Chapter 30 OLD AND NEW BEFORE HIM
It had to come down to the two of them, for among the orcs, struggles within and among tribes were ultimately personal.
King Obould leaped atop a stone wall and plunged his sword into the belly of a Karuck ogre. He stared the behemoth in the face, grinning wickedly as he called upon his enchanted sword to burst into flame.
The ogre tried to scream. Its mouth stretched wide in silent horror.
Obould only smiled wider and held his sword perfectly still, not wanting to hurry the death of the ogre. Gradually, the dimwitted behemoth leaned back, back, then slid off the blade, tumbling down the hill, wisps of smoke coming from the already cauterized wound.
Looking past it, Obould saw one of his guards, an elite Many-Arrows warrior, go flying aside, broken and torn. Tracing its flight back to the source, he saw another of his warriors, a young orc who had shown great promise in the battles with the Battlehammer dwarves, leap back. The warrior stood still for a curiously long time, his arms out wide.
Obould stared at his back, shaking his head, not understanding, until a huge axe swept up from in front of the warrior, then cut down diagonally with tremendous, jolting force, cleaving the warrior in half, left shoulder to right hip. Half the orc fell away, but the other half stood there for a few long heartbeats before buckling to the ground.
And there stood Grguch, swinging his awful axe easily at the end of one arm.
Their eyes met, and all the other orcs and ogres nearby, Karuck and Many-Arrows alike, took their battles to the side.
Obould stretched his arms out wide, fires leaping from the blade of his greatsword as he held it aloft in his right hand. He threw back his head and bellowed.
Grguch did likewise, axe out wide, his roar echoing across the stones, the challenge accepted. Up the hill he ran, hoisting his axe in both hands and bringing it back over his left shoulder.
Obould tried for the quick kill, feigning a defensive posture, but then leaping down at the approaching chieftain and stabbing straight ahead. Across came Grguch's axe with brutal and sudden efficiency, the half-ogre chopping short to smash his dragon-winged weapon against Obould's blade. He turned it sidelong as he swiped, the winged blades perpendicular to the ground, but so strong was the beast that the resistance as he brought the axe across didn't slow his swing in the least. By doing it that way, his blade obscuring nearly three feet top-to-bottom, Grguch prevented Obould from turning his greatsword over the block.
Obould just let his sword get knocked out to his left, and instead of letting go with his right hand, as would be expected, the cunning orc let go with his left, allowing him to spin in behind the cut of Grguch's axe. He went forward as he went around, lowering his soon-leading left shoulder as he collided with Grguch.
The pair slid down the stony hill, and to Obould's amazement, Grguch did not fall. Grguch met his heavy charge with equal strength.
He was taller than Obould by several inches, but Obould had been blessed by Gruumsh, had been given the strength of the bull, a might of arm that had allowed him to bowl over Gerti Orelsdottr of the frost giants.
But not Grguch.
The two struggled, their weapon arms, Obould's right and Grguch's left, locked at one side. Obould slugged Grguch hard in the face, snapping his head back, but as he recoiled from that stinging blow, Grguch snapped his head forward, inside the next punch, and crunched his forehead into Obould's nose.
They clutched, they twisted, and they postured, and both tried to shove back at the same time, sending themselves skidding far apart.
Right back they went with identical blows, axe and sword meeting with tremendous force, so powerfully that a gout of flames flew free of Obould's sword and burst into the air.
"As Tos'un told us," Drizzt said to Bruenor as they slipped between fights to come in view of the great struggle.
"Think they'd forget each other and turn on us, elf?" Bruenor asked hopefully.
"Likely not - not Obould, at least," Drizzt replied dryly, stealing Bruenor's mirth, and he led the dwarf around a pile of stones that hadn't yet been set on the walls.
"Bah! Ye're bats!"
"Two futures clear before us," Drizzt remarked. "What does Moradin say to Bruenor?"
Before Bruenor could answer, as Drizzt came around the pile, a pair of orcs leaped at him. He snapped up both his blades and threw himself backward, quickstepping across Bruenor's field of vision and dragging the bloodthirsty orcs with him.
The dwarf's axe came crashing down, and then there was one.
And that orc twisted and half-turned, startled by Bruenor and never imagining that Drizzt could be nimble enough to reverse his field so quickly.
