The Thousand Ords

by A. R. Salvatore

  The orc held in place, truly mesmerized by the spinning gem, its magic reaching out with promises and warm feelings. In a split second, the creature harbored no doubts that the halfling holding the amazing gemstone was its best friend.

  “How strong are you?” Regis asked, but the orc didn’t seem to understand.

  “Strong?” the halfling said more forcefully, and he lifted one arm and made a muscle—not much of one, but a muscle nonetheless.

  The orc smiled and grunted.

  Regis motioned for it to slip back down, just a bit, and grab the rope again. The creature complied.

  Then the halfling patted both his hands emphatically, gesturing for the orc to hold its place right there. Again it complied, and that one rope, at least, was blocked for the time being.

  Regis glanced to the right to see Catti-brie staring at him in disbelief. He shrugged then turned back to the left, just in time to see Wulfgar lift an orc high overhead and throw it into a pair of others as they tried to get over the wall. All three fell back outside.

  In other places the wall defense wasn’t so secure, and orcs poured in, leaping down to the courtyard.

  There, centering the defense, stood seventeen toughened dwarves—Dagnabbit and Bruenor among them. As the orcs came down, the dwarves swarmed over them, axes and hammers slashing and smashing.

  Bruenor led that charge, hitting the first orc before it had even touched down from its leap. He caught it in the legs and sent it spinning right over, to land face down. Not bothering to finish the kill, the dwarf plowed on, shield-rushing a second orc as it hit the ground. The two of them came together with enough impact to rattle Bruenor’s teeth.

  The dwarf bounced back and shook his head fiercely, his lips wagging. He swung his axe reflexively across in front of him, thinking that the orc might even then be bearing down on him.

  He hit only air, though, and when he recovered his wits a bit, he looked ahead to see that the orc hadn’t taken the hit as well as he. The creature was sitting, leaning backward on stiffened arms, its head lolling side to side.

  It hardly seemed fair to Bruenor, but war wasn’t fair. He charged forward, past the orc, slowing only enough so that he could crease its skull with his heavy axe.

  The sheer ferocity of the assault had caught Drizzt off his guard. Barely away from the group he had turned, the drow had been skipping down one descent when he had first caught sight of the charging orcs. Avoiding them had been easy enough, but by the time Drizzt had been able to scramble out of the bowl and head back toward Shallows, the leading edge of the assaulting force was far ahead of him. He saw his three friends in the distance, running back for the town. He saw Catti-brie get clipped by an arrow, and he breathed a great sigh of relief when she, escorted by Wulfgar and Regis, got behind the town’s strong walls.

  From the shadows of a tree, the drow watched the orc horde sweep past him. He knew he couldn’t get back to the town to fight, and perhaps die, beside his friends.

  A group of orcs passed below him, and he considered leaping in among them and slashing them down.

  But he held his position in the tree, tight to the trunk. It occurred to him that these particular orcs he had chosen to avoid might be the ones who would slay one of his friends, but he dismissed that devastating thought at once, having no time for such distractions. The choices lay clear before him—he could either join in the battle, out there among the horde, or use the distraction of the battle to scout out the truth of their enemies.

  The drow surveyed the sweeping lines of orcs, charging headlong for Shallows. How much could he really do out there? How many could he kill, and how much of an effect would a few less orcs really have on this fight?

  No, Drizzt had to trust that his friends and the townsfolk would hold. He had to trust that this was likely an exploratory assault, the first rush, the test of defenses.

  Shallows would be better off after that initial battle if they understood the true size and strength of their enemy, the location of the orc camps and their defenses.

  As the last of the horde swept past beneath him, Drizzt dropped lightly from the tree and sprinted off, not back to the north and the town, but to the east, moving along behind the main bulk of the enemy force.

  He could hardly lift his arms anymore, so many swings had he taken, so many orcs had he thrown, but Wulfgar pressed on with all the power he could muster, throwing himself against any and all who crested the southern wall.

