The Lone Drow th-2

by Robert Salvatore

  But such a move would, in effect, be handing all the region over to the invading orcs, would be abandoning Mithral Hall's standing as the primary kingdom in their common cause of the defense of the goodly folk in the wild lands beneath the shadows of the eastern stretches of the Spine of the World.

  It was all too confusing and all too overwhelming.

  "I am no leader," Regis whispered. "Curse that I was put in this role."

  The moment of despair passed quickly, replaced by a wistful grin as Regis imagined the answer Bruenor would have had for him had he heard him utter those words.

  The dwarf would have called him Rumblebelly, of course, and would have backhanded him across the back of his head.

  "Ah, Bruenor," Regis whispered. "Will you just wake up then and see to these troubles?"

  He closed his eyes and pictured Bruenor, lying so still and so pale. He went to Bruenor each night, and slept in a chair right beside the dwarf king's bed. Drizzt was nowhere around, and Catti-brie and Wulfgar were both tied up with Banak in the fighting, but Regis was determined that Bruenor would not die without one of his closest companions beside him.

  The halfling both feared and hoped for that moment. He couldn't understand why Bruenor was even still alive, actually, since all the clerics had told him that the dwarf would not survive more than a day or so without their tending—and that had been several days before.

  Stubborn old dwarf, Regis figured, and he pulled himself out of his chair, thinking to go and sit with his friend. He usually didn't visit Bruenor that early in the evening, certainly not before he had taken his supper, but for some reason, Regis felt that he had to go there just then. Perhaps he needed the comfort of Bruenor's company, the reminder that he was the dwarf king's closest friend, and therefore was correct in accepting the call as Steward of Clan Battlehammer.

  Or maybe he could simply find strength in sitting next to Bruenor, recalling as he often did his old times beside the toughened dwarf. What an example Bruenor had been for him all those years, standing strong when others turned to flee, laughing when others crouched in fear.

  As he was moving through the door, another thought struck Regis and took from him every ounce of comfort that the notion of going to Bruenor had seeded within his heart and mind.

  Perhaps, he suddenly realized, he had felt the need to go to Bruenor because somehow Bruenor's spirit was calling out to him, telling him to get to the king's bedside if he truly wanted to be there when his friend breathed his last.

  "Oh no," the halfling gasped, and he ran off down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him.

  The speed of his approach and the unusually early arrival time in Bruenor's chamber brought to Regis an unexpected enlightenment, for as he moved through the door, he found not only Bruenor Battlehammer, lying still as death on the bed, but another dwarf crouching over him, whispering prayers to Moradin.

  For a moment Regis thought that the priest was helping to usher Bruenor over to the other side and that perhaps he had arrived too late to witness his friend's passage.

  But then the halfling realized the truth of it, that the priest, Cordio Muffinhead, was not saying good-bye but was casting spells of healing upon Bruenor.

  Wide-eyed, wondering if Bruenor had done something to elicit such hope as healing spells, Regis bounded forward. His sudden movement alerted Cordio to his presence, and the dwarf looked up and fell back, sucking in his breath. That nervous movement clued Regis in that his hopes were for naught, that something else was going on there.

  "What are you about?" the halfling asked.

  "I come to pray for Bruenor's passing every day," the dwarf gruffly replied, a half-truth if Regis had ever heard one.

  "To ease it, I mean," Cordio tried to clarify. "Praying to Moradin to take him gently."

  "You told me that Bruenor was already at Moradin's side."

  "Aye, and so his spirit might be—aye, it… it must be," Cordio stammered. "But we're not for wanting the body's passing to be a painful thing, are we?"

  Regis hardly heard the response, as he stood there considering Bruenor, considering his friend who should have died days before, soon after he gave the order to the priests to let him be.

  "What are you about, Cordio?" the halfling started to ask, but he stopped short when another rushed into the room.

  "Steward's comi—" Stumpet Rakingclaw started to say, until she noted that Regis was already in the room.

  Her eyes went wide, and she seemed to mutter some curse under her breath as she stepped back.

  "Aye, Cordio Muffinhead," Regis remarked. "Steward's coming, so end your spells of healing on King Bruenor and be gone quick."

