The Crystal Shard

by R. A. Salvatore

But settled now on the lower slopes of the mountain, there was only snow.

  Lusting for revenge, the fighting men of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval brought their ships in under full sail, sliding them up recklessly onto the sands of the shallows to avoid the delays of mooring in deeper waters. They leaped from the boats and splashed ashore, rushing into the battle with a fearless frenzy that drove their opponents away.

  Once they had established themselves on the land Jensin Brent brought them together in a tight formation and turned them south. The spokesman heard the fighting far off in that direction and knew that the men of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole were cutting a swath north to join up with his men. His plan was to meet them on the Eastway and then drive westward toward Bryn Shander with his reinforced numbers.

  Many of the goblins on this side of the city had long since fled, and many more had gone northwest to the ruins of Cryshal-Tirith and the main fighting. The army of Lac Dinneshere made good speed toward their goal. They reached the road with few losses and dug in to wait for the southerners.

  Kemp watched anxiously for the signal from the lone ship sailing on the waters of Maer Dualdon. The spokesman from Targos, appointed commander of the forces of the four cities of the lake, had moved cautiously thus far for fear of a heavy assault from the north. He held his men in check, allowing them to fight only the monsters that came to them, though this conservative stance, with the sounds of raging battle howling across the field, was tearing at his adventurous heart.

  As the minutes had dragged along with no sign of goblin reinforcements, the spokesman had sent a small schooner to run up the coastline and find out what was delaying the occupying force in Termalaine.

  Then he spied the white sails gliding into view. Riding high upon the small ship’s bow was the signal flag that Kemp had most desired but least expected: the red banner of the catch, though in this instance, it signaled that Termalaine was clear and the goblins were fleeing northward.

  Kemp ran to the highest spot he could find, his face flushed with a vengeful desire. “Break the line, boys!” he shouted to his men. “Cut me a swath to the city on the hill! Let Cassius come back and find us sitting on the doorstep of his town!”

  They shouted wildly with every step, men who had lost homes and kin and seen their cities burned out from under them. Many of them had nothing left to lose. All that they could hope to gain was a small taste of bitter satisfaction.

  The battle raged for the remainder of the morning, man and monster alike lifting swords and spears that seemed to have doubled their weight. Yet exhaustion, though it slowed their reflexes, did nothing to temper the anger that burned in the blood of every combatant.

  The battlelines grew indistinguishable as the fighting wore on, with troops getting hopelessly separated from their commanders. In many places, goblins and orcs fought against each other, unable, even with a common foe so readily available, to sublimate their longstanding hatred for the rival tribes. A thick cloud of dust enveloped the heaviest concentrations of fighting; the dizzying clamor of steel grating on steel, swords banging against shields, and the expanding screams of death, agony, and victory degenerated the structured clash into an all-out brawl.

  The sole exception was the group of battle-seasoned dwarves. Their ranks did not waver or disintegrate in the least, though Bruenor had not yet returned to them after his strange exit.

  The dwarves provided a solid platform for the barbarians to strike from and for Wulfgar and his small group to mark for their return. The young king was back among the ranks of his men just as Cassius and his force linked up. The spokesman and Wulfgar exchanged intent stares, neither certain of where he stood with the other. Both were wise enough to trust fully in their alliance for the present, though. Both understood that intelligent foes put aside their differences in the face of a greater enemy.

  Supporting each other would be the only advantage that the newly banded allies enjoyed. Together, they outnumbered and could overwhelm any individual orc or goblin tribe they faced. And since the goblin tribes would not work in unison, each group had no external support on its flanks. Wulfgar and Cassius, following and supporting each other’s movements, sent out defensive spurs of warriors to hold off perimeter groups, while the main force of the combined army blasted through one tribe at a time.

  Though his troops had cut down better than ten goblins for every man they had lost, Cassius was truly concerned. Thousands of the monsters had not even come in contact with the humans or raised a weapon yet, and his men were nearly dropping with fatigue. He had to get them back to the city. He let the dwarves lead the way.

