But as great as the frenzy at the fire might be, the sound from the south demanded even more attention. For now the nearest trees of the Glimmerwood began to rustle and shake, and now the song was clear and loud, and infuriating to the goblins and giants, who hated dwarves above all other creatures.
Through the dark trees the stout warriors filtered, and the leaders of the monstrous force called for formations, eager for the fight.
But through the trees the dwarves kept coming, rank after rank, marching in perfect precision, every shield supporting those to either side.
A growing wall of iron and mithral and adamantine.
A growing wall of dwarf.
Where the song had inspired fury, it now elicited fear, for still the bearded folk came, their ranks swelling.
Arrows and spears and boulders flew against the dwarves, but few got through, even the giant-thrown rocks bouncing off the shield wall without causing much harm.
Like a great gray ooze, like the ocean tide itself, the dwarves methodically closed.
No sooner had Barunga Foestone at last put down the elemental with a mighty club smash than a second stepped out from the bonfire.
“Put out the fire!” Barunga yelled at all the monsters around, and she threw herself at the elemental with wild-eyed rage.
Goblins and orcs scrambled at the bonfire from the other directions, behind the elemental, and began kicking dirt at the bonfire, or hooking logs with their weapons and pulling them forth that they could be stamped out.
In short order, a dozen smaller fires burned—along with a few foolish goblins—and Barunga and her charges had the second elemental all but extinguished.
“Now for the dwarves,” the frost giant told her fellows.
But not quite then, she and the others learned almost immediately, for from the west came a concentrated hail of elven arrows, centering on Barunga herself, guided by the watcher in the flames, who magically whispered across the fields to her drow husband.
In the south, the dwarves roared and charged, the interlocked shields like a rolling wall of doom. The coordination, the ferocity, the sheer numbers had the minions of Many-Arrows running around in confusion, scrambling to get away.
Nine thousand dwarves yelled “Kneel!” in unison, as was called for in their song, “The Ritual of the March,” and so the shield wall skidded as one to bended knee.
And a thousand dwarf crossbows settled and steadied on those shields, and, in time with the call of the ancient song, fired off all at once.
Down went the leading throng of orcs, writhing and falling, and the dwarves began anew their advance, crushing the life from the wounded under stamping boots.
The rout was on, the encampment swept away, the fleeing monsters hounded as they ran by Sinnafein’s elves and the silver arrows of Drizzt Do’Urden.
And at the center of it all stood Bruenor Battlehammer, singing, and never had he felt closer to his gods, not even when he had been seated upon the throne in Gauntlgrym.
King Emerus was the first of his peers to find him. Tears streaked the cheeks of the old leader of Citadel Felbarr when he approached Bruenor with open arms, nodding, but too overcome to even speak a word of gratitude.
He wrapped Bruenor in a great hug, and the dwarves all around, dwarves of Felbarr, of Adbar, of Mithral Hall, began a great and continuing cheer.
The Cold Vale was cleared at last, the siege broken, and soon after, the aboveground Runegate of Citadel Felbarr banged open.
They held their feast of victory right there in front of the great gates, and the darkness was stolen under the glow of a thousand bonfires. Dwarves threw goblins and orcs into those flames with one arm, while hoisting flagons of ale with the other, and the dwarfsong echoed from the Rauvins to the Glimmerwood, and followed the elves as they hunted the fleeing monsters and shot them dead or chased them far, far away.
“Drink and eat yer fill, boys!” Bruenor told them, and the word filtered far and wide. “Tomorrow’s march’ll be straight to sunset through the woods and the next dawn’s at the Surbrin, where the boats’re waitin’!”
“We’ll be crossing north of the bridge?” King Connerad asked.
“That’s a hunnerd miles!” King Harnoth put in.
“Far north,” Bruenor answered Connerad, offering Harnoth nothing more than a wide grin.
“Straight west, ye’re sayin’?” King Emerus asked.
“Ye’re taking it to them,” remarked Ragged Dain, who knew the region as well as any, and he chuckled and nodded at Emerus as he spoke. “Ah, Little Arr Arr,” he added affectionately to Bruenor, “how much ye’ve grown.”
