Gruumsh,” said Dnark with a toothy grin. “To the destruction of Clan Battlehammer and all the wretched dwarves and all the ugly elves.”

  “Strong allies,” said Tos’un.

  They are not pleased with King Obould, Khazid’hea said in the drow’s mind. Tos’un didn’t respond, other than to not disagree. An interesting turn.

  Again the drow didn’t disagree. A tingling feeling came over him, that exciting sensation that befell many of Lady Lolth’s followers when they first discovered that an opportunity for mischief might soon present itself.

  He thought of Sinnafain and her kin, but didn’t dwell on them. The joy of chaos came precisely from the reality that it was often so very easy, and not requiring too much deep contemplation. Perhaps the coming mayhem would benefit the elves, perhaps the orcs, Dnark or Obould, one or both. That was not for Tos’un to determine. His duty was to ensure that no matter which way the tumult broke, he would be in the best position to survive and to profit.

  For all of his time with the elves of late, for all of his fantasies of living among the surface folk, Tos’un Armgo remained, first and foremost, drow.

  He sensed clearly that Khazid’hea very much approved.

  Grguch was not pleased. He stomped across the hillside before the tunnel entrance and all of Clan Karuck fled before him. All except for Hakuun, of course. Hakuun could not flee before Grguch. It was not permitted. If Grguch decided that he wanted to kill Hakuun then Hakuun had to accept that as his fate. Being the shaman of Clan Karuck carried such a responsibility, and it was one that Hakuun’s family had accepted throughout the generations—and was one that had cost more than a few of his family their lives.