“Did you get lost on your journey home to Mithral Hall?”
Bruenor shook his head.
“Found me a couple o’ friends from Felbarr,” he explained, and he turned and indicated Tred, who gave an uncomfortable though still gracious bow. “They’d found themselves a bit o’ trouble with some orcs.”
He noted a shadow cross over Withegroo’s wrinkled old face and long, hawkish nose. The man’s enormous ears twitched beneath the bristles of his wild white hair, which was sticking out in every direction under the bent brim of his red hat.
Bruenor matched that look with a grave one of his own.
“Ye know the town o’ Clicking Heels?” he asked somberly.
Withegroo looked around, to see several of his townsfolk nodding.
“Well, it ain’t no more,” Bruenor said bluntly. “Orcs ’n giants laid it to waste. Killed them all.”
Groans, gasps, and whispers sprang up all around the courtyard.
“We been chasin’ the dogs and killed more than a few,” Bruenor went on quickly, wanting to put a better light on the tragedy. “Left a handful o’ giants and near to a hunnerd orcs layin’ dead in the mountains, but we thinked it smart to come in here and make sure that Shallows was standing strong.”
“Stronger than you can imagine,” Withegroo replied.
He stood up straight and tall—and he was tall, well over six feet, tall enough to look Wulfgar in the eye without bending back his head. Unlike Wulfgar, though, the man was stick lean and couldn’t have weighed more than half the barbarian’s three hundred pounds.
“We have suffered the likes of orcs and giants many times,” the wizard continued, “but not once have any crossed the line of our strong walls.”
“Old Withegroo lays ’em dead with his lightning!” one man shouted from the side, and others immediately took up the chorus of cheers for the wizard.
Withegroo smiled, somewhat sheepishly, somewhat pridefully, and turned to them, patting his hands humbly to silence the growing chorus.
“I do what I can,” the wizard said to Bruenor, turning back to face the dwarf. “I am no novice to battle, and I made my name and my fortune adventuring in dark caves filled with all sorts of beasts.”
“And ye bought yerself a town,” Bruenor remarked, with no sarcasm in his tone.
“I built myself a tower,” the wizard corrected. “I thought this a fine place to live out my days, in study and recollections of adventures past. These good folk”—he turned and swept his hand across the crowd—“found me, one by one and family by family. I believe they recognized the value of having so striking a landmark as my tower in their intended settlement—brings in the dwarf traders, you see.”
He ended with an exaggerated wink, which brought a smile to Bruenor’s face.
“Bet they weren’t minding having a wizard lookin’ over them, throwing a few bolts o’ lightning at any monsters venturing too close, either,” the dwarf said to Withegroo, who took the compliment in stride.
“I do what I can.”
“I’m bettin’ ye do.”
“Well,” the wizard said with a deep breath, setting an abrupt change in the conversation. “You have come to check in on us, and an honor it is, King—or soon to be King—Bruenor Battlehammer. You can see that we are secure and strong, but I beg you, do not take quick leave of us. The walls of Shallows and the houses alike are of stone, and may seem cold—though not to a dwarf!—but they mask hearths of warmth and the voices of those with many adventures to share.” He stepped back and looked up, addressing the whole company. “You are welcome, one and all. Welcome to Shallows!”
And with that, a great cheer went up form all the townsfolk, and Bruenor motioned for his road-weary group to disperse and relax.
“A bit better welcome than we received from Mirabar,” Drizzt remarked to Bruenor, Catti-brie, Regis, and Wulfgar when the dwarf king moved away from Withegroo to rejoin his closest friends.
“Yeah, Mirabar,” Bruenor grumbled. “Remind me to knock that place down.”
“Not a sign o’ orc about,” Catti-brie said, “and a town with strong walls and stronger folk, and a wizard backing them….”
She nodded her approval.
“And a southern road awaiting us,” Wulfgar put in.
“But not right yet,” said Catti-brie. “I’m thinking we should stay on a bit, just to be sure they’re safe.”
“Ye got a feeling, do ye?” Bruenor asked.
