The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  The Orc King

  ( Transitions - 1 )

  Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Drizzt is back in this exciting new trilogy from R.A. Salvatore!

  An uneasy peace between the dwarves of Mithral Hall and the orcs of the newly established Kingdom of Many-Arrows can't last long. The orc tribes united under Obould begin to fight each other, and Bruenor is determined to finish the war that nearly killed him and almost destroyed everything he's worked to build. But it will take more than swords and axes to bring a lasting peace to the Spine of the World. Powerful individuals on both sides may have to change the way they see each other. They may have to start to talk. But it won't be easy.

  R. A. Salvatore

  The Orc King

  Transition, book 1

  WELCOME TO MANY-ARROWS

  …Toogwik Tuk said with a respectful bow. “The presence of Clan Karuck and its worthy leader makes us greater.”

  Grguch let his gaze drift slowly across the three visitors then around the gathering to Hakuun. “You will learn the truth of your hopeful claim,” he said, his eyes turning back to Toogwik Tuk, “when I have the bones of dwarves and elves and ugly humans to crush beneath my boot.”

  Dnark couldn’t suppress a grin as he looked to Ung-thol, who seemed similarly pleased. Despite their squeamishness at being so badly outnumbered among the fierce and unpredictable tribe, things were going quite well.

  PRELUDE

  Drizzt Do’Urden crouched in a crevice between a pair of boulders on the side of a mountain, looking down at a curious gathering. A human, an elf, and a trio of dwarves—at least a trio—stood and sat around three flat-bedded wagons that were parked in a triangle around a small campfire. Sacks and kegs dotted the perimeter of the camp, along with a cluster of tents, reminding Drizzt that there was more to the company than the five in his view. He looked past the wagons to a small, grassy meadow, where several draft horses grazed. Just to the side of them, he saw again that which had brought him to the edge of the camp: a pair of stakes capped with the severed heads of orcs.

  The band and their missing fellows, then, were indeed members of Casin Cu Calas, the “Triple C,” an organization of vigilantes who took their name from the Elvish saying that meant “honor in battle.”

  Given the reputation of Casin Cu Calas, whose favorite tactic was to storm orc homesteads in the dark of night and decapitate any males found inside, Drizzt found the name more than a little ironic, and more than a little distasteful.

  “Cowards, one and all,” he whispered as he watched one man hold up a full-length black and red robe. The man flapped it clean of the night’s dirt and reverently folded it, bringing it to his lips to kiss it before he replaced it in the back of one wagon. He reached down and picked up the second tell-tale garment, a black hood. He moved to put that, too, in the wagon but hesitated, then slipped the hood over his head, adjusting it so that he could see through the two eye-holes. That drew the attention of the other four.

  The other five, Drizzt noted as the fourth dwarf walked back around a corner of the wagon to regard the hooded man.

  “Casin Cu Calas!” the man proclaimed, and held up both his arms, fists clenched, in an exaggerated victory pose. “Suffer no orc to live!”

  “Death to the orcs!” the others cried in reply.

  The hooded fool issued a barrage of insults and threats against the porcine-featured humanoids. Up on the side of the hill, Drizzt Do’Urden shook his head and deliberately slid his bow, Taulmaril, off his shoulder. He put it up, notched an arrow, and drew back in one fluid motion.

  “Suffer no orc to live,” the hooded man said again—or started to, until a flash of lightning shot through the camp and drove into a keg of warm ale beside him. As the keg exploded, liquid flying, a sheet of dissipating electricity momentarily stole the darkness from the growing twilight.

  All six of the companions fell back, shielding their eyes. When they regained their sight, one and all saw the lone figure of a lean dark elf standing atop one of their wagons.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden,” gasped one of the dwarves, a fat fellow with an orange beard and an enormous temple-to-temple eyebrow.

  A couple of the others nodded and mouthed their agreement, for there was no mistaking the dark elf standing before them, with his two scimitars belted at his hips and Taulmaril, the Heartseeker, again slung over one shoulder. The drow’s long, thick white hair blew in the late afternoon breeze, his cloak flapped out behind him, and even the dull light remaining could do little to diminish the shine of his silvery-white mithral-lined shirt.

