The Thousand Ords

by A. R. Salvatore

  Dagnabbit fixed his king with a curious stare, trying hard to read the unreadable. There had only been a pair of tracks, after all, a couple of unfortunate orcs running scared from the rout. The last few days had been the same, chasing small groups, often just one or two, along this mountain trail or that. As Bruenor was complaining, more often than not, Drizzt, Catti-brie, Wulfgar, and Regis had come upon the fleeing creatures first and had them long dead before the main band ever caught up.

  “Not many left for catching,” Dagnabbit offered.

  “Bah!” the dwarf king snorted, placing his empty bowl of stew on the ground beside him. “More’n half the hunnerd runned off and we ain’t catched a dozen!”

  “But every day’s sending them that’s left into deep holes. We ain’t to chase ’em in there.”

  “Why ain’t we?”

  The simple question was quite revealing, of course, for Bruenor said it with a raging fire behind his fierce eyes, an eagerness that could not be denied.

  “Why’re ye out here, me king?” Dagnabbit quietly asked. “Yer dark elf friend and his little band can be doin’ all that’s left to be done, and ye’re knowing it, too!”

  “We got Shallows to get to and warn, along with th’ other towns.”

  “Another task that Drizzt’d be better at, and quicker at, without us.”

  “Nah, the folk’d chase off the damned elf if he tried to warn ’em.”

  Dagnabbit shook his head. “Most about are knowing Drizzt Do’Urden, and if not, he’d just send Catti-brie, Wulfgar, or the little one in to warn ’em. Ye know the raiding band’s no more, though more’n half did run off. Ye know they’re scattering, running for deep holes, and won’t be threatening anyone anytime soon.”

  “Ye’re figuring that the raiding band’s all there was,” Bruenor argued.

  “If there’s more than that, then all the more reason for yerself to be back in Mithral Hall,” said Dagnabbit, “and ye’re knowin’ that, too. So why’re ye here, me king? Why’re ye really here?”

  Bruenor settled himself squarely on the log he had taken as a seat and fixed Dagnabbit with a serious and determined stare.

  “Would ye rather be out here, with the wind in yer beard and yer axe in yer hands, with an orc afore ye to chop down, or would ye rather be in Mithral Hall, speakin’ to the pretty emissaries from Silverymoon or Sundabar, or arguin’ with some Mirabarran merchant about tradin’ rights? Which would ye rather be doin’, Dagnabbit?”

  The other dwarf swallowed hard at the unexpected and direct question. There was a political answer to be made, of course, but one that Bruenor knew, and Dagnabbit knew, would ultimately be a lie.

  “I’d be beside me king, because that’s what I’m to do …” the young dwarf started to dodge, but Bruenor was hearing none of it.

  “Rather, I asked ye. Which would ye rather? Ain’t ye got no preferences?”

  “My duty—”

  “I ain’t askin’ for yer duty!” Bruenor dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “When ye’re wanting to talk honestly, then ye come talk to me again,” he blustered. “Until then, go and fetch me another bowl o’ fresher stew, cuz this pot’s all crusty. Do yer duty, ye danged golem!”

  Bruenor lifted his empty bowl and presented it to Dagnabbit, and the younger dwarf, after a short pause, did take it. He didn’t get up immediately, though.

  “I’d rather be out here,” Dagnabbit admitted. “And I’d take a fight with an orc over a day at the forge.”

  Bruenor’s smile erupted beneath his flaming red beard.

  “Then why’re ye asking me what ye’re asking me?” he asked. “Are ye thinkin’ that I’m not akin to yerself? Just because I’m the king don’t make me wanting any different from any other Battlehammer.”

  “Ye’re fearing to go home,” Dagnabbit dared to say. “Ye’re looking at it as the end o’ yer road.”

  Bruenor sat back and shrugged, then noticed a pair of purple eyes staring at him from the brush to the side.

  “And I’m still thinking that I’m wanting more stew,” he said.

  Dagnabbit stared at him hard for a few moments, chewing his lip and nodding.

  “I’m hoping that the durned elf don’t kill ’em all tonight meself,” he said with a grin, and he rose to leave.

  As soon as Dagnabbit had walked off, Drizzt Do’Urden moved out of the brush and took a seat at Bruenor’s side.

