He saw again Catti-brie, the young girl who had first greeted him on the slopes of Kelvin's Cairn. The young woman who had first shown him the truth of his life on the surface, in a faraway southern desert. The woman who had stayed beside him, through all his doubts and all his fears, through all his mistakes and all his triumphs. When he had foolishly returned to Menzoberran-zan in an effort to free his friends of the shackles of his legacy, Catti-brie had braved the Underdark to rescue him from the drow and from himself. She was his conscience and always told him when she thought he was wrong, but more than that, she was his friend and never really judged him. With a gentle touch, she could take away the shivers of doubt and fear. With a glance from those enticing blue eyes, she could look into his soul and see the truth of his emotions, busting any facade he might have painted upon his face. With a kiss on his cheek, she could remind him that he had his friends around him, always and evermore, and that in light of those friends, nothing could truly wound him.
In light of those friends….
That last thought had Drizzt's head slumping to his hands, had his breath coming in shorter, forced gasps, and had his shoulders bobbing with sobs. He felt himself sinking into a grief beyond anything he had ever known, felt himself falling into a dark and empty pit, where he was helpless.
Always and evermore? Ellifain? Were those the lies of Drizzt Do'Urden's life?
He saw Zaknafein fall into the acid. He saw Withegroo's tower, that awful tower, crumble to dust and flames.
He fell deeper, and he knew only one way to climb out of that pit.
"Come, Guenhwyvar," the Hunter said to the panther.
He rose on steady legs, and with steady hands, he drew forth his scimitars. The Hunter's eyes scanned the distance, moving below the twinkling stars and their invitation to painful introspection to the flickers of campfires and the promise of battle.
The promise of revenge.
Against the orcs.
Against the lies.
Against the pain.
* * *
Thousands of orcs gathered around the broken statue of Gruumsh One-Eye one dark night, staying respectfully back as they had been instructed by their respective spiritual leaders. They whispered among themselves and bullied for position that they might witness the miraculous event. Those scuffles were kept to a minimum, though, for the shamans had promised that any who distracted the proceedings would be offered as sacrifice to Gruumsh. To back up their threat, the shamans had more than a dozen unfortunate orcs already in custody, allegedly for crimes committed out on the battlefield.
Gerti Orelsdottr was there that night as well, along with nearly a hundred of her frost giant kin. She kept her enclave even farther back from the statue, wanting to witness the supposed miracle that had the orcs in such a state of frenzy, but not wanting to give it too much credence by the weight of her immediate presence.
"Detached amusement," she had instructed her kin. "Watch it with little outward concern and detached amusement."
Another two sets of eyes were also witnessing the event. Kaer'lic Suun Wett and Tos'un Armgo at first remained near to Gerti's group—and indeed had met with the frost giantess earlier in the evening—but soon they inched closer, the drow cleric in particular wanting to get a better view.
The call for silence went out from those shamans near to the statue, and those orcs who did not immediately obey were quickly warned, usually at the end of a spear tip and often with a painful prod, by the many soldiers of Obould who were scattered throughout the throng.
Many shamans, Tos'un communicated to Kaer'lic, using the silent drow language of intricate hand movements.
A great communal spell, Kaer'lic explained. It is not so uncommon a thing among the drow, but rarely have I heard of the lesser races employing such a tactic. Perhaps this ceremony is as important as the orcs have hinted.
Their powers are not great! Tos'un argued, emphatically grabbing his thumb at the end of his statement.
Individually, no, Kaer'lic agreed. But do not underestimate the power of shamans joined. Nor the power of the orc god. Gruumsh has heard their call, perhaps.
Kaer'lic smiled as she noted Tos'un shift uncomfortably, his hands sliding near to the twin weapons he had sheathed on his hips.
Kaer'lic was not nearly as concerned. She knew Obould's designs, and she understood that those designs were not so different from her own or those of her companions or those of Gerti. This would not be a ceremony that turned the orcs against their allies, she was certain.
