And so I can be relieved for my dear friends, for their hearts and the scars they will carry from this war—there are always scars from war—and still be dismayed by the carnage and brutality and the sheer stupidity of waging a war, this war, in the Silver Marches.
If we measure victory as a condition better than what was in place before the conflict, then there will be no winners.
Of that I am certain.
—Drizzt Do’Urden
GRIM TIDINGS
DARKNESS FELL FULLY OVER THE LANDS OF THE SILVER MARCHES. WITHIN the walls of Nesmé, the horns began to blow, as they did every night.
The orcs came on again, and so familiar with their assaults were the hearty townsfolk that they could accurately gauge the strength of the various groups approaching by the sound of the footfalls.
Catti-brie and the wizards rushed to their assigned positions. They were not clustered any longer, though giants sometimes showed among the ranks of the orcs. Now they coordinated support for the archers, first by casting spells of light to illuminate the battlefield about the walls and so allow their cohorts to take deadly aim.
Arrows did not fly as thick from those walls as they had during the first attack. “Pick your shots carefully,” was the order of the day, for supplies were dwindling after nearly two tendays of fighting. Each day, brave men and women went out to the south, into the Trollmoors, to gather wood, while bowyers worked long hours crafting arrows. But even that was a game of diminishing margins, as good wood became scarcer about the south wall, and more importantly, as trolls grew ever more present in that area. The foul beasts had smelled the blood of the battles, clearly, and so now Nesmé was being pressed on all sides.
Few were the hours of quiet within the city each day, and sometimes the defenders would find no rest at all.
Drizzt stood beside Catti-brie, and his magical quiver would not run out of arrows, and so his deadly bow sang throughout each fight, sending flashing arrows out from the wall, a steady stream that seemed more a wizard’s fireworks than the play of an archer.
All along the wall ran Wulfgar, Bruenor, Regis, and Athrogate, shouting encouragement, tossing ladders and ogres aside. Whenever a breach seemed inevitable, these four arrived, with Drizzt close behind, and so the point of weakness was strengthened and the monsters driven away.
When daylight came, meager as it was, it revealed to them a field blackened with bodies and carrion birds, the dead piling deep, the birds growing fatter—so fat that Regis wondered whether they would not be able to fly away before a coming charge, to be trampled in the midst of their gluttony.
Mid-morning on the twenty-first day of the siege of Nesmé came the urgent cries from the southern wall. Drizzt was the first of the companions to arrive on the wall, amid a group of Nesmé defenders, all pointing out to the south and calling support to a small band, a handful, of humans trying to approach the city.
But still far away.
Trolls followed that group in close pursuit. More of the monsters filtered through the skeletal trees left and right, angling in from the sides to cut the humans off, and it seemed clear that the humans would not make it to Nesmé’s wall.
“Set fires outside the gate,” Drizzt ordered the Nesmians, and to a pair, he added, “Go find my friends—find the black-bearded dwarf. And Catti-brie.”
Some of the sentries began asking questions back at him, but Drizzt wasn’t listening. He vaulted over the battlement and dropped the fifteen feet to the soft ground below, landing lightly and racing off to the south, bow in hand. A sparkling lightning arrow flew off with every stride, some ahead and to the right, some ahead and to the left.
He hit more than one troll, though most of the shots skipped off bony branches of the dead trees that so marked this region. But near misses were just as important, for his intent was to slow these closing forces.
Drizzt shouldered his bow, drew his blades, and sprinted ahead with all speed for the desperate humans.
They staggered and scrambled, trying to stay ahead, but knew they could not. A pair had drawn weapons, ready to turn about and die fighting.
“Keep running!” Drizzt yelled to them. “To Nesmé. To Nesmé!”
The drow put his head down and charged forward. The nearest humans, too, drew weapons, aiming his way, for what were they to think with trolls chasing them from behind and a drow bearing down on them from the other direction?
A sword leveled to stop him, but Drizzt rolled his scimitar under it and took it harmlessly aside. “Keep running. To Nesmé!” he shouted again as he passed those first two men.
