It didn’t matter.
More than once that night, Catti-brie awoke to the sound of a thunderous crash from across the river. That only steeled her determination, though, and each time, she fell back asleep with Lady Alustriel’s promise in her thoughts. They would pay the orcs back in full, and then some.
The preparations began before dawn, wizards ruffling the pages of their spellbooks, dwarves sharpening weapons. With a wave of yet another wand, Lady Alustriel turned herself into an owl, and flew off silently to scout out the coming battlefield.
She returned in mere moments, and reverted to her human form as the first rays of dawn crept across the Surbrin, revealing to all the others what Alustriel had returned to report.
Spellbooks snapped shut and the dwarves lowered their weapons and tools, moving to the riverbank and staring in disbelief.
Not an orc was to be seen.
Alustriel set them to motion, her minions opening dimensional doors that soon enough got all of them, dwarf, wizard, and Catti-brie alike, across the Surbrin, the last of them crossing even as Mithral Hall’s eastern door banged open and King Bruenor himself led the charge out from the stronghold.
But all they found were a dozen dead dwarves, stripped naked, and a dead wizard, still standing, held in place by a mighty javelin.
The wizards’ encampment had been razed and looted, as had the small shacks the dwarf builders had used. An assortment of boulders lay around the base of the damaged bridge abutment, and all of the towers and a good portion of the northern wall had been toppled.
And not an orc, dead or alive, was anywhere to be found.
CHAPTER 19
AN ORC KING’S CONJECTURE
By all the glories of Gruumsh!” Kna squealed happily when the reports of the victory at the Surbrin made their way like wildfire back to King Obould’s entourage. “We have killed the dwarves!”
“We have stung them and left them vulnerable,” said the messenger who had come from the battle, an orc named Oktule, who was a member of one of the many minor tribes that had been swept up in the march of Chieftain Grguch—a name Oktule used often, Obould had sourly noted. “Their walls are reduced and the winter is fast receding. They will have to work through the summer, building as they defend their position at the Surbrin.”
The orcs all around began to cheer wildly.
“We have severed Mithral Hall from their allies!”
The cheering only increased.
Obould sat there, digesting it all. He knew that Grguch hadn’t done any such thing, for the cunning dwarves had tunnels under the Surbrin, and many others that stretched far to the south. Still, it was hard to dismiss the victory, from both practical and symbolic terms. The bridge, had it been completed, would have provided a comfortable and easy approach to Mithral Hall from Silverymoon, Winter Edge, the Moonwood, and the other surrounding communities, and an easy way for King Bruenor to continue doing his profitable business.
Of course, one orc’s victory was another orc’s setback. Obould, too, had wanted to claim a piece of the Surbrin bridge, but not in such a manner, not as an enemy. And certainly not at the cost of assuring the mysterious Grguch all the glory. He fought hard to keep the scowl from his face. To go against the tide of joy then was to invite suspicion, perhaps even open revolt.
“Chieftain Grguch and Clan Karuck did not hold the ground?” he asked, not so innocently, for he knew well the answer.
“Lady Alustriel and a gang of wizards were with the dwarves,” Oktule explained. “Chieftain Grguch expected that the whole of the dwarven hall would come forth with the morning light.”
“No doubt with King Bruenor, Drizzt Do’Urden, and the rest of that strange companionship at its head,” Obould muttered.
“We did not have the numbers to hold against that,” Oktule admitted.
Obould glanced past the messenger to the gathered crowd. He saw more trepidation on their faces than anything else, along with an undercurrent of…what? Suspicion?
The orc king stood up and stretched to his full height, towering over Oktule. He looked up and let his gaze sweep in the mob then said with a wicked grin, “A great victory anyway!”
The cheering reached new heights, and Obould, his anger beginning to boil within him, used that opportunity to steal off into his tent, the ever-present Kna and the priest Nukkels following close behind.
Inside the inner chamber, Obould dismissed all of his guards.
“You, too,” Kna snapped at Nukkels, errantly presuming that the glorious news had excited her partner as it had her.
Nukkels grinned at her and looked to Obould, who confirmed his suspicions.