Her thoughts were cut short as a figure dramatically appeared atop the ruined idol of the orc god. Wearing dead Achtel's red robes and his typical ceremonial headdress, Arganth Snarrl leaped up to the highest point on the broken statue and thrust his arms up high, a burning torch in each hand, flames dancing in the night wind. His face was painted in reds and whites and a dozen toothy bracelets dangled from each arm.
He gave a sudden shrill cry and thrust his arms even higher, and two dozen other torches soon flared to life, in a ring around the statue.
Kaer'lic carefully eyed the holders of these lower torches, shamans all, and painted and decorated garishly to an orc. The drow had never seen so many orc shamans in one place, and given the typical stupidity of the brutish race, she was surprised that so many were even clever enough to assume that mantle!
Up on the statue, Arganth began to slowly turn around. In response, those shamans on the ground began to move slowly around the perimeter of the statue, each turning small circles within the march around the larger circle. Gradually Arganth began to increase the pace of his turn, and those below similarly began to move faster, both in their own circles and in their larger march. That march became more animated with each step, becoming more of a dance. Torches bobbed and swayed erratically.
It went on for many minutes, the shamans not seeming to tire in the least— and that alone told perceptive Kaer'lic that there was some magic afoot. The drow priestess narrowed her eyes and began scrutinizing more closely.
Finally, Arganth stopped all of a sudden, and those below stopped at precisely the same moment, simply freezing in place.
Kaer'lic sucked in her breath—only a heightened state of communion could have so coordinated that movement. With the synchronicity of a practiced dance team—which of course they were not, for the shamans were not even of the same tribes, for the most part, and hadn't even known each other for more than a few days—the group swayed and rotated, gradually coming to stand straight, torches held high and steady.
And Obould appeared. As one, the crowd, including Kaer'lic and her drow associate, including Gerti and her hundred giants, gasped.
The orc king was naked, his muscular frame painted in bright colors, red and white and yellow. His eyes had been lined in white, exaggerating them so that it seemed to every onlooker as if Obould was scrutinizing him specifically, and the crowd reflexively shrank back.
As she collected her wits about her, Kaer'lic realized how extraordinary the ceremony truly was, for Obould was not wearing his magnificent masterwork armor. The orc king had allowed himself to be vulnerable, though he hardly appeared helpless. His torso rippled with every stride, and his limbs seemed almost as if his muscles were stretched too tightly, the sinewy cords standing taut and straight. In many ways, the powerful orc seemed every bit as imposing as if he had been fully armed and armored. His face contorted as his mouth stretched in a wide and threatening growl, as his intensity heightened so that it seemed as if his mortal coil could not contain it.
Up above, Arganth dropped one torch to the horizontal, then swept it before him. The first orc prisoner was dragged out before Obould and forced to his knees by the escorting guard.
The creature whined pitifully, but its squeals were quickly drowned out by the shamans, who began chanting the name of their god. That chant moved outward, to encompass the front ranks of the crowd, and continued to spread back through all the gathering until thousands of orc voices joined in the call to Gr
u-umsh. So hypnotic was it that even Kaer'lic caught herself mouthing the name. The drow glanced around nervously, hoping that Tos'un had not seen, then she smiled to see him similarly whispering to the orc god. She gave him a sharp elbow to remind him of who he was.
Kaer'lic looked back to the spectacle just as Arganth shrieked and brought his two torches in a fast and definitive cross before him, and the crowd went suddenly silent. Looking down to Obould, Kaer'lic saw that he had produced a great blade from somewhere. He slowly raised it high above his head. With a cry, he brought it flashing down, lopping the head from the kneeling orc.
The crowd roared.
The second orc prisoner was dragged in and brought to his knees beside the decapitated corpse of the first.
And so it went, the process of chanting and beheading repeated through the ten prisoners, and each execution brought a greater cry for the glory of Gruumsh than the previous.
And each made Obould seem to stand just a bit taller and stronger, his powerful chest swelling more tightly beneath his stretched skin.
