transition 01 The Orc King

by R . A. Salvatore

  More than a tenday into the work, an insight from Nanfoodle—after hearing all of Regis’s stories of the strange city—proved to be the tipping point. Instead of using Dwarvish as his basis for the analysis, he decided upon a double-basis and began incorporating the Orcish tongue—in which, of course, he was fluent. More stencils were cut, more combinations explored.

  Early one morning, Nanfoodle presented Regis with his completed conclusion for translation, a correlative identifying every symbol on the parchment, some that mirrored current Dwarvish or Orcish lettering.

  The halfling went to work over the transcribed, larger-lettered parchment, diligently placing above each symbol the stencil Nanfoodle believed correlative. Regis didn’t pause at all to consider familiar patterns, but simply placed them all as fast as he could.

  Then he stepped back and stood up on the high bench Nanfoodle had placed beside the work table. The gnome was already there, staring back incredulously, his mouth hanging open, and when he took his place beside Nanfoodle, Regis understood.

  For the gnome’s guesses had been correct, obviously, and the translation of the text was clear to see, and to read. It wasn’t unknown for orcs to steal and incorporate Dethek runes, of course, as was most evident with Hulgorkyn. But there was something more than that, a willful blending of related but disparate languages in a balanced manner, one that indicated compromise and coordination between dwarf and orc linguists.

  The translation was laid bare for them to see. Digesting the words, however, proved more difficult.

  “Bruenor won’t like this,” Regis remarked, and he glanced around as if expecting the dwarf king to crash into the room in a tirade at any moment.

  “It is what it is,” Nanfoodle replied. “He will not like it, but he must accept it.”

  Regis looked back at the translated paragraph and read again the words of the orc philosopher Duugee.

  “You place too much value in reason,” the halfling muttered.

  STEPPING BACK FROM ANGER

  The questions continue to haunt me. Are we watching the birth of a civilization? Are the orcs, instead of wanting us dead, wishing to become more like us, with our ways, our hopes, our aspirations? Or was that wish always present in the hearts of the primitive and fierce race, only they saw not how to get to it? And if this is the case, if the orcs are redeemable, tamable, how then are we best to facilitate the rise of their more civilized culture? For that would be an act of great self-defense for Mithral Hall and all of the Silver Marches.

  Accepting the premise of a universal desire among rational beings, a commonality of wishes, I wonder, then, what might occur should one kingdom stand paramount, should one city-state somehow attain unquestioned superiority over all the rest. What responsibilities might such predominance entail? If Bruenor has his way, and the Silver Marches rise up and drive Obould’s orcs from the land and back to their individual tribes, what will be our role, then, in our resulting, unquestioned dominance?

  Would the moral road be the extermination of the orcs, one tribe at a time? If my suspicions regarding Obould are correct, then that I cannot reconcile. Are the dwarves to become neighbors or oppressors?

  It is all premised on a caveat, of course, on a hunch—or is it a deep-rooted prayer in the renegade soul of Drizzt Do’Urden? I desperately want to be right about Obould—as much as my personal desires might urge me to kill him!—because if I am, if there is in him a glint of rational and acceptable aspirations, then surely the world will benefit.

  These are the questions for kings and queens, the principal building blocks of the guiding philosophies for those who gain power over others. In the best of these kingdoms—and I name Bruenor’s among that lot—the community moves constantly to better itself, the parts of the whole turn in harmony to the betterment of the whole. Freedom and community live side-by-side, a tandem of the self and the bigger tapestry. As those communities evolve and ally with other like-minded kingdoms, as roads and trade routes are secured and cultures exchanged, what of the diminishing few left behind? It is incumbent, I believe, for the powerful to bend and grasp the hand of the weak, to pull them up, to share in the prosperity, to contribute to the whole. For that is the essence of community. It is to be based on hope and inspiration and not on fear and oppression.

  But there remains the truth that if you help an orc to stand, he will likely stab your heart on the way to his feet.

