The Thousand Orcs th-1

by Robert Salvatore

  "And if ye're letting a dwarf legend into yer city, then how can ye be sayin' the dwarves o' yer city can't go and sit with him?"

  "Many of the dwarves of my city are among the loudest voices for espionage against King Bruenor's Mithral Hall," Elastul reminded. "You have heard their calls for spies to go into Mithral Hall and find some way to shut down the forges, or to flood some of the more promising tunnels, or to place cheaper goods in among the armor and weapons Clan Battlehammer is sending out to market."

  Torgar couldn't deny the truth of the marchion's words, nor the fact that he, himself, had uttered similar curses against Mithral Hall in the past, but that seemed different to him than this personal visit, a rant against a faceless rival. Torgar might not wish Clan Battlehammer well with their merchandising, but if an enemy came against Bruenor and his clan, Torgar would gladly lead a charge to assist them.

  "Ye ever think that we might be going against Clan Battlehammer in

  the wrong way?" the dwarf asked. The marchion and Shoudra exchanged curious looks. "Ye ever think that we might be using their strengths and our own strength together to the benefit of us all?"

  "What do you mean?" Elastul asked.

  "They got the ore—better ore than we'll be findin' here if we dig a hunnerd miles down—and they got some great craftsmen, don't ye doubt, but so do we. Might that our best and their best could work with their good ore to make great pieces, while our apprentices and their apprentices, or a few who're too old to see it right or lift the hammer well enough, could work with the lesser ore in making the lesser pieces—railings and cart wheels instead o' swords and breastplates, if ye see me meaning."

  The marchion's eyes went wide indeed, but not because he was the least bit intrigued by the suggestion of cooperation. Torgar saw that immediately and knew that he had crossed a line.

  Trembling so badly that he seemed as if he might vibrate right out of his chair, Elastul forced himself, with great effort, to settle back. He shook his head, seeming too enraged to even speak a denial.

  "Just a thought," Torgar remarked.

  "A thought? Here is a thought—why don't we have Shoudra burn that axe from your breastplate? Why don't I have you dragged out and flogged publicly, perhaps even tried for treason against Mirabar? How dare you lead so many into the embrace of King Bruenor Battlehammer! How dare you bring comfort to our principle rival, a dwarf who leads a clan that has cost us piles of gold! How dare you represent any prospect of friendship between Mithral Hall and Mirabar, and how dare you suggest such a thing to me!"

  Shoudra Stargleam came forward to the side of the marchion's throne. She put her hand on Elastul's arm, obviously trying to calm him. She looked to Torgar as she did and nodded toward the door to the room, motioning for him to make a fast exit.

  But Torgar wasn't ready to leave just yet, not before he had the last word.

  "Ye might be hatin' Bruenor and his boys, and ye might have reason," he said, "but I'm secin' it more as our own weakness than anything Bruenor and his boys did to us."

  Marchion Elastul started to respond with another "how dare you," but Torgar kept on rolling.

  "That's the way I'm secin' it," the dwarf stated flatly. "Ye want to take me Axe emblem, then take it, but if ye're thinking o7 flogging me, then ye should be looking more closely at me kin."

  With that threat hanging in the air, Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker turned and stormed from the room.

  "I will have his head on a pike!"

  "Then you'll have two thousand shield dwarves running wild in Mirabar," Shoudra explained. She was still holding the man's arm and firmly. "I don't completely disagree with any of the things you say about Mithral Hall, good Elastul, but given the response from Torgar and many others, I wonder the wisdom of holding our present course of open animosity."

  Elastul shot her an angry and threatening glower, the look alone reminding her that few on the Council of Sparkling Stones would side with her reasoning.

  So Shoudra let him go and stepped back, bowing her head deferentially, while silently wondering how destabilizing King Bruenor's visit had truly been to Mirabar. If the marchion kept pushing this hard, the result could be disastrous for the ancient mining city.

  Shoudra also silently applauded King Bruenor for his shrewd move of even showing up where he knew he would not be welcomed, but where he would neither be flatly rebuked. Yes, it was a cunning maneuver, and it seemed to the Sceptrana of Mirabar that her boss was playing right into Bruenor's hands.

  "Prisoners?" Obould asked his son as they stood overlooking the ruins of Clicking Heels.

  "Few left," Urlgen said with an evil grin.

