The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  And as he lurched away, his leg caught the spear shaft hanging from his cloak.

  To his credit, Wulfgar managed to not fall over, but he was off balance, his posture and the positioning of his weapon all wrong, as the two nearer orcs howled and leaped at him.

  He drove Aegis-fang across his body, left to right, blocking a sword cut, but more with his arm than with the warhammer. He lifted his lower hand up desperately, turning the warhammer horizontal to parry a spear thrust from the other orc.

  But the thrust was a feint, and Wulfgar missed cleanly. As the orc retracted, its smile was all the barbarian needed to see to know that he had no way to stop the second thrust from driving the spear deep into his belly.

  He thought of Delly, lying cold in the snow.

  Bruenor stood with Catti-brie outside the eastern door of Mithral Hall. North of them, construction was on in full, strengthening the wall that ran from the steep mountainside along the spur all the way to the river. As long as that wall could hold back the orcs, Clan Battlehammer remained connected above ground to the rest of the Silver Marches. The ferry across the River Surbrin, barely a hundred feet from where Bruenor and Catti-brie stood, would be running soon, and it would only be needed for a short while anyway. The abutments of a strong bridge were already in place on both banks.

  The orcs could not get at them from the south without many days of forewarning, and such a journey through that broken ground would leave an army vulnerable at many junctures. With the line of catapults, archer posts, and other defensive assault points already set on the banks, particularly across the river, any orc assault using the river for passage would result in utter ruin for the attackers, much as it had for the dwarves of Citadel Felbarr when they had come to join the Battlehammer dwarves in their attempt to secure that most vital piece of ground.

  Neither Bruenor nor Catti-brie were looking at the dwarven handiwork at that point, however. Both had their eyes and thoughts turned farther north, to where Wulfgar had unexpectedly gone.

  “Ye ready to walk with him to Silverymoon?” Bruenor asked his adopted daughter after a long and uncomfortable silence, for the dwarf knew that Catti-brie harbored the very same feelings of dread as he.

  “My leg hurts with every step,” the woman admitted. “The boulder hit me good, and I don’t know that I’ll ever walk easy again.”

  Bruenor turned to her, his eyes moist. For she spoke the truth, he knew, and the clerics had told him in no uncertain terms. Catti-brie’s injuries would never fully heal. The fight in the western entry hall had left her with a limp that she would carry for the rest of her days, and possibly with more damage still. Priest Cordio had confided to Bruenor his fears that Catti-brie would never bear children, particularly given that the woman was nearing the end of her childbearing years anyway.

  “But I’m ready for the walk today,” Catti-brie said with determination, and without the slightest hesitance. “If Wulfgar crossed over that wall right as we’re speaking, I’d turn him to the river that we could be on our way. It is past time that Colson was returned to her father.”

  Bruenor managed a wide smile. “Ye be quick to get the girl and get ye back,” he ordered. “The snows’re letting go early this year, I’m thinking, and Gauntlgrym’s waiting!”

  “You believe that it really was Gauntlgrym?” Catti-brie dared to ask, and it was the first time anyone had actually put the most important question directly to the driven dwarf king. For on their journey back to Mithral Hall, before the coming of Obould, one of the caravan wagons had been swallowed up by a strange sinkhole, one that led, apparently, to an underground labyrinth. Bruenor had immediately proclaimed the place Gauntlgrym, an ancient and long-lost dwarven city, the pinnacle of power for the clan called Delzoun, a common heritage for all the dwarves of the North, Battlehammer, Mirabarran, Felbarran, and Adbarran alike.

  “Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor said with certainty, a claim he had been making in that tone since his return from the dead. “Moradin put me back here for a reason, girl, and that reason’ll be shown to me when I get meself to Gauntlgrym. There we’ll be findin’ the weapons we’re needing to drive the ugly orcs back to their holes, don’t ye doubt.”