When the killings were finished, the shamans began their circular dance once more, and all the crowd took up the chant to the great One-Eye.
And another creature was brought forth, a great bull, its legs hobbled by strong chords. The orc soldiers surrounding the creature prodded it with their spears and gave it no leeway whatsoever, marching it before their magnificent king.
Obould stared hard at the bull for a long while, the two seeming to fall into some sort of a mutual trance. The orc king grasped the bull by the horns, the two standing motionless, just staring.
Arganth came down from on high, and all the shamans moved around him and surrounded the bull. They began their spellcasting in unison, invoking the name of Gruumsh with every sentence, seeking the blessings of their god.
Kaer'lic recognized enough of the words to know the general spell, an invocation that, temporarily, greatly increased the strength of the recipient. There was a different twist to that one, though, the drow understood, for its intensity was so great that she could feel the magical tingling even from a distance.
A series of weird, multicolored lights, green and yellow and pink, began to flow around the bull and Obould. More and more of the lights began to emanate from the bull, it seemed. Those lights ran forward to engulf and immerse themselves in the orc king. Each one seemed to take a bit of strength from the animal, and soon it stood on trembling legs, and each one seemed to make Obould just a bit more formidable
It ended, and only then did Kaer'lic even recognize that during the process, the bindings had been cut away from the bull, so that the only thing holding it was Obould, one hand grasped upon each horn.
All fell silent, a great hush of anticipation quieting the crowd.
Obould and the creature stared at each other as the moments slipped by. With sudden strength and speed, the orc king brought his hands around, twisting the bull's head upside down. Reversing his grips, the orc king completed the circuit, bringing the poor creature's head around a full three hundred and sixty degrees.
Obould held that pose for a long moment, still staring at the bull. He let go, and the bull fell over.
Obould thrust his arms to the sky and cried out, "Gruumsh!"
A wave of energy rolled out from him across the stunned and silent crowd.
It took Kaer'lic a moment to realize that she had been knocked to her knees, that all around her were similarly kneeling. She glanced back at the frost giants, to see them on their knees as well, and none of them, particularly Gerti, looking overly pleased by that fact.
Again the shamans went into their wild dance around the broken statue, and not a one in the crowd dared to rise, though every voice immediately joined in the chanting.
It stopped again, abruptly.
A second creature was brought forth, a great mountain cat, held around the neck by long noose poles. The creature growled as it neared Obould, but the orc king didn't shy from it at all. He even bent forward, then fell to all fours, staring the cat in the eye.
The attendants loosened their nooses and removed the poles, freeing the beast.
The stare went on, as did the anticipating hush. The cat leaped forward, snapping and roaring, claws raking, and Obould caught it in his hands.
The great cat's claws couldn't dig in against Obould's flesh.
The great cat's teeth could find no hold.
Obould rose up to his full height and easily brought the squirming, thrashing cat up high above his head.
The orc king held that pose for a long moment, then called out again to Gruumsh and began to move about, his feet gaining speed with every stride, his balance holding perfect with every turn and every leap. He stopped in the middle of the frenzied movement and gave a great and sudden twist. The cat cried out, then fell silent and limp. Obould tossed its lifeless body to the ground beside the dead bull.
The crowd began to roar. The shamans began to sing and to dance, their circle bringing them around the orc king and the dead prisoners and animals.
Arganth moved inside the ring, then he ordered the culmination of the dance. The leading shaman began to sway rhythmically, whispering an incantation that Kaer'lic could not hear.
The ten headless orcs stood up and marched in silent procession to form two ranks behind Obould.
Again Arganth fell into his spellcasting, and suddenly, both the bull and the mountain cat sprang up, very much alive.
Very much alive!
The confused and frightened creatures leaped about and ran off into the night. The orcs cheered, and Obould stood very calm.
Kaer'lic could hardly draw her breath. The animation of the corpses did not seem like such a tremendous feat—certainly nothing she had expected from an orc shaman, but nothing too great in magical power—but the resurrection of the animals! How was that possible, coming from an orc?