  Blood ran from a dozen wounds on Wulfgar, and on Regis, who fought valiantly, if less effectively, beside him, putting mace and gem-stone to work. As one group of four orcs came over the wall simultaneously, Wulfgar looked back to his right, a silent plea for Catti-brie, but she was not there.

  Panicked, the barbarian looked out over the wall, and the distraction as the orcs closed in nearly cost him dearly.

  Nearly—but then an arrow sizzled down past him, clipping one orc and smashing into the stone with a blinding flash. Wulfgar glanced back over his shoulder, relief flooding through him as he noted Catti-brie in a new position at the top of the lone tower that so distinguished Shallows.

  The woman let fly another arrow and nodded grimly at Wulfgar.

  He turned back to meet the resumed charge, to sweep one orc away with his hammer, then he turned to Regis to help the halfling as another of the brutes bore down on him. The orc stopped suddenly, staring hard at a spinning ruby.

  Wulfgar plowed ahead, shouldering the nearest orc back over the wall, but taking a stinging hit from the other’s club. Grunting away the pain, Wulfgar took another hit—a solid blow to the forearm—but he rolled his arm around the weapon and pulled it in close, tucking it under his arm and moving nose to nose with the wretched orc.

  The creature started to bite at him, or tried to, but Wulfgar snapped his forehead into the orc’s face, flattening its nose and dazing it enough for him to shove it back from him. Knowing the creature was stunned, he released his hold on the club and grabbed the front of the orc’s dirty leather armor instead. A quick turn and a heave had that orc flying out of the town.

  Turning for the orc Regis had entranced, Wulfgar glanced back up at the tower, where Catti-brie and a couple of the town’s archers were launching arrow after arrow into the throng beyond the wall.

  Wulfgar paused, noting another presence up there. It was the old wizard Withegroo. The man was chanting and waving his arms.

  “It’s breaking in!” came a dwarf’s cry from the courtyard below.

  Wulfgar snapped his gaze that way to see Bruenor and his kin running roughshod over the orcs in the courtyard, scrambling back to reinforce the gate.

  Out of the corner of his eye, though, he saw a small flare come out from above, a tiny ball of fire gracefully arcing out over the wall.

  He felt a flash of heat as Withegroo’s fireball exploded.

  That shock snapped the orc standing before Regis out of its enchantment, and before the halfling could react, the creature stabbed straight out at him.

  With a yelp, Regis fell back into the courtyard.

  Wulfgar leaped upon the orc, bearing it down to the ground beneath him. Face down, the orc managed to push up to its elbows, but Wulfgar had it by the head then with both hands. With a roar of outrage, the barbarian drove the creature’s head down to the stone parapet, again and again, even after the orc stopped fighting, even after the once solid skull became a misshapen, crushed, and bloody thing.

  He was still bashing the orc down when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder.

  Wulfgar spun frantically, angrily, but held back when he saw Bruenor staring down at him.

  “They’ve run off, boy,” the dwarf explained, “and I’m thinking that one’s not to be causing us no more trouble.”

  Wulfgar rose, shoving the orc down one final time.

  “Regis?” he asked breathlessly.

  Bruenor nodded to the courtyard. The halfling was sitting up halfway, though he hardly seemed conscious of the events around him.
Blood showed at his side and several dwarves tended him frantically.

  “Bet that one hurt,” Bruenor said grimly.

  He felt as if he was awakening from a dream, a very bad dream. He felt a tightness in the side, but as he considered a sensation there, along his belly, Regis was very surprised that it didn’t hurt much more.

  The halfling’s eyes popped open wide as the last scenes of battle—the orc thrusting its sword into his gut—played clearly in his mind. He had tried to jump back and had lost his footing almost immediately, falling from the wall.

  Regis reflexively rubbed the back of his head—that fall had hurt! In retrospect, though, it had also likely saved his life. If he had been standing with his back to a wall, he’d have been thoroughly skewered, no doubt. He propped himself up on his elbows, recognizing the small side room to the cottage in Shallows. The light was dim around him, night had likely fallen in full outside.