  Catti-brie wasn’t about to argue with him, because she knew that Bruenor was in no mood for any debate. She and Drizzt had spoken at length about the dwarf’s plan, and about the possibility that the sinkhole had indeed been an entry point to the lost avenues of Gauntlgrym, and she had discussed it at length with Regis, as well, who had been poring over ancient maps and texts. The truth of it was that none of them had any idea whether or not the place was what Bruenor had decided it to be.

  And Bruenor wasn’t about to argue the point. His litany against the darkness that had settled on the land was a simple one, a single word: Gauntlgrym.

  “Durn stubborn fool of a boy,” Bruenor muttered, looking back to the north, his mind’s eye well beyond the wall that blocked his view. “He’s to slow it all down.”

  Catti-brie started to respond, but found that she could not speak past the lump that welled in her throat. Bruenor was complaining, of course, but in truth, his anger that Wulfgar’s rash decision to run off alone into orc-held lands would slow the dwarves’ plans was the most optimistic assessment of all.

  The woman gave in to her sense of dread for just a moment, and wondered if her duty to her friend would send her off alone across the Surbrin in search of Colson. And in that case, once the toddler had been retrieved, what then?

  CHAPTER 4

  BUILDING HIS KINGDOM

  The beams creaked for a moment, then a great rush of air swept across the onlookers as the counterweights sent the massive neck of the catapult swinging past. The basket released its contents, tri-pointed caltrops, in a line from the highest peak of the arc to the point of maximum momentum and distance.

  The rain of black metal plummeted from sight, and King Obould moved quickly to the lip of the cliff to watch them drop to the floor of Keeper’s Dale.

  Nukkels, Kna, and some of the others shifted uneasily, not pleased to see their god-king standing so near to a two-hundred-foot drop. Any of General Dukka’s soldiers, or more likely, proud Chieftain Grimsmal and his guards, could have rushed over and ended the rule of Obould with a simple shove.

  But Grimsmal, despite his earlier rumblings of discontent, nodded appreciatively at the defenses that had been set up on the northern ridge overlooking Mithral Hall’s sealed western door.

  “We have filled the valley floor with caltrops,” General Dukka assured Obould. He motioned to the many baskets set beside the line of catapults, all filled with stones ranging in size from a large fist to twice an orc’s head. “If the ugly dwarves come forth, we’ll shower them with death.”

  Obould looked down to the southwest, about two-thirds of the way across the broken valley from the dwarven complex, where a line of orcs chopped at the stone, digging a wide, deep trench. Directly to the king’s left, atop the cliff at the end of the trench, sat a trio of catapults, all sighted to rake the length of the ravine should the dwarves try to use it for cover against the orcs positioned in the west.

  Dukka’s plan was easy enough to understand: he would slow any dwarven advance across Keeper’s Dale as much as possible, so that his artillery and archers on high could inflict massive damage on the break-out army.

  “They came out of the eastern wall with great speed and cunning,” Obould warned the beaming general. “Encased in metal carts. A collapsed mountain wall did not slow them.”

  “From their door to the Surbrin was not far, my king,” Dukka dared reply. “Keeper’s Dale offers no such sanctuary.”

  “Do not underestimate them,” Obould warned. He stepped closer to General Dukka as he spoke, and the other orc seemed to shrink in stature before him. His voice ominous and loud, so that all could hear, Obould roared out, “They will come out with fury. They will have brooms before them to sweep aside your caltrops, and shielding above to block your arrows and stones. They
will have folding bridges, no doubt, and your trench will slow them not at all. King Bruenor is no fool, and does not charge into battle unprepared. The dwarves will know exactly where they need to go, and they will get there with all speed.”

  A long and uncomfortable silence followed, with many of the orcs looking at each other nervously.

  “Do you expect them to come forth, my king?” Grimsmal asked.

