Obould also knew that Gerti wasn’t going to be pleased to learn that one of her giants was dead, lying amid a field of slaughtered orcs. With that unsettling thought in mind, Obould made his way to the fallen giant, the behemoth showing few wounds other than the fact that his throat was almost completely torn away.
He looked over at Urlgen, his expression puzzled, and offered a prompting shrug.
“My scouts said it was a big cat,” his son explained. “A big black cat. Jumped from that tree to the throat. Killed the giant. Giant killed it.”
“Where is it?”
Urlgen’s mouth twisted, his formidable fangs pinching into his lower lip. He looked around at the other orcs, all of whom immediately began turning questioning looks at their comrades.
“Dwarfs musta taken it. Probably wanting its skin.”
Obould’s expression showed little to indicate that he was convinced. He gave a sudden growl, kicked the dead giant hard, and stormed away, furrowing that prominent brow of his and trying hard to figure out how he might parlay this disaster into some sort of advantage over Gerti. Perhaps he could shift the blame to the three deserters, explaining that in the future her giants would have to be more forthcoming of their intentions to the orcs they accompanied on raids like this.
Yes, that might work, he mused, but then a cry came in from one of the many scouts they had sent out into the surrounding areas. That call soon led to a dramatic redirection of thinking for the frustrated and angry orc king.
Soon after, Obould furrowed his brow even more deeply as he looked over the second scene of battle, where three giants—the missing three giants, including one of Gerti’s dear friends—lay slaughtered. They weren’t far from where Urlgen had set his camp the night before the catastrophic battle, and it was obvious to Obould that the trio were missing from the march because they had been killed before that last march began. He knew it would be obvious to Gerti, who surely would investigate if he pushed the issue that the disaster was more the fault of her giants than his orcs.
“How did this happen?” he asked Urlgen.
When his son didn’t immediately respond, the frustrated Obould spun around and punched him hard in the face, laying him low.
“Obould is frightened,” Ad’non Kareese announced to his three co-conspirators.
Ad’non had followed Obould’s forces to both battlegrounds and had met with the orc king soon after, counseling, as always, patience.
“He should be,” said Kaer’lic Suun Wett, and the priestess gave a little cackle. “Gerti will roll him into a ball and kick him over the mountains.”
Tos’un joined in the priestess’s laughter, but neither Ad’non nor Donnia Soldou seemed overly amused.
“This could break the alliance,” Donnia remarked.
Kaer’lic shrugged, as if that hardly mattered, and Donnia shot her an angry look.
“Would you be content to sit in our hole in boring luxury?” Donnia asked.
“There are worse fates.”
“And there are better,” Ad’non Kareese was quick to put in. “We have an opportunity here for great gain and great fun, and all at a minimal risk. I prefer to hold this course and this alliance.”
“As do I,” Donnia seconded.
Kaer’lic merely shrugged and seemed bored with it all, as if it did not matter.
“What about you?” Donnia asked Tos’un, who was sitting off to the side, obviously listening and obviously amused, but giving little indication beyond that.
“I think we would all do well to not underestimate the dwarves,” the warrior from Menzoberranzan remarked. “My city made that mistake once.”
“True enough,” agreed Ad’non, “and I must tell you that Urlgen’s report of the size of the dwarven force seemed greatly exaggerated, given the battleground. More likely, the dwarves were greatly outnumbered and still routed the orcs—and killed four giants besides. Their magic may have been no less formidable.”
“Magic?” Kaer’lic asked. “Dwarves possess little magic, by all accounts.”
“They had some here, as far as I can discern,” Ad’non insisted. “The orcs spoke of a great cat that felled the giant, one that apparently disappeared after doing its murderous business.”
Off to the side, Tos’un perked up. “A black cat?”
The other three looked at the Menzoberranyr refugee.
“Yes,” Ad’non confirmed, and Tos’un nodded knowingly.
“Drizzt Do’Urden’s cat,” he explained.
