“By one Hammer, at least.”
“Djaffar, curse his name!” said Agrathan.
The dwarf’s ire toward Djaffar surprised Shoudra, for she had never heard Agrathan speak of any of the individual Hammers at all before.
“Elastul Raurym is the source of the decision, not Djaffar or any of the other Hammers,” she reminded.
Agrathan banged his head on the door jamb.
“He is blowing the embers hot in a room full of smokepowder,” the dwarf said.
Shoudra did not disagree—to a point. She understood Agrathan’s frustration and fears, but she also had to admit that she understood Elastul’s reluctance in letting the dwarf walk away. Agrathan knew Mirabar’s defenses as well as any and knew their production capacities and the state of their various ore veins as well. The sceptrana didn’t honestly believe that it would ever come to war between Mithral Hall and Mirabar, but if it did….
“I believe that Elastul felt he had no choice,” Shoudra replied. “At least they did not murder the wayward dwarf on the road.”
That statement didn’t have the effect Shoudra had hoped for. Instead of calming Agrathan, the mere mention of that diabolical possibility had the dwarf’s eyes going wide, and his jaw clenching tightly. He calmed quickly, though, and took a deep, steadying breath.
“It might have been the smarter thing for him to do,” he said quietly, and it was Shoudra’s turn to open her eyes wide. “When the dwarfs of Mirabar learn that Torgar’s a prisoner in his own town, they’re not to be a happy bunch—and they will learn of it, do not doubt.”
“Do you know where they’re keeping him?”
“I was hoping that you’d be telling me that very thing.”
Shoudra shrugged.
“Might be time for us two to go and talk to Elastul.”
Shoudra Stargleam did not disagree, though she understood better than Agrathan, apparently, that the meeting would do little to resolve the present problem. In Elastul’s eyes, obviously, Torgar Hammerstriker had committed an act of betrayal, of treason even, and Shoudra doubted that the unfortunate dwarf would be seeing the world outside his prison cell anytime soon.
She did go with Agrathan to the marchion’s palace, though, and the two were ushered in to Elastul’s audience chamber forthwith. Shoudra noted that all of the normal guards and attendants in the room were absent, other than the four Hammers, who stood in their typical position behind the marchion. She also noted the look that Djaffar shot her way, one suggestive and uncomfortable, one that made her want to pull her robe tighter about her.
“What is the urgency?” the marchion asked at once, before any formal greetings. “I have much to attend this day.”
“The urgency is that you’ve put Torgar Hammerstriker in prison, Marchion,” Agrathan bluntly replied, and he added with great emphasis, “Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker.”
“He is not being mistreated,” Elastul replied, and he added, “As long as he does not resist,” when he took note of Shoudra’s doubtful look.
“I have asked for, and expect, discretion on this matter,” the marchion went on, obviously aiming this remark at Shoudra.
“She wasn’t the one who told me,” Agrathan answered.
“Then who?”
“Not important,” the dwarf replied. “If you intend to hunt any who’d speak of this, then ye’d do better trying to hold water from dripping through your fingers.”
Elastul didn’t seem pleased at all by that remark, and he turned a frown upon Djaffar, who merely shrugged.
“This is important, Marchion,” Agrathan said. “Torgar is not just any citizen.”
“Torgar is not a citizen,” Elastul corrected. “Not anymore, and by his own volition. I am charged with the defense of Mirabar, and so I have taken steps to just that effect. He is jailed, and he shall remain jailed until such time as he recants his position on this matter, publicly, and forsakes this ludicrous idea of traveling to Mithral Hall.”
Agrathan started to respond, but Elastul cut him off.
“There is no debate over this, Councilor.”
Agrathan looked to Shoudra for support, but she shrugged and shook her head.
And so it was. Marchion Elastul considered Mithral Hall an enemy, obviously, and every step he took seemed to ensure that his perception would become reality.
Both Agrathan and Shoudra hoped that Elastul understood fully the implications of this latest action, for both feared the reaction should the truth of Torgar’s imprisonment become general knowledge around the city.
