Indeed, in looking around at the settled camp, Drizzt understood exactly what Bruenor was driving at.
The night was not completely restful, and more than once, a sentry team cried out, “Ghost!” and the dwarves and others scrambled.
There were sightings and shrieks from unseen sources out in the darkness. Despite their weariness from the road, the clan did not get a good night’s sleep, but they were back on the move in the morning, singing their songs, denying fear as only a dwarf could.
“Dreadmont and Skyfire,” Bruenor explained to his friends the next day, pointing out two mountains, one to the south and one to the north. “Markin’ the pass. Ye take in every landmark, elf. I’ll be needing yer ranger nose if we’re finding a place worth a return visit.”
That day went uneventfully, and the troupe passed another fitful, but not overly so, night and were back on the road before the dawn.
At mid-morning, they were rolling along at a brisk pace, singing their songs from front to back, the battleragers and other soldiers trotting along easily.
But then the wagon beside Bruenor’s lurched suddenly, its back right wheel dropping, and its front left coming right off the ground. The horses reared and whinnied, and the poor drivers fought hard to hold it steady. Dwarves rushed in from the side, grabbing on, some trying to catch the cargo that was sliding off the back, sliding into a gaping hole that was opening in the ground like a hungry mouth.
Drizzt rushed across in front of Bruenor’s wagon and darted back behind the frightened, rearing horses, who were being dragged back with the rest of the wagon. His scimitars flashed repeatedly, cutting loose the harness, saving the team.
Catti-brie ran past the drow, heading for the drivers, and Wulfgar leaped from Bruenor’s wagon to join her.
The wagon fell backward into the hole, taking the two struggling dwarves and the woman who had rushed to rescue them into the darkness.
Without even hesitating, Wulfgar dived down to his chest at the lip of the hole and reached out, catching the remains of the horse harness in his powerful hands. The wagon wasn’t falling free. If it had been, Wulfgar would have disappeared along with it. Rather, it was slipping down along a rocky shaft, and enough of its weight was supported from below so that Wulfgar somehow managed to tentatively secure it.
The growling barbarian nearly let go in shock when a diminutive figure ran past him and leaped headlong into the hole, and behind him, Drizzt did cry out for Regis. Then both noticed that the halfling was tethered, and with Bruenor standing secure on his wagon, holding the other end of the line.
“Got them!” came a cry from below.
Dagnabbit and several other dwarves joined Bruenor, taking up the line and locking it in place.
Catti-brie was the first to climb out along the lifeline, followed in short order by the two shaken and bruised but not badly hurt drivers.
“Rumblebelly?” Bruenor called when the other three were out with no sign of the halfling.
“Lots of tunnels down here!” came Regis’s cry, cut short by a shriek.
That was all the dwarf team had to hear, and they began pumping their powerful arms, hoisting a very shaken Regis from the hole. Wulfgar could hold the wagon no longer. It went crashing down, disappearing from view, until the clatter of its descent became a distant thing.
“What’d ye see?” Bruenor and many others yelled at Regis, who was as white as an autumn cloud.
Regis shook his head, his eyes wide and unblinking. “I thought it was you,” he said to one of the drivers. “I … I went to hand you the rope. It went right through … I mean, it didn’t touch … I mean.”
“Easy, Rumblebelly,” Bruenor said, patting the halfling on the shoulder. “Ye’re safe enough here and now.”
Regis nodded but didn’t seem convinced.
Off to the side, Delly gave Wulfgar a huge hug and kiss.
“Ye done good,” she whispered to him. “If ye hadn’t caught the wagon, then all three would’ve crashed down to their deaths.”
Wulfgar looked past her to Catti-brie, who was standing comfortably in Drizzt’s embrace but was looking Wulfgar’s way and nodding appreciatively.
Surveying the scene, recognizing that many were thoroughly shaken, Bruenor Battlehammer walked over to the edge of the hole, put his hands on his hips, and yelled down, “Hey, ye damned ghosties! Ye got nothing more about ye than a wisp of smoke?”
A chorus of moans rolled out of the hole, and dwarves scrambled away.
