transition 01 The Orc King

by R . A. Salvatore

  Everything he heard about the lord and lady’s new child brought him hope. One of the prevalent rumors whispered by excited towns-folk hinted that the girl was Feringal’s and Meralda’s own, and that she had been born in a sleep-state from which they had never expected her to awaken. And what joy now for the couple and the town that the child had recovered!

  Another rumor attached Colson to barbarian nobility, and claimed that her presence with Lord Feringal ensured security for the folk of Auckney—a wonderful thing in the tough terrain of the frozen North.

  Wulfgar absorbed it all with a growing sense that he had done well for Colson, for himself, and for Delly. Truly he had a hole in his heart that he never expected to fill, and truly he vowed that he would visit Auckney and Colson in the coming years. Feringal would have no reason to dismiss him or arrest him as time passed, after all, and indeed Wulfgar might find a level of bargaining power in the future, since he knew the truth of the girl’s parentage. Lord Feringal wouldn’t want him for an enemy, physically or politically.

  That was the barbarian’s hope, the one thing that kept him from breaking down and rushing back into the town to “rescue” Colson.

  He continued to linger, to listen and to watch, for on more than one occasion he chanced to see Colson out with her new parents. He was truly amazed and heartened to see how quickly the young girl had adapted to her new surroundings and new parents, from afar at least. Colson smiled as often as she had in Mithral Hall, and she seemed at ease holding Meralda’s hand and walking along in the woman’s shadow.

  Similarly, the love Meralda held for her could not be denied. The look of serenity on her face was everything Wulfgar had hoped it would be. She seemed complete and content, and in addition to those promising appearances, what gave Wulfgar more hope still was the posture of Lord Feringal whenever he was near to the girl. There could be no doubt that Feringal had grown greatly in character over the years. Perhaps it was due to the support of Meralda, a woman Wulfgar knew to be possessed of extraordinary integrity, or perhaps it was due to the absence of Feringal’s shrill sister.

  Whatever the cause, the result was clear for him to see and hear, and every day he lingered near to Auckney was a day in which he grew more certain of his decision to return the child to her rightful mother. It did Wulfgar’s heart good, for all the pain still there, to think of Colson in Meralda’s loving arms.

  So many times he wanted to run into Auckney to tell Colson that he loved her, to crush her close to him in his arms and assure her that he would always love her, would always protect her. So many times he wanted to go in and simply say goodbye. Her cries of “Da!’ still echoed in his mind and would haunt him for years and years, he knew.

  But he could not go in, and so as the days became a tenday, Wulfgar melted away down the mountain road to the east, the way he had come. The next day, he arrived at the end of the eastern pass, where the road ran south through the foothills to Luskan, and north to the long dale that traversed the Spine of the World and opened up into Icewind Dale.

  Wulfgar turned neither way at first. Instead he crossed the trail and scaled a rocky outcropping that afforded him a grand view of the rolling lands farther to the east. He perched upon the stone and let his mind’s eye rove beyond the physical limitations of his vision, imagining the landscape as it neared Mithral Hall and his dearest friends. The place he had called home.

  He turned suddenly back to the west, thinking of his daughter and realizing just how badly he missed her—much more so than he’d anticipated.

  Then back to the east went his thoughts and his eyes, to the tomb of Delly, lying cold in Mithral Hall.

  “I only ever tried to do the best I could,” he whispered as if talking to his dead wife.

  It was true enough. For all of his failures since his return from the Abyss, Wulfgar had tried to do the best he could manage. It had been so when he’d first rejoined his friends, when he’d failed and assaulted Catti-brie after a hallucinatory dream. It had been so during his travels with Morik, through Luskan and up to Auckney. So many times had he failed during those dark days.

  Looking west then looking east, Wulfgar accepted the responsibility for all of those mistakes. He did not couch his admission of failure with self-serving whining about the trials he had suffered at the claws of Errtu. He did not make excuses for any of it, for there were none that could alter the truth of his behavior.

  All he could do was do the best he could in all matters before him. That was what had led him to retrieve Delly’s body. It was the right thing to do. That was what had led him not only to retrieve Colson from Cottie and the refugees, but to bring her home to Meralda. It was the right thing to do.

