Kessell smoothed his hair back and rubbed his hand nervously across his face. Was it possible that his seemingly invincible army had a secret weakness?
No, none would dare oppose Akar Kessell!
But still, if some of them were plotting against him—if all of them were plotting against him—would he know? And where was Errtu? Could the demon be behind this?
“Which tribe?” he asked Regis softly, his tone revealing that the halfling’s news had humbled him.
Regis drew the wizard fully into the deception. “The group that you sent to sack the city of Bremen, the Orcs of the Severed Tongue,” he said, watching the wizard’s widening eyes with complete satisfaction. “My job was merely to prevent you from taking any action against Bryn Shander before the fall of night, for the orcs shall return before dawn, presumably to regroup in their assigned position on the field, but in actuality, to open a gap in your western flank. Cassius will lead the people down the western slope to the open tundra. They only hope to keep you disorganized long enough to give them a solid lead. Then you shall be forced to pursue them all the way to Luskan!”
Many weak points were apparent in the plan, but it seemed a reasonable gamble for people in such a desperate situation to attempt. Kessell slammed his fist down on the arm of the throne. “The fools!” he growled.
Regis breathed a bit easier. Kessell was convinced.
“Errtu!” he screamed suddenly, unaware that the demon had been banished from the world.
There was no reply. “Oh, damn you, demon!” Kessell cursed. “You are never about when I most need you!” He spun on Regis. “You wait here. I shall have many more questions for you later!” The roaring fires of his anger simmered wickedly. “But first I must speak with some of my generals. I shall teach the Orcs of the Severed Tongue to oppose me!”
In truth, the observations Cassius had made had labeled the Orcs of the Severed Tongue as Kessell’s strongest and most fanatical supporters.
A lie within a lie.
Out on the waters of Maer Dualdon later that evening, the assembled fleet of the four towns watched suspiciously as a second group of monsters flowed out from the main force and headed in the direction of Bremen.
“Curious,” Kemp remarked to Muldoon of Lonelywood and the spokesman from the burned city of Bremen, who were standing on the deck of Targos’ flagship beside him. All of Bremen’s populace was out on the lake. Certainly the first group of orcs, after the initial bowshots, had met no further resistance in the city. And Bryn Shander stood intact. Why, then, was the wizard further extending his line of power?
“Akar Kessell confuses me,” said Muldoon. “Either his genius is simply beyond me or he truly makes glaring tactical errors !”
“Assume the second possibility,” Kemp instructed hopefully, “for anything that we might try shall be in vain if the first is the truth!”
So they continued repositioning their warriors for an opportune strike, moving their children and womenfolk in the remaining boats to the as yet unassailed moorings of Lonelywood, similar to the strategies of the refugee forces on the other two lakes.
On the wall of Bryn Shander, Cassius and Glensather watched the division of Kessell’s forces with deeper understanding.
“Masterfully done, halfling,” Cassius whispered into the night wind.
Smiling, Glensather put a steadying hand on his fellow spokesman’s shoulder. “I shall go and inform our field commanders,” he said. “If the time for us to attack comes, we shall be ready!”
Cassius clasped Glensather’s hand and nodded his approval. As the spokesman from Easthaven sped away, Cassius leaned upon the ridge of the wall, glaring determinedly at the now darkened walls of Cryshal-Tirith. Through gritted teeth, he declared openly, “The time shall come !”
From the high vantage point of Kelvin’s Cairn, Drizzt Do’Urden had also witnessed the abrupt shift of the monster army. He had just completed the final preparations for his courageous assault on Cryshal-Tirith when the distant flickers of a large mass of torches suddenly flowed away to the west. He and Guenhwyvar sat quietly and studied the situation for a short while, trying to find some clue as to what had prompted such action.
Nothing became apparent, but the night was growing long and he had to make haste. He wasn’t sure if the activity would prove helpful, by thinning out the camp’s ranks, or disruptive, by heightening the remaining monsters’ state of readiness. Yet he knew that the people of Bryn Shander could not afford any delays. He started down the mountain trail, the great panther trailing along silently behind him.
