The Lone Drow th-2
Page 16
"Let us close this western gate first," Urlgen suggested, but his father was snarling and shouting "No!" before he ever finished.
"No," Obould repeated. "It will not be enough to let these smelly dwarves run back into Mithral Hall. Not anymore. They have chosen to stand against us, and so they will die! You must hold them and batter at them. Keep them in place, but keep them weary. I return soon, and we will see to the end of them."
"I have lost hundreds," Urlgen protested.
"And you have hundreds more to lose," Obould calmly replied.
"My warriors will break rank and flee," Urlgen insisted. "They splash through the blood of their kin. They climb over orc bodies to get to the dwarves."
Obould let out a long, extended growl. He reached up and grasped Urlgen by the front of his tunic. Urlgen grabbed Obould's hand with both of his own, and tried to twist free, but with a flick of his wrist, Obould sent his startled son flying across the room to crash down by the flap of the tent.
"They will not dare flee," Obould insisted. He turned to the red-robed shaman as he spoke. "They will see the glory of Obould."
"Obould is Gruumsh! Arganth Snarrl insisted.
Urlgen stared incredulously at his father, stunned by the sheer strength of Obould and the sheer intensity in his simmering yellow eyes. A glance to Gerti showed Urlgen that she was horrified by the display and similarly frustrated. Most of all, Urlgen recognized that frustration, and only then did it occur to him that Gerti had not said a word.
Gerti Orelsdottr, the daughter of the great Jarl Greyhand, who had always held the upper hand in all dealings with the orcs, had not said a word.
* * *
Like a great yawning river, the swarm of King Obould's orcs began their pivot and deliberate flow out to the east.
Urlgen Threefist, stung and afraid, watched the turn and march from a high ridge at the back of his own forces. His father had reinforced him, but with nothing substantial. Enough to hold on, enough to keep the dwarves under pressure, but not enough to dislodge them.
For suddenly King Obould didn't want to dislodge them. His reasoning had seemed sound—keep the dwarves fighting and separated so that they could completely cut them off and kill as many as possible before Mithral Hall's western door banged closed—but Urlgen could not dismiss the feeling that part of the delaying tactic was for no better reason than to push the credit for success squarely off of Urlgen's shoulders and squarely onto Obould's.
A noise from behind and below turned Urlgen from his contemplations.
"I feared you would not come," the orc said to Gerti as the giantess climbed up to stand just below him, which put her face level with his own.
"Was it not I who asked you to come out here at this time?" the giantess replied.
Urlgen bit back a sharp retort, for he still had not reconciled within himself the value of any dialogue with Gerti, whom he hated.
"You have come to fear my father," the orc did say.
"Can you state any differently?" Gerti asked.
"He has grown," Urlgen admitted.
"Obould seeks to dominate."
"King Obould," Urlgen corrected. "You would ask me to help the giants prevent the rise of the orcs?"
"Not of the orcs," Gerti clarified. "I would ask you, for the sake of Urlgen and not of Gerti, to check the rise of King Obould. Where will Urlgen fit in under the god-figure that Obould is fast becoming?"
In light of the weight of that question, Urlgen didn't question Gerti's omission of his father's title.
"Will Urlgen find any credit and glory?" Gerti asked. "Or will he serve as convenient scapegoat at the first sign of disaster?"
Urlgen's lip curled in a snarl, and as much as he wanted to lash out at the giantess (though of course he would never dare do anything of the sort!), his anger came more from the fact that Gerti's reasoning was sound than from the obvious insult to him. Obould was holding him from gaining a great victory there and, but should he fail, Urlgen held no doubts of the severity of his powerful father's judgment.
"What do you need from me?" Gerti surprised him by asking.
Urlgen glanced back at the marching thousands, then turned to Gerti once more, staring at her curiously, trying to read the message behind her words.
"When the time comes to destroy the dwarves before you, you wish to make certain that the orcs praise Urlgen," Gerti reasoned. "I will help you to do that."
