The Companions

CHAPTER 13

The Year of the Dark Circle (1478 DR) