Drizzt ducked the brunt of it, but felt the bite as the sword sliced down his shoulder blade, leaving a long and painful gash. Drizzt ran straight out from the engagement and dived forward in a roll, turning as he came up to face the pursuing Tos’un.
It was Tos’un’s turn, and he came on with fury, stabbing and slashing, spinning completely around and with perfect balance and measured speed.
Ignoring the pain and the warm blood running down the right side of his back, Drizzt matched that intensity, parrying left and right, up and down, the blades ringing in one long note as they clanged and scraped. With every parry of Khazid’hea, Drizzt caught the sword more softly, retreating his own blade upon contact, as he might catch a thrown egg to avoid breaking it. That was more taxing, though, more precise and time-consuming, and the necessity of such a concentrated defense prevented him from regaining the momentum and the offense.
Around and around the sheltered lea they went, Tos’un pressing, not tiring, and growing more confident with every strike.
He had a right to do so, Drizzt had to admit, for he fought brilliantly, fluidly, and only then did Drizzt begin to understand that Tos’un had done with Khazid’hea that which Drizzt had refused to allow. Tos’un was letting the sword infiltrate his thoughts, was following the instincts of Khazid’hea as if they were his own. They had found a complementary relationship, a joining of sword and wielder.
Worse, Drizzt realized, Khazid’hea knew him, knew his movements as intimately as a lover, for Drizzt had wielded the sword in a desperate fight against King Obould.
He understood then, to his horror, how Tos’un had so easily anticipated his rollover and second throw move after the initial cross and parry. He understood then, to his dilemma, his inability to set up a killing strike. Khazid’hea knew him, and though the sword couldn’t read his thoughts, it had taken a good measure of the fighting techniques of Drizzt Do’Urden. Just as damaging, since Tos’un had apparently given over to Khazid’hea’s every intrusion, the sword and the trained drow warrior had found a symbiosis, a joining of knowledge and instinct, of skill and understanding.
For a fleeting moment, Drizzt wished that he had not dismissed Guenhwyvar, as tired as she had been after finally leading him to Tos’un Armgo.
A fleeting moment indeed, for Tos’un and Khazid’hea came on again, hungrily, the drow stabbing high and low simultaneously then spinning his blades over in a cross, and back again with a pair of backhand slashes.
Drizzt backed as Tos’un pursued. He parried about half the strikes—mostly those of the less dangerous drow blade—and dodged the other half cleanly. He offered no counters, allowing Tos’un to press, as he tried to find the answers to the riddle of the drow warrior and his mighty sword.
Back he stepped, parrying a slash. Back he stepped again, and he knew that he was running out of room, that the stone throne was near. He began to parry more and retreat less, his steps slowing and becoming more measured, until he felt at last the thick granite of the throne behind his trailing heel.
Apparently sensing that Drizzt had run out of room, Tos’un came forward more aggressively, executing a double thrust low. Surprised by the maneuver, Drizzt launched a double-cross down, the appropriate parry, where he crossed his scimitars down over the two thrusting swords. Drizzt had long ago solved the riddle of that maneuver. Before, the defender could hope for no advantage beyond a draw.
Tos’un would know that, he realized in the instant it took him to begin the second part of his counter, kicking his foot through the upper cross of his down-held blades, and so when Tos’un reacted, Drizzt already had his improvisation ready.
He kicked for Tos’un’s face, so it appeared. Tos’un leaned back and drove his swords straight up, his intent to knock the kicking Drizzt, already in an awkward maneuver, off his balance.
But Drizzt shortened his kick, which could have no more than glanced Tos’un’s face anyway, and changed the angle of his momentum upward then used Tos’un’s push from below to bolster that directional change. Drizzt leaped right up and tucked in a tight turn that spun him head-over-heels to land lightly atop the seat of the stone throne, and it was Tos’un who overbalanced as the counterweight disappeared in a back flip, the drow staggering back a step.
