And then he saw the stars as Tazmikella came through the other side of the drow enchantment.
The stars!
The mere sight of them relaxed Drizzt. It was notably colder up here, and his teeth chattered a bit, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable, not even enough to draw his attention from the starlit sky.
The notion came to him that he owed it to the Silver Marches, to the dwarves who had trusted him and taken him in, to the folk of Silverymoon, which had been as his second home for decades, and indeed, to all the folk of the region, to rid them of this atrocity. This spell, this abomination, stole the sunlight and the starlight. With the blessings of Lolth, the dark elves had brought a bit of the Underdark to the surface world.
It could not stand.
He would not let it stand.
Drizzt understood that, though he had no idea what he might possibly do against the spell of blackness that had come to the North.
And yet, he would somehow remove it. And now there was only serenity, only a peaceful and calm glide on the high winds. His dragon mount was silent as she effortlessly soared through the night, and that silence reminded Drizzt of the whispers that dragon flight was as much magic as the mechanics of a giant bird. Surely Tazmikella’s soundless glide seemed magical to him, as did the flight of Ilnezhara beside him.
He looked to Afafrenfere and noted the monk’s expression, and understood that Afafrenfere was as entranced as he by the spectacle of dragon flight, or perhaps by the simple beauty of the normal night.
It didn’t matter. It was quiet and calm, and ultimately serene. Drizzt recalled his many nights on Bruenor’s Climb in Icewind Dale, when the stars seemed to reach down all around him, to lift him up into their eternal bosom. He felt that way again, like he was part of the night sky, part of the vast heavens, part of something immeasurably larger than himself.
And so he sat back and relaxed and simply enjoyed the sensation.
He was disappointed when Tazmikella dived back down through the Darkening, then set down on a high plateau a short while later, on a mountain just north of Mithral Hall, and with both of the northern orc encampments in sight. The smaller one near Mithral Hall’s north door was to Drizzt’s right, while the much larger one to his left filled the Upper Surbrin Vale.
“Here, we wait,” Tazmikella explained, returning to her elf form after Drizzt dismounted. “My sister and the monk will set their watch over there,” she added, pointing to the east, to another peak nearer the Surbrin. “When Arauthator and his son arrive, we will know.”
“And then?”
“And then, Drizzt Do’Urden, you will come to understand that you are a little thing after all.”
She moved closer then and reached up to gently stroke Drizzt’s hair, eyeing him with a suggestive smile.
He recoiled and Tazmikella stepped back, her face a mask of confusion.
“My wife would not approve.”
“But would you?” she asked, her voice the purr of a predatory cat. “If not for her, Drizzt Do’Urden?”
Drizzt swallowed hard. It was hard to deny the dragon’s beauty in this form. He reminded himself that it was an illusion, that she was a dragon.
Finally, he took a deep breath and shook his head. “I am not …” he stuttered, trying to find the words, and not really happy about the prospect of rejecting a dragon. “I mean … this is not the way that I …”
Tazmikella’s laughter stopped him. “Jarlaxle told me as much about you,” she said, and Drizzt couldn’t tell if she was complimenting him or mocking him.
“Such a pity,” the dragon said, and she moved to the lip of the plateau and sat down, bare on the stone, staring out to the orc camps and beyond.
Drizzt moved beside her—not too close—and sat down, and Tazmikella nodded her approval.
“You will enjoy tomorrow,” she promised, and that was the last thing either said that night as they sat there under the abomination of the Darkening, waiting for the whites.
CHAPTER 18
PRELUDE
WORG RIDERS,” REGIS REMARKED TO ALEINA AND WULFGAR, ASTRIDE their horses beside his pony. The troupe was up on a mountain pass in the Frost Hills, overlooking the juncture where the Rauvin joined the mighty Surbrin. A few miles to the north of their position loomed the Surbrin Bridge, out from Mithral Hall’s eastern door.
“Some,” Aleina agreed, shaking her head and looking quite grim.