The next in line, a woman, put up her blade, staring at him incredulously.
“Run!” he told her as he flashed by, and then he leaped right over the trailing two, a man and a woman, who had stopped and turned to face the pursuing trolls.
Drizzt landed in full stride, two running steps launching him into the surprised trolls. His scimitars worked in a blur, stabbing and slashing, up high and down low, hitting the first pair of trolls many times before they ever realized that a drow had arrived.
And Drizzt bored through that pair, fell into a slide through the muddy ground and cut off the leg of the next troll in line.
The drow came up and turned a sharp right, now pursued from behind and with many more monsters closing in on him from ahead. He sprinted to a pair of trees, slowing slightly to allow the nearest troll to almost catch him, then sped up and raced around.
The troll just kept going straight, crashing through the trees, sending splinters flying. And when it came through the other side and managed to straighten, it found the drow waiting, the scimitars dancing.
Off sprinted Drizzt, now back to his bow. He let fly at the flanking trolls in that direction, drawing their attention and turning many to come at him.
He veered, running deeper into the moors, trolls coming at him from behind and from both flanks. He was caught, surely, except that he had those anklets, those brilliant, magical anklets that sped his stride, and with a sudden burst, he came out ahead of the closing vise and continued on with a score and more of trolls close behind.
Spurred by the words of the drow, and more so by the actions of the drow, the Nesmians scrambled to the city’s southern gate and flung the doors wide.
“Firewood!” echoed the cries across the town, and more folk came running, and soon many were carrying logs from fireplaces, even wooden chairs—anything that could be burned.
A pile grew in heartbeats, and one man bent over it, striking flint to steel, blowing at the fledgling flames to coax them to life.
“Quicker!” urged his friends, and others fell with their own flint and steel.
“Someone get a torch!” yelled one man, a call echoed back into the city.
But then the fire-builders were drawn aside by the touch of a woman, and Catti-brie took their place. She brought her hands up before her, thumbs touching, fingers extended, and whispered through her magical ring to the plane of living flames. A cone of fire shot forth from her fingers and the wood blazed to life.
The woman rose and turned to the south, to see the party of humans all racing for their lives, a few trolls still directly behind them and with other hideous beasts coming on to intercept.
“Out o’ me way!” she heard behind her, coming through the gates, and she nodded and did not need to turn about to know what that meant. A heartbeat later, Athrogate and Snort thundered past her, the boar’s hooves puffing smoke with every stride.
“Not so many now,” one of the Nesmians cried. “Come on, fellows, fight them and win!”
“For Nesmé!’ shouted another.
Wulfgar, Bruenor, and Regis came running out soon after, to stand beside Catti-brie, who had closed her eyes and was well into her spellcasting.
To slow down was to die, Drizzt knew, for he was far from the city now, and far from any who might help. He veered left and right about the trees, occasionally turning to let fly an arrow into the nearest troll in pursuit.
But then he heard wolves, and not so far away, and he couldn’t outrun wolves.
He veered to the left to begin his wide circuit to get him back to the city, but then had to change directions as he made for a tangle of trees, for they were not trees, but bog blokes, malicious living creatures hungry for his flesh.
“Guen, I need you,” he called, drawing out the onyx figurine.
He realized before the gray mist began to form that he needed more than Guenhwyvar, though, for what had seemed like a simple pursuit of an unfortunate party by some trolls was actually a part of a larger assault on Nesmé.
The trolls and bog blokes, and surely the wolves he had heard and now could see, worked in concert with the besieging orcs.
Drizzt cursed under his breath and ran on.
What choice did he have?
The five humans knew they were doomed, for the trolls closing on their right had them beaten to the spot and they could not reach the city!
They tightened ranks, weapons in hand, side-by-side, and prepared to die.
“Fight through them—one of us must get to Nesmé,” the leader of the party demanded, and four nods returned the order.
“Open for Brewer, he’s the fastest,” one of the women advised.
“I’ll not leave you to die,” Brewer huffed in reply.
