They rounded the ravine the next day, turning to the east and back toward the south and took heart, for still there was no sign of the orcs. It seemed as if the group that had hit Clicking Heels might be an isolated one, and those who had not fallen to the vengeful dwarves had likely retreated to dark mountain holes.
Again they marched long after sunset, and when they camped, they did so with the watch fires of Shallows’s wall in sight, knowing full well that their own fires could be seen clearly from the town.
Drizzt was not surprised to find a pair of scouts moving their way under the cover of darkness. The drow was out for a final survey of the area when he heard the footfalls, soon coming in sight of the creeping men. They were trying to be quiet, obviously, and having little fortune, almost constantly tripping over roots and stones.
The drow moved to a position to the side of the pair behind a tree and called out, “Halt and be counted!”
It was a customary demand in these wild parts. The two humans stumbled again and fell to low crouches, glancing about nervously.
“Who is it who approaches the camp of King Bruenor Battlehammer without proper announcement?” Drizzt called.
“King Bruenor!” the pair yelled together, and at each other.
“Aye, the lord of Mithral Hall, returned home upon news of the death of Gandalug, who was king.”
“He’s a bit far to the north, I’m thinking,” one man dared reply.
The pair kept hopping about, trying to discern the speaker.
“We’re on the trail of orcs and giants who sacked a town to the south and west,” Drizzt explained. “Journeying to Shallows, fair Shallows, to ensure that the folk are well, and well protected, should any monsters move against them.”
One man snorted, and the other yelled back, “Bah! No orc’ll e’er climb the wall of Shallows, and no giant’ll ever knock it down!”
“Well spoken,” Drizzt said, and the man assumed a defiant posture, standing straight and tall and crossing his arms over his chest. “I take it that you are scouts of Shallows, then?”
“We’re wanting to know who it is setting camp in sight of our walls,” the man called back
“Well, it is as I told you, but please, continue on your way. You will be announced to King Bruenor. I am certain that he will gladly share his table this night.”
The man eased from his defiant posture and looked to his friend, the two seeming unsure.
“Run along!” Drizzt called.
And he was gone, melting into the night, running easily along the rough ground and quickly outdistancing the men so that by the time they at last reached the encampment, Bruenor and the others were waiting for them, with two extra heaping plates set out.
“Me friend here telled me ye’d be in,” Bruenor said to the pair.
He looked to the side, and so did the scouts, to where Drizzt was dropping the cowl of his cloak, revealing his dark heritage.
Both men widened their eyes at the sight, but then one unexpectedly cried out, “Drizzt Do’Urden! By the gods, but I wondered if I’d ever meet the likes of yerself!”
Drizzt smiled—he couldn’t help it, so unused was he to hearing such warm greetings from surface dwellers. He glanced at Bruenor, and noted Catti-brie standing beside the dwarf and looking his way, her expression curious, a bit confused, and a bit charmed.
Drizzt could only guess at the swirl of emotions behind that look.
They moved along the paths of the Moonwood easily, with Tarathiel, astride Sunset, leading the way. The bells of his saddle jingled merrily, and Innovindil walked with the dwarf brothers right behind. The sky was gray, and the air stifling and a bit too warm, but the elves seemed in a fine mood, as did Pikel, who was marveling at their winding trail. They kept coming upon seeming dead ends and Tarathiel, who knew the western stretch of the Moonwood better than anyone alive, would make a slight adjustment and a new path would open before him, clear and inviting. It almost seemed as if Tarathiel had just asked the trees for passage, and that they had complied.
Pikel so loved that kind of thing.
Among the four, only Ivan was in a surly mood. The dwarf hadn’t slept well the previous night, awakened often by Elvish singing, and while Ivan would join in any good drinking song, any hymn to the dwarf gods (which was pretty much the same thing), or songs of heroes of old and treasures lost and treasures found, he found the Elvish styling little more than whining, pining at the moon and the stars.
In fact, over the past few days, Ivan had had about enough of the elves altogether and only wanted to be back on the road to Mithral Hall. The yellow-bearded dwarf, never known for his subtlety, had related those emotions to Tarathiel and Innovindil often and repeatedly.