  He was alive and in a comfortable bed, and his wounds had been tended. They had turned back the orc tide.

  Regis’s wave of hope shook suddenly—as his body shook—when the thunderous report of a giant-hurled boulder slammed a structure somewhere nearby.

  “Live to fight another day,” the halfling mumbled under his breath.

  He started out of the bed, wincing with each movement, but stopped when he heard familiar voices outside his small room.

  “A thousand at the least,” Drizzt said quietly, grimly.

  Another rock shook the town.

  “We can break through them,” Bruenor answered.

  Regis could imagine Drizzt shaking his head in the silence that ensued. The halfling crept out of his bed and to the door, which was open just a crack. He peered into the other room, to see his four companions sitting around the small table, a single candle burning between them. What struck the halfling most were the number of bandages wrapped around Wulfgar. The man had taken a beating holding the wall.

  “We can’t go north because of the ravine,” Drizzt finally replied.

  “And they’ve giants across it,” Catti-brie added.

  “A handful, at least,” the drow agreed. “More, I would guess, since their bombardment has continued unabated for many hours now. Even giants get tired, and some would have to go and retrieve more rocks.”

  “Bah, they ain’t done much damage,” Bruenor grumbled.

  “More than ye think,” Catti-brie replied. “Now they’re taking special aim at Withegroo’s tower. Hit it a dozen times in the last hour, from what I’m hearing.”

  “The wizard showed himself in the last battle with the fireball,” Drizzt remarked. “They will focus on him now.”

  “Well, here’s hoping he’s got more to throw than a single fireball, then,” said Catti-brie.

  “Here’s hoping we all have more to give,” Wulfgar chimed in.

  They all sat quietly for a few moments, their expressions grim.

  Regis turned around and leaned heavily on the wall. He was truly relieved that Wulfgar was alive and apparently not too badly hurt. He had feared the barbarian slain, likely while trying to defend him.

  Of course it had come to this, the halfling realized. Ever since they had been fighting bandits on the road in Icewind Dale, Regis had been trying to fit in, had been trying to find a way where he would not only be out of harm’s way but would actually prove an asset to his friends.

  He had found more success than any of them had expected, particularly in the fight at the guard tower in the Spine of the World, when they had discovered the place overrun by ogres.

  In truth, Regis was quite proud of his recent exploits. Ever since he had taken that spear in the shoulder on the river, when the friends were journeying to bring the Crystal Shard to Cadderly, Regis had come to view his place in the world a bit differently. Always before, the halfling had looked for the easy way, and in truth that was the way he most wanted to take even now, but his guilt wouldn’t allow it. He had been saved that day on the river by his friends, by the same friends who had traveled halfway across the world to rescue him from the clutches of Pasha Pook, by the same friends who had carried him along, often literally, for so many years.

  And so of late he had tried with all his might to find some way to become a greater asset to them, to pay them back for all they had done for him.

  But never once had Regis believed that his luck would hold. He should have died atop that ogre tower in the Spine of the World, far to the west, and he should have died on the wall of Shallows.

  His hand slipped down to his wounded belly as he considered that.

  He turned around and peered out at the four friends again, the real heroes. Yes, he had been the one carried on the shoulders of the folk of Ten-Towns after the defeat of Akar Kessell. Yes, he had been the one who had ascended to a position of true power after the fall of Pook, though he had so quickly squandered that opportunity. Yes, he was spoken of by the folk of the North as one of the companions, but crouching there, watching the group, he knew the truth of it.

  In his heart, he could not deny that truth.

  They were the heroes, not he. He was the beneficiary of fine friends.

  As he tuned back to the conversation, the halfling realized that his friends were talking of alternative plans to fighting, of sneaking the villagers away or of sending for help from the south.

  The halfling took a deep and steadying breath, then stepped out into the room just as Bruenor was saying to Drizzt, “We can’t be sparing yer swords, elf. Nor yer cat. Too long a run to Pwent. Even if ye could get there, ye’d not get back in time to do anythin’ more then clean up the bodies.”