“What do you know?” Wulfgar prompted.
“Drow,” she replied. “As many drow as orcs. Some saddled on worgs, others riding summoned spectral mounts. It is a small troupe, but no doubt formidable with so many dark elf magic-users in its ranks.”
“Funny thing about wizards,” Regis remarked, “if they are ready for you, you will die horribly. If they are not ready for you, they will die horribly.” He narrowed a sly eye to each of his companions in turn, a mischievous grin on his face.
“They ride in anticipation of the fight, no doubt,” said Aleina. “Which means that Hartusk is aware of this breakout attempt your … friend, relayed to you. A trap?”
“No,” Wulfgar said with confidence. “And we do not know that these riders are aware of Mithral Hall coming forth. Where is Hartusk and his tens of thousands, were that the case?”
“Too far,” Aleina replied. “And so he sends these swift riders instead.”
“Then it is still the time to fight,” said Regis. “For Mithral Hall and for us.” He pointed down to the rivers, noting the spot where the enemy riders would likely cross the Rauvin, where there were the ruins of an old bridge that now seemed more of a scattering of stones than an actual structure. However, nowhere else around it were any bridges or fords evident. The worg riders would likely pick their way across right where Regis had indicated, that they could then ride hard the few miles to the orc encampments around the Surbrin Bridge. “We can get to the crossing in front of them and fight them there, and there is where they will be most vulnerable.”
He looked to Wulfgar, who nodded, and to Aleina, who seemed less than convinced.
“If their eyes are truly for Mithral Hall, then we will have complete surprise,” the halfling reminded them.
“And if not?”
“Then we will fight them and wound them,” Wulfgar put in. “And kill many of the drow. And if we cannot win, if we are to die, we do so knowing that we have divided our enemies and so have given our allies more time to break free.”
Aleina looked at him, the two locking stares for a long while. The knight-commander nodded grimly, her determined expression revealing clearly that she fully expected to die this day.
But so be it.
North of the main encampment besieging Mithral Hall, the orc scouts that noted the movement of a huge dwarven force had three problems.
First, unbeknownst to them, a pair of copper dragons, whose eyes were keener than those of an eagle, circled overhead, watching for them.
Second, those dragons carried riders, and could deposit them in position to intercept couriers in short order.
And third, those riders were Afafrenfere and Drizzt Do’Urden.
Or was he Drizzt Do’Urden? For those who knew him best would know him as the Hunter then, moving silently across the open tundra, a whisper of wind, a flicker of shadow. Tazmikella had put him down far from a pair of running orcs—far enough so that she wouldn’t be noted by any of the Many-Arrows minions in the area. With his magical anklets, Drizzt had little trouble gaining on them.
As he drew near and finally had them in sight, the ranger saw that they were not two any longer, but four, for another scouting pair had joined up with them.
“Good,” the drow muttered. Better to have them all in one place.
He eased Taulmaril over his shoulder and set an arrow as he ran. He let fly once, then again, as he neared, and then there were two once more.
Drizzt dropped the bow, drew his blades, and came in with a forward roll, coming up to his feet in a slight crouch right in front of t
he two orcs, who immediately stabbed at him with their swords.
The ranger flipped his hands, blades down, and out the scimitars went, left and right, in a double backhanded parry that drove both swords out wide. He held the block longer on the left with Twinkle, allowing the orc in front of him on the right to disengage, and so it did, spinning its sword up higher for a downward chop.
The expected defense would have called for the drow ranger to flip his right-hand blade, Icingdeath, back up for a second parry.
But the Hunter didn’t play by conventional expectations.
Instead, with brilliant speed and precision, the Hunter pressed with Twinkle, out to the left, and snapped that scimitar up and across to block—not as effective a block as he could have attained with Icingdeath, of course, but one that left him in a position clearly confusing to his enemies. For now his right hand was free, and was underneath the defenses of the orc whose sword Twinkle had just stopped.
