“It’s troubling ye that they wouldn’t let ye in,” Catti-brie remarked to Drizzt a short time later, the two of them on a high bluff to the east of the remaining dwarves and the caravan, overlooking the city of Mirabar.
Drizzt turned to regard her curiously, and saw sympathy etched on his dear friend’s face. He realized that Catti-brie was reacting to his own wistful expression.
“No,” he assured her. “There are some things I know I can never change, and so I accept them as they are.”
“Yer face is saying different.”
Drizzt forced a smile. “Not so,” he said—convincingly, he thought.
But Catti-brie’s returning look showed him that she saw better. The woman stepped back and nodded, catching on.
“Ye’re thinking of the elf,” she reasoned.
Drizzt looked away, back toward Mirabar, and said, “I wish we could have saved her.”
“We’re all wishing that.”
“I wish you had given the potion to her and not to me.”
“Aye, and Bruenor would’ve killed me,” Catti-brie said. She grabbed the drow and made him look back at her, a smile widening on her pretty face. “Is that what ye’re hoping?”
Drizzt couldn’t resist her charm and the much-needed levity.
“It is just difficult,” he explained. “There are times when I so wish that things could be different, that tidy and acceptable endings could find every tale.”
“So ye keep trying to make them endings acceptable,” Catti-brie said to him. “It’s all ye can do.”
True enough, Drizzt admitted to himself. He gave a great sigh and looked back to Mirabar and thought again of Ellifain.
Dagnabbit went out later that afternoon, the sun setting and a cold wind kicking up through the streets of the city. He didn’t return until right before the dawn, and spent the day inside with Bruenor, discussing the political intrigue of the city and the implications to Mithral Hall, while the merchants and Regis worked their wagons outside.
Not many came to those wagons—a few dwarves and fewer humans—and most of those who did bargained for deals so poor that the Clan Battlehammer dwarves ultimately refused. The lone exception arrived soon after highsun.
“Well, show me yer work, halfling,” Torgar bade Regis.
A dozen heads, those of Torgar’s friends, bobbed eagerly behind him.
“Regis,” the halfling explained, extending his hand, which Torgar took in a firm and friendly shake.
“Show me, Regis,” the dwarf said. “Me and me friends’ll need a bit o’ convincing to be spendin’ our gold pieces on anything ye can’t drink!”
That brought a laugh from all the dwarves, Battlehammer and Mirabarran alike, and from Regis. The halfling was wondering if he should consider using his enchanted ruby necklace, with its magical powers of persuasion, to “convince” the dwarves of a good deal. He dismissed that thought almost immediately, though, reminding himself of how stubborn some dwarves could be against any kind of magic. Regis also considered the implications on the relationship between Mithral Hall and Mirabar should he get caught.
Still, soon enough it became apparent to Regis that he wouldn’t need the pendant’s influence. The dwarves had come well stocked with coin, and many of their friends joined them. The goods on the wagons, Regis’s work and many other items, began to disappear.
From the window of the house, Bruenor and Dagnabbit watched the bazaar with growing satisfaction as dozens and dozens of new patrons, almost exclusively dwarves, followed Torgar’s lead. They also noted, with a mixture of apprehension and hope, the grim faces of those others nearby, humans mostly, looking upon the eager and animated trading with open disdain.
“I’m thinking that ye’ve knocked a wedge down the middle o’ Mirabar by coming here,” Dagnabbit observed. “Might be that fewer curses’ll flow from the lips o’ the dwarfs here when we’re on the road out.”
“And more curses than ever’ll be flowing from the mouths o’ the humans,” Bruenor added, and he seemed quite pleased by that prospect.
Quite pleased indeed.
A short while later, Torgar, carrying a bag full of purchases, knocked on the door.
“Ye’re coming to tell me that yer marchion’s too busy,” Bruenor said as he answered the knock, pulling the door open wide.
“He’s got his own business, it seems,” Torgar confirmed.
“Bet he didn’t answer yer knock,” Dagnabbit remarked from behind Bruenor.