  "Ye're interrogating?"

  Urlgen straightened, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him.

  Obould gave a growl and slapped Urlgen on the back of his head.

  "What we need to know?" the confused Urlgen asked.

  "Whatever they can tell us to help us," Obould explained, speaking slowly and articulating each word carefully, as if he was addressing a toddler.

  Urlgen snarled but didn't voice his displeasure. The insult had been earned, after all.

  "Ye know how to interrogate?" Obould asked, and his son looked at him as if the question was purely ridiculous. "Just like torture," Obould explained anyway, "except ye ask them questions while ye play."

  Urlgen's lips curled into a perfectly evil smile, and with a nod, he headed back into the village, where many of his warriors were already at play on the few unfortunate villagers who had not died in the attack.

  An hour later, Urlgen caught up to his father, finding Obould at parlay with the giants who had helped in the raid, playing the political angles as always.

  "Not all them dwarfs got killed when we hit them," Urlgen remarked, his tone a mixture of excitement for the chase, and disappointment.

  "Dwarfs? There were dwarfs in that stupid little town?"

  Urlgen seemed confused. "Not them dwarfs," he said. "Weren't none of them dwarfs."

  Now Obould and the giants seemed confused.

  "No dwarfs in the town," Urlgen stated clearly, trying to end the circular confusion. "When we hit them dwarfs a tenday ago, two got away."

  It wasn't completely surprising to Obould, for they knew that some dwarves, at least, were running around the region. A band of orcs had been slaughtered not too far from this town, with tactics indicating a dwarven ambush.

  "They come in there, and hurt," Urlgen explained.

  "And they died in there?"

  "Nope, kept runnin', looking for Mithral Hall, and were gone before we hit."

  "How long?"

  "Not long."

  Obould wore an excited expression. "A fun hunt?" he asked the giants, and as one the great blue-skinned behemoths nodded.

  But Obould's expression quickly changed as he remembered the warnings of Ad'non Kareese. "Small forays, and with restraint. We draw them out, little by little," the drow had said. Chasing these dwarves to the south would bring the force dangerously close to Mithral Hall, perhaps, and might incite a battle far beyond what Obould wanted.

  "Nah, let em go," the orc king decided, and while the giants seemed to accept that readily enough, Urlgen's eyes popped open so wide that they seemed as if they would fall right out of his ugly head.

  "Ye can't be. ." the younger and rasher orc started to argue,

  "I can be," Obould interrupted. "Ye let 'em make the hall, with their tales o' death and destruction, and the dwarfs there'll send out a force to investigate. That'd be a bigger and better fight."

  Urlgen's smile began to widen once more, and Obould let him in on the rest of the reasoning, just for prudence. After all, any mention of Mithral Hall might send the young warriors charging headlong to the south.

  "We get too close and start that fight, and some o' them dwarfs might get back home, and all the stinkin' Mithral Hall'll empty out on us, and that's a fight we're not wantin'!"

  Despite the nods of agreement, even from sour Urlgen, Obould fe
lt obliged to add, "Not yet."

  CHAPTER 7 THE TRAPPINGS OF

  Bruenor purposely excluded Thibbledorf Pwent from the meeting with the two dwarves of Citadel Felbarr, knowing the gist of their story beforehand from Regis, and knowing that the battlerager would likely charge right off into the mountains to avenge their fallen Felbarr kin. And so Nikwillig and Tred recounted their adventures to a group that was comprised more of non-dwarves—Drizzt, Catti-brie, Wulfgar, and Regis—than dwarves.

  "A fine escape," Bruenor congratulated when the pair had finished. "Ye done Emerus Warcrown proud."

  Both Tred and Nikwillig puffed up a bit at the compliment from the dwarf king.

  "What're ye thinking?" Bruenor asked, directing the question to Dagnabbit.

  The younger dwarf considered the question carefully for a long while, then answered, "I'll take me a group o' warriors, including the Gutbuster Brigade, and backtrack the route to the Surbrin in the north. If we find the raiders, we'll crush 'em and come home. If not, we'll tack south along the river and meet up with ye in Mithral Hall."

  Bruenor nodded throughout the recitation of the plan, expecting every word. Dagnabbit was good, but he was also predictable.

  "I'd be likin' another shot at them killers," Tred interjected.