And as if to end the debate before it could begin, a tremendous fireball erupted, just ahead and to the right, engulfing the leading trolls in biting, killing flames.
The five humans ran on through the smoking carnage.
Athrogate rushed by them, laughing wildly, morningstars spinning, Snort snorting flames. The dwarf charged into the pursuing trolls with glee. A moment of explosive swings and hell boar fireballs later and the trolls, at least, weren’t so happy about his arrival.
The five humans ran on.
He ran for his life, trolls all around.
Guenhwyvar sprang upon one, her claws digging deep ridges as she leaped away, tackling a second beast. And then on she sprang, tearing free of the troll’s grasp and darting before another pair, tripping them up as only a feline could.
Whenever she passed through Drizzt’s field of vision, the drow nodded appreciatively. Guenhwyvar was keeping him moving, keeping the trolls away.
Even so, as he turned back for a straight run to Nesmé, Drizzt knew it wouldn’t be easy. A few heartbeats later, a huge two-headed troll leaped out in the path before him to block his way.
He put an arrow into its belly, staggering it backward, but only a step.
Drizzt didn’t slow and didn’t draw his scimitars. With every step, he sent off another lightning arrow. One went for the beast’s left head and up came its thick hand to block. But the arrow went right through the fleshy limb and exploded into the troll’s face, and that head began crying out in outrage that it had been blinded.
Drizzt kept charging, and kept shooting, every arrow going to a head. Sparks flew and missiles stabbed. Barely five feet away, the beast reaching for him, Drizzt held his course and held his nerve and let fly again, his arrow splitting the troll’s other head in half.
Still the stubborn beast reached for him, but blinded now, it could not react to his dodge, and could only cry out in surprise when Drizzt sprang upon its huge arm and used that to springboard higher, tucking into a roll right over the troll’s shoulder.
He landed behind it, running still, and the blinded troll tried to turn about to pursue, but got slammed by a second troll that had been in close pursuit of Drizzt. Then a third piled in behind and the group went down in a heap.
The drow ran on. He found open ground, but saw then the wolves, off to the side.
He couldn’t beat them to the wall.
He lifted the whistle about his neck to his lips and blew out a call to Andahar.
The wolves closed. Drizzt shot the lead one dead, but the others, trained by orcs, did not break and flee.
He shot a second. He saw Andahar, so far away it seemed, striding for him.
A third wolf fell to Taulmaril’s lightning.
Andahar loomed closer … another stride.
Drizzt fell into a forward roll, a leaping wolf going right over him. He came to his feet with his bow shouldered.
He turned for Andahar, hoping the unicorn was close enough.
He grimaced, nearly cried out, when a wolf leaped for him, too quick for the unicorn, he knew, too close for him to block.
“They are all around,” Wulfgar cried to Catti-brie and the others. “A force approaches Nesmé from the north. A full attack!”
Bruenor charged out from the wall, his friends and many Nesmians close behind, to clear the last expanse for the human party rushing in.
“Take ’em in, Rumblebelly,” he bade Regis, for the halfling’s weapons were all but useless against the huge and mighty trolls.
Wulfgar swatted a troll aside, clearing the last expanse, and the five humans linked up and were ushered through, hurried to the gates.
“Break and go,” Bruenor ordered all around, and he and Wulfgar fought a retreating action, axe and warhammer keeping the trolls at bay. And a giant fire elemental came up beside them to help do battle—and how the trolls shied from Catti-brie’s pet!
“The dwarf!” Wulfgar cried, pointing to Athrogate.
The black-bearded dwarf came on in full retreat, his spirited boar scrambling back to the city with a host of enemies close behind.
“But where is Drizzt?” Catti-brie cried.
“He’ll find his way,” Bruenor and Wulfgar answered together, and Bruenor added, “In we go, all. And shut the gates behind us.”
Catti-brie couldn’t argue, not with the great enemy force approaching the city from the south, not with the horns blowing all around Nesmé as the orcs and goblins and ogres and giants came on. She looked to the south, to the Trollmoors, and whispered a prayer for Drizzt, and reminded herself to trust in that one.