Typical of an Armgo, Tos’un growled and came right back in, slashing across, which Drizzt hopped easily. Up above, Drizzt had the advantage, but Tos’un tried to use sheer aggressiveness to dislodge him from the seat, slashing and stabbing with abandon. One swipe cut across short of Drizzt, who threw back his hips, and sent Khazid’hea hard into the back of the stone throne. With a crack and a spark, the sword slashed through, leaving a gouge in the granite.
“I will not let you win, and I will not let you flee!” Drizzt cried in that moment, when the stone, though it hadn’t stopped the sword, surely broke Tos’un’s rhythm.
Drizzt went on the offensive, hacking down at Tos’un with powerful and straightforward strokes, using his advantageous angle to put his weight behind every blow. Tos’un tried to not retreat as a drum roll of bashing blades landed against his upraised swords, sending shivers of numbness down his arms, but Drizzt had him defending against angles varying too greatly for him to ever get his feet fully under him. Soon he had no choice but to fall back, stumbling, and Drizzt was there, leaping from the seat and coming down with a heavy double chop of his blades that nearly took Tos’un’s swords from his hands.
“I will not let you win!’ Drizzt cried again, throwing out the words in a release of all his inner strength as he backhanded across with Icingdeath, smashing Tos’un’s drow-made sword out to the side.
And that was the moment when Drizzt could have ended it, for Twinkle’s thrust, turn, and out-roll had Khazid’hea too far to the side to stop the second movement of Icingdeath, a turn and stab that would have plunged the blade deep into Tos’un’s chest.
Drizzt didn’t want the kill, for all the rage inside him for Innovindil. He played his trump.
“I will again wield the magnificent Khazid’hea!” he cried, disengaging instead of pressing his advantage. He went back just a couple of steps, and only for a few heartbeats—long enough to see a sudden wave of confusion cross Tos’un’s face.
“Give me the sword!” Drizzt demanded.
Tos’un cringed, and Drizzt understood. For he had just given Khazid’hea what it had long desired, had just spoken the words Khazid’hea could not ignore. Khazid’hea’s loyalty was to Khazid’hea alone, and Khazid’hea wanted, above all else, to be wielded by Drizzt Do’Urden.
Tos’un stumbled, hardly able to bring his blades up in defense as Drizzt charged in. In came Twinkle, in came Icingdeath, but not the blades. The hilts smashed Tos’un’s face, one after another. Both Tos’un’s swords went flying, and he went with them, back and to the ground. He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. Drizzt’s boot slammed down upon his chest and Icingdeath came to rest against his neck, its diamond edge promising him a quick death if he struggled.
“You have so much to answer for,” Drizzt said to him.
Tos’un fell back and gave a great exhale, his whole body relaxing with utter resignation, for he could not deny that he was truly doomed.
CHAPTER
BLACK AND WHITE
Nanfoodle lifted one foot and drew little circles on the floor with his toes. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, the gnome presented an image of uncertainty and trepidation. Bruenor and Hralien, who had been sitting discussing their next moves when Nanfoodle and Regis had entered the dwarf’s private quarters, looked at each other with confusion.
“Well if ye can’t get it translated, then so be it,” Bruenor said, guessing at the source of the gnome’s consternation. “But ye’re to keep working on it, don’t ye doubt!”
Nanfoodle looked up, glanced at Regis, then bolstered by Regis’s nod, turned back to the dwarf king and squared his shoulders. “It is an ancient language, based on the Dwarvish tongue,” he explained. “It has roots in
Hulgorkyn, perhaps, and Dethek runes for certain.”
“Thought I’d recognized a couple o’ the scribbles,” Bruenor replied.
“Though it is more akin to the proper Orcish,” Nanfoodle explained, and Bruenor gasped.
“Dworcish?” Regis remarked with a grin, but he was the only one who found any humor in it.
“Ye’re telling me that the durned orcs took part of me Delzoun ancestors’ words?” Bruenor asked.
Nanfoodle shook his head. “How this language came about is a mystery whose answer is beyond the parchments you brought to me. From what I can tell of the proportion of linguistic influence, you’ve juxtaposed the source and add.”
“What in the Nine Hells are ye babblin’ about?” Bruenor asked, his voice beginning to take on an impatient undercurrent.