  Ah, but it is too much, for in my heart I see the fall of Tarathiel and want to cut the vicious orc king apart! It is too much because I know of Innovindil’s fall! Oh, Innovindil, I pray you do not think less of me for my musing!

  I feel the sting of paradox, the pain of the irresolvable, the stark and painful imperfections of a world of which I secretly demand perfection. Yet for all the blemishes, I remain an optimist, that in the end the ideal will prevail. And this too I also know, and it is why my weapons sit comfortably in my hands. Only from a position of unquestioned strength can true change be facilitated. For it is not in the hands of a rival to affect change. It is not in the hands of the weaker to grant peace and hope to the stronger.

  I hold faith in the kingdom of common voices that Bruenor has created, that Alustriel has similarly created in Silverymoon. I believe that this is the proper order of things—though perhaps with some refining yet to be found—for theirs are kingdoms of freedom and hope, where individual aspirations are encouraged and the common good is shared by all, in both benefit and responsibility. How different are these two places from the darkness of Menzoberranzan, where the power of House presided over the common good of the community, and the aspirations of the individual overwhelmed the liberty, even the life, of others.

  My belief in Mithral Hall as nearer the ideal brings with it a sense of Mithral Hall’s responsibilities, however. It is not enough to field armies to thwart foes, to crush our enemies under the stamp of well-traveled dwarven boots. It is not enough to bring riches to Mithral Hall, to expand power and influence, if said power and influence is to the benefit only of the powerful and influential.

  To truly fulfill the responsibilities of predominance, Mithral Hall must not only shine brightly for Clan Battlehammer, but must serve as a beacon of hope for all of those who glimpse upon it. If we truly believe our way to be the best way, then we must hold faith that all others—perhaps even the orcs!—will gravitate toward our perspectives and practices, that we will serve as the shining city on the hill, that we will influence and pacify through generosity and example instead of through the power of armies.

  For if it is the latter, if dominance is attained and then maintained through strength of arm alone, then it is no victory, and it cannot be a permanent ordering. Empires cannot survive, for they lack the humility and generosity necessary to facilitate true loyalty. The wont of the slave is to throw off his shackles. The greatest aspiration of the conquered is to beat back their oppressors. There are no exceptions to this. To the victors I warn without doubt that those you conquer will never accept your dominion. All desire to emulate your better way, even if the conquered agree with the premise, will be overwhelmed by grudge and humiliation and a sense of their own community. It is a universal truth, rooted in tribalism, perhaps, and in pride and the comfort of tradition and the sameness of one’s peers.

  And in a perfect world, no society would aspire to dominance unless it was a dominance of ideals. We believe our way is the right way, and thus we must hold faith that others will gravitate similarly, that our way will become their way and that assimilation will sheathe the swords of sorrow. It is not a short process, and it is one that will be played out in starts and stops, with treaties forged and treaties shattered by the ring of steel on steel.

  Deep inside, it is my hope that I will find the chance to slay King Obould Many-Arrows.

  Deeper inside, it is my prayer that King Obould Many-Arrows sees the dwarves standing higher on the ladder in pursuit of true civilization, that he sees Mithral Hall as a shining city on the hill, and that h
e will have the strength to tame the orcs long enough for them to scale the rungs of that same ladder.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  CHAPTER

  PUTTING HIS WORLD TOGETHER

  The wagon rocked, sometimes soothing, sometimes jarring, as it rolled along the rocky path, heading north. Sitting on the open bed and looking back the way they had come, Wulfgar watched the skyline of Luskan recede. The many points of the wizard’s tower seemed like a single blur, and the gates were too far for him to make out the guards pacing the city wall.

  Wulfgar smiled as he considered those guards. He and his accomplice Morik had been thrown out of Luskan with orders never to return, on pain of death, yet he had walked right into the city, and at least one of the guards had surely recognized him, even tossing him a knowing wink. No doubt Morik was in there, too.

  Justice in Luskan was a sham, a scripted play for the people to make them feel secure and feel afraid and feel empowered over the specter of death itself, however the authorities decided was timely.

