transition 01 The Orc King

by R . A. Salvatore

  To the side lay Guenhwyvar, majestic and eternal, and beside her stood Drizzt, calm and smiling, his mithral shirt, his belted weapons, and Taulmaril over his shoulder, reminding Bruenor that no dwarf had ever known a better champion. In looking at him, Bruenor was amazed yet again at how much he had come to love and trust that dark elf.

  Just as much, Bruenor knew, as his gaze slipped past Drizzt to Catti-brie, his beloved daughter, Drizzt’s wife. Never had she looked as beautiful to Bruenor as she did just then, never more sure of herself and comfortable in her place. She wore her auburn hair up high on one side, hanging loosely on the other, and it caught the light of the fountain, reflected off the rich, silken colors of her blouse, the garment of the gnome wizard. It had been a full robe on the gnome, of course, but it reached only to mid-thigh on Catti-brie, and while the sleeves had nearly covered the gnome’s hands, they flared halfway down Catti-brie’s delicate forearms. She wore a dark blue dress under the blouse, a gift from Lady Alustriel, her new tutor—working through Nanfoodle—that reached to her knees and matched exactly the blue trim of her blouse. High boots of black leather completed the outfit, and seemed so appropriate for Catti-brie, as they were both delicate and sturdy all at once.

  Bruenor chuckled, recalling so many images of Catti-brie covered in dirt and in the blood of her enemies, dressed in simple breeches and tunic, and fighting in the mud. Those times were gone, he knew, and he thought of Wulfgar.

  So much had changed.

  Bruenor looked back to the podium and the treaty, and the extent of the change weakened his knees beneath him.

  Along the southern rim of the center platform stood the other dignitaries: Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon, Galen Firth of Nesmé, King Emerus Warcrown of Citadel Felbarr—looking none too pleased, but accepting King Bruenor’s decision—and Hralien of the Moonwood. More would join in, it was said, including the great human city of Sundabar and the largest of the dwarven cities in the region, Citadel Adbar.

  If it held.

  That thought made Bruenor look across the podium to the other principal, and he could not believe that he had allowed King Obould Many-Arrows to enter Mithral Hall. Yet there stood the orc, in all his terrible splendor, with his black armor, ridged and spiked, and his mighty greatsword strapped diagonally across his back.

  Together they walked to opposite sides of the podium. Together they lifted their respective quills.

  Obould leaned forward, but even though he was a foot and a half taller, his posture did not diminish the splendor and strength of King Bruenor Battlehammer.

  “If ye’re e’er to deceive…” Bruenor started to whisper, but he shook his head and let the thought drift away.

  “It is no less bitter for me,” Obould assured him.

  And still they signed. For the good of their respective peoples, they put their names to the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, recognizing the Kingdom of Many-Arrows and forever changing the face of the Silver Marches.

  Calls went out from the gorge, and horns blew along the tunnels of Mithral Hall. And there came a greater blast, a rumble and resonance that vibrated through the stones of the hall and beyond, as the great horn once known as Kokto Gung Karuck, a gift from Obould to Bruenor, sounded from its new perch on the high lookout post above Mithral Hall’s eastern door.

  The world had changed, Bruenor knew.

  EPILOGUE

  How different might the world now be if King Bruenor had not chosen such a course with the first Obould Many-Arrows,” Hralien asked Drizzt. “Better, or worse?”

  “Who can know?” the drow replied. “But at that time, a war between Obould’s thousands and the gathered armies of the Silver Marches would have changed the region profoundly. How many of Bruenor’s people would have died? How many of your own, who now flourish in the Glimmerwood in relative peace? And in the end, my friend, we do not know who would have prevailed.”

  “And yet here we stand, a century beyond that ceremony, and can either of us say with absolute truth that Bruenor chose correctly?”

  He was right, Drizzt knew, to his ultimate frustration. He reminded himself of the roads he had walked over the last decades, of the ruins he had seen, of the devastation of the Spellplague. But in the North, instead of that, because of a brave dwarf named Bruenor Battlehammer, who threw off his baser instincts, his hatred and his hunger for revenge, in light of what he believed to be the greater good, the region had known a century and more of relative peace. More peace than ever it had known before. And that while the world around had fallen to shadow and despair.

  Hralien started away, but Drizzt called after him.

  “We both supported Bruenor on that day when he signed the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge,” he reminded. Hralien nodded as he turned.

  “As we both fought alongside Bruenor on the day he chose to stand beside Obould against Grguch and the old ways of Gruumsh,” Drizzt added. “If I recall that day correctly, a younger Hralien was so taken by the moment that he chose to place his trust in a dark elf, though that same drow had marched to war against Hralien’s people only months before.”

  Hralien laughed and held up his hands in surrender.

  “And what resulted from that trust?” Drizzt asked. “How fares Tos’un Armgo, husband of Sinnafain, father of Teirflin and Doum’wielle?”

  “I will ask him when I return to the Moonwood,” the beaten Hralien replied, but he managed to get in the last arrow when he directed Drizzt’s gaze to the prisoners they had taken that day.

  Drizzt conceded the point with a polite nod. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t decided. The world rolled on around him, the sand shifted under his feet.

