The Orc King t-1

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  He leaned against the wall of a nearby tavern one afternoon, staring out at the bridge and taking note of the guards’ maneuvers. They weren’t very disciplined, but the bridge was so narrow that they didn’t have to be. Wulfgar stood up straight as a coach rambled across the structure, heading out of the castle.

  Liam Woodgate wasn’t driving. Steward Temigast was.

  Wulfgar stroked his beard and weighed his options, and purely on instinct—for he knew that if he considered his movements, he would lose heart—he gathered up Colson and moved out to the road, to a spot where he could intercept the wagon out of sight of the guards at the bridge, and most of the townsfolk.

  “Good trader, do move aside,” Steward Temigast bade him, but in a kindly way. “I’ve some paintings to sell and I wish to see the market before the light wanes. Dark comes early to a man of my age, you know.”

  The old man’s smile drifted to nothingness as Wulfgar pulled back the cowl of his cloak, revealing himself.

  “Always full of surprises, Wulfgar is,” Temigast said.

  “You look well,” Wulfgar offered, and he meant it. Temigast’s white hair had thinned a bit, perhaps, but the last few years had not been rough on the man.

  “Is that….?” Temigast asked, nodding to Colson.

  “Meralda’s girl.”

  “Are you mad?”

  Wulfgar merely shrugged and said, “She should be with her mother.”

  “That decision was made some three years ago.”

  “Necessary at the time,” said Wulfgar.

  Temigast sat back on his seat and conceded the point with a nod.

  “Lady Priscilla is gone from here, I am told,” said Wulfgar, and Temigast couldn’t help but smile—a reassurance to Wulfgar that his measure of the steward was correct, that the man hated Priscilla.

  “To the joy of Auckney,” Temigast admitted. He set the reins on the seat, and with surprising nimbleness climbed down and approached Wulfgar, his hands out for Colson.

  The girl shoved her hand in her mouth and whirled away, burying her face in Wulfgar’s shoulder.

  “Bashful,” Temigast said. Colson peeked out at him and he smiled all the wider. “And she has her mother’s eyes.”

  “She is a wonderful girl, and sure to become a beautiful woman,” said Wulfgar. “But she needs her mother. I cannot keep her with me. I am bound for a land that will not look favorably on a child, any child.”

  Temigast stared at him for a long time, obviously unsure of what he should do.

  “I share your concern,” Wulfgar said to him. “I never hurt Lady Meralda, and never wish to hurt her.”

  “My loyalty is to her husband, as well.”

  “And what a fool he would be to refuse this child.”

  Temigast paused again. “It is complicated.”

  “Because Meralda loved another before him,” said Wulfgar. “And Colson is a reminder of that.”

  “Colson,” said Temigast, and the girl peeked out at him and smiled, and the steward’s whole face lit up in response. “A pretty name for a pretty girl.” He grew more serious as he turned back to Wulfgar, though, and asked bluntly, “What would you have me do?”

  “Get us to Meralda. Let me show her the beautiful child her daughter has become. She will not part with the girl again.”

  “And what of Lord Feringal?”

  “Is he worthy of your loyalty and love?”

  Temigast paused and considered that. “And what of Wulfgar?”

  Wulfgar shrugged as if it did not matter, and indeed, regarding his obligation to Colson, it did not. “If he desires to hang me, he will have to—”

  “Not that,” Temigast interrupted, and looked at Colson.

  Wulfgar’s shoulders slumped and he heaved a deep sigh. “I know what is right. I know what I must do, though it will surely break my heart. But it will be a temporary wound, I hope, for in the passing months and years, I will rest assured that I did right by Colson, that I gave her the home and the chance she deserved, and that I could not provide.”

  Colson looked at Temigast and responded to his every gesture with a delighted smile.

  “Are you certain?” the steward asked.

  Wulfgar stood very straight.

  Temigast glanced back at Castle Auck, at the short keep where Lady Meralda kept her flowers. “I will return this way before nightfall,” he said. “With an empty carriage. I can get you to her, perhaps, but I disavow myself of you from that point forward. My loyalty is not to Wulfgar, not even to Colson.”