  Wulfgar had debated whether or not to return to Luskan. He wanted to join in with a caravan heading north, for that would serve as his cover, but he feared exposing Colson to the potential dangers of entering the forbidden place. In the end, though, he found that he had no real choice. Arumn Gardpeck and Josi Puddles deserved to learn of Delly Curtie’s sad end. They had been friends of the woman’s for years, and far be it from Wulfgar to deny them the information.

  The tears shed by all three—Arumn, Josi, and Wulfgar—had felt right to the barbarian. There was so much more to Delly Curtie than the easy, clichéd idea that many in Luskan had of her, and that Wulfgar had initially bought into himself. There was an honesty and an honor beneath the crust that circumstance had caked over Delly. She’d been a good friend to all three, a good wife to Wulfgar, and a great mother to Colson.

  Wulfgar tossed off a chuckle as he considered Josi’s initial reaction to the news, the small man practically launching himself at Wulfgar in a rage, blaming the barbarian for the loss of Delly. With little effort, Wulfgar had put him back in his seat, where he had melted into his folded arms, his shoulders bobbing with sobs—perhaps enhanced by too many drinks, but likely sincere, for Wulfgar had never doubted that Josi had secretly loved Delly.

  The world rolled along, stamping its events into the books of history. What was, was, Wulfgar understood, and regrets were not to be long held—no longer than the lessons they imparted regarding future circumstance. He was not innocent of Josi’s accusations, though not to the extent the distraught man had taken them, surely.

  But what was, was.

  After one particularly sharp bounce of the wagon, Wulfgar draped his arm over Colson’s shoulder and glanced down at the girl, who was busying herself with some sticks Wulfgar had tied together to approximate a doll. She seemed content, or at least unbothered, which was the norm for her. Quiet and unassuming, asking for little and accepting less, Colson just seemed to go along with whatever came her way.

  That road had not been fair so far in her young life, Wulfgar knew. She had lost Delly, by all measures her mother, and nearly as bad, Wulfgar realized, she had suffered the great misfortune of being saddled with him as her surrogate father. He stroked her soft, wheat-colored hair.

  “Doll, Da,” she said, using her moniker for Wulfgar, one that he had heard only a couple of times over the last tendays.

  “Doll, yes,” he said back to her, and tousled her hair.

  She giggled, and if ever a sound could lift Wulfgar’s heart….

  And he was going to leave her. A momentary wave of weakness flushed through him. How could he even think of such a thing?

  “You don’t remember your Ma,” he said quietly, not expecting a response as Colson went back to her play. But she looked up at him, beaming a huge smile.

  “Dell-y. Ma,” she said.

  Wulfgar felt as if her little hand had just flicked against his heart. He realized how poor a father he had been to her. Urgent business filled his every day, it seemed, and Colson was always placed behind the necessities. She had been with him for many months, and yet he hardly knew her. They had traveled hundreds of miles to the east, and then back west, and only on that return trip had he truly spent time with Colson, had he tried to listen to the child, to understand her needs, to hug her.

  He gave a helpless and self-deprecating chuckle and patted her head again. She looked up at him with that unending smile, and went immediately back to her doll.

  He hadn’t done right by her, Wulfgar knew. As he had failed Delly as a husband, so he had failed Colson as her father. “Guardian” would be a better term to describe his role in the child’s life.

  So he was on that road that would pain him greatly, but in the end it would give to Colson all that she deserved and more.

  “You are a princess,” he said to her, and she looked up at him again, though she knew not what it meant.

  Wulfgar responded with a smile and another pat, and turned his eyes back toward Luskan, wondering if he would ever travel that far south again.

  The village of Auckney seemed to have changed not at all in the three years since Wulfgar had last seen it. Most of his last visit, of course, had been spent in the lord’s dungeon, an accommodation he hoped to avoid a second time. It amused him to think of how his time with Morik had so ingratiated him to the towns of that region, where the words “on pain of death” seemed to accompany his every departure.