“You, too,” Obould echoed, but aimed the comment at Kna and not the priest. “Be gone until I summon you back to my side.”
Kna’s yellow eyes widened in shock, and she instinctively moved to Obould’s side and began to curl sensually around him. But with one hand, with the strength of a giant, he yanked her away.
“Do not make me ask you again,” he said slowly and deliberately, as if he were a parent addressing a child. With a flick of his wrist he sent Kna skipping and tumbling backward, and she kept scrambling away, her eyes wide with shock as she locked her stare on Obould’s frightening expression.
“We must commune with Gruumsh to determine the next victory,” Obould said to her, purposely softening his visage. “You will play with Obould later.”
That seemed to calm the idiot Kna a bit, and she even managed a smile as she exited the chamber.
Nukkels started to talk then, but Obould stopped him with an upraised hand. “Give Kna time to be properly away,” the king said loudly. “For if my dear consort inadvertently overhears the words of Gruumsh, the One-eye will demand her death.”
As soon as he finished, a rustling just to the side of the exit confirmed his suspicions that his foolish Kna had been thinking to eavesdrop. Obould looked at Nukkels and sighed.
“An informative idiot, at least,” the priest offered, and Obould could only shrug. Nukkels began spellcasting, waving his arms and releasing wards to silence the area around himself and Obould.
When he finished, Obould nodded his approval and said, “I have heard the name of Chieftain Grguch far too often of late. What do you know of Clan Karuck?”
It was Nukkels’s turn to shrug. “Half-ogres, say the rumors, but I cannot confirm. They are not known to me.”
“And yet they heard my call.”
“Many tribes have come forth from the deep holes of the Spine of the World, seeking to join in the triumph of King Obould. Surely Clan Karuck’s priests could have heard of our march through communion with Gruumsh.”
“Or from mortal voices.”
Nukkels mulled that over for a bit. “There has been a chain of whispers and shouts, no doubt,” he replied cautiously, for Obould’s tone hinted at something more nefarious.
“He comes forth and attacks the Moonwood then sweeps south and overruns the dwarves’ wall. For a chieftain who lived deep in the holes of the distant mountains, Grguch seems to know well the enemies lurking on the borders of Many-Arrows.”
Nukkels nodded and said, “You believe that Clan Karuck was called here with purpose.”
“I believe I would be a fool not to find out if that was the case,” Obould replied. “It is no secret that many have disagreed with my decision to pause in our campaign.”
“Pause?”
“As far as they know.”
“So they bring forth an instigator, to drive Obould forward?”
“An instigator, or a rival?”
“None would be so foolish!” the priest said with proper and prudent astonishment.
“Do not overestimate the intelligence of the masses,” Obould said. “But whether as an instigator or a rival, Grguch has brought trouble to my designs. Perhaps irreparable damage. We can expect a counterattack from King Bruenor, I am sure, and from many of his allies if we are unlucky.”
“Grguch stung them, but he left,” Nukkels reminded the
king. “If they see his strike as bait, Bruenor will not be so foolish as to come forth from his defended halls.”
“Let us hope, and let us hope that we can quickly contain this eager chieftain. Send Oktule back to Grguch, with word that I would speak to him. Offer an invitation to Clan Karuck for a great feast in honor of their victories.”
Nukkels nodded.
“And prepare yourself for a journey, my trusted friend,” Obould went on, and that reference took Nukkels off-guard, for he had only known Obould for a short time, and had only spoken directly to the orc king since Obould had climbed back up from the landslide that had nearly killed him and the dark elf.
“I would go to Mithral Hall itself for King Obould Many-Arrows,” Nukkels replied, standing straight and determined.
Obould grinned and nodded, and Nukkels knew that his guess had been correct. And his answer had been sincere and well-placed—and expected, since it had, after all, come from the king’s “trusted friend.”
“Shall I invite Kna and your private guard to return to you, Great One?” Nukkels asked, bowing low.
Obould paused for a moment then shook his head. “I will call for them when they are needed,” he told the priest. “Go and speak with Oktule. Send him on his way, and return to me this night, with your own pack readied for a long and trying road.”