He made the open ground in good time and started his hasty trot down the length of Bremen’s Run. If he had paused to study his surroundings or put one of his sensitive ears to the ground, he might have heard the distant rumble from the open tundra to the north of yet another approaching army.
But the drow’s focus was on the south, his vision narrowed upon the waiting darkness of Cryshal-Tirith as he made haste. He was traveling light, carrying only items he believed essential to the task. He had his five weapons: the two scimitars sheathed in their leather scabbards on his hips, a dagger tucked in his belt at the middle of his back, and the two knives hidden in his boots. His holy symbol and pouch of wealth was around his neck and a small sack of flour, left over from the raid on the giant’s lair, still hung on his belt—a sentimental choice, a comforting reminder of the daring adventures he had shared with Wulfgar. All of his other supplies, backpack, rope, waterskins, and other basic items of everyday survival on the harsh tundra, he had left in the small cubby.
He heard the shouts of goblin merrymaking when he crossed by the eastern outskirts of Termalaine. “Strike now, sailors of Maer Dualdon,” the drow said quietly. But when he thought about it, he was glad that the boats remained out on the lake. Even if they could slip in and strike quickly at the monsters in the city, they could not afford the losses they would suffer. Termalaine could wait; there was a more important battle yet to be fought.
Drizzt and Guenhwyvar approached the outer perimeter of Kessell’s main encampment. The drow was comforted by signs that the commotion within the camp had quieted. A solitary orc guard leaned wearily on its spear, halfheartedly watching the empty blackness of the northern horizon. Even had it been wary, it would not have noticed the stealthy approach of the two shapes, blacker than the darkness of night.
“Call in!” came a command from somewhere in the distance.
“Clear!” replied the guard.
Drizzt listened as the check was called in from various distant spots. He signaled for Guenhwyvar to hold back, then crept up within throwing range of the guard.
The tired orc never even heard the whistle of the approaching dagger.
And then Drizzt was beside it, silently breaking its fall into the darkness. The drow pulled his dagger from the orc’s throat and laid his victim softly on the ground. He and Guenhwyvar, unnoticed shadows of death, moved on.
They had broken through the only line of guards that had been set on the northern perimeter and now easily picked their way among the sleeping camp. Drizzt could have killed dozens of orcs and goblins, even a verbeeg, though the cessation of its thundering snores might have drawn attention, but he couldn’t afford to slow his pace. Each passing minute continued to drain Guenhwyvar, and now the first hints of a second enemy, the revealing dawn, were becoming apparent in the eastern sky.
The drow’s hopes had risen considerably with the progress he had made, but he was dismayed when he came upon Cryshal-Tirith. A group of battle-ready ogre guards ringed the tower, blocking his way.
He crouched beside the cat, undecided on what they should do. To escape the breadth of the huge camp before the dawn exposed them, they would have to flee back the way they came. Drizzt doubted that Guenhwyvar, in its pitiful state, could even attempt that route. Yet to go on meant a hopeless fight with a group of ogres. There seemed no answer to the dilemma.
Then something happened back in the northeast section
of the encampment, opening a path for the stealthy companions. Sudden shouts of alarm sprang up, drawing the ogres a few long strides away from their posts. Drizzt thought at first that the murdered orc guard had been discovered, but the cries were too far to the east.
Soon the clang of steel on steel rang out in the predawn air. A battle had been joined. Rival tribes, Drizzt supposed, though he could not spot the combatants from this distance.
His curiosity wasn’t overwhelming, however. The undisciplined ogres had moved even farther away from their appointed positions. And Guenhwyvar had spotted the tower door. The two didn’t hesitate for a second.
The ogres never even noticed the two shadows enter the tower behind them.
A strange sensation, a buzzing vibration, came over Drizzt as he passed through Cryshal-Tirith’s entryway, as though he had moved into the bowels of a living entity. He continued on, though, through the darkened hallway that led to the tower’s first level, marveling at the strange crystalline material that comprised the walls and floors of the structure.