Out snapped the deadly drow’s right hand, underneath the block, and the orc recoiled and the drow launched Twinkle back the other way as the orc on his left pressed in. He could have moved forward and right, pacing the retreating orc and so driving Icingdeath home for a killing blow, but he retracted that blade even as Twinkle moved across for a backhanded, downward block, and had Icingdeath again stabbing forward, this time to the left, over the block, forcing the second orc back.
Again the drow retracted without a kill, because he understood the lack of balance in his scrambling opponents. He crossed his arms in front of him, Twinkle pointing diagonally out and up from his right shoulder, Icingdeath pointing diagonally down from his left hip, and he sprang from the crouch straight for the confused orcs. Twinkle swept down and across, Icingdeath swept up and across, and the scimitars scored identical wounds, hip to ribs, on the orcs, though from opposite directions.
The Hunter immediately pulled the blades in close and rushed between the pair, quicker than they could follow. As his arms swung in to his sides, he tossed the blades, which crossed in the air in front of him, and he caught them in opposite hands, and now with his thumbs away from the crosspieces.
He stopped abruptly and pushed his arms down and back, stabbing both blades out behind him into the futilely-turning orcs.
And around spun the Hunter, to find his enemies twisted and bleeding and stumbling.
The openings were clear.
The scimitars were swift.
The orcs were dead.
The ogre slowed, seeing the running approach of the smaller figure. Afafrenfere was close indeed before the behemoth recognized him as an enemy, and indeed, was up in the air, spinning head over heels.
The ogre reflexively dropped its club and lifted its hands to catch the puny human, and it did grab Afafrenfere, one hand clamping on each hip, as he came over and laid out straight on his back. Any watching ally of Brother Afafrenfere would surely have sucked in his breath at that dangerous moment, and certainly the ogre believed that it had just caught a meal out of midair, like a hunting cat catching a bird.
Except that this particular bird was more an eagle than a wren.
The monk drove out his feet at that moment, double-kicking the brute in the face with head-snapping force. Before the ogre could throw him aside, the monk retracted and snap-kicked again, one straightened foot after the other, his toes jabbing into the unfortunate ogre’s eyes.
The brute let go with one hand to slap at its torn eye, and it tried to let go with the other hand as well, except that the monk wouldn’t let it. Afafrenfere clamped on tightly to that hand as he contorted his body and threw it into a spin, using the stunned ogre’s distraction to his great advantage. With ferocious momentum, Afafrenfere looped and looped around, twisting the arm, turning the ogre’s shoulder forward and down.
The ogre stumbled.
The monk dropped to the ground, but did not let go with either hand, and instead bent the ogre’s hand at the wrist, pressing it palm up behind the brute’s back, then leaping up and driving the hand in front of him, somehow finding the leverage to send the ogre into a forward flop to land facedown on the ground.
The brute roared and shook its head vigorously to clear the confusion. As it opened its pained eyes and looked up, it was just in time to see the bottoms of the feet of the murderous monk as Afafrenfere descended from his high leap.
Jarl Fimmel Orelson looked up curiously at the rocky mountain walls, noting the unusual rumbling. He was the leader of Shining White, the leader, in fact, of all the clans of frost giants that had come to join in the War of the Silver Marches. He and many of his giants had gone no farther south than this encampment, the western bank of the Surbrin beside the thick stone-and-mithral bridge the dwarves had constructed across that waterway.
Many giants had died at Sundabar, and a few of Jarl Orelson’s closest friends had been killed in the battle of Nesmé. Now, with the apparent retreat of the bulk of the dark elves, Jarl Orelson had taken command of Many-Arrows’ besieging forces, with direct control over this one surrounding Mithral Hall. Hartusk had protested of course, the warlord’s bloodshot eyes firmly set on Everlund, but after the last disaster where the dwarves had punched out in the north and sacked an encampment, Jarl Fimmel Orelson would hear none of it.
“What is it, Jarl?” asked Finguld Boomer Felloki, one of the most notable frost giant warriors.
