The gnome began to unroll the document, but winced and halted, hearing the fragile parchment crackle.
“I will have to brew oils of preservation,” he explained to Bruenor. “I dare not put this under bright light until it’s properly treated.”
“Whate’er ye need,” Bruenor assured him. “Ye just get it done, and get it done quick.”
“How quick?” The gnome seemed a bit unnerved by that request.
“Alustriel’s here now,” said Bruenor. “She’s to be working on the bridge for the next few days, and I’m thinkin’ that if them scrolls’re saying what I’m thinkin’ they’re saying, it might be good for Alustriel to go back to Silverymoon muttering and musing on the revelations.”
But Nanfoodle shook his head. “It will take me more than a day to prepare the potions—and that’s assuming that you have the ingredients I will require.” He looked to Regis. “Bat guano forms the base.”
“Wonderful,” the halfling muttered.
“We’ll have it or we’ll get it,” Bruenor promised him.
“It will take more than a day to brew anyway,” said Nanfoodle. “Then three days for it to set on the parchment—at least three. I’d rather it be five.”
“So four days total,” said Bruenor, and the gnome nodded.
“Just to prepare the parchments for examination,” Nanfoodle was quick to add. “It could take me tendays to decipher the ancient writing, even with my magic.”
“Bah, ye’ll be faster.”
“I cannot promise.”
“Ye’ll be faster,” Bruenor said again, in a tone less encouraging and more demanding. “Guano,” he said to Regis, and he turned and walked from the room.
“Guano,” Regis repeated, looking at Nanfoodle helplessly.
“And oil from the smiths,” said the gnome. He drew another scroll from the sack and placed it beside the first, then put his hands on his hips and heaved a great sigh. “If they understood the delicacy of the task, they would not be so impatient,” he said, more to himself than to the halfling.
“Bruenor is well past delicacy, I’m guessing,” said Regis. “Too many orcs about for delicacy.”
“Orcs and dwarves,” muttered the gnome. “Orcs and dwarves. How is an artist to do his work?” He heaved another sigh, as if to say “if I must,” and moved to the side of the room, to the cabinet where he kept his mortar and pestle, and assorted spoons and vials.
“Always rushing, always grumbling,” he griped. “Orcs and dwarves, indeed!”
The companions had barely settled into their chambers in the dwarven hall west of Garumn’s Gorge when word came that yet another unexpected visitor had arrived at the eastern gate. It wasn’t often that elves walked through King Bruenor’s door, but those gates were swung wide for Hralien of the Moonwood.
Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Bruenor waited impatiently in Bruenor’s audience chamber for the elf.
“Alustriel and now Hralien,” Bruenor said, nodding with every word. “It’s all coming together. Once we get the words from them scrolls, we’ll get both o’ them to agree that the time’s now for striking them smelly orcs.”
Drizzt held his doubts private and Catti-brie merely smiled and nodded. There was no reason to derail Bruenor’s optimism with an injection of sober reality.
“We know them Adbar and Felbarr boys’ll fight with us,” Bruenor went on, oblivious to the detachment of his audience. “If we’re getting the Moonwood and Silverymoon to join in, we’ll be puttin’ them orcs back in their holes in short order, don’t ye doubt!”
He rambled on sporadically for the next few moments, until at last Hralien was led into the chamber and formally introduced.
“Well met, King Bruenor,” the elf said after the list of his accomplishments and titles was read in full. “I come with news from the Moonwood.”
“Long ride if ye’ve come just to break bread,” said Bruenor.
“We have suffered an incursion from the orcs,” Hralien explained, talking right past Bruenor’s little jest. “A coordinated and cunning attack.”
“We know yer pain,” Bruenor replied, and Hralien bowed in appreciation.
“Several of my people were lost,” Hralien went on, “elves who should have known the birth and death of centuries to come.” He looked squarely at Drizzt as he continued, “Innovindil among them.”
Drizzt’s eyes widened and he gasped and slumped back, and Catti-brie brought her arm across his back to support him.