Torgar shrugged helplessly.
“How about yerself?” Bruenor asked. “And yer boys? Ye got yer own business, or ye got time to come in and share some drink?”
“Got no coins left.”
“Didn’t ask for none.”
Torgar chewed his lip a bit.
“I can’t be speaking as a representative o’ Mirabar,” he explained.
“Who asked ye to?” Bruenor was quick to reply. “A good dwarf’s putting more into his mouth than he’s spilling out. Ye got some tales to tell that I ain’t heared, to be sure. That’s more than worth the price o’ some ale.”
And so, with Torgar’s agreement, they had a party that night in the unremarkable stone house on the windswept streets of Mirabar. More than a hundred Mirabarran dwarves made an appearance, with most staying for some time, and many sleeping right there on the floor.
Bruenor wasn’t surprised to find the house surrounded by armed, grim-faced soldiers—humans, not dwarves—when daylight broke.
It was time for Bruenor and his friends to go.
Torgar and his buddies would find a bit of trouble over this, no doubt, but when Bruenor looked back at him with concern, the tough old veteran merely winked and grinned.
“Ye find yer way to Mithral Hall, Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker!” Bruenor called back to him as the wagons began to roll back out the gates. “Ye bring all the friends ye want, and all the tales ye can tell! We’ll find enough food and drink to make ye belch, and a warm bed for as long as ye want to warm yer butt in it!”
No one on the caravan from Icewind Dale missed the scowls the human guards offered at those dangerous remarks.
“You do like to cause trouble, don’t you,” Regis said to Bruenor.
“The marchion was too busy for me, eh?” Bruenor replied with a smirk. “He’ll be wishing he met with me, don’t ye doubt.”
Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Wulfgar linked up with Bruenor’s wagon when it and the others had rejoined the bigger caravan outside the city gates.
“What happened in there?” the dark elf asked.
“A bit o’ intrigue, a bit o’ fun,” Bruenor replied, “and a bit o’ insurance that if Mirabar e’er decides to openly fight against Mithral Hall, they’ll be missing a few hunnerd o’ their shorter warriors.”
“Ye gotta keep running!” Nikwillig scolded Tred.
The wounded dwarf was slumped against a boulder, sweat pouring down his forehead and cheek, a grimace of pain on his face as he favored his torn leg.
“Got me in the knee,” Tred explained, gasping between every syllable. “She’s not holding me up no more. Ye run on and I’ll give them puppies reason to pause!”
Nikwillig nodded, not in agreement of the whole proposal, but in determination concerning the last part. “Ye can’t run, then we’ll stop and fight,” he answered.
“Bah!” Tred snorted at him. “Bunch o’ worgs coming.”
“Bunch o’ dead worgs, then,” Nikwillig answered with as much grit and determination as Tred had ever witnessed from him.
Nikwillig was a merchant more than a warrior, but now he was “showing his dwarf,” as the old expression went. And in viewing this transformation, despite their desperate situation, Tred couldn’t help but smile. Certainly if the situation had been reversed, with Nikwillig favoring a torn leg, Tred would never have considered leaving him.
“We’re needin’ a plan, then,” said Tred.
“One using fire,” Nikwillig agreed, and as he finished, a not-so-distant how
l split the air and was answered several times. Still, in that chorus, both dwarves found a bit of hope.
“They’re not coming in all together,” Tred reasoned.
“Scattered,” Nikwillig agreed.
An hour later, with the howling much closer, Tred sat beside a roaring fire, his burly arms crossed before him, his single-bladed, pointy-tipped axe set across his lap. His leg was glad of the reprieve, and his tapping foot alone betrayed his patient posture as he waited for the first of the worgs to make its appearance.
Off to the side, in the shadows behind a pile of boulders, an occasional crackle sounded. Tred winced and bit his bottom lip, hoping the rope held long enough against the weight of the withered but not yet felled pine.
When the first red eyes appeared across the way, Tred began to whistle. He reached to the side and scooped up a large pail of water, dumping it over himself.