Not Bruenor, though. “Oo, ye got me shaking in me boots now!” he taunted. “Well, if ye got something to say, then get up here and say it. Otherwise, shut yer traps!”
The moans stopped, and for a short, uncomfortable moment, not a dwarf moved or made the slightest sound, all of them wondering if Bruenor’s challenge was about to be met by a wave of attacking ghosts.
As the seconds slipped by and nothing ominous crawled out of the hole, the troupe settled back.
“Ye get Pwent and his boys tethered together on long lines and out in front, stomping the ground as they go,” Bruenor instructed Dagnabbit. “Don’t want to be losin’ any more wagons.”
The team went back into action, and Drizzt moved near his dwarf friend.
“Challenging the dead?” he asked.
“Bah, they don’t mean nothing with their booing and floating about. Probably don’t even know they’re dead.”
“True enough.”
“Mark well this spot, elf,” Bruenor instructed. “I’m thinking that it might be a good place to start our hunt for Gauntlgrym.”
With that, the unshakable Bruenor moved back to his wagon, patted Regis on the shoulder one more time, then led the clan forward as if nothing had happened.
“Roll on, Bruenor Battlehammer,” Drizzt whispered.
“Don’t he always?” Catti-brie asked, moving beside the drow and wrapping her arm comfortably around his waist.
It took them three days to cross the broken ground of the Fell Pass. The ghosts hovered around them every step of the way and the wind did not cease its mournful song. Some areas were relatively clear, but others were thick with remnants of that long-ago battle. The signs weren’t always physical, often just a general feeling of loss and pain, a thick, tangible aura of a land haunted by many lost souls.
Late that third day, up high on one ridge, Catti-brie spotted a distant, welcomed sight, a silvery river running through the land to the east like a giant snake.
“The Surbrin,” Bruenor said with a smile when she told him, and all heads about began to bob in recognition, for the great River Surbrin passed only a few miles to the east of Mithral Hall, and the dwarves had actually opened an eastern gate right along its banks. “Couple o’ days and we’ll be home,” the dwarf explained, and a great cheer went up for King Bruenor, who had conquered the Fell Pass.
“I’m still not figuring why ye took us this way, if ye’re just meaning to go home anyway,” Catti-brie confided to the dwarf as the excitement continued around them.
“Because I’m coming back out here, and so’re yerself, the elf, Rumblebelly, and Wulfgar if he’s wanting it. And so’re Dagnabbit and some o’ me best shield dwarves. Now we’re knowing the ground, and we learned it under the protection of an army. Now we can start our looking.”
“Ye think the leaders in Mithral Hall are to let ye go out and run free?” Catti-brie asked. “Ye’re their king, ye might be remembering.”
“Are they to let me? Well, I’m their king, ye might be remembering,” Bruenor shot back. “I’m not thinking that I’m needing anyone’s permission, girl, and so what makes ye think I’m to be askin’?”
There wasn’t really much that Catti-brie could say against that.
“Ain’t ye supposed to be out hunting with Drizzt?” Bruenor asked.
“He took Regis with him today,” Catti-brie answered, and she looked to the north, as if she expected to spot the pair running along a distant ridgeline.
“The halfling howl about g
oing?”
“No. He asked if he could go.”
“Still wonderin’ what’s got into Rumblebelly,” Bruenor admitted with a shake of his hairy head.
Regis, once the lover of comfort, did indeed seem transformed. He had pressed on through the bitter cold of winter in the Spine of the World without complaint, indeed even lending rousing words for his friends. In every action, the halfling had tried to get involved, to somehow help out, whereas the Regis of old seemed amazingly adept at finding an out of the way shadow.
The change was somehow unsettling to Bruenor and to all the others, a shifting of the sand beneath the world as they had known it. At least it seemed to be shifting in a positive direction.
Not so far away, Wulfgar came upon Delly as she watched Catti-brie and Bruenor in their private discussion. The barbarian noted that his wife was focusing almost exclusively on Catti-brie, as if taking a measure of the woman. He walked up behind her and wrapped his huge arms around her waist.
