It shrieked and went into a frenzy, spinning and stumbling away, grabbing at the vicious wound.
Hralien let it go, turning back to Regis, who lay so very still on the cold ground. More orcs had spotted him, he knew. He had no time. He grabbed the halfling as gently as he could and slid him down into a depression at the base of the maple, between two large roots. He kicked dirt and twigs and leaves, anything he could find to disguise the poor halfling. Then, for the sake of the fallen Regis, Hralien grabbed up his bow and sprang away, running again to the east.
Orcs closed on him from behind and below. More rose up before him, running at an angle to prevent him from going over the ridge to the south.
Hralien dropped his second sword belt, the one Drizzt had given him, and threw aside his bow, needing to be nimble.
He charged ahead, desperate to put as much ground between himself and Regis as possible, in the faint hope that the orcs would not find the wounded halfling. The run lasted only a few strides, though, as Hralien skidded to a stop, turning frantically to bring his sword around to deflect a flying spear. Swords came in at him from every angle, orcs closing for the kill. Hralien felt the hot blood of his elders coursing through his veins. All the lessons he had learned in two centuries of life flooded through him, driving him on. There was no thought, only instinct and reaction, his shining sword darting to block, angling to turn a spear and stabbing ahead to force an attacker into a short retreat.
Beautiful was his dance, magnificent his turns, and lightning-quick his thrusts and ripostes.
But there were too many—too many for him to even consider them separately as he tried to find some answer to the riddle of the battle.
Images of Innovindil flitted through his mind, along with those others he had lost so recently. He took hope in the fact that they had gone before him, that they would greet him in Arvandor when a single missed block let a sword or a spear slip through.
Behind him, back the way he had come, Regis sank deeper into the cold darkness. And not so far away, perhaps halfway to the tree, a black hand closed over Khazid’hea’s hilt.
They had intended to follow in the wake of Bruenor and Drizzt, but the four dwarves found the route blocked by a wall of orcs. They came out of the dell to the east instead, and there, too, they met resistance.
“For Mirabar and Mithral Hall!” Torgar Hammerstriker called, and shoulder to shoulder with his beloved and longtime friend Shingles, the leader of the Mirabarran exodus met the orcs.
To the side of them, Thibble dorf Pwent snarled and bit and found within himself yet another frenzy. Flailing his arms and legs, and butting his head so often that his forward movements seemed the steps of a gawky, long-necked seabird, Pwent had the orcs on that side of the line in complete disarray. They threw spears at him, but so intent were they on getting out of his way that they threw as they turned, and thus with little or no effect.
It couldn’t hold, though. Too many orcs stood before them, and they would have to pile the orc bodies as thick as the walls of a dwarf-built keep before they could even hope to find a way through.
Bruenor and Drizzt were lost to them, as was any route that would get them back to the south and the safety of Mithral Hall. So they did what dwarves do best, they fought to gain the highest ground.
Cordio wanted to tap some offensive magic, to stun the orcs with a blast of shocking air, perhaps, or to hold a group in place so that Torgar and Shingles could score quick kills. But blood flowed freely from all the dwarves in short order, and the priest could not keep up with the wounds, though his every spell cast was one of healing. Cordio was filled with Moradin’s blessing, a priest of extraordinary power and piety. It occurred to him, though, that Moradin himself was not possessed of enough magical healing to win that fight. They were known, the clear spectacle of the most-hated enemy in the midst of the orcs, and behind the immediate fighting, the ugly creatures stalked all around them, preparing to overwhelm them.
Not a dwarf was afraid, though. They sang to Moradin and Clangeddin and Dumathoin. They sang of bar wenches and heavy mugs of ale, of killing orcs and giants, of chasing dwarf ladies.
And Cordio led a song to King Bruenor, of the fall of Shimmer-gloom and the reclamation of Mithral Hall.
They sang and they fought. They killed and they bled, and they looked continually to the north, where Bruenor their king had gone.