The dwarf’s remark about hot embers in a smokepowder filled room seemed quite insightful to Shoudra Stargleam at that moment.
Catti-brie crept silently to the edge of the rocky lip, peering over. As she had expected, the orc’s camp lay below her on a flat rock with strewn boulders all around it. There wasn’t much of a fire, just a pit of glowing embers. The orc huddled close to it, blocking most of the glow.
Catti-brie scanned the area, allowing her eyes to shift into the spectrum of heat instead of light, and she was glad that she had her magical circlet with her when she spotted the soft glow of a second orc, not so far away, whittling away at a broken branch. She did a quick scan of the area then let her vision shift back to the normal spectrum. Her circlet was a marvelous item indeed, one that helped her to see in the dark, but it was not without its limitations. It operated far better underground, allowing her vision where she would have had none at all than under the night sky. When the stars were out or near the glow of a fire, the magical circlet often only added to the woman’s confusion, distorting distances, particularly on heat-neutral surfaces such as broken stones.
Catti-brie paused and stood perfectly still, her eyes unblinking as they adjusted to the dim light. She had already picked a route that would take her down to the orc and had confirmed that route with the magical circlet, intending to go down and capture or slay the creature.
But now there were two.
Catti-brie reached instinctively for Taulmaril as she considered the new odds, but her hand stopped short of grabbing the bow that was strapped across her back. Her fingers remained swollen and bruised, with at least one broken. After practicing earlier that day, she knew she could hardly hope to hit the orcs from that distance.
She went to Khazid’hea instead. Her fabulous sword, nicknamed Cutter because of its fine and deadly blade, could shear through armor as easily as it could cut through cloth. She felt the energy, the eagerness, of the sentient, hungry sword as soon as her hand closed around the hilt. Khazid’hea wanted this fight, as it wanted any fight.
That pull only strengthened as she slowly and silently slid the sword out of its scabbard, holding it low behind the rocky barricade. Its fine edge could catch the slightest glimmer of light and reflect it clearly.
The sword’s hunger called out to her, bade her to start moving down the trail and toward the first victim.
Catti-brie almost started away, but she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. She should go and get some of the others, she realized. Drizzt had gone off earlier, but her other friends could not be far away.
It is only a pair of orcs after all, and if you strike first and fast, it will be one against one, she thought—or perhaps it was her sword suggesting that thought to her.
Either way, it seemed a logical argument to Cattie-brie. She had never met an orc that could match her in swordplay.
Before she could further second-guess herself, Catti-brie slipped out from behind the rocky lip and started slowly and quietly down the nearest trail that would get her to the plateau and the encampment.
Soon she was at the orc’s level and barely ten feet away. The oblivious creature remained huddled over the embers, stirring them occasionally, while its equally-oblivious companion continued its whittling far to the side.
She moved a half step closer, then another. Barely five feet separated her from the orc then. Apparently sensing her, the creature looked up, gave a cry—
—and fell over backward, rolling and scrambling as Catti-brie stuck it, once and again, before having to turn back to face its charging companion.
The second orc skidded to a stop when Khazid’hea flashed up before it in perfect balance. The orc stabbed viciously with its crude spear, but Catti-brie easily turned her hips aside. It struck again, to similar non-effect, then came forward, retracted suddenly, and thrust again, this time to the anticipated side.
The wrong side.
Catti-brie dodged the second thrust, then started to dodge the third, but stopped as the orc retracted, and dodged out the other way as the spear charged ahead.
She had her chance, and it was one she didn’t miss. Across went Khazid’hea, the fabulous blade cleanly shearing the last foot off the orc’s spear. The creature howled and jumped back, throwing the remaining shaft at the woman as it did, but a flick of Catti-brie’s wrist had that spear shaft spinning off into the darkness.
She rushed ahead, sword leading, ready to thrust the blade into the orc’s chest.