“Ye likin’ yer meat wet, puppies?” he called to the worgs.
As the huge wolves leaped into sight, he kicked at the closest edge of the fire, sending sparks and burning brands their way, momentarily stopping them. The action brought a cry of pain from the dwarf, as well. His torn leg could not hold him as he kicked out with the good one, and he went tumbling down to the side.
The chopped, dead tree came tumbling too, along the line the cunning dwarves had planned. The dried out old pine fell into the blazing fire, the wind of its descent sending sparks and dry needles rushing out to the side. More than one stung poor Tred, even igniting his beard a bit. He slapped the flickers out, stubbornly growled against his agony, and forced himself into a defensive posture.
Across the way, the rushing flames bit at the handful of worgs that had stepped into the clearing, sending them yelping and scrambling away, biting at sparking bits of fur. More came on, some even getting bit by the frenzy of their companions.
The dried pine went up in a fiery blaze between Tred and the wolves, but not before several dark forms leaped across or circumvented it.
Hands low on the handle, Tred slashed his axe across, batting aside the first flying wolf and sending it spinning to the ground. He reversed quickly, sliding his lead hand up the axe handle and setting it against his belt. As the second wolf leaped at him, it skewered itself on the axe’s pointy tip. Tred didn’t even try to slow that momentum, just held the flying wolf up high, guiding it over him. He brought his axe back at once, a ferocious downward chop that got the third charging worg right atop the head, smashing and splitting its skull, driving its front end down to the stone with its forelegs splaying out wide.
Nikwillig was beside him, sword in hand. When the next two worgs approached, one from either side, the dwarves turned back to back and fended the attacks.
Frustrated, the worgs circled. Nikwillig pulled a dagger from his belt and sent it flying into one worg’s flank. The creature yelped and rushed off into the shadows.
Its companion quickly followed.
“First round’s ours,” Tred said, shying back as the heat from the burning tree became more intense.
“That pack’s not wanting more of a fight,” Nikwillig reasoned, “but more’ll be catching us, don’t ye doubt!”
He started away, pulling Tred along. Just out of the clearing, though, Tred stood taller and held his companion back.
“Unless we’re catching them first,” Tred said into Nikwillig’s puzzled expression, when the merchant turned back to regard him. “Orcs’re guiding the worgs,” Tred reasoned. “No more orcs, no more worgs.”
Nikwillig considered his friend for a few moments, looking mostly at Tred’s torn leg, a clear indication that the pair could not hope to outdistance their pursuit. That seemed to leave only two choices before them.
And the first, leaving Tred behind, simply was not an option.
“Let’s go find us some orcs,” Nikwillig offered.
His smile was genuine.
So was Tred’s.
They moved along as swiftly as they could, backtracking in a roundabout manner through the dark trees and rocky outcroppings, scrambling over uneven ground when they could find no trail. More often than not, Nikwillig was practically carrying Tred, but neither dwarf complained. The sound of worgs echoed all around them, but their diversion had worked, it seemed, throwing the pursuit off the scent and making more than a few of the creatures think twice about continuing their pursuit.
Sometime later, from a high vantage point, the dwarves spotted a few small campfires in the distance. Not one large encampment, it seemed, but several smaller groups.
“Their mistake,” Tred remarked, and Nikwillig thoroughly agreed.
With a new goal in sight, the dwarves moved along at an even swifter pace. When his leg locked up on him, Tred merely hopped, and if he fell to the stone, which he often did, the tough dwarf merely pulled himself up, spat in his hand to clean off the new scrape, and scrambled forward. Down along one clear patch of ground, they encountered another wolf, but even as it bared its teeth and hunched its back in a threatening posture, Tred launched his axe into its flank, laying it low. Nikwillig was quick to the spot, finishing the beast before its yelps could alert the orc camp, which wasn’t far away.
