“I have decided to tell the friends of Torgar only so that they might know the truth,” Nanfoodle admitted, and corrected. “What actions they might take are their own to decide.”
“How democratic,” came the sarcastic reply.
“You just said you share my frustrations,” Nanfoodle retorted.
“But not your foolishness, it would seem,” Shoudra was quick to respond. “Do you truly understand the implications? Do you truly understand the brotherhood of dwarf to dwarf? You risk tearing the city asunder, of setting human against dwarf. What do you owe to Mirabar, Nanfoodle the Illusionist? And what do you owe to Marchion Elastul, your employer?”
“And what do I owe to the dwarves I have named as my friends?” the little gnome asked innocently, and his words seemed to knock Shoudra back a step.
“I know not,” she admitted with a sigh, one that clearly showed that frustration she had spoken of.
“Nor do I,” Nanfoodle agreed.
Shoudra straightened herself, but she seemed not so tall and terrible to Nanfoodle, seemed rather a kindred soul, befuddled and unhappy about the course of events swirling around her and outside of her control.
She dropped a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of sympathy and friendship, and said quietly, “Walk lightly, friend. Understand the implications of your actions here. The dwarves of Mirabar are on the fine edge of a dagger, stepping left and right. They among all the citizens bear the least love and the most loyalty to the present marchion. Where will your revelations leave them?”
Nanfoodle nodded, not disagreeing with her reasoning, but he added, “And yet, if this city is all you claim it to be, if this wondrous joy of coexistence that is Mirabar is worthy of inspiring such loyalty, can it suffer the injustice of the jailing of Torgar Hammerstriker?”
Again, his words seemed to set Shoudra back on her heels, striking her as profoundly as any slap might. She paused, closed her eyes, and gradually began to nod.
“Do what you will, Nanfoodle, with no judgment from Shoudra Stargleam. I will leave your choice to your heart. None will know of this conversation, or even that you know of Torgar—not from me, at least.”
She smiled warmly at the little gnome, patted him again on the shoulder, and turned and walked away.
Nanfoodle stood there, watching her depart and wondering which course would be better. Should he return to his apartment and his workshop and forget all about Torgar and the mounting troubles between the dwarves and the marchion? Or should he continue as he had intended, knowing full well the explosive potential of his information, and tell the dwarves the truth about the prisoner in the marchion’s jail?
No question of alchemy, that most elusive of sciences, had ever perplexed the gnome more than this matter. Was it his place to start an uproar, perhaps even a riot? Was it his place, as a friend, to sit idly by and allow such injustice?
And what of Agrathan? If the marchion had convinced the dwarf councilor to remain silent, as seemed obvious, was Nanfoodle playing the part of the righteous fool? Agrathan must know more than he, after all. Agrathan’s loyalty to his kin could not be questioned, and Agrathan had apparently said nothing about Torgar’s fate.
Where did that leave Nanfoodle?
With a sigh, the little gnome turned back and started walking for home, thinking himself very foolish and very uppity for even beginning such a course. He had barely gone ten strides, though, when a familiar figure crossed before him, and paused to say hello.
“Greetings to you, Shingles McRuff,” Nanfoodle responded, and he felt his stomach turn and his knees go weak.
His short legs churning, Councilor Agrathan burst into Marchion Elastul’s audience chamber completely unannounced and with several door guards hot on his heels.
“They know!” the dwarf cried, before the surprised marchion could even inquire about the intrusion, and before any of the four Hammers who were standing behind Elastul could scold him for entering without invitation.
“They?” Elastul replied, though it was obvious to all that he knew exactly of whom Agrathan was speaking.
“Word’s out about Torgar,” Agrathan explained. “The dwarves know what you did, and they’re none too happy!”
“Indeed,” Elastul replied, settling back in his throne. “And how is it that your people know, Councilor?”
There was no mistaking the accusation in his tone.
“Not from me!” the dwarf protested. “You think I’m pleased by this development? You think it does my old heart good to see the dwarves of Mirabar yelling at each other, throwing words and throwing fists? But you had to know they would learn of this and soon enough. You cannot keep such a secret, Marchion, not about one as important as Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker.”
