He got his head out from under the fallen brute's hip, but then had to duck right back underneath as the second brute, still lying atop the dying one, slapped down at him with a powerful grasping hand.
The ogre finger-walked that hand underneath in pursuit of the dwarf, and with his own arms still pinned down beside him, Bruenor couldn't match the grab.
So he bit the hand instead, latching on like an angry dog, gnashing his teeth, and crunching the brute's knuckles.
The half-ogre howled and pulled back, but the dwarf's mighty jaw remained clamped. Bruenor held on ferociously. The brute crawled off its dying companion, twisting about to gain some leverage, then lifted the fallen ogre's hip and tugged hard, pulling the dwarf out on the end of its arm.
The brute lifted its other arm to smack at the dwarf, but once free, Bruenor didn't hesitate. He grabbed the trapped forearm in both hands and, still biting hard, ran straight back, turning about and twisting the arm as he went behind the half-ogre.
“Got one for ye!” the dwarf yelled, finally releasing his bite, for he had the half-ogre off-balance then, momentarily helpless and lined up for the open doorway. Bruenor drove ahead with all his strength and leverage, forcing the brute into a quick-step. With a great heave, the dwarf got the brute to the doorway and through it.
Where Catti-brie's arrow met it, square in the chest.
The half-ogre staggered backward, or started to, for as soon as he had let the thing go, Bruenor quick-stepped back a few steps, rubbed his heavy boots on the stone for traction, and rushed forward, leaping as the half-ogre staggered back to slam hard into the brute's lower back.
The brute stumbled out through the door, where another arrow hit it hard in the chest.
It fell to its knees grasping at the two shafts with trembling hands.
Catti-brie shot it again, right in the face.
“More on the stairs!” Bruenor yelled out to her. “Come on, girl, I need ye!”
Catti-brie started forward, ready to rush right in past the brute she had just felled, but then came another cry from above. She looked up to see a squirming, whimpering man hanging out over the tower's edge, a huge half-ogre holding him by the ankles.
Up came Taulmaril, leveling at the brute's face, for Catti-brie figured that the man might well survive the fall into the snow, which was piled pretty deep on this side of the tower, but knew that he had no chance of surviving his current captor.
But the half-ogre saw her as well, and, with a wicked grin, brought up its own weapon—a huge club—and lined up for a hit that would surely break the squirming man apart.
Catti-brie reflexively cried out.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
At the back of the tower top, Regis heard that cry. Looking that way he understood that the poor soldier was in a precarious predicament. But the halfling couldn't get to the brute in time, and even if he did, what could he and his tiny mace do against something of that monster's bulk?
The second half-ogre, wounded by the soldier's valiant fight but not down, was on the move again to join its companion. It rushed across the tower top, oblivious to the halfling peering over the rim.
Purely on instinct—if he had thought about it, the halfling would have more likely simply passed out from fear than made the move—Regis pulled himself over the lip and scrambled forward half running, half diving, skidding low right between the running half-ogre's leading heel and trailing toe.
The brute tripped up, its kick as it stumbled forward jolting and battering the poor halfling and lifting Regis into a short flight.
Out of control, the half-ogre gained momentum, falling headlong into its companion's broad back.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Catti-brie saw no choice but to take her chances on the shot, much as she had done against the pirate holding Delly in Captain Deudermont's house.
The half-ogre apparently anticipated just that and delayed its swing at the man and ducked back instead, the arrow streaking harmlessly into the air before it.
Catti-brie winced, thinking the man surely doomed. Before she could even reach to set another arrow, though, the half-ogre came forward suddenly, way over the tower lip. It let go of the man, who dropped, screaming, into the snow. It too went over, hands flailing helplessly.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Gasping for his lost breath, his ribs sorely bruised, the battered halfling struggled to his feet and faced the half-ogre he had tripped even as the brute turned to regard him ominously. Its look was one of pure menace, promising a horrible death.
With a growl, it took a long step toward the halfling.
Regis considered his little mace, a perfectly insignificant weapon against the sheer mass and strength of this brute, then sighed and tossed it to the ground. With a tip of his hood, the halfling turned around and ran for the back of the tower, crying out with every running step. He understood the drop over that lip. It was a good thirty feet, and the back side of the tower, unlike the front, was nearly clear, wind-blown stone.
Still, the halfling never slowed. He leaped up and rolled over the edge. Without slowing, roaring in rage with every step, the half-ogre dived over right behind.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The lower vantage point for Bruenor proved an advantage as he charged at the half-ogre standing on the curving stairway. The brute slammed its club straight down at the dwarf but Bruenor got his fine shield—emblazoned with the “foaming mug” standard of Clan Battlehammer—up over his head and angled perfectly. The dwarf was strong enough of arm to accept and deflect the blow.
The half-ogre wasn't as fortunate against the counter, a mighty sweep of Bruenor's fine axe that cracked the brute's ankle, snapping bone and digging a deep, deep gash. The half-ogre howled in pain and reached down reflexively to grab at the torn limb. Bruenor moved against the wall and leaped up three steps, putting him one above the bending half-ogre. The dwarf turned and braced, planting his shield against the brute as it started to turn to face him. Bruenor shoved out with all his strength, his short, muscled legs driving hard.