And Kaer'lic knew, and Kaer'lic understood. Gruumsh had attended the ceremony, in spirit at least. The orc cry to their god had been answered, and the One-Eye's blessing had been instilled in Obould.
Kaer'lic saw that clearly in scrutinizing the calm orc king. She could feel the gravity of him, even from afar, could recognize the added, supernatural strength and speed that had been placed within his powerful frame.
The dwarves had erred, and badly, she knew. Their ruse in using the image of Gruumsh to so deceive his minions had brought upon them the wrath of the orc god—in the form of King Obould Many-Arrows.
Suddenly, Kaer'lic Sun Wett was very much afraid. Suddenly, she knew, the balance of power among those united in battling the dwarves had shifted.
And not for the better.
CHAPTER 10 WHEN THE TUTORED STEPS FORTH
"It was impressive," Kaer'lic Suun Wett somberly admitted.
Beside her, Tos'un scoffed, and across from her, both Donnia and Ad'non sat very still, their mouths agape.
"They are mere orcs," said the castoff of House Barrison Del'Armgo. "It was all illusion, all emotion."
For a moment, it seemed as if Kaer'lic would reach over and smack Tos'un, for her face grew very tight, her muscles very taut.
"Of course," Donnia agreed with a dismissive chuckle. "The mood, the throng—the ceremony was amplified by the intensity of the—
"Silence!" Kaer'lic demanded, so forcefully that both Donnia and Ad'non slipped hands quietly to their respective weapons. "If we underestimate Obould now, it could prove disastrous. This shaman, Arganth of tribe Snarrl… he was inspired. Divinely inspired."
"That is quite a claim," Ad'non quietly remarked.
"It is something I have witnessed before, in a ceremony in which several yochlol appeared," Kaer'lic assured him. "I recognized it for what it was: divine inspiration." She turned to Tos'un. "Are you normally so easily deceived that you can now convince yourself that you did not see what you did indeed see?"
"I understand the trick of the mood," Tos'un hesitantly replied.
"The bull's head was twisted right a
round," Kaer'lic scolded him and reinforced to the others. "The creature was dead, then it was not, and this sort of resurrection is simply beyond the powers of orc shamans."
"Normally so, yes," said Ad'non. "Perhaps it is Arganth whom we should not underestimate."
Shaking her head with every word, Kaer'lic replied, "Arganth is indeed worthy, relative to his heritage. He is frenetic in his devotion to Gruumsh and handled the coincidental death of Achtel quite cleverly. But if he was possessed of priestly powers sufficient to resurrect the two dead animals, then he could have overwhelmed Achtel and her doubts long before her untimely death. He did not do that—did not even attempt to do it."
"You believe Achtel's death a fortunate coincidence?" Donnia asked.
"She was killed by Drizzt Do'Urden," answered Kaer'lic. "There can be no doubt. He was witnessed, right down to his scimitars. He slew her and rampaged through the camp and off into the night. I would doubt him to be an instrument of Gruumsh. But Arganth played it that way to the dimwitted orcs, much to his credit and much to his success."
"And now we know that Drizzt has allied with the surface elves," Tos'un remarked.
"To what extent?" asked Donnia, who, despite the reports of the fight at the river, was not so convinced.
"That is secondary," Kaer'lic pointedly reminded. "Drizzt Do'Urden is not our concern!"
"You keep saying that," Ad'non interrupted.
"Because it seems as if you do not understand it," the priestess replied. "Drizzt is not our problem, nor are we his unless he learns of our existence. He is Obould's problem and Gerti's problem, and we would do well to let them handle him. Particularly now that Obould has been gifted by Gruumsh."
A couple of snorts accompanied that claim from the still-doubting duo across from Kaer'lic.
"Underestimate him at your peril now," Kaer'lic replied to those scoffs. "He is stronger—visibly so—and he is possessed of great quickness. Even Tos'un, who believes he was tricked, cannot deny these things. Obould is far more formidable."
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