  “All that I expect from King Bruenor is that whatever he chooses to do, he will do it well, and with cunning,” Obould replied, and more than one orc jaw fell open to hear such compliments for a dwarf coming forth from an orc king.

  Obould considered those looks carefully in light of his disastrous attempt to break into Mithral Hall. He could not let any of them believe that he was speaking from weakness, from memories of his own bad judgment.

  “Witness the devastation of the ridge where you now place your catapults,” he said, waving his arm out to the west. Where once had stood a ridge line—one atop which Obould had placed allied frost giants and their huge war engines—loomed a torn and jagged crevice of shattered stones. “The dwarves are on their home ground. They know every stone, every rise, and every tunnel. They know how to fight. But we…” he roared, striding about for maximum effect, and lifting his clawing hands to the sky. He let the words hang in the air for many heartbeats before continuing, “We do not deny them the credit they deserve. We accept that they are formidable and worthy foes, and in that knowledge, we prepare.”

  He turned directly to General Dukka and Chieftain Grimsmal, who had edged closer together. “We know them, but even against what we have shown to them in conquering this land, they still do not know us. This”—he swept his arm out to encompass the catapults, archers, and all the rest—“they know, and expect. Your preparations are half done, General Dukka, and half done well. Now envision how King Bruenor will try to counter everything you have done, and complete your preparations to defeat that counter.”

  “B-but…my king?” General Dukka stammered.

  “I have all confidence in you,” Obould said. “Begin by trapping your own entrenchments on the western side of Keeper’s Dale, so that if the dwarves reach that goal, your warriors can quickly retreat and leave them exposed on another battlefield of your choosing.”

  Dukka began to nod, his eyes shining, and his lips curled into a wicked grin.

  “Tell me,” Obould bade him.

  “I can set a second force in the south to get to the doors behind them,” the orc replied. “To cut off any dwarf army that charges across the valley.”

  “Or a second force that appears to do so,” said Obould, and he paused and let all around him digest that strange response.

  “So they will turn and run back,” Dukka answered at length. “And then have to cross yet again to gain the ground they covet.”

  “I have never wavered in my faith in you, General Dukka,” said Obould, and he nodded and even patted the beaming orc on the shoulder as he walked past.

  His smile was twofold, and genuine. He had just strengthened the loyalty of an important general, and had impressed the potentially troublesome Grimsmal in the process. Obould knew what played in Grimsmal’s mind as he swept up behind the departing entourage. If Obould, and apparently his commanders, could think so far ahead of King Bruenor, then what might befall any orc chieftain who plotted against the King of Many-Arrows?

  Those doubts were the real purpose of his visit to Keeper’s Dale, after all, and not any concerns about General Dukka’s readiness. For it was all moot, Obould understood. King Bruenor would never come forth from those western doors. As the dwarf had learned in his breakout to the east—and as Obould had learned in trying to flood into Mithral Hall—any such advance would demand too high a cost in blood.

  Wulfgar screamed at the top of his lungs, as if his voice alone might somehow, impossibly, halt the thrust of the spear.

  A blue-white flash stung the barbarian’s eyes, and for a moment he thought it was the burning pain of the spear entering his belly. But when he came out of his blink, he saw the spear-wielding orc flipping awkwardly in front of him. The creature hit the ground limp, already dead, and by the time Wulfgar turned to face its companion that orc had dropped its sword and grasped and clawed at its chest. Blood poured from a wound, both front and back.

  Wulfgar didn’t understand. He jabbed his warhammer at the wounded orc and missed—another streaking arrow, a bolt of lightning, soared past Wulfgar and hit the orc in the shoulder, throwing it to the ground near its fallen comrade. Wulfgar knew that tell-tale missile, and he roared again and turned to face his rescuer.

  He was surprised to see Drizzt, not Catti-brie, holding Taulmaril the Heartseeker.