The king of Citadel Felbarr likewise grinned and nodded, when he took a better look at their current position, for like Ragged Dain, Emerus realized that crossing the River Surbrin directly west through the Glimmerwood from their current position would put them closer to Dark Arrow Keep than to Mithral Hall.
“Ye close yer doors tight, me friend,” Bruenor said to Emerus. “For we got business to finish, don’t ye doubt.”
Bruenor put his hands on his hips and stepped away from the others, moving to the northwest. He nodded to acknowledge his daughter, only then coming into view.
“And I’m meanin’ to finish that business,” he said.
“Dark Arrow Keep,” Ragged Dain agreed.
Bruenor nodded, but he was thinking even beyond that coming conquest. His mind’s eye went back to a magical throne in a sacred place. A throne he meant to reclaim.
“You are making a terrible mistake!” the drow prisoner roared at Warlord Hartusk. The young male drow strained against the bindings, his back against a wooden post, his arms tightly bound behind it. “I demand—”
A burly orc guard stepped up and slugged the prisoner in the face, jarring him to silence.
It took the drow a few heartbeats to straighten himself once more, and he looked around at the other captives, half a dozen of his fellow drow from Q’Xorlarrin. On the field to the northeast of this gathering, more than threescore dark elves lay dead. They had taken down hundreds of goblinkin and scores of giantkind with them in the battle, but in the end, they were still quite dead, or captured.
Warlord Hartusk walked up beside the impudent prisoner. “You think to play me as the fool,” he said with a growl.
“The drow have aided you,” the dark elf argued. “We dispatched Lorgru and put you, Hartusk, in power!”
The orc stared at him with bloodshot eyes and a toothy grin.
“Are you saying that I would not be warlord without you?” he said, and truly his voice sounded like the purr of a cat right before it devoured a mouse.
The drow straightened and looked around at his companions, all of them shaking their heads emphatically.
“No, Warlord, of course not!” one called, and got slugged by another guard.
Hartusk stared at the doomed prisoner’s eyes and chuckled softly. He glanced back at his nearest soldiers and nodded,. They rushed off, returning a few moments later with a bale of hay, which they began disassembling immediately and placing around the feet of the staked drow. Behind them came more orcs, carrying logs and heavier pieces to burn.
“Have you anything else to say to me?” Hartusk asked.
“Warlord, Matron Mother Zeerith will know of this!” the drow said.
But Hartusk turned away and did not respond. “Burn them, one at a time,” he ordered, as the orcs cheered and the goblins leaped up and down with macabre glee, a ruckus that increased tenfold when the torch was put to the hay piles around the prisoner’s feet.
Far back of the execution, a handful of frost giants looked on. Jarl Greigor Kundknoddick turned to his favorite courtesan and motioned for her to follow him back to his tent.
He pulled back the tent flap to enter, and the tremendously huge giant guarding it stepped aside.
“You see what I mean?” asked the lone drow in the tent, a most curious fellow with a gigantic, plumed hat and an eye patch over his left eye. He wa
s surrounded by three enormous frost giants, each of whom dwarfed the large Jarl Greigor, and who fancied themselves as three of the legendary ten brothers of Thrym.
“It was predictable,” the frost giant leader replied.
“Matron Mother Zeerith Xorlarrin cannot let that stand,” said the drow. “She controls a city of dark elves, and Warlord Hartusk will be made to pay.”
“Unless she never learns of it,” Jarl Greigor said, eyeing the drow dangerously.
Jarlaxle laughed. “I am of Menzoberranzan, not Q’Xorlarrin, and so I hardly care,” he explained. “Matron Mother Zeerith’s pain is my pleasure.”
“Then why have you come to me?” the frost giant demanded.
“I come for Saribel, and the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, who delivered to you the brothers of Thrym,” Jarlaxle said, and the huge frost giants all nodded. “We bear some responsibility for your decision to join in Hartusk’s march, of course, and would not wish it to end tragically, as we have come to value your friendship, and hope to resume it when this messy business is ended.”