Urlgen narrowed his eyes but was nodding despite his cynicism.
"And that the orcs praise Gerti," he remarked.
"If we share in Obould's glory, we will help ensure that we do not suffer all the blame."
It made sense, of course, but to Urlgen, it all seemed so surreal. He had never been close to Gerti in any form. He had often argued with his father against even enlisting the giants as allies. And for her part, Urlgen understood that Gerti despised him even more than she hated Obould and the other orcs. To Gerti, Urlgen had never been anything more than a wretch.
And yet, there they were, sharing plans behind the back of Obould.
Urlgen led Gerti's gaze to the south, to the steeply rising ground and the distant dwarven encampment.
"I need giants," he said. "To secure my lines and throw huge stones!"
"The high ground gives the dwarves the advantage of range," Gerti replied. "I will not see the orc bodies covered by those of my kin."
"Then what do you offer?" Urlgen asked, growing more and more frustrated.
Gerti and Urlgen both scanned the area.
"There," the giantess said, pointing to the high ridge far to the west. "From there, my kin will be out of the dwarves' range and on ground as high as that of our enemies. My kin will serve as your flank and your artillery."
"A long throw for a giant."
"But not for a giant-sized catapult," said Gerti.
"There are tunnels beneath the ridge," Urlgen explained. "The dwarves have taken them and secured them. It will be difficult to—"
"As difficult as arguing your cause when your father declares that you have failed?"
That straightened Urlgen, and straightened his thinking as well.
"Take the ridge, and I will give you the warriors to secure it and to strike out against the dwarves, for the glory of us both," Gerti promised.
"No easy task."
Gerti led Urlgen's gaze back up the slope, to the piles and piles of orc bodies rotting in the morning sun, letting the implication speak for itself.
* * *
"Bash! They're fightin' again, and we're stuck here watching!" the old dwarf Shingles McRuff grumbled to Torgar Hammerstriker.
Torgar moved to the opening in the ridge's eastern wall, overlooking the mountain slope that had served as battlefield for so many days. Sure enough, the charge was on again in full, with orcs and goblins running up the steep ascent, howling and hooting with every stride. A look back to the south told the dwarf that his kin were ready to meet that charge, their formations already composing, Catti-brie's devastating bow already sending lines of sizzling arrows streaming out at the oncoming horde. Every now and then, there came a small explosion among the front ranks of the charging orcs, and Torgar smiled, knowing that Ivan Bouldershoulder had put that clever hand crossbow of his to work.
Even though he held all confidence that Banak and the others would stave off the assault, Torgar was soon chewing his lower lip with frustration that he and half the dwarves of Mirabar could not stand beside them.
"They were needing us here," Shingles reminded Torgar, and he dropped his hand hard onto Torgar's strong shoulder. "We're serving King Bruenor well."
"In holding tunnels that ain't getting attacked," Torgar muttered.
The words had hardly left his mouth when shouts echoed back at him and Shingles from the deeper tunnels to the north.
"Orcs!" came the cry. "Orcs in the tunnels!"
Shingles and Torgar turned wide-eyed expressions at each other, both fast shifting into snarling battle rage.
&nb
sp; "Orcs," they muttered together.
"Orcs!" Shingles echoed loudly, for the benefit of all those dwarves nearby, particularly those back toward the southern entrance. "Get yer axes up, boys. We got orcs to kill!"
With energy, enthusiasm, and even glee, the dwarves of Mirabar set off to predetermined positions to support those farther to the north, where, they learned almost immediately from ringing steel and cries of rage and pain, the battle had already been joined.
Torgar barked out orders with every stride, reminders that he knew he really didn't have to offer to his disciplined warriors. The Mirabarran dwarves understood their places, for in the days they had been in the tunnels, they had come to know every turn in every corridor and every chamber where defenses could be, and had been, set. Still, Torgar barked reminders, and he told them to fight for the glory of Bruenor Battlehammer and Mithral Hall, their new king, their new home.
