The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  We construct our days, bit by bit, tenday by tenday, year by year. Our lives take on a routine, and then we bemoan that routine. Predictability, it seems, is a double-edged blade of comfort and boredom. We long for it, we build it, and when we find it, we reject it.

  Because while change is not always growth, growth is always rooted in change. A finished person, like a finished house, is a static thing. Pleasant, perhaps, or beautiful or admirable, but not for long exciting.

  King Bruenor has reached the epitome, the pinnacle, the realization of every dream a dwarf could fathom. And still King Bruenor desires change, though he would refuse to phrase it that way, admitting only his love of adventure. He has found his post, and now seeks reasons to abandon that post at every turn. He seeks, because inside of him he knows that he must seek to grow. Being a king will make Bruenor old before his time, as the old saying goes.

  Not all people are possessed of such spirits. Some desire and cling to the comfort of the routine, to the surety that comes with the completion of the construction of life’s details. On the smaller scale, they become wedded to their daily routines. They become enamored of the predictability. They calm their restless souls in the confidence that they have found their place in the multiverse, that things are the way they are supposed to be, that there are no roads left to explore and no reason to wander.

  On the larger scale, such people become fearful and resentful—sometimes to extremes that defy logic—of anyone or anything that intrudes on that construct. A societal change, a king’s edict, an attitude shift in the neighboring lands, even events that have nothing to do with them personally can set off a reaction of dissonance and fear. When Lady Alustriel initially allowed me to walk the streets of Silverymoon openly, she found great resistance. Her people, well protected by one of the finest armies in all the land and by a leader whose magical abilities are renowned throughout the world, did not fear Drizzt Do’Urden. Nay, they feared the change that I represented. My very presence in Silvery-moon infringed upon the construct of their lives, threatened their understanding of the way things were, threatened the way things were supposed to be. Even though, of course, I posed no threat to them whatsoever.

  That is the line we all straddle, between comfort and adventure. There are those who find satisfaction, even fulfillment, in the former, and there are those who are forever seeking.

  It is my guess, and can only be my guess, that the fears of the former are rooted in fear of the greatest mystery of all, death. It is no accident that those who construct the thickest walls are most often rooted firmly, immovably, in their faith. The here and now is as it is, and the better way will be found in the afterlife. That proposition is central to the core beliefs that guide the faithful, with, for many, the added caveat that the afterlife will only fulfill its promise if the here and now remains in strict accord with the guiding principles of the chosen deity.

  I count myself among the other group, the seekers. Bruenor, too, obviously so, for he will ever be the discontented king. Cattibrie cannot be rooted. There is no sparkle in her eyes greater than the one when she looks upon a new road. And even Regis, for all his complaints regarding the trials of the road, wanders and seeks and fights. Wulfgar, too, will not be confined. He has seen his life in Mithral Hall and has concluded, rightfully and painfully, that there is for him a better place and a better way. It saddens me to see him go. For more than a score of years he has been my friend and companion, a trusted arm in battle and in life. I miss him dearly, every day, and yet when I think of him, I smile for him. Wulfgar has left Mithral Hall because he has outgrown all that this place can offer, because he knows that in Icewind Dale he will find a home where he will do more good—for himself and for those around him.

  I, too, hold little faith that I will live out my days in Bruenor’s kingdom. It is not just boredom that propels my steps along paths unknown, but a firm belief that the guiding principle of life must be a search not for what is, but for what could be. To look at injustice or oppression, at poverty or slavery, and shrug helplessly, or worse to twist a god’s “word” to justify such states, is anathema to the ideal, and to me, the ideal is achieved only when the ideal is sought. The ideal is not a gift from the gods, but a promise from them.

  We are possessed of reason. We are possessed of generosity. We are possessed of sympathy and empathy. We have within us a better nature, and it is one that cannot be confined by the constructed walls of anything short of the concept of heaven itself. Within the very logic of that better nature, a perfect life cannot be found in a world that is imperfect.