A black form flew past Drizzt as the wolf lunged for him, as swift as the shadow of a great bird, it seemed. But this was no shadow, and no bird, but Guenhwyvar, six hundred pounds of fighting feline, leaping into the canine with such force that she sent the wolf spinning aside, twisting about in the air sidelong. She landed beside it and fell over it in a rolling ball of fury, claws raking, her jaw clamped down upon the beast’s neck.
“Run off, Guen,” Drizzt cried, for so many more wolves approached. The drow leaped and caught hold of the unicorn’s mane as Andahar thundered by, and nimbly pulled himself into his seat.
“Guenhwyvar!” he called out, turning the unicorn to cut between the incoming wolf pack and the battling panther. “Be gone. To your home, my friend.”
Andahar leaped away, half the wolves nipping at his flanks, and Guenhwyvar melted away into a gray mist, leaving the other half of the pack spinning around, yapping and nipping in confusion.
With just a few great strides, the unicorn pulled away from the wolf pack, hooves churning up the muddy ground. Drizzt thought to pull forth Taulmaril, but for the immediate run, at least, he could do no more than hold on desperately, as Andahar skidded on the soft ground and nearly toppled many times in that flight.
The orcs had come against Nesmé every day since the first attack, but to Bruenor, this one seemed different, and not just because it was larger, to be sure, with trolls and bog blokes joining in from the south.
Archers let fly, wizards dropped the fireballs, and hurled boulders and volleys of spears and javelins flew against and over Nesmé’s battered walls.
But something was different.
Moving to the northeastern corner, where the fighting was heaviest, Bruenor watched the movement of the enemies across the fields. Athrogate and Regis flanked him—they had left Catti-brie back at the south wall, that she could direct her fire elemental, for the beast proved of great value there. Trolls, who could regenerate any wound save that of fire, would not approach it and indeed fled before it. Wulfgar was there beside Ca
tti-brie, in support, and in the hopes that Drizzt would return.
The two dwarves and the halfling passed by some wizards preparing their next magical barrage as a group of goblins approaching their position.
Bruenor put a hand on one of the wizard’s shoulder and gave a shake, then a second. “Hold yer spells,” he cautioned.
“What? Dwarf, are you mad?” a second wizard exclaimed.
But Bruenor just held his hand up to silence the man and kept looking out, now nodding as he recognized what this was about.
“Hold yer spells,” he told them more forcefully, and he yelled out to all around. “Hold yer spells and pick yer shots only when ye know ye canno’ miss.”
Protests came back at him, but Bruenor, confident now in what he was seeing, would not relent. He ran around, shouting down any wizards he saw beginning some spellcasting, and berating archers who were pulling back far and angling high, sending arrows far out from Nesmé to, usually, land harmlessly into the churned fields.
“They ain’t coming,” he cried, and the dwarf made such a spectacle of himself that he soon found Jolen Firth standing before him.
“What is this about, fool dwarf?” the First Speaker demanded. “Would you weaken our response—?”
“I’d be savin’ yer fool skin, ye mean,” Bruenor shot back, and when Jolen Firth started to argue, the dwarf grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to peer out over the battlement. “What d’ye see?” Bruenor demanded.
The First Speaker seemed at a loss. The field before them trembled under the stamp of monstrous boots, the black waves of Many-Arrows’ army swarming to and fro.
“Who’s in front?” Bruenor clarified, and when Jolen Firth didn’t immediately respond, the dwarf yelled, “Goblins. Just goblins!”
“They’re baiting us,” Athrogate agreed.
“Aye, all our fire and lightning and most ’o the arrows flung out against the fodder,” said Bruenor. “Ye see any ladders in them front ranks, Firth? Ye see any rams?”
It was true enough, and soon the First Speaker began nodding his agreement. The fight in the south was real enough, but this main assault was simply a ruse.
Forgotten Realms:Legend of Drizzt 26:Companions Codex 02:Rise of the King Page 29