Nukkels bowed again, turned, and swiftly departed.
“Ah, but it’s good that ye’re here, Lady,” Bruenor said to Alustriel when they met out by the wall. Catti-brie stood beside the Lady of Silverymoon, with Regis and Thibble dorf Pwent close behind Bruenor.
Not far away, Cordio Muffinhead and another dwarf priest went to work immediately on the poor, impaled Duzberyl, extricating the dead wizard as gently as possible.
“Would that we could have done more,” Alustriel replied solemnly. “Like your kin, we were lulled by the passing months of quiet, and so the orc assault caught us by surprise. We had not the proper spells prepared, for our studies have focused on working the Surbrin Bridge to completion.”
“Ye did a bit o’ damage to the pigs, and got most o’ me boys back to the hall,” said Bruenor. “Ye did good by us, and we’re not for forgettin’ that.”
Alustriel responded with a bow. “And now that we know, we will not be caught unawares again,” she promised. “Our efforts on the bridge will be slowed, of course, as half our magical repertoire each day will be focused on spells for defending the ground and repelling invaders. And indeed, we will have just a small crew at the bridge until the wall and towers are repaired and completed. The bridge will serve no useful purpose until—”
“Bah!” Bruenor snorted. “The point’s all moot. We seen the truth o’ Obould, suren as there is any. Put all yer spells for orc-killing—excepting them ye’ll be needin’ to get yer Knights in Silver across the Surbrin. When we’re done with the damned orcs, we can worry about the bridge and the wall, though I’m thinkin’ we won’t be needing much of a wall!”
Behind him, Thibble dorf Pwent snorted, as did several others, but Alustriel just looked at him curiously, as if she didn’t understand. As her expression registered to Bruenor, his own face became a scowl of abject disbelief. That look only intensified as he noted Catti-brie’s wince at Alustriel’s side, confirmation that he wasn’t misreading the Lady of Silverymoon.
“Ye’re thinkin’ we’re to dig in and let Obould play it as Obould wants?” the dwarf asked.
“I advise caution, good king,” Alustriel said.
“Caution?”
“The orcs did not hold the ground,” Alustriel noted. “They struck and then they ran—likely to evoke just such a response from you. They would have you roar out of Mithral Hall, all full of fight and rage. And out there”—she motioned to the wild north—“they would have their battle with you on the ground of their own choosing.”
“Her words make sense,” Catti-brie added, but Bruenor snorted again.
“And if they’re thinking that Clan Battlehammer’s to come out alone, then I’m thinkin’ their plan to be a good one,” Bruenor said. “But what a trap they’ll find when the trap they spring closes on all the force o’ the Silver Marches. On Alustriel’s wizards and the Knights in Silver, on Felbarr’s thousands and Adbar’s tens o’! On Sundabar’s army, guided in on Obould’s flank by them Moonwood elves, who’re not too fond o’ the damned orcs, in case ye’re missing the grumbles.”
Alustriel drew her lips very tight, as clear a response as she could possibly give.
“What?” Bruenor roared. “Ye’re not for calling them? Not now? Not when we seen what Obould’s all about? Ye hoped for a truce, and now ye’re seein’ the truth o’ that truce! What more’re ye needing?”
“It is not a matter of evidence, good dwarf,” Alustriel replied, calmly and evenly, though her voice rang much thinner than usual. “It is a matter of practicality.”
“Practicality, or cowardice?” Bruenor demanded.
Alustriel accepted the barb with a light, resigned shrug.
“Ye said ye’d be standin’ with me boys when we needed ye,” Bruenor reminded.
“They will…” Catti-brie started to say, but she shut up fast when Bruenor snapped his scowl her way.
“Ye’re friendship’s all pretty when it’s words and building, but when there’s blood….” Bruenor accused, and Alustriel swept her arm out toward Duzberyl, who lay on the ground with Cordio praying over him.
“Bah, so ye got caught in one fight, but I’m not talking about one!” Bruenor kept on. “Lost me a dozen good boys last night.”
“All the Silver Marches weep for your dead, King Bruenor.”