  “One day it will be,” said Wulfgar. “To Colson, I mean.”

  Temigast was too charmed by the girl to disagree.

  One hand patted the soft soil at the base of the stem, while the fingers of Meralda’s other hand gently brushed the smooth petals. The tulips would bloom soon, she knew—perhaps even that very evening.

  Meralda sang to them softly, an ancient rhyme of sailors and explorers lost in the waves, as her first love had been taken by the sea. She didn’t know all the words, but it hardly mattered, for she hummed to fill in the holes in the verses and it sounded no less beautiful.

  A slap on the stone broke her song, though, and the woman stood up suddenly and retreated a fast step when she noted the prongs of a ladder. Then a large hand clamped over the lip of the garden wall, not ten feet from her.

  She brushed back her thick black hair, and her eyes widened as the intruder pulled his head up over the wall.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, retreating again, and ignoring his shushing plea.

  “Guards!” Meralda called, and turned to run as the intruder shifted. But as his other hand came up, she found herself frozen in place, rooted as if she was just another plant in her carefully cultivated garden. In the man’s other hand was a young girl.

  “Wulfgar?” Meralda mouthed, but had not the breath to say aloud.

  He put the girl down inside, and Colson turned shyly away from Meralda. Wulfgar grabbed the wall with both hands and hauled himself over. The girl went to his leg and wrapped one arm around it, the thumb of her other hand going into her mouth as she continued to shy away.

  “Wulfgar?” Meralda asked again.

  “Da!” implored Colson, reaching up to Wulfgar with both hands. He scooped her up and set her on his hip, then pulled back his cowl, revealing himself fully.

  “Lady Meralda,” he replied.

  “You should not be here!” Meralda said, but her eyes betrayed her words, for she stared unblinkingly at the girl, at her child.

  Wulfgar shook his head. “Too long have I been away.”

  “My husband would not agree.”

  “It is not about him, nor about me,” Wulfgar said, his calm and sure tone drawing her gaze back to him. “It is about her, your daughter.”

  Meralda swayed, and Wulfgar was certain that a slight breeze would have knocked her right over.

  “I have tried to be a good father to her,” Wulfgar explained. “I had even found her a woman to serve as her mother, though she is gone now, taken by foul orcs. But it is all a ruse, I know.”

  “I never asked—”

  “Your husband’s actions demanded it,” Wulfgar reminded her, and she went silent, her gaze locking once more on the shy child, who had buried her face in her da’s strong shoulder.

  “My road is too arduous,” Wulfgar explained. “Too dangerous for the likes of Colson.”

  “Colson?” Meralda echoed.

  Wulfgar merely shrugged.

  “Colson…” the woman said softly, and the girl looked her way only briefly and flashed a sheepish smile.

  “She belongs with her mother,” Wulfgar said. “With her real mother.”

  “I had thought her father had demanded her to raise as his princess in Icewind Dale,” came a sharp retort from the side, and all three turned to regard the entrance of Lord Feringal. The man twisted his face tightly as he moved near to his wife, all the while staring hatefully at Wulfgar.

  Wulfgar looked to Meralda f
or a clue, but found nothing on her shocked face. He struggled to figure out which way to veer the conversation, when Meralda unexpectedly took the lead.

  “Colson is not his child,” the Lady of Auckney said. She grabbed Feringal by the hands and forced him to look at her directly. “Wulfgar never ravished—”

  Before she could finish, Feringal pulled one of his hands free and lifted a finger over her lips to silence her, nodding his understanding.

  He knew, Meralda realized and so did Wulfgar. Feringal had known all along that the child was not Wulfgar’s, not the product of a rape.

  “I took her to protect your wife…and you,” Wulfgar said after allowing Feringal and Meralda a few heartbeats to stare into each other’s eyes. Feringal turned a scowl his way, to which Wulfgar only shrugged. “I had to protect the child,” he explained.

  “I would not…” Feringal started to reply, but he stopped and shook his head then addressed Meralda instead. “I would not have hurt her,” he said, and Meralda nodded.

