The Lone Drow th-2

by Robert Salvatore

  Banak's dwarves were holding well and would continue to hold, as far as the orcs were concerned. But the dwarf warlord kept glancing to his left, to the northwestern ridge and the giants busily completing the assembly on their great catapults. Every so often, a flash of white from the far ridge caught Banak's attention. Reports from his scouts said that Nanfoodle's stink was thick around the behemoths, crawling up through the rocks and settling like a fetid yellow cloud upon the ridge. But to Banak's dismay, that discomfort hadn't driven the giants away. They had wrapped their large faces in treated cloth and had methodically continued, and were continuing, their work.

  "We're running out o' time, Banak," came a voice from the side.

  The warlord turned to regard Ivan Bouldershoulder.

  "We'll hold them back," Banak replied.

  "Bah, them orcs're nothing," said tough Ivan. "But the little trickster's trick ain't working. By yer own eyes, ye can seem them giants still at their work. Catapults'll be up and throwin' before the sun's next rising. From that angle, they'll flatten us to the stone."

  Banak rubbed his bleary eyes.

  "We might want to be dropping down to the dale," Ivan offered.

  Banak shook his head.

  "Little one's still working on it," he huffed. "I've got a hunnerd dwarves working with him."

  "He's only securing the line, from what I'm hearing," Ivan countered.

  He motioned for Banak to follow and started off to the west, toward the line of dwarves hanging along the cliff facing down to Keeper's Dale. They came in sight of Nanfoodle and Ivan's brother in short order, standing atop the cliff, looking over reams of parchments and diagrams. Every so often, Nanfoodle would lean out a bit and holler down the line, telling the dwarves to re-tar the joints— all the joints.

  "This'll make the smell so bad them giants can't stay up?" Banak asked when he and Ivan neared the pair.

  Nanfoodle looked up at him, and the blood drained from the clearly worried gnome's face.

  "Easy, little one," Banak offered. "Yer stink's slowing them at least, and we're grateful to ye for that."

  "They're not even supposed to smell it!" Nanfoodle shouted.

  "Ptooey!" Pikel spat in agreement.

  Ivan looked at his brother and shook his head.

  "We're not supposed to be stinking up the ridge," Nanfoodle tried to explain. "That means that the hot air … the pitch was supposed to seal the tunnels. . we need to build this level of concentration.."

  He stammered and stuttered and held up a sheet parchment scribbled with numbers and formulae that Banak couldn't begin to decipher.

  "Ye got what he's saying?" Banak asked Ivan.

  "Giants shouldn't be stinking," Ivan clarified.

  "But then they'd be building their war engines without any hindrance at all," the warlord reasoned.

  "Yup," Ivan agreed.

  "But then.." Banak started, but he stopped and shook his head.

  He gave Nanfoodle a confused look out of the comer of his eye, then shook his head again as he looked down at the many dwarves working on securing the line of metal tubes tight to the cliff—dwarves who could have been strengthening the defensive squares that were even then holding the line against the pressuring orcs.

  With a snort, Banak moved back toward the area of battle.

  "No, he doesn't understand," Nanfoodle pleaded to Ivan.

  The yellow-bearded dwarf patted his gnarled hands in the air to calm the little one.

  "And he never will," Ivan replied.

  "The stink should not have escaped," Nanfoodle frantically tried to explain.

  "I know, little one," Ivan assured him.

  "Boom," Pikel quietly muttered.

  "We needed to contain it, to thicken it…" Nanfoodle pressed.

  "I know little one," Ivan interrupted, but Nanfoodle rambled along.

  "The stench would never push them away—in the tunnels, maybe, where the concentration is greater..»

  "Little one," Ivan said, and when Nanfoodle rambled on, he repeated his calm call again and again, until finally he caught the excited gnome's attention.

  "Little one, I built yer box," Ivan reminded him.

  He patted Nanfoodle on the shoulder, then hustled after Banak to help direct the battle.

  Ivan glanced to the west as he departed, not to the ridgeline, but beyond it, where the sun had set and the twilight gloom was completing its hold on the land. Then he did lower his gaze to encompass the ridgeline and the dark silhouettes of the great working giants.