For all that mattered was that they had served him well that day, that they had given him enough time and enough of a distraction to get to the hills and to end, once and for all, the threat of Obould.
Hralien felt the sting of a sword across his forearm, and though the wound was not deep, it was telling. He was slowing, and the orcs had caught on to the rhythms of his dance.
He had nowhere to run.
An orc to his right came on suddenly, he thought, and he spun to meet the charge—then saw that it was no charge at all, for the tip of a sword protruded from the falling creature’s chest.
Behind the orc, Tos’un Armgo retracted Khazid’hea and leaped out to the side. An orc lifted its shield to block, but the sword went right through the shield, right through the arm, and right through the side of the creature’s chest.
Before it had even fallen away, another orc fell to Tos’un’s second weapon, an orc-made sword.
Hralien had no time to watch the spectacle or to even consider the insanity of it all. He spun back and took down the nearest orc, who seemed dumbfounded by the arrival of the drow. On the elves pressed, light and dark, and orcs fell away, or threw their weapons and ran away, and soon the pair faced off, Hralien drawing a few much-needed deep breaths.
“Clan Wolf Jaw,” Tos’un explained to Hralien. “They fear me.”
“With good reason,” Hralien replied.
The sound of battle to the north, and the sound of dwarf voices lifted in song, stole their conversation, and before Tos’un could begin to clarify, he found that he did not have to, for Hralien led their run down from the ridgeline.
CHAPTER
OLD AND NEW BEFORE HIM
It had to come down to the two of them, for among the orcs, struggles within and among tribes were ultimately personal.
King Obould leaped atop a stone wall and plunged his sword into the belly of a Karuck ogre. He stared the behemoth in the face, grinning wickedly as he called upon his enchanted sword to burst into flame.
The ogre tried to scream. Its mouth stretched wide in silent horror.
Obould only smiled wider and held his sword perfectly still, not wanting to hurry the death of the ogre. Gradually, the dimwitted behemoth leaned back, back, then slid off the blade, tumbling down the hill, wisps of smoke coming from the already cauterized wound.
Looking past it, Obould saw one of his guards, an elite Many-Arrows warrior, go flying aside, broken and torn. Tracing its flight back to the source, he saw another of his warriors, a young orc who had shown great promise in the battles with the Battlehammer dwarves, leap back. The warrior stood still for a curiously long time, his arms out wide.
Obould stared at his back, shaking his head, not understanding, until a huge axe swept up from in front of the warrior, then cut down diagonally with tremendous, jolting force, cleaving the warrior in half, left shoulder to right hip. Half the orc fell away, but the other half stood there for a few long heartbeats before buckling to the ground.
And there stood Grguch, swinging his awful axe easily at the end of one arm.
Their eyes met, and all the other orcs and ogres nearby, Karuck and Many-Arrows alike, took their battles to the side.
Obould stretched his arms out wide, fires leaping from the blade of his greatsword as he held it aloft in his right hand. He threw back his head and bellowed.
Grguch did likewise, axe out wide, his roar echoing across the stones, the challenge accepted. Up the hill he ran, hoisting his axe in both hands and bringing it back over his left shoulder.
Obould tried for the quick kill, feigning a defensive posture, but
then leaping down at the approaching chieftain and stabbing straight ahead. Across came Grguch’s axe with brutal and sudden efficiency, the half-ogre chopping short to smash his dragon-winged weapon against Obould’s blade. He turned it sidelong as he swiped, the winged blades perpendicular to the ground, but so strong was the beast that the resistance as he brought the axe across didn’t slow his swing in the least. By doing it that way, his blade obscuring nearly three feet top-to-bottom, Grguch prevented Obould from turning his greatsword over the block.
Obould just let his sword get knocked out to his left, and instead of letting go with his right hand, as would be expected, the cunning orc let go with his left, allowing him to spin in behind the cut of Grguch’s axe. He went forward as he went around, lowering his soon-leading left shoulder as he collided with Grguch.
The pair slid down the stony hill, and to Obould’s amazement, Grguch did not fall. Grguch met his heavy charge with equal strength.