“And Sunset beneath her,” said Hralien, his voice less steady. “It would appear that the orcs had anticipated her arrival on the field, and were well prepared.”
Drizzt’s chest pumped with strong, gasping breaths. He looked as if he was about to say something, but no words came forth and he had the strength only to shake his head in denial. A great emptiness washed through him, a cold loss and callous reminder of the harsh immediacy of change, a sudden and irreversible reminder of mortality.
“I share your grief,” Hralien said. “Innovindil was my friend, beloved by all who knew her. And Sunrise is bereaved, do not doubt, for the loss of Innovindil and of Sunset, his companion for all these years.”
“Durned pig orcs,” Bruenor growled. “Are ye all still thinkin’ we should leave them to their gains? Are ye still o’ the mind that Obould’s kingdom should stand?”
“Orcs have attacked the Moonwood for years uncounted,” Hralien replied. “They come for wood and for mischief, and we kill them and send them running. But their attack was better this time—too much so for the simplistic race, we believe.” As he finished, he was again looking directly at Drizzt, so much so that he drew curious stares from Bruenor and Catti-brie in response.
“Tos’un Armgo,” Drizzt reasoned.
“We know him to be in the region, and he learned much of our ways in his time with Albondiel and Sinnafain,” Hralien explained.
Drizzt nodded, determination replacing his wounded expression. He had vowed to hunt down Tos’un when he and Innovindil had returned Ellifain’s body to the Moonwood. Suddenly that promise seemed all the more critical.
“A journey full o’ grief is a longer ride by ten, so the sayin’ goes,” said Bruenor. “Ye make yerself comfortable, Hralien o’ the Moon-wood. Me boys’ll see to yer every need, and ye stay as long as ye’re wantin’. Might be that I’ll have a story for ye soon enough—one that’ll put us all in better stead for ridding ourselves o’ the curse of Obould. A few days at the most, me friends’re tellin’ me.”
“I am a courier of news, and have come with a request, King Bruenor,” the elf explained, and he gave another respectful and appreciative bow. “Others will journey here from the Moonwood to your call, of course, but my own road is back through your eastern door no later than dawn tomorrow.” Again he looked Drizzt in the eye. “I hope I will not be alone.”
Drizzt nodded his agreement to go out on the hunt before he even turned to Catti-brie. He knew that she would not deny him that.
The couple were alone in their room soon after, and Drizzt began to fill his backpack.
“You’re going after Tos’un,” Catti-brie remarked, but did not ask.
“Have I a choice?”
“No. I only wish that I were well enough to go with you.”
Drizzt paused in his packing and turned to regard her. “In Menzoberranzan, they say, Aspis tu drow bed n’tuth drow. ‘Only a drow can hunt a drow.’”
“Then hunt well,” said Catti-brie, and she moved to the side wardrobe to aid Drizzt in his preparations. She seemed not upset with him in the least, which was why she caught Drizzt completely off his guard when she quietly asked, “Would you have married Innovindil when I am gone?”
Drizzt froze, and slowly mustered the courage to turn and look at Catti-brie. She wore a slight smile and seemed quite at ease and comfortable. She moved to their bed and sat on the edge, and motioned for Drizzt to join her.
“Would you have?” she asked again as he approached. “Innovindil was very beaut
iful, in body and in mind.”
“It is not something I think about,” said Drizzt.
Catti-brie’s smile grew wider. “I know,” she assured him. “But I am asking you to consider it now. Could you have loved her?”
Drizzt thought about it for a few moments then admitted, “I do not know.”
“And you never wondered about it at all?”
Drizzt’s thoughts went back to a moment he had shared with Innovindil when the two of them were out alone among the orc lines. Innovindil had nearly seduced him, though only to let him see more clearly his feelings for Catti-brie, whom he had thought dead at the time.
“You could have loved her, I think,” Catti-brie said.
“You may well be right,” he said.
“Do you think she thought of you in her last moments?”
Drizzt’s eyes widened in shock at the blunt question, but Catti-brie didn’t back down.