  He turned on Cordio as he spoke the accusation, and the dwarf did not shrink back.

  "Aye," Cordio replied, "that would've been close to Stumpet's own words, had ye not been in here."

  "You're healing him," Regis accused, engulfing them both in his unyielding glare. "Every day you come in here and cast your magic into his body, preserving his life's breath. You won't let him die."

  "His body's here, but his spirit's long gone," Cordio replied.

  "Then let him die!" Regis ordered.

  "I cannot," said Cordio.

  "There is no dignity!" the halfling yelled.

  "No," Cordio agreed. "But Bruenor's got his duty now, and I'm seeing that he holds it. I cannot let King Bruenor's body pass over."

  "Not yet," said Stumpet.

  "But you are the ones who told me that you cannot bring him back, that soul and body are far separated and will not hear the call of healing powers," the half-ling argued. "Your own words brought forth my decision to let Bruenor go in peace, and now you defy my order?"

  "King Bruenor cannot fully join his ancestors until the fighting's done," Cordio explained. "And not for Bruenor's sake—this's got nothing to do with Bruenor."

  "It's got to do with the king, but not the dwarf," Stumpet added. "It's got to do with them who're out there fighting for Mithral Hall, fighting under the name o' King Bruenor Battlehammer. Ye go and tell Banak Brawnanvil that Bruenor's dead and see how long his line'll hold against the orc press."

  "This ain't for Bruenor," said Cordio. "It's for them fighting in Bruenor's name. Ye should be understanding that. Mithral Hall's needing a king."

  Regis tried to find an argument. His lips moved, but no sound came forth. His eyes were drawn low, to the specter of Bruenor, his friend, the king, lying so pale and so still on the bed, his strong hands drawn up one over the other on his once-strong chest.

  "No dignity…." the halfling did whisper, but the complaint sounded hollow even to him.

  Bruenor's life had been about honor, duty, and above all else, loyalty. Loyalty to clan and to friend. If staying alive meant helping clan and friend, even if it meant great pain for Bruenor, the dwarf would put an angry fist in the eye of anyone who tried to stop him from performing that duty.

  It pained Regis to stand there staring at his helpless friend. It pained Regis to think that those clerics were going against the wishes of Catti-brie and Wulf-gar, the two who held the largest claim over the fate of their adoptive father.

  But the halfling could find no argument against the logic of Cordio and Stumpet's reasoning. He glanced at the two dwarves and without either affirming or denying their work, he put his head down and walked out of the room, yet another weight on his burdened shoulders.

  * * *

  The two heavy iron tubes clanged down to the stone floor and bounced around for a moment until Nanfoodle finally managed to corral them and hold them steady. The gnome huffed and puffed after carrying the two lengths all the way from the forges. He didn't sit back and rest, but instead adjusted the metal tubes so that they were set end to end.

  Pikel Bouldershoulder looked at the items curiously, then down at the pile of mud set before his crossed legs. The enchantment would soon fade on the mud, he knew, reverting it to its former solidity. The green-bearded dwarf scooped a handful and slid ove
r to the two pipes, then lifted the end of one and examined it.

  "Heh," he said appreciatively, noting that the dwarves had put a lip on either end of each piece.

  He waved Nanfoodle over to his side, and the gnome took up the other tube and carefully held it up to the end Pikel had elevated.

  Pikel helped press them together, and Nanfoodle quickly wrapped the area of the joint round and round with a strip of cloth. Pikel brought his hand in, slopping the mud all around the joint, all over the cloth wrap. He worked the mud around, then he and Nanfoodle carefully laid the two pieces back on the floor. Nanfoodle quickly gathered some small stones and buffered them against the curving sides of the two pieces, securing them in place while Pikel's stone hardened.

  And harden it did, sealing the two pieces together into a single length.

  "Ssssss," Pikel explained, pointing down at the joint, and he pinched his nose.

  "Yes, it will leak if we leave it as is," Nanfoodle agreed. "But we shall not."