  Wulfgar, also apprehensive about his warriors’ ability to maintain their pace, and knowing that there was no other escape route, instructed his men to follow Cassius and the dwarves. This was a gamble, for the barbarian king wasn’t even certain that the people of Bryn Shander would let his warriors into the city.

  Kemp’s force had made impressive initial headway in their charge to the slopes of the principle city, but as they neared their goal, they ran up against heavier and more desperate concentrations of humanoids. Barely a hundred yards from the hill, they were bogged down and fighting on all sides.

  The armies rolling in from the east had done better. Their rush down the Eastway had met with little resistance, and they were the first to reach the hill. They had sailed madly across the breadth of the lakes and ran and fought all the way across the plain, yet Jensin Brent, the lone surviving spokesman of the original four, for Schermont and the two from the southern cities had fallen on the Eastway, would not let them rest. He clearly heard the heated battle and knew that the brave men in the northern fields, facing the mass of Kessell’s army, needed any support they could get.

  Yet when the spokesman led his troops around the final bend to the city’s north gate, they froze in their tracks and looked upon the spectacle of the most brutal battle they had ever seen or even heard of in exaggerated tales. Combatants battled atop the hacked bodies of the fallen, fighters who had somehow lost their weapons bit and scratched at their opponents.

  Brent surmised at once that Cassius and his large force would be able to make it back to the city on their own. The armies of Maer Dualdon, though, were in a tight spot.

  “To the west!” he cried to his men as he charged toward the trapped force. A new surge of adrenaline sent the weary army in full flight to the rescue of their comrades. On orders from Brent, they came down off of the slopes in a long, side-by-side line, but when they reached the battlefield, only the middle group continued forward. The groups at the ends of the formation collapsed into the middle, and the whole force had soon formed a wedge, its tip breaking all the way through the monsters to reach Kemp’s embattled armies.

  Kemp’s men eagerly accepted the lifeline, and the united force was soon able to retreat to the northern face of the hill. The last stragglers stumbled in at the same time as the army of Cassius, Wulfgar’s barbarians, and the dwarves broke free of the closest ranks of goblins and climbed the open ground of the hill. Now, with the humans and dwarves joined as one force, the goblins moved in tentatively. Their losses had been staggering. No giants or ogres remained, and several entire tribes of goblins and orcs lay dead. Cryshal-Tirith was a pile of blackened rubble, and Akar Kessell was buried in a frozen grave.

  The men on Bryn Shander’s hill were battered and wobbly with exhaustion, yet the grim set of their jaws told the remaining monsters unequivocally that they would fight on to their last breath. They had backed into the final corner, there would be no further retreat.

  Doubts crept into the mind of every goblin and orc that remained to carry on the war. Though their numbers were still probably sufficient to complete the task, many more of them would yet fall before the fierce men of Ten-Towns and their deadly allies would be put down. Even then, which of the surviving tribes would claim victory? Without the guidance of the wizard, the survivors of the battle would certainly be hard-pressed to fairly divide the spoils without fu
rther fighting.

  The Battle of Icewind Dale had not followed the course that Akar Kessell had promised.

  he men of Ten-Towns, along with their dwarven and barbarian allies, had fought their way from all sides of the wide field and now stood unified before the northern gate of Bryn Shander. And while their army had achieved a singular fighting stance, with all of the once-separate groups banded together toward the common goal of survival, Kessell’s army had gone down the opposite road. When the goblins had first charged into Icewind Pass, their common purpose was victory for the glory of Akar Kessell. But Kessell was gone and Cryshal-Tirith destroyed, and the cord that had held together the long-standing, bitter enemies, the rival orc and goblin tribes, had begun to unravel.

  The humans and dwarves looked upon the mass of invaders with returning hope, for on all the outer fringes of the vast force dark shapes continued to break away and flee from the battlefield and back to the tundra.

  Still, the defenders of Ten-Towns were surrounded on three sides with their backs to Bryn Shander’s wall. At this point the monsters made no move to press the attack, but thousands of goblins held their positions all around the northern fields of the city.

  Earlier in the battle, when the initial attacks had caught the invaders by surprise, the leaders of the engaged defending forces would have considered such a lull in the fighting disastrous, stealing their momentum and allowing their stunned enemies to regroup into more favorable formations.

  Now, though, the break came as a two-fold blessing: It gave the soldiers a desperately needed rest and let the goblins and orcs fully absorb the beating they had taken. The field on this side of the city was littered with corpses, many more goblin than human, and the crumbled pile that was Cryshal-Tirith only heightened the monsters’ perceptions of their staggering losses. No giants or ogres remained to bolster their thinning lines, and each passing second saw more of their allies desert the cause.

  Cassius had time to call all the surviving spokesmen to his side for a brief council.

  A short distance away, Wulfgar and Revjak were meeting with Fender Mallot, the appointed leader of the dwarven forces in light of Bruenor’s disturbing absence.

  “Glad we are o’ yer return, mighty Wulfgar,” Fender said. “Bruenor knew ye’d be back.”

  Wulfgar looked out over the field, searching for some sign that Bruenor was still out there swinging. “Have you any news of Bruenor at all?”

  “Ye, yerself, were the last to see ’im,” Fender replied grimly. And then they were silent, scanning the field. “Let me hear again the ring of your axe,” Wulfgar whispered. But Bruenor could not hear him.

  “Jensin,” Cassius asked the spokesman from Caer-Dineval, “where are your womenfolk and children? Are they safe?”

  “Safe in Easthaven,” Jensin Brent replied. “Joined, by now, by the people of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole. They are well provisioned and watched. If Kessell’s wretches make for the town, the people shall know of the danger with ample time left for them to put back out onto Lac Dinneshere.”

  “But how long could they survive on the water?” Cassius asked. Jensin Brent shrugged noncommittally. “Until the winter falls, I should guess. They shall always have a place to land though, for the remaining goblins and orcs could not possibly encompass even half of the lake’s shoreline.”

  Cassius seemed satisfied. He turned to Kemp.

  “Lonelywood,” Kemp answered to his unspoken question. “And I’ll wager that they’re better off than we are! They’ve enough boats in dock there to found a city in the middle of Maer Dualdon.”

  “That is good,” Cassius told them. “It leaves yet another option open to us. We could, perhaps, hold our ground here for a while, then retreat back within the walls of the city. The goblins and orcs, even with their greater numbers, couldn’t hope to conquer us there!”

  The idea seemed to appeal to Jensin Brent, but Kemp scowled. “So our folk may be safe enough,” he said, “but what of the barbarians?”

  “Their women are sturdy and capable of surviving without them,” Cassius replied.

  “I care not the least for their foul-smelling women,” Kemp blustered, purposely raising his voice so that Wulfgar and Revjak, holding their own council not far away, could hear him. “I speak of these wild dogs, themselves! Surely you’re not going to open your door wide in invitation to them!”

  Proud Wulfgar started toward the spokesmen.

  Cassius turned angrily on Kemp. “Stubborn ass!” he whispered harshly. “Our only hope lies in unity!”

  “Our only hope lies in attacking!” Kemp retorted. “We have them terrified, and you ask us to run and hide!”

  The huge barbarian king stepped up before the two spokesmen, towering above them. “Greetings, Cassius of Bryn Shander,” he said politely. “I am Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, and leader of the tribes who have come to join in your noble cause.”

  “What could your kind possibly know of nobility?” Kemp interrupted. Wulfgar ignored him.

  “I have overheard much of your discussion,” he continued, unshaken. “It is my judgment that your ill-mannered and ungrateful advisor,” he paused for control, “has proposed the only solution.”

  Cassius, still expecting Wulfgar to be enraged at Kemp’s insults, was at first confused.

