But then he realized she was warning him, telling him to flee.
Shontiq started to throw his ball of flame to the side, but again his attention was grabbed by the movement down the hall, as Sahvin Sel’rue sprinted toward him. And behind her there were lights—torches! Sahvin shook her hands at him, shook her head at him, and then the woman dived down suddenly into a forward roll, just as a spinning missile swept over her tumbling form.
It went through Shontiq’s mind that he should have renewed his magical wards.
Then the warhammer went through Shontiq’s mind, quite literally, and his every thought blew away in an instant.
The conjured magical flame tumbled as the wizard dropped, landing right beside him, licking at his arm and robe, but he didn’t feel it.
Sahvin Sel’rue ran past him then, and had no time to pause and see if he was still alive, or to pat out the flames now growing on the sleeve of Shontiq’s fine robes. Glancing at the thick head of the warhammer embedded in the brains of her companion, she saw little point in going to Shontiq anyway, except perhaps to retrieve the weapon.
Her eyes did flash as she considered that possibility, for surely it seemed a wondrous weapon, despite the gore splattered about it.
She just kept going. She had no choice. A powerful force of humans and elves licked at her heels, led by a Knight in Silver, a raging barbarian who seemed as big and formidable as a frost giant, and a clever little halfling who had already put one hand crossbow dart into Sahvin’s backside.
She could feel the poisoned tip burning there, but she didn’t dare slow to remove it.
Around a corner and up a natural chimney, and she’d be back among the orcs, and she could warn them and organize them, and filter through their ranks … and run away if they were overrun.
The main orc encampment, in a large cavern, had been designed perfectly to fit the information presented to the forty dark elves advising this group.
They knew, for example, that the people of Silverymoon had no underground route to get around their location to the tunnels north of them. The drow had scouted this region of the Upperdark extensively.
They knew, as well, that the folk of Silverymoon could not come forth from their walled city aboveground without being spied by the many eyes they had upon the place.
And they knew, of course, that the other underground citadels of the region, the three dwarven fortresses, could not come forth to the aid of Silverymoon, aboveground or in the Underdark, without them knowing it long in advance.
They did know, as well, that a small force from Sundabar had escaped into the Underdark through the subterranean granaries and the Everfire Caverns below those. But this was a fleeing mob, after all, full of old women and children, of peasants and farmers and nothing more, and within a tenday or so after the fall of Sundabar, this mob had been put out of mind. Perhaps the refugees had found their way to Everlund, or had escaped out to the east. More likely, most were dead in the Underdark, killed by falls or starvation or displacer beasts or umber hulks or any of the hundreds of deadly pitfalls and monstrous enemies to be found there.
And so when the siege of Silverymoon had been solidified for the winter pause, this cavern had been perfectly designed, with defensive walls and high watch points, with ballistae even, aiming to the tunnels entering the southern rim of the cavern, the tunnels coming from Silverymoon.
Everything was aiming to the south, every barricade, every weapon nest, every scout position.
A general sense of confusion and dread emanated from the words of the returning drow scout, therefore, when Sahvin crawled into the northern rim of the cavern encampment warning of a powerful enemy force close behind.
More than a score of dark elves were in that camp, along with two hundred battle-hardened, well-armed, and well-armored orcs; scores of ogres; and a brigade of giants. Had they reformed their lines and turned their weapons around, the approaching force of refugees would have had no chance of breaking through them, let alone of defeating them.
But there were thousands coming, Sahvin had assured them. From her perspective, judging by the sheer number of torches and the discipline, speed, and confidence of the march, the leading band of powerful warriors—including a commander of the Knights in Silver—there could be little doubt that this was a coordinated squeeze. Silverymoon or one of her allies—perhaps a new force from outside the Silver Marches—was cutting off the main retreat lines and falling upon this encampment with all of her weight.
The dark elves barely broached the possibility of standing their ground and fighting, and instead, in full, fled through the lower tunnels into the deeper Underdark.