The orc got hit four times by Drizzt's scimitars, and Bruenor creased its skull for good measure, and the pair rambled along.
Before them, much closer, Obould and Grguch clutched again, and traded a series of brutal punches that splattered blood from both faces.
"Two roads before us," Drizzt said, and he looked at Bruenor earnestly.
The dwarf shrugged then tapped his axe against Drizzt's scimitars. "For the good o' the world, elf," he said. "For the kids o' me kin and me trust for me friends. And ye're still bats. "
Every swing brought enough force to score a kill, every cut cracked through the air. They were orcs, one half ogre, but they fought as giants, titans even, gods among their respective people.
Bred for battle, trained in battle, hardened as his skin had calloused, and propped by magical spells from Hakuun, and secretly from Jack the Gnome, Grguch moved his heavy axe with the speed and precision with which a Calimport assassin might wield a dagger. None in Clan Karuck, not the largest and the strongest, questioned Grguch's leadership role, for none in that clan would dare oppose him. With good reason, Obould understood all too quickly, as the chieftain pressed him ferociously.
Blessed by Gruumsh, infused with the strength of a chosen being, and veteran of so many battles, Obould equaled his opponent, muscle for muscle. And unlike so many power-driven warriors who could smash a weapon right through an opponent's defenses, Obould combined finesse and speed with that sheer strength. He had matched blades with Drizzt Do'Urden, and overmatched Wulfgar with brawn. And so he met Grguch's heavy strikes with powerful blocks, and so he similarly pressed Grguch with mighty counterstrikes that made the chieftain's arms strain to hold back the deadly greatsword.
Grguch rushed around to Obould's left, up the hill a short expanse. He turned back from that higher ground and drove a tremendous overhand chop down at the orc king, and Obould nearly buckled under the weight of the blow, his feet sliding back dangerously beneath him.
Grguch struck again, and a third time, but Obould went out to the side suddenly, and that third chop cut nothing but air, forcing Grguch down the hill a few quick steps.
They stood even again, and with the miss, Obould gained an offensive posture. Both hands grasping his sword, he smashed it in from the right then the left then right again. Grguch moved to a solely defensive posture, axe darting left and right to block.
Obould quickened the pace, slashing with abandon, allowing Grguch no chance for a counter. He brought forth fire on his blade then winked it out with a thought - and brought it forth again, just to command more of his opponent's attention, to further occupy Grguch.
Left and right came the greatsword, then three overhead chops, battering Grguch's blocking blade, sending shivers through the chieftain's muscled arms. Obould did not tire, and more furious came his strikes, backing his opponent.
Grguch was no longer looking for an opening to counter, Obould knew. Grguch tried only to find a way to disengage, to put them back on even ground.
Obould wouldn't give it to him. The chieftain was worthy, indeed, but in the end, he was no Obould.
A blinding flash and a thunderous retort broke the orc king's momentum and rhythm, and as he recovered from the initial, stun
ning shock of it, he realized that he had lost more than advantage. His legs twitched and could hardly hold him upright. His greatsword trembled violently and his teeth chattered so uncontrollably that he tore strips of skin from the inside of his mouth.
A wizard's lightning bolt, he understood somewhere deep in the recesses of his dazed mind, and a mighty one.
His block of Grguch's next attack was purely coincidental, his greatsword fortunately in the way of the swing. Or maybe Grguch had aimed for the weapon, Obould realized as he staggered back from the weight of the blow, fighting to hold his balance with every stumbling, disoriented step.
He offered a better attempt to block the next sidelong swing, turning to the left and presenting his sword at a perfect angle to intercept the flying axe.
A perfect parry, except that Obould's twitching legs gave out under the weight of the blow. He skidded half-backward and half-sidelong down the hill and went down to one knee.
Grguch hit his sword again, knocking it aside, and as the chieftain stepped forward, bringing his blade back yet again, Obould realized that he had little defense.
A booted foot stomped hard on the back of Obould's neck, driving him low, and he tried to turn and lash out at what he deemed to be a new attacker.
But Bruenor Battlehammer's target was not Obould, and he had used the battered and dazed orc king merely as a springboard to launch himself at his real quarry.