Fimmel Orelson looked at his old friend and noted the weariness in Finguld’s eyes. They had won many victories, particularly early on in the campaign. They had slaughtered the Knights in Silver at the Crossing of the Redrun, had obliterated the town of Nesmé, had destroyed King Bromm of Adbar and his dwarven legions in the Battle of the Cold Vale, had twice put Mithral Hall’s dwarves, and once Citadel Felbarr’s dwarves, back in their holes. But it had been a long winter, and the most recent reports had not been nearly as promising.
That second battle with the dwarves of Mithral Hall had left many giants dead—an entire clan had subsequently decided to return to the Spine of the World. Farther south, Silverymoon had held strong against the siege. There were reports of troubles in the Underdark, with the dwarves coming forth—and even one report that Adbar and Felbarr had been joined again through the upper tunnels.
And worst of all had come the hints from the northeast, from the region around Citadel Adbar, where the siege had been broken and an entire legion of frost giants killed.
Jarl Fimmel Orelson hadn’t confirmed those whispers of tragedy from Adbar, but he suspected that something, at least, had happened up there, and that things had not gone so well for his fellow frost giants.
And now he heard the mountain rumbling, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
That was because he didn’t know of a similar event a century before, when the dwarves, besieged by King Obould, had burst out through the eastern wall of this very mountain, Fourthpeak. Nor did he know that the mine tracks they had constructed way back then, to allow for the sudden and violent breakout, were still in place, and that the wall they had later constructed over the impromptu exit was not nearly as solid as it appeared—for it appeared as the natural stone of the mountain, and the orcs didn’t even know that it was not.
And he didn’t know that the rumbling he now heard was a train of heavily-laden mining carts, rolling swiftly down the tracks, speeding to a collision with a wall that was designed not to stop them.
The last time the dwarves had broken out of this place, the mining carts had been full of dwarves, bold warriors ready to bounce down the side of a mountain to lead the charge.
Not this time.
The stones exploded, and the carts came flying through, high up on the mountain wall. Flying, and falling, and now scattering their cargo of flaming kegs of burning oil.
The orcs and ogres, giants and goblins scrambled under that rain of fiery death, of burning kegs tumbling from on high and splattering on the ground, throwing their flaming debris far and wide. Truly, the unexpected spectacle inflicted far more fear than act
ual damage on the besieging army. The carts could not be guided in their flight, and they mostly piled around or on top of one another, and their thrown cargo, too, could only cover a fairly small area, nothing the size of this encampment.
For the monsters, though, the surprise was complete, and terrifying, and that was what King Connerad was obviously playing for in leading with the attention-grabbing, horrifying spectacle of the flaming mining carts. He didn’t plan to lose the surprise, either.
From up in the hole of the mountainside came the fire of dwarven artillery, side-slinger catapults and ballistae launching their payloads all the way to the Surbrin Bridge, demanding the attention of the monstrous force.
And while they had that attention, while they had Jarl Fimmel Orelson roaring orders to counter the breakout on the mountainside, King Connerad and General Dagnabbet and the whole of Mithral Hall’s remaining force came forth, the eastern doors banging open, a wedgeshaped shield wall rushing out.
Jarl Fimmel Orelson was still running around, ordering his minions to respond to the crossbows and catapults with a barrage of boulders, when he heard the commotion in the northeast at the eastern doors. When he heard the orcs, who were closest to that portal, screaming for support.
The frost giant grabbed Finguld by the vest and yanked him around. “Get help to that door!” he ordered, and he shoved the giant away. He lifted his horn then and turned to the east, toward the encampment on the other side of the Surbrin Bridge, and blew three clear notes, calling the orcs camped across the river to arms.
Then he looked around, surveying the area and the damage, measuring the continuing barrage spewing forth from the broken mountainside, and estimating the volley his giants might return. Jarl Orelson was a seasoned veteran, and he nodded grimly. His forces would hold the dwarves in place long enough, he was confident, and the main force would roll down upon them from around the mountains in the north in short order.