“Adbar,” she decided.
She heard the whimpers behind the doors and windows. She felt the anger, the helplessness, the frustration, the hunger.
Most pointedly, the hunger.
The city was starving. She saw piles of dwarf bodies, the old and the young, in the town square.
That pile of corpses turned insubstantial in front of her, disappearing, but the sense of them remained.
She spied a pair of dwarves walking, staggering and bowed, weak with hunger.
Catti-brie fell back in her chair and let her spell fly from her. The magic was dissipating anyway, she told herself, though she knew the truth: she couldn’t bear to witness any more of this.
She sat there for a long while—the feeling of time passing was lost to her—digesting all that she had seen, trying to make sense of it, to separate the images in time, memories from premonitions, and both from the present.
She heard the room’s door open and felt Drizzt’s presence as he entered.
“We have to find a way out,” she said before he got to her.
Confusion and fear followed Regis to the bottom of the river. He scrambled about, trying to find some rock or something that would shield him, then turned back for the lower-ceilinged area, the tight tunnel, where their spears could not reach him.
But why had they attacked him? It made no sense.
A spear stabbed into the river bottom immediately in front of him, turning him around in a hurry.
What had he done? Why would they attack a naked halfling?
And then he remembered that he wasn’t a halfling at all, not in appearance at least.
He tapped his beret, reverting to his natural form. He began screaming the truth before he resurfaced, though all that came out was an undecipherable grunt and a flood of bubbles. He splashed through the surface, arms waving frantically, screaming wildly, “Wait! Wait!”
A flying club was already on the way, though, and it struck him hard and knocked him nearly senseless as he pitched back under the water. He felt himself drifting, then felt a strong hand grab him roughly by the right arm—and up he went, right out of the water to be hoisted roughly and unceremoniously onto the bank.
He fell down hard, half-conscious after the hit to the head, and he nearly swooned. The jolting had moved that dastardly spearhead, sending waves of agony flowing through his little frame.
“Wait … wait,” he begged.
He heard stirring all around him, heard voices, though they seemed very distant.
One voice rang out above all, silencing the din, and soon after came a second voice, a chanting refrain.
Regis felt the warmth of magical healing washing over him, inviting him back to the realm of the living. Breathing easier, the waves of pain subsiding, the dizziness straightening, great relief overwhelming him, he managed to open his eyes.
He sucked in his breath again, feeling a sword tip at his throat. His gaze rode up the blade, gleaming silver in the torchlight, so near and ready to murder him, until it settled on the swordsman.
Or swordswoman, actually, he realized as she came into focus, with her long, dark hair, wide, shining brown eyes, and a frame that exuded strength and health.
“You should explain yourself, halfling,” she said to him. “Or goblin.”
“Halfling,” he squeaked.
“Goblin when he first came up,” some other man said.
“Disguise,” whispered Regis, and he managed to turn one hand up to point at his blue beret. “Magical hat.”
“Prove it,” said the swordswoman.
Regis slowly moved his hand up and tapped the beret, and became a goblin once more. The woman gasped—they all did, and more than a few growled. Regis quickly pulled the hat from his head and immediately reverted to his natural halfling form.
“My name is Regis,” the halfling said quietly. “A friend of King Bru—King Connerad. And of Drizzt Do’Urden.”
“Drow friend!” he heard someone say, and heard too, several people spitting.
“No,” Regis blurted. “I fought in Nesmé. Fought against the drow, and the orcs, and …”
The woman retracted her sword and helped him to sit up, and still he winced, for though the priest had helped him a bit, he still had a spearhead sticking in his shoulder.
“How did you get here?” she asked.
“We went for Mithral Hall, to bring aid to Nesmé,” he explained. “We didn’t make it. The way to Mithral Hall is blocked. We tried to get to Citadel Felbarr.”
“You are a long way from Citadel Felbarr,” said the woman.
“I don’t know where I am.” Regis admitted.
“Well, if you are who you say you are, then know that you are among friends,” the woman said, sliding her sword away.
“None I would have expected to find down here.”
“We are all who remain of Sundabar,” the woman explained. “I am Knight-Captain Aleina Brightlance of Silverymoon, though I served King Firehelm in the siege of Sundabar and was there when the city fell. We fled through the granaries to the Everfire Caverns, and here we are, settled in the dark ways of the Underdark.”
“Sundabar fell,” Regis mouthed, nodding. “Yes, we heard that. That’s why we tried for Mithral Hall. We knew Nesmé could not hold.” He paused and looked at the woman curiously. “But that was months ago.”
Aleina nodded grimly.
“My friend has healing spells,” she said. “Let him tend to your wound.”
Regis started to nod, but stopped suddenly and held up his hand, even grabbed the priest, to stop the spell. “My friend …” he explained. “He will need your spell more than I.”
“Friend?” the priest said. He turned for the river.
“Through the tunnel, downstream,” Regis explained. “I concealed him with stones. I must get back to him.” He started to rise, but Aleina put her hand on his shoulder.
“You have a friend back beyond the tunnel?” she asked, and she turned to regard the cleric curiously.
“It is a long swim,” he confirmed.
