The Thousand Ords

by A. R. Salvatore

  That, of course, is my hope.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  “Ye’re really meaning to do this?” Shingles asked Torgar when he found his friend, fresh off his watch, at his modest home in the Mirabar Undercity, stuffing his most important belongings into a large sack.

  “Ye knowed I was.”

  “I knowed ye was talking about it,” Shingles corrected. “Didn’t think yer brain was rattled enough for ye to actually be doin’ it.”

  “Bah!” Torgar snorted, coming up from his packing to look his friend in the eye. “What choice are they leavin’ to me? Agrathan comin’ to me on the wall just to tell me to shut me mouth … Shut me mouth! I been fightin’ for the marchion, for Mirabar, for three hunnerd years. I got more scars than Agrathan, Elastul, and all four o’ his private guards put together. Earned every one o’ them scars, I did, and now I’m to stand quiet and hear the scolding of Agrathan, and that on me watch, with th’ other sentries all lookin’ and listenin’?”

  “And where’re ye to go?” Shingles asked. “Mithral Hall?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where ye’ll be welcomed with a big hug and a bottle o’ ale?” came the sarcastic reply.

  “King Bruenor’s not me enemy.”

  “And not near the friend ye’re thinkin’,” Shingles argued. “He’s to be wonderin’ what bringed ye there, and he’ll think ye a spy.”

  It was a logical argument, but Torgar was shaking his head with every word. Even if Shingles proved right on this point, the potential consequences still seemed preferable to Torgar than his present intolerable situation. He was getting up in years and remained the last of the Hammerstriker line, a situation he was hoping to soon enough correct. Given all that he had learned over the last few tendays of King Bruenor, and more importantly, of his own beloved Mirabar, he was thinking that any children he might sire would be better served growing up among Clan Battlehammer.

  Perhaps it would take Torgar months, even years, to win the confidence of Bruenor’s people, but so be it.

  He stuffed the last of his items into the sack and hoisted the bulging bag over his shoulder, turning for the door. To his surprise, Shingles presented him a mug of ale, then held up his own in toast.

  “To a road full o’ monsters ye can kill!” the older dwarf said.

  Torgar banged his mug against the other.

  “I’ll be clearing it for yerself,” he remarked.

  Shingles gave a little laugh and took a deep drink.

  Torgar knew that his response to the toast was purely polite. Shingles’s situation in Mirabar was very different than his own. The old dwarf was the patriarch of a large clan. Uprooting them for a journey to Mithral Hall would be no easy task.

  “Ye’re to be missed, Torgar Hammerstriker,” the old dwarf replied. “And the potters and glass-blowers’re sure to be losin’ business, not having to replace all the jugs and mugs ye’re breakin’ in every tavern in town.”

  Torgar laughed, took another sip, handed the mug back to Shingles, and continued for the door. He paused just once, to turn and offer his friend a look of sincere gratitude, and to drop his free hand on Shingles’s shoulder in a sincere pat.

  He went out, drawing more than a few stares as he moved along the main thoroughfare of the Undercity, past dozens and dozens of dwarves. Hammers stopped ringing at the forges he passed. All the dwarves of Mirabar knew about Torgar’s recent run-ins with the authorities, about the many fights, about his stubborn insistence that the visiting King Bruenor had been badly mistreated.

  To see him determinedly striding toward the ladders leading to the overcity with a huge sack on his back….

  Torgar didn’t turn to regard any of them. This was his choice and his journey. He hadn’t asked anyone to join him, beyond his remark to Shingles a moment before, nor did he expect any overt support. He understood the magnitude of it all and quite clearly. Here he was, of a fine and reputable family who had served in Mirabar for centuries, walking away. No dwarf would undertake such an act lightly. To the bearded folk, the hearth and home were the cornerstone of their existence.

  By the time he reached the lifts, Torgar had several dwarves following him, Shingles included. He heard their whispers—some of support, some calling him crazy—but he did not respond in any way.