Soon after, and with the eastern sky brightening in the first signs of dawn, the pair crept up a small dirt banking and peered through the gap between a tree trunk and a boulder. A small campfire burned beyond, with a trio of orcs sitting around it and several more sleeping nearby. A single, injured worg sat beside the trio, snarling, growling, licking its wounds, and turning a hateful eye upon one of the orcs whenever it offered a berating curse at the inability of the worg and its companions to catch the fleeing dwarves.
Nikwillig put a finger to his pursed lips and motioned for Tred to stay put. He slipped off to the side, taking full advantage of the obvious fact that the confident orcs weren’t expecting any unannounced visitors.
Tred watched his progress with a nod and a grin as Nikwillig belly-crawled to the edge of the encampment, putting his knife to fast work on one, then a second, sleeping orc. The observant dwarf saw the worg’s head come up fast, though, and so he knew the game was up. With all the strength he could muster, Tred pulled himself up between the boulder and the tree.
“Well, ye wanted me, and so ye found me!” he roared.
The trio of orcs, and the worg, leaped up and gave a shout. Their third sleeping companion similarly started, but Nikwillig was already beside it, laying it low before it could even begin to respond.
The closest orc brandished a huge axe and charged headlong at Tred, coming in with a fancy, spinning maneuver that showed the creature was no novice with the weapon. But neither was he a profound thinker, obviously, for when Tred lifted his hand and hurled the stone he had picked up when he had announced himself, the orc was caught completely by surprise, and taken right in the face. The stunned orc stumbled forward, and Tred’s swinging battle-axe promptly swatted it aside.
The other two orcs glanced around, only then realizing the devious work of Nikwillig, and the presence of the second dwarf.
“Two against two,” Nikwillig said to them in the grunting Orcish tongue.
“We got wolfie!” one started to respond, but the battered worg apparently didn’t agree, for it darted out of the camp and ran yelping along the dark trails.
One of the orcs tried to take the same course, leaping off to the side. Tred didn’t hesitate, launching his axe at the fleeing creature. The spinning weapon didn’t miss, but neither did it fully connect, tripping up the orc and slowing it as the handle tangled between its legs, but not hurting it much at all.
The second orc, seeing the obviously wounded dwarf standing there, apparently unarmed, howled and lifted its jagged sword. It charged in hard.
Nikwillig knew he couldn’t get to Tred in time, so he went for the fallen orc first. Leaping upon the creature even as it started to rise, he bore it to the ground beneath his heavy boots. Nikwillig stomped and stabbed with his sword, trading a stinging hit from the orc
’s spear as it came around in exchange for a clear opening at the creature’s chest. Nikwillig’s shoulder stung from the stab, to be sure, but his sword opened the orc from breast to belly.
He heard Tred crying out for his brother then, with grunts between each shout. Nikwillig turned, expecting to see his friend in dire straits.
He let his weapon slide low, for Tred had the situation, and the orc, well in hand. He gripped the orc by the wrists, holding the creature’s arms up high and out wide, and after every cry for his lost brother, Tred snapped his head forward and yanked the orc’s arms out wider, the pair connecting forehead to face with each jolt.
The first few belts sounded loud and solid, bone on bone, but each succeeding smash made a crunchier sound, as if Tred was driving his forehead into a pile of dry twigs.
“I think ye can put it down now,” Nikwillig remarked dryly after a few more thumps, the orc having long gone limp.
Tred grabbed the battered, dying creature by the collar with one hand and slapped his other hand hard into the orc’s groin. A heave and a twist had the orc high over the powerful dwarf’s head. With another call for his lost brother, Tred launched the orc down the bank behind him, to crash hard against a rock below.
“Lots of supplies,” Nikwillig remarked, hopping about the camp.
“Damn orc sticked me,” Tred replied.
Only then did his companion notice a new wound on the sturdy dwarf, a bright line of blood running from the side of Tred’s chest. Nikwillig started for his companion, but Tred waved him back.
“Ye gather the supplies and we’ll get going,” he explained. “I’ll dress it meself.”
He did just that, and the pair were on their way soon after, Tred grunting in pain with every step, but otherwise offering not the slightest complaint.
The Thousand Ords Page 5