His emphasis on that telling middle name, a distinguished title indeed among the dwarves of Mirabar, had Elastul’s eyes narrowing dangerously. Elastul’s middle name, after all, was not Delzoun, nor could it be, and to all the marchions of Mirabar, humans all, the Delzoun heritage could be both a blessing and a curse. That Delzoun heritage bound the dwarves to this land, and this land bound them to the marchion. But that Delzoun heritage also bound them to a commonality of their own race, one apart from the marchion. Why was it, after all, that every time Agrathan spoke of the weight of Elastul’s decision to imprison the traitor Torgar, he used, and emphasized, that middle name?
“So they know,” Elastul remarked. “Perhaps that is the proper thing, in the end. Surely most of the dwarves of Mirabar recognize Torgar Hammerstriker as the traitor that he is, and surely many of those same dwarves, merchants among them, craftsmen among them, understand and appreciate the damage the traitor might have caused to us all if he had been allowed to travel to our hated enemies.”
“Enemies?”
“Rivals, then,” the marchion conceded. “Do you believe that Mithral Hall would not welcome the information that the traitor dwarf might have offered?”
“I am not certain that I believe that Torgar would have offered anything other than his friendship to King Bruenor,” Agrathan replied.
“And that alone would be worthy of hanging him,” Elastul retorted.
The Hammers laughed and agreed, and Agrathan paled, his eyes going wide.
“You can’t be thinking….”
“No, no, Councilor,” Elastul assured him. “I have not constructed any gallows for the traitor dwarf. Not yet, at least. Nor do I intend to. It is as I told you before. Torgar Hammerstriker will remain in prison, not abused, but surely contained, until such time as he sees the truth of things and returns to his own good senses. I’ll not risk the wealth of Mirabar on his judgment.”
Agrathan seemed to calm a bit at that, but the cloud did not leave his soft (for a dwarf, at least) features. He stroked his long white beard and paused for a bit, deep in thought.
“All that you say is true,” he admitted, his vernacular becoming more sophisticated as he calmed. “I do not deny that, Marchion, but your reason, for all of its worth, does little to alleviate the fires burning brightly beneath this very room. The fires in the hearts of your dwarf subjects—in a good number of them, at least, who named Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker as a friend.”
“They will come to their senses,” Elastul replied. “I trust that Agrathan, beloved councilor, will convince them of the necessity of my actions.”
Agrathan stared at Elastul for a long time, his expression shifting to one of simple resignation. He understood the reasoning, all along. He understood why Torgar had been taken from his intended road, and why he had been jailed. He understood why Elastul considered it up to him to calm the dwarves.
That didn’t mean that Agrathan believed he had any chance of succeeding, though.
“Well good enough for him, I’m saying,” one dwarf cried, and banged his fist on the wall. “The fool would o’ telled them all our tricks. If he’s to be a friend o’ Mithral Hall, then throw him in a hole and leave him there!”
“The words of a fool, if ever I
heared ’em,” yelled another.
“Who ya callin’ a fool?”
“Yerself, ye fool!”
The first dwarf charged forward, fists flying. Those around him, rather than try to stop him, came forward right beside him. They met the name-caller and his friends of similar mind.
Toivo Foamblower leaned back against the wall as the fight exploded around him, the fifth fight of that day in his tavern, and this one looking as if it would be the largest and bloodiest of them all.
Out in the street, just beyond his windows, a score of dwarves were fighting with a score of dwarves, rolling and punching, biting and kicking.
“Ye fool, Torgar,” Toivo muttered under his breath.
“And ye bigger fool, Elastul!” he added as he dodged a living missile that soared over him, smashing the wall and a sizeable amount of good stock before falling to the floor, groaning and bitching.
It was going to be a long night in the Undercity. A long night indeed.