Giants jostled ogres, ogres thumped orcs, and orcs shoved and punched one another in the confusion that ensued. Where to go? Where to turn?
“Formations!” one orc leader cried, but no one knew what that even meant in this oddly-shaped cavern with tunnels coming in from all sides, from above, and from below.
One band of orcs moved to a wide northeastern tunnel, though to scout or to flee the others did not know. Nor did it matter, for such a barrage of arrows met them as they exited the room that those few surviving the surprising onslaught staggered right back in.
Toward that tunnel ran a powerful square of ogres and giants, shoving a wall of orcs in front of them, and with scores of orcs trailing in their wake.
But from a side tunnel in the east came the first enemies, led by Sundabar warriors and a Knight in Silver, and by a giant of a man and a halfling beside him.
And they were led by a devastating volley of spears and by a warhammer thrown so powerfully that it dropped an ogre dead where it stood.
Orcs charged at the enemy, but more orcs broke the other way, running for the western exits.
The square of ogres and giants took a different route. Hearing the commotion of thousands, it seemed, they charged down the tunnel from which the arrows had come. If an unfortunate orc being pushed in front of the defensive shield array tripped and fell, it was crushed to death in short order by ogre feet and giant boots. Down they went, thinking to burrow into the back ranks of this approaching army.
They crossed an area of broken stones and found many spikes among those rocks, cleverly set as caltrops. Monsters roared and the square’s integrity shuddered. Ogres stumbled aside, grabbing at broken feet.
Another barrage of arrows reached forth from the darkness, raining and stinging.
But the monsters rolled on eagerly, ready for the kill.
Rolled on and on, and found a room where a hundred small candles burned—small candles they had thought the torches of an army far back along the straight corridor!
They were chasing ghosts, they came to realize finally, when they were far from the encampment, far from the orcs and few ogres they had left behind …
Far from the actual fighting.
The rapier whirled round and round about the orc spear, over and over, then reversing suddenly and shoving the spear wide. In sudden and brilliant balance, his upper torso barely shifting, the halfling quick-stepped forward and thrust once and again, and the orc fell away with blood spurting from two holes in its chest.
Regis used the momentary pause to quickly cock and load his hand crossbow, and he sent a dart into the ear of an orc across the way, one charging into battle farther down the line. The beast stutter-stepped and grabbed at its ear, howling in pain rather than bloodlust now.
Then it staggered and pitched forward, and the sword of a Sundabar swordsman cut it down.
“Well fought and well shot, little one!” came a voice from the other way, and Regis turned to salute Aleina Brightlance, rapier coming up to his forehead, then diving out in front of him to turn aside the swipe of an orc’s sword.
That orc pressed on, thinking its momentum would carry it to the kill, and indeed, it disengaged the weapon and pressed it forward at the apparently vulnerable target.
But up came a three-bladed dagger, intercepting the sword in a deft hooking motion
, followed by a twist that nearly broke the blade and turned the orc’s arm out wide.
That gave Aleina the perfect opening. She drove her opponent back with a slash and thrust, but turned the thrust to the side in time to slide her sword through the chest of Regis’s enemy.
That orc tumbled between them and Regis rushed behind it, intercepting the orc coming back in at Aleina, his rapier taking it in the shoulder, then the neck.
The creature staggered, Regis retreated, and Aleina lopped off its head.
“Aha!” she cried. “Four kills! What will your giant friend think of that?”
Her boast was cut short as a heavy missile soared in at the pair from the side beyond Aleina. They both yelped and fell away, stumbling back into formation. Before their brains could unscramble from the surprise—was it a giant-thrown boulder?—the duo recognized the missile as an orc, and one quite dead, from the weird way it lay there, all twisted and broken. Glancing back from where it had come, they quickly discerned the source.
“I doubt he’d be impressed,” Regis replied dryly. The source of the recently living missile was Wulfgar, standing amidst a pile of broken orc and ogre bodies, his hammer chopping out in front of him with heavy, brutal strikes.