  “Already dead, ain’t they?” Bruenor asked.

  “Catti-brie is a fine shot,” the drow answered.

  “Well, go and find some more.”

  “There will always be more,” the drow replied. “We could spend all our lives hunting orcs in these mountains.” He held a sly look over Bruenor until the dwarf looked back at him. “But you know that, of course.”

  “First Dagnabbit and now yerself?” Bruenor asked. “What’re ye wantin’ me to say, elf?”

  “What’s in your heart. Nothing more. When first we started on the road, you went with great anticipation, and a skip in your determined stride. You were seeing Gauntlgrym then, or at least the promise of a grand adventure, the grandest of them all.”

  “Still am.”

  “No,” Drizzt observed. “Our encounter in Fell Pass showed you the trouble your plans would soon enough encounter. You know that once you get back to Mithral Hall, you’ll have a hard time leaving again. You know they will try to keep you there.”

  “Few guesses, elf?” Bruenor said with a wave of his hand. “Or are ye just thinkin’ ye know more than ye know?”

  “Not a guess, but an observation,” Drizzt replied. “Every step of the way out of Icewind Dale has been heavier than the previous one for Bruenor Battlehammer—every step except those that temporarily turn us aside from our destination, like the journey to Mirabar and this chase through the mountains.”

  Bruenor leaned forward and grabbed Dagnabbit’s empty bowl. He gave it a shake, dunked it in the nearly-empty stew pot, then brought it in and licked the thick broth from his stubby fingers.

  “Course, in Mithral Hall I might be getting me stew served to me in fine bowls, on fine platters, and with fine napkins.”

  “And you never liked napkins.”

  Bruenor shrugged, his expression showing Drizzt that he was certainly catching on.

  “Appoint a steward, then, and at once upon your return,” the drow offered. “Be a king on the road, expanding the influence of his people, and searching for an even more ancient and greater lost kingdom. Mithral Hall can run itself. If you did not believe that, you never would have gone to Icewind Dale in the first place.”

  “It’s not so easy.”

  “You are the king. You define what a king is. This duty will trap you, and that is your fear, but it will only do so if you allow yourself to be trapped by it. In the end, Bruenor Battlehammer alone decides the fate of Bruenor Battlehammer.”

  “I’m thinkin’ ye’re making it a bit too easy there, elf,” the dwarf replied, “but I’m not saying ye’re wrong.”

  He ended with a sigh, and drowned it in a huge gulp of hot stew.

  “Do you know what you want?” Drizzt asked. “Or are you a bit confused, my friend?”

  “Do ye remember when we first went huntin’ for Mithral Hall?” Bruenor asked. “Remember me trickin’ ye by makin’ ye think I was on me dyin’ bed?”

  Drizzt gave a little laugh—it was a scene he would never forget. They, leading the folk of Ten-Towns, had just won victory over the minions of Akar Kessell, who possessed the Crystal Shard. Drizzt had been taken in to Bruenor, who seemed on his deathbed—but only so that he could trick the drow into agreeing to help him find Mithral Hall.

  “I did not need much convincing,” Drizzt admitted.

  “I thinked two things when we found the place, ye know,” said Bruenor. “Oh, me heart was pumping, I tell ye! To see me home again … to avenge me ancestors. I’m tellin’ ye, elf, riding that dragon down to the darkness was the greatest single moment o’ me life, though I was th
inkin’ it was the last moment o’ me life when it was happening!”

  Drizzt nodded and knew what was coming.

  “And what else were you thinking when we found Mithral Hall?” he prompted, because he knew that Bruenor had to say this out loud, had to admit it openly.

  “Thrilled, I was, I tell ye truly! But there was something else …” He shook his head and sighed again. “When we got back from the southland and me clan retook our home, a bit o’ sadness found me heart.”

  “Because you came to realize that it was the adventure and the road more than the goal.”

  “Ye’re knowin’ it, too!” Bruenor blurted.

  “Why do you think that I, and Catti-brie, were quick to leave Mithral Hall after the drow war? We are all alike, I fear, and it will likely be the end of us all.”

  “But what a way to go, eh elf?”