Grguch twisted frantically to get his axe in line with the dwarf's weapon, but Bruenor, too, turned as he flew, and his buckler, emblazoned with the foaming mug of Clan Battlehammer, crashed hard into Grguch's face, knocking him back.
Grguch leaped up and came right back at Bruenor with a mighty chop, but Bruenor rushed ahead under the blow, butting his one-horned helmet into Grguch's belly and sweeping his axe up between the orc chieftain's legs. Grguch leaped, and Bruenor grabbed and leaped back and over with him, the pair flying away and tumbling down the hill. As they unwound, Grguch, caught with his back to the dwarf, rushed away and shoulder-rolled over the hill's lowest stone wall.
Bruenor pursued furiously, springing atop the wall, then leaping from it, swooping down from on high with a mighty chop that sent the blocking Grguch staggering backward.
The dwarf pressed, axe and shield, and it took Grguch many steps before he could begin to attain even footing with his newest enemy.
Back on the hill, Obould stubbornly gained his feet and tried to follow, but another crackling lightning bolt flattened him.
Hralien darted out in front as the pair crossed the narrow channel. He leaped a stone, started right, then rolled back left around the trunk of a dead tree, coming around face up against an unfortunate orc, whose sword was still angled the other way to intercept his charge. The elf struck hard and true, and the orc fell away, mortally wounded.
Hralien retracted the blade as he ran past the falling creature, which left his sword arm out behind him.
As his sword pulled free, a sudden sting broke the elf's grasp on it, and he glanced back in shock to see Tos'un flipping the blade over between his two swords. With amazing dexterity, the drow slid his own sword into its sheath and caught Hralien's flipping weapon by the hilt.
"Treacherous dog!" Hralien protested as the dark elf moved in behind him, prodding him along.
"Just shut up and run," Tos'un scolded him.
Hralien stopped, though, and the tip of Khazid'hea nicked him. Tos'un's hand came against his back then, and shoved him roughly forward.
"Run!" he demanded.
Hralien stumbled forward and Tos'un didn't let him dig in, keeping up and pushing him along with every stride.
Drizzt hated breaking away from Bruenor with both the orc leaders so close, but the magic-using orc, nestled in a mixed copse of evergreen and deciduous trees to the east of Obould's defenses, demanded his attention. Having lived and fought beside the wizards of the drow school Sorcere, who were skilled in the tactics of wizardry combined with sword-fighters, Drizzt understood the danger of those thunderous, blinding lightning bolts.
And there was something more, some nagging suspicion in Drizzt's thoughts. How had the orcs taken Innovindil and Sunset from the sky? That puzzle had nagged at Drizzt since Hralien had delivered the news of their fall. Did he have his answer?
The wizard wasn't alone, for he had set other orcs, large Karuck half-ogre orcs, around the perimeter of the copse. One of them confronted Drizzt as he reached the tree line, leaping forward with a growl and a thrusting spear.
But Drizzt had no time for such nonsense, and he shifted, throwing himself to the left, and brought both of his scimitars down and back to the right, double-striking the spear and driving it harmlessly aside. Drizzt continued right past the off-balance spear-wielder, lifting Twinkle expertly to slash a line across the orc's throat.
As that one fell away, though, two more charged at the drow, from left and right, and the commotion also drew the attention of the wizard, still some thirty feet away.
Drizzt pasted an expression of fear on his face, for the benefit of the wizard, then darted out to the right, quick-stepping to intercept the charging orc. He turned as they came together, rolling right around and to the left, tilting his shoulders out of horizontal as he turned so that his sweeping blades lifted the orc's sword up high.
Drizzt sprinted right for the trunk of a nearby tree, both orcs closing. He ran up it and leaped off, threw his head and shoulders back, and tucked into a tight somersault. He landed lightly, exploding into a barrage of whirling blades, and one orc fell away, the other running off to the side.
Drizzt came out from behind the tree as he pursued, to see the orc wizard waggling his fingers in spellcasting, aiming his way.
It was exactly as Drizzt had planned, for the surprise on the wizard orc's face was both genuine and delicious as Guenhwyvar crashed in from the side, bearing the creature to the ground.