  Slowly pulling off his hood, the human glanced at the elf then back at Drizzt. “Your reputation precedes you, Master Do’Urden,” he said. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

  “‘Honor’ is a strange word,” Drizzt replied. “Stranger still coming from the lips of one who would wear the black hood.”

  A dwarf to the side of the wagon bristled and even stepped forward, but was blocked by the arm of the orange-bearded fellow.

  The human cleared his throat uncomfortably and tossed the hood into the wagon behind him. “That thing?” he asked. “Found along the road, of course. Do you assign it any significance?”

  “No more so than the significance I assign the robe you so reverently folded and kissed.”

  That brought another glance at the elf, who, Drizzt noticed, was sliding a bit more to the side—notably behind a line etched in the dirt, one glittering with shiny dust. When Drizzt brought his attention more fully back to the human, he noted the change in the man’s demeanor, a clear scowl replacing the feigned innocence.

  “A robe you yourself should wear,” the man said boldly. “To honor King Bruenor Battlehammer, whose deeds—”

  “Speak not his name,” Drizzt interrupted. “You know nothing of Bruenor, of his exploits and his judgments.”

  “I know that he was no friend of—”

  “You know nothing,” Drizzt said again, more forcefully.

  “The tale of Shallows!” one of the dwarves roared.

  “I was there,” Drizzt reminded him, silencing the fool.

  The human spat upon the ground. “Once a hero, now gone soft,” he muttered. “On orcs, no less.”

  “Perhaps,” Drizzt replied, and in the blink of an astonished eye, he brought his scimitars out in his black-skinned hands. “But I’ve not gone soft on highwaymen and murderers.”

  “Murderers?” the human retorted incredulously. “Murderers of orcs?”

  Even as he finished speaking, the dwarf at the side of the wagon pushed through his orange-bearded companion’s arm and thrust his hand forward, sending a hand-axe spinning at the drow.

  Drizzt easily side-stepped the unsurprising move, but not content to let the missile harmlessly fly past, and seeing a second dwarf charging from over to the left, he snapped out his scimitar Icingdeath into the path of the axe. He drew the blade back as it contacted the missile, absorbing the impact. A twist of his wrist had the scimitar’s blade firmly up under the axe’s head. In a single fluid movement, Drizzt pivoted back the other way and whipped Icingdeath around, launching the axe at the charging dwarf.

  The rumbling warrior brought his shield up high to block the awkwardly spinning axe, which clunked against the wooden buckler and bounced aside. But so too fell away that dwarf’s determined growl when he again lowered the shield, to find his intended target nowhere in sight.

  For Drizzt, his speed enhanced by a pair of magical anklets, had timed his break perfectly with the rise of the dwarf’s shield. He had taken only a few steps, but enough, he knew, to confuse the determined dwarf. At the last moment, the dwarf noticed him and skidded to a stop, throwing out a weak, backhanded swipe with his warham
mer.

  But Drizzt was inside the arch of the hammer, and he smacked its handle with one blade, stealing the minimal momentum of the swing. He struck harder with his second blade, finding the crease between the dwarf’s heavy gauntlet and his metal-banded bracer. The hammer went flying, and the dwarf howled and grabbed at his bleeding, broken wrist.

  Drizzt leaped atop his shoulder, kicked him in the face for good measure, and sprang away, charging at the orange-bearded dwarf and the axe thrower, both of whom were coming on fast.

  Behind them, the human urged them in their charge, but did not follow, reaffirming Drizzt’s suspicions regarding his courage, or lack thereof.

