She put Cutter into its side for good measure as it went by.
How fine I eat this night! came a thought in her mind.
Though the words hardly registered, the sensation of bloodthirst surely did. Before she could even consider the implications, before she even realized that the sentient sword had awakened and found its way into her conscious once more, the woman charged ahead, past Wulfgar, rushing with abandon into a throng of orcs.
Ferocity replaced finesse, with Cutter lashing out wickedly at anything that moved near. Out to the left she thrust, across her chest and through one shield and arm. A quick retraction and the blade slashed across in front of her, forcing the two orcs before her to stumble backward and taking the tip from the spear of another that was coming in from her right. Catti-brie turned her trailing foot and swung her hips, then charged out suddenly to the right, stabbing repeatedly, poking hole after hole into the curling and screaming orc.
Recognizing her vulnerability, the woman turned back to face the remaining two, and she dived aside as something flew past.
Aegis-fang, she realized when one of the two orcs seemed to simply disappear.
He shares our plate! Khazid'hea protested, and the sword compelled the woman to charge forward at the remaining orc.
Terrified, the creature threw its sword at her and turned and fled, and though the weapon smacked against her, it hardly slowed her. She caught the orc as it joined up with a pair of its fellows and still didn't slow, coming in with fury, stabbing and slashing. She took a hit and ignored the pain, willing to trade strike for strike, orc weapon against marvelous Khazid'hea.
The three were down, and Catti-brie ran on.
"Wait!" came a cry behind her.
It was Wulfgar's cry, but it seemed distant and not insistent. Not as insistent as the hunger in her thoughts. Not as insistent as the fire coursing through her veins.
Another orc fell before her. She hit another, thinking to rush past with a following stab on the creature behind it. But her strike was too strong, and the fine blade slashed through the ore's upper arm, severing the limb, then bit deeply into the creature's side, cutting halfway through its torso. There the blade halted and got stuck, for the momentum of the slash was stolen by too-eager Catti-brie, her weight coming past before she had finished the move. The dying orc flopped about and the woman nearly lost her grip on the blade. She turned and tugged fiercely, knowing she had to get it free, seeing the next creature barely feet away.
"Bah! Ye're taking all the fun!" that creature called at her.
Only then did Catti-brie stop struggling with the stuck sword. Only then did she realize that she had already reached the end of the dwarven line.
She offered a sheepish smile at the dwarf, keeping the thought private that if she hadn't accidentally caught her blade on the orc, that dwarf would likely have fallen to the hunger of Khazid'hea.
Spurred by that thought, the woman silently swore at the sword, which of course heard her clearly. She planted a foot on the dead orc and tried again to pull Khazid'hea free but was stopped by a large hand gripping her shoulder.
"Easy," Wulfgar bade her. "We fight together, side by side."
Catti-brie let go of the blade and stepped back, then took a long and steadying deep breath.
"Sword's hungry," she explained.
Wulfgar smiled, nodded, and said, "Temper that hunger with common sense."
Catti-brie looked back at the path of carnage she had wrought, at the sliced and slashed orcs, and at herself, covered head to toe in orc blood.
No, not all of it was orc, she only then realized and only then felt the burning pain. The thrown sword had opened a gash along her left arm, and she had another wound on her right hip and another where a spear tip had cut into her right foot.
"You need a priest," Wulfgar said to her.
Catti-brie, jaw clenched against the pain, stubbornly stepped forward and grabbed Khazid'hea's hilt. She roughly tore it free—and yet another fountain of orc blood painted her.
"And a bath," Wulfgar remarked, half in humor and half in sadness.
* * *
Banak Brawnanvil shoved two thick fingers into his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. The orcs were in retreat yet again, and the dwarves were giving chase, holding perfectly to their formations as they went. But those orcs were veering, Banak realized from his high vantage point back near the cliff face. They were sidling west in their run down the slope.
Banak whistled again and again and called for his nearby commanders to turn the dwarves around.