  He rushed out and returned a few moments later bearing a heavy bucket, the handle of a wide brush protruding over its lip. Setting the bucket down, Nanfoodle lifted the brush, which was dripping with heavy black tar. Again, the gnome bent low to the joint, washing over it with the tar.

  "No ssssss," he said to Pikel, waggling his finger in the air.

  "Hee hee hee," the green-bearded dwarf agreed.

  It did Nanfoodle's heart good to see Pikel in such fine spirits. Since the loss of his arm, the dwarf had been sullen, and even less talkative than usual. Nanfoodle had watched him carefully, though, and had come to the conclusion that Pikel's despair was wrought more from being helpless in the face of the current adversity than in his own sudden disadvantage.

  Engaging the green-bearded dwarf so completely in his plan—and indeed, Pikel was the best suited of all for such a task—had brought energy back to the dwarf and had rekindled the dwarf's wide smile. Sitting there with his stone-turned-to-mud, Pikel even offered the more-than-occasional "Hee hee hee."

  "They're fighting up above," Nanfoodle remarked.

  "Oooo," Pikel replied.

  He started to rise and turn, as if he meant to run right off to the battlefield.

  "The tunnels under the giants," Nanfoodle explained, grabbing Pikel's arm and holding him in place. "If we are fortunate, the battle will be over before we could even get up to join it. But we cannot ask our friends to hold those tunnels for long—doing so will deplete Banak's resources greatly."

  "Oooo."

  "Only we can help alleviate that, Pikel," Nanfoodle said. "Only you and I, by working hard and working fast."

  He glanced down at the lengths of metal tubing.

  "Uh huh," Pikel agreed, and he fell back to work, gathering up his large bucket of mud, which was fast turning back to its previous solid state.

  Nanfoodle nodded and took a deep breath. It was indeed time to begin in earnest. He considered the course he had to lay out and quickly estimated the maximum number of dwarves he could press into service before creating a situation with simply too many workers. Regis would be easy to convince, the gnome understood, for up above, the truly brutal work, the clearing of the tunnels, was already underway.

  Nanfoodle imagined some of the scenes of battle that were no doubt occurring even then.

  A shudder coursed his short spine.

  * * *

  "Damned archers!" Tred McKnuckles cried.

  He fell to the side of the tunnel, throwing himself behind a rock. The dwarves had easily enough gained the outer areas of the tunnels, the southern stretches nearest to Keeper's Dale, but as they had moved in deeper, the resistance had grown more and more stubborn. Tred's group, which included Ivan Bouldershoulder and Tred's Felbarr friend Nikwillig, had hit fortified resistance along one long and narrow tunnel.

  A short distance from them, the orcs had dug in behind a wall of piled stones and held several vantage points from which they could fire their bows and throw their light spears.

  "Torgar's pressing on to our left," Ivan, who had similarly dived for cover on the opposite side of the corridor, called back to Tred. "He'll move past us to the wider halls. He's to be needing our support!"

  "Bah!" Tred snorted, and he determinedly leaped out from behind the rock—and promptly got hit by a trio of arrows that had him slumping back from where he'd started.

  "Ah, ye fool!" Ivan cried.

  "That one's hurtin'," Tred admitted, clutching at one of the quivering arrow shafts.

  "We'll get ye outta here!" Ivan promised.

  Tred held up his hand and shook his head, assuring the other dwarf that he was all right.

  "We gotta get 'em pushed back," the Felbarr dwarf called back.

  "Nine Hells!" spouted a frustrated Ivan.

  He pulled a crossbow quarrel from his bandoleer and eyed it carefully. His friend Cadderly had designed those bolts, with Ivan's help. Solid on both ends, they were partially cut out in the middle, designed to hold a small vial in their cubby. That vial was full of enchanted oil, designed to explode under the impact of the dart's collapse.

  Ivan fitted the bolt to his small hand crossbow—another design that he and Cadderly had worked to perfection—then fell flat to his belly, eased himself out, and launched the missile down the corridor.

  Without much force behind it, for it was merely a hand crossbow after all, the bolt looped down toward the orcs. It hit one of the rocks that formed their barricade and collapsed on itself. The oil flashed and exploded, blowing away a piece of the rocks.