“The renegade?” Kaer’lic asked, suddenly seeming quite interested.
“Yes, with a magical panther that he stole from Menzoberranzan. Very formidable.”
“The panther?”
“Yes, and Drizzt Do’Urden,” Tos’un explained. “He is no enemy to be taken lightly, and one who threatens not only the orcs and giants on the battleground, but those quietly behind the orcs and giants as well.”
“Lovely,” Kaer’lic said sarcastically.
“He was among the greatest of Melee-Magthere’s graduates,” Tos’un explained, “and further trained by Zaknafein, who was regarded as the greatest weapons master in all the city. If he was at that battle, it explains much about why the orcs were so readily defeated.”
“This one drow can sway the tide of battle against a host of orcs and a foursome of giants?” Ad’non asked doubtfully.
“No,” Tos’un admitted, “but if Drizzt was there, then so was—”
“King Bruenor,” Donnia reasoned. “The renegade is Bruenor’s closest friend and advisor, yes?”
“Yes,” Tos’un confirmed. “Likely the pair had some other powerful friends with them.”
“So Bruenor is out of Mithral Hall and roaming the frontier with a small force?” Donnia asked, a wry smile widening on her beautiful face. “How fine an opportunity is this?”
“To strike a wicked blow against Mithral Hall?” Ad’non asked, following the reasoning.
“And to keep Gerti interested in pursuing our present course,” said Donnia.
“Or to show our hand too clearly and bring the wrath of powerful enemies upon us,” said the ever-cynical Kaer’lic.
“Why priestess, I fear that you have grown too fond of luxury, and too forgetting of the pleasures of chaos,” Ad’non said, his growing smile matching Donnia’s. “Can you really so easily allow this opportunity for fun and profit pass you by?”
Kaer’lic started to respond several times but retreated from every reply before she ever voiced it.
“I find little pleasure in dealing with the smelly orcs,” the priestess said, “or with Gerti and her band, who think they are so positively superior, even to us. More pleasure would I find if we turned Obould against Gerti and let the giants and the orcs slaughter each other. Then we four could quietly kill all those left alive.”
“And we would be alone up here, in abject boredom,” said Ad’non.
“True enough,” Kaer’lic admitted. “So be it. Let us fester this war between the dwarves and our allies. With King Bruenor out of his hole, we may indeed find an interesting course before us, but with all caution! I did not leave the Underdark to fall victim to a dwarven axe, or to the blade of a drow traitor.”
The others nodded, sharing the sentiment, particularly Tos’un, who had seen so many of his fellows fall before the armies of Mithral Hall.
“I will go to Gerti and soften the blow of this present disaster,” Donnia said.
“And I back to Obould,” said Ad’non. “I will wait for your signal before sending the orc king to speak with the giantess.”
They departed at once, eagerly, leaving Kaer’lic alone with Tos’un.
“We are winding our way into a deep chasm,” the priestess observed. “If our allies betray us at the end of a dwarven spear, then our flight will by necessity be long and swift.”
Tos’un nodded. He had been there once before.
Obould’s every step was forced as he made his way through the caverns of Gerti’s complex, v
ery conscious of the many scowls the frost giant sentries were throwing his way. Despite Ad’non’s assurances, Obould knew that the giants had been told of their losses. These creatures weren’t like his own race, the orc king understood. They valued every one of their clan, every one of their kind. The frost giants would not easily dismiss the deaths of four of their kin.
When the orc king walked into Gerti’s chamber, he found the giantess sitting on her stone throne, one elbow on her knee, her delicate chin in her hand, her blue eyes staring straight ahead, unblinking.
The orc walked up, stopping out of the giant’s reach, fearing that Gerti would snap her hand out and throttle him. He resisted the urge to speak out about the disaster and decided that he would be better off waiting for Gerti to start the conversation.
He waited for a long, long while.
“Where are their bodies?” Gerti finally asked.
“Where they fell.”
Gerti looked up at him, her eyes going even wider, as if her rage was boiling over behind them.