Before that order ever reached the pursuing force, though, all the dwarves, commander and pursuer alike, came to understand its intent and urgency. For in their bloodlust, the dwarves had moved too far to the north and west, too close to the high ridge and the waiting giants. As one, the formation skidded to a stop and swung around as giant boulders began to rain down upon them.
Their focused turn became an all-out retreat, and the orcs who had baited them turned as well, making the pursuers the pursued.
"Damned clever pigs," Banak grumbled.
"They've got the tactical advantage with them giants on the ridge," agreed Torgar, who stood at Banak's side.
That advantage was likely leading to complete disaster. Those orcs in pursuit, with the artillery support of the giants, would likely cut deep into the dwar-ven lines.
The two dwarf commanders held their breaths, praying that the errant band would get out of the giants' effective range and would then be able to offer some defense against the orcs. Banak and Torgar measured the ground, both calling out commands to support groups, moving all the remaining dwarves into position to catch and bolster their running kin.
Their plans took a sudden turn, though, as one group from the fleeing dwarves broke away from the main force, turning back upon the orcs with sudden ferocity.
"That'd be Pwent," Banak muttered.
Torgar tipped his helmet in admiration of the brave Gutbusters.
Pwent and his boys hit the orc line with abandon, and that line broke almost immediately.
The giants turned their attention to that particular area. Boulders rained down, but there were many more orcs than dwarves, a ratio of more than five to one—and that ratio held up concerning the numbers dropped by giant-thrown stones.
The pursuit was over and the main dwarven force was able to return to their defensive positions. All eyes turned back to the area of carnage, to see a group f Gutbusters, less than half of those who had bravely turned and charged, come scrambling out, running zigzags up the inclining stone.
Banak's charges cheered for them, urging them on, shouting for them to, "Run!" and, "Duck!" and, "Keep going!"
But rocks smashed among the zigzagging group, and whenever one of Pwent's boys went down, the cheering dwarves gave a collective groan.
One figure in particular caught the attention of the onlookers. It was Pwent himself, running up the slope with not one, but a pair of wounded dwarves slung over his shoulders.
The cheers went up for him, for "Pwent, Pwent, Pwent!"
He lagged behind, so he became the focus of the giants as well. Rocks smashed down all around him. Still he charged on, roaring with every step, determined to get his wounded boys out of there.
A rock hit the ground behind him and skipped forward, slamming him in the back and sending him flying forward. The wounded dwarves rolled off to either side, all three hitting the ground hard.
Up above, cheers turned to stunned silence.
Pwent struggled to get up.
Another stone clipped him and laid him face down.
Two figures broke out from the dwarf ranks then, running fast on longer legs, sprinting down the slope toward the fallen trio.
Amazingly, Pwent forced himself back up and turned to face the giants. He swung one arm up, slapping his other hand across his elbow so that his fist punched high in the air—as rude a gesture as he could offer.
Another boulder smashed the stone right
in front of him, then bounced up over him and clunked down behind.
And there stood Pwent, signaling curses at the giants.
* * *
Catti-brie wished that she had her bow with her! Then, perhaps, she could at least offer some cover against that suicidal charge.
Wulfgar outdistanced her, his hands free, for he had left Aegis-fang back up with the dwarves.
"Get to Pwent!" the barbarian cried, and he veered for one of the two more seriously wounded warriors.
Catti-brie reached the stubborn battlerager and grabbed him by the still-cursing arm.
"Come on, ye dolt!" she cried. "They'll crush you down!"
"Bah! They're as stupid as they are tall!" Pwent shouted.
He pulled his arm from Catti-brie, hooked a finger of each hand into either side of his mouth, and pulled it wide, sticking out his tongue at the distant behemoths.
He sobered almost at once, though, and not from Catti-brie's continuing pleas, but from the specter of Wulfgar crossing before him, an unconscious dwarf over one shoulder. Pwent watched as Wulfgar moved to the second fallen Gutbuster, a huge hand clasping over the scruff of the dwarf's neck and hoisting him easily.