“By the gods,” Aleina Brightlance muttered.
“Tempus, I believe,” Regis answered, and they both shuddered as Aegis-fang came down hard on the ogre’s head, exploding the misshapen noggin into a shower of blood and gore.
“That marks ten at least,” Regis remarked, following Aleina forward to find more foes. “And four of them ogres, by my count.”
“I can count,” Aleina grumbled.
Regis grinned and couldn’t resist. “And that does not include the ones he killed before we ever reached this chamber.”
Aleina cast a sidelong glare at him, but it was one filled with the heat of a good-natured rivalry and no true scorn.
“Your friend will claim a higher total than I,” she admitted when the horns blew behind them, indicating that the force out in the tunnel, leading the giants on a wild and fruitless chase, was coming in fast.
“To the south!” Aleina called to her charges. “Sweep clear the tunnels to Silverymoon!”
Aleina moved past Regis to lead the pivot. They had never entertained any idea of a pitched battle in this cavern. Their force was more mirage than reality. They had hit fast and hard, and indeed, it could be called nothing short of a rout, with scores of monsters dead, and the survivors running. But this was the delicate part, Aleina and the others knew. If those enemies still remaining in the cavern realized the ploy and the intent to flee, they might come on again, and that battle might well give enough time for the giants and ogres to return.
Indeed, soon after she had started to the south, drawing the forward line around, Aleina noted a distant orc up on a natural pedestal of stone, calling for its charges to turn and fight.
But that orc was hit, suddenly and brutally, and went flying away.
Aleina turned her gaze back to the north to see Wulfgar’s wicked grin.
“By the gods,” she muttered once more, under her breath.
Regis awakened propped in a chair in a small room. The chamber was bare save for a single chair and a heavy, ironbound door just a couple of feet in front of the seated halfling. Not sure how he’d gotten to this place, the halfling instinctively leaned forward and reached for the door, only to find his right wrist shackled, chained to a peg set in the floor behind the chair.
Regis studied the tight metal bracelet, seeking a locking mechanism. But there was none to be found, just a smooth metallic ring—it looked like mithral—too tight for him to even think about slipping his hand out.
A magical shackle, but how?
His thoughts immediately went to the dark elves, and he found it hard to breathe. He shook his head, trying not to get ahead of himself, telling himself to recount the events. He remembered the planning for the assault—he had led the way on that. The initial charge was clear to him, as was entering the cavern beside Aleina Brightlance.
They had routed the orc force, and pressed through into the tunnels Aleina had assured them would take them to Silverymoon. Indeed, Regis had some recollection of the calls of the advance runners, indicating that the defenders of Silverymoon were in sight.
He looked at the shackle again, at the material and the simple, elegant design, and ran the fingers of his other hand over it gently, searching for a lock, though he was certain of a magical seal. He hoped again that this wasn’t a drow shackle, and held that thought and his breath as the door to his room opened.
Regis breathed an audible sigh of relief when a man, a human, entered the room. Tall and broad-shouldered, and certainly an imposing figure, Regis found it hard to place the man’s age. He had a thick head of hair with a bit of yellow in it, though it was mostly gray. His white beard was long and neatly tapered, and his dark eyes, ringed by fine lines, bespoke the wisdom of age.
“I trust you are not harmed,” he said in a deep and resonant voice and an accent that, like his fine clothing, spoke of culture and sophistication.
That realization gave Regis pause. He looked at the man more carefully and thought perhaps he recognized him.
“Confused, perhaps, but not harmed,” he answered.
“Good, then perhaps I can help clear up your confusion,” the man said. He waggled his fingers and cast a quick spell. A chair appeared directly in front of Regis. The tall man spun it around and sat straddling it, leaning his elbow on its straight back. With his free hand, he reached into a pocket and pulled forth Regis’s hat of disguise, which he hung on the corner of the chair’s back.
“Let us begin with your lying,” he said.