Catti-brie looked around, and despite the festivities, the laughter, and the seemingly normal scene, a cloud crossed her face.
“Yeah, I got it, too,” said Bruenor. “But not to worry. We’ll be checkin’ all the land, and we’ll take our march to the Surbrin in the east. Tred’s telling me there’s a couple more towns down that way. Let’s see how many o’ the folk in the region are as welcoming to King Bruenor and his friends.”
He looked at Drizzt and pointedly added, “All his friends.”
The drow shrugged as if it did not matter, and in truth, it did not.
“There are ten thousand more in dark holes who will be led if they believe that they will find greater glory,” Ad’non Kareese said to his three companions.
He had just returned from a scouting circuit of the region between the dark elves hideaway and Gerti’s complex, including a pair of visits with other minor monster kings: an orc who knew of Obould and a particularly wretched goblin.
“Twenty thousand,” Donnia corrected, “at least. The mountain caverns crawl with the little beasts, and the only thing that keeps them in there is their own stupidity and fear. If Obould and Gerti claim this prize, the head of the king of the dwarven stronghold, then we will coax more than a few, I am certain.”
“To what end?” Kaer’lic interjected doubtfully. “Then we will only have to look at the beasts scurrying about the surface.”
“In chaos we find comfort,” Tos’un put in with a wry grin.
“Spoken like a dolt from Menzoberranzan,” said Kaer’lic, which only made Tos’un smile even wider.
“To your own tests of worthiness, then,” Tos’un replied. “In chaos we find wealth. In chaos we find enjoyment.”
Kaer’lic shrugged and didn’t argue.
“I have already made some connections with the leaders of the various goblin and orc tribes and have heard hints of one that holds great ties to the more formidable beasts of the Trollmoors to the south,” Ad’non remarked.
“Beware the boasts of goblins,” said Donnia. “They would tell you that the mountain giants bow to them if they thought you would be impressed.”
“Their tunnels stretch long,” Ad’non replied.
“I am willing to believe that we can do this,” said Tos’un, “and willing to believe that we will enjoy it greatly. I was the biggest doubter when we first tried to tie Obould to Gerti, and I was certain that the giantess would throttle the wretched orc when she learned of the loss of four of her kin, yet look where we are. Obould’s scouts are everywhere, running the mountains, tracking this band that we believe contains King Bruenor himself. Once he is found, and Gerti takes her revenge….”
“We can rally thousands to Obould’s side,” said Ad’non. “We can create a dark swarm that will cover the land for miles around!”
“And?” Kaer’lic asked dryly.
“And let them kill the dwarves, the humans, and each other,” Ad’non replied. “And we will be there, always one step behind, yet always one step ahead, to collect our due at every turn.”
“And to thoroughly enjoy the spectacle of it all,” Donnia added with a wicked grin.
Kaer’lic accepted that reasoning and nodded her approval.
“Be certain that our allies are warned of the presence of a drow who is not a friend,” the priestess advised.
She sat back as the others began formulating plans for their next moves. Kaer’lic did like the excitement, but there were other matters that concerned her more. She thought back to some experiences she had faced before finding
her two, then three companions, when she had been out of her Underdark city on a mission for the ruling priestesses.
In those thoughts, Drizzt Do’Urden surely came to mind more than once, for he was not the first traitor to Lolth and drow ways that Kaer’lic the Terrible had faced.
It wasn’t that she had any particular hatred or vendetta against Drizzt, of course—Tos’un would more likely harbor such resentments, she supposed—but the ever-plotting priestess had to wonder how it would all play out. Would she find unexpected opportunities to pay back old debts? Might the reputation of one renegade drow be put in good service to the Spider Queen, and even more importantly, to a priestess who had fallen out of favor with the goddess?
She smiled and looked around at the other three, all seeming so much more eager to play this out than was she.
Kaer’lic the Terrible, ever the patient one.
They heard the trumpets, and though they were somewhat dim-witted, one of the orc band made the connection between that heralding sound and the troupe they had been tracking.