The half-ogre went off the stairs. It wasn't a long fall, but one that proved disastrous, for as the brute tried to hold its balance it landed hard on the broken ankle. It fell over on its side with a howl.
Its blurry vision cleared a moment later, and it looked back to see a flying red-bearded dwarf coming its way, mouth opened in a primal roar, face twisted with eager rage, and that devilish axe gripped in both hands.
The dwarf snapped his body as he impacted, driving the axe in hard and heavy, cleaving the half-ogre's head in half.
“Bet that hurt,” Bruenor grumbled, pulling himself to his feet.
He looked at the gore on his axe and winced, then just shrugged and wiped it on the dead beast's dirty fur tunic.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Drizzt skittered back against a tree, then ducked and rolled around it to avoid a thundering smash.
The ogre's club smacked hard against the young tree and proved the stronger, cracking the living wood apart.
Drizzt groaned aloud as he considered the toppling tree, picturing what his own slender form might have looked like had he not dodged aside. He had no time to ponder at length, though, for the ogre, moving with enhanced speed and wielding its heavy club with ease with its giant-strength muscles, was fast in pursuit. It leaped the falling tree and swung again.
Drizzt fell to the snow flat on his face, the club whistling right above him. With amazing speed and grace, the drow put his legs under him and leaped straight up over the ogre's fast backhand, which came down diagonally from the side to smack the spot where Drizzt had just been lying. In the air, the drow had little weight behind the strikes, but he worked his scimitars in rapid alternating stabs, popping their points into the ogre's broad chest.
The drow landed lightly and went right back into the air, twisting as he did so that he rolled over the side-cutting club. As he landed he reversed the momentum of his somersau
lt and drove one blade hard into the ogre's belly. Again, he didn't score nearly as much of a wound as he would have expected, but he didn't pause to lament the fact. He spun around the ogre's hip, reversed his grip on the blade in his right hand, and stabbed it out and hard into the back of the ogre's treelike leg.
Drizzt sprinted straight ahead, leaping another fallen tree and spinning around a pair of oaks, turning to face his predictably charging opponent.
The ogre chased him around the two oaks, but Drizzt held an advantage, for he could cut between the close-growing trees while the huge brute had to circle both. He went to the outside through a couple of rotations, letting the ogre fall into a set pace, then darted between the trees and came around fast and hard before the brute could properly turn and set its defenses.
Again the drow scored a pair of hits, one a stab, the other a slash. As he came across with his right hand, he followed through with the motion, turning a complete circle then sprinting ahead once more, the howling ogre in fast pursuit.
And so it went for many minutes, Drizzt using a hit and retreat strategy, hoping to tire the ogre, hoping that the potions, likely temporary enhancements, would run their course.
Drizzt scored again and again with minor hits, but he knew that this was no contest of finesse, where the better fighter would be awarded the victory by some neutral judges. This was a battle to the end, and while he looked beautiful with his precision movements and strikes, the only hit that would matter would be the last one. Given the ogre's sheer power, given the images burned into the drow's mind as yet another tree splintered and toppled under the weight of the brute's blow, Drizzt understood that the first solid hit he took from the creature would likely be the last hit of the fight.
The drow went full speed over one snowy ridge, diving down in a roll on his back and sliding to the bottom. He came up fast, spinning to face the pursuit. The drow was looking to score another hit, perhaps, or more likely, in this unfavorable place, to simply run away.
But the ogre wasn't there, and Drizzt understood that it had used its heightened speed and heightened strength in a different manner when he heard the brute touch down behind him.
The ogre had leaped off the top of the ridge, right over the sliding and turning drow.
Drizzt realized his mistake.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The surprised half-ogre landed flat on its back a few feet out from the tower and from the captive it had dropped, but was moving immediately, hardly seeming hurt, scrambling to its feet.
Catti-brie led her charge with another streaking arrow, a gut shot, then she threw her bow aside and drew out Khazid'hea. The eager sword telepathically prompted her to cut the beast apart.
The brute clutched at its belly wound with one hand and reached out at her with the other, as if to try to catch her charge. The flash of Khazid'hea ended that possibility, sending stubby fingers flying all about.
Catti-brie went in with fury, taking the advantage and never offering it back, slashing her fine-edged sword to and fro and hardly slowing enough to even bother to line up her strikes.
She didn't have to; not with this sword.
The half-ogre's heavy clothing and hide armor parted as if it was thin paper, and bright lines of red striped the creature in a matter of moments.
The half-ogre managed one punch out at her, but Khazid’hea was there, intercepting the punch with its sharp edge, splitting the half-ogre's hand and riding that cut right up through its thick wrist.
How the beast howled!
But that cry was silenced a moment later when Catti-brie slashed Khazid'hea across up high, taking out the brute's throat. Down went the half-ogre, and Catti-brie leaped beside it, her sword slashing repeatedly.
“Girl!” Bruenor cried, half in terror and half in surprise when he exited the tower to see his adopted daughter covered in blood. He ran to her and nearly got cut in half as she swung around, Khazid'hea flashing.