  “Attack,” Wulfgar explained. “The goblins are uncertain now of what gains they can hope to make. They wonder why they ever followed the evil wizard to this place of doom. If they are allowed to find their battle-lust again, they will prove a more formidable foe.”

  “I thank you for your words, barbarian king,” Cassius replied. “Yet it is my guess that this rabble will not be able to support a siege. They will leave the fields before a tenday has passed!”

  “Perhaps,” said Wulfgar. “Yet even then your people shall pay dearly. The goblins leaving of their own choice will not return to their caves empty-handed. There are still several unprotected cities that they could strike at on their way out of Icewind Dale.

  “And worse yet, they shall not leave with fear in their eyes. Your retreat shall save the lives of some of your men, Cassius, but it will not prevent the future return of your enemies!”

  “Then you agree that we should attack?” Cassius asked.

  “Our enemies have come to fear us. They look about and see the ruin we have brought down upon them. Fear is a powerful tool, especially against cowardly goblins. Let us complete the rout, as your people did to mine five years ago …” Cassius recognized the pain in Wulfgar’s eyes as he recalled the incident, “… and send these foul beasts scurrying back to their mountain homes! Many years shall pass before they venture out to strike at your towns again.”

  Cassius looked upon the young barbarian with profound respect, and also deep curiosity. He could hardly believe that these proud tundra warriors, who vividly remembered the slaughter they had suffered at the hands of Ten-Townsmen, had come to the aid of the fishing communities. “My people did indeed rout yours, noble king. Brutally. Why, then, have you come?”

  “That is a matter we shall discuss after we have completed our task,” Wulfgar answered. “Now, let us sing! Let us strike terror into the hearts of our enemies and break them!”

  He turned to Revjak and some of his other leaders. “Sing, proud warriors!” he commanded. “Let the Song of Tempos foretell the death of the goblins!” A rousing cheer went up throughout the barbarian ranks, and they lifted their voices proudly to their god of war.

  Cassius noted the immediate effect the song had on the closest monsters. They backed away a step and clutched their weapons tightly.

  A smile crossed the spokesman’s face. He still couldn’t understood the barbarians’ presence, but explanations would have to wait. “Join our barbarian allies!” he shouted to his soldiers. “Today is a day of victory!”

  The dwarves had taken up the grim war chant of their ancient homeland. The fishermen of Ten-Towns followed the words of the Song of Tempos, tentatively at first, until th
e foreign inflections and phrases easily rolled from their lips. And then they joined in fully, proclaiming the glory of their individual towns as the barbarians did of their tribes. The tempo increased, the volume moved toward a powerful crescendo. The goblins trembled at the growing frenzy of their deadly enemies. The stream of deserters flowing away from the edges of the main gathering grew thicker and thicker.

  And then, as one killing wave, the human and dwarven allies charged down the hill.

  Drizzt had been able to scramble far enough away from the southern face to escape the fury of the avalanche, but he still found himself in a dangerous predicament. Kelvin’s Cairn wasn’t a high mountain, but the top third was perpetually covered with deep snow and brutally exposed to the icy wind that gave this land its name.

  Even worse for the drow, his feet had gotten wet in the melt caused by Crenshinibon, and now, as the moisture hardened around his skin to ice, movement through the snow was painful.

  He resolved to plod on, making for the western face which offered the best protection against the wind. His motions were violent and exaggerated, expending all of the energy that he could to keep the circulation flowing through his veins. When he reached the lip of the mountain’s peak and started down, he had to move more tentatively, fearing that any sudden jolts would deliver him into the same grim fate that had befallen Akar Kessell.

  His legs were completely numb now, but he kept them moving, almost having to force his automatic reflexes.

  But then he slipped.

  Wulfgar’s fierce warriors were the first to crash into the goblin line, hacking and pushing back the first rank of monsters. Neither goblin nor orc dared stand before the mighty king, but in the crowded confusion of the fighting few could find their way out of his path. One after another they fell to the ground.

  Fear had all but paralyzed the goblins, and their slight hesitation had spelled doom for the first groups to encounter the savage barbarians.