He saw a couple of promising spots but let them pass by, too afraid to make such a break. He tried to bolster his resolve by reminding himself of the predicament of his friends to the north, but still he saw nothing that offered more than a fleeting hope.
Still, from the tone of the orc’s complaints, Regis understood that he would have to do something soon.
“We gonna camp,” the orc informed him.
Regis’s eyes went wide and he looked around desperately for a way out. His darting eyes looked down to his small mace, belted at his hip.
He thought of taking it out then and there and smashing the worg atop the head. He couldn’t get his hand to move to it, though, whatever the logic, for he knew beyond doubt that he would have to be perfect, and that the blow would have to fell the creature, which he sincerely doubted it would. Even without the wound to his arm, Regis was no match for a worg, and he knew it. He couldn’t begin to hurt the thing before those snapping jaws found his throat.
The only thing keeping him alive was the orc, the worg’s master.
The halfling nearly fell over when the orc stopped the mount suddenly, on a small and level landing along the mountainside. Regis remembered to leap off the worg’s back only when the snarling creature turned and nipped at his foot. He ran to the side and the worg turned and darted at him, but the orc intercepted and scolded it, kicking it in the rump as it turned around.
The worg retreated across the way, looking back at Regis with its hateful eyes, a stare that told him that as soon as the orc fell asleep, the great wolf would have him dead.
He found his solution in the fact that this particular clearing was surrounded by trees. Deathly exhausted and afraid, and terribly sore from his ordeal, Regis moved to an appropriate tree and started to climb.
“Where you’s going?” the orc demanded.
“I’ll keep the first watch,” Regis replied.
“The dog will watch.” The orc indicated the worg, which looked at Regis and bared its filthy fangs.
“As will I!” the halfling insisted.
He scrambled up the tree as fast as his broken arm would permit, moving well out of the orc’s reach as quickly as he could manage.
He found a nook and settled his back against the trunk, his legs stretched out over a branch, and tried to secure himself as much as possible. He thought to go down and prod the orc into moving along, but in truth, he knew that they all needed rest, particularly the worg—though if the thing fell over dead of exhaustion, the halfling wouldn’t shed a tear.
Every few seconds, Regis glanced back to the north, toward distant Shallows, and thought of his friends.
He could only hope they were still alive.
“Three buildings burning strong,” Dagnabbit informed Catti-brie and Wulfgar as they kept a vigil at Bruenor’s bedside.
They had set up the infirmary in the low workmen tunnels beneath Withegroo’s tower, a series of connecting passageways that allowed for inspections at key points of the tower’s supporting base structure. This was actually the strongest section of the town, even stronger than the tower above, for the dwarves Withegroo had hired to build his tower had fashioned the tunnels first, reinforcing them against weather and enemies alike, for they alone had provided shelter during the months of the tower’s construction.
Still, the cramped tunnels were hardly suited for their present purposes as makeshift bunkers. The friends were in the largest room—the only place that could rightly be called a room—and Wulfgar couldn’t even stand up straight. He had to belly crawl through a ten-foot passageway to get in.
“The buildings are stone,” Catti-brie argued.
“With a lot of wood support,” said the dwarf. He moved beside Bruenor and sat down. “Giants threw a few firepots, and the rocks are coming in fast now.”
“It’s an organized group,” said Wulfgar.
“Aye,” Dagnabbit agreed, “and they’re blocking all the south. We got no way out.” He looked at Bruenor, so pale and weak, his broad chest barely rising with each breath. “Exceptin’ that way.”
Bruenor surprised them all, then, by opening one eye and even managing to turn his head toward Dagnabbit.
“Then ye take a bunch o’ stinkin’ orcs along for yer ride,” the dwarf said, and he sank back into his bed.
Catti-brie was there in an instant, hovering over him, but after a quick inspection she realized that he had slipped off into that semiconscious state once again.
“Where’s Rockbottom?” she asked, referring to the one cleric who had remained with their group of dwarves when the expeditionary force had split.