“She thought of Tarathiel, likely, and what was,” he answered.
“Or of Drizzt and what might have been.”
Drizzt shook his head. “She would not have looked there. Not then. Likely her every thought was for Sunset. To be an elf is to find the moment, the here and now. To revel in what is with knowledge and acceptance that what will be, will be, no matter the hopes and plans of any.”
“Innovindil would have had a fleeting moment of regret for Drizzt, and potential love lost,” Catti-brie said.
Drizzt didn’t disagree, and couldn’t, given the woman’s generous tone and expression. Catti-brie wasn’t judging him, wasn’t looking for reasons to doubt him. She confirmed that a moment later, when she laughed and put her hand up to stroke his cheek.
“You will outlive me by centuries, in all likelihood,” she explained. “I understand the implications of that, my love, and what a selfish fool I would be if I expected you to remain faithful to a memory. Nor would I want—nor do I want—that for you.”
“It doesn’t mean that we have to speak of it,” Drizzt retorted. “We know not where our roads will lead, nor which of us will outlive the other. These are dangerous times in a dangerous world.”
“I know.”
“Then is this something we should bother to discuss?”
Catti-brie shrugged, but gradually her smile dissipated and a cloud crossed her fair features.
“What is it?” Drizzt asked, and lifted his hand to turn her to face him directly.
“If the dangers do not end our time together, how will Drizzt feel, I wonder, in twenty years? Or thirty?”
The drow wore a puzzled expression.
“You will still be young and handsome, and full of life and love to give,” Catti-brie explained. “But I will be old and bent and ugly. You will stay by my side, I am sure, but what life will that be? What lust?”
It was Drizzt’s turn to laugh.
“Can you look at a human woman who has seen the turn of seventy years and think her attractive?”
“Are there not couples of humans still in love after so many years together?” Drizzt asked. “Are there not human husbands who love their wives still when seventy is a birthday passed?”
“But the husbands are not usually in the springtime of their lives.”
“You err because you pretend that it will happen overnight, in the snap of fingers,” Drizzt said. “That is far from the case, even for an elf looking upon the human lifespan. Every wrinkle is earned, my love. Day by day, we spend our time together, and the changes that come will be well earned. In your heart you know that I love you, and I have no doubt but that my love will grow with the passage of years. I know your heart, Catti-brie. You are blissfully predictable to me in some ways, never so in others. I know where your choices will be, time and again, and ever are they on the right side of justice and integrity.”
Catti-brie smiled and kissed him, but Drizzt broke it off fast and pushed her back.
“If a dragon’s fiery breath were to catch up with me, and scar my skin hideously, blind me, and keep about me a stench of burnt flesh, would Catti-brie still love me?”
“Wonderful thought,” the woman said dryly.
“Would she? Would you stand beside me?”
“Of course.”
“And if I thought otherwise, at all, then never would I have desired to be your husband. Do you not similarly trust in me?”
Catti-brie grinned and kissed him again, then pushed him on his back on the bed.
The packing could wait.
Early the next morning, Drizzt leaned over the sleeping Catti-brie and gently brushed her lips with his own. He stared at her for a long while, even while he walked from the bed to the door. He at last turned and nearly jumped back in surprise, for set against the door was Taulmaril, the Heartseeker, Catti-brie’s bow, and lying below it was her magical quiver, one that never ran out of arrows. For a moment, Drizzt stood confused, until he noticed a small note on the floor by the quiver. From a puncture in its side, he deduced that it had been pressed onto the top of the bow but had not held its perch.
He knew what it said before he ever brought it close enough to read the scribbling.
He looked back at Catti-brie once more. She couldn’t be with him in body, perhaps, but with Taulmaril in his hand, she’d be there in spirit.
Drizzt slung the bow over his shoulder then retrieved the quiver and did likewise. He looked back once more to his love then left the room without a sound.
CHAPTER
TOOGWIK TUK’S PARADE
The warriors of Clan Karuck paraded onto the muddy plaza centering a small orc village one rainy morning, the dreary overcast and pounding rain doing nothing to diminish the glory of their thunderous march.
