The Lone Drow th-2

by Robert Salvatore

  "It would seem that our common enemies are sweeping all the land from the Surbrin to Nesmй, from the Trollmoors to the Spine of the World," Regis went on. "That leaves only a handful of settlements, Mithral Hall, and Nesmй to stop them, unless we can elicit help from the neighboring lands."

  "Then you admit that we must join our forces," Galen reasoned. "Then you see the wisdom of sending a force fast for Nesmй."

  "I do," said Regis, "and I do not. We must stand together, and so we shall, but I believe your desire to hold our ground at Nesmй is ill considered. Mithral Hall will hold, but outside of our gates, all is lost—or soon shall be."

  "What foolishness is this?" Galen Firth demanded, leaping from his chair, his eyes ablaze with anger.

  "We fight for every inch of ground," Regis countered, and his voice didn't waver in the least, nor did he tense up or shy away from the imposing man. "And when we cannot hold, we retreat into the defensible tunnels of Mithral Hall. From here, we keep the lines of tunnels open to Citadel Felbarr; they will be our eyes, ears, and mouth to the outside world. From here, we continue to implore Silverymoon and Sundabar to mobilize their forces. I already have emissaries hurrying along their way through tunnels to find Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon and the leaders of Sundabar. From here, we hold the one remaining fortress against the onslaught of monstrous enemies."

  "While my people die?" Galen Firth spat.

  "No," said Regis. "Not if we can help them. From the moment you arrived, I had dwarf scouts striking out to the southwest, underground, seeking a course to Nesmй. Their progress has been strong, and I expect that they will find an exit to the surface near enough to your town to join up with your people."

  "Then send an army, and let us drive the trolls back!"

  "I will send what I can spare, but I expect that will be far fewer than needed for the task you espouse," said Regis.

  "Then what?" the warrior's voice suddenly mellowed, and he even slumped back in the chair.

  He turned his head and rested his chin in his hand, staring into the flames.

  "Let us find your people and help them as we may," Regis explained. "We will fight beside them, if that remains a viable option. And if not, or when it becomes not, we will retreat, with your people in tow, back into the Underdark and back to Mithral Hall. Though my dwarves will not be able to defeat our enemies aboveground, I have little doubt that they can hold their own tunnels against pursuing monsters."

  Galen Firth said nothing, just kept staring into the fire.

  "I wish I could offer more," Regis went on. "I wish I could empty Mithral Hall and charge south to overrun the trolls. But I cannot, and you must understand."

  Galen sat there quietly for a long while, then turned to Regis, his features softened.

  "You truly believe that the orcs and giants work in concert with the Trollmoors trolls?"

  "The fall of the eastern gate would indicate as much," the halfling replied.

  "And it tells, too, that my people are in dire trouble," Galen said. "If the trolls had enough strength to send a force as far east and north as your gates on the Surbrin…."

  "Then tarry no more," Regis said. He reached into his vest and produced a rolled parchment, tossing it across to the man. "Take that to the Undercity and Taskman Bellows. The expedition is outfitting even now and will be ready to march this very day."

  Again Galen Firth paused, staring at the parchment, then back at Regis as he slowly climbed out of the chair once more. He said nothing more, but his nod held enough appreciation for Regis to see that the man understood the reasoning, even if he did not necessarily agree.

  He gave a slight bow and left the room and the halfling steward breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he had one less issue pressing.

  Regis slid back in his chair and turned to the fire, but before he could even begin to relax, a knock on the door turned him back.

  "Enter, please," he said, expecting it to be a returned Galen Firth.

  The door pushed open and in walked a soot-covered dwarf, Miccarl Ironforge by name, one of Mithral Hall's best blacksmiths. So dirty was this one that the color of his wide, short beard (rumored to be red) was impossible to tell. He wore a thick leather apron and a black shirt with only one sleeve, covering his left arm completely and sewn as one with a heavy heat-resistant glove. His bare right arm, streaked with soot, was nearly twice the girth of his left, muscled from years and years of lifting heavy hammers.

  "The gnome again?" Regis asked.