  Drizzt’s sudden reversal and rush had the two dwarves on their heels, and the drow came in furiously, his scimitars rolling over each other and striking from many different angles. The axe-thrower, a second small axe in hand, also held a shield, and so fared better in blocking the blades, but the poor orange-bearded fellow could only bring his great mace out diagonally before him, altering its angle furiously to keep up with the stream of strikes. He got nicked and clipped half a dozen times, drawing howls and grunts, and only the presence of his companion, and those others all around demanding the attention of the drow, prevented him from being seriously wounded, or even slain on the spot. For Drizzt could not finish his attacks without opening himself up to counters from the dwarf’s companions.

  After the initial momentum played out, the drow fell back. With typical stubbornness, the two dwarves advanced. The one with the orange beard, his hands bleeding and one finger hanging by a thread of skin, attempted a straightforward overhead chop. His companion half turned to lead with his shield then pivoted to launch a horizontal swing meant to come within a hair’s breadth of his companion and swipe across from Drizzt’s left to right.

  The impressive coordination of the attack demanded either a straight and swift retreat or a complex two-angled parry, and normally, Drizzt would have just used his superior speed to skip back out of range.

  But he recognized the orange-bearded dwarf’s tenuous grip, and he was a drow, after all, whose entire youth was spent in learning how to execute exactly those sorts of multi-angled defenses. He thrust his left scimitar out before him, rode his hand up high and turned the blade down to intercept the sidelong swing, and brought his right hand across up high over his left, blade horizontal, to block the downward strike.

  As the hammer coming across connected with his blade, Drizzt punched his hand forward and turned his scimitar to divert the dwarf’s weapon low, and in doing so, the drow was able to take half a step to his left, lining himself up more fully with the other’s overhead strike. When he made contact with that weapon, he had his full balance, his feet squarely set beneath his shoulders.

  He dropped into a crouch as the weapon came down, then pushed up hard with all his strength. The dwarf’s badly-injured top hand could not hold, and the drow’s move forced the diminutive warrior to go right up to his tip-toes to keep any grasp on his weapon at all.

  Drizzt turned back to the right as he rose, and with a sudden and powerful move, he angled and drove the dwarf’s weapon across to his right, putting it in the path of the other dwarf’s returning backhand. As the pair tangled, Drizzt disengaged and executed a reverse spin on the ball of his left foot, coming all the way around to launch a circle kick into the back of the orange-bearded dwarf that shoved him into his companion. The great mace went flying, and so did the dwarf with the orange beard, as the other dwarf ducked a shoulder and angled his shield to guide him aside.

  “Clear for a shot!” came a cry from the side, demanding Drizzt’s attention, and the drow abruptly halted and turned to see the elf, who held a heavy crossbow leveled Drizzt’s way.

  Drizzt yelled and charged at the elf, diving into a forward roll and turning as he went so that he came up into a sidelong step. He closed rapidly.

  Then he rammed into an invisible wall, as expected, for he understood that the crossbow had been only a ruse, and no missile could have crossed through to strike at him through the unseen magical barrier.

  Drizzt rebounded back and fell to one knee, moving shakily. He started up, but seemed to stumble again, apparently dazed.

  He heard the dwarves charging in at his back, and they believed beyond any doubt that there was no way he could recover in time to prevent their killing blows.

  “And all for the sake of orcs, Drizzt Do’Urden,” he heard the elf, a wizard by trade, remark, and he saw the lithe creature shaking his head in dismay as he dropped the crossbow aside. “Not so honorable an end for one of your reputation.”

  * * * * *

  Taugmaelle lowered her gaze, stunned and fearful. Never could she have anticipated a visit from King Obould VI, Lord of Many-Arrows, particularly on this, the eve of her departure for the Glimmerwood, where she was to be wed.

  “You are a beautiful bride,” the young orc king remarked, and Taugmaelle dared glance up to see Obould nodding appreciatively. “This human—what is his name?”

  “Handel Aviv,” she said.

  “Does he understand the good fortune that has shone upon him?”

  As that question digested, Taugmaelle found courage. She looked up again at her king and did not avert her eyes, but rather met his gaze.

  “I am the fortunate one,” she said, but her smile went away almost immediately as Obould responded with a scowl.