“How did you get through?” she asked Regis. “Upstream, even! What other magic have you about yourself, Regis of Nesmé?”
“None!” he blurted. “Well, not much. I am of Aglarond, a town called Delthuntle on the shores of the Sea of Fallen Stars. I made coin as a deep diver—oysters and pearls. This is not so long a swim for me.”
Doubtful expressions loomed all around him.
“How many friends are on the other side?” Aleina asked at length.
“Just one. We must hurry, I beg!”
Aleina looked at the priest, then nodded. “How many?”
The priest turned and called off to some others, then a few moments later, reported, “We have five enchantments we can offer at this time.”
“You and me, then,” Aleina said and she began stripping off her gear. “One for the halfling …”
“What enchantment?” Regis asked.
“To breathe under the water,” the priest explained.
“I don’t need it, but my friend will.”
“It is a long swim,” Aleina reminded him.
“One I just made, and I was not moving fast.”
“Torvache, then,” Aleina said, motioning to a large man nearby, and he too began stripping his gear.
“Perhaps you should not go, Knight-Captain,” the priest offered. “It could be a trap.”
“If it is, you’ll be glad to have me beside you,” the woman answered. Now wearing only a slight undergarment, she belted on her sword once more.
A short while later, the group entered the river, tied together with a long tether. The priest held a small dagger he had enchanted with magical light. With the current behind them, they were back in the small cavern in a short time, and Regis led the way onto the bank, rushing up the tunnel. The others, with swords and mace in hand, were close behind.
As they neared the tomb Regis had constructed to protect Wulfgar, the halfling’s hopes san
k. It had been opened, stones tossed aside …
“Wulfgar,” he breathed, then started to call, but Aleina clapped him on the shoulder and motioned him to silence.
“He was here!” Regis insisted.
“He still is,” came a voice from up ahead, and Wulfgar came into the tunnel, mighty Aegis-fang in hand. He came into the light, and Regis grimaced at the sight. The tall man was filthy and covered in dried blood, his wolfskin cloak matted and torn. New blood showed on his forehead where he had cracked it on the stone lintel.
“Unsettling it is to awaken in a grave,” he said to his friend. He wasn’t looking at Regis, though, but at the others, particularly at the woman.
“I didn’t want them to find you,” Regis replied.
“Them?” Wulfgar asked, staring still at the woman.
“The drow and the orcs,” Regis said, and he turned to Aleina. “Not them.”
He tried to meet Wulfgar’s gaze once more and explained, “Refugees from Sundabar …” His voice trailed off as he realized Wulfgar wasn’t really paying attention, and was looking past him to Aleina. The halfling considered her as well, and understood his friend’s interest. The shapely woman’s minimal clothing clung to her every curve. Her brown hair was matted, of course, but that only made the woman’s round brown eyes seem all the larger.
Despite her trials in the Underdark these months from Sundabar, Aleina Brightlance exuded health and solidity.
“There will be time for this later. Let us be gone from this place,” the woman said, clearly noticing Wulfgar’s gaze. She had met it with her own. She motioned to the priest, who moved to Wulfgar and began to cast a spell.
“Water breathing,” Regis explained. “You’ll need it.”
CHAPTER 7
MOVING TARGETS
MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED WERE HERE, COME TO THE CALL OF Sinnafein, and the elf lady looked around the clearing in the center of the Glimmerwood with satisfaction and pride.
When war had come, bringing the hordes roaming the borders of the forest, the elves had abandoned their villages for a defensive posture they had perfected centuries before. They called it hallaval planeta, or “wandering warrior,” a nomadic lifestyle seeking safety in constant movement about this land they knew so well. They had spent the better part of the year, certainly since Bromm’s fall, and even before that to a great extent, operating in small bands, often secluded from others of their race. The borders of the Glimmerwood were littered with the rotting corpses of orcs shot down by elf patrol bands, but in the course of these many months, only a few elves had been wounded, and not one had been killed in battle.
The orcs couldn’t kill what they couldn’t catch.
And now the orcs weren’t pressing in on the Glimmerwood—not even the frost giants ventured too far into the elf-haunted forest. Of all the kingdoms of Luruar, this one, the clan of Moonwood elves, had fared best, even more so than Everlund, whose walls had not yet trembled under the weight of giant-hurled boulders. The elves did not need the trade with any of the cities. The Glimmerwood gave them all they required, and more.
“It is good to see you, my lady Sinnafein,” said a tall warrior named Vyncint. “Our lives these days, in small groups … we do not know how others fare.” He shook his head. “That is the pain of the wandering warrior. You must trust in your friends, though they are lost to you in dangerous times.”
“By all accounts, all of the groups have fared well,” Sinnafein replied, and Vyncint nodded.
“And now you would end this,” he said. “Why?”
“Why indeed?” asked another, a deadly archer named Allafel, brother of Tarathiel who had been killed by the original King Obould a century before. “What do you know?”