  Unlike those guards in Luskan, though, Wulfgar suspected that Auckney’s crew would follow through with the threat if they figured out who he was. So for the sake of Colson, he took great pains to disguise himself as the trading caravan wound its way along the rocky road in the westernmost reaches of the Spine of the World, toward the Auckney gate. He wore his beard much thicker, but his stature alone distinguished him from the great majority of the populace, being closer to seven feet tall than to six, and with shoulders wide and strong.

  He bundled his traveling cloak tight around him and kept the cowl up over his head—not an unusual practice in the early spring in that part of the world, where the cold winds still howled from on high. When he sat, which was most of the time, he kept his legs tucked in tight so as not to emphasize the length of the limbs, and when he walked, he crouched and hunched his shoulders forward, not only disguising his true height somewhat, but also appearing older, and more importantly, less threatening.

  Whether through his cleverness, or more likely sheer luck and the fact that he was accompanied by an entire parade of merchants in that first post-winter caravan, Wulfgar managed to get into the town easily enough, and once past the checkpoint, he did his best to blend in with the group at the circled wagons, where kiosks were hastily constructed and goods displayed to the delight of the winter-weary townsfolk.

  Lord Feringal Auck, seeming as petulant as ever, visited on the first full day of the caravan faire. Dressed in impractical finery, including puffy pantaloons of purple and white, the foppish man strutted with a perpetual air of contempt turning up his thin, straight nose. He glanced at goods but never seemed interested enough to bother—though his attendants often returned to purchase particular pieces, obviously for the lord.

  Steward Temigast and the gnome driver—and fine fighter—Liam Woodgate, stood out among those attendants. Temigast, Wulfgar trusted, but he knew that if Liam spotted him, the game was surely up.

  “He casts an impressive shadow, don’t he?” came a sarcastic voice from behind, and Wulfgar turned to see one of the caravan drivers looking past him to the lord and his entourage. “Feringal Auck….” the man added, chuckling.

  “I am told that he has a most extraordinary wife,” Wulfgar replied.

  “Lady Meralda,” the man answered, rather lewdly. “As pretty as the moon and more dangerous than the night, with hair blacker than the darkest of ’em and eyes so green that ye’re thinking yerself to be in a summer’s meadow whenever she glances yer way. Aye, but every man doing business in Au
ckney would want to bed that one.”

  “Have they children together?”

  “A son,” the man answered. “A strong and sturdy lad, and with features favoring his mother and not the lord, thank the gods. Little lord Ferin. All in the town celebrated his first birthday just a month ago, and from what I’m hearing, they’ll be buying extra stores to replenish that which they ate at the feast. Finished off their winter stores, by some accounts, and there’s more truth than lie to those, judging by the coins that’ve been falling all the morning.”

  Wulfgar glanced back at Feringal and his entourage as they wound their way along the far side of the merchant caravan.

  “And here we feared that the market’d be thinner with the glutton Lady Priscilla gone.”

  That perked up Wulfgar’s ears, and he turned fast on the man. “Feringal’s…?”

  “Sister,” the man confirmed.

  “Died?”

  The man snorted and didn’t seem the least bit bothered by that possibility, something that Wulfgar figured anyone who had ever had the misfortune of meeting Priscilla Auck would surely appreciate.

  “She’s in Luskan—been there for a year. She went back with this same caravan after our market here last year,” the man explained. “She never much cared for Lady Meralda, for ’twas said she’d had Feringal’s ear until he married that one. I’m not for knowing what happened, but that Priscilla’s time in Castle Auck came to an end soon after the marriage, and when Meralda got fat with Feringal’s heir, she likely knew her influence here would shrink even more. So she went to Luskan, and there she’s living, with enough coin to keep her to the end of her days, may they be mercifully short.”

  “Mercifully for all around her, you mean?”

  “That’s the way they tell it, aye.”

  Wulfgar nodded and smiled, and that genuine grin came from more than the humor at Priscilla’s expense. He looked back at Lord Feringal and narrowed his crystalline blue eyes, thinking that one major obstacle, the disagreeable Lady Priscilla, had just been removed from his path.