  Miccarl had sought him out twice before in the last tenday, offering reports that their little visitor from Mirabar had been acting overly curious in snooping around the Undercity.

  "The little one's been in the maps again," Miccarl explained.

  "Same maps?"

  "Western tunnels—mostly unused."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Last I saw was him moving down those same tunnels," Miccarl explained. "I'm thinking that he's thinking he's found something there."

  "And what might be there?"

  "Nothing that I'm knowing, nor that anyone else's knowing. Them tunnels been mostly sealed for a few hunnerd years, unless them duergar that took the hall with the dragon opened them—and none who've been down that way since our return ever found anything."

  "Then what? A way out—a way to bring an army from Mirabar in?" Regis asked. "Orc that could be stolen for Mirabar's forges?"

  "Nothing there—not even good orc," Miccarl answered. "Never was nothing there but shale and coal for the forges. If the little one's come all the way to find a source for that, then he's a bigger fool than ye know, for there's not much worth in the stuff and Mirabar's already got more than she'd ever need."

  "Tunnels to Mirabar?"

  Miccarl snorted and said, "We got enough already known. We could get far west of here in a day's time and be aboveground beyond the reach of our enemies and well on our way to Mirabar. The little one's got to know that."

  "Then what?" Regis asked again, but quietly, and more to himself than to the dwarf.

  What might Nanfoodle be doing? As he pondered the possibilities, the half-ling's hand instinctively went up to the chain around his neck.

  "Find Nanfoodle and bid him join me," Regis instructed the dwarf.

  "Aye," Miccarl readily agreed. "Ye wanting me to drag him or knock him black and carry him?"

  "I'm wanting you to coerce him," Regis replied. "Tell him that I have some news for Mirabar and need his advice forthwith."

  "Not as much fun," Miccarl muttered, and he left.

  A procession of informants followed the departure of the blacksmith, with news from the east and news from the west, with reports about the fighting outside and from the progress in securing and scouting the tunnels. Regis took it all in, paying strict attention, weighing all the possibilities, and mostly, formulating a line of questions for his dwarf advisors. He recognized that he was more the synthesizer of information than the decision maker, though he found that his advice was carrying more and more weight as the dwarves came to trust his judgment.

  That pleased him and frightened him all at the same time.

  His dinner was delivered to him in the same room, coming in alongside yet another messenger, one reporting that the expedition of fifty dwarves had set off for the south with Galen Firth.

  Regis invited the dwarf to join him, or started to, but then Miccarl Ironforge appeared at the door.

  "More work," Regis explained to the first messenger.

  The halfling gave an apologetic shrug and motioned to the plates of food set on the small table between the chairs.

  "Yup," replied the dwarf, and he stepped over, piled a few pounds of meat on a plate and filled the largest flagon to its tip with mead.

  He gave a nod to Regis, which sent some mead spilling over the front of the flagon, then took his leave.

  In walked Miccarl and Nanfoodle.

  "Got work to do," the sooty blacksmith explained, and after moving over to similarly outfit himse
lf with meat and mead for the trek back to the Under-city, he too took his leave.

  "Sit and eat and drink," Regis offered to the gnome.

  "They left little," Nanfoodle remarked with a grin, but even as he spoke the words, a pair of dwarves entered with refills of both food and drink.

  Both the halfling and the gnome, not to be outdone by any dwarf, began their long, hearty meal.

  "I am told you have news of Mirabar, or for Mirabar," Nanfoodle said between gulps of the golden liquid. "Master Ironforge was not explicit."

  "I have a request for Mirabar," Regis explained between bites. "You understand the weight of our present dilemma, I hope."

  "Many monsters, yes," Nanfoodle replied, and he took another bite of lamb and another gulp of mead.

  "More than you know," Regis replied. "Pressing all the region. No doubt word has already reached your marchion from besieged, and perhaps already overrun, Nesmй. I know not how long we might hold any presence on the surface, and so Mirabar must mobilize her forces."

  "For the good of Mithral Hall?" asked the gnome.

  So surprised was he that a bit of mead fell out of his mouth as he blurted the words. He quickly dabbed it up with his napkin and took another big swallow.