  “But I see no way for us to take a hundred villagers out of Shallows and run to the south,” the drow replied.

  He stopped short to regard Regis, as did the others.

  “Ye’re up!” Bruenor cried.

  Catti-brie stood from her chair and moved to guide Regis to the seat, but the halfling, whose side was still stiff and tight, didn’t really want to bend. Standing seemed preferable to sitting.

  “Up halfway, at least,” he answered Bruenor.

  He winced as he spoke but waved Catti-brie away, motioning for her to keep her seat.

  “You are made of tougher stuff than you seem, Regis of Lonelywood,” Wulfgar proclaimed.

  He held up a flagon in toast.

  “And quicker feet,” Regis replied with a knowing grin. “You don’t believe that my descent from the wall was anything but intentional, do you?”

  “A cunning flank!” Wulfgar agreed and all the friends shared a laugh.

  It was a short-lived one, for the grim reality of the situation remained.

  “We’d not get the folks of Shallows to follow us out in any case,” Catti-brie put in when the conversation got back to the business at hand. “They’re thinking to hold against whatever comes against them. They’ve great faith in themselves and their town and greater faith in their resident mage.”

  “Too much so, I fear,” said Drizzt. “The force is considerable, and the giant bombardment could go on for days and days—there is no shortage of stones to throw in the mountains north of Shallows.”

  “Bah, they ain’t doing much damage,” Bruenor argued. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  “A townsman was struck and killed by a stone today,” Drizzt answered. “Another two were hurt. We haven’t many to spare.”

  Regis stepped back a bit and let the four ramble on with their defensive preparations. The idea of “ducking yer head and lifting yer axe,” as Bruenor had put it, seemed to be the order of the day, but after the ferocity of the first attack, the halfling wasn’t sure he agreed.

  The giants hadn’t crossed the ravine and yet the orcs had almost breached the wall, and the southern gates had been weakened by the press of enemies. While Shallows would continue to see a thinning of their forces as men and dwarves were injured, the orcs’ numbers would likely grow. Regis understood the creatures and knew that others might be fast to the call if they
believed victory to be imminent and riches to be split.

  He almost announced then that he would take the initiative and leave Shallows for the south, that he would find a way to Pwent and the others and return beside a dwarven army. He owed his friends that much at least.

  He almost announced it, but he did not, for in truth, the prospect of sneaking away to the south through an army of bloodthirsty orcs shook Regis to his spine. He would rather die beside his friends than out there, and even worse than dying would be getting captured by the orcs. What tortures might those beasts know?

  Regis shuddered visibly, and Catti-brie caught the movement and offered a curious glance.

  “I’m a bit chilled,” Regis explained.

  “Probably because you lost so much blood,” said Drizzt.

  “Get yerself back in yer bed, Rumblebelly,” said Bruenor. “We’ll take care o’ keeping ye safe!”

  Yes, Regis pondered, and the thought made him wince. They’d keep him safe. They were always keeping him safe.

  They knew the second assault would come soon after sunset.

  “They’re being too quiet,” Bruenor said to Drizzt. The pair was standing on the northern wall, peering out across the ravine to where the giant had been. “Restin’ to come on, no doubt.”

  “The giants won’t approach,” Drizzt reasoned. “Not while the defense is still in place. They’ll not face a wizard’s lightning when they can strike from afar with complete safety.”

  “Complete?” Bruenor asked slyly, for he and Drizzt had just been discussing that very issue, and they had just come to the conclusion that Drizzt should go out and bring the fight to the giants or distract them from their devastating bombardment at least.

  Now the drow was hesitating, and Bruenor knew why.

  “We could use yer swords here, don’t ye doubt,” the dwarf said.

  Drizzt eyed him curiously.

  “But we’ll hold without ye,” Bruenor added. “Don’t ye doubt that, either. Ye go and get ’em, elf. Keep their damned rocks off our heads and leave the little orcs to us.”