  Ivan knew that their troubles would multiply before the next rising sun.

  * * *

  "The dwarves' plans did not work, boss," one of the orc undercommanders said to Urlgen.

  The pair as standing in the center of the two armies at Urlgen's command: his own, which was continuing the battle up the slope against the dwarves; and those on loan from his father, who were still encamped and out of sight of their enemies.

  Urlgen was looking to the west, to the ridge and the giants. The hourglass was flowing on the battle, as word had arrived from Obould that the assault in the west would begin in full at dawn. For Urlgen, that meant that he had to push those dwarves over the cliff, and doing that would be no easy task without the giant catapults.

  "They will be ready," the orc undercommander remarked.

  Urlgen turned to face him.

  "The dwarves and their stink have not stopped the giants," the undercommander asserted.

  Urlgen nodded and looked back to the west. He had assurances from the giants that the catapults would begin their barrage before the dawn.

  Back in the north, the battle continued, not in full force, for that was not Urlgen's intent, but strongly enough to prevent the dwarves from retreating in full. He had to keep them there, engaged, until his father sealed off any possible escape.

  The orc leader issued a low growl and curled his fists up at his side in eager anticipation. The dawn would bring his greatest victory.

  He couldn't help but glance back nervously at the western ridge as he considered that without the giant catapults, his task would be much more difficult.

  * * *

  Nikwillig rolled the small mirror over and over in his hands. He glanced to the west and the ridge, then to the east and the taller peaks. He focused on one smaller peak at the edge of the cliff, a short but difficult climb. That was where he had to go to catch the morning rays. Returning from that place, should Banak lose, would prove nearly impossible.

  "What am I hearing?" he heard Tred call to him, drawing him from the unsettling thought.

  Nikwillig observed the swift approach of his Citadel Felbarr companion.

  "What am I hearing?" Tred demanded again, storming up right before the seated Nikwillig.

  "Someone's got to do it."

  Tred put his hands on his hips and looked all around at the continuing bustle of the encampment. He had just come back from the fighting, dragging a pair of wounded dwarves with him, and he meant to get right back into the fray.

  "I was wondering why ye weren't with us on the line," he said.

  "I'm more trouble than help down there, and ye know it," said Nikwillig. "Never been a warrior."

  "Bah, ye were doing fine!"

  "It's not me place, Tred. Ye know it, too."

  "Ye could've gone running back to King Emerus then, with news," Tred answered. "I bid ye to do just that—was yer own stubbornness that kept us both here!"

  "And we belong here," Nikwillig was quick to reply. "We're owing that much to Bruenor and Mithral Hall. And to be sure, they're glad that Tred was up here fighting beside them."

  "And Nikwillig!"

  "Bah, I ain't killed an orc yet and would've been slain more than once if not for yerself and others pulling me out o' the fight."

  "So ye're choosin' this road?" came the incredulous question.

  "Someone's got to do it," Nikwillig said again. "The way I'm seeing it, I might be the most expendable one up here."
/>   "What about Pikel?" Tred asked. "Or the durned gnome Nanfoodle—yeah, was his crazy idea in the first place."

  "Pikel probably can't even make the climb with his one arm. And Nanfoodle might be needed here—ye know it. Pikel, too, since he's been so important to it all so far. Nah, Tred, shut up yer whining. This's a good job for meself and ye know it. I can do this as well as any, and I'll be the least missed here."

  Tred started to argue, but Nikwillig rose up before him, his stern expression stealing the blustery dwarf's words.

  "And I'm wanting to do it," Nikwillig declared. "With all me heart and soul. Now I'm paying back the Battlehammers for their help."

  "Ye might find a tough time in getting back. In getting anywhere."

  "And if that's true, then yerself and all them standing here will have hard a tough time of it, too," said Nikwillig. He gave a snort and a sudden burst of laughter. "Yerself's about to charge down headlong into a sea of smelly orcs, and ye're fearing for me?"

  When he heard it put that way, Tred, too, gave a little laugh. He reached up and patted his longtime companion on the shoulder.

  "I'm not liking that we might be meeting our ends so far apart," he said.