  "For the good of Mirabar," Regis corrected. "Are we to assume that these monsters will end their march here?"

  It seemed to him that the gnome was growing a bit more concerned, and in his nervousness, Nanfoodle seemed to be taking more and more drink and less and less food. That was good, Regis thought, and so he kept the conversation going for some time, detailing the fall of the eastern gate and the fears that the trolls of the south had joined with the orcs and giants from the north, or perhaps that the groups had been working in concert all along. He spared no detail at all, drawing out the conversation for as long as possible, and letting Nanfoodle drink more and more mead.

  At one point, when the servers arrived with even more food and drink, Regis called one over and whispered into his ear, "Cut the next bit of drink with Gut-buster." The halfling glanced at the gnome, trying to get a measure of his present sensibilities. "Twenty-to-one mead," he explained to the server, not wanting to knock the poor gnome unconscious.

  An hour later, Regis was still talking, and Nanfoodle was still drinking.

  "But you and your sceptrana claim that you came here to check on Torgar and to strengthen the bond between our towns," Regis said suddenly, and with increased volume. He had been steering the conversation that way for a bit, moving away from the particulars of the monsters and the fighting and toward the issue of relations between Mirabar and Mithral Hall. "That is true, is it not?"

  Nanfoodle's eyes opened wide—or at least, as wide as the somewhat inebriated gnome could open them.

  "W-well… yes," Nanfoodle sputtered. "That is why we came here, after all."

  "Indeed," said Regis.

  He shifted forward in his chair, leaning near to Nanfoodle. He fished his necklace out of the front of his vest and fiddled with the ruby pendant, sending it into a little spin.

  "Well, we all want that, of course," the halfling said, and he noted that Nanfoodle had glanced at the ruby and up, and again at the ruby. "Better relations, I mean."

  "Yes, yes, of course," said the gnome, his eyes more and more focused on the tantalizing spin of the enchanted ruby pendant.

  Regis would never have tried it on the gnome normally. Nanfoodle was a brilliant alchemist, so Torgar and Shingles McRuff had told him, and also was known to dabble in illusionary magic. Add to that obvious intelligence the natural resistance of a gnome to such enchantments as the ruby might cast, and the pendant would never have been effective.

  But Nanfoodle was drunk.

  He didn't even turn his eyes from the pendant anymore, obviously mesmerized by its continuing sparkling and spinning.

  "And do you seek those relations in the westernmost tunnels of Mithral Hall?" Regis asked casually.

  "Eh?" Nanfoodle remarked.

  "You were there, were you not?" Regis pressed, but quietly so, not wanting his suspicions to break the charm. "In the western tunnels, I mean. You have been going there quite a bit, from what I hear. The dwarves find that curious, even amusing, for there is nothing down there … or is there?"

  "Sealed tunnels, pitch-washed," Nanfoodle answered absently.

  "Then what importance might they offer to your mission in coming all this way?" the halfling asked. "Since you came to check on Torgar, did you not? And to better the relationship between Mirabar and Mithral Hall?

  Nanfoodle gave a snort and a shake of his head.

  "If only that were so," said the gnome.

  Regis froze in place, resisting the urge to fall back in his chair. He gave the pendant another spin.

  "Indeed, if only!" he enthusiastically agreed. "So tell me, good gnome, why have you really come?"

  * * *

  The hair on the back of Shoudra Stargleam's neck rose inexplicably when a dwarf informed her that her friend was sitting with Steward Regis, and had been for more than two hours. The sceptrana moved along the corridors, half-running and often slowing as she tried to sort things out. Why was she so bothered and nervous, after all, for wasn't Nanfoodle a reliable companion?

  She came into an anteroom where a trio of dwarves stood calmly, each holding a nasty-looking polearm.

  "Well met yerself," one of them said to Shoudra, and he motioned for the door to the audience room.

  A second dwarf, standing beside the door, pushed it open, and Shoudra heard laughter from within and saw the glow of a comfortable fire. Still, she didn't calm down; something wasn't sitting well with her. She moved to the opening and peered in to see Nanfoodle laughing stupidly on one cushy chair, while a more sober Regis, his wounded arm back in its supporting sling, sat across from him.