  He reached down to pet Guenhwyvar, needing to feel the comfort of his panther friend, the one constant in his surprising life, the one great hope along his ever-winding road.

  Regis glanced around nervously. The agreement was for Obould to come out with a small contingent, but it was clear to the halfling that the orc had unilaterally changed that deal. Scores of orc warriors and shamans had been set all over main encampment, hiding behind rocks or in crevices, cunningly concealed and prepared for easy and swift egress.

  As soon as Elastul’s emissaries had delivered the word that the Arcane Brotherhood meant to move on the Silver Marches, and that enlisting Obould would be their first endeavor, the orc king’s every move had been increasingly aggressive. Lady Alustriel and King Bruenor had reached out to Obould immediately, but so too had Obould begun to reach out to them. In the four years since the treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, there hadn’t been all that much contact between the various kingdoms, dwarf and orc, and indeed, most of that contact had come in the form of skirmishes along disputed boundaries.

  But they had joined in their first common mission since Bruenor and his friends, Regis among them, had traveled north to help Obould stave off a coup by a vicious tribe of half-ogre orcs.

  Or had they? The question nagged at Regis as he continued to glance around. Ostensibly, they had agreed to come together to meet the brotherhood’s emissaries with a show of united force, but a disturbing possibility nagged at the halfling. Suppose Obould instead planned to use his overwhelming number in support of the erinyes emissary and against Regis and his friends?

  “You would not have me risk the lives of King Bruenor and his princess Catti-brie, student of Alustriel, would you?” came Obould’s voice from behind, shattering the halfling’s train of thought. Regis sheepishly turned to regard the massive humanoid, dressed in his fabulous overlapping black armor with its abundant and imposing spikes, and with that tremendous greatsword strapped across his back.

  “I—I know not what you mean,” Regis stammered, feeling naked under the knowing gaze of this unusual, and unusually perceptive, orc.

  Obould laughed at him and turned away, leaving the halfling less than assured.

  Several of the forward sentries began calling then, announcing the arrival of the outsiders. Regis rushed forward and to the side to get a good look, and when he did
spy the newcomers a few moments later, his heart leaped into his throat.

  A trio of beautiful, barely-dressed women led the way up the path, one stepping proudly in front flanked left and right by her entourage. Tall, statuesque, with beautiful skin, they seemed almost angelic to Regis, for from behind their strong but delicate shoulders, they each sprouted a pair of shining white feathered wings. Everything about them spoke of otherworldliness, from their natural—or supernatural—charms, like hair too lustrous and eyes a bit too shining, to their adornments such as the fine swords and delicate rope, all magically glowing in a rainbow of hues, carried on belts twined of shining gold and silver fibers that sparkled as if enchanted.

  It would have been easy to confuse these women with the goodly celestials, had it not been for their escort. For behind them came a mob of gruesome and beastly warriors, the barbazu. Each carried a saw-toothed glaive, great tips waving in the light as the hunched, green-skinned creatures shuffled behind their leaders. They were also known as bearded devils because of a shock of facial hair that ran ear to ear down under their jawline, beneath a toothy mouth far too wide for their otherwise emaciated faces. Scattered about their ranks were their pets, the lemure, oozing, fleshy creatures that had no more definable shape than that of a lump of molten stone, continually rolling, spreading and contracting to propel them forward.

  The group, nearly two-score by Regis’s count, moved steadily up the rock path toward Obould, who had climbed to the top to directly intercept them. Just a dozen paces before him the leading trio motioned for their shock troops to stay and came forward as a group, again with same one—a most striking and alluring creature with stunning too-red hair and too-red eyes and too-red lips—taking the point.

  “You are Obould, I am sure,” she purred, striding forward to stand right before the imposing orc, and though he was more than half a foot taller than her and twice her weight, she did not seem diminished before him.

  “Nyphithys, I assume,” Obould replied.

  The she-devil smiled, showing teeth blindingly white and dangerously sharp.

  “We are honored to speak with King Obould Many-Arrows,” the devil said, her red eyes twinkling coyly. “Your reputation has spread across Faerûn. Your kingdom brings hope to all orcs.”

  “And hope to the Arcane Brotherhood, it would seem,” Obould said, as Nyphithys’s gaze drifted over to the side, where Regis remained half-hidden by a large rock. The erinyes grinned again—and Regis felt his knees go weak—before finally, mercifully, looking back to the imposing orc king.

  “We make no secret of our wishes to expand our influence,” she admitted. “Not to those with whom we wish to ally, at least. To others….” Her voice trailed off as she again looked Regis’s way.

  “He is a useful infiltrator,” Obould remarked. “One whose loyalty is to whoever pays him the most gold. I have much gold.”

  Nyphithys’s accepting nod seemed less than convincing.

  “Your army is mighty, by all accounts,” said the devil. “Your healers capable. Where you fail is in the arcane Art, which leaves you dangerously vulnerable to mages, who are so prevalent in Silverymoon.”

  “And this is what the brotherhood offers,” Obould reasoned.

  “We can more than match Alustriel’s power.”