The four were moving out to the west from the region where the elves of the Moonwood made their main enclave and just a bit to the north, where the ground was higher and they would likely spot the snaking River Surbrin. The dwarves could then use the river as a guide on their southerly turn to Mithral Hall. Tarathiel had explained that they had about a tenday of traveling ahead of them—less, if they managed to float some kind of raft on the river and glide through the night.
Pikel and Innovindil chatted almost constantly along the trail, sharing information and insights on the various plants and animals they passed. Once or twice, Pikel called a bird down from a tree and whispered something to it. The bird, apparently understanding, flew off and returned with many others, lining the branches around the foursome and filling the air with their chirping song. Innovindil clapped her hands and beamed an enchanted smile at Pikel. Even Tarathiel, the far more serious of the two elves, seemed quite pleased. Ivan missed it all, though, stomping along, grumbling to himself about “stupid fairies.”
That, of course, only pleased the elves even more—especially when Pikel convinced the birds to make an amazingly accurate bombing run above his brother.
“Think ye might be lending me yer fine bow?” the disgruntled Ivan asked Tarathiel. The dwarf glared up at the branches as he spoke. “I can get us a bit o’ supper.”
Tarathiel’s answer was a bemused smile, which only widened when Pikel added, “Hee hee hee.”
“We shan’t be accompanying you two to Mithral Hall,” Tarathiel explained.
“Who was askin’ ye?” Ivan grumbled in reply, but when the two elves fixed him with surprised and a bit wounded looks, the dwarf seemed to retract a bit. “Bah, but why’d ye want to go and stay with a bunch of dwarfs anyway? Course ye could, if ye’re wanting to, and me and me brother’d make sure that ye was treated as well as ye treated us two in yer stinkin … in yer pretty forest.”
“Your compliments roll as freely as a frozen river, Ivan Boulder-shoulder,” Innovindil said in a deceivingly complimentary tone.
She tossed a wink to Tarathiel and Pikel, who giggled.
“Aye,” said Ivan, apparently not catching on.
He smirked and looked hard at the elf.
“We have much to discuss with King Bruenor, though,” Tarathiel remarked then, bringing the conversation back to the issue at hand. “Perhaps you will bid him to send an emissary to the Moonwood. Drizzt Do’Urden would be welcomed.”
“The dark elf?” Ivan balked. “Couple o’ moon elves like yerselves asking me to ask a drow to walk into yer home? Ye best be careful, Tarathiel. Yer reputation for hospitality to dwarfs and dark elfs might not be sittin’ well with yer kin!”
“Not to dark elves, I assure you,” the elf corrected, “but to that one dark elf, yes. We would welcome Drizzt Do’Urden, though we have not named him as a friend. We have information regarding him—information that will be important to him and is important to us.”
“Such as?”
“That is all that I am at liberty to say at this time,” Tarathiel replied. “I’d not burden you with such a long and detailed story to bring to King Bruenor. Without knowledge of that which came before, you would not understand enough to properly convey the information.”
“It is o
ut of no mistrust of you two that we choose to wait for King Bruenor’s official emissary,” Innovindil was quick to add, for a scowl was growing over Ivan’s face. “There is protocol that must be followed. This message we ask you to deliver is of great importance, and we let you go with complete confidence that you will not only deliver our words to King Bruenor, but deliver them with our sense of urgency in mind.”
“Oo oi!” Pikel agreed, punching a fist into the air.
Tarathiel started to second that, but he stopped suddenly, his expression growing very serious. He glanced around, then at Innovindil, then slid down from his winged mount.
“What’s he seein’?” Ivan demanded.
Innovindil locked stares with Tarathiel, her expression growing equally stern.
Tarathiel motioned for Ivan to be quiet then moved silently to the side of the trail, bending low to the ground, head tilted as if he was listening. Ivan started to say something again, but Tarathiel held up a hand, silencing him.
“Oooo,” said Pikel, looking around with alarm.