  "Let me chip away at their walls," Ivan called to Tred. "We'll send them pigs running!"

  He fitted another bolt and let it fly, and another small explosion sounded down the tunnel.

  And the tunnel began to tremble.

  "What'd ye do?" a wide-eyed Tred asked.

  Ivan's eyes were no less open.

  "Damned if I'm knowing!" he admitted as the thunder began to grow around them. Ivan looked down at his bandoleer, and even pulled forth another dart. "Just a little thing!" he cried, shaking his head, and he looked back down toward the orcs.

  He realized only then that the reverberations were behind his position, not in front.

  "Tweren't me, then!" Ivan howled, and he looked back in alarm.

  "Bah! Cave-in!" cried Tred, catching on. "Get 'em out! Get 'em all out!"

  But it wasn't a cave-in, as the two dwarves and their companions learned a moment later, when the leading edge of the thunder-makers came around the corner behind them, charging up the tunnel with wild abandon.

  "Not a collapse!" one dwarf further down the corridor called.

  "Gutbusters!" cried another.

  "Pwent?" Ivan mouthed at Tred, and both wisely rolled back tighter against their respective wall.

  His answer came in one long, droning roar: the cry of sheer outrage, the scraping of metal armor, and the stamp of heavy boots. The column rushed past him, Thibbledorf Pwent in its lead, and bearing before him a great, heavy tower shield. Arrows thunked into that shield, and one skipped past, catching Pwent squarely in the shoulder. That only made him yell louder and run faster, leaning forward eagerly.

  Orc bows fired repeatedly, and orc spears arced through the narrow passage, but the Gutbusters, be it from courage or stupidity, did not waver a single step. Several took brutal hits, shots that would have felled an ordinary dwarf, but in their heightened state of emotion, the Gutbuster warriors didn't even seem to feel the sting.

  Pwent hit the rock barricade at a dead run, slamming against it, and the dwarves behind him hit him at a dead run too, driving on, forming a dwarven ramp over which their buddies could scramble.

  And the wall toppled.

  A few orcs remained, some firing their bows, some just swatting with flimsy weapons, others drawing swords.

  The Gutbusters responded heart and soul, leaping onto their enemies, thrashing them with wickedly ridged armor, skewering them with head spikes, or slugging them with spiked gauntlets.

&n
bsp; By the time Ivan helped the stung Tred hobble down to the toppled barricade, no orcs remained intact, let alone alive.

  "Gotta take 'em fast and not let 'em shoot ye more'n a few times," the smelly Thibbledorf Pwent explained.

  He seemed oblivious to the fact that a pair of arrows protruded from one of his strong shoulders.

  "Get that tend—" Ivan started to say to him, but he was interrupted by a cry from farther along, calling out another barricade.

  "Get 'em boys!" howled Pwent. "Yaaaaaaaaaa!"

  He kicked the broken stones off of his shield and yanked it up. With a chorus of cheering all around him, Pwent set off again at a dead run.

  "Hope we don't get to the wider areas too much afore Torgar," Ivan remarked.

  Tred just snorted and shook his head, and Ivan helped him along.

  * * *

  Far down from the fighting, in the sulfuric chamber beneath the northern floor of Keeper's Dale, Nanfoodle, Pikel, and a host of dwarves had gathered, heavy cloths over their faces, protecting them from the nasty stench.

  Pikel crouched in a pit that had been carved on the edge of the yellowish water. He was mumbling the words of a spell, waving his hand and his stump of an arm over the stone. Beside him, one burly dwarf held a long metal tube vertically, its bottom end capped with a spearlike tip. Pikel finished the spell and fell back, nodding, and the dwarf plunged the long tube into the suddenly malleable stone. Burly arms pressed on, sliding the metal down through the mud, until more than half its length had disappeared.

  "Hit rock," he explained.

  Pikel nodded and smiled as he looked at Nanfoodle, who breathed a sigh of relief. It would be the trickiest part of all, the gnome believed. First, with Pikel's help, they had excavated ten feet of stone, leaving a thin wall of about five feet to the trapped gasses. There was little room for error.