  “I would not have continued our marriage, would not have borne you an heir, if I had thought differently,” Meralda quietly replied.

  Feringal’s scowl returned as he glanced back at Wulfgar. “What do you want, son of Icewind Dale?” he demanded.

  Some noise to the side clued Wulfgar in to the fact that the Lord of Auckney hadn’t come to the garden alone. Guards waited in the shadows to rush out and protect Feringal.

  “I want only to do what is right, Lord Feringal,” he replied. “As I did what I thought was right those years ago.” He shrugged and looked at Colson, the thought of parting with her suddenly stabbing at his heart.

  Feringal stood staring at him.

  “The child, Colson, is Meralda’s,” Wulfgar explained. “I would not cede her to another adoptive mother without first determining Meralda’s intent.”

  “Meralda’s intent?” Feringal echoed. “Am I to have no say?”

  As the lord of Auckney finished, Meralda put a hand to his cheek and turned him to face her directly. “I cannot,” she whispered.

  Again Feringal silenced her with a finger against her lips, and turned back to Wulfgar. “There are a dozen bows trained upon you at this moment,” he assured the man. “And a dozen guards ready to rush out and cut you down, Liam Woodgate among them—and you know that he holds no love for Wulfgar of Icewind Dale. I warned you that you return to Auckney only under pain of death.”

  A horrified expression crossed Meralda’s face, and Wulfgar squared his shoulders. His instincts told him to counter the threat, to bring Aegis-fang magically to his hand and explain to the pompous Feringal in no uncertain terms that in any ensuing fight, he, Feringal, would be the first to die.

  But Wulfgar held his tongue and checked his pride. Meralda’s expression guided him, and Colson, clutching his shoulder, demanded that he diffuse the situation and not escalate a threat into action.

  “For the sake of the girl, I allow you to flee, straightaway,” Feringal said, and both Wulfgar and Meralda widened their eyes with shock.

  The lord waved his hands dismissively at Wulfgar. “Be gone, foul fool. Over the wall and away. My patience wears thin, and when it is gone, the whole of Auckney will fall over you.”

  Wulfgar stared at him for a moment then looked at Colson.

  “Leave the girl,” Feringal demanded, lifting his voice for the sake of the distant onlookers, Wulfgar realized. “She is forfeit, a princess of Icewind Dale no more. I claim her for Auckney, by Lady Meralda’s blood, and do so with the ransom of Wulfgar’s promise that the tribes of Icewind Dale will never descend upon my domain.”

  Wulfgar spent a moment digesting the words, shaking his head in disbelief all the while. When it all sorted out, he dipped a quick and respectful bow to the surprising Lord Feringal.

  “Your faith in your husband and your love for him were not misplaced,” he said quietly to Meralda, and he wanted to laugh out loud and cry all at the same time, for never had he expected to see such growth in the foppish lord of that isolated town.

  But for all of Wulfgar’s joy at the confirmation that he had been right to return there, the price of his, and Feringal’s, generosity could not be denied.

  Wulfgar pulled Colson out to arms’ length then brought her in and hugged her close, burying his face in her soft hair. “This is your mother,” he whispered, knowing that the child wouldn’t begin to understand. He was reminding himself, though, for he needed to do that. “Your ma will always love you. I will always love you.”

  He hugged her even closer and kissed her on the cheek then stood fast and offered a curt nod to Feringal.

  Before he could change his mind, before he surrendered to the tearing of his heart, Wulfgar thrust Colson out at Meralda, who gathered her up. He hadn’t even let go of the girl when she began to cry out, “Da! Da!” reaching back at him plaintively and pitifully.

  Wulfgar blinked away his tears, turned, and went over the wall, dropping the fifteen feet and landing on the grass below in a run that didn’t stop until he had long crossed through Auckney’s front gates.

  A run that carried with every step the frantic cries of “Da! Da!”