  Nikwillig returned the pat, and the look, and said, "Nor am I. But I been looking to make meself as helpful as can be, and this job's perfect for Nikwillig." Again, Tred started to protest—reflexively, it seemed—but again, Nikwillig cut him short.

  "And ye know it!" Nikwillig said flatly.

  Tred went quiet and stared at his friend for a long moment, then gradually admitted as much with a hesitating nod.

  "Ye be careful."

  "Are ye forgetting?" Nikwillig replied with a wink. "I'm knowing how to ran away!"

  A shout from down the slope caught their attention then. The orcs had breached the dwarven line right between the two defensive squares—not seriously, but enough to put a few of the bearded folk in apparent and immediate danger.

  "Moradin, put yer strength in me arms!" Tred howled, and he charged headlong down the slope.

  Nikwillig smiled as he watched his friend go, then he turned back to the east and the dark silhouettes of the imposing mountains. He glanced back one more time to take his bearings and to better mark the critical area of the mountain spur, then, without another word, he tucked the mirror safely into his pack and trudged off on what he figured would be the last journey of his life.

  * * *

  Several hours later, the sky still dark but the eastern rim holding the lighter glow of the approaching dawn, word filtered up to Banak that an orc force had been spotted in the southwest, fast approaching the dwarf positions on the western edge of Keeper's Dale. The dwarf quickly assembled his leaders, along with Nanfoodle, Pikel, and Shoudra Stargleam, who had been the bearer of the information, having scouted the western reaches personally with her magical abilities.

  "It is a sizable force," Shoudra warned them. "A great and powerful army. Our friends will be hard-pressed to hold out for very long."

  The dispiriting news had all the dwarves glancing around to one another.

  "Are ye saying that we should ran down the cliff now and be done with it?" Banak asked.

  Shoudra had no answer to that, and Banak turned to Nanfoodle.

  "I'm hoping to steal a victory here," he explained. "But we're not to do that if them giants start throwing their boulders across our flank. It comes down to yer plan, gnome."

  Nanfoodle tried to look confident—futilely.

  "If we gotta leave, then we gotta leave," Banak said to them all. "But I'm thinkin' we need to hurt these pig orcs, and bad."

  Thibbledorf Pwent growled.

  "They're coming soon," Ivan Bouldershoulder put in. "They're stirring in the north, getting ready for another charge."

  "Because they know the giants will soon begin their barrage," Wulfgar reasoned.

  "But if them giants ain't throwing. …" Banak said slyly.

  Again he turned to Nanfoodle, guiding the eyes of all the others to the gnome as well.

  "Oo oi!" Pikel cheered in support of the hunched little alchemist.

  "Is it gonna work?" Banak asked.

  "Oo oi!" Pikel said again, punching his one fist into the air.

  "The smell was not supposed to.. " Nanfoodle started to reply, but then he stopped and took a deep breath. "I do not know," he admitted. "I think…"

  "Ye think?" Banak berated. "Ye got more than a thousand dwarves up here, little one. Ye think? Do we hold the fight or get down now?"

  Poor Nanfoodle had no idea how to answer and couldn't begin to take that heavy responsibility upon his tiny shoulders.

  "Oooi!" cried Pikel.

  "It's gonna work," Ivan added.

  "So we should stay?" Banak asked.

  "That's yer own choice to make," Ivan replied. "But I'm thinking them giants're gonna be wishing we'd turned tail and run!"

  He stepped over and patted Nanfoodle on the shoulder.

  "Oo oi!" cried Pikel.

  "Orcs're coming again," said another dwarf, Rockbottom the cleric. "Big charge this time."

  "Good enough. I was gettin' bored!" said Thibbledorf Pwent, who was already covered in blood and gore from the evening's fighting—some of it his own, but most of it that of his unfortunate enemies.

  "Dawn's another hour away," Ivan remarked.

  "Less than that from Nikwillig's perch, if he got there," said Catti-brie.

  "We got to hold then," Banak decided.