“Tending Withegroo, though I’m thinking the old mage’s about finished,” Dagnabbit answered. “Rockbottom says he’s done all he can for Bruenor for now, and he’s thinking like I’m thinking that we’re gonna be needin’ that wizard to have any chance o’ getting outta here.”
Catti-brie bit back her urge to scream at poor Dagnabbit, for she realized that despite his seemingly callous attitude toward Bruenor, he was as torn up as she was about the dwarf king’s predicament. Dagnabbit was above all else pragmatic, though. He was the commander of Mithral Hall’s forces, and always followed the road that promised the best chance of positive result, whatever the emotional burden. Catti-brie understood that he was as angry and frustrated as she at their helplessness, at having to sit there and watch the life ebb out of Bruenor.
Dagnabbit moved to the side of Bruenor’s bed and gently lifted the signature one-horned helm off the dwarf king’s head, rolling it about in his hands.
“Even if we find a way outta here, I don’t know if we can take him with us,” the dwarf said quietly.
Wulfgar was up in an instant, towering over Dagnabbit despite his necessary crouch.
“You would leave him?” he roared incredulously.
Dagnabbit didn’t shrink from the barbarian’s wild stare. He looked from Bruenor to Wulfgar, then back to his beloved king.
“If bringing him means throwing out all chance of us running by them, yeah,” he admitted. “Bruenor’d not want to go if going meant getting them he loves slaughtered, and ye’re knowing that.”
“Get Rockbottom back in here to tend to him.”
“Rockbottom can’t do a thing for him, and ye heared it yerself when last he was here,” said Dagnabbit. “Damned orc got him good. He’ll be needin’ a bigger priest than Rockbottom, might be even that he’ll be needin’ a whole bunch o’ priests.”
Wulfgar started toward Dagnabbit, but Catti-brie grabbed him by the arms and forced him to stop and look at her. He saw only sympathy there, a complete understanding of, and agreement with, his frustrations.
“We’ll make our choices as we see them,” the woman said softly.
“If we are to run to the south, then I will carry Bruenor all the way to Mithral Hall,” Wulfgar said, casting a stern look at Dagnabbit.
The commander didn’t flinch, but he did, after a moment, nod.
“Well if ye do, then ye know that me and me boys’ll do all we can to keep ye running and to keep them damned orcs off ye.”
That calmed Wulfgar, even though he, Catti-brie, and Dagnabbit all knew that those were words of the heart, not of the mind. In truth, to all three, the point seemed moot anyway. A few scouts had dared to slip out of Shallows in the hours since the end of the second battle and the reports of the tightening ring of orcs showed no chance of any large-scale escape.
They were trapped, Bruenor was dying, Drizzt and Regis were both missing, and there was nothing they could do about it.
Punctuating that disturbing logic, another giant boulder smashed against the tower above them, and cries of “Fire! Fire!” echoed down the low tunnels leading to the small, smoky room.
“Town lost thirty in the fighting,” Dagnabbit informed them. “Counting the twelve killed afore the first fight.”
“Almost a third,” said Catti-brie.
“And most o’ them men—some o’ their best fighters,” said t
he dwarf. “Two o’ me own are dead, another five down too hurt to fight. If they come on again, we’ll be hard pressed to hold.”
“We’ll hold,” Wulfgar said grimly.
“After seein’ ye on the wall, I’m almost believing ye,” the dwarf replied.
“Almost?” Catti-brie asked.
Dagnabbit, who had seen the extent of destruction to the fortifications above, could only offer a shrug in reply.
“We hold or we die,” said Catti-brie.
“We gotta get out,” Dagnabbit remarked.
“Or get help in,” said Catti-brie. “Regis got over the wall, though I’m not for knowing if he’s dead on the field outside, or if he’s running for help.” She looked to Wulfgar as she explained, “Right after he went over the wall, the orcs on worgs came charging in.”
After the fight, the friends had searched the ground west of Shallows as much as possible, but had found no sign of Regis. That had brought them some hope, at least, but in truth, both of them feared the halfling captured or dead.