  Drizzt gave a laugh, and Bruenor was fast to join in, and it seemed to Drizzt as if a great weight had been lifted off the dwarf’s shoulders. But the chuckling from Bruenor stopped abruptly, a serious expression clouding his face.

  “What o’ me girl?” he asked. “What’re ye to do if she gets herself killed on the road? How’re ye not to be blaming yerself forever more?”

  “It is something that I have thought of often,” Drizzt admitted.

  “Ye seen what it done to Wulfgar,” said Bruenor. “Made him forget his place and spend all his time looking out for her.”

  “And that was his mistake.”

  “So, ye’re saying ye don’t care?”

  Drizzt laughed aloud.

  “Do not lead me to places I did not intend to go,” he retorted. “I care—of course I do—but you tell me this, Bruenor Battlehammer, is there anyone in all the world who loves Catti-brie, or Wulfgar, more than yourself? Will you then put them in Mithral Hall and hold them safely there?

  “Of course you would not,” Drizzt continued. “You trust in her and let her run. You let her fight and have watched her get hurt—only recently. Not much of a father, if you ask me.”

  “Who asked ye?”

  “Well, if you did …”

  “If I did and ye telled me that, I’d kick ye in yer skinny elf arse!”

  “If you did and I told you that, you’d kick empty air and wonder why a hundred blows were raining upon your thick head.”

  Bruenor scoffed and tossed his bowl to the ground, then pulled off his one-horned helm and began rapping hard on his head.

  “Bah! Ye’d need more’n a hunnerd to get through this skull, elf!”

  Drizzt smiled and didn’t disagree.

  Dagnabbit returned then to find his king in a fine mood. The younger dwarf looked at Drizzt, but the drow merely nodded and grinned all the wider.

  “If we’re wantin’ to make Shallows in two days, we gotta set straight out,” Dagnabbit remarked. “No more chasin’ orcs after this group’s dead.”

  “Then no more chasing orcs,” said Drizzt.

  Dagnabbit nodded, seeming neither surprised nor upset.

  “Rushing me home, still,” Bruenor said with a shake of his head, broth flying from his wild beard. He brought a hand up and wiped the beard down.

  “Or we might be using Shallows as the front base,” Dagnabbit offered. “Put a link line to Pwent an’ his boys at both camps outside o’ Mithral Hall, and spend the summer runnin’ the mountains near to Shallows. The folks’ll appreciate that, I’m thinking.”

  A look of astonishment melted into a smile on Bruenor’s face.

  “And I’m liking the way ye’re thinking!” he said as he took the bowl for his third helping. “Making sure there’s not too much for Rumblebelly when he gets in,” Bruenor offered between gulps. “Can’t let him get too fat again if we’re walkin’ mountain roads, now can we?”

  Drizzt settled back comfortably and was quite pleased for his dwarf friend. It was one thing to know your heart, another thing to admit it.

  And something altogether different to allow yourself to follow it.

  Torgar walked his post on Mirabar’s northern wall, a slight limp in his stride from a swollen knee he had suffered in the previous night’s escapade. The wind was up strong this day, blowing sand all about the dwarf, but it was warm enough so that Torgar had loosened his heavy breastplate.

  He was well aware of the many looks, scowls mostly, coming at him from the other sentries. His actions with Bruenor had resulted in downward spiral, with arguments growing across the city and with many fists being raised. Torgar was tired of it all. All he wanted was to be left alone to his duties, to walk the wall without conversation, without trouble.

  When he noted the approach of a well-groomed dwarf wearing bright robes, he knew he wouldn’t get his wish.

  “Torgar Hammerstriker!” Councilor Agrathan Hardhammer called.

  He moved to the base of the ladder leading to the parapet, hiked up his robes and began to climb.

  Torgar kept walking the other way, looking out over the wall and feigning ignorance, but when Agrathan called again, more loudly, he realized that to delay would only bring him more frustration.

  He paused and leaned his strong, bruised hands on the wall, staring out to the empty, open land.

  Agrathan moved up beside him, and similarly leaned on the wall.

  “Another battle last night,” the councilor stated.

  “When they’re askin’ for a fist, they’re getting a fist,” Torgar replied.

  “And how many are ye to fight?”

  “How many’re needin’ a good kick?”

  He looked at Agrathan, and saw that the councilor was not amused.