“That all of the kingdoms about us are in dire need,” she answered. “That Sundabar has fallen, Nesmé, too, and Silverymoon is sorely pressed.” She moved out more to the center of the field and its gathering, as she spoke loud enough for all to hear. “I know that the dwarves are caught in their holes, all three citadels, and they grow desperate with hunger. They have tried to break out from Mithral Hall and Felbarr, but were chased back into the holes in short order.”
She paused as she came up to grim-faced Allafel. “They came forth from the safety of their fortified citadels against great odds. Indeed, unbeatable odds.”
“That speaks to their desperation,” Allafel admitted.
“No less is true of Citadel Adbar,” Vyncint added. “My fellows and I have haunted that region to the northeast. Many battles have been fought; the dwarves are relentless in their attempts to break the orc siege.”
“Relentless and unsuccessful,” another elf added.
“You have called us together that we can aid the dwarves,” Allafel reasoned, and there was a measure of accusation in his tone, though it was not without sympathy, Sinnafein noted hopefully.
“If we do not, then all that we have known about us as neighbors and allies will likely perish,” Sinnafein replied. “Only the orcs will remain.”
“Not all of the dwarves have been the best of neighbors, Lady,” Allafel reminded, and Sinnafein recalled immediately the incident to which the brother of Tarathiel likely referred, a most unpleasant argument with the dwarves of Adbar who had “come like orcs to fell the trees of the northeastern forest,” so the reports had claimed. The dwarves, under duress due to a great demand for weapons from Sundabar, had run short of fuel for their forges, and so they had crept down to the Glimmerwood in the hopes of taking a few wagonloads of lumber.
Allafel and some friends had met them, and had turned them away, but the encounter had not been without some minor bloodshed on both sides.
“Better even at that troubled time than the orcs, surely,” Vyncint said before Sinnafein could, and to Sinnafein’s relief, Allafel conceded the point with a nod.
“What do you propose, Lady?” another elf called from behind.
“The minions of Many-Arrows are grouped in vast encampments,” another reminded her. “We would have to cut the trees of half the Glimmerwood to fashion enough arrows to truly thin their ranks.”
“As soon as we sting them hard, they will come against us, of course,” Vyncint said.
“With fire,” Allafel added.
“Do you believe they will not do exactly that in any case?” asked another, and Sinnafein smiled when she saw Myriel walking up to stand in front of Allafel. “When they are done with the cities in the south, when the dwarves are dead in their holes … when Adbar falls and they mean to power her forges. Do you think they will take only a few wagons of our trees then, Master Allafel? They will raze the land without regard, to feed their fiery frenzy.”
“It is time to suspend hallaval planeta, I believe,” Sinnafein said. “It is time to concentrate and coordinate our warriors, to strike hard at the orcs in the hopes that at least one of the dwarven citadels can break the siege, and they, in turn, can join with us to bolster their kin.”
“Our numbers are few, our enemies vast,” Vyncint reminded. “What can we do?”
Sinnafein had no logical response to the reality of Vyncint’s words. He was being honest, and not trying to play a negative role or to challenge her authority, minimal as it was.
She tried to sort her options, to find some way the elves might prove effective, though the smallest of the orc encampments she had seen outnumbered the whole of the Glimmerwood’s elven force a hundred to one. A long and uncomfortable silence passed.
“What can we do, Lady?” Allafel prompted.
“We can try,” was all that Sinnafein could offer in persuasion to her kin.
To her surprise, though, that was enough.
“They are cutting,” came word a few days later. A band of orcs had come to the forest’s edge to take lumber for their campfires. Likely that was happening all the time now, away from this southeastern stretch. By concentrating their forces, the elves had surely left vast swaths of the Glimmerwood open to orc lumbering intrusions.
Bu
t now, finally, the monsters had come to the forest within reach.
Off went hundreds of elves, silent as shadows, invisible in their forest domain even in winter with most of the trees bare of leaves. Practiced and coordinated, they broke into smaller bands, and each of those took up positions to form a semicircle around the orcs.
Perhaps threescore of the ugly brutes were at work with their axes, supported by a quartet of frost giants, milling around just beyond the forest’s edge, piles of rocks beside them at the ready.
A bird whistled, but it wasn’t a bird.
Answers came back, two, three, four, as the elves took up their positions.
Several of the orcs even looked up curiously, perhaps not quite as stupid as the elves believed.
It hardly mattered, though, for with those few whistles, the elven bands had identified their target, and on a five-whistle quick count more than two hundred arrows went off, a near-equal number aiming for each of the frost giants. The behemoths staggered and stumbled under the weight of the blows, with nearly every shot on target, more than fifty elven arrows entering each giant’s flesh almost instantly in a great moment of trauma and explosive agony.
And by the time those arrows struck, each of the skilled elves had already set another arrow to a bowstring, and the rain of death began upon the orcs, sweeping outward from close to back.
How they scrambled!
A few took up axes and charged the forest, and fell only a few steps later, riddled with arrows. Most retreated, diving from stump to tree to stump, breaking clear and running, missiles chasing them every step. Farther out, two of the giants still stood, one merely trembling, using every bit of his strength just to avoid tumbling down in darkness, the other stubbornly trying to lift a rock.
Five short whistles later, a stinging swarm of arrows reached out again, and the giants were of concern no longer.