He was taller than Obould by several inches, but Obould had been blessed by Gruumsh, had been given the strength of the bull, a might of arm that had allowed him to bowl over Gerti Orelsdottr of the frost giants.
But not Grguch.
The two struggled, their weapon arms, Obould’s right and Grguch’s left, locked at one side. Obould slugged Grguch hard in the face, snapping his head back, but as he recoiled from that stinging blow, Grguch snapped his head forward, inside the next punch, and crunched his forehead into Obould’s nose.
They clutched, they twisted, and they postured, and both tried to shove back at the same time, sending themselves skidding far apart.
Right back they went with identical blows, axe and sword meeting with tremendous force, so powerfully that a gout of flames flew free of Obould’s sword and burst into the air.
“As Tos’un told us,” Drizzt said to Bruenor as they slipped between fights to come in view of the great struggle.
“Think they’d forget each other and turn on us, elf?” Bruenor asked hopefully.
“Likely not—not Obould, at least,” Drizzt replied dryly, stealing Bruenor’s mirth, and he led the dwarf around a pile of stones that hadn’t yet been set on the walls.
“Bah! Ye’re bats!”
“Two futures clear before us,” Drizzt remarked. “What does Moradin say to Bruenor?”
Before Bruenor could answer, as Drizzt came around the pile, a pair of orcs leaped at him. He snapped up both his blades and threw himself backward, quickstepping across Bruenor’s field of vision and dragging the bloodthirsty orcs with him.
The dwarf’s axe came crashing down, and then there was one.
And that orc twisted and half-turned, startled by Bruenor and never imagining that Drizzt could be nimble enough to reverse his field so quickly.
The orc got hit four times by Drizzt’s scimitars, and Bruenor creased its skull for good measure, and the pair rambled along.
Before them, much closer, Obould and Grguch clutched again, and traded a series of brutal punches that splattered blood from both faces.
“Two roads before us,” Drizzt said, and he looked at Bruenor earnestly.
The dwarf shrugged then tapped his axe against Drizzt’s scimitars. “For the good o’ the world, elf,” he said. “For the kids o’ me kin and me trust for me friends. And ye’re still bats.”
Every swing brought enough force to score a kill, every cut cracked through the air. They were orcs, one half ogre, but they fought as giants, titans even, gods among their respective people.
Bred for battle, trained in battle, hardened as his skin had calloused, and propped by magical spells from Hakuun, and secretly from Jack the Gnome, Grguch moved his heavy axe with the speed and precision with which a Calimport assassin might wield a dagger. None in Clan Karuck, not the largest and the strongest, questioned Grguch’s leadership role, for none in that clan would dare oppose him. With good reason, Obould understood all too quickly, as the chieftain pressed him ferociously.
Blessed by Gruumsh, infused with the strength of a chosen being, and veteran of so many battles, Obould equaled his opponent, muscle for muscle. And unlike so many power-driven warriors who could smash a weapon right through an opponent’s defenses, Obould combined finesse and speed with that sheer strength. He had matched blades with Drizzt Do’Urden, and overmatched Wulfgar with brawn. And so he met Grguch’s heavy strikes with powerful blocks, and so he similarly pressed Grguch with mighty counterstrikes that made the chieftain’s arms strain to hold back the deadly greatsword.
Grguch rushed around to Obould’s left, up the hill a short expanse. He turned back from that higher ground and drove a tremendous overhand chop down at the orc king, and Obould nearly buckled under the weight of the blow, his feet sliding back dangerously beneath him.
Grguch struck again, and a third time, but Obould went out to the side suddenly, and that third chop cut nothing but air, forcing Grguch down the hill a few quick steps.
They stood even again, and with the miss, Obould gained an offensive posture. Both hands grasping his sword, he smashed it in from the right then the left then right again. Grguch moved to a solely defensive posture, axe darting left and right to block.
Obould quickened the pace, slashing with abandon, allowing Grguch no chance for a counter. He brought forth fire on his blade then winked it out with a thought—and brought it forth again, just to command more of his opponent’s attention, to further occupy Grguch.