Ivan hopped about, seeing nothing but his three concerned companions.
“What’d ye know?” he asked Tarathiel, but the elf was deep in thought and did not reply.
Ivan rushed across to Pikel and asked, “What’d ye know?”
Pikel crinkled his face and pinched his nose.
“Orcs?” Ivan cried.
“Yup yup.”
In a single movement, Ivan pulled the axe from his back and turned, feet set wide apart in solid balance, axe at the ready before him, eyes narrowed and scouring every shadow.
“Well, bring ’em on, then. I’m up for a bit o’ chopping afore another long and boring road!”
“I sense them, too,” Innovindil said a moment later.
“Dere,” Pikel added, pointing to the north.
The two elves followed his finger, then looked back at him, nodding.
“Our borders have seen orc incursions of late,” Innovindil explained. “This one, as the others, will be repelled. Trouble yourselves not with these creatures. Your road is to the west and the south, and there you should go and quickly. We will see to the beasts that dare stain the Moonwood.”
“Uh-uh,” Pikel disagreed, crossing his burly, hairy arms over his chest.
“Bah!” Ivan snorted. “Ye’re not for throwin’ us out afore the fun begins! Ye call yerselfs proper hosts and ye’re thinking o’ chasin’ us off with orcs needin’ killing?”
The two elves looked to each other, honestly surprised.
“Yeah, I know, and no, I’m not liking ye,” Ivan explained, “but I’m hatin’ yer enemies, so that’s a good thing. Now, are ye to make a friend of a dwarf and let him chop an orc or fifty? Or are ye to chase us off and hope we’re remembering the words ye asked us to deliver to King Bruenor?”
Still the elves exchanged questioning glances, and Innovindil gave a slight shrug, leaving the decision to Tarathiel alone.
“Come along, then,” the elf said to the brothers. “Let us see what we can learn before rousing my people against the threat. And do try to be quiet.”
“Bah, if we’re too quiet, might be that the orcs’ll just wander away, and what good’s that?”
They moved a short distance before Tarathiel motioned for them to stop and bade them to wait. He climbed onto the pegasus, found a run for Sunset, and lifted into the air, rising carefully in the close quarters, up and out to the north.
He returned almost immediately, setting down before the three, motioning for them to hold silent and to follow him. Up to the north a short distance, the elf led them to the top of a ridge. From that vantage point, Ivan saw that the mystical tree-attuned senses of his companions had not led them astray.
There, in a clearing of their own making, was a band of orcs. It was a dozen at least, perhaps as many as a score, weaving in and out of the shadows of the trees. They carried large axes, perfect for chopping the tall trees, and more importantly (and explaining why Tarathiel had been so quick to return with Sunset) and more atypically, they also each had a long, strong bow.
“I saw them from afar,” Tarathiel explained quietly to the other three as they crouched at the ridge top. “I do not believe that they spotted me.”
“We must get word to the clan,” Innovindil said.
Tarathiel looked around doubtfully. They had been traveling for a couple of days. While he realized that his people would move much more quickly with such dire news as orc intruders, and without having a pair of dwarves slowing them down, he didn’t think that they would get there in time to catch the orcs in the Moonwood.
“They must not escape,” the elf said grimly, thoughts of the last band retreating into the mountains still fresh in his mind.
“Then let’s kill ’em,” Ivan replied.
“Three to one,” Innovindil remarked. “Perhaps five to one.”
“It’ll be quick, then,” Ivan replied.
He took up his heavy axe. Beside him, Pikel fished his cooking pot out of his sack, plopped it on his head, and agreed, “Oo oi!”
The elves looked to each other with obvious confusion and surprise.
“Oo oi!” Pikel repeated.
Tarathiel looked at Innovindil for his answer.
“It has been a long time since I have had a good fight,” she said with a wry grin.
“Only a dozen—ye’ll have longer to wait for any real fight,” Ivan said dryly, but the elves didn’t seem to pay his remark much heed.
Tarathiel looked over at Ivan and asked, “Where will you fit in?”