From across the ravine, the orcs had the same view of Withegroo’s tower as Drizzt and his friends had enjoyed only the day before.
Wicked grins splayed on their misshapen, tusked mouths, the orc patrol rushed away, back up into the foothills to where Urlgen, son of Obould, waited.
“Bruenor in the town,” the patrol leader informed the tall, cruel orc leader.
Urlgen curled his torn lip, welcoming the information. The orc needed to redeem himself, and nothing short of the death of Bruenor Battlehammer would suffice. Obould blamed him, and so did Gerti, and for any creature living in the cold mountains at the end of the Spine of the World, having those two angry with him was not a good thing.
But they had King Bruenor within their grasp, at rest in a remote town and with little understanding of the catastrophe that was about to befall him.
Urlgen dispatched his messengers with all speed and with orders to press Obould to move quickly. They had the rat in the trap and Urlgen did not want him to slip out.
The orc was exhausted, having spent day after day in rallying others to his cause. Still, King Obould knew that he had to make this journey personally and not deliver the news that Bruenor had been found through any messenger.
He found Gerti sitting on the very edge of her throne, her blue eyes narrow and dangerous, her posture that of a predator anxious to spring.
“You have located King Bruenor and those others who murdered my kin?” she asked before the orc king could even offer a formal greeting.
“A small town,” Obould replied. “The one with the lone tower.”
Gerti nodded her recognition. With its singular tower, Shallows was quite distinct in this region of abandoned, simple villages and underground dwarven or goblinkin strongholds.
“And you have prepared your forces?”
“An army is out and running already,” Obould answered.
Gerti’s eyes widened and she seemed about to explode.
“Only to circle south,” the orc quickly explained. “The ground is flat and easy to cross there, and King Bruenor must be held in the town.”
“They are out to seal the road and nothing more?”
“Yes.”
Gerti nodded to one of her attendants, a massive, muscular frost giant clad in shining metal armor and holding the largest, nastiest spear Obould had ever seen. The warrior immediately returned the nod with a bow and started out of the room.
“Yerki will lead my forces,” Gerti explained. “They are ready to march at once.”
“How many?” the orc had to ask.
“Ten,” Gerti replied.
“And a thousand orcs,” Obould added.
“Then our contributions to the downfall of King Bruenor Battle-hammer are about the same,” remarked the superior-minded giantess.
Obould almost blurted a sarcastic response, but he remembered where he was and how easy it would be for any of Gerti’s associates to smash him, and he just chuckled instead.
With her eyes still focused, narrow again and deadly serious, Gerti didn’t join in his mirth.
“We must be away at once,” Obould explained, shifting the subject a bit. “Three days running to the town.”
“Make it in two,” Gerti said.
Obould nodded, bowed, and turned around, hustling away from the giantess, but she stopped him as he was about to exit the cave, calling out his name.
The orc turned to face the power that was Gerti.
“Do not fail me … again,” the giantess warned, putting emphasis on that last, damning word.
But Obould stood tall and straight and didn’t back away from Gerti’s imposing stare at all. He had ten giants at his disposal. Ten giants!
And a thousand orcs!
Ivan had at first scoffed at Pikel’s suggestion that they ride the currents of the River Surbrin to Mithral Hall’s eastern gates, but after they set their camp the third night out of the Moonwood, with the river right below them, Pikel surprised his brother by sneaking away in the dark to collect fallen logs. By the time Ivan’s snores had turned to the roaring yawns of morning, his green-bearded brother had fashioned a fair-sized raft of notched, interlocking logs, tied together by vines and rope.
Ivan’s first reaction, of course, had been one of doubt.
“Ye fool, ye’ll get us both drowned to death!” he said, hands on hips, feet wide-spaced, as if expecting Pikel to take the insult with typical grace and leap upon him.
Pikel only laughed and launched the raft. It bobbed in a shallow ebb pool at the river’s edge in perfect balance and hardly dipped at all when Pikel hopped aboard.