When Catti-brie tugged again, Pwent didn't argue, and the woman pulled him along, back up the slope. The rain of boulders commenced with full force, but luck was with the trio and their unconscious cargo, and Wulfgar was hardly slowed by the burden of the two injured dwarves. Soon enough, they were out of range of the boulders. The frustrated giants went back to their shale then, filling the air with spinning and slashing sharp-edged stones.
* * *
Dwarves cheered wildly as the group of five approached. As one, the hundreds lifted their arms in rude gestures and stood defiantly against the whizzing missiles of slate.
"Get yer bandages ready," Banak shouted to Pikel Bouldershoulder, who was off to the side, jumping around excitedly.
"Oo oi!" the dwarf yelled back, and he turned and lifted an arm in salute to Banak.
The slate flew past, taking Pikel's raised arm at the elbow. The green-bearded dwarf put on a puzzled look and stumbled forward, then shrugged as if he didn't understand.
And his eyes went wide as he saw the severed limb—his severed limb! — lying off to the side.
His brother Ivan slammed into him from the side, slapping a cloak tightly around Pikel's blood-spurting stump, and other dwarves nearby howled and rushed to help.
Pikel was sitting then, ushered down by his brother.
"Oooo," he said.
CHAPTER 16 EMBRACING THE HUNTER
Ad'non Kareese's long, slender fingers traced a line down over Innovindil's delicate chin, down the moon elf's birdlike neck and to the base of her throat.
"Can you feel me?" the drow teased, though he believed, of course, that the paralyzed surface elf couldn't understand his language.
"Have your way with the creature and be done with her," Donnia said from behind him.
Ad'non smiled, keeping his head turned away from his companion so that she could not see the amusement he was taking at her obvious consternation. She understood his intended action as debasement more than any real emotional connection, of course—and as she was drow herself so she was certainly going to find her own pleasures with their paralyzed playthings—but still, there sounded a bit of unmistakable agitation around the edges of her voice.
Amusing.
"If I find you soft and warm, perhaps I will keep you alive for a while, Ad'non said to Innovindil.
He watched the surface elf's eyes as he spoke and could see that they were indeed reacting to the sound of his voice and the feel of his touch. Yes, she couldn't outwardly make any movements—the drow poison had done its job well—but she understood what was happening, understood what he was about to do to her, and understood that she had no chance to get out of it.
That made it all the sweeter.
Ad'non ran his hand lower, across the female's small breasts and down over her belly. Then he stood up and stepped back. He glanced back at Donnia, who stood with her arms crossed over her chest.
"We should drag them to a different cave," he said to his companion. "Let us keep them prisoner."
"Her, perhaps," Donnia replied, indicating Innovindil. "For that one, there will be only death."
It seemed fine enough to Ad'non, and he glanced back at the female elf and grinned.
And he couldn't see her—a ball of blackness covered her and her companion.
Never to be taken completely by surprise, the two dark elves swung around, Ad'non unsheathing his swords, Donnia drawing a blade and her hand crossbow. The form behind them, by the entrance, was easily enough distinguishable. It was a drow standing calmly, standing ready, scimitars drawn.
"Traitor!" Donnia growled, and she lifted her crossbow and fired.
* * *
Drizzt trembled with rage when he first entered the cave, seeing the two elves lying flat, and the two drow standing over them. He had known of the trouble before he'd ever come in, for the calls and stomping hooves of the pegasi outside had alerted him from some distance away. Without thinking twice, the drow ranger had broken into a run, leaping down the flat rock from which he'd often observed the area, and charging between the winged horses even as the darkness globes dissipated.
So alarmed was Drizzt that he hadn't even paused long enough to bring forth Guenhwyvar.
And he faced the drow pair.
He didn't even see the movement, but he heard the distinctive click, and remembered well enough that telltale sound. The ranger spun, pulling his cloak in a wide sweep around him.
His quick defense caught the dart in the swinging cloak, but even as the dart stuck in place, the second click sounded. Drizzt spun again, but the second dart got past the flying cloak and struck him in the hip.