He found himself in a squared hall, the bottom chamber of the four-roomed structure. This was the hall where Kessell often met with his field generals, the wizard’s primary audience hall for all but his top-ranking commanders.
Drizzt peered around at the dark forms in the room and the deeper shadows that they created. Though he sighted no movement, he sensed that he was not alone. He knew that Guenhwyvar had the same uneasy feelings, for the fur on the scruff of the black-coated neck was ruffled and the cat let out a low growl.
Kessell considered this room a buffer zone between himself and the rabble of the outside world. It was the one chamber in the tower that he rarely visited. This was the place where Akar Kessell housed his trolls.
he dwarves of Mithral Hall completed the first of their secret exits shortly after sunset. Bruenor was the first to climb to the top of the ladder and peek out from under the cut sod at the settling monster army. So expert were the dwarven miners that they had been able to dig a shaft right up into the middle of a large group of goblins and ogres without even alerting the monsters in the least.
Bruenor was smiling when he came back down to rejoin his clansmen. “Finish th’ other nine,” he instructed as he moved down the tunnel, Catti-brie beside him. “Tonight’s sleep’ll be a sound one for some o’ Kessell’s boys!” he declared, patting the head of his belted axe.
“What role am I to play in the coming battle?” Catti-brie asked when they moved away from the other dwarves.
“Ye’ll get to pull one o’ the levers an’ collapse the tunnels if any o’ the swine come down,” Bruenor replied.
“And if you are all killed on the field?” Catti-brie reasoned. “Being buried alone in these tunnels does not hold much promise for me.”
Bruenor stroked his red beard. He hadn’t considered that consequence, figuring only that if he and his clan were cut down on the field, Catti-brie would be safe enough behind the collapsed tunnels. But how could she live down here alone? What price would she pay for survival?
“Do ye want to come up an’ fight then? Ye’re fair enough with a sword, an’ I’ll be right beside ye!”
Catti-brie considered the proposition for a moment. “I’ll stay with the lever,” she decided. “You’ll have enough to look after your own head up there. And someone has to be here to drop the tunnels; we cannot let goblins claim our halls as their home!
“Besides,” she added with a smile, “it was stupid of me to worry. I know that you will come back to me, Bruenor. Never have you, nor any of your clan, failed me!” She kissed the dwarf on the forehead and skipped away.
Bruenor smiled after her. “Suren yer a brave girl, my Catti-brie,” he muttered.
The work on the tunnels was finished a few hours later. The shafts had been dug and the entire tunnel complex around them had been rigged to collapse to cover any retreating action or squash any goblin advance. The entire clan, their faces purposely blackened with soot and their heavy armor and weapons muffled under layers of dark cloth, lined up at the base of the ten shafts. Bruenor went up first to investigate. He peeked out and smiled grimly. All around him ogres and goblins had bedded down for the night.
He was about to give the signal for his kinsmen to move when a commotion suddenly started up in the camp. Bruenor remained at the top of the shaft, though he kept his head beneath the sod layer (which got him stepped on by a passing goblin), and tried to figure out what had alerted the monsters. He heard shouts of command and a clatter like a large force assembling.
More shouts followed, calls for the death of the Severed Tongue. Though he had never heard that name before, the dwarf easily guessed that it described an orc tribe. “So, they’re fightin’ amongst themselves, are they?” he muttered softly, chuckling. Realizing that the dwarves’ assault would have to wait, he climbed back down the ladder.
But the clan, disappointed in the delay, did not disperse. They were determined that this night’s work would indeed be done. So they waited.
The night passed its mid-point and still the sounds of movement came from the camp above. Yet the wait wasn’t dulling the edge of the dwarves’ determination. Conversely, the delay was sharpening their intensity, heightening their hunger for goblin blood. These fighters were also blacksmiths, craftsmen who spent long hours adding a single scale to a dragon statue. They knew patience.
Finally, when all was again quiet, Bruenor went back up the ladder. Before he had even poked his head through the turf, he heard the comforting sounds of rhythmic breathing and loud snores.