“Seems more like old Dwarvish with added pieces from old Orcish,” Regis explained, drawing Bruenor’s scowl his way and taking it off of Nanfoodle, who seemed to be withering before the unhappy dwarf king with still the most important news forthcoming.
“Well, they needed to talk to the dogs to tell them what’s what,” said Bruenor, but both Regis and Nanfoodle shook their heads with every word.
“It was deeper than that,” Regis said, stepping up beside the gnome. “The dwarves didn’t borrow orc phrases, they integrated the language into their own.”
“Something that would have taken years, even decades, to come into being,” said Nanfoodle. “Such language blending is common throughout the history of all the races, but it occurs, every time, because of familiarity and cultural bonds.”
Silence came back at the pair, and Bruenor and Hralien looked to each other repeatedly. Finally, Bruenor found the courage to ask directly, “What are ye saying?”
“Dwarves and orcs lived together, side-by-side, in the city you found,” said Nanfoodle.
Bruenor’s eyes popped open wide, his strong hands slapped against the arms of his chair, and he came forward as if he meant to leap out and throttle both the gnome and the halfling.
“For years,” Regis added as soon as Bruenor settled back.
The dwarf looked at Hralien, seeming near panic.
“There is a town called Palishchuk in the wastes of Vaasa on the other side of Anauroch,” the elf said with a shrug, as if the news was not as unexpected and impossible as it seemed. “Half-orcs, one and all, and strong allies with the goodly races of the region.”
“Half-orcs?” Bruenor roared back at him. “Half-orcs’re half-humans, and that lot’d take on a porcupine if the durned spines didn’t hurt so much! But we’re talkin’ me kin here. Me ancestors!”
Hralien shrugged again, as if it wasn’t so shocking, and Bruenor stopped sputtering long enough to catch the fact that the elf might be having a bit of fun with the revelation, at the dwarf’s expense.
“We don’t know that these were your ancestors,” Regis remarked.
“Gauntlgrym’s the home o’ Delzoun!” Bruenor snapped.
“This wasn’t Gauntlgrym,” said Nanfoodle, after clearing his throat. “It wasn’t,” he reiterated when Bruenor’s scowl fell over him fully.
“What was it, then?”
“A town called Baffenburg,” said Nanfoodle.
“Never heared of it.”
“Nor had I,” the gnome replied. “It probably dates from around the time of Gauntlgrym, but it was surely not the city described in your histories. Not nearly that size, or with that kind of influence.”
“That which we saw of it was probably the extent of the main town,” Regis added. “It wasn’t Gauntlgrym.”
Bruenor fell back in his seat, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. He wanted to argue, but had no facts with which to do so. As he considered things, he recognized that he’d never had any evidence that the hole in the ground led to Gauntlgrym, that he had no maps that indicated the ancient Delzoun homeland to be anywhere near that region. All that had led him to believe that it was indeed Gauntlgrym was his own fervent desire, his faith that he had been returned to Mithral Hall by the graces of Moradin for that very purpose.
Nanfoodle started to talk, but Bruenor silenced him and waved both him and Regis away.
“This does not mean that there is nothing of value…” Regis started to say, but again, Bruenor waved his hand, dismissing them both—then dismissing Hralien with a gesture, as well, for at that terrible moment of revelation, with orcs attacking and Alustriel balking at decisive action, the crestfallen dwarf king wanted only to be alone.
“Still here, elf?” Bruenor asked when he saw Hralien inside Mithral Hall the next morning. “Seeing the beauty o’ dwarf ways, then?”
Hralien shared the dwarf king’s resigned chuckle. “I am interested in watching the texts unmasked. And I would be re—” He stopped and studied Bruenor for a moment then added, “It is good to see you in such fine spirits this day. I had worried that the gnome’s discovery from yesterday would cloak you in a dour humor.”