  When he reached the overcity, the late afternoon sun shining pale and thin, he found that word of his trek had apparently preceded him, for a substantial group had assembled, human and dwarf alike. They followed him toward the eastern gate with their eyes, if not their feet. Most of the remarks on the surface were less complimentary toward the wayward dwarf. Torgar heard the words “traitor” and “fool” more than a few times.

  He didn’t react. He had expected and already gone through all of this in his thoughts before he had stuffed the first of his clothes into the sack.

  It didn’t matter, he reminded himself, because once he crossed out the eastern gate, he’d likely never see or speak with any of these folks ever again.

  That thought nearly halted him in his walk.

  Nearly.

  The dwarf replayed his conversation with Agrathan over and over in his mind, using it to bolster his resolve, to remind himself that he was indeed doing the right thing, that he wasn’t forsaking Mirabar so much as Mirabar, in mistreating King Bruenor, and in scolding any who dared befriend the visiting leader, had forsaken him. This was not the robust and proud city of his ancestors, Torgar had decided. This was not a city determined to lead through example. This was a city on the decline. One more determined to bring down their rivals through deceit and sabotage than to elevate themselves above those who would vie with them for markets

  Just before he reached the gate, where a pair of dwarf guards stood looking at him incredulously and a pair of human guards stood scowling at him, Torgar was hailed by a familiar voice.

  “Do not be doing this,” Agrathan advised, running up beside the stern-faced dwarf.

  “Don’t ye be tryin’ to stop me.”

  “There is more at stake here than one dwarf deciding to move,” the councilor tried to explain. “Ye understand this, don’t ye? Ye’re knowing that all your kinfolk are watching ye and that your actions are starting dangerous whispering among our people?”

  Torgar stopped abruptly and turned his head toward the frantic Agrathan. He wanted to comment on the dwarf’s accent, which was leaning more toward the human way of speaking than the dwarven. He found it curiously fitting that Agrathan, the liaison, the mediator, seemed to speak with two distinct voices.

  “Might be past time the dwarfs o’ Mirabar started asking them questions ye’re so fearin’.”

  Agrathan shook his head doubtfully, gave a shrug and a resigned sigh.

  Torgar held the stare for a moment longer, then turned and stomped toward the door, not even pausing to consider the expressions of the four guards standing there, or the multitude of folks, human and dwarf alike, who were following him, the horde moving right up to the gate before stopping as one.

  One brave soul yelled out, “Moradin’s blessings to ye, Torgar Hammerstriker!”

  A few others yelled out less complimentary remarks.

  Torgar just kept walking, putting the setting sun at his back.

  “Predictable fool,” Djaffar of the Hammers remarked to the soldiers beside him, all of them astride heavily armored war-horses.

  They sat behind the concealment of many strewn rocks on a high bluff to the northeast of Mirabar’s eastern gate, from which a lone figure had emerged, walking proudly and determinedly down the road.

  Djaffar and his contingent weren’t surprised. They had heard of the exodus only a few moments before Torgar had climbed the ladder out of the Undercity, but they had long-ago prepared for just such an eventuality. Thus, they had ridden out quietly through the north gate, while all eyes had been on the dwarf marching toward the eastern one. A roundabout route had brought them to this position to sit and wait.

  “If it were up t
o me, I’d kill him here on the road and let the vultures have his rotting flesh,” Djaffar told the others. “And good enough for the traitor! But Marchion Elastul’s softer in the heart—his one true weakness—and so you understand your role here?”

  In response, three of the riders looked to the fourth, who held up a strong net.

  “You give him one chance to surrender. Only one,” Djaffar explained.

  The four nodded their understanding.

  “When, Hammer Djaffar?” one of them asked.

  “Patience,” the seasoned leader counseled. “Let him get far from the gate, out of sight and out of their hearing. We have not come out here to start a riot, but only to prevent a traitor from bringing all of our secrets to our enemies.”

  The grim faces looking back at Djaffar assured him that these hand-picked warriors understood their role, and the importance of it.