  "So nice of you to join us, Sceptrana Shoudra," the halfling said, and he motioned to the empty chair.

  Shoudra took one step into the room, then jerked suddenly as the door slammed behind her.

  "Nanfoodle and I were just discussing the disposition of the relationship between our respective communities," Regis explained, and again he indicated the empty chair to the unmoving sceptrana.

  Shoudra hardly heard him, for her attention followed her scan around the room. The walls were all hung with tapestries, save the one that held the hearth, and the heavy hangings were not flat against the wall. Shoudra's gaze went lower, and she noted the toes of more than one pair of boots below the bottom fringe.

  Slowly, the sceptrana turned her gaze to Regis.

  "It is an interesting relationship, don't you agree," the halfling said, and there was no missing the sudden change in his tone.

  "One we hope to strengthen," Shoudra replied, her gaze going to the obviously drunk Nanfoodle.

  "Truly?" Regis asked.

  Shoudra turned back to him.

  "To strengthen our relationship by weakening Mithral Hall's orc?" the half-ling asked, and he pulled a large pouch out from behind him on the chair and tossed it on the floor at Shoudra's feet.

  Shoudra slowly bent and retrieved the pouch but didn't even have to open it to know what was inside: Nanfoodle's weakening solution.

  The sceptrana turned her stunned expression over the gnome, who burst out in great laughter and nearly fell off the chair.

  "My new friend Nanfoodle told me everything," Regis stated.

  He snapped his fingers in the air, and the tapestries were pulled aside, revealing a trio of grim-faced dwarves. The door behind Shoudra opened as well, and the sceptrana knew that polearms were aimed at her back.

  "He has told me," Regis went on, "of how you came here on orders of the marchion to sabotage our orc. Of how Mirabar intended to wage a trade war upon Mithral Hall through such means, to ruin our reputation and steal our customers."

  Shoudra began to shake her head.

  "You must understand …" she started.

  "Understand?" Regis interrupted. "Weakened metal in our hands
as we battle the orc hordes? Weakened metal on the barricades we construct to keep the monsters out of our halls? What is there to understand, Sceptrana?"

  "We didn't know you were at war!" Shoudra blurted.

  "Oh, then of course your spying and espionage are not so important!" came the halfling's sarcastic reply.

  "No, you must understand the temperament of Marchion Elastul," Shoudra tried to explain. She moved beside Nanfoodle as he spoke and casually draped an arm across his shoulders. "This is his … his way. Marchion Elastul fears Mithral Hall, and so he instructed Nanfoodle and I to come here and learn if Torgar was divulging the secrets of Mirabar. You must admit that Mithral Hall has gained a sudden advantage in the trade war, with four hundred of Mirabar's dwarves deserting our city to come to yours."

  "Yes, a tremendous advantage with hordes of orcs knocking on our doors."

  "We did not know." Shoudra took a deep breath and went on, "And I doubt that Nanfoodle or I would have had the heart to cause any mischief even if there was no war. Neither of us approve of the marchion's tactics here, nor of his disposition concerning King Bruenor and Mithral Hall. We two seek a better way."

  "You would say that now, of course," Regis interrupted.

  Shoudra closed her eyes and blew a long sigh, then began muttering under her breath.

  "Take them and lock them away—and separately," Regis instructed.

  The six dwarves advanced on the pair, but then they were gone, winking out of sight.

  "The door!" Regis cried, and the dwarf closest the exit rushed back and slammed the portal shut.

  Shoudra and a very surprised-looking Nanfoodle appeared suddenly on the far side of the room, and the dwarves hooted and charged.

  They disappeared again, reappearing a few moments later in front of the hearth.

  "She's casting again! Stop her!" Regis cried, noting Shoudra's renewed chant.

  "Watch for fireballs!" cried the dwarf by the door.

  He pulled it open, and Shoudra and Nanfoodle appeared right there, as fortune would have it. The dwarf fell away with a shriek.