  His words made Nikwillig, who obviously didn't share the sentiment, look more than a little uncomfortable.

  "Forgettin' yer hurt leg?" Nikwillig remarked.

  "Bah, Bruenor's priests done me good with their warm hands," Tred insisted, and to accentuate the point the dwarf stood up and began hopping around, and indeed, despite a wince or two, he seemed ready for the road.

  Bruenor studied the pair for a moment.

  "Well, we can't let ye both get killed, or yer tale'll not be told proper to Emerus Warcrown. So, ye can come on the hunt, Tred, and yerself, Nikwillig, will go back to Mithral Hall with the others."

  "King Bruenor, yer words make ye sound like ye're headin' out on the hunt yerself," Dagnabbit remarked, drawing a hard stare from Bruenor.

  Bruenor knew the expectations of those around him, particularly of Dagnabbit, who was sworn to secure his king's safety. He knew that the proper course for him, as King of Mithral Hall, would be to head south straightaway with the bulk of his force, back to the security of his kingdom, back where he could direct further counterstrikes in search of this marauding band of orcs and giants. That was what was expected of him, but the mere thought of it made Bruenor's gut churn.

  He looked over at Drizzt with a pleading look, and the dark elf offered a slight, knowing nod in response.

  "What're ye thinking, elf?" Bruenor asked.

  "T would have an easier time finding the monsters than Pwent and his wild band," Drizzt replied. "An easier time even than good Dagnabbit here, though I doubt not his prowess at hunting orcs."

  "Then ye come with me," Dagnabbit offered.

  There was a slight crack in his voice, showing that he saw where this might be heading, and showing that he was not too pleased by the prospect.

  "T will go," Drizzt agreed, "but with my friends around me. Those whom I have come to trust the most. Those who best recognize how to compliment my every move."

  He nodded in turn to Catti-brie, to Wulfgar, and to Regis, then paused for a moment and turned directly to Bruenor—and nodded. A smile widened on the face of the dwarf king.

  "No, no, no," Dagnabbit remarked immediately. "Ye cannot be taking me king into the wilds."

  "I believe the choice is Bruenor's to make, my friend, not yours, and not mine," Drizzt replied. He returned Bruenor's grateful smile and asked the king, "One last hunt?"

  "Who says it's the last?" came Bruenor's gruff reply.

  The friends chuckled, then laughed all the harder when Dagnabbit stomped his heavy boot on the ground and exclaimed, "Dagnabbit!"

  "Bah, but yerself can come along, ye dumb dwarf," Bruenor said to his young commander. "And yerself," he added, looking over at Tred, who nodded grimly.

  "And ye bring some fighters with ye!" Dagnabbit insisted.

  "Pwent and his boys," said Bruenor.

  "No!" Dagnabbit shouted emphatically.

  "But you just said. ."

  "That was afore I thinked yerself was goin'."

  Bruenor patted his hands in the air to calm the excited dwarf.

  "Not Pwent, then," he said, understanding his young commander's concern. Pwent could start a fight with a rock, so it was said in Mithral Hall, and hurt himself and everyone around him badly before he won the scuffle. "Ye pick the group yerself. Twenty o' yer best—"

  "Twenty-five," Dagnabbit argued.

  "Well, get 'em ready soon," Bruenor said to Dagnabbit, and to all of them. "I'm wanting to be on the road this same day. We got orcs and giants to squish!"

  The dwarf looked around at all his friends and noted that Wulfgar's grin was not as wide as those of Drizzt, Catti-brie, and even Regis. Bruenor nodded his understanding to his adopted son, his implied permission for Wulfgar, now a father and a husband, to opt out of the hunt if he saw fit to do so.

  Wulfgar tightened his jaw in response, returned the nod, and strode away.

  "Ye can't be thinkin' what I'm thinkin' ye're thinkin'!" said Shingles McRuff.

  He was one of the toughest looking critters in all of Mirabar, a short and exceedingly stout dwarf whose nasty attitude was always clearly shown on his ruddy, weathered face. He was missing an eye, and simply never bothered to fill in the empty socket, just covered it with an eye patch. Half of his black beard was torn away, the right side of his face showing as one big scar.

  "Well, I'm thinkin' what I'm thinkin'," Torgar Hammerstriker replied, "and I'm not knowin' what ye're thinkin' I'm thinkin'!"