  “Yer actions’re tearing Mirabar apart. Is that what ye’re looking to do?”

  “I’m not looking to do anything,” Torgar insisted, and honestly. He turned to Agrathan, his eyes narrowing. “If me speaking me mind’s doing what ye say, then the problem’s been there afore I speaked it.”

  Agrathan settled more comfortably against the wall and seemed to relax, as if he was not disagreeing.

  “Many of us have been shaking our heads at the Mithral Hall problem. Ye know that. We’re all wishin’ that our biggest rivals weren’t Battlehammer dwarves! But they are. That’s the way of it, and ye know it, and if ye keep pressing that point into everyone’s nose, ye’re to bend those noses out of shape.”

  “The rivalry and the arguin’ are as much our own fault as the Battlehammers’,” Torgar reminded. “Might that a deal benefiting us both could be fashioned, but how’re we to know unless someone tries?”

  “Yer words aren’t without merit,” the councilor agreed. “It’s been suggested and talked about at the Sparkling Stones.”

  “Where most o’ the councilors ain’t dwarfs,” Torgar remarked, and Agrathan fixed him with a cold stare.

  “The dwarves are spoken for, and their thoughts are heard at council.”

  Torgar knew from the dwarf’s look and icy tone that he had hit a nerve with Agrathan, a proud and long-serving councilor. He thought for a moment to take back his bold and callous statement, or at least to exclude his present company, but he didn’t. He felt as if he was being carried away by an inner voice that was growing independent of his common sense.

  “When ye joined the Axe of Mirabar, you took an oath,” Agrathan said. “Are ye remembering that oath, Torgar Hammerstriker?”

  Now it was Torgar’s turn to issue a cold stare.

  “The oath was to serve the Marchion of Mirabar, not the King of Mithral Hall. Ye might be wise to think on that a bit.”

  The councilor patted Torgar on the shoulder—many seemed to be doing that lately—and took his leave.

  Torgar remembered his oath and weighed that oath against the realities of present day Mirabar.

  “Well, ain’t this a keg o’ beer in a commode,” Ivan grumbled.

  He was moving around the small lea that the elves were using as a temporary prison for the two intruders. Using some magic that Ivan did not understand, the moon elves had coaxed the trees arou
nd the lea in close together, blocking all exits with a nearly solid wall of trunks.

  Ivan, of course, was none too happy with that. Pikel reclined in the middle of the field, hands tucked comfortably behind his head as he lay on his back, staring up at the stars. His sandals were off and the contented dwarf waggled his stubby toes happily.

  “If they hadn’t taked me axe, I’d be making a trail or ten!” Ivan blustered.

  Pikel giggled and waggled his toes.

  “Shut yer mouth,” Ivan fumed, standing with hands on hips and staring defiantly at the tree wall.

  He blinked a moment later and rubbed his eyes in disbelief as one of the trees drifted aside, leaving a clear path beyond. Ivan paused, expecting the elves to enter through the breach, but the moments slipped past with no sign the their captors. The dwarf hopped about, started for the break, then skidded to a stop and swung around when he heard his brother giggling.

  “Ye did that,” Ivan accused.

  “Hee hee hee.”

  “Well if ye could do that, then why’ve we been sitting here for two days?”

  Pikel propped himself on his elbows and shrugged.

  “Let’s go!”

  “Uh uh,” said Pikel.

  Ivan stared at him incredulously. “Why not?”

  Pikel hopped to his feet and jumped all around, putting a finger to pursed lips and saying “Shhhhhh!”

  “Who ye shushing?” Ivan asked, his expression going from angry to confused. “Ye’re talking to the damned trees,” he realized.

  Pikel looked at him and shrugged.

  “Ye’re meaning that the damned trees’ll tell the damned elfs if we walk outta here?”

  Pikel nodded enthusiastically.

  “Well, shut ’em up!”

  Pikel shrugged helplessly.

  “Ye can move ’em, and ye can walk through ’em, but ye can’t shut ’em up?”

  Pikel shrugged again.

  Ivan stomped a boot hard on the ground. “Well, let ’em tell the elfs! And let them elfs try to catch me!”

  Pikel put his hands on his hips and cocked his head to the side, his expression doubtful.