The scene was repeated in every bar along the Undercity and in the mines, where miner squared off against miner, sometimes with picks raised, as the news of the imprisonment of Torgar Hammerstriker spread like wildfire among the dwarves of Mirabar.
“Good for Elastul!” was shouted all along the dwarven enclaves, only to be inevitably refuted by a shout of “Damn the marchion!”
Raised voices, predictably, led to raised fists.
Outside Toivo’s tavern, Shingles McRuff and a group of friends confronted a host of other-minded dwarves, the group spouting the praises of the man who had “stopped the traitor afore he could betray Mirabar to Mithral Hall.”
“Ye’re seeming a bit happy that Elastul’s quick to jail one o’ yer own,” Shingles argued. “Ye’re thinking it a good thing to have a dwarf rotting in a human jail?”
“Might be that I’m thinking it a good thing to have a traitor to Mirabar rotting in a Mirabar jail!” retorted the other dwarf, a tough-looking character with a black beard and eyebrows so bushy that they nearly hid his eyes. “At least until we’ve built the dog a proper gallows!”
That brought applause from the dwarves behind him, roars of anger from those beside Shingles, and an even more direct opposition response from old Shingles himself in the form of a well-aimed fist.
The black-bearded dwarf hopped backward beneath the weight of the blow, but thanks to the grabbing arms of his companions, not only didn’t he fall, but he came rushing right back at Shingles.
The old dwarf was more than ready, lifting his fists as if to block the attack up high, then dropping to his knees at the very last second and jamming his shoulder into the black-bearded dwarf’s waist. Up scrambled Shingles, lifting the outraged dwarf high and launching him into his fellows, then leaping in right behind, fists and feet flying.
Battling dwarves rolled all about the street, and the commotion brought many doors swinging open. Those dwarves who came to view the scene wasted little time in jumping right in, flailing away, though in truth they often had little idea which side they were joining. The riot went from street to street and snaked its way into many houses, and more than one had a fire pit overturned, flames leaping to furniture and tapestries.
Amidst it all, there came the blaring of a hundred horns as the Axe of Mirabar charged down from above, some on the lifts, others just setting ropes and swinging over, trying to get down fast before the rioting swept the whole of the Undercity into disaster.
Dwarf against dwarf and dwarf against man, they battled. In the face of the battle joined by humans, some with weapons drawn, many of the dwarves who had initially opposed Shingles and his like-minded companions changed sides. To many of those in the middle ground concerning the arrest of Torgar, it then became a question of loyalty, to blood or to country.
Though nearly half of the dwarves were fighting beside the Axe, and though many, many humans continued to filter down to quell the riot, it took hours to get the supporters of Torgar under control. Even then, the soldiers of the marchion were faced with the unenviable task of containing more than a hundred prisoners.
Hundreds more were watching them, they knew, and the first sign of mistreatment would likely ignite an even larger riot.
To Agrathan, who came late upon the scene, the destruction along the streets, the bloodied faces of so many of his kin, and even more than that the expressions of sheer outrage on so many, showed him the very danger of which he had warned the marchion laid bare. He went to the Axe commanders one by one, pressing for lenience and wise choices concerning the disposition of the prisoners, always with a grim warning that though the top was on the boiling kettle, the fire was still hot beneath it.
“Keep the peace as best ye can, but not a swing too far,” Agrathan warned every commander.
After reciting that speech over and over, after pulling one angry guard after another off a prisoner, the exhausted councilor moved to the side of one avenue and plopped down on a stone bench.
“They got Torgar!” came a voice he could not ignore.
He looked up to see a bruised and battered Shingles, who seemed more than ready to break free of the two men who held him and start the row all over again.
“They dragged him from the road and beat him down!”
Agrathan looked hard at the old dwarf, gently patting his hands in the air to try to calm Shingles.
“Ye knew it!” Shingles roared. “Ye knew it all along, and ye’re not for caring!”
“I care,” Agrathan countered, leaping up from the bench.
“Bah! Ye’re a short human, and not a thing more!”
As he shouted the insult, the guards holding Shingles gave a rough jerk, one letting go with one hand to slap the old dwarf across the face.