  And now?

  Wulfgar had thought he’d sorted it all out, had thought his plans and road determined. But with the stark reality of those plans before him, he was unsure. He knelt upon the stone and prayed to Delly for guidance. He called upon her ghost to show him the way.

  Was Obould pounding on the doors of Mithral Hall yet again?

  Bruenor might need him, he knew. His adoptive father, who had shown him nothing but love for all those years, might need his strength in the coming war. Wulfgar’s absence could result in Bruenor’s death!

  The same could be true of Drizzt, or Regis, or Catti-brie. They might find themselves in situations in the coming days where only Wulfgar could save them.

  “Might,” Wulfgar said, and as he heard the word, he recognized that that would forever be the case. They might need him as he might need any of them, or all of them. Or perhaps even all of them together would one day soon be overcome by a black tide like the one of Obould.

  “Might,” he said again. “Always might.”

  Aside from the grim possibilities offered by the nearly perpetual state of war, however, Wulfgar had to remind himself of important questions. What of his own needs? What of his own desires? What of his own legacy?

  He was approaching middle age.

  Reflexively, Wulfgar turned from the east to face north, looking up the trail that would lead him to Icewind Dale, the land of his ancestors, the land of his people.

  Before he could fully turn that way, however, he looked back to the east, toward Mithral Hall, and envisioned Obould the Awful towering over Bruenor.

  CHAPTER

  TRUST, AND VERIFY

  This Toogwik Tuk is aggressive,” Grguch said to Hakuun, and to Jack, though of course Grguch didn’t know that. They stood off to the side of the gathering force as it realigned itself for a march to the west. “He would have us wage war with Obould.”

  “He claims that Obould would wage war with us,” the shaman agreed after a quick internal dialogue with Jack.

  Grguch grinned as if nothing in the world would please him more. “I like this Toogwik Tuk,” he said. “He speaks with Gruumsh.”

  “Are you not curious as to why Obould halted his march?” Hakuun asked, though the question had originated with Jack. “His reputation is for ferocity, but he builds walls instead of tearing them down.”

  “He fears rivals,” Grguch assumed. “Or he has grown comfortable. He walks away from Gruumsh.”

  “You do not intend to convince him otherwise.”

  Grguch grinned even more wickedly. “I intend to kill him and take his armies. I speak to Gruumsh, and I will please Gruumsh.”

  “Your message will be blunt, or coaxed at first?”

  Grguch looked at the shaman curiously then motioned with his chin toward a bag set off to the side, a sack that held Oktule’s head.

  A wry smile widened on Hakuun’s face. “I can strengthen the message,” he promised, and Grguch was pleased.

  Hakuun looked back over his shoulder and spoke a few arcane words, strung together with dramatic inflection. Jack had predicted all of it, and had already worked the primary magic for it. Out of the shadows walked Oktule, headless and grotesque. The animated zombie strode stiff-legged to the sack and shifted aside the flaps. It stood straight a moment l
ater and moved slowly toward the pair, cradling its lost head in both hands at its midsection.

  Hakuun looked to Grguch and shrugged sheepishly. The chieftain laughed.

  “Blunt,” he said. “I only wish that I might view Obould’s face when the message is delivered.”

  Inside Hakuun’s head, Jack whispered, and Hakuun echoed to Grguch, “It can be arranged.”

  Grguch laughed even louder.

  With a bellow of “Kokto Gung Karuck,” Grguch’s orc force, a thousand strong and growing, began its march to the west, the clan of the Wolf Jaw taking the southern flank, Clan Karuck spearheading the main mass.

  In the very front walked the zombie Oktule, holding a message for Obould.

  They heard the resonating grumble of “Kokto Gung Karuck,” and from a high mountain ridge not far northeast of Mithral Hall, Drizzt, Bruenor, and the others saw the source of that sound, the march of Clan Karuck and its allies.

  “It is Grguch,” Tos’un told the group. “The conspirators are leading him to Obould.”

  “To fight him?” Bruenor asked.

  “Or to convince him,” said Tos’un.