  “And so with you behind me, the Kingdom of Many-Arrows will overrun the Silver Marches.”

  Regis’s knees went weak again at Obould’s proclamation. The halfling’s thoughts screamed of double-cross, and with his friends so dangerously exposed—and with himself so obviously doomed!

  “It would be a beautiful coupling,” the erinyes said, and ran her delicate hand across Obould’s massive chest.

  “A coupling is a temporary arrangement.”

  “A marriage, then,” said Nyphithys.

  “Or an enslavement.”

  The erinyes stepped back and looked at him curiously.

  “I would provide you the fodder to absorb the spears and spells of your enemies,” Obould explained. “My orcs would become to you as those barbezu.”

  “You misunderstand.”

  “Do I, Nyphithys?” Obould said, and it was his turn to offer a toothy grin.

  “The brotherhood seeks to enhance trade and cooperation.”

  “Then why do you approach me under the cloak of secrecy? All the kingdoms of the Silver Marches value trade.”

  “Surely you do not consider yourself kin and kind with the dwarves of Mithral Hall, or with Alustriel and her delicate creatures. You are a god among orcs. Gruumsh adores you—I know this, as I have spoken with him.”

  Regis, who was growing confident again at Obould’s strong rebuke, winced as surely as did Obould himself when Nyphithys made that particular reference.

  “Gruumsh has guided the vision that is Many-Arrows,” Obould replied after a moment of collecting himself. “I know his will.”

  Nyphithys beamed. “My master will be pleased. We will send—”

  Obould’s mocking laughter stopped her, and she looked at him both curiously and skeptically.

  “War brought us to this, our home,” Obould explained. “But peace sustains us.”

  “Peace with dwarves?” the devil asked incredulously.

  Obould stood firm and did not bother to reply.

  “My master will not be pleased.”

  “He will exact punishment upon me?”

  “Be careful what you wish for, king of orcs,” the devil warned. “Your puny kingdom is no match for the weight of the Arcane Brotherhood.”

  “Who ally with devils and will send forth a horde of barbezu to entangle my armies while their overwizards rain death upon us?” Obould asked, and it was Nyphithys’s turn to stand firm. “While my own allies support my ranks with elven arrows, dwarven war machines, and Lady Alustriel’s own knights and wizards,” the orc said and drew out his greatsword, willing its massive blade to erupt with fire as it came free of its sheath.

  To Nyphithys and her two erinyes companions, none of whom were smiling, he yelled, “Let us see how my orc fodder fares against your barbezu and flesh beasts!”

  From all around, orcs leaped out of hiding. Brandishing swords and spears, axes and flails, they howled and rushed forward, and the devils, ever eager for battle, fanned out and met the charge with one of their own.

  Available in Hardcover

  October 2008

  from

  A Reader’s Guide to

  R.A. Salvatore’s

  The Legend of Drizzt™

  THE LEGEND

  When TSR published The Crystal Shard in 1988, a drow ranger first drew his enchanted scimitars, and a legend was born.

  THE LEGACY

  Twenty years and twenty books later, readers have brought his story to the world.

  DRIZZT

  Celebrate twenty years of the greatest fantasy hero of a generation.

  This fully illustrated, full color, encyclopedic book celebrates the whole world of The Legend of Drizzt, from the dark elf’s steadfast companions, to his most dangerous enemies, from the gods and monsters of a world rich in magic, to the exotic lands he’s visited.

  Mixing classic renditions of characters, locales, and monsters from the last twenty years with artwork by Todd Lockwood and other cutting-edge illustrators, this is a must-have book for every Drizzt fan.

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  The author of Insurrection and The Scions of Arrabar Trilogy rescues Aliisza and Kaanyr Vhok from the tattered remnants of their assault on Menzoberranzan, and sends them off on a quest across the multiverse that will leave FORGOTTEN REALMS® fans reeling!

  THE EMPYREAN ODYSSEY

  Book I

  THE GOSSAMER PLAIN

  Kaanyr Vhok, fresh from his defeat against the drow, turns to hated Sundabar for the victory his demonic force
s demand, but there’s more to his ambitions than just one human city. In his quest for arcane power, he sends the alu-fiend Aliisza on a mission that will challenge her in ways she never dreamed of.

  Book II

  THE FRACTURED SKY

  A demon surrounded by angels in a universe of righteousness, Aliisza makes what decisions she must to survive. So how did an angel make such simple choices so complicated?

  (November 2008)

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  What Aliisza has witnessed has changed her forever, but that’s nothing compared to what has happened to the multiverse itself. The startling climax will change the nature of the cosmos forever.

  Mid-2009

  “Reid is proving himself to be one of the best up and coming authors in the FORGOTTEN REALMS universe.”

  —fantasy-fan.org

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast, Inc. in the U.S.A. and other countries. ©2008 Wizards.

  RICHARD A. KNAAK

  THE OGRE TITANS

  The Grand Lord Golgren has been savagely crushing all opposition to his control of the harsh ogre lands of Kern and Blöde, first sweeping away rival chieftains, then rebuilding the capital in his image. For this he has had to deal with the ogre titans, dark, sorcerous giants who have contempt for his leadership.