  He turned to Nanfoodle and nodded, as much a show of support for the gnome's outrageous scheme as he could muster at that grim time. Banak was gambling a lot, and he knew it, and so did everyone else around him. With the giants throwing their boulders and the press of the orcs, the dwarves would have a difficult time getting over that cliff face and down to Keeper's Dale. If Shoudra's reports and assessment were correct, getting down to Keeper's Dale might prove to be the least of their problems and the worst of their decisions.

  "Drive them back, Thibbledorf Pwent," Banak instructed. "Ye hold them pigs off us."

  In response, Pwent held up a bulging wineskin, tapped it to his forehead in salute, and ran along to join his bloody and battered Gutbusters.

  All eyes again went to Nanfoodle, who seemed to shrink under the press of those concerned gazes. His plan had to work, but the signs were not promising.

  Soon enough, the sounds of battle again echoed up the slope as Pwent led the dwarves' counterassault.

  Soon after that, the sounds of another battle echoed up from below, from the western reaches of Keeper's Dale.

  And soon after that, the first of the giant catapults let fly. A huge boulder smashed and bounced across the back edge of the dwarven line, right along the cliff face.

  * * *

  "Ye got yer skins?" Thibbledorf Pwent asked his gathered Gutbusters as they circled back up and regrouped. To a dwarf, they produced the bulging bladders. "Some o' ye won't be needing them," he added solemnly. "And might be that some won't be able to get to them, but ye know yer place!"

  As one, the Gutbusters cheered and roared.

  "Get in and break their lines," the fierce dwarf instructed. "Drive them back and take yer dead place!"

  Down went the force, another furious charge that slashed through the orc ranks. No defensive measure there, Pwent led his forces down the slope farmer than any dwarves had previously gone, shattering the orc line and their supporting allies. Their goal was to cause more confusion than actual damage—no easy mind set for the carnage-hungry Gutbuster Brigade—and that's what they did.

  The orc assault fell apart, with many forced to turn back and retreat before regrouping.

  Thibbledorf Pwent kept his formation tight, not allowing the customary Gut-buster pursuit. He raised his waterskin in salute and reminder to the others. Then he found a broken weapon he could later use, offering a wink to those nearby so they would understand his intent.

  * * *

  Like an ocean tide, the orcs rolled back and ga
thered strength for the next wave. And during that brief lull, more of the giant catapults began heaving huge boulders through the predawn sky. Few had the range at first, and so the initial volleys were not so effective, but all the dwarves understood how quickly that might all change.

  "We got to hold the east!" Tred cried at the others, mostly to Wulfgar, who had pretty much been anchoring that end of the line from the very beginning.

  Wulfgar looked at him grimly, and that response alone quieted the Felbarr dwarf, reminding him of what he had known all along: that Nikwillig would have a hard time getting back to them.

  * * *

  Banak paced nervously around the cliff ledge, looking down to the southwest as often as he was looking at the raging battle down the slope to the north.

  This is it, he thought.

  It was the culmination of all his efforts and of all of his enemies' efforts. The orcs were closing their vice, north and west, as the giants were softening up the rear of Banak's position.

  A boulder slammed down not so far away and bounced right past Banak, nearly clipping him off the cliff.

  The tough dwarf didn't flinch, just continued his pacing, his eyes more and more going to the brightening eastern sky.

  "Come on then, Nikwillig of Felbarr," he whispered, and even as he spoke the words, he saw the flash of a distant mirror, catching the first rays of dawn on the other side of the eastern ridge.

  Others noted the same thing, some pointing excitedly to the east. Catti-brie came running Banak's way from the east, bow in hand, as did Nanfoodle, Shoudra, and Pikel, coming in fast from the west.

  "Sight it, sight it," Shoudra coaxed quietly, watching the distant mirror.

  Nanfoodle clenched his hands before him, hardly drawing breath.

  "There!" Catti-brie said, pointing to the ridge, where the reflection of Nikwillig's roving sunbeam at last caught a second mirror, turning it to blazing brilliance. The woman lifted her bow.

  Banak held his breath, as did the others.

  Below them, the battle raged, orcs swarming up the slope in greater numbers than before. An all-out assault, it seemed, and all around their position came the calls for retreat, even some terrified shouts for the dwarves to retreat all the way, to get down to Keeper's Dale.