Left and right came the greatsword, then three overhead chops, battering Grguch’s blocking blade, sending shivers through the chieftain’s muscled arms. Obould did not tire, and more furious came his strikes, backing his opponent.
Grguch was no longer looking for an opening to counter, Obould knew. Grguch tried only to find a way to disengage, to put them back on even ground.
Obould wouldn’t give it to him. The chieftain was worthy, indeed, but in the end, he was no Obould.
A blinding flash and a thunderous retort broke the orc king’s momentum and rhythm, and as he recovered from the initial, stunning shock of it, he realized that he had lost more than advantage. His legs twitched and could hardly hold him upright. His greatsword trembled violently and his teeth chattered so uncontrollably that he tore strips of skin from the inside of his mouth.
A wizard’s lightning bolt, he understood somewhere deep in the recesses of his dazed mind, and a mighty one.
His block of Grguch’s next attack was purely coincidental, his greatsword fortunately in the way of the swing. Or maybe Grguch had aimed for the weapon, Obould realized as he staggered back from the weight of the blow, fighting to hold his balance with every stumbling, disoriented step.
He offered a better attempt to block the next sidelong swing, turning to the left and presenting his sword at a perfect angle to intercept the flying axe.
A perfect parry, except that Obould’s twitching legs gave out under the weight of the blow. He skidded half-backward and half-sidelong down the hill and went down to one knee.
Grguch hit his sword again, knocking it aside, and as the chieftain stepped forward, bringing his blade back yet again, Obould realized that he had little defense.
A booted foot stomped hard on the back of Obould’s neck, driving him low, and he tried to turn and lash out at what he deemed to be a new attacker.
But Bruenor Battlehammer’s target was not Obould, and he had used the battered and dazed orc king merely as a springboard to launch himself at his real quarry.
Grguch twisted frantically to get his axe in line with the dwarf’s weapon, but Bruenor, too, turned as he flew, and his buckler, emblazoned with the foaming mug of Clan Battlehammer, crashed hard into Grguch’s face, knocking him back.
Grguch leaped up and came right back at Bruenor with a mighty chop, but Bruenor rushed ahead under the blow, butting his one-horned helmet into Grguch’s belly and sweeping his axe up between the orc chieftain’s legs. Grguch leaped, and Bruenor grabbed and leaped back and over with him, the pair flying away and tumbling down the hi
ll. As they unwound, Grguch, caught with his back to the dwarf, rushed away and shoulder-rolled over the hill’s lowest stone wall.
Bruenor pursued furiously, springing atop the wall, then leaping from it, swooping down from on high with a mighty chop that sent the blocking Grguch staggering backward.
The dwarf pressed, axe and shield, and it took Grguch many steps before he could begin to attain even footing with his newest enemy.
Back on the hill, Obould stubbornly gained his feet and tried to follow, but another crackling lightning bolt flattened him.
Hralien darted out in front as the pair crossed the narrow channel. He leaped a stone, started right, then rolled back left around the trunk of a dead tree, coming around face up against an unfortunate orc, whose sword was still angled the other way to intercept his charge. The elf struck hard and true, and the orc fell away, mortally wounded.
Hralien retracted the blade as he ran past the falling creature, which left his sword arm out behind him.
As his sword pulled free, a sudden sting broke the elf’s grasp on it, and he glanced back in shock to see Tos’un flipping the blade over between his two swords. With amazing dexterity, the drow slid his own sword into its sheath and caught Hralien’s flipping weapon by the hilt.
“Treacherous dog!” Hralien protested as the dark elf moved in behind him, prodding him along.
“Just shut up and run,” Tos’un scolded him.
Hralien stopped, though, and the tip of Khazid’hea nicked him. Tos’un’s hand came against his back then, and shoved him roughly forward.
“Run!” he demanded.
Hralien stumbled forward and Tos’un didn’t let him dig in, keeping up and pushing him along with every stride.
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