  So we dare to seek. So we dare to change. Even knowing that we will not get to “heaven” in this life is no excuse to hide within the comfort of routine. For it is in that seeking, in that continual desire to improve ourselves and to improve the world around us, that we walk the road of enlightenment, that we eventually can approach the gods with heads bowed in humility, but with confidence that we did their work, that we tried to lift ourselves and our world to their lofty standards, the image of the ideal.

  — Drizzt Do’Urden

  CHAPTER 15

  CONVERGENCE OF CRISES

  Magical horses striding long, the fiery chariot cut a line of orange across the pre-dawn sky. Flames whipped in the driving wind, but for the riders they did not burn. Standing beside Lady Alustriel, Catti-brie felt that wind indeed, her auburn hair flying wildly behind her, but the bite of the breeze was mitigated by the warmth of Alustriel’s animated cart. She lost herself in that sensation, allowing the howl of the wind to deafen her thoughts as well. For a short time, she was free to just exist, under the last twinkling stars with all of her senses consumed by the extraordinary nature of the journey.

  She didn’t see the approaching silver line of the Surbrin, and was only vaguely aware of a dip in altitude as Alustriel brought the conjured chariot down low over the water, and to a running stop on the ground outside the eastern door of Mithral Hall.

  Few dwarves were out at that early hour, but those who were, mostly those standing guard along the northern wall, came running and cheering for the Lady of Silverymoon. For of course they knew it was she, whose chariot had graced them several times over the past few months.

  Their cheering grew all the louder when they noted Alustriel’s passenger, the Princess of Mithral Hall.

  “Well met,” more than one of the bearded folk greeted.

  “King Bruenor’s not yet returned,” said one, a grizzled old sort, with one eye lost and patched over, and half his great black beard torn away. Catti-brie smiled as she recognized the fierce and fiercely loyal Shingles McRuff, who had come to Mithral Hall beside Torgar Hammerstriker. “Should be along any day.”

  “And be knowin’ that ye’re all welcome, and that ye’ll find all the hospitality o’ Mithral Hall for yerself,” another dwarf offered.

  “That is most generous,” said Alustriel. She turned and looked back to the east as she continued, “More of my people—wizards from Silverymoon—will be coming in throughout the morn, on all manner of flight, some self-propelled and some riding ebony flies, and two on broomsticks and another on a carpet. I pray your archers will not shoot them down.”

  “Ebony flies?” Shingles replied. “Flying on bugs, ye mean?”

  “Big bugs,” said Catti-brie.

  “Would have to be.”

  “We come armed with spells of creation, for we wish to see the bridge across the Surbrin opened and secure as soon as possible,” Alustriel explained. “For the sake of Mithral Hall and for all the goodly kingdoms of the Silver Marches.”

  “More well met, then!” bellowed Shingles, and he led yet another cheer.

  Catti-brie moved toward the back edge of the chariot, but Alustriel took her by the shoulder. “We can fly out to the west and seek King Bruenor,” she offered.

  Catti-brie paused and looked that way, but shook her head and replied, “He will return presently, I’m sure.”

  Catti-brie accepted Shingles�
�s offered hand, and let the dwarf ease her down to the ground. Shingles was quick to Alustriel, similarly helping her, and the Lady, though not injured as was Catti-brie, graciously accepted. She moved back from her cart and motioned for the others to follow.

  Alustriel could have simply dismissed the flaming chariot and the horses made of magical fire. Dispelling her own magic was easy work, of course, and the fiery team and cart alike would have flared for an instant before they winked into blackness, a final puff of smoke drifting and dissipating into the air.

  But Lady Alustriel had been using that particular spell for many years, and had put her own flavor into it, both in the construction of the cart and team and in the dismissal of the magic. Figuring that the dwarves could use a bit of spirit-lifting, the powerful wizardess performed her most impressive variation of the dispelling.

  The horse team snorted and reared, flames shooting from swirling, fiery nostrils. As one, they leaped into the air, straight up, the cart lurching behind them. Some twenty feet off the ground, the many sinews of fire that held the form broke apart, orange tendrils soaring every which way, and as they reached their limits, exploded with deafening bangs, throwing showers of sparks far and wide.