“She is a fine companion,” he said.
“I can see why ye loved her.”
Wulfgar gently turned Delly around to face him. “I did not …”
“Oh, sure ye did, and stop trying to save me feelings!”
Wulfgar stammered over a couple of responses, not knowing how he should respond.
“She is a companion to me, on the road, in battle …”
“And in all yer life,” Delly finished.
“No,” Wulfgar insisted. “Once I thought that I desired such a joining, but now I see the world differently. Now I see you, and Colson, and know that I am complete.”
“Who said ye weren’t?”
“You just said …”
“I said that yer Catti-brie was a companion in all yer life, and so she is, and so ye’re better off for it,” Delly corrected. “Ye don’t be puttin’ her back from yerself for me own sake!”
“I do not wish to hurt you.”
Delly turned around to regard Catti-brie.
“Nor does she. She’s yer friend, and I’m liking it that way.” She pulled away from Wulfgar but stood back and stared at him, a sincere smile wide on her pretty face. “To be sure, there’s a part o’ me fearing that ye’ll want her for more than friendship. I can’t be helping that, but I’m not to be giving in to it. I trust ye and trust in what me and ye have started here, but don’t ye be putting Catti-brie away from yerself in trying to protect me, because that’s not where she belongs. Most folks’d be glad to have a friend like her.”
“And I am,” Wulfgar admitted. He looked curiously at Delly. “Why are you saying this now?”
Delly couldn’t suppress her telling grin.
“Bruenor’s talking about coming back out here. He’s hoping that ye’ll be joining him.”
“My place is with you and Colson.”
Delly was shaking her head even as he started that predictable response.
“Yer place is with me and our girl when yer life permits. Yer place is on the road with Bruenor and Drizzt and Catti-brie and Regis. I’m knowing that, and it makes me love ye all the more!”
“Their road is a dangerous one,” Wulfgar reminded.
“Then more the reason for ye to help them along it.”
“They’re dwarfs!” Nikwillig exclaimed, his voice breaking with excitement and relief.
Tred, who had not climbed the last part of the steep boulder tumble and so could not see the huge caravan rolling along the flat ground to the south, leaned back against a rock and put his head in his hands. His left leg was swollen and would not bend. He hadn’t realized how badly it had been torn during their respite in the small village, and he knew that he would not be able to go on for much longer without some proper tending, maybe even some divine intervention, courtesy of a cleric.
Of course, Tred hadn’t complained at all and had fought with every ounce of his strength to keep up with Nikwillig in their flight. It had been a strong and valiant run, but both dwarves knew they were nearing the end of their endurance. They needed a break, and apparently, one had found them.
“We can catch them if we angle out to the southeast,” Nikwillig explained. “Ye up for one more run?”
“We need to make the run, we make the run,” Tred said. “Ain’t come this far to lay down and die.”
Nikwillig nodded and turned around, gingerly beginning the steep descent. He stopped, though, freezing in place, his eyes locked across the way. Tred noted that look and followed that gaze to see a huge panther, black as the night sky, crouched on a ledge not so far away—not far enough away!
“Don’t ye move,” Nikwillig whispered.
Tred didn’t even bother to answer, thinking exactly the same thing, though he understood that the great cat knew exactly where they were. He pondered what he might do if the cat sprang his way. How could he even begin to hurt that mass of muscle and claws?
Well, he decided, if it comes on, it goes away bloody.
The seconds slipped past, neither the cat nor the dwarves moving an inch.
With a growl that seemed a challenge, Tred pushed out from the wall to stand straight and strong and put his heavy axe up at the ready beside him.
The great panther looked his way but not threateningly. In fact, the cat seemed almost bored.
“Please don’t throw that at her,” came a voice from below and to the side, and the two dwarves glanced down to see a brown-haired halfling moving out onto an open, flat stone. “When Guenhwyvar gets an invitation to play, it’s hard to stop her.”
“That yer cat?” Tred asked.
“Not mine, no,” the halfling answered. “She a friend and mastered by a friend, if you get my meaning.”
Tred nodded. “Well, who are ye then?”