With a lot of coaxing and many reminders of sore feet, Ivan finally joined his brother on the craft, “just to give it a test!” Before Ivan announced his final intent, Pikel paddled the raft out into the main currents, where it drifted easily.
Ivan’s protests were lost in the sheer comfort of the journey, an easy glide. Pikel had fashioned the raft beautifully, creating a couple of amazingly comfortable seats, and even stringing a small hammock at one end of the craft.
Ivan didn’t have to ask where his brother had learned to make such things. He knew that Pikel’s weird druidic magic had been involved—obviously so! Some of the wood, like the chair he had taken as his own, seemed shaped, not carved, and the oar Pikel was using was covered in designs of leaves and trees so intricate that it would have taken a skilled woodcarver a tenday to fashion it. Pikel had done it in a single night.
They made great time that first day on the Surbrin, and on Pikel’s suggestion, they continued right through the night. What a pleasant experience it was, particularly for Pikel, to be gliding on the easy currents under the canopy of twinkling stars. Even Ivan, so much the true dwarf, gained a bit more respect for elves under that amazing summer sky, or at least, he admitted some understanding (to himself!) of the elves’ love of stars.
The second day, the river edged closer to the towering mountains, running the line along the eastern edge of the Spine of the World. Shining walls of gray stone, spattered with green foliage and streaks of white, marked the right bank, and sometimes both sides, as the river wove in and out of the rocky terrain. It didn’t seem to bother Pikel in the least, but it made Ivan fall more on his guard. They had recently battled orcs, after all, and wouldn’t this landscape make for a wonderful ambush?
At Ivan’s insistence, they put up on the riverbank that second night, and in truth, the river was becoming a bit too unpredictable and rushed for travel in the dark anyway. Besides, the dwarves needed to re-supply.
Rain found them the next day, but it was a gentle one mostly, though it soaked them and made them miserable. At least the mountains retreated somewhat, the riverbank to the east falling away, and the mountain slopes on the west becoming more rounded and gently up-sloping.
“Think we’ll find ’em today?” Ivan asked early on.
“Yup yup,” Pikel replied.
Both dwa
rves retreated into thoughts of the real reason for their journey out of the Spirit Soaring cathedral. They had come to see Mithral Hall, to see King Bruenor’s coronation. The prospect of viewing great dwarven halls, something neither of the brothers had done since their youngest years, far more than a century before, incited great joy in Ivan. His mind thought back to the most distant of his memories, to the sound of hammers ringing on metal, the smell of coal and sulfur and most of all mead. He could see again the strong, tall columns that supported the greatest chambers of his own home and believed that those of legendary Mithral Hall would probably exceed even those magnificent works by far.
Yes, to Ivan’s thinking, as much as he loved Cadderly, Danica, and the kids, it would be grand to be among his own kind again, and in a place fashioned to the tastes of dwarves.
He looked over at Pikel as he considered his anticipation and wondered, hoped, that perhaps being in a place like Mithral Hall might go a long way into guiding the “doo-dad” back to his true heritage. If Pikel could fashion such work as this raft out of wood, Ivan had to wonder how magnificent his art might be when working with the true dwarven materials of stone and metal.
Of course, Ivan’s budding fantasy would have been more convincing to him if, in the middle of his contemplations, Pikel hadn’t summoned down a large and incredibly ugly bird to his upheld forearm, then engaged in a long and seemingly detailed conversation with the creature.
“Talkin’ to yer own level?” Ivan asked dryly when the vulture flew away.
Pikel turned to his brother with a surprisingly serious expression, then pointed to the western bank and began steering the raft that way.
Ivan knew better than to argue. His often silly brother had proven too many times that the information he could garner from animals could prove vital. Besides, the river was getting a bit more vigorous and Ivan longed to put his feet on solid ground once more.
As soon as they had the boat beached, Pikel grabbed his large sack of supplies, plopped his cooking pot over his head, and leaped away, rushing for the higher ground away from the riverbank. Ivan caught up to him a short time later, on a rocky mound.
The Thousand Ords Page 27