And she stopped, abruptly, as a stone whistled across, right before her.
And as she turned to face this newest attacker, she got hit in the back by a second stone, thrown hard.
And a third skipped by, and a fourth hit her square in the shoulder, and her arm, suddenly gone numb, slipped down.
Orcs crawled over the strewn rocks all around the encampment, waving their weapons and throwing more rocks to keep her dancing and off-balance.
Catti-brie’s mind raced. She could hardly believe that she had so foolishly walked into a trap. She felt Khazid’hea’s continuing urging to her to jump into battle, to slay them all, and wondered for a moment how much control she actually held over the ever-hungry sword.
But no, she realized, this was her mistake and not the weapon’s. Normally in this position, she’d play defensively, letting her enemy come to her, but the orcs showed little sign of wanting to advance. Instead they bent to retrieve more stones and came up hurling them at her. She dodged and danced and got hit a few times, some stinging. She picked what she perceived to be the most vulnerable spot in the ring and charged at it, her sword flashing wildly.
It was pure instinct then for Catti-brie, her muscles working faster than her conscious thoughts could follow. Nothing short of brilliant, the woman parried a sword, an axe, and another spear—one, two, three—and still managed to step out to the side suddenly, stabbing an orc who had expected her to move forward. Clutching its belly, that one fell away.
And a second orc joined it, dropping to the stone and writhing wildly while trying to stem the blood flow from its slashed neck.
A twist of Catti-brie’s wrist had the weapon of a third orc turned tip down to the stone, leaving her an easy opening for a deadly strike, but as Khazid’hea started its forward rush, a stone clipped the woman’s already wounded hand, sending a burst of fiery pain up her arm. To her horror, before she even realized the extent of what had happened, she heard Khazid’hea go bouncing away across the stones.
A spear came out hard at her, but the agile woman turned fast aside, then grabbed it as it thrust past. A step forward, a flying elbow had the orc staggered, and she moved to pull free the weapon and make it her own.
But then a club cracked her between the shoulder blades and her arms went weak, and the spear-holding orc yanked back its weapon and stabbed ahead, gashing the woman across the hip and buttocks. She staggered forward and away, and somehow managed to slap her hand out and turn aside a slashing sword then do it again, though the second block had the tender skin of her palm opened wide.
Every movement was in desperation then, more desperate than Catti-brie had ever been. It occurred to her, somewhere deep in her swirling thoughts, how close to the edge of disaster she and her friends had been and for so long. She noted then, in a flash of clarity before the club hit her again, sending her stumbling to her knees as she tried to run across the camp and leap away into the dark night, how a single mistake could prove so quickly disastrous.
She went down hard to the stone and noted Khazid’hea, not so far away. It was out of her reach, might as well have been across the world, the woman realized as the orcs closed in. She rolled desperately to her back and began kicking out and up at them, anything to keep their weapons away.
“What is it, Guen?” Drizzt asked quietly
He came up beside the panther, whose ears were flattened as she stood perfectly still, staring out into the dark night. The drow crouched beside her and similarly scanned, not expecting to find any enemies about, for he had seen no orc sign at all that day or night.
But something was wrong. The panther knew it, and so did Drizzt. Something was out of place. He looked back down the mountainside, to the distant glow of Bruenor’s camp, where all seemed quiet.
“What do you sense?” the drow asked the panther.
Guen gave a low, almost plaintive growl. Drizzt felt his heart racing, and he began looking desperately all around, scolding himself for going off on his own that afternoon, pushing farther into the mountains in an effort to try to spot the lone tower that marked the town of Shallows, and leaving his friends so far behind.
She did a fair job of keeping the orcs off of her for a long, long time, but the angle was too awkward, and the effort too great, and gradually Catti-brie’s kicks slowed to inconsequential. She got kicked hard in the ribs, and she had no choice but to curl up and clutch at the pain. Tears flowed freely as the woman realized her error and the consequences of it.