“I could be asking you the same question,” the halfling answered. “In fact, I believe that I will.”
“And ye’ll be getting yer answer after we’re getting ours.”
The halfling bowed low. “Regis of Mithral Hall,” he said. “Friend to King Bruenor Battlehammer, and scout for the caravan your friend sees below. Returning from Icewind Dale.”
Tred relaxed, and so did Nikwillig.
“The King o’ Mithral Hall keeps strange company,” Tred remarked.
“Stranger than you would ever believe,” Regis was quick to answer.
He glanced to the side, and so did both dwarves, to see a second dark figure, this one not feline, but a drow elf.
Tred nearly fell over. Above him, Nikwillig did slip a bit, barely catching a hold before he tumbled from the climb.
“You still have not told me your name,” Regis reminded, “and I am guessing that you’re not from around here if you’ve not heard of Drizzt Do’Urden and his panther Guenhwyvar.”
“Wait, I heared o’ him!” Nikwillig said from above Tred, and Tred looked up. “Bruenor’s friend drow. Yeah, we heared o’ that!”
“And pray tell us where you were when you heard,” Drizzt prompted.
Nikwillig moved down fast, dropping beside Tred, and both dwarves set themselves more presentably, with Nikwillig brushing some of the road dust from his weathered tunic.
“Tred McKnuckles’s me name,” Tred announced, “and this’s me friend Nikwillig, outta Citadel Felbarr and the kingdom o’ Emerus Warcrown.”
“Long way from home,” Drizzt observed.
“Longer than ye’re thinking,” Tred answered. “Been a road o’ orcs and giants, and one wrong trail leading to another wrong trail.”
“A tale well worth hearing, I am sure,” Drizzt replied, “but not here and not now. Let us get you down to Bruenor and the others.”
“Bruenor’s in that caravan?” Nikwillig asked.
“Returning from Icewind Dale to assume the throne of Mithral Hall, for word reached us that Gandalug Battlehammer is dead.”
“Moradin put him to work at his anvil,” said Tred, a customary blessing for dead dwarves.
Drizzt nodded. “Indeed. And may Moradin guide Bruenor well.”
&nbs
p; “And may Moradin, or whatever good god is listening, guide us well, back to the caravan,” Regis reminded.
When Drizzt and the others regarded the halfling, they saw that he was looking around nervously, as if he expected that Tred and Nikwillig had led a host of giants to the ridge, giants that were preparing to rain stones on the five of them.
“Keep scouting, Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt instructed, and he started toward the dwarves.
Both of the bearded fellows instinctively stiffened and the perceptive drow stopped his approach.
“Regis, you accompany them to Bruenor,” Drizzt decided. “I will keep the perimeter with Guenhwyvar.” He saluted the dwarves and slipped away, and both Tred and Nikwillig visibly relaxed.
“We’re safe with Drizzt and Guenhwyvar flanking us,” Regis assured the dwarves as he approached. “Safer than you can imagine.”
Tred and Nikwillig looked at each other, then back at the halfling, and nodded, though neither seemed overly confident in Regis’s words.
“Don’t worry,” the halfling said, offering an understanding wink. “You’ll get used to him.”
The arrival of the two dwarves brought much excitement to the village of Clicking Heels, and that deep into the wilds of the Spine of the World, excitement was not usually welcomed. After the two dwarves had gone on their way, the villagers settled back from the initial fear that they would be attacked and began to savor the story. Excitement within a larger cocoon of safety was always welcomed.
Still, the villagers of Clicking Heels were seasoned enough to not fall too deeply into that cocoon. They limited their out-of-town travel over the next few days and doubled the daytime watch and tripled the nighttime watch.
All through the nights, at short, regular intervals, the sentries would call out, “All clear!” from one checkpoint to another. Everyone kept his eyes peeled to the cleared ground around the village walls with that special vigilance that could only be learned through harsh experience.
Even toward the end of the first tenday after the dwarves’ departure, the watch held strong and steady, with no slacking, no sleeping or even dozing along the wall.
The Thousand Ords Page 9