“M-my what?” Regis stammered, staring at the hat. “Where am I? Is this Silverymoon?”
“Yes, and you were invited in,” came the reply.
“To be shackled?”
“After you lied.”
“I … I …” Regis fought for an answer, but really had no idea what was going on. He remembered more now, but it was still hazy.
“I came in with Knight-Commander Ale—”
“Aleina Brightlance, yes,” the man interrupted. “And with the refugees of Sundabar, though you were not one of those.”
“No, but we found …”
“I know your tale, little one. I am well acquainted with Aleina and have spoken with her at length.”
“Then you know I am no enemy of Silverymoon.”
“I know that you lied to me,” the man answered. “We had priests watching with spells enacted when you and your large companion were questioned. Your friend, Wulfgar, spoke truly, but as for you, Mister Parrafin …”
“My name …” Regis breathed.
“Spider Parrafin, so you said, but that was not the truth.”
“It is a half-truth.”
“Do tell.”
“Spider Parrafin is the name of my … of my second life. I was reborn—it is a crazy tale, I fear. My name really is Parrafin, and the name I gave myself when my father would not …” He paused and huffed. There was so much to tell.
“Spider,” he said. “They called me Spider because I could climb walls so well. So I kept the name, and so, yes, my name is Spider Parrafin.”
“The priests claimed that to be a lie, and I am inclined to believe them.”
“Because in my heart, I do not hold to that identity,” Regis admitted. “And so to the perceptions of the priests with their spells, it would seem as if I was lying.”
“Pray continue,” the tall man said when Regis paused.
“My true name is Regi—” the halfling started to explain, but he stopped and stared harder at the man, recognition clicking into place. “I know you,” he said.
“Regih?” the man echoed.
“You were an advisor to Lady Alustriel,” Regis said. “But that was a century and more ago. Nay, wait, you were the High Mage of Silverymoon!”
“That is no secret.”
/> “Do you not know me?” the halfling asked, but then caught himself. “No, of course you do not. My real name is Regis, and it is a name that you know, or knew.”
The wizard held his hands out, clearly at a loss.
“I was friend to Bruenor Battlehammer, once Steward of Mithral Hall,” Regis said. “Friend to Drizzt Do’Urden.”
“A fanciful tale,” the man replied in a tone that sounded less than convinced. “And your friend …” He stopped there, his face twisting with confusion, and he mouthed, “Wulfgar?” He stared back at the halfling, then shook his head, a perplexed look upon his face.
Regis grinned. “It is true,” he said. “Fetch your priests and cast the spells, I pray. And you are Taern Hornblade, yes? The wizard they call Thunderspell?”
The man was hardly listening, as he was clearly trying to wrap his thoughts around this startling information—though surely not as startling to one of Taern’s wizardly skills, or one of his age, for even with the time spent in the magical forest of Iruladoon and even with the years after his rebirth, Regis wasn’t nearly as old as this human.
“What does it mean?” asked a woman’s voice, and Aleina entered the room.
“If it is true, then it would mean that these two you found in the Underdark are older than anyone in Silverymoon who is not an elf and is not … me,” the high mage replied.
“It means more than that,” Regis added.
“Go and fetch the one called Wulfgar,” Taern bade Aleina. “They have a tale to tell, and it is one we should hear.”
“I am so glad that you have returned to us,” Belinda Heavensbow said to Aleina, wrapping her returned friend in a great hug. “We had heard that you survived the Redrun to get to Sundabar, but feared you dead in that catastrophe.”
“I surely would have been, but for the blessings of the gods,” Aleina replied.
“The last one into the keep, no doubt,” Belinda said, and she rubbed Aleina’s arms and smoothed Aleina’s thick brown hair, plainly needing that tangible proof that her dearest friend had returned to her. They were the same age, less than a year from thirty, born within a week of each other, and to parents who had been close friends. They had joined the Knights in Silver together, and had served together for several years, until Belinda had resigned to help out her ailing father in his archery shop in Silverymoon’s trade district.