“My warriors can not begin to carry them,” Obould quickly explained. “I will have them buried in cairns where they fell, if you desire. I thought you would wish to bring them back here.”
That explanation seemed to calm Gerti considerably. She even rested back in her seat and nodded her chin at him as he finished his explanation.
“You will have your warriors lead my chosen to them.”
“Course I will,” said Obould.
“I was told that it is possible your son’s rash actions may have brought powerful enemies upon the band,” Gerti remarked.
Obould shrugged. “It is possible. I was not there.”
“Your son survived?”
Obould nodded.
“He fled the fight, along with many of your kin.”
There was no mistaking the accusatory edge that had come into Gerti’s voice.
“They had only one of your kin with them when the battle was joined, and that giant went down fast,” Obould was quick to reply, knowing that he could not let Gerti go down this road with him if he wanted to get out of that place with his head still on his shoulders. “The other three wandered off the night before without telling anyone.”
From Gerti’s expression, the orc recognized that he had parsed those words correctly, rightly redistributing the blame for the disaster without openly accusing the giants of any failings.
“Do we know where the dwarves went after the fight?”
“We know they did not head straight out for Mithral Hall,” Obould explained. “My scouts have found no sign of their march to the south or east.”
“They are still in our mountains?”
“I’m thinking that, yeah,” said the orc.
“Then find them!” Gerti demanded. “I have a score to settle, and I always make it a point to pay my enemies back in full.”
Obould fought the desire to let a grin widen on his face, understanding that Gerti needed this to remain solemn and serious. Still, containing the excitement building within him was no easy task. He could see from Gerti’s eyes and could tell from the tone of her voice that this defeat would not hold for long, that she and her giants would become even more committed to the fight.
King Obould wondered if his dwarf counterpart had any idea of the catastrophe that was about to drop on him.
A slight shift of Torgar’s head sent the heavy fist sailing past, and the dwarf wasted no time in turning around and biting the attacker hard on the forearm. His opponent, another dwarf, waved that bitten arm frantically while punching hard with the other, but tough Torgar accepted the beating and bit down harder, driving in close to lessen the impact of the blows.
Pushing, twisting, and driving on with his powerful legs, Torgar took his opponent right over a table and chair. The two of them crashed down hard, wood splintering around them.
They weren’t the only dwarves in the tavern who were fighting. Fists and bottles flew wildly, foreheads pounded against foreheads, and more than one table or chair went up in the air, to come crashing down on an opponent’s head.
The brawl went on and on, and the poor barkeep, Toivo Foamblower, gave up in frustration, falling back against the wall and crossing his thick forearms over his chest. His expression ranged from bemused to resigned, and he didn’t get overly concerned for the damage to his establishment because he knew that the dwarves involved would be quick with reparations.
They always were when it came to taverns.
One by one the combatants left the bar, usually at the end of a foot or headfirst through the long-since shattered windows.
Toivo’s grin grew as the crowd thinned to see that the one who had started it all, Torgar Hammerstriker, was still in the thick of it. That had been Toivo’s prediction from the beginning. Tough Torgar almost never lost a bar brawl when the odds weren’t overwhelming, and he never ever lost when Shingles was fighting beside him.
Though not as quick as some others with his fists, the surly old Shingles knew how to wage a battle, knew how to keep his enemies off their guard. Toivo laughed aloud when one raging dwarf charged up to Shingles, raised bottle in hand.
Shingles held up one finger and put on an incredulous look that gave the attacker pause. Shingles then pointed at the upraised bottle and wagged his finger when the attacker saw that there were still some traces of beer inside.
Shingles motioned for the dwarf to pause and finish the drink. When he did, Shingles brought out his own full bottle, moved as if to take a deep swallow, then smashed it into his attacker’s face, following it with a fist that laid the dwarf low.
“Well, throw ’em all out, then!” Toivo yelled at Torgar, Shingles, and a pair of others when the fight at last ended.