  Bruenor snorted at him, but Tos’un just looked at Drizzt and Hralien and shook his head, unwilling to concede the point.

  “Obould has shown signs that he wishes to halt his march,” Drizzt dared say.

  “Tell it to the families of me boys who died at the wall a couple o’ nights ago, elf,” Bruenor growled.

  “That was Grguch, perhaps,” Drizzt offered, careful to add the equivocation.

  “That was orcs,” Bruenor shot back. “Orcs is orcs is orcs, and th’ only thing they’re good for is fertilizing the fields. Might that their rotting bodies’ll help grow trees to cover the scars in yer Moonwood,” he added, addressing Hralien, who blanched and rocked back on his heels.

  “To cover the blood of Innovindil,” Bruenor added, glaring at Drizzt.

  But Drizzt didn’t back from the stinging comment. “Information is both our weapon and our advantage,” he said. “We would do well to learn more of this march, its purpose, and where it might turn next.” He looked down and to the north, where the black swarm of Grguch’s army was clear to see along the rocky hills. “Besides, our trails parallel anyway.”

  Bruenor waved his hand dismissively and turned away, Pwent following him back to the food spread out at the main encampment.

  “We need to get closer to them,” Drizzt told the remaining half a dozen. “We need to learn the truth of their march.”

  Regis took a deep breath as Drizzt finished, for he felt the weight of the task on his shoulders.

  “The little one will be killed,” Tos’un said to Drizzt, using the drow language, Low Drow, that only he and Drizzt understood.

  Drizzt looked at him hard.

  “They are warriors, fierce and alert,” Tos’un explained.

  “Regis is more than he seems,” Drizzt replied in the same Under-dark language.

  “So is Grguch.” As he finished, Tos’un glanced at Hralien, as if to invite Drizzt to speak to the elf for confirmation.

  “Then I will go,” said Drizzt.

  “There is a better way,” Tos’un replied. “I know of one who can walk right in and speak with the conspirators.”

  That gave Drizzt pause, an expression of doubt clouding his face and obvious to everyone nearby.

  “Ye plannin’ to tell us what ye’re talking about?” Torgar said impatiently.

  Drizzt looked at him then back at Tos’un. He nodded, to both.

  After a brief private conversation with Cordio, Drizzt pulled Tos’un off to the side to join the priest.

  “Ye sure?” Cordio asked Drizzt when they were alone. “Ye’re just gonna have to kill him.”

  Tos’un tensed at the words, and Drizzt fought hard to keep the smile from his face.

  “He might be full o’ more information that we can coax out o’ him,” Cordio went on, playing his role perfectly. “Might be that a few tendays o’ torture’ll bring us answers about Obould.”

  “Or lies to stop the torture,” Drizzt replied, but he ended the forthcoming debate with an upraised hand, for it didn’t matter anyway. “I am sure,” he said simply, and Cordio heaved an “oh-if-I-must” sigh, the perfect mix of disgust and resignation.

  Cordio began to chant and slowly dance around the startled Tos’un. The dwarf cast a spell—a harmless dweomer that would have cured any diseases that Tos’un might have contracted, though of course, Tos’un didn’t know that, and recognized only that the dwarf had sent some magical energy into his body. Another harmless spell followed, then a third, and with each casting, Cordio narrowed his eyes and sharpened his inflection just a bit more, making it all seem quite sinister.

  “The arrow,” the dwarf commanded, holding a hand out toward Drizzt though his intense stare never left Tos’un.

  “What?” Drizzt asked, and Cordio snapped his fingers impatiently. Drizzt recovered quickly and drew an arrow from his magical quiver, handing it over as demanded.

  Cordio held it up before his face and chanted. He waggled the fingers of his free hand over the missile’s wicked tip. Then he moved it toward Tos’un, who shrank back but did not retreat. The dwarf lifted the arrow up to Tos’un’s head then lowered it.

  “The head, or the heart?” he asked, turning to Drizzt.

  Drizzt looked at him curiously.

  “Telled ye it was a good spell,” Cordio lied. “Not that it’ll much matter with that durned bow o’ yers. Blast his head from his shoulders or take out half his chest? Yer choice.”