“I ain’t askin’ ye to weep!” Bruenor screamed at her, and all around, work stopped, and dwarf, human, and elf—including Hralien—stood and stared at the outraged king of Mithral Hall and the great Lady of Silverymoon, who not a one of them had ever imagined could be yelled at in such a manner. “I’m askin’ ye to fight!” the unrelenting Bruenor fumed on. “I’m askin’ ye to do what’s right and send yer armies—all yer durned armies! Obould’s belongin’ in a hole, and ye’re knowing that! So get yer armies, and get all the armies, and let’s put him where he belongs, and let’s put the Silver Marches back where the Silver Marches’re belonging!”
“We will leave all the ground between Mithral Hall and the Spine of the World stained with the blood of dwarves and men and elves,” Alustriel warned. “Obould’s thousands are well en—”
“And well meaning to strike out until they’re stopped!” Bruenor shouted over her. “Ye heared o’ the Moonwood and their dead, and now ye’re seein’ this attack with yer own eyes. Ye can’t be doubtin’ what that foul orc’s got in his head.”
“But to go out from defensive positions against that force—”
“Is to be our only choice, now or tomorrow, or me and me boys’ll forever be on yer point, fighting Obould one bridge, one door at a time,” said Bruenor. “Ye think we’re to take their hits? Ye think we can be keeping both our doors always sealed and secured, and our tunnels, too, lest the durned pigs tunnel in and pop up in our middle?”
Bruenor’s eyes narrowed, his expression taking on a clear look of suspicion. “Or would that arrangement please Alustriel and all th’ others about? Battlehammer dwarves’ll die, and that’s suitin’ ye all, is it?”
“Of course not,” Alustriel protested, but her words did little to soften the scowl of King Bruenor.
“Me girl beside ye just got back from Nesmé, and what a fine job yer knights’ve done pushing them trolls back into the swamp,” Bruenor went on. “Seems Nesmé’s grander than afore the attacks, mostly because o’ yer own work—and don’t that make Lady Alustriel proud?”
“Father,” Catti-brie warned, shocked by the sarcasm.
“But then, them folk’re more akin to yer own, in looks and thoughts.”
“We should continue this discussion in private, King Bruenor,” said Alustriel.
Bruenor snorted at her and waved his hand,
turned on his heel, and stomped away, Thibble dorf Pwent in tow.
Regis remained, and he turned a concerned look at Alustriel then at Catti-brie.
“He will calm down,” Regis said unconvincingly.
“Not so sure I’m wantin’ him to,” Catti-brie admitted, and she glanced at Alustriel.
The Lady of Silverymoon had nothing more than helplessly upraised hands in reply, and so Catti-brie limped off after her beloved father.
“It is a dark day, my friend Regis,” Alustriel said when the woman had gone.
Regis’s eyes popped open wide, surprised at being directly addressed by one of Alustriel’s stature.
“This is how great wars begin,” Alustriel explained. “And do not doubt that no matter the outcome, there will be no winners.”
As soon as the priest had gone, Obould was glad of his decision not to call in his entourage. He needed to be alone, to vent, to rant, and to think things through. He knew in his heart that Grguch was no ally, and had not arrived by accident. Ever since the disaster in the western antechamber of Mithral Hall and the pushback of Proffit’s troll army, the orcs and dwarves had settled into a stalemate—and it was one that Obould welcomed. But one that he welcomed privately, for he knew that he was working against the traditions, instincts, and conditioning of his warrior race. No voices of protest came to him directly, of course—he was too feared by those around him for that kind of insolence—but he heard the rumbles of discontent even in the grating background of praises thrown his way. The restless orcs wanted to march on, back into Mithral Hall, across the Surbrin to Silverymoon and Sundabar, and particularly Citadel Felbarr, which they had once, long ago, claimed as their own.
“The cost…” Obould muttered, shaking his head.
He would lose thousands in such an endeavor—even if he only tried to dislodge fierce King Bruenor. He would lose tens of thousands if he went farther, and though he would have loved nothing more than to claim the throne of Silverymoon as his own, Obould understood that if he had gathered all the orcs from all the holes in all the world, he could not likely accomplish such a thing.
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