She would never see her friends again. She would never laugh with Drizzt again, tease Regis again, or watch her father take his place as King of Mithral Hall.
She would never have children of her own. She would not watch her daughter grow to womanhood or her son to manhood. She would never hold Colson again or take heart at the smile that had so recently returned to Wulfgar’s face.
Everything seemed to pause around her, just for a moment, and she looked up to see the biggest of the orc group towering over her at her feet, lifting a heavy axe in both its strong hands, while the others cheered it on.
She had no defense. She prayed it would not hurt too much.
Up went the axe, and down went the orc’s head.
Down, driven down, right into its shoulders at the end of a warhammer’s gleaming mithral head. The orc went into a short bounce, but didn’t fall right back to the stone as Wulfgar slammed his powerful shoulder into it, launching it right over the prone woman.
With a roar, the son of Beornegar stepped forward, straddling Catti-brie with his strong legs, his powerful arms working mightily to send Aegis-fang sweeping back and forth and all about, driving back the surprised orcs. He clipped one, shattering its side, then stepped forward enough to nail a second with a sweep across its legs that upended it and dropped it howling to the stone. In a rage beyond anything that Catti-brie had ever before seen, a battle fury beyond anything the orcs had ever encountered, the barbarian crouched and turned around, launching Aegis-fang into the chest of the nearest orc, blasting it away. Unlike Catti-brie a few moments before, however, not an orc thought this monstrous human unarmed. Wulfgar charged right into them, ignoring the puny hits of their half-hearted swings and countering with punches that sent orcs flying away.
Catti-brie regained her wits enough to roll to the side toward her lost sword. She retrieved it and started to rise but could hardly find the strength. She stumbled again and thought her attempt would cost her her life and mock Wulfgar’s desperate rescue, when an orc rushed beside her. A split second later, though, the woman realized that the creature wasn’t trying to attack her but was simply trying to run away.
And why not, she realized when she looked back at Wulfgar. Another orc went flying off into the night, and another was up in the air at the end of one hand clutched tightly around its throat. The orc was large, nearly as wide as Wulfgar, but the barbarian held it aloft easily. The flailing creature couldn’t begin to break his iron grasp.
&nbs
p; Wulfgar warded off yet another pesky orc with his free hand. Aegis-fang returned to his grasp, and he gave a warding swing, then turned his attention back to the orc he held aloft. With a primal growl, his corded muscles flexed powerfully.
The orc’s neck snapped and the creature went limp, and Wulfgar tossed it aside.
On he came, his rage far from abated, Aegis-fang chopping down orcs and scattering them to the night. Bones shattered under his mighty blows as he waded through their fleeing ranks like a thresher through a field of wheat.
And it was over so suddenly, and Wulfgar’s arm went down to his side. Trembling visibly, his face appearing ashen even in the meager light, he strode to Catti-brie and reached down to her.
She took his hand with her own and a quick tug had her standing before him on legs that would hardly support her.
That didn’t matter, though, for the woman simply fell forward into Wulfgar’s waiting grasp. He lifted her in his arms and hugged her close.
Catti-brie buried her face against the man’s strong shoulder, sobbing, and Wulfgar crushed against her, whispering calming words in her ear, his own face lost in the her thick auburn hair.
All around them, the night creatures, stirred by the sharp ruckus of battle, gradually quieted and the orcs fled into the darkness, and the night slipped past.
While at first Tarathiel found the constant “wheeee!” of Pikel Bouldershoulder annoying, he found that by the time he set Sunset down in the mountain forest and helped the dwarf off the pegasus’s back, he had grown quite fond of the green-bearded fellow.
“Hee hee hee,” Pikel said, glancing back many times at the pegasus as he followed Tarathiel along.
They had been up and flying for most of the day, and the afternoon light was beginning to wane.
“You are pleased by Sunset?” Tarathiel asked.
“Hee hee hee,” Pikel answered.
“Well, I have something else, I hope, that I expect might please you equally,” the elf explained.
The Thousand Ords Page 21