That was all the opening he needed. He accepted the slap with a growing grin then leaped around, breaking completely free of that one’s grasp. Then, without hesitation, he launched his free fist hard into the gut of the soldier still holding him, doubling the man over and loosening his grasp. Shingles tore free completely, twisting and punching to avoid the grasp of the first man.
The soldier backed, calling for help, but Shingles came in too fast, kicking the man in the shin, and snapping his forehead forward and down, connecting solidly—too solidly—on the man’s codpiece. He doubled over and dropped to his knees, his eyes crossing. Shingles came back around wildly, charging for the second soldier.
But when that soldier dodged aside, the dwarf didn’t pursue. Instead he continued ahead toward his true intended target: poor Councilor Agrathan.
Agrathan had never been a fighter of Shingles’s caliber, nor were his fists near as hard from any recent battles as those of the surly miner. Even worse for Agrathan, his heart wasn’t in his defense nearly as much as Shingles’s was in his rage.
The councilor felt the first few blows keenly, a left hook, a right cross, a few quick jabs, and a roundhouse that dropped him to the ground. He felt the bottom of Shingles’s boot as the dwarf, lifted right off the ground by a pair of pursuing guards, got one last kick in. Agrathan felt the hands of a human grabbing him under the arm and helping him to his feet, an assist the dwarf roughly pushed away.
Gnashing his teeth, wounded inside far more than he could ever be outside, Councilor Agrathan stormed back for the lifts.
He knew that he had to get to the marchion. He had no idea what he was going to say, had no idea even what he expected or wanted the marchion to do, but he knew that the time had come to confront the man more forcefully.
“In all the days of all my life, I have never felt so mortal,” Catti-brie said to the whispering wind.
Behind and below her, the dwarves, Regis, and Wulfgar went about their business preparing supper and setting up the latest camp, but the woman had been excused from her duties so that she could be alone to sort through her emotions.
And it was a tumult of emotions beyond anything Catti-brie had ever known. Her last fight had not been the first time the woman had been in mortal peril, surely,
and not even the first time she had been helpless before a hated enemy. Once before, she had been captured by the assassin, Artemis Entreri, and dragged along in his pursuit of Regis, but in that instance, as helpless as she had felt, Catti-brie had never really expected to die.
Never like she had felt when caught helpless on the ground at the feet of the encircling, vicious orcs. In that horrible moment Catti-brie had seen her own death, vividly, unavoidably. In that one horrible moment, all of her life’s dreams and hopes had been washed away on a wave of …
Of what?
Regret?
Truly, she had lived as fully as anyone, running across the land on wild adventures, helping to defeat dragons and demons, fighting to reclaim Mithral Hall for her adoptive father and his clan, chasing pirates on the open seas. She had known love.
She looked back over her shoulder at Wulfgar as she considered this.
She had known sorrow, and perhaps she had found love again. Or was she just kidding herself? She was surrounded by the best friends that anyone could ever hope to know, by an unlikely crew that loved her as she loved them. Companions, friends. It had been more than that with Wulfgar, so she had believed, and with Drizzt …
What?
She didn’t know. She loved him dearly and always felt better when he was beside her, but were they meant to live as husband and wife? Was he to be the father of her children? Was that even possible?
The woman winced at the notion. One part of her rejoiced at the thought, and believed it would be something wonderful and beautiful. Another part of her, more pragmatic, recoiled at the thought, knowing that any such children would, by the mere nature of their heritage, remain as outcasts to any and all save those few who knew the truth of Drizzt Do’Urden.
Catti-brie closed her eyes and put her head down on her bent knees, curling up as she sat there, high on an exposed rock. She imagined herself as an older woman, far less mobile, and surely unable to run the mountainsides beside Drizzt Do’Urden, blessed as he was with the eternal youth of his people. She saw him on the trails every day, his smile wide as he basked in the adventure. That was his nature, after all, as it was hers. But it would only be hers for a few more years, she knew in her heart, and less than that if ever she was to become with child.
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