Almost immediately, Drizzt felt the numbing chill of the drow poison.
He staggered back toward the exit and thought to call in Guenhwyvar. He couldn't reach for his belt pouch, though, for it was all he could do to hold fast to his weapons.
"How wonderful of you to join us, Drizzt Do'Urden," said the female drow who'd shot him.
Her words, spoken in the language of his homeland, brought him drifting back across the years, brought him back to images of Menzoberranzan and his family, of House Do'Urden and Zaknafein, of Narbondel glowing with heat and the great structures of the drow palaces, stalagmite and stalactite palaces, shaped and set with sweeping balconies and decorated with multicolored accents of faerie fire.
He saw it all so clearly—the early days beside his sisters and training with the weapons masters at Melee Magthere, the school for drow warriors.
The sound of metal clinking against stone woke him up, and only then did he realize that he was leaning heavily on the wall and that he had dropped one of his blades.
"Ah, Drizzt Do'Urden, I had hoped you would put up a better fight than this," said the male drow. The sound of his voice alone told Drizzt that his enemy was steadily approaching. "I have heard so much of your prowess."
Drizzt couldn't keep his eyes open. He felt the numbness flowing through his lower extremities so that he couldn't even feel the ground beneath his feet. The only reason he was still standing, he understood through the haze that was filtering his thoughts, was because of his angle against the wall.
The poison crept in, and so did the sword-wielding drow.
Drizzt tried to fight back against the numbness, tried hard to find his center, tried hard to shake his mind clear of the cloudy disorientation.
He could not.
"Now perhaps we have found a true plaything, Ad'non," he heard the drow female remark from somewhere so very, very distant.
"Too dangerous is this one, my dear Donnia," the male argued. "He dies quickly."
"As you will…"
Her voice trailed away, and it seemed to Drizzt as if he was falling far away, into a pit of blackness from which there could be no escape.
* * *
/> Wulfgar lay on the stone, peering down, trying to discern the best angle of approach toward the ledge where Taulmaril balanced precariously.
Behind him, Catti-brie tied a rope around her waist and checked the length of the cord.
"The devilish sword almost had me enthralled," the woman admitted as Wulfgar turned around and sat up facing her. "I've not felt its call so insistently in many months."
"Because you are tired," Wulfgar replied. "We're all tired. How many times have our enemies come at us? A dozen? They give us no rest."
"Just hit the damned thing with a rock, send it tumbling to the floor, and go get it," said Torgar, coming over with Shingles McRuff beside him.
Both of them were limping, and Shingles was holding one arm protectively close against his side.
"We've tried," Wulfgar replied.
"How is Pikel?" Catti-brie asked. "And Pwent?"
"Pwent's hopping mad," Shingles replied.
"Nothing new there," the woman remarked.
"And Pikel's said nothing but 'oooo' since he lost the arm," Shingles added. "I'm thinking it'll take him a bit afore he's used to it. Banak sent him down to Mithral Hall for better tending."
"He'll live, though, and that's more than many can say," added Torgar.
"Well, be quick about getting yer bow," Shingles said. "Might that we'll all be going inside the hall soon enough." He glanced back over his shoulder toward the distant ridge and the giants. "We can hold firm so far, as long as we're not stupid enough to chase the damned orcs back in range of the brutes. But they're bringin' up big logs and building giant-sized catapults. Once them things are throwing, we'll be fast out o' here."
Wulfgar and Catti-brie exchanged concerned looks, for neither had any answer to that logic.
"Banak would've called for the retreat to begin already," said Torgar, "except now we've got a force set west of Keeper's Dale, and he knows that if he surrenders this ground, they'll have the dickens getting back to the gate, since they'd be crossing the dale right under giant fire."
Again the two humans exchanged a concerned look. Their enemies had gained a huge tactical advantage, one that would drive the dwarves from the area, and yes, back into Mithral Hall. That much seemed certain.
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