  "Well, I'm thinkin' that ye're thinkin o' leavin'," Shingles slated bluntly, and that got the attention of all the other dwarves in the crowded tavern in the highest subterranean level of the city. "Don't know what the marchion said to ye, bud, but I'm betting it ain't nothing next to what yer grandpa'd be sayin' to ye if yer grandpa was still here to be sayin’ things to ye."

  Torgar threw up his hands and waved away the words, and the looks of all the others.

  At least he tried to, for several other dwarves moved in close, pulling up chairs, and more than one started the same question: "Ye heading out o’ Mirabar, Torgar?"

  Torgar ran his hands through his thick hair.

  "Course I ain't, ye durned fools!" he said, rather unconvincingly. "Me father's father's father's father's father spent his days here."

  Despite his bluster, even Torgar could recognize the hint of doubt in his own statements, and that made him ask himself if he really was thinking of leaving Mirabar. He was as mad as a demon at Elastul, to be sure, but was there really a notion, deep in his head and deep in his heart, that it might be time for him to end the Hammerstriker dynasty in Mirabar?

  He ran his hands through his thick hair again, and again, and ended up shouting, "Bah!" in the faces of those around him.

  He stood up so forcefully that his chair skidded out behind him, and he stomped away, grabbing a flagon of ale from the bar as he passed and tossing back a coin to the obviously amused tavern keeper.

  Out in the cavern that housed the cluster of buildings in the First Below — the highest section of Mirabar's Undercity—Torgar looked all around him, noting the structures and noting the striations of the stone that housed them, stone so familiar to him that he felt as if it was a part of him, and of his heritage.

  "Stupid Elastul," he muttered under his breath. "Stupid all o' ye, not seem' King Bruenor and his boys for the friends they be."

  He walked away, unaware that his last statements had been overheard by several others, including Shingles, all huddled near the open window of the tavern.

  "He's meanin' it," another dwarf remarked.

  "And I'm thinkin' that he's gonna go," said another.

  "Bah, whaddya know aside from which drink ye're drinkin'?" Shingles blustered at them. "If ye're even knowin'
which drink ye're drinkin'!"

  "I'm knowing!" shouted another dwarf, from across the way. "So I'm thinkin' that I'm not drinkin' enough o' what I'm drinkin'!"

  That brought a roar, and cries of rounds from several parts of the tavern.

  Shingles McRuff just grinned at them all, though, and kept looking out the window, though Torgar, his old buddy and comrade at arms, was long out of sight.

  Despite his disclaimer and Torgar's denial. Shingles could not disagree with the consensus that Torgar was indeed serious about leaving Mirabar. The arrival of King Bruenor and the boys from Mithral Hall had put a face on a previously faceless enemy, a face that Torgar and many others had come to see as a friend. A rival, perhaps, but certainly no enemy. The treatment Elastul and the other leaders, mostly human, had shown to Bruenor and to the Mirabarran dwarves who had gone to hear Bruenor's tales or buy the wares from Icewind Dale had not set well with Torgar or with many others.

  For the first time since the incident, Shingles McRuff seriously considered the recent events and the wider implications of them.

  He didn't much like where his thoughts were suddenly, and already, leading him.

  "Guilt's a funny thing, now ain't it?" Delly Curtie playfully asked Wulfgar when he returned to her and Colson at their wagon.

  "Guilt?" came the skeptical response. "Or an understanding of my responsibilities?"

  "Guilt," Delly answered without the slightest hesitation.

  "In taking on a family, I accepted the responsibility of protecting that family."

  "And what do ye think will happen to me and Colson surrounded by two hundred friendly dwarves? Ye're not abandoning us out in the wilds, Wulfgar. We're going to safety. 'Tis yerself that's walking to danger!"

  "And even in that, I am abandoning my respons—"

  "Oh, don't ye start that again!" Delly interrupted, and loudly, drawing the attention of several nearby dwarves. "Ye do as ye must. Ye live the life ye were meant to live."

  "You came all the way out here with me …"

  "Livin' the life I'm choosin to live," Delly explained. "I'm not wanting to lose ye—not for a moment—but T know that if ye abandon yer heart to stand with me and Colson all the day, then I've already lost ye. Come to Mithral Hall if that's what's truly in yer heart, me love, but if not, then get yerself out on the road with Bruenor and th' others."