"For the lives of your dwarven friends," Tos'un explained, pushing the stubborn elf forward. The surprising words diminished Hralien's resistance, and he did not fight against the shift when the flat of Tos'un's blade turned him, angling him more directly to the east.
"The Wolf Jaw standard," Tos'un explained to the elf. "Chieftain Dnark and his priest. "
"But the dwarves are in trouble!" Hralien protested, for not far away, Pwent and Torgar and the others fought furiously against an orc force thrice their number.
"To the head of the serpent!" Tos'un insisted, and Hralien could not disagree.
He began to understand as they passed several orcs, who glanced at the dark elf deferentially and did not try to intercept them.
They sprinted around some boulders and broken ground, down past a cluster of thick pines and across a short expanse to the heart of Dnark's army. Tos'un spotted the chieftain immediately, Toogwik Tuk and Ung-thol at his side as expected.
"A present for Dnark," the drow called at the stunned expressions, and he pushed Hralien harder, nearly toppling the elf.
Dnark waved some guards toward Hralien to take the elf from Tos'un.
"General Dukka and his thousands approach," Dnark called to the drow. "But we will not fight until it is settled between the chieftains. "
"Obould and Grguch," Tos'un agreed, and as the orc guards approached, he went past Hralien.
"Left hip," the dark elf whispered as he crossed past Hralien, and he brushed close enough for the surface elf to feel the hilt of his own belted sword.
Tos'un paused and nodded at both the orcs, drawing their attention and giving Hralien ample time to draw forth the blade. And so Hralien did, and even as the orc guards noted it and called out in protest, the flash of elven steel left them dead.
Tos'un stumbled away from Hralien, stumbled toward Dnark's group, looking back and scrambling as if fleeing the murderous elf. He turned fully as he put his feet under him, and saw that Toogwik Tuk had begun spellcasting, with Dnark directing other orcs to
ward Hralien.
"Back to the elf and finish him!" Dnark protested as Tos'un continued his flight. "Dukka is coming and we must prepare. . . "
But Dnark's voice trailed off as he finished, as he came to realize that Tos'un, that treacherous drow, wasn't running away from the elf, but was, in fact, charging at him.
Standing at Dnark's left, Toogwik Tuk gasped as Khazid'hea rudely interrupted his spellcasting, biting deep into his chest. To Chieftain Dnark's credit, he managed to get his shield up to block Tos'un's other blade as it came in at him. He couldn't anticipate the power of Khazid'hea, though, for instead of yanking the blade out of Toogwik Tuk's chest, Tos'un just drove it across, the impossibly fine edge of the sword known as Cutter slicing through bone and muscle as easily as if it were parting water. The blade came across just under Dnark's shoulder, and before the chieftain even realized the attack enough to spin away, his left arm was taken, falling free to the ground.
Dnark howled and dropped his weapon, reaching across to grab at the blood spurting from his stumped shoulder. He fell back and to the ground, thrashing and roaring empty threats.
But Tos'un wasn't even listening, turning to strike at the nearest orcs. Not Ung-thol, though, for the shaman ran away, taking a large portion of Dnark's elite group with him.
"The dwarves!" Hralien called to the drow, and Tos'un followed the Moonwood elf. He forced back his nearest attackers with a blinding, stabbing routine, then angled away, turning back toward Hralien, who had already swung around in full charge toward the dell in the west.
Bruenor rolled his shield forward, picking off a swing, then advanced, turning his shoulders and rolling his axe at the dodging Grguch. He swung his shield arm up to deflect the next attack, and swiped his axe across underneath it, forcing Grguch to suck in his gut and throw back his hips.
On came the dwarf, pounding away with his shield, slashing wildly with his axe. He had the much larger half-ogre off balance, and knew from the craftsmanship and sheer size of Grguch's axe that he would do well to keep it that way!
The song of Moradin poured from his lips. He swung across and reversed in a mighty backhand, nearly scoring a hit, then charged forward, shield leading. That is why he had been returned to his people, Bruenor knew in his heart. That was the moment when Moradin needed him, when Clan Battlehammer needed him.
He threw out the confusion of the lost city and its riddles, of Drizzt's surprising guesses. None of that mattered - it was he and that newest, fiercest foe, battling to the death, old enemies locked in mortal combat. It was the way of Moradin and the way of Gruumsh, or at least, it was the way it had always been.