  The drow sprinted toward him, his light steps barely ruffling the blanket of deep snow. He started to nock another arrow, but tossed the bow aside instead and drew forth his two scimitars. He tossed a salute at Wulfgar then darted to the side as he neared, turning into a handful of battle-ready orcs.

  “Biggrin!” Drizzt shouted as Wulfgar charged in his wake.

  “Tempus!” the barbarian responded.

  He put Aegis-fang up behind his head, and let it fly from both hands, the warhammer spinning end-over-end for the back of Drizzt’s head.

  Drizzt ducked and dropped to his knees at the last moment. The five orcs, following the drow’s movements, had no time to react to the spinning surprise. At the last moment, the orcs threw up their arms defensively and tangled each other in their desperation to get out of the way. Aegis-fang took one squarely, and that flying orc clipped another enough to send both tumbling back.

  The remaining three hadn’t even begun to re-orient themselves to their opponents when the fury of Drizzt fell over them. He skidded on his knees as the hammer flew past, but leaped right back up to his feet and charged forward with abandon, his deadly blades crossing before him, going out wide, then coming back in another fast cross on the backhand. He counted on confusion, and confusion he found. The three orcs fell away in moments, slashed and stabbed.

  Wulfgar, still chasing, summoned Aegis-fang back to his waiting hands, then veered inside the drow’s turn so that his long legs brought him up beside Drizzt as they approached the encampment’s main area of tents, where many orcs had gathered.

  But those orcs would not stand against them, and any indecision the porcine humanoids might have had about running away was snapped away a moment later when a giant panther roared from the side.

  Weapons went flying, and orcs went running, scattering to the winter’s winds.

  Wulfgar heaved Aegis-fang after the nearest, dropping it dead in its tracks. He put his head down and plowed on even faster—or started to, until Drizzt grabbed him by the arm and tugged him around.

  “Let them go,” the drow said. “There are many more about, and we will lose our advantage in the chase.”

  Wulfgar skidded to a stop and again called his magical war-hammer back to his grasp. He took a moment to survey the dead, the wounded, and the fleeing orcs then met Drizzt’s gaze and nodded, his bloodlust sated.

  And he laughed. He couldn’t help it. It came from somewhere deep inside, a desperate release, a burst of protest against the absurdity of his own actions. It came from those distant memories again, of running free in Icewind Dale. He had caught the “Biggrin” reference so easily, understanding in that single name that Drizzt wanted him to throw the warhammer at the back of the drow’s head.

  How was that even possible?

  “Wulfgar has a desire to die?” Drizzt asked, and he, too, chuckled.

  “I knew you would arrive. It is what you do.”

  Kna curled around his arm, rubbing his shoulder, purring and growling as always. Seated at the table in the tent, King Obould seemed not even to notice her, which of course only made her twist, curl, and growl even more intensely.

  Across the table, General Dukka and Chieftain Grimsmal understood all too clearly that Kna was their reminder that Obould was above t
hem, in ways they simply could never hope to attain.

  “Five blocks free,” General Dukka explained, “block” being the orc military term coined by Obould to indicate a column of one thousand warriors, marching ten abreast and one hundred deep. “Before the turn of Tarsakh.”

  “You can march them to the Surbrin, north of Mithral Hall, in five days,” Chieftain Grimsmal remarked. “Four days if you drive them hard.”

  “I would drive them through the stones for the glory of King Obould!” Dukka replied.

  Obould did not appear impressed.

  “There is no need of such haste,” he said at length, after sitting with a contemplative stare that had the other two chewing their lips in anticipation.

  “The onset of Tarsakh will likely bring a clear path to the dwarven battlements,” Chieftain Grimsmal dared to reply.

  “A place we will not go.”

  The blunt response had Grimsmal sliding back in his chair, and brought a stupefied blink from Dukka.

  “Perhaps I can free six blocks,” the general said.

  “Five or fifty changes nothing,” Obould declared. “The ascent is not our wisest course.”

  “You know another route to strike at them?” Dukka asked.