“Even if he got away, I’m not for hoping that’ll do anyone but himself any good,” said Dagnabbit. “How long will it take him to find Pwent? It’ll take an army to get through to us, I’m thinking, and not just them Gutbusters. And how long will it take them to gather an army to our aid?”
“As long as it takes,” said Wulfgar. “Until then, we must hold.”
Dagnabbit started to reply, seeming as if to argue the point, but then he just blew a long sigh.
“Stay with King Bruenor,” he bade Catti-brie. “If any’re to keep his heart beating, it’s yerself. Keep him warm, and wish him well from me and all me boys if he walks his journey to the other side.”
He looked to Wulfgar.
“Help me and me boys fix what defenses we can?” he asked the man.
With a nod and a determined look to Catti-brie, the barbarian lifted his bloodied frame and crawled out of the small tunnel to begin the work of shoring up the defenses.
Such as they were.
He caught himself just as he was about to fall off of the branch, and when he realized that, when he realized where he was, the halfling had to spend a long moment telling his heart not to leap out of his chest. The fall probably wouldn’t have been so bad, a few bruises and scratches, but Regis knew all too well what awaited him on the ground: a snarling, vicious worg.
He settled himself quickly and looked over the impromptu encampment. The orc was snoring contentedly between a pair of shading rocks, while the worg was curled right at the base of Regis’s tree.
Wonderful, the halfling thought.
The sun was up and the day bright and warm, and Regis’s heart told him that this was his last and only chance, that he had to find some way out of there. Would the orc still consider him a friend when it awoke? Would the gem-enhanced promises he had made of treasures and new weapons still hold strong in the dim-witted creature’s thinking? If not, how could he use his ruby once again? How could he even get close enough to a hostile orc with that hungry worg wanting nothing more than to make a meal of him?
Regis put his head down and fought hard to hold back his sobs, for it seemed to him that it had all been for naught. He wished that he was back in Shallows with his friends, that if he was to die, as he surely believed he was, it would be with Bruenor and the others, with the friends who had walked the road beside him.
Not like this. Not torn apart by a cruel worg on a lonely mountain pass.
“Stop it!” Regis scolded himself, more loudly than he had intended.
Below him, the worg looked up, gave a long, low growl, then put its head back atop its paws.
“No time for self pity,” the halfling whispered. “Your friends need you, Regis, so what are you going to do for them? Sit here and cry?”
No, he decided, and he sat up straighter and resolutely shook his head. Even that motion made his broken arm throb more. It was time to rouse the orc, to hope that the creature was still under the sway of the enchanted ruby, or to find some other way if it was not. If he had to fight them both, orc and worg, then he’d fight and be done with it. His friendship with those who had risked themselves time and again for his sake demanded no less.
Seeming taller, feeling taller, Regis rolled over the side of the branch and caught a foothold below, moving down the tree to a better vantage point where he could rouse the orc and judge its demeanor.
He stopped, though, and suddenly, his head snapping around, as something came bouncing into the encampment.
An old boot.
The worg leaped at it and tore at it with snapping jaws—and those jaws were snapping indeed, as a series of small explosions erupted from within the boot.
The worg yelped and howled, and leaped up into the air, doing a complete somersault.
The most curious looking creature Regis had ever seen rushed in to join the dance: a green-bearded dwarf wearing light green robes, open sandals on his dirty feet, and a cooking pot on his head. The dwarf ran right up to the worg and began waggling his fingers and his lips. The great wolf stopped its yammering and its hopping and froze in place, ears going back, eyes going wide.
With a sound that could only be described as a shriek, the worg put its tail between its legs and ran away.
“Hee hee hee,” said the dwarf.
“What?” roared the awakened orc, its protesting cry cut short—as tended to happen when a battle-axe crushed the speaker’s skull.
From behind the tumbling orc came a second dwarf, this one with a brilliant yellow beard, and dressed in more conventional dwarven attire—except for a tremendous helm that sported the huge antlers of a full-grown buck.
