“I wait no longer!” Hartusk roared, and the orcs in the chamber began to whoop and holler and leap around.
“Too long we have sat and waited. The Melting is over and Everlund awaits. We march this day!”
The orcs cheered and leaped and danced. Ravel looked to Saribel with concern. They had discussed this very possibility with Tiago before Ravel teleported him to the Spine of the World in his quest to speak with, and hopefully retrieve, Arauthator. The power of Menzoberranzan was gone now. The contingent from Q’Xorlarrin numbered far too few to exact much influence here. Warlord Hartusk was beyond their control. For all they might coerce and deceive the dimwitted and brutish Hartusk, in the end, his word would rule the day.
“Gather my commanders!” he ordered the orcs in the room. “To the courtyard!”
He swept from the hall, the orcs rushing in his wake.
“What are we to do?” Saribel asked her brother.
Ravel shrugged as if it hardly mattered. “We sack Everlund, I expect.”
“Tiago and the dragons have not returned!”
Ravel moved to the room’s outer door, the one that went to the very balcony where Tiago had cut off the head of King Firehelm of Sundabar. “Have you looked outside?” he asked Saribel, waving his hand to invite her over to join him in the view—the view of thousands and thousands of campfires stretching to the horizon all around the ruined city now known as Hartusk Keep.
“A hundred thousand?” he asked. Then he answered his own question with a snort and a remark, “Closer to two hundred thousand, I would guess.
“And the giants remain, by the hundreds. And thousands of ogres. Do you think Everlund will stand against this? Eight soldiers for every man, woman, and child in the city. Hartusk will run it over.”
“He stretches his line,” Saribel argued. “Silverymoon …”
“Why do we care?” came Ravel’s blunt reminder. He stepped over and draped his arm over Saribel’s shoulder. She bristled and even growled—for what male should dare do such a thing uninvited?—but calmed quickly as Ravel added, “My dear sister, high priestess and soon-to-be Matron Mother of House Do’Urden, let us enjoy the spoils of Everlund. We will find treasures to soothe Arauthator, and by extension Archmage Gromph and the matron mother. We will take slaves, many slaves, to serve House Do’Urden. I will set up a portal to walk them to our soldiers in Menzoberranzan.”
“The journey from Everlund will be more difficult than the one to the city.”
“Undoubtedly,” Ravel agreed. “Is that our problem?”
Saribel calmed considerably then, nodding as she looked out over the vast encampment of Many-Arrows’ soldiers.
She shook her head again, dismissing her fears, and throwing aside, too, the escape route Ravel had just hinted at. For with this force, it seemed impossible to Saribel that Warlord Hartusk would lose. Everlund would surely fall, and even if the raiders from Silverymoon continued to disrupt the orc supply lines, Hartusk would sweep back to the north with soldiers to spare. Perhaps Silverymoon would survive, for to go against her walls was surely folly.
But surely any who came out of that magically-enhanced fortress would be crushed.
Below the door, the sounds of cheering rose once more, as Warlord Hartusk came forth from the keep in all his splendor and began his call for the march to battle.
Soon the very stones of the keep trembled under the roar of orc voices and the stamp of orc feet.
Saribel’s eyes lifted higher, to the north, past the Rauvins to the Spine of the World. For all of Ravel’s assurances and all of the sheer power arrayed in front of her, she wished then that she might see Tiago flying toward her astride the white wyrm, Arauthator, and with Aurbangras close behind.
They had been assured that their flanks would be completely secured, and so the dwarven wedge formation plowed into the orc position at full charge. Bruenor and Oretheo Spikes led the way initially, but one burp from Bruenor’s cracked silver horn brought an ally into the fight up ahead of them. Indeed, Thibbledorf Pwent floated through the orc lines as a gray mist, then materialized in their midst, whirling and striking with wild-eyed frenzy.
“Cavern left!” Bruenor cried right before his line met the orc shield wall, and on that command, the back half of the left line of the wedge broke away into a second wedge, forming fast and charging off into a side chamber.
The place was full of orc archers, hoping to snipe at the back ranks of the dwarves after the initial collision.