Light steps propelled the dwarf, spinning, advancing and retreating out of every swing and every block with perfect balance, using his speed to keep his larger, stronger foe slightly off balance.
Every time Grguch tried to wind up for a mighty stroke of that magnificent axe, Bruenor moved out of range, or came in too close, or too far to the same side as the retracted weapon, shortening Grguch's strike and stealing much of its power.
And always Bruenor's axe slashed at the orc. Always, the dwarf had Grguch twisting and dodging, and cursing.
Like sweet music to Bruenor's ears did those orc curses sound.
In utter frustration, Grguch leaped back and roared in protest, bringing his axe up high. Bruenor knew better than to pursue, dropping one foot back instead, then rushing back and to the side, under the branch of a leafless maple.
Grguch, too outraged by the frustrating dwarf to hold back, rushed forward and swung with all his might anyway - and the dragon-axe crashed right through that thick limb, splintering its base and driving it back at the dwarf. Bruenor threw up his shield at the last second, but the weight of the limb sent him staggering backward.
By the time he recovered, Grguch was there, roaring still, his axe cutting a line for Bruenor's skull.
Bruenor ducked and threw up his shield, and the axe hit it solidly - too solidly! The foaming mug shield, that most recognizable of Mithral Hall's artifacts, split in half, and below it, the bone in Bruenor's arm cracked, the weight of the blow driving the dwarf to his knees.
Agony burned through Bruenor's body, and white flashes filled his vision.
But Moradin was on his lips, and Moradin was in his heart, and he scrambled forward, slashing his axe with all his might, forcing Grguch before him in his frenzy.
Pwent, Torgar, and Shingles formed a triangle around Cordio. The priest directed their movements, mostly coordinating Shingles and Torgar with the wild leaps and surges of the unbridled fury that was Thibble dorf Pwent. Pwent had never viewed battle in terms of defensive formations. To his credit, though, the wild-eyed battlerager did not completely compromise the integrity of their defensive stand, and the bodies of dead orcs began to pile up around them.
But more took the places of the fallen - many more, an endless stream. As weapon arms drooped from simple weariness, the three frontline dwarves took more and more hits, and Cordio's spells of healing came nearly constant from his lips, depleting his magical energies.
They couldn't keep it up for much longer, all three knew, and even Pwent suspected that it would be their last, glorious stand.
The orc immediately before Torgar rushed forward suddenly. The Mirabarran dwarf turned the long handle of his axe at the last moment to deflect the creature aside, and only when it started to fall away did Torgar recognize that it was already mortally wounded, blood pouring from a deep wound in its back.
As the dwarf turned to face any other nearby orcs, he saw the way before him cleared of enemies, saw Hralien and Tos'un fighting side by side. They backed as Torgar shifted to his right, moving beside Shingles, and the defensive triangle became two, two and one, and with an apparent escape route open to the east. Hralien and Tos'un started that flight, Cordio bringing the others in behind.
But they became bogged down before they had ever really started, as more and more orcs joined the fray - orcs thirsty for vengeance for their fallen chieftain, and orcs simply thirsty for the taste of dwarf and elf blood.
The panther's claws raked the fallen orc's body, but Jack's wards held strong and Guenhwyvar did little real damage. Even as Guenhwyvar thrashed, Hakuun began to mouth the words of a spell as Jack took control.
Guenhwyvar understood well the power of wizards and priests, though, and the panther clamped her jaws over the orc's face, pressing and twisting. Still the wizard's defensive wards held, diminishing the effect. But Hakuun began to feel the pain, and knowing that the magical shields were being torn asunder, the orc panicked.
That mattered little to Jack, safe within Hakuun's head. Wise old Jack was worldly enough to recognize Guenhwyvar for what she was. In the shelter of Hakuun's thick skull, Jack calmly went about his task. He reached into the Weave of magical energy, found the nearby loose ends of enchanting emanations, and tied them together, filling the area with countering magical force.
Hakuun screamed as panther claws tore through his leather tunic and raked lines of blood along his shoulder. The cat retracted her huge maw, opened wide and snapped back at his face, and Hakuun screamed louder, certain that the wards were gone and that the panther would crush his skull to dust.
