The Thousand Ords

by A. R. Salvatore

  Finally, Pikel hopped back and Ivan turned an incredulous stare upon him and asked, “Ye think?”

  “Hee hee hee.”

  “What?” Thibbledorf Pwent, Regis, and Runabout all demanded at once.

  “Well, me brother’s got a plan,” Ivan haltingly explained. “Crazy plan …”

  “Yes!” said Pwent, punching his fist into the air.

  “But a plan’s a plan, at least,” Ivan went on. He looked to Pikel and asked again, “Ye think?”

  “Hee hee hee.”

  “Well?” prompted Runabout.

  “Well, are we to stand here jawing or to get going?” Ivan shot right back. “Ye got a big, strong wagon?”

  “Yes,” Runabout answered.

  “Ye got a lot o’ wood? Especially them big logs ye been using to hold the stone walls in place?”

  Runabout looked around and slowly nodded.

  “Then get all yer wood and get yer biggest and strongest wagons, and get all yer boys into line on the road north,” said Ivan.

  “What about yer brother’s plan?” Runabout asked.

  “I’m thinkin’ it’d be better if I tell ye on the way,” Ivan responded. “Both because we can’t be standing here talking while yer king’s in trouble, and because …” He paused and looked at the giggling Pikel, then admitted, “Because when ye hear it, ye might think we’d’ve been better waiting for the army.”

  “Hee hee hee,” said Pikel.

  Within the hour, the hundred dwarves and Regis set out from the outpost, pulling huge wagons laden with tons of strong wood. Pikel wasn’t pulling and wasn’t even walking. Rather, the dwarf moved from wagon to wagon, working the wood with his druidic magic, considering each piece and how it might fit into his overall design, and giggling. Despite the gravity of the situation, despite the fact that they were walking into an obviously desperate battle, Pikel was always giggling.

  Catti-brie sat in the dim light of a single candle, staring at Bruenor, her beloved father, as he lay on the cot. His face was ashen, and it was no trick of the light, she knew. His chest barely moved, and the bandages she had only recently changed were already blood-stained yet again.

  Another rock hit close outside, shaking the ground but not even stirring Catti-brie, for the explosions had been sounding repeatedly. The bombardment had increased in tempo and ferocity. Every twentieth missile or so was no rock but a burning fire pot that spread lines of devastation, often igniting secondary fires within the town. Three blazes had already been put out in the wizard’s tower, and Dagnabbit had warned that the integrity of the structure had been compromised.

  They hadn’t moved Bruenor, though, for there was nowhere else to go.

  Catti-brie sat and stared at her father, remembering all the good times, all the things he had done for her, all the adventures they had shared. Her mind told her that that was over, though her heart surely argued against that conclusion.

  In truth, they were waiting for Bruenor to die, for when he took his last breath, they—all who remained—would crawl out of their holes and over the battered walls and make their desperate run to the south. That was their only hope, slim though it was.

  But Catti-brie could hardly believe she was sitting there waiting for Bruenor to die. She could hardly accept that the toughened old dwarf’s chest would sometime soon go still, that he would no longer draw breath. She had always thought he would outlive her.

  She had witnessed his fall once before and had thought him dead, when he had ridden the shadow dragon down into the gorge in Mithral Hall. She remembered that heartbreak, the unbelievable hole she had felt in her heart, the sense of helplessness and the surreal nature of it all.

  She was feeling that again, all of it, only this time the end would come before her eyes, undeniably and with no room for hope.

  The woman felt a strong hand on her shoulder then and turned to see Wulfgar moving in beside her. He draped his arm across her shoulders, and she put her head on his strong chest.

  “I wish Drizzt would return,” Wulfgar remarked quietly, and Catti-brie looked at him. “And with Regis beside him,” the barbarian said. “We should all be together for this.”

  “For the end of Bruenor’s life?”

  “For all of it,” Wulfgar explained. “For the run to the south, or the last stand here. It would be fitting.”