  “Because he is human?” Obould blustered, and the other orcs in the small house all stepped away from him fearfully. “A higher being? Because you, a mere orc, are being accepted by this Handel Aviv and his kin? Have you elevated yourself above your race with this joining, Taugmaelle of Clan Bignance?”

  “No, my king!” Taugmaelle blurted, tears rushing from her eyes. “No. Of course, nothing of the sort…”

  “Handel Aviv is the fortunate one!” Obould declared.

  “I…I only meant that I love him, my king,” Taugmaelle said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  The sincerity of that statement was obvious, though, and had Taugmaelle not averted her gaze to the floor again, she would have seen the young orc king shift uncomfortably, his bluster melting away.

  “Of course,” he replied after a while. “You are both fortunate, then.”

  “Yes, my king.”

  “But do not ever view yourself as his lesser,” Obould warned. “You are proud. You are orc. You are Many-Arrows orc. It is Handel Aviv who is marrying above his heritage. Do not ever forget that.”

  “Yes, my king.”

  Obould looked around the small room to the faces of his constituents, a couple standing slack-jawed as if they had no idea how to react to his unexpected appearance, and several others nodding dully.

  “You are a beautiful bride,” the king said again. “A sturdy representative of all that is good in the Kingdom of Many-Arrows. Go forth with my blessing.”

  “Thank you, my king,” Taugmaelle replied, but Obould hardly heard her, for he had already turned on his heel and moved out the door. He felt a bit foolish for his overreaction, to be sure, but he reminded himself pointedly that his sentiments had not been without merit.

  “This is good for our people,” said Taska Toill, Obould’s court advisor. “Each of these extra-racial joinings reinforces the message that is Obould. And that this union is to be sanctified in the former Moonwood is no small thing.”

  “The steps are slow,” the king lamented.

  “Not so many years ago, we were hunted and killed,” Taska reminded. “Unending war. Conquest and defeat. It has been a century of progress.”

  Obould nodded, though he did remark, “We are still hunted,” under his breath. Worse, he thought but did not say, were the quiet barbs, where even those who befriended the people of Many-Arrows did so with a sense of superiority, a deep-set inner voice that told them of their magnanimity in befriending, even championing the cause of such lesser creatures. The surrounding folk of the Silver Marches would often forgive an orc for behavior they wou
ld not accept among their own, and that wounded Obould as greatly as those elves, dwarves, and humans who outwardly and openly sneered at his people.

  Drizzt looked up at the elf wizard’s superior smile, but when the drow, too, grinned, and even offered a wink, the elf’s face went blank.

  A split second later, the elf shrieked and flew away, as Guenhwyvar, six hundred pounds of feline power, leaped against him, taking him far, and taking him down.

  One of the dwarves charging at Drizzt let out a little cry in surprise, but despite the revelation of a panther companion, neither of the charging dwarves were remotely prepared when the supposedly stunned Drizzt spun up and around at them, fully aware and fully balanced. As he came around, a backhand from Twinkle, the scimitar in his left hand, took half the orange beard from one dwarf, who was charging with abandon, his heavy weapon up over his head. He still tried to strike at Drizzt, but swirled and staggered, lost within the burning pain and shock. He came forward with his strike, but the scimitar was already coming back the other way, catching him across the wrists.

  His great mace went flying. The tough dwarf lowered his shoulder in an attempt to run over his enemy, but Drizzt was too agile, and he merely shifted to the side and trailed his left foot, over which the wounded dwarf tumbled, cracking his skull against the magical wall.

  His companion fared no better. As Twinkle slashed across in the initial backhand, the dwarf shifted back on his heels, turning to bring his shield in line, and brought his weapon arm back to begin a heavy strike. Drizzt’s second blade thrust in behind the backhand, however, the drow cleverly turning his wrist over so that the curving blade of the scimitar rolled over the edge of the shield and dived down to strike that retracted weapon arm right where the bicep met the shoulder. As the dwarf, too far into his move to halt it completely, came around and forward with the strike, his own momentum drove the scimitar deeper into his flesh.