It was a fine defensive strategy, except that Drizzt had scouted the region well indeed, and had reconnoitered that second chamber. And so the dwarves had practiced a new twist to their basic wedge formation, adding a second, flying wedge.
Worse for the orc archers, this breakaway formation was made up of a hundred dwarves, every one of them a member of Mithral Hall’s famed Gutbuster Brigade, with Bungalow Thump leading them in.
Bruenor had a hundred of his boys from Mithral Hall around him, but still he felt strange in this particular assault, exposed even.
Drizzt was not with him, nor Catti-brie or Wulfgar or even Regis.
He locked shields with Oretheo Spikes and ducked low, bracing his shoulder as the first wave of orcs counterattacked, rushing in and slamming hard. But the disciplined wedge split and scattered those orc ranks, the monsters breaking on it like water creased by a ship’s prow. And on came the Wilddwarf berserkers, charging up to the second rank of dwarves, including one immediately behind Bruenor, who set their hands low and helped the Wilddwarves in their frenzied leap, hoisting them over the front line of shield dwarves to spring into the midst of the orc ranks.
As soon as the catapulted dwarves cleared them, Bruenor and Oretheo decoupled their shields and fiercely charged ahead. They were the point of the wedge, driving hard with their fellows pressing them forward, and with the back ranks of orcs now fighting furiously against Wilddwarves and the specter of Thibbledorf Pwent.
There were as many orcs in those twin caverns as dwarves, but the battle precision of the dwarves sorely outmatched the brutes. Whenever the orcs created a breach, the practiced dwarves built a secure shield wall, but whenever the dwarves created a breach, those orcs caught suddenly in the open turned and fled.
These exchanges occurred over and over, and each time the dwarves gained ground.
Bruenor’s axe dripped blood, as did his broken nose. He had caught the edge of Oretheo’s turning shield when one orc leaped into his partner. His boots slipped on the blood covering the floor, the blood of orcs and dwarves, these two mortal enemies come together in quarters too close.
The lines wavered both ways. Dwarves fell and tried to crawl behind their brethren, who shielded up and leaped forward to put their wounded fellow behind the barricades. Orcs fell, but kept crawling forward, biting at the legs of the hated dwarves.
“Ah, ye dog!” Bruenor roared, slamming one orc in the face with his shield then stepping back as he turned suddenly, his axe whipping across to open the orc’s chest, shoulder to shoulder. The spray of blood flew back in Bruenor’s face, but he didn’t even notice it. He was falling then, to a different state of mind.
He heard the whispers of Dumathoin.
He felt the pride of Moradin.
His muscles bulged with the strength of Clangeddin.
He felt as if he was in that throne again, in Gauntlgrym, the power of his gods infusing him beyond the boundaries of this mortal coil.
Despite protocol, he leaped out ahead of Oretheo Spikes, and swept his magnificent many-notched axe across, and two orcs went flying. Another soared back the other way on Bruenor’s immediate and powerful backhand.
“Bruenor, no!” Oretheo Spikes tried to call, but the words disintegrated as they left his mouth, as he realized the sudden power of his shield partner. Oretheo Spikes leaped to his left, linking with the next dwarf in line, closing the gap left by Bruenor’s charge.
And none tried to call Bruenor back—indeed, they all cheered now and fought eve
n more ferociously, taking Bruenor’s lead, as orc after orc went flying away, chopped nearly in half, sometimes fully in half, by the powerful strokes of Bruenor Battlehammer.
The orcs noticed the red-bearded dwarf, too, and at the center of their line where the wedge pressed forward behind the wild-eyed Bruenor, they began to falter, falling all over each other to get away from this possessed Wilddwarf.
Finally the orcs got an ogre up in front of Bruenor. The monstrous beast used its height and reach to strike down over Bruenor’s shield, its club cracking hard on the dwarf’s back. Behind Bruenor, other dwarves cried out.