  They said no more. They didn’t have to. Each was feeling the exact same thing, each was remembering the exact same things.

  Up above, the rain of boulders continued.

  “How many orcs are there?” Innovindil asked Tarathiel.

  The two elves were far from the Moonwood, flying through the night on their winged horses. She had to shout to be heard, and even then her voice carried thinly on the night breezes.

  “Enough so that the security of our own home will surely be compromised,” Tarathiel answered with all confidence.

  They were in the foothills to the north of the town of Shallows, looking back at the hundreds of fires of orc camps and at the flames engulfing sections of the town, most notably the lone tower that so clearly marked the place.

  The pair set down on one high ridge to better converse.

  “We cannot help them,” Tarathiel said to his more compassionate companion as soon as they set down and he could better see the look upon her fair face. “Even if we could get to the Moonwood and rouse all the clan, we’d not return in time to turn the tide of this battle. Nor should we try,” he added, seeing her doubting expression. “Our first responsibility is to the forest we name as our home, and if this black tide turns to the east and crosses the Surbrin, we will know war soon enough.”

  “There is truth in your words,” Innovindil admitted. “I wonder if we might go there, though, and perhaps pull some from the disaster before the darkness closes in over them.”

  Tarathiel shook his head and painted on an expression that showed no room for debate.

  “Orc arrows would chase us every inch,” he argued, “and if they brought down Sunrise and Sunset, what good would we do for anybody? Who would fly to the east and warn our people?”

  He pressed on with the argument, though Innovindil didn’t need to hear it. She understood her responsibilities, and just as importantly, her limitations. She knew that the catastrophe to the south was far beyond the ability of her and her friend, and all their clan, to correct.

  It pained her, it pained them both, to watch the town of Shallows die, for though the elves of the Moonwood were no friends to any of the humans in the area, neither were they enemies.

  They could only watch.

  It was a difficult climb, made all the more so because of the swelling and soreness in his twisted ankle. Hand over hand, Drizzt pulled himself up the long and narrow natural chimney, chasing the last flickers of diminishing daylight up above.

  Diminishing daylight.

  The drow paused, more than halfway up the three hundred foot climb. The worse thing about the fading afternoon light above was that Drizzt knew it was not the day after he had first crawled into the cave, but was the day after that. The size of the caverns had truly surprised him. It was a vast underground network, and he had spent nearly two days wandering through it, looking for a way back to the surface. Following lighter air, the drow had found many dead ends, chutes and openings too small for him to exit through.

  He was beginning to suspect that he had found another, but he continued his climb. Still, each foot traversed made it clearer to him that this too was a dead end. The light above had shone brilliantly when first he had seen it, a welcomed contrast to the darkness of the caverns, but that had been due to the angle of the sun, the drow realized, and not the width of the opening.

  He continued up another hundred feet before he knew for certain that he would have to double back, that the opening would admit no more than an arm or perhaps his head.

  With a quiet reminder to himself that his friends needed him, Drizzt Do’Urden started back down.

  An hour late
r, he was walking as swiftly as his sore ankle and his sheer exhaustion would permit. He considered doubling back, moving all the way to where he had first entered the tunnels in the hope that he might move the barriers the giants had constructed there, but he shook that thought away.

  The sun had long risen before the drow found the next opening, and this time the exit was large enough.

  Drizzt came out into the daylight, blinking against the stinging brilliance, letting his eyes adjust as much as possible. Then he spent a long while studying the mountains around him, trying to find some recognizable landmark that would guide him back to Shallows. The angle was too different, though. Observing the sun told him east from west, and north from south, though, so he started south. He was hoping to hit the Fell Pass, and hoping that he would find his bearings once the ground had somewhat leveled out.

  He tore a sleeve from his shirt and tightened the splint around his ankle, then trotted away, ignoring the pain. He watched the sun pass its zenith above him, then move to the western horizon and drop behind.