But that head dissipated as the panther bit down, and gray mist replaced the dispelled Guenhwyvar.
Hakuun lay there, trembling. He felt some of the magical wards being renewed about his disheveled frame.
Get up, you idiot! Jack screamed in his thoughts.
The orc shaman rolled to his side and up to one knee. He struggled to stand then stumbled away and back to the ground as a shower of sparks exploded beside him, a heavy punch knocking him backward.
He collected his wits and looked back in surprise to see the drow lifting a bow his way.
A second lightning-arrow streaked in, exploding, throwing him backward. But inside of Hakuun, Jack was already casting, and while the shaman struggled, one of
his hands reached out, answering the drow's third shot with a bolt of white-hot lightning.
When his blindness cleared, Hakuun saw that his enemy was gone. Destroyed to a smoking husk, he hoped, but only briefly, as another arrow came in at him from a different angle.
Again Jack answered with a blast of his own, followed by a series of stinging magical missiles that weaved through the trees to strike at the drow.
Dual voices invaded Hakuun's head, as Jack prepared another evocation and Hakuun cast a spell of healing upon himself. He had just finished mending the panther's fleshy tear when the stubborn drow hit him with another arrow.
He felt the magical wards flicker dangerously.
"Kill him!" Hakuun begged Jack, for he understood that one of those deadly arrows, maybe the very next one, was going to get through.
They had fought minor skirmishes, as anticipated, but nothing more, as word arrived along the line that Grguch and Obould had met in battle. Never one to play his hand fully, General Dukka moved his forces deliberately and with minimal risk. However things turned out, he intended to remain in power.
The Wolf Jaw orcs gave ground to Dukka's thousands, rolling down the channel on Obould's southern flank like floodwaters.
Always ready for a fight, Dukka stayed near the front, and so he was not far away when he heard a cry from the south, along the higher ridge, and when he heard the sound of battle to the northeast, and to the north, where he knew Obould to be. Lightning flashes filled the air up there, and Dukka could only imagine the carnage.
His arm ached and hung practically useless, and Bruenor understood that if he lost his momentum, he would meet a quick and unpleasant end. So he didn't relent. He drove on and on, slashing away with his many-notched axe, driving the oversized orc before him.
The orc could hardly keep up, and Bruenor scored minor hits, clipping him across one hand and nicking his thigh as he spun away.
The dwarf could win. He knew he could.
But the orc began calling out, and Bruenor understood enough Orcish to understand that he called for help. Not just orc help, either, the dwarf saw, as a pair of ogres moved over at the side of his vision, lifting heavy weapons.
Bruenor couldn't hope to win against all three. He thought to drive the orc leader back before him, then break off and head back the other way - perhaps Drizzt was finished with the troublesome wizard.
But the dwarf shook his head stubbornly. He had come to win against Obould, of course, until his dark-skinned friend had shown him another way. He had never expected to return to Mithral Hall, had guessed from the start that his reprieve from Moradin's halls had been temporary, and for a single purpose.
That purpose stood before him in the form of one of the largest and ugliest orcs he had ever had the displeasure to lay eyes on.
So Bruenor ignored the ogres and pressed his attack with even more fury. He would die, and so be it, but that bestial orc would fall before him.
His axe pounded with wild abandon, cracking against the blocking weapon of his opponent. He drew a deep line in one of the heads on Grguch's axe then nearly cracked through the weapon's handle when the orc brought it up horizontally to intercept a cut.
Bruenor had intended that cut to be the coup de grace, though, and he winced at the block, expecting that his time was over, that the ogres would finish him. He heard them off to the side, stalking in, growling. . . screaming.
Before him, the orc roared in protest, and Bruenor managed to glance back as he wound up for another strike.
One of the ogres had fallen away, its leg cleaved off at the hip. The other had turned away from Bruenor, to battle King Obould.
"Bah! Haha!" Bruenor howled at the absurdity of it all, and he brought his axe in at the same chopping downward angle, but more to his right, more to his opponent's left. The orc shifted appropriately and blocked, and Bruenor did it again, and again more to his right.
The orc decided to change the dynamics, and instead of just presenting the horizontal handle to block, he angled it down to his left. Since Bruenor was already leaning that way, there was no way for him to avoid the rightward slide.