Without further delay, the clan slipped out of the holes and methodically set about their murderous work. They did not revel in their roles as assassins, preferring to fight sword against sword, but they understood the necessity of this type of raid, and they placed no value whatsoever on the lives of goblin scum.
The area gradually quieted as more and more of the monsters entered the silent sleep of death. The dwarves concentrated on the ogres first, in case their attack was discovered before they were able to do much damage. But their strategy was unnecessary. Many minutes passed without retaliation.
By the time one of the guards noticed what was happening and managed to shout out a cry of alarm, the blood of more than a thousand of Kessell’s charges wetted the field.
Cries went up all about them, but Bruenor did not call for a retreat. “Form up!” he commanded. “Tight around the tunnels!” He knew that the mad rush of the first wave of counterattackers would be disorganized and unprepared.
The dwarves formed into a tight defensive posture and had little trouble cutting the goblins down. Bruenor’s axe was marked with many more notches before any goblin had even taken a swing at him.
Gradually, though, Kessell’s charges became more organized. They came at the dwarves in formations of their own, and their growing numbers, as more and more of the camp was roused and alerted, began to press heavily on the raiders. And then a group of ogres, Kessell’s elite tower guard, came charging across the field.
The first of the dwarves to retreat, the tunnel experts who were to make the final check on the preparations for the collapse, put their booted feet on the top rungs of the shaft ladders. The escape into the tunnels would be a delicate operation, and efficient haste would be the deciding factor in its success or failure.
But Bruenor unexpectedly ordered the tunnel experts to come back out of the shafts and the dwarves to hold their line.
He had heard the first notes of an ancient song, a song that, just a few years before, would have filled him with dread. Now, though, it lifted his heart with hope.
He recognized the voice that led the stirring words.
A severed arm of rotted flesh splatted on the floor, yet another victim of the whirring scimitars of Drizzt Do’Urden.
But the fearless trolls crowded in. Normally, Drizzt would have known of their presence as soon as he entered the square chamber. Their terrible stench made it hard for them to hide.
These ones, though, hadn’t actually been in the chamber when the drow entered. As Drizzt had moved deeper into the room, he tripped a magical alarm that bathed the area in wizard’s light and cued the guardians. They stepped in through the magical mirrors that Kessell had planted as watchposts throughout the room.
Drizzt had already dropped one of the wretched beasts, but now he was more concerned with running than fighting. Five others replaced the first and were more than a match for any fighter. Drizzt shook his head in disbelief when the body of the troll he had beheaded suddenly rose again and began flailing blindly.
And then, a clawed hand caught hold of his ankle. He knew without looking that it was the limb he had just cut free.
Horrified, he kicked the grotesque arm away from him and turned and sprinted to the spiraling stairway that ran up to the tower’s second level from the back of the chamber. At his earlier command Guenhwyvar had already limped weakly up the stairs and now waited on the platform at the top.
Drizzt distinctly heard the sucking footsteps of his sickening pursuers and the scratching of the severed hand’s filthy nails as it also took up the chase. The drow bounded up the stairway without looking back, hoping that his speed and agility would give him enough of a lead to find some way of escaping.
For there was no door on the platform.
The landing at the top of the stairs was rectangular and about ten feet across at its widest length. Two sides were open to the room, a third caught the lip of the cresting stairwell, and the fourth was a flat sheet of mirror, extending the exact length of the platform and secured between it and the chamber’s ceiling. Drizzt hoped that he would be able to understand the nuances of this unusual door, if that was what the mirror actually was, when he examined it from the platform’s level.
It wouldn’t be that easy.
Though the mirror was filled with the reflection of an ornate tapestry hanging on the wall of the chamber directly opposite it, its surface appeared perfectly smooth and unbroken by any cracks or handles that might indicate a concealed opening. Drizzt sheathed his weapons and ran his hands across the surface to see if there was a handle hidden from his sharp eyes, but the even glide of the glass only confirmed his observation.
The Crystal Shard Page 29