Torgar had set the defenses purposefully, designing them with every intent that he and Shingles would not be left out of the fighting. The pair rushed down one descending corridor and came out onto a ledge overlooking an oval-shaped chamber, and below they found their first orcs, engaged with a force of more than a dozen Mirabarran dwarves.
Hardly slowing, Torgar leaped from the ledge, crashing in hard among the orc ranks, bringing a pair down beside him. He was up on his feet in an instant, his axe sweeping back and forth—but in control. Shingles was airborne by that time, along with several others who had followed the pair to that room.
Those dwarves up front pressed on more forcefully with the arrival of the reinforcements, hacking their way through orcs as they tried to link up with Torgar and the others. Almost immediately, the battle turned in favor of the dwarves. Orcs fell and orcs tried to flee, but they were held up by their stubborn kin trying to filter out of the tunnel and join in the fray.
"Kill enough and they'll run off!" Torgar roared, and of course, that was indeed the expectation when fighting orcs.
Many minutes later and with the floor covered in orc blood, the dwarves had reached the tunnel entrance, driving back the invaders. With Torgar centering them, the dwarves formed an arc around the narrow opening, so that many weapons could be brought to bear against any orc that stepped through. Surprisingly, though, the orcs still came through, one after another, taking hits and climbing over the fast-piling bodies of their fallen kin. On and on they came, and five orcs fell for every dwarf that was forced back with wounds.
"Damn stubborn lot!" Shingles cried at Torgar's side.
He accentuated his shout with a smash of his hammer that laid yet another brute low.
"Too stubborn," Torgar replied—quietly, though, and under his breath.
He didn't want the others to take note of his alarm. Torgar could hardly believe that orcs were still squeezing out of that tunnel. Every other one never even got a single step back into the room before being chopped down, but still they came.
Cries echoing from the tunnels near to them told Torgar that it was not a unique occurrence in that particular battle, that his boys were being hard-pressed at every turn.
More minutes passed, and more orcs crowded into the room, and more orcs died on the floor.
Torgar glanced back at the ledge, where an appointed dwarf was waiting.
"Position two!" he cried to the young scout and the dwarf ran off, shouting the call.
"Ye heard him!" Shingles cried to the others in the room. "Tighten it up!"
As he finished, Shingles spun around a large rock that had been set in place at the side of the tunnel entrance, bracing his back against the unsteady stone.
"On yer call!" Shingles cried.
Torgar pressed his attack on the nearest orc, shifting as he swung so that he could directly confront the next creature as it tried to come out of the tunnel. Behind him, his boys went into a frenzy, finishing those in the room.
As soon as he thought the door temporarily secured, Torgar shouted, "Now!"
A great heave by Shingles sent the rock falling across the door, and Torgar had to scamper back to avoid getting clipped.
"Go! Go! Go!" Shingles cried.
The dwarves gathered up their wounded and dead and retreated fast to the opposite end of the room and out to the south.
Before they could get through that other door, though, the orcs had already breached the makeshift barricade and a pair of spears arced out, one scoring a hit on poor Shingles.
"Ah, me bum!" he cried, grabbing at the shaft that was protruding from his right buttock.
Though he already had one unconscious dwarf over his other shoulder, Torgar hooked his dearest friend under the arm and pulled him along, out of the room and down the southern tunnel, where a series of stone drops had been set in place to slow any pursuit in just such a situation. All across the tunnel complex beneath the western ridge, the dwarves were forced into organized retreats, but they had been in the tunnels for several days and that was more than any dwarves ever needed to prepare a proper defense.
Torgar was back in battle soon enough, and even a limping Shingles returned to his side, hammer swinging with abandon. They and a handful of other dwarves had made a stand in a stalagmite-filled room that sloped up to the south behind them. Figuring to make the orcs pay for every foot of ground across the wide chamber, the dwarves battled furiously, and again, the orc blood began to flow and the orc bodies began to pile.