“Stand and stomp!” the warriors sang in voices that resonated deeply from their massive half-ogre chests. “Smash and crush! All for the glory of One-eye Gruumsh!”
Yellow pennants flapping in the wind, waves of mud splattering with every coordinated step, the clan came on in tight and precise formation, their six flags moving, two-by-two, in near perfect synchronization. The curious onlookers couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the huge half-ogre, half-orcs and the scores of orcs from other tribes that had been swept up into their wake from the first villages through which Chieftain Grguch had marched.
Only one full-blooded orc marched with Grguch, a young and fiery shaman. Toogwik Tuk wasted no time as the villagers gathered. He moved out in front as Grguch halted his march.
“We are fresh from victory in the Moonwood!” Toogwik Tuk proclaimed, and every orc along the eastern reaches of Obould’s fledgling kingdom knew well that hated place. Thus, predictably, a great cheer greeted the news.
“All hail Chieftain Grguch of Clan Karuck!” Toogwik Tuk proclaimed, and that was met with an uncomfortable pause until he added, “For the glory of King Obould!”
Toogwik Tuk glanced back to Grguch, who nodded his agreement, and the young shaman started the chant, “Grguch! Obould! Grguch! Obould! Grguch! Grguch! Grguch!”
All of Clan Karuck fell in quickly with the cadence, as did the orcs who had already joined in with the march, and the villagers’ doubts were quickly overwhelmed.
“As Obould before him, Chieftain Grguch will bring the judgment of Gruumsh upon our enemies!” Toogwik Tuk cried, running through the mob and whipping them into frenzy. “The snow retreats, and we advance!” With every glorious proclamation, he took care to add, “For the glory of Obould! By the power of Grguch!”
Toogwik Tuk understood well the weight that had settled on his shoulders. Dnark and Ung-thol had departed for the west to meet with Obould regarding the new developments, and it fell squarely upon Toogwik Tuk to facilitate Grguch’s determined march to the south. Clan Karuck alone would not stand against Obould and his thousands, obviously, but if Clan Karuck carried along with them the orc warriors from the dozen villages lining the Surbrin, their arrival on the field north of King Bruenor’s fortifications would carry great import—enough, so the conspirators h
oped, to coerce the involvement of the army Obould had likely already positioned there.
That sort of rabble rousing had been Toogwik Tuk’s signature for years. His rise through the ranks to become the chief shaman of his tribe—almost all of whom were dead, crushed in the mysterious, devastating explosion of a mountain ridge north of Keeper’s Dale—had been expedited by precisely that talent. He knew well how to manipulate the emotions of the peasant orcs, to conflate their present loyalties with what he wanted their loyalties to be. Every time he mentioned Obould, he was quick to add the name Grguch. Every time he spoke of Gruumsh, he was quick to add the name of Grguch. Mingle them, say them together enough times so that his audience would unwittingly add “Grguch” whenever they heard the names of the other two.
His energy again proved infectious, and he soon had all of the villagers hopping about and chanting with him, always for the glory of Obould, and always by the power of Grguch.
Those two names needed to be intimately linked, the three conspirators had decided before Dnark and Ung-thol had departed. To even hint against Obould after such dramatic and sweeping victories as the orc king had brought would have spelled a fast end to the coup. Even considering the disastrous attempt to enter Mithral Hall’s western gate, or the loss of the eastern ground between the dwarven halls and the Surbrin, or the stall throughout winter and the whispers that it might be longer than that, the vast majority of orcs spoke of Obould in the hushed tones usually reserved for Gruumsh himself. But Toogwik Tuk and two companions planned to move the tribes to oppose their king, one baby-step at a time.
“By the power of Grguch!” Toogwik Tuk cried again, and before the cheer could erupt, he added, “Will the dwarven wall hold against a warrior who burned the Moonwood?”
Though he expected a cheer, Toogwik Tuk was answered with looks of suspicion and confusion.
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