  They caught up to Torgar a short while later, with dusk settling thick about the land. The dwarf was sitting on a rock, rubbing his sore feet and shaking the stones out of his boots, when the four riders swiftly approached. He started to jump up, even reached for his great axe, but then, apparently recognizing the riders for who they were, he just sat back down and assumed a defiant pose.

  The four warriors charged up and encircled him, their trained mounts bristling with eagerness.

  A moment later, up rode Djaffar. Torgar gave a snort, seeming hardly surprised.

  “Torgar Hammerstriker,” Djaffar announced. “By the edict of Marchion Elastul Raurym, I declare you expatriated from Mirabar.”

  “Already done that meself,” the dwarf replied.

  “It is your intention to continue along the eastern road to Mithral Hall and the court of King Bruenor Battlehammer?”

  “Well, I’m not for thinking that King Bruenor’s got the time for seein’ me, but if he asked, I’d be goin’ to see him, yes.”

  It was all said so casually, so matter-of-factly, that the faces of the five men tightened with anger, which seemed to please Torgar all the more.

  “In that event, you are guilty of treason to the crown.”

  “Treason?” Torgar huffed. “Ye’re declarin’ a war on Mithral Hall, are ye?”

  “They are our known rivals.”

  “That don’t make me goin’ there treason.”

  “Espionage, then!” Djaffar yelled. “Surrender now!”

  Torgar studied him carefully for a moment, showing no emotion and no indication of what might happen next. He did glance over at his heavy axe, lying to the side.

  That was all the excuse the Mirabarran guards needed. The two to Torgar’s left dropped their net between them and spurred their horses forward, running past on either side of the dwarf, plucking him from his seat and bouncing him down to the ground in the strong mesh.

  Torgar went into a frenzy, tearing at the cords, trying to pull himself free, but the other two guards were right there, drawing forth solid clubs and dropping from their mounts. Torgar thrashed and kicked, even managed to bite one, but he was at an impossible disadvantage.

  The soldiers had the dwarf beaten to semi-consciousness quickly, and managed to extricate him from the net soon after, unstrapping and removing his fine plate armor.

  “Let the city find slumber before we return,” Djaffar explained to them. “I have arranged with the Axe to ensure that no dwarves are on the wall this night.”

  Shoudra Stargleam was not truly surprised, when she thought about it, but she was surely dismayed that night. The sceptrana stood on her balcony, enjoying the night and brushing her long black hair when she noted a commotion by the city’s eastern gate, of which her balcony provided a fine view.

  The gates opened wide and some riders entered. Shoudra recognized Djaffar of the Hammers from his boastfully plumed helmet. Though she could make out few details, it wasn’t hard for the Sceptrana to guess the identity of the diminutive figure walking behind the riders, stripped down to breeches and a torn shirt and with his hands chained before him, on a lead to the rear horse.

  She held quiet but did nothing to conceal herself as the prisoner caravan wound its way right beneath her balcony.

  There, shuffling along behind the four, and being prodded by the fifth, came Torgar Hammerstriker, bound and obviously beaten.

  They hadn’t even let the poor fellow put his boots on.

  “Oh, Elastul, what have you done?” Shoudra quietly asked, and there was great trepidation in her voice, for she knew that the marchion might have erred and badly.

  The knock on her door sounded like a wizard’s thunderbolt, jarring Shoudra from her restless sleep. She leaped out of bed and scrambled reflexively to answer it, only half aware of where she was.

  She pulled the door open, then stopped cold, seeing Djaffar standing there leaning on the wall outside her apartment. She noted his eyes, roaming her body head to toe, and became suddenly conscious of the fact that she was wearing very little that warm summer’s night, just a silken shift that barely covered her.

  Shoudra edged the door closed a bit and moved modestly behind it, peering out through the crack at the leering, grinning Hammer.

  “Milady,” Djaffar said with a tip of his open-faced helm, glinting in the torchlight.

  “What is the hour?” she asked.

  “Several before the dawn.”

  “Then what do you want?” Shoudra asked.

  “I am surprised that you retired, milady,” Djaffar said innocently. “It was not so long ago that I saw you, quite awake and standing on your balcony.”