  The dwarves howled with glee, and Catti-brie, for all of her distress, couldn’t contain a giggle.

  When it ended a few heartbeats later, their ears ringing with the echoes of the retorts, their eyes blinking against the sting of the brilliant flashes, Catti-brie offered an appreciative smile to her friend and driver.

  “It was just the enchantment they needed,” she whispered, and Alustriel replied with a wink.

  They went into Mithral Hall side-by-side.

  Early the next morning, Shingles again found himself in the role of official greeter in the region east of the hall’s eastern gate, for it was he who first caught up with the six adventurers returning from the place Bruenor had named Gauntlgrym. The old Mirabarran dwarf had directed the watch overnight, and was sorting out assignments for the workday, both along the fortifications on the northern mountain spur and at the bridge. No stranger to the work of wizards, Shingles repeatedly warned his boys to stay well back when Alustriel’s gang came out to work their dweomers. When word came that King Bruenor and the others had returned, Shingles moved fast to the south to intercept them.

  “Did ye find it, then, me king?” he asked excitedly, giving voice to the thoughts and whispers of all the others around him.

  “Aye,” Bruenor replied, but in a tone surprisingly unenthusiastic. “We found something, though we’re not for knowing if it’s Gauntlgrym just yet.” He motioned to the large sack that Torgar carried, and the rolled tapestry slung over Cordio’s shoulder. “We’ve some things for Nanfoodle and me scholars to look over. We’ll get our answers.”

  “Yer girl’s come home,” Shingles explained. “Lady Alustriel flew her in on that chariot o’ fire. And the Lady’s here, too, along with ten Silverymoon wizards, all come to work on the bridge.”

  Bruenor, Drizzt, and Regis exchanged glances as Shingles finished.

  “Me girl alone?” Bruenor asked.

  “With the Lady.”

  Bruenor stared at Shingles.

  “Wulfgar’s not returned with ’em,” the old Mirabarran dwarf said. “Catti-brie said nothing of it, and I didn’t think it me place to ask.”

  Bruenor looked to Drizzt.

  “He is far west,” the drow said quietly, and Bruenor inadvertently glanced out that way then nodded.

  “Get me to me girl,” Bruenor instructed as he started off at a swift pace for Mithral Hall’s eastern door.

  They found Catti-brie, Lady Alustriel, and the Silverymoon wizards not far down the corridor inside, the lot of them having spent the night in the hall’s easternmost quarters. After a quick and polite greeting, Bruenor begged the Lady’s pardon, and Alustriel and her wizards quickly departed the hall, heading for the Surbrin bridge.

  “Where’s he at?” Bruenor asked Catti-brie when it was just the two of them, Drizzt, and Regis.

  “You’re knowing well enough.”

  “Ye found Colson, then?”

  Catti-brie nodded.

  “And he’s taking her home,” Bruenor stated.

  Another nod. “I offered to journey with him,” Catti-brie explained, and she glanced at Drizzt and was relieved to see him smile at that news. “But he would not have me along.”

  “Because the fool ain’t for coming back,” said Bruenor, and he spat and stalked off. “Durned fool son of an over-sized orc.”

  Drizzt motioned to Regis to go with Bruenor, and the halfling nodded and trotted away.

  “I think Bruenor is right,” Catti-brie said, and she shook her head in futile denial, then rushed over and wrapped Drizzt in a tight hug and kissed him deeply. She put her head on his shoulder, not relenting a bit in her embrace. She sniffed back tears.

  “He knew that Wulfgar would not likely return,” Drizzt whispered.

  Catti-brie pushed him back to arms’ length. “As did yourself, but you didn’t tell me,” she said.

  “I honored Wulfgar’s wishes. He was not sure of where his road would lead, but he did not wish discussion of it all the way to Silvery-moon and beyond.”

  “If I had known along our road, I might’ve been able to change his mind,” Catti-brie protested.

  Drizzt gave her a helpless look. “More the reason to not tell you.”

  “You agree with Wulfgar’s choice?”

  “I think it is not my place to agree or to argue,” Drizzt said with a shrug.

  “You think it’s his place to be deserting Bruenor at this time of—?”