“Ye should o’ killed the damned dog, too,” the yellow bearded dwarf roared. “I’m hungry!”
As the green-bearded creature started wagging his finger in a scolding manner, Regis moved down the tree as quickly as his aching arm would permit.
“Who are you?” he called.
Both dwarves spun on him—and the yellow-bearded one almost launched his deadly axe Regis’s way.
“No friend o’ orcs … like yerself!” the yellow-bearded dwarf roared.
“No, no, no!” Regis insisted coming to the ground and waving his empty hand up in a sign of submission, his other arm tucked in close to his side. “I have come from the town of Shallows.”
“Don’t know it,” said the yellow-bearded dwarf.
He looked to the other, who agreed with a “Nope, nope.”
“And King Bruenor Battlehammer,” Regis went on.
“Ah, now ye’re talking!” said the dwarf with the yellow-beard. “Ivan Bouldershoulder at yer service, little one. And this’s me brother—”
“Pikel!” Regis cried.
He had heard quite a bit about these two from Drizzt and Catti-brie, though in truth, no spoken words could do the specter of Pikel Bouldershoulder justice.
“Aye,” said Ivan, “and tell me, little one, how’re ye knowin’ that, and what’re ye doing with the likes o’ them two?”
“We have to hurry,” Regis replied, urgency suddenly flying back into his tone. “Bruenor’s in trouble—they all are!—and I have to get to Mithral Hall … no, to the camp that Thibbledorf Pwent was supposed to be building north of the hall.”
“Yeah, that’s where we’re goin’,” said Ivan. “To Pwent. We took a circular route, but a bird telled me brother where they were at. We were just fixing to go there when another bird telled me brother about the orc and his puppy.”
“He talks to a lot of birds, does he?” Regis asked dryly.
“Aye, and to the trees. Come along and he’ll get us there afore ye can ask me how.”
“There is no time,” Regis said to the Bouldershoulders, to Thibbledorf Pwent and to the other leaders at the second dwarven outpost, some twenty miles across uneven, rocky ground north of Keeper’s Dale, the vale heralding the main entrance to Mithral Hall. “Bruenor and the others don’t have the four extra days it will take for the runners
to gather the army and return here.”
“Bah, they’ll do it in three!” one of the outpost bosses, a crusty little fellow named Runabout Kickastone, insisted. “Ain’t ye never seen a mad dwarf run?”
“Three’s three too many!” roared Pwent, who had been leaning toward the north ever since Regis and the Bouldershoulders had arrived with the dire news of Shallows’s predicament.
Indeed, Thibbledorf Pwent had been leaning to the north since Bruenor had separated from him and sent him to the south.
“We only got a hunnerd!” said Runabout. “And from what the little one’s saying, a hunnerd ain’t to do much!”
“Ye got the Gutbusters!” Pwent roared right back. “Them orcs’ll think they’re outnumbered, don’t ye doubt!”
“And you’ve got clerics,” added Regis, who knew they had to be away at once, and who guessed easily enough that some of his friends were likely in desperate need of some healing magic.
Runabout sighed and looked around, planting his hands on his hips.
“We might be doin’ some good if we can get to the town,” he admitted. “Shorin’ up defenses and healing them that’s hurt and all that. Don’t sound like we’ll be getting there with any kind o’ ease, though.”
Off to the side, Pikel hopped over to Ivan and began whispering excitedly into his brother’s ear. All the others turned to watch and listen, though they couldn’t really make out any clear words or meanings.
“Me brother’s got some berries that’ll make ye walk longer and faster,” Ivan explained. “Takin’ away yer need to stop and eat or drink. That’ll get us up there all the faster, with short camps.”
“Getting up there’s sounding like the easy part,” the ever-doubting Runabout replied, and before he had even finished, Pikel hopped up to Ivan and put his lips near his brother’s ear again.
Ivan’s expression turned sour, his face full of doubt, and he began to shake his head, but as Pikel continued, ever more excitedly, the dwarf slowly settled and began to listen more intently.
The Thousand Ords Page 34