  Hours later, he found the Fell Pass and recognized the ground.

  He ran on to the east across the foothills, urgency growing with each stride. A short while later, he saw a distant glow against the lightening sky of the southeast. He rushed up over one hill, finding a better viewpoint and saw, in the distance, flames climbing into the night sky.

  Withegroo’s tower.

  His heart pumping more out of fear than from exertion, Drizzt ran on. He saw a glowing ball sail across the sky, north to south. When it hit it burst into flame in the battered town.

  Drizzt didn’t veer to the south, instead charging straight for the giants’ position, determined to deter them yet again. His hand went to his onyx figurine, though he didn’t bring the panther to him just yet.

  “Be ready, Guenhwyvar,” he said quietly. “Soon we find battle.”

  Drizzt knew that fire in the night distorted distances greatly, and so he was not surprised at how long it took him to get back near the town and the attacking giants.

  He moved to the northern rim of the ravine in clear sight of Shallows. He could see the defenders rushing around. The tower was burning, though not nearly as brightly as before, and most of the activity was centered around it.

  The giants seemed to be concentrating on that particular target as well.

  Drizzt took out the figurine and set it on the ground, determined to bring forth Guenhwyvar and charge straight on into the giant encampment. He paused, though, noting a familiar figure atop that burning tower.

  Drizzt couldn’t make out much, but one thing showed clearly to him: a one-horned helmet that he knew so very well.

  “Defy them, Bruenor,” the drow whispered, a wry grin on his face.

  Almost in response, a series of missiles smashed against that tower, one clipping right near the brightest burning fires and sending a shower of sparks through the night sky.

  There the dwarf remained, atop the structure, directing the forces on the ground.

  Drizzt’s smile widened, or started to, for then there came a loud groaning and scraping sound from the south. Eyes wide with horror, Drizzt watched the tower lean, watched the dwarf atop it scramble to the edge, diving desperately for the rim.

  The tower toppled to the south, and half fell over, half crumbled, so that the poor doomed dwarf fell down amidst tons of crushing stone.

  Drizzt didn’t even realize his own movements, didn’t even register that his legs hadn’t supported him through that terrible sight, that he was sitting down on the stone.

  He knew beyond any doubt that no one in all the world could have survived that catastrophe.

  A chill rushed through him. His hands trembled and tears filled his violet eyes.

  “Bruenor,” he whispered over and over.

  His hands reached out to the south, into the empty air, with nothing to hold on to.

  She could see nothing, could feel only the pain of raw scrapes all around her arms and shoulders, and the discomfort of breathing in chunks of stony dust. She groped around in the darkness of the partially collapsed tunnel, searching desperately for her father.

  Luck was with her, for the area around which Bruenor lay had survived the catastrophe almost intact. Catti-brie got up beside her father, gently running her hands over his face, then putting her ear low to his mouth, to find that he was still breathing, shallow though it was.

  The woman turned around, trying to get her bearings, trying to figure out which way would provide the shortest route to the surface, though she wondered if she should even go to the surface at all. Had the orcs come on in full after the fall of Withegroo’s tower, which surely had fallen? If so, she wondered if she would be better off staying there, in the dark, for as long as she could manage before trying to find a way out of the town altogether so she could head for the south.

  That seemed the safer course, perhaps, but Wulfgar was up there, and Dagnabbit and the others were up there, and the townsfolk were up there, and if the orcs had indeed come on, the battle would be desperate.

  Catti-brie crawled to the side of the small chamber and began to claw at the stone, digging free several chunks and a mound of dirt and stone dust. Her fingers bled but she pushed on. The ground above her groaned ominously, but she pushed on, ignoring the exhaustion that crept through her as the minutes passed.

  She hit a rock too big for her to move. Undaunted, the woman started working at the side of the stone, and she jumped back as the rock suddenly shifted.

  Morning light streamed in as the boulder went away, hoisted and tossed aside by the strong arms of Wulfgar.