The huge orc howled, advantage gained.
The orc had dispelled Guenhwyvar! From its back, claws and fangs digging at it, the orc had sent Drizzt's feline companion back to the Astral Plane.
At least, that's what the stunned drow prayed had happened, for when he had finished with the pair of orcs at the trees, he had come in sight just in time to watch his friend dissolve into smoky nothingness.
And that orc, so surprising, so unusual for one of the brutish race, had taken the hits of Drizzt's arrows, and had met his barrage with lightning-bolt retorts that had left Drizzt dazed and wounded.
Drizzt continued to circle, firing as he found opportunities between the trees. Every shot hit the mark, but every arrow was stopped just short, exploding into multicolored sparks.
And every arrow was met with a magical response, lightning and insidious magic missiles, from which Drizzt could not hide.
He went into the thickness of some evergreens, only to find other orcs already within. Bow in hand instead of his scimitars, and still dazed from the magical assaults, Drizzt had no intention of joining combat at that difficult moment, and so he cut to his right, back away from the magic-using orc, and ran out of the copse.
And just in time, for without regard to its orc comrades, the wizard dropped a fireball on those trees, a tremendous blast that instantly consumed the copse and everyone within.
Drizzt continued his run farther to the side before turning back at the orc. He dropped Taulmaril and drew forth his blades, and he thought of Guenhwyvar, and called out plaintively for his lost cat.
In sight of the wizard again, Drizzt dived behind a tree.
A lightning bolt split it down the middle before him, opening the ground to the orc wizard again, stealing Drizzt's protective wall, and so he ran on, to the side again.
"I won't run out of magic, foolish drow!" the orc called - and in High Drow, with perfect inflection!
That unnerved Drizzt almost as much as the magical barrage, but Drizzt accepted his role, and suspected that Bruenor was no less hard-pressed.
He swung out away from the orc wizard then veered around, finding a direct path to his enemy that would take him under a widespread maple and right beside another cluster of evergreens.
He roared and charged. He saw a tell-tale movement beside him, and grinned as he recognized it.
Drizzt reached inside himself as the wizard began casting, and summoned a globe of absolute darkness before him, between him and the mage.
Into the darkness went Drizzt. To his right, the evergreens rustled, as if he had cut fast and leaped out that way.
Dull pain and cold darkness filled Regis's head. He was far from consciousness, and sliding farther with every passing heartbeat. He knew not where he was, or what had put him there, in a deep and dark hole.
Somewhere, distantly, he felt a heavy thud against his back, and the jolt sent lines of searing pain into the halfling.
He groaned then simply let it all go.
The sensation of flying filled him, as if he had broken free of his mortal coil and was floating. . . floating.
"Not so clever, drow," Jack said through Hakuun's mouth as they both noted the movement in the limbs of the evergreens. A slight turn had the fiery pea released from Jack's spell lofting out that way, and an instant later, those evergreens exploded into flames, with, Jack and Hakuun both presumed, the troublesome drow inside.
But Drizzt had not gone out to his right. That had been Guenhwyvar, re-summoned from the Astral Plane by his call, heeding his quiet commands to serve her role as diversion. Guenhwyvar had gone across right behind Drizzt to leap into the evergreens, while Drizzt had tumbled headlong, gaining momentum, into the darkness.
In there, he had leaped straight up, finding the maple's lowe
st branch.
"Be gone, Guen," he whispered as he ran along that branch, feeling the heat of the flames to his side. "Please be gone," he begged as he came out of the blackness, bearing down on the wizard, who was still looking at the evergreens, still apparently oblivious to Drizzt.
The drow came off the branch in a leaping somersault, landing lightly in a roll before the orc, who nearly jumped out of his boots and threw his hands up defensively. As Drizzt came out of that roll, he sprang and rolled again, going right past the orc, right over the orc's shoulder as he turned back upright.
Anger drove him, memories of Innovindil. He told himself that he had solved the riddle, that that creature had been the cause.