But still the stubborn creatures came on.
"Damn stupid lot!" Shingles cried out yet again.
Torgar didn't bother replying to the obvious or to the hidden message of his friend. They were beginning to catch on that the orcs meant to take the tunnels, whatever the cost. That troublesome thought only gained even more credence a few moments later when another group of dwarves unexpectedly crashed into the room from a western corridor.
"Giants!" they cried before Torgar could even ask them why they had abandoned the organized retreat that would have had them bypassing that chamber altogether. "Giants in the tunnels!"
"Giants?" Shingles echoed. "Too low for giants!"
The dwarves charged across and launched themselves into the fray, slaughtering the orcs that stood between them and Torgar's group.
"Giants!" one insisted when he came up before the leader.
Torgar didn't question him, for in looking over his shoulder, the dwarf leader saw the truth of the words in the form of a giant, a giantess actually, crouching, even crawling in places, to arrive at the entrance of the western corridor.
"Get that one!" Torgar demanded, eager to claim that greater prize.
His boys rushed past him, and past those who had just entered, lifting warhammers to throw and ignoring the warning cries of their newly arrived companions to stay back.
A dozen hammers went spinning across the expanse, and every throw seemed true—until the missile neared the pale, bluish-skinned creature and simply veered away.
"Magic?" Torgar whispered.
Almost as if she had heard him, almost as if she was mocking him, the giantess smiled wickedly and waggled her fingers.
Torgar's boys began their charge.
Then they were stumbling, slipping, and blinded, as a sudden burst of sleet filled the room, slicking up the floor.
"Close ranks!" Torgar shouted above the din of the magical storm.
A bright burst of fire appeared, reaching down from the chamber's ceiling and immolating a trio of dwarves who were trying to do just that.
"Run away!" yelled Shingles.
"No," Torgar muttered, and with rage burning in his eyes almost as brightly as the magical fire of the giantess, the refugee from Mirabar stalked through the sleet at the kneeling behemoth.
She looked at him, her eyes blazing with hatred, and she began to mutter yet another spell.
Torgar increased his stride into a run and lifted his axe. He roared above the din, denying the storm, denying his fear, denying all the magic.
Two strides away, he threw himself forward.
Torgar smashed into the giantess, who didn't move an inch, and he bounced away. He tried to hold his balance for just a moment, but his legs were as useless as his arms. Torgar fell back several stumbling steps. He stared at the giantess curiously, incredulously.
Then he fell over.
Behind him, dwarves swarmed into the room, crying for their leader, bend-ing their backs against the continuing sleet, and Gerti (for it was indeed Gerti herself who had entered the fray), her most powerful enchantments spent, wisely retreated, covering her departure by launching a host of orcs into the fray behind her.
* * *
Ignoring the pain in his rump, ignoring the fresh flow of blood down the back of his leg and the new wounds, Shingles scrambled to Torgar's side. He slapped Torgar hard across the face and shouted for him to wake up.
Gasping, Torgar did manage to look at his friend.
"Hurts," he whispered. "By Moradin, she's crushed me heart!"
"Bah, but yer heart's stone," Shingles growled at him. "So quit yer whinin'!"
And with that, Shingles hoisted Torgar over his shoulder and started back the other way, determinedly and carefully putting one foot in front of the other as he struggled up the icy slope with his dear friend.
They did get out of the room and out of many more, and while the fighting raged outside, the dwarves from Mirabar battled and battled for every inch of ground.
But stubborn indeed were the orcs, and willing to lose ten-to-one against their enemies. By the sheer weight of numbers, they gained ground, corridor to corridor and room to room.
Back near the southern end of the tunnel complex, Shingles reluctantly ordered the last and most definitive ceiling drops.
He told all his boys, even the wounded, "Ye dig in and be ready to die for the honor o' Mithral Hall. They took us in as brothers, and we'll not fail them Battlehammers now."