Bruenor waved a hand dismissively. “He’s just scratched the scribblings. Might be that some dwarves were stupid enough to trust the damned orcs. Might be that they paid for it with their city and their lives—and that might be a lesson for yer own folk and for Lady Alustriel and the rest of them that’s hesitating in driving Obould back to his hole. Come with me, if ye’re wantin’, for I’m on me way to the gnome now. He and Rumblebelly have worked the night through, on me orders. I’m to take their news to Alustriel and her friends out working on the wall. Speak for the Moonwood in that discussion, elf, and let’s be setting our plans together.”
Hralien nodded and followed Bruenor through the winding tunnels and to the lower floors, and a small candlelit room where Regis and Nanfoodle were hard at work. Parchment had been spread over several tables, held in place by paperweights. The aroma of lavender permeated the room, a side-effect from Nanfoodle’s preservation potions that had been carefully applied to each of the ancient writings, and to the tapestry, which had been hung on one wall. Most of its image remained obscured, but parts of it had been revealed. That vision made Bruenor cringe, for the orcs and dwarves visible in the drawing were not meeting in battle or even in parlay. They were together, intermingled, going about their daily business.
Regis, who sat off to the side transcribing some text, greeted the pair as they entered, but Nanfoodle didn’t even turn around, hunched as he was over a parchment, his face pressed close to the cracked and faded page.
“Ye’re not looking so tired, Rumblebelly,” Bruenor greeted accusingly.
“I’m watching a lost world open before my eyes,” he replied. “I’m sure that I will fall down soon enough, but not now.”
Bruenor nodded. “Then ye’re saying that the night showed ye more o’ the old town,” he said.
“Now that we have broken the code of the language, the pace improves greatly,” said Nanfoodle, never turning from the parchment he was studying. “You retrieved some interesting texts on your journey.”
Bruenor stared at him for a few heartbeats, expecting him to elaborate, but soon realized that the gnome was fully engulfed by his work once more. The dwarf turned to Regis instead.
“The town was mostly dwarves at first,” Regis explained. He hopped up from his chair and moved to one of the many side tables, glanced at the parchment spread there, and moved along to the next in line. “This one,” he explained, “talks about how the orcs were growing more numerous. They were coming in from all around, but most of the dwarven ties remained to places like Gauntlgrym, which was of course belowground and more appealing to a dwarf’s sensibilities.”
“So it was an unusual community?” Hralien asked.
Regis shrugged, for he couldn’t be certain.
Bruenor looked to Hralien and nodded smugly in apparent vindication, and certainly the elf and the halfling understood that Bruenor did not want his history intertwined with that of the foul orcs!
“But it was a lasting arrangement,” Nanfoodle intervened, finally looking
up from the parchment. “Two centuries at least.”
“Until the orcs betrayed me ancestors,” Bruenor insisted.
“Until something obliterated the town, melting the permafrost and dropping the whole of it underground in a sudden and singular catastrophe,” Nanfoodle corrected. “And not one of orc making. Look at the tapestry on the wall—it remained in place after the fall of Baffenburg, and certainly it would have been removed if that downfall had been precipitated by one side or the other. I don’t believe that there were ‘sides,’ my king.”
“And how’re ye knowing that?” Bruenor demanded. “That scroll tellin’ ye that?”
“There is no indication of treachery on the part of the orcs—at least not near the end of the arrangement,” the gnome explained, hopping down from his bench and moving to yet another parchment across from the table where Regis stood. “And the tapestry…Early on, there were problems. A single orc chieftain held the orcs in place beside the dwarves. He was murdered.”
“By the dwarves?” Hralien asked.
“By his own,” said Nanfoodle, moving to another parchment. “And a time of unrest ensued.”
“Seemin’ to me that the whole time was a time of unrest,” Bruenor said with a snort. “Ye can’t be living with damned orcs!”
“Off and on unrest, from what I can discern,” Nanfoodle agreed. “And it seemed to get better through the years, not worse.”
“Until the orcs brought an end to it,” Bruenor grumbled. “Suddenly, and with orc treachery.”
“I do not believe…” Nanfoodle started to reply.
“But ye’re guessin’, and not a thing more,” said Bruenor. “Ye just admitted that ye don’t know what brought the end.”
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