“It's the damn sword!” Bruenor cried at her, falling back and throwing his arms up defensively.
Catti-brie stopped suddenly, staring at her fine blade with shock.
Bruenor was right. In her moment of anger and terror at seeing the man fall from the tower, in her moment of guilt blaming herself for the man's fall because of her missed bowshot, the viciously sentient sword Khazid’hea had found its way into her thoughts yet again, prodding her into a frenzy.
She laughed aloud, helplessly. Her white teeth looked ridiculous, shining out from her bloodied face. She slapped the sword's blade down into the snow.
“Girl?” Bruenor asked cautiously.
“I'm thinking that we could both use a bath,” Catti-brie said to him, obviously in control again.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Regis, hanging on the edge of the tower top, wondered if the half-ogre even understood its mistake as it flew out over him, limbs flailing wildly on its fast descent to the stony ground. The brute hit with a muffled groan, and bounced once or twice.
The halfling pulled himself back over the tower top and looked down to see the half-ogre stubbornly trying to regain its footing. It stumbled once and went back down, but then tried to rise again.
Regis retrieved his little mace and took aim. He whistled down to the half-ogre as he let fly, timing it perfectly so that the brute looked up just in time to catch the falling weapon right in the face. There came a sharp report, like metal hitting stone, and the half-ogre stood there for a long while, staring up at Regis.
The halfling sucked in his breath, hardly believing that the mace, falling from thirty feet, hadn't done more damage.
But it had. The brute went down hard and didn't get up.
A shiver coursed up Regis's little spine, and he paused long enough to consider his actions in this battle, to consider that he had gotten involved at all when he really didn't have to. The halfling tried very hard not to look at things that way, tried to remind himself repeatedly that he had acted in accordance with the tenets of his group of friends, his dear, trusted companions, who would risk their lives without a second thought to help those in dire need.
Not for the first time, and not for the last, Regis wondered if he would be better off finding a new group of friends.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Drizzt could only guess from which direction the ogre's mighty swing would come, and he understood that if he guessed wrong, he'd be leaping right into the oncoming blow. In the split second he had to react, it all sorted out, his warrior instincts replaying the ogre's fighting style, telling him clearly that the ogre had initiated every attack with a right-to-left strike.
So Drizzt went left, his magical anklets speeding his feet into a desperate run.
And the club swatted in behind him, clipping him as he turned and leaped, launching him into a long, twisting tumble. The snow padded his fall, but when he came up he found that he was only holding one scimitar. His right arm had gone completely numb and his shoulder and side were exploding with pain. The drow glanced down and winced. His shoulder had clearly been dislocated, pushed back from its normal position.
Drizzt didn't have long, for the ogre was coming on in pursuit—though, the drow noted with some hope, not as quickly as it had been moving.
Drizzt skittered away, turning as he went and literally throwing himself backward into a tree, using the solidity of the tree to pop his shoulder back into place. The wave of agony turned his stomach and brought black spots spinning before his eyes. He nearly swooned, but knew that if he gave into that momentary weakness, the ogre would break him apart.
He rolled around the tree and stumbled away, buying himself more time. He knew then, by how easily he could distance himself from the brute, that at least one of the potions had worn off.
Every step was bringing some measure of relief to Drizzt. The ache in his shoulder had lessened already, and he found that he could feel his fingers again. He took a circuitous route that led him back to his fallen scimitar, with the
dumb ogre, apparently thinking that it had the fight won, following fast in pursuit.
Drizzt stopped and turned, his lavender eyes boring into the approaching brute. Just before the combatants came together, their gazes met, and the ogre's confidence melted away.
There would be no underestimation by the dark elf this time.
Drizzt came ahead in a fury, holding the ogre's stare with his own. His scimitars worked as if of their own accord, in perfect harmony and with blazing speed—too quickly for the ogre, its magical speed worn away and its giant strength diminishing, to possibly keep up. The brute tried to take an offensive posture instead, swinging wildly, but Drizzt was behind it before it ever completed the blow. That other potion, the one that had someone made the ogre resistant to the drow's scimitar stings, was also dissipating.
This time, both Twinkle and Icingdeath dug in, one taking a kidney, the other hamstringing the brute.
Drizzt worked in a fury but with controlled precision, rushing all around his opponent, stabbing and slashing, and always at a vital area.
The victorious drow put his scimitars away soon after, his right arm going numb again now that the adrenaline of battle was subsiding. Swaying with every step, and cursing himself for taking such an enemy as that for granted, he made his way back to the tower. There he found Bruenor and Regis sitting by the open door, both looking battered, and Catti-brie covered head to toe in blood, standing nearby, tending to a dazed and wounded man.
“A fine thing it'll be if we all wind up killed to death in battle afore we ever get to the pirate Kree,” Bruenor grumbled.
Chapter 19 WULFGAR'S CHOICE
He wasn't dead. Following Donbago's directions, after Jeddith had recovered his wits from the fall, Catti-brie and Regis found his brother behind some brush not far from the tower. His head was bloody and aching. They wrapped some bandages tight around the wound and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but it became obvious that the dazed and delirious man would need to see a healer, and soon.
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