But if Bruenor had even felt the blow, he didn’t show it. Instead he used the opening of the overbalanced ogre to his advantage. He turned his shield aside and slipped sidelong, his axe sweeping across to strike the brute inside its right knee, bending and then cracking the shattering leg. Bruenor flipped the axe and swept it back, catching the inside of the left knee and shattering that leg, too.
He tore the axe free and flipped it again as back went his arm, chopping in hard against the ogre’s left side. And around went the dwarf, a full backward circuit so that he came around with his axe leading right into the ogre’s right side.
The beast was sinking, sinking, and Bruenor’s next strike took it on the side of the chest, and his next circling backhand nearly took its right arm off at the shoulder.
Bruenor hopped, straightening up suddenly, and he leaped high and lifted his axe higher, now gripping it in both hands.
Down it came, splitting the ogre’s head in half. The dwarf bulled forward, slamming his shield into the dead ogre’s chest, sending it flying over backward. And on Bruenor went with a great leap that landed him on the ogre’s chest. There he held his axe out wide to his right, his shield out wide to his left, and threw back his head to issue a wild war cry.
That was enough for the orcs. The wedge formation would have broken them eventually, but they clearly wanted nothing more of the exploits of Bruenor Battlehammer.
On came the dwarves with howls of victory, running the monsters down, though many orcs managed to scramble out the back side of the cavern.
“Finish the cavern to the left!” Bruenor yelled to those dwarves on that side of the chamber—though from the sounds, the Gutbusters were surely routing the archers.
“The rest of yerselves with me, boys!” Bruenor howled, and started forward in pursuit.
He stopped even as he took the first strides, though, hearing battle in the tunnels up ahead. Orcs clogged up the retreat there, with many trying to get back the other way, back into the cavern to fight the dwarves.
A familiar silver-streaking magical arrow brought a smile to Bruenor’s face, one that only widened when he heard the roars of some familiar dwarven voices, voices he had heard often in the days of his second childhood.
Drizzt had gotten to Felbarr, and now Felbarr had come forth.
Only a very short while later, standing ankle deep in blood, Bruenor Battlehammer and King Emerus Warcrown shared a great hug.
Citadel Felbarr was free.
“Look at them,” Undercommander Preston Berbellows remarked to his companions on the ridge north of the valley where the slaughter had commenced. His derision was hard to miss, surely, and was not missed by one of those he did not realize was nearby.
“Indeed, do,” said Aleina Brightlance, riding up beside the man, who shifted uncomfortably in his saddle at her appearance. She looked at him curiously, even shaking her head in disbelief. They had just won a great victory, taking hardly a wound in waylaying a large and heavily-guarded Many-Arrows caravan.
She understood the undercommander’s attitude, though, despite her head shaking. Preston had called for a direct attack on the caravan when they spotted it rolling down the Surbrin Vale. But Aleina, on the counsel of those two of whom he now spoke, had overruled him. They had, instead, carefully prepared the battlefield in this place, setting traps and dominating the best ground in the vale.
She couldn’t suppress a grin as she noted some movement below, knowing now from so many recent experiences what was about to occur.
“All of you,” she went on. “Look at them, these two vagabonds brought to me in the Underdark by the grace of good fortune.”
She paused there and guided their stares down into the vale just in time to see Regis and his pony go darting across in front of an ogre, the halfling poking his rapier into the brute’s face to make it extra angry. The ogre spun, trying to catch up to and squish the halfling.
It didn’t even see the huge man, Wulfgar, who had quietly walked his horse up the other way as Regis was distracting the ogre, and was now standing tall in the saddle.
It still didn’t see Wulfgar, but it did note the swinging head of his marvelous warhammer. The ogre’s head snapped back under the tremendous weight of the blow. It straightened, just long enough to get smacked a second time, and down it went in a heap.
“We fight for common cause,” Aleina declared, her commanding tone aiming the remark squarely at the derision of Preston Berbellows. “For Silverymoon, for Everlund, for Sundabar and the hopes of rebuilding.”
Those around her began to cheer, except for Preston, who stared at her, angry and embarrassed.
“For Mithral Hall!” Aleina shouted. “For Adbar and Felbarr and for the Moonwood elves!”