  “The head,” said the amused drow. “No, the chest. Shoot center mass….”

  “Ye can’t miss either way,” the dwarf promised.

  Tos’un stared hard at Drizzt.

  “Cordio has placed an enchantment upon you,” Drizzt explained as Cordio continued to chant and wave the arrow before Tos’un’s slender chest. The dwarf ended by tapping the arrowhead against the drow, right over his heart.

  “This arrow is now attuned to you,” Drizzt said, taking the arrow from the dwarf. “If it is shot, it will find your heart, unerringly. You cannot dodge it. You cannot deflect it. You cannot block it.”

  Tos’un’s look was skeptical.

  “Show ’im, elf,” Cordio said.

  Drizzt hesitated for effect.

  “We’re shielded from the damned orcs,” the priest insisted. “Show ’im.”

  Looking back at Tos’un, Drizzt still saw doubt, and that he could not allow. He drew Taulmaril from his shoulder, replaced the “enchanted” arrow in his quiver and took out a different one. As he set it, he turned and targeted, then let fly at a distant boulder.

  The magical bolt split the air like a miniature lightning bolt, flashing fast and true. It cracked into the stone and blasted through with a sharp retort that had Regis and the other dwarves jumping with surprise. It left only a smoking hole in the stone where it had hit.

  “The magic of the surface dwellers is strange and powerful, do not doubt,” Drizzt warned his fellow drow.

  “Ye ain’t got a chest plate thick enough,” Cordio added, and he tossed an exaggerated wink at Tos’un then turned with a great laugh and ambled away.

  “What is this about?” Tos’un asked in the drow tongue.

  “You wish to play the role of scout, so I will let you.”

  “But with the specter of death walking beside me.”

  “Of course,” said Drizzt. “Were it just me, I might trust you.”

  Tos’un tilted his head, curious, trying to get a measure of Drizzt.

  “Fool that I am,” Drizzt added. “But it is not just me, and if I am to entrust you with this, I need to ensure that my friends will not be harmed by my decision. You hinted that you can walk right into their camp.”

  “The conspirators know that I am no friend of Obould’s.”

  “Then I will allow you to prove your worth. Go and learn what you may. I will be near, bow in hand.”

  �
��To kill me if I deceive you.”

  “To ensure the safety of my friends.”

  Tos’un began to slowly shake his head.

  “You will not go?” Drizzt asked.

  “You need not do any of this, but I understand,” Tos’un replied. “I will go as I offered. You will come to know that I am not deceiving you.”

  By the time the two dark elves got back to the rest of the group, Cordio had informed the others of what had transpired, and of the plan going forward. Bruenor stood with his hands on his hips, clearly unconvinced, but he merely gave a “harrumph” and turned away, letting Drizzt play out his game.

  The two drow set off from the others after nightfall, moving through the shadows with silent ease. They picked their way toward the main orc encampment, dodging guards and smaller camps, and always with Tos’un several steps in the lead. Drizzt followed with Taulmaril in hand, the deadly “enchanted” arrow set on its string—at least, Drizzt hoped he had taken out the same arrow Cordio had played with, or that if he had not, Tos’un hadn’t noticed.

  As they neared the main group, crossing along the edge of a clearing that was centered by a large tree, Drizzt whispered for Tos’un to stop. Drizzt paused for a few heartbeats, hearing the rhythm of the night. He waved for Tos’un to follow out to the tree. Up Drizzt went, so gracefully that it seemed as if he had walked along a fallen log rather than up a vertical trunk. On the lowest branch, he paused and looked around then turned his attention on Tos’un below.

  Drizzt dropped a sword belt, both of Tos’un’s weapons sheathed.

  You would trust me? the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo signaled up with his fingers, using the intricate silent language of the drow.

  Drizzt’s answer was simple, and reflected on his impassive expression. I have nothing to lose. I care nothing for that sword—it destroys more than it helps. You will drop it and your other blade to the ground when you return to the tree, or I will retrieve it from the grasp of the dying orc who took it from you after I put an arrow through your heart.