“In the middle o’ them, I’m hoping,” the dwarf answered, pointing toward the distant orcs. “And I’m thinking me axe’ll be fitting in real well between them orcs’ eyeballs.”
That seemed simple enough, and so Tarathiel and Innovindil looked to Pikel, who merely chuckled, “Hee hee hee.”
“Don’t ye be frettin’ about me brother,” Ivan explained. “He’ll find a way to do his part. I’m not knowin’ how—I’m usually not knowin’ how even after the fightin’s over—but he does, and he will.”
“Good enough, then,” said Tarathiel. “Let us find the best vantage point for launching our strike.”
He moved to Sunset and whispered something into the pegasus’s ear, then started away while Sunset walked off in another direction. Innovindil went next, moving as silently as her elf partner. Then came Ivan and Pikel, crunching away on every dry leaf and dead stick.
“Vantage point,” Ivan huffed to his brother. “Just walk in, say yer howdies, and start killing!”
“Hee hee hee,” said Pikel.
Innovindil also wore a smile at that remark, but it was one edged with a bit of trepidation. Confidence was one thing, carelessness quite another.
With the elves guiding them, and despite the noisiness of the dwarves, the foursome came to the edge of a rocky clearing. Across the way, the orcs were at their work, some chopping hard at one tree, others holding guiding ropes tied off along the higher branches.
“We will hit at them after they have retired,” Tarathiel quietly explained. “The sun is high. It should not be long.”
Pikel’s face grew very tight, though, and he shook his head.
“He’s not for watching them cut down a tree,” Ivan explained, and the elves looked to each other doubtfully.
Pikel opened a pouch, revealing a cache of bright red berries. His expression grew very serious and very stern. With a grim nod to the others, he walked up to a nearby oak, the widest tree around, and put his forehead against its thick trunk. He closed his eyes and began muttering under his breath.
Still muttering, he stepped into the tree, disappearing completely.
“Yeah, I know yer feelings,” Ivan whispered to the two elves, who were standing dumbfounded, their mouths hanging open. “He does it all the time.”
Ivan’s gaze went up to the branches, and he pointed and said, “There.”
Pikel exited the trunk some twenty feet above the ground, mo
ving out on a branch that overhung the rocky field.
“Your brother is a curious one,” Innovindil whispered. “Many tricks.”
“We may need them,” Tarathiel added.
He was looking doubtfully at the dozen or more orcs, all with bows on their backs or lying within easy reach. Looking up at Pikel, though, he knew that the dwarves weren’t likely to wait, whatever he suggested, so he went into a crouch and began surveying the battlefield, then motioned to Innovindil to fan out to the side.
Ivan walked right between them, crunching through the trees, axe in hand, stepping onto the edge of the clearing.
“Can’t be hitting anything that moves, now can ye?” he taunted loudly.
The chopping stopped immediately. All sound from the other side of the clearing halted, and the orcs turned as one, their yellowish, bloodshot eyes wide.
“Well?” Ivan called to them. “Ain’t ye never looked death in the eye before?”
The orcs didn’t charge across the way. They began to move slowly, deliberately, with a couple barking orders.
“Them’re the leaders,” Ivan whispered back to the concealed elves. “Pick yer shots.”
The orcs never blinked, never took their eyes off the spectacle of the lone dwarf standing barely twenty feet from them, as they slowly began to collect their bows, to string the weapons and bring them up to the ready.
The leaders continued to talk to the others, and it was obvious that they were calling for a coordinated barrage, bidding those already prepared to fire to hold their shots.
The elves fired first, a pair of arrows soaring out from the brush to strike true across the way, Tarathiel’s taking one leader in the throat, Innovindil’s catching another in the belly, sending it squirming to the ground.
At that same moment, the air before Ivan seemed to warp like a ripple on a pond, and that wave rushed across the clearing as the orcs let fly.
Arrows warped even as they cleared the bows, bending like the strands of a willow tree and flying every which way but straight. Except for one, from the trees to the side, that soared in at Ivan.
The Thousand Ords Page 25