  “You did the right thing,” he said to himself, but he hardly believed it. He glanced back at Castle Auck and felt as if he had just betrayed the one person in the world who had most trusted him and most needed him.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE PRACTICAL MORALITY

  Certain that no orcs were about, for he could hear their revelry far over a distant hill, Tos’un Armgo settled against a natural seat of stone. Or perhaps it wasn’t natural, he mused, situated as it was in the middle of a small lea, roughly circular and sheltered by ancient evergreens. Perhaps some former occupant had constructed the granite throne, for though there were other such stones scattered around the area, the placement of those two, seat and back, was perhaps a bit too convenient.

  Whatever and however it had come to be, Tos’un appreciated the chair and the view it afforded him. He was a creature of the nearly lightless Underdark, where no stars shone, where no ceiling was too far above, too vast and distant, otherworldly or extraplanar, even. The canopy that floated above him every night was far beyond his experience, reaching into places that he did not know he possessed. Tos’un was a drow, and a drow male, and in that role his life remained solidly grounded in the needs of the here-and-now, in the day-to-day practicality of survival. As his goals were ever clear to him, based on simple necessity, so his limitations stayed crystalline clear as well—the boundaries of House walls and the cavern that was Menzoberranzan. For all of his life, the limits of Tos’un’s aspirations hung over him as solidly as the ceiling of Menzoberranzan’s stone cavern.

  But those limitations were one of the reasons he had abandoned his House on their journey back to Menzoberranzan after the stunning defeat at the hands of Clan Battlehammer and Mithral Hall. Aside from the chaos that was surely to ensue following that catastrophe, when Matron Yvonnel Baenre herself had been cut down, Tos’un understood that whatever the reshuffling that chaos resolved, his place was set. Perhaps he would have died in the House warfare—as a noble, he made a fine trophy for enemy warriors, and since his mother thought little of him, he would have no doubt wound up on the front lines of any fight. But even had he survived, even had House Barrison Del’Armgo used the vulnerability of the suddenly matron-less House Baenre to ascend to the top rank in Menzoberranzan’s hierarchy, Tos’un’s life would be as it had always been, as he could not dare hope it would be anything but.

  So he had seized the opportunity and had fled, not in search of any particular opportunity, not to follow any ambition or fleeting dream. Why had he fled, then, he wondered as he sat there under the stars?

  You will be king, promised a voice in his head, startling Tos’un from his contemplations.

  Without a word, with hardly a thought, the drow climbed out of the seat and took a few steps across the meadow. The snow had settled deep on that spot not long ago, but
had melted, leaving spongy, muddy ground behind. A few steps from the throne, Tos’un unstrapped his sword belt and lay it upon the ground, then went back to his spot and leaned back, letting his thoughts soar up among the curious points of light.

  “Why did I flee?” he asked himself quietly. “What did I desire?”

  He thought of Kaer’lic, Donnia, and Ad’non, the drow trio he had joined up with after wandering aimlessly for tendays. Life with them had been good. He had found excitement and had started a war—a proxy war, which was the best kind, after all. It had been heady and clever and great fun, right up until the beastly Obould had bitten the throat out of Kaer’lic Suun Wett, sending Tos’un on the run for his life.

  But even that excitement, even controlling the destiny of an army of orcs, a handful of human settlements, and a dwarven kingdom, had been nothing Tos’un had ever desired or even considered, until circumstance had dangled it before him and his three co-conspirators.

  No, he realized in that moment of clarity, sitting under a canopy so foreign to his Underdark sensibilities. No tangible desire had brought him from the ranks of House Barrison Del’Armgo. It was, instead, the desire to eliminate the boundaries, the need to dare to dream, whatever dream may come to him. Tos’un and the other three drow—even Kaer’lic, despite her subservience to Lady Lolth—had run to their freedom for no reason more than to escape from the rigid structure of drow culture.

  The irony of that had Tos’un blinking repeatedly as he sat there. “The rigid structure of drow culture,” he said aloud, just to bask in the irony. For drow culture was premised on the tenets of Lady Lolth, the Spider Queen, the demon queen of chaos.

  “Controlled chaos, then,” he decided with a sharp laugh.

  A laugh that was cut short as he noted movement in the trees.