“Because you know how it will end?” Jarl Greigor asked with a good measure of sarcasm.
“The dragons are gone, one dead, one fleeing home to the Spine of the World,” Jarlaxle said bluntly. “The siege of Mithral Hall has been shattered, all of Hartusk’s encampments utterly destroyed. The dwarves are out, Jarl. All of them. Mithral Hall, Citadel Felbarr, and Citadel Adbar. All of them. There are no remaining sizeable forces of Many-Arrows on the eastern bank of the River Surbrin from the Redrun all the way to Citadel Adbar, and none west of the river, either, except those forces arrayed at and around Dark Arrow Keep itself.
“They are out, and the dragons are gone,” Jarlaxle said pointedly.
“We have enough here alone to flatten Everlund,” Kundknoddick said.
Jarlaxle looked around, then tipped his cap. “Be careful, my large friend,” he said, and he rose to leave. “Perhaps Warlord Hartusk will claim victory here in the south, but know that his enemies are many, and they are powerful. If you decide that discretion is the better part of valor at this time, cross the Surbrin south of Mithral Hall and continue to the west to the Spine of the World. The dwarves will not pursue your people. You have my word.”
“Your word?” Jarl Greigor said with a snicker.
“Jarl Fimmel Orelson has returned with his minions to Shining White,” the drow calmly replied, and the three giants all gasped. “He is done with this battle. He would welcome you and yours to the respite of Shining White.”
“You lie!” Jarl Greigor cried, but he was talking to himself.
Jarlaxle had taken a step away and simply slipped out of view, as if time and space itself had warped to deposit him elsewhere.
As indeed it had.
Tiago Baenre arrived at Dark Arrow Keep just as scouts returned with word that a great dwarven force was crossing the River Surbrin, and not far downstream.
There was nothing standing between them and Dark Arrow Keep, so went the whispers. Warlord Hartusk had erred, had gone too far to the south, and the dwarves had come out of their holes behind him.
Tiago knew the truth of the whispers, and knew, too, that the white dragons were lost, and so when other orcs he encountered spoke of copper-colored wyrms flying above Dark Arrow Keep, he understood the dire situation. Indeed, Hartusk had reached too far. Why hadn’t he turned around to secure the Cold Vale and the Upper Surbrin Vale, as Tiago had demanded?
Outraged, the drow went right for the command tent, meaning to stride in and tell the commanders to strengthen the defense of the keep’s walls and to send runners to recall Warlord Hartusk at once.
He burst into the main chamber of the large circular building, and there his words stuck in his throat and his jaw hung slack.
On the throne sat Lorgru, son of Obould.
Tiago reflexively went for his sword, but a host of orc guards leaped forth, spears leveled his way.
“What are you doing here?” the shocked drow demanded.
“Kill this fool,” Lorgru ordered, and the guards came on.
Tiago parried the nearest spears and broke away, speeding out of the chamber. He placed a globe of darkness in the corridor behind him before he exited fully, then walked out as if nothing were amiss, confident that the magical blackness would hold the guards for a few heartbeats, at least.
So he calmly walked off to the side, to the shadows, then sprinted to the picket wall and went over it easily, running off into the mountains.
The drow noble found a perch sometime later, up high and looking back over the rolling hills in the south.
And there he saw the fires of an army of nearly ten thousand ferocious dwarves.
Tiago looked down to his left, toward the fires that marked Dark Arrow Keep.
At least Lorgru would die soon enough, he thought.
“You have outdone yourself this time,” Kimmuriel said to Jarlaxle as they watched the dwarven march to the walls of Dark Arrow Keep. Inside the fortress, all seemed calm and quiet, and not a guard shouted, nor did a ballista bolt or a catapult volley reach out to hinder their approach.
“It was my plan all along,” Jarlaxle replied.
But Kimmuriel wore a knowing frown. Jarlaxle hadn’t even known of Lorgru until Kimmuriel, informed by Gromph, had told him of the deposed rightful heir to the Many-Arrows throne.
“Well, from the time you told me of this one,” Jarlaxle corrected with a wry grin, one bolstered by the fact that his elder brother had aided him in retrieving the more civilized orc from exile.