The four moved about, lifting semi-conscious dwarves, ally and enemy alike, and unceremoniously tossing them out the broken door.
The four remaining combatants started to make their way out then, but Toivo called to Torgar and Shingles and motioned them back to the bar where he was already setting up drinks.
“A reward for the show?” Torgar asked through fat lips.
“Ye’re paying for the drinks and for a lot more than that,” Toivo assured him. “Ye durned fool. Ye thinkin’ to start trouble all across the city?”
“I ain’t starting no trouble. I’m just sharing the trouble I’m seein’!”
“Bah!” the barkeep snorted, wiping a pile of broken glass from the bar. “What kind o’ greetings did ye think Bruenor’d be getting from Mirabar? His hall’s killin’ our business.”
“Because they’re better’n us!” Torgar cried. He stopped short and brought a hand up to his stinging lips. “They’re making the better armor and the better weapons,” he said, more in control, and with a bit of a lisp. “The way to beat ’em is to make our own works better or to find new places to sell. The way to beat ’em is—”
“I’m not arguing yer point and not agreeing with ye, neither,” Toivo interrupted, “but ye been running about shouting yer grief all over town. Ye durned fool, can ye be expectin’ any less than ye’re getting? Are ye thinking to raise all the dwarfs against the marchion and the council? Ye looking to start a war in Mirabar?”
“Course not.”
“Then shut yer stupid mouth!” Toivo scolded. “Ye come in here tonight and start spoutin’ yer anger. Ye durned fool! Ye know that half the dwarfs in here are watching their gold chests withering, and knowing well that the biggest reason for that’s the reopening o’ Mithral Hall. Are ye not to know that yer words aren’t finding open ears?”
Torgar gave a dismissive wave and bent low to his drink, physically closing up as a reflection of his impotence against Toivo’s astute observation.
“He’s got a point,” said Shingles beside him, and Torgar shot him a glare.
“I ain’t tired o’ the fighting,” Shingles was quick to add. “It’s just that we wasted a lot o’ good brew tonight, and that can’t be a good thing.”
“They got me r
iled, is all,” Torgar said, his tone suddenly contrite and a bit defeated. “Bruenor ain’t no enemy, and making him one instead o’ honestly trying to beat him and his Mithral Hall boys is a fool’s road.”
“And yerself ain’t never been fond o’ the folks up top. Not the marchion or the four fools that follow him about, scowling like they was some great warriors,” Toivo said with more than a bit of sympathy. “Ain’t that the truth?”
“If Mithral Hall was a human town, ye think the marchion and his boys would be so damned determined to beat ’em?”
“I do,” Toivo answered without hesitation. “I just think Torgar Hammerstriker wouldn’t care so much.”
Torgar dropped his head to his arms, folded on the bar. There was truth in that, he had to admit. Somewhere deep inside him was the understanding that Bruenor and the boys from Mithral Hall were kin of the blood. They had all come from the Delzoun Clan, way back beyond the memories of the oldest dwarves. Mithral Hall, Mirabar, Felbarr … they were all connected by history and by blood, dwarf to dwarf. On a very basic level, it galled Torgar to think that petty arguments and commerce would come between that all-important bond.
Besides, given the evening he had spent with the visitors from Mithral Hall, Torgar had found that he honestly liked them.
“Well, I’m hopin’ ye’ll stop shouting so we can stop the fighting,” Shingles said at length. He nudged Torgar, and gave the ringleader a wink when he looked up. “Or at least slow it down a bit. I’m not a young one anymore. This is gonna hurt in the mornin’!”
Toivo patted Torgar on the shoulder and walked off to begin his clean-up.
Torgar just lay there, head down on the bar all the night long. Thinking.
And wondering, to his own surprise, if the time was coming for him to leave Mirabar.
“Hope th’ elf don’t catch ’em and kill ’em tonight,” Bruenor grumbled. “He’ll take all the fun.”
The Thousand Ords Page 17