  It all began to make sense to Shoudra then, as she came fully awake and remembered all that she had seen that far from ordinary night.

  “I retired soon after.”

  “With many questions on your pretty mind, no doubt.”

  “That is my business, Djaffar.” Shoudra made sure that she injected a bit of anger into her tone, wanting to put the too confident man on the defensive. “Is there a reason you disturb my slumber? Is there some emergency concerning the marchion? Because, if there is not …”

  “We must discuss that which you witnessed from your balcony, milady,” Djaffar said coolly, and if he was the slightest bit intimidated by Shoudra’s powerful tone he did not show it.

  “Who is to say that I witnessed anything at all?”

  “Exactly, and you would do well to remember that.”

  Shoudra’s blue eyes opened wide. “My dear Djaffar, are you threatening the Sceptrana of Mirabar?”

  “I am asking you to do what is right,” the Hammer replied without backing down. “It was under the orders of the marchion himself that the traitor Torgar was arrested.”

  “Brutally …”

  “Not so. He surrendered to the lawful authority without a fight,” Djaffar argued.

  Shoudra didn’t believe a word of it. She knew Djaffar and the rest of the four Hammers well enough to know that they loved a fight when the odds were stacked in their favor.

  “He was brought back to Mirabar under the cover of darkness for a reason, milady. Surely you can understand and appreciate that this is a sensitive matter.”

  “Because the dwarves of Mirabar, even those who disagree with Torgar, would not be pleased to learn that he was dragged into the city in chains,” Shoudra replied.

  Though there was a substantial amount of sarcasm in her voice, Djaffar ignored it completely and merely replied, “Exactly.”

  The Hammer gave a wry smile.

  “We could have left him dead in the wilderness, buried in a place where none would ever find him. You do understand that, of course, as you understand that your silence in this matter is of prime importance?”

  “Could you have done all of that? In good conscience?”

  “I am a warrior, milady, and sworn to the protection of the marchion,” Djaffar answered with that same grin. “I trust in your silence here.”

  Shoudra just stared at him hard. Finally recognizing that he wasn’t going to get any more of an answer than that, D
jaffar tipped his helm again and walked away down the corridor.

  Shoudra Stargleam shut her door, then turned her back and leaned against it. She rubbed her eyes and considered the very unusual night.

  “What are you doing, Elastul?” she asked herself quietly.

  In the room next to Shoudra’s, another was asking himself that very same question. Nanfoodle the alchemist had been in Mirabar for several years but had tried very hard to keep away from the politics of the place. He was an alchemist, a scholar, and a gnome with a bit of talent in illusion magic, but that was all. This latest debacle, concerning the arrival of the legendary King of Mithral Hall, whom Nanfoodle had dearly wanted to go and meet, had him more than a bit concerned, however.

  He had heard the loud knock, and thinking it was on his own door, had scrambled from his bed and rushed to answer. When he had arrived there, though, he already heard the voices, Shoudra and Djaffar, and recognized that the man had come to speak with her and not him.

  Nanfoodle had heard every word. Torgar Hammerstriker, one of the most respected dwarves in Mirabar, whose family had been in service to the various marchions for centuries, had been beaten on the road and dragged back, secretly, in chains.

  A shiver ran up Nanfoodle’s spine. The whole episode, from the time they had learned that Bruenor Battlehammer was knocking on their gate, had him quite unhinged.

  He knew that it would all come to no good.

  And though the gnome had long before decided to remain neutral on anything politic, to do his experiments and take his rewards, he found himself at the house of a friend the next day.

  Councilor Agrathan Hardhammer was not pleased by the gnome’s revelations. Not at all.

  “I know,” Agrathan said to Shoudra as soon as she opened her door that next morning, the dwarf having gone straight from his meeting with Nanfoodle to the sceptrana’s apartment.

  “You know what?”

  “What you know, about the treatment and return of a certain disgruntled dwarf. Torgar was dragged in by the Hammers last night, in chains.”