“He did it, elf,” a clearly frustrated Bruenor remarked to Drizzt when the high picket walls of the orc fortress towered in front of them.
“They couldn’t win against us and they knew it,” the drow replied.
“And now them dogs’re all running back to their holes in the Spine o’ the World, and not to doubt but that they’ll be back in time to start the fight anew.”
Drizzt stared at Bruenor, who was obviously looking past the orc fortress to the mountain trails beyond.
“We promised Jarlaxle that we would not give chase,” Drizzt reminded Bruenor, for indeed the drow mercenary had come to them the night before with news of the desertion. “This is the son of Obould, who has now regained control.”
“Still an orc,” Bruenor grumbled.
“There will be plenty of orcs to kill soon enough,” Drizzt told him.
“Bah!” the dwarf snorted.
“Ne’er have I wanted to tear a place down more than at this moment,” King Emerus said, coming over with Connerad and Harnoth to join Bruenor and Drizzt.
“Aye, the place reeks o’ death and speaks o’ destruction, and suren it’s leavin’ me cold!” Harnoth agreed.
“Prepare the field afore her gates,” Bruenor instructed. “We’ll be putting a half-thousand dwarves in there, and all the elves, to greet Hartusk when he limps back home.”
“Aye, and the rest of us lyin’ in wait,” King Connerad agreed.
“Ye think it’s really empty?” King Emerus asked, nodding at the high picket wall.
“It’s empty,” said Catti-brie, who came over to join the gathering. “Or with just a few inside. Those too old or too young, and not quick enough to catch up with the retreat.”
“Something to kill, then,” King Harnoth said with a growl.
But Bruenor shook his head. “Nah, ye put ’em north o’ the place and let ’em go,” he ordered.
“Bah!” snorted Harnoth, along with Oretheo Spikes and Bungalow Thump, who were both listening in from the side.
King Emerus Warcrown and Bruenor locked stares, with Emerus finally nodding his agreement. “If any threaten ye, then kill ’em to death,” he ordered Ragged Dain. “Ye take five hunnerd and clear what’s left o’ the vermin. Send ’em runnin’ north to their stinkin’ mountain holes.”
“And we’re to take the rest and erase any signs that we come this way,” Bruenor informed King Emerus.
Ragged D
ain nodded and quickly assembled his force, then rushed for the main gates of Dark Arrow Keep.
They weren’t barred. They swung open easily, and in went the dwarves.
Soon after, Ragged Dain appeared back at the opened gate, signaling that all was clear.
The dwarves had Dark Arrow Keep, without a fight.
Without a fight yet, for to be sure, they knew that one would soon be coming their way.
Not far from there, Gromph nodded as he watched the unfolding events in his scrying pool.
“I suspected that Lorgru would prove valuable,” the archmage said to the other two dark elves in the small cave chamber. “And so I was right.”
“Aren’t you always, Brother?” Jarlaxle asked.
“Enough so that I am still alive,” Gromph replied.
Jarlaxle just looked at Kimmuriel and shrugged, unable to get his arms around all of this. What was Gromph up to? Why did he care if the dwarves had to fight a terrific battle at the walls of Dark Arrow Keep?
It is about embarrassing Matron Mother Quenthel, Kimmuriel said in Jarlaxle’s thoughts, and he looked from the psionicist to the archmage, trying to sort it out. Or perhaps it goes even higher than her.
Jarlaxle snorted at that, for who could be higher than Quenthel, who served as the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan?
Then he figured it out, and he stopped snorting.
He looked at Gromph, only then beginning to appreciate how wounded his brother had been by the betrayal of the Spider Queen. Lolth had gone to the realm of arcane magic, had tried to dominate the Weave itself—and indeed, by all reports, she had made the magical strands encompassing Toril take on the aspect of a gigantic spider web.
Gromph had dared to hope that Lolth’s move would elevate his standing, that he, as the greatest drow wizard of the age, as the greatest drow practitioner of the Art, would become more than a mere male in the matriarchal City of Spiders.