Fury driving his arms, he slashed back behind him and down with Icingdeath as he landed, and felt the blade slash hard through the orc's leather tunic and bite deeply into flesh. Drizzt skidded to an abrupt stop and pirouetted, slashing hard with Twinkle, gashing the back-bending orc across the shoulder blades. Drizzt stepped back toward him, moving around him on the other side, and cut Twinkle down hard across the creature's exposed throat, driving it to the ground on its back.
He moved for the kill, but stopped short, realizing that he needn't bother. A growl from over by the burning pines showed him that Guenhwyvar hadn't heeded his call to be gone, but neither had the panther, so swift and clever, been caught in the blast.
Relief flooded through Drizzt, but with the diversion, he didn't take notice of a small winged snake slithering out of the dead orc's ear.
Bruenor's axe slid down hard to the side, and Bruenor stumbled that way. He saw the huge orc's face twist in glee, in the belief of victory.
But that was exactly the look he had hoped for.
For Bruenor was not stumbling, and had forced the angled block for that very reason, to disengage his axe quickly and down to the side, far to the right of his target. In his stumble, Bruenor was really just re-setting his stance, and he spun away from the orc, daring to turn his back on it for a brief moment.
In that spin, Bruenor sent his axe in a roundabout swing at the end of his arm, and the orc, readying a killing strike, could not redirect his heavy two-bladed axe in time.
Bruenor whirled around, his axe flying out wide to the right, setting himself in a widespread stance, ready to meet any attack.
None came, for his axe had torn the orc's belly as it had come around, and the creature crumbled backward, holding its heavy axe in its right hand, but clutching at its spilling entrails with its left.
Bruenor stalked forward and began battering it once more. The orc managed to block a blow, then a second, but the third slipped past and gashed its forearm, tearing its hand clear of its belly.
Guts spilled out. The orc howled and tried to back away.
But a flaming sword swept in over Bruenor's one-horned helmet and cut Grguch's misshapen head apart.
Guenhwyvar's roar saved him, for Drizzt glanced back at the last moment, and ducked aside just in time to avoid the brunt of the winged snake's murderous lightning strike. Still the bolt clipped the drow, and lifted him into the air, flipping him over more than a complete rotation, so that he landed hard on his side.
He bounced right back up, though, and the winged snake dropped to the ground and darted for the trees.
But the curved edge of a scimitar hooked under it and flipped it into the air, where Drizzt's other blade slashed against it.
Against it, but not through it, for a magical ward prevented the cut - though the force of the blade surely bent the serpent over it!
Undeterred, for that mystery within a mystery somehow confirmed to Drizzt his suspicions about Innovindil's fall, the drow growled and pushed on. Whether his guess was accurate or not hardly mattered, for Drizzt transformed that rage into blinding, furious action. He flipped the serpent again, then went into a frenzy, slashing left, right, left, right, over and over again, holding the serpent aloft by the sheer speed and precision of his repeated hits. He didn't slow, he didn't breathe, he simply battered away with abandon.
The creature flapped its wings, and Drizzt scored a hit at last, cutting up and nearly severing one where it met the serpent's body.
Again the drow went into a fury, slashing back and forth, and he ended by turning one blade around the torn snake. He fell into a short run and turn behind that strike and used his scimitar to fling the snake out far.
In mid-air, the snake transformed, becoming a gnome as it hit the ground in a roll, turning as it came up and slamming its back hard against a tree.
Drizzt relaxed, convinced that the tree was the only thing holding the surprising creature upright.
"You summoned. . . the panther. . . back," the gnome said, his voice weak and fading.
Drizzt didn't reply.
"Brilliant diversion," the gnome congratulated.
A curious expression came over the diminutive creature, and it held up one trembling hand. Blood poured from out of his robe's voluminous sleeve, though it did not stain the material - material that showed not a tear from the drow's assault.
"Hmm," the gnome said, and looked down, and so did Drizzt, to see more blood pouring out from under the hem of the robe, pooling on the ground between the little fellow's boots.
"Good garment," the gnome noted. "Know you a mage worthy?"
Drizzt looked at him curiously.
Jack the Gnome shrugged. His left arm fell off then, sliding out of his garment, the tiny piece of remaining skin that attached it to his shoulder tearing free under the dead weight.
Jack looked at it, Drizzt looked at it, and they looked at each other again.
And Jack shrugged. And Jack fell face down. And Jack the Gnome was dead.