  “This time or any time.”

  “How can you say that? Wulfgar is family to us, and he just left…”

  “As you and I did those years ago, after the drow war when Wulfgar fell to the yochlol,” Drizzt reminded her. “We longed for the road and so we took to the road, and left Bruenor to his hall. For six years.”

  That reminder seemed to deflate Catti-brie’s ire quite a bit. “But now Bruenor’s got an army of orcs on his doorstep,” she protested, but with far less enthusiasm.

  “An army that will likely be there for years to come. Wulfgar told me that he could not see his future here. And truly, what is there for him here? No wife, no children.”

  “And it pained him to look upon us.”

  Drizzt nodded. “Likely.”

  “He told me as much.”

  “And so you wear a mantle of guilt?”

  Catti-brie shrugged.

  “It doesn’t suit you,” Drizzt said. He drew her in close once more, and gently pushed her head onto his shoulder. “Wulfgar’s road is Wulfgar’s own to choose. He has family in Icewind Dale, if that is where he decides to go. He has his people there. Would you deny him the chance to find love? Should he not sire children, who will follow his legacy of leadership among the tribes of Icewind Dale?”

  Catti-brie didn’t respond for a long while then merely said, “I miss him already,” in a voice weak with sorrow.

  “As do I. And so too for Bruenor and Regis, and all else who knew him. But he isn’t dead. He did not fall in battle, as we feared those years ago. He will follow his road, to bring Colson home, as he sees fit, and then perhaps to Icewind Dale. Or perhaps not. It might be that when he is away, Wulfgar will come to realize that Mithral Hall truly is his home, and turn again for Bruenor’s halls. Or perhaps he’ll take another wife, and return to us with her, full of love and free of pain.”

  He pushed Catti-brie back again, his lavender eyes locking stares with her rich blue orbs. “You have to trust in Wulfgar. He has earned that from us all many times over. Allow him to walk whatever road he chooses, and hold confidence that you and I, and Bruenor and Regis, all go with him in his heart, as we carry him in ours. You carry with you guilt you do not deserve. Would you truly desire that Wulfgar not follow his road for the sake of mending your melancholy?”

  Catti-brie considered the words for a few
heartbeats, then managed a smile. “My heart is not empty,” she said, and she came forward and kissed Drizzt again, with urgency and passion.

  “Whate’er ye’re needin’, ye’re gettin’,” Bruenor assured Nanfoodle as the gnome gently slid one of the parchment scrolls out of the sack. “Rumblebelly here is yer slave, and he’ll be running to meself and all me boys at the command o’ Nanfoodle.”

  The gnome began to unroll the document, but winced and halted, hearing the fragile parchment crackle.

  “I will have to brew oils of preservation,” he explained to Bruenor. “I dare not put this under bright light until it’s properly treated.”

  “Whate’er ye need,” Bruenor assured him. “Ye just get it done, and get it done quick.”

  “How quick?” The gnome seemed a bit unnerved by that request.

  “Alustriel’s here now,” said Bruenor. “She’s to be working on the bridge for the next few days, and I’m thinkin’ that if them scrolls’re saying what I’m thinkin’ they’re saying, it might be good for Alustriel to go back to Silverymoon muttering and musing on the revelations.”

  But Nanfoodle shook his head. “It will take me more than a day to prepare the potions—and that’s assuming that you have the ingredients I will require.” He looked to Regis. “Bat guano forms the base.”

  “Wonderful,” the halfling muttered.

  “We’ll have it or we’ll get it,” Bruenor promised him.

  “It will take more than a day to brew anyway,” said Nanfoodle. “Then three days for it to set on the parchment—at least three. I’d rather it be five.”

  “So four days total,” said Bruenor, and the gnome nodded.

  “Just to prepare the parchments for examination,” Nanfoodle was quick to add. “It could take me tendays to decipher the ancient writing, even with my magic.”

  “Bah, ye’ll be faster.”

  “I cannot promise.”

  “Ye’ll be faster,” Bruenor said again, in a tone less encouraging and more demanding. “Guano,” he said to Regis, and he turned and walked from the room.