The cheering heightened, but Aleina struck a more somber tone then, when she added, “For the memory of dead Nesmé.”
Cheering faces became grim faces, and many nods agreed with the woman.
“Ride now, left and right,” she ordered them. “The enemy caravan is broken and all are fleeing. Let a few escape, but just a few.”
Preston Berbellows took up his reins and began to turn his horse, but Aleina grabbed him by the forearm, ordering him to stay.
“Let them tell their ugly kin that the road is not secure, that the Knights in Silver have not forgotten the Redrun, and that their victory is not as complete as they have come to believe.”
As the soldiers in her command began their charge, Aleina shouted after them, “They will pay for every inch of ground!”
She turned to Preston, her face stern.
“Yes, Commander?” he asked innocently.
“Rivalries can be a good thing,” she said. “Do you agree?”
“Commander?”
“I wagered with that one, Wulfgar, over there, who might kill the most enemies as we made our way to Silverymoon,” Aleina explained. “Truly, the competition drove me harder, though I came to know very quickly that I could not pace him and that warhammer he carries.”
Preston didn’t blink, and tried hard—too hard—to put on an expression to show that he didn’t really care.
“So a rivalry can foster a positive competition,” she went on. “Or it can be destructive. You are a fine rider, a fine knight, and mighty with your sword. Do you think you can match him?”
“Commander, I …”
“Challenge him,” Aleina said. “When we leave this place, go to Wulfgar and tell him that you will kill more of our enemies than he in our next battle.”
Preston Berbellows straightened in his seat and, despite himself, swallowed hard. He knew there was no way he could compete with the mighty barbarian named Wulfgar.
“Challenge Regis, then,” she said with a laugh.
Preston stuttered a protest. “The little one? He has too many tricks … his bombs and those infernal crossbow darts …”
“Then just admit it and leave it at that!” Aleina scolded. “Your jealousy tears at the fabric of trust that binds our band, and I’ll not have it!”
“Yes, Commander,” Preston said, trying again unconvincingly to sound contrite.
“Yes, Undercommander,” she said. “And so gather a trusted companion and ride south to Silverymoon to report our progress. And there you will remain, in loyal service to Lord Hornblade.”
“Commander! Aleina, I …” Preston shook his head, clearly at a loss. These two ha
d served together for a long time. At one point, there had even been whispers of a secret courtship, though that had not been the case.
“I’ll not have it,” Aleina said again, quietly and evenly. “Go now.”
Preston heaved a great sigh and turned his horse away, trotting, then galloping from sight.
Aleina understood it all too clearly. Those rumors had not been discouraged by Preston Berbellows, and though Aleina had never thought of him as anything more than a comrade and friend, she understood the source of the conflict.
She looked down into the vale again to see Wulfgar and Regis riding easily, side by side, talking of the battle, no doubt, and with much laughter between them.
Yes, she understood. Preston saw it, and so did others, written so clearly on her face when she looked upon Wulfgar. The thought made her shrug and giggle, and admit to herself that she felt like a youngster again, just barely a woman, unburdened by the cynicism of years, and light in the hope of romance.
She kicked her horse into a trot along the ridgeline, heading down to intercept Regis and Wulfgar. Those two had laid out the plans for the ambush, down to the smallest detail, like painting the shafts of the arrows so that they would flicker more menacingly in the meager daylight as they rained death upon the caravan drivers and guards.
She caught up to the pair when they were still within the vale. They had stopped and dismounted, and now the halfling was painting something on the side of a large stone set into the ridge. He stepped back and swept his arm out, presenting it to Knight-Commander Aleina.
The Battle of Silver Arrows
18 Mirtul, 1485 DR
“Our greatest victory yet,” Aleina said.
“We should go and celebrate,” Wulfgar replied, and from his tone and expression when she turned to him, Aleina understood his intentions. And her heart surely fluttered.
Regis caught the implications too, apparently. He sighed and said, “I have to go brew some potions,” then moved straight for his pony and started away, leaving the two alone.
Aleina didn’t have to ask what Wulfgar had in mind, and even if it was not what she believed, she figured she could lead him there anyway.