  He reached in for her and she gave him her hand and the barbarian gently pulled her from the small tunnel.

  “Bruenor?” Wulfgar asked desperately.

  “He’s the same,” Catti-brie replied. “The collapse didn’t touch his room. Dwarves built it well.”

  As she finished, the woman looked around at the devastation. The tower had half fallen over and half collapsed in on itself, and it had taken out several buildings on its toppling descent, leaving a long line of rubble. She wanted to ask so many questions then, about who had survived and who had fallen, but she could find no words, her jaw just drooping open.

  “Dagnabbit is gone,” Wulfgar informed her. “Three other dwarves were lost with him, and at least five townsmen.”

  Catti-brie continued her scan, hardly believing the devastation that had befallen the town. Most of the buildings were down or badly damaged, and little remained of the wall. When the orcs came on—and she knew it would be soon since she could hear their horns blowing and drums beating in the south—there would be no organized defense, just fighting from street to street, and before the bitter end, from tunnel to tunnel.

  She looked to Wulfgar and gathered strength from his stoic expression and his wide shoulders. He’d kill more than a few before the orcs finished him, Catti-brie knew, and she decided that she would too. A wry smile widened on her face, and Wulfgar looked at her curiously.

  “Well, if it’s to end, then it’s to end in a blaze o’ fighting!” she said, nodding and grinning.

  It was either that or fall down and weep.

  She put her hand on Wulfgar’s shoulder, and he on hers.

  “They’re coming,” came a voice behind them.

  They turned to see Tred, battered and bloody, but looking more than ready for a fight. The dwarf stood sidelong, one hand hidden behind his back, the other holding his double-bladed axe.

  Wulfgar pointed out several positions in a rough circle around the cave entrance leading back to Bruenor.

  “We’ll hold these four positions,” he explained, “and fall back behind one pile after another to join up right here.”

  “And then?” asked Tred.

  “We fall back into the caves, or what’s left of them,” the barbarian said. “Let the orcs crawl in and be killed until we are too weary to strike at them.”

  Tred looked around, then nodd
ed his agreement though he understood, as they all did, the ultimate futility of it all. Certainly some orcs, thirsty for blood, would foolishly come into the caves after them, but soon enough the wicked creatures would realize that time was on their side, that they could just wait out the return of the defenders, or even worse, that they could start fires and smoke the defenders out of the caves.

  “It’ll be me honor to die beside yer King Bruenor and to die beside the fine children of the king. He was a fine and brave one, that Dagnabbit,” Tred said somberly, glancing over at the long pile of broken stone. “Citadel Felbarr would’ve been proud to call him one of our own. I’m wishing we had the time to dig him out.”

  “It is a fitting grave,” Wulfgar replied. “Dagnabbit stood tall and defied them, and at the moment of his fall he called to the dwarf gods. He knew that he had done well. He knew that he had honored his people and his race.”

  A solemn and silent moment passed, all three bowing their heads in deference to the fallen Dagnabbit.

  “I got me some orcs to chop,” Tred announced.

  He saluted the pair and moved off, organizing the remaining few into battle groups to defend three of the positions.

  Soon after, the bombardment increased once again but there was plenty of cover with so many piles of rubble, and there was little left to destroy. The giants’ prelude seemed more an annoyance than anything else. The rain of boulders ended as the orcs, many riding worgs, came on, howling their battle cries.

  Catti-brie started the fight for the defenders, popping up from behind the rubble pile and letting fly a streaking arrow that hit a worg squarely in the head, stopping it in its tracks and launching its rider through the air. The woman let fly again to the side, for there was no shortage of targets with orcs swarming over the all but destroyed walls. She drove her arrows into their ranks, taking one, sometimes even two, down with every shot.

  But still they came on.

  “Stay with the bow,” Wulfgar instructed her.

  He rose up strong and tall and met the orcs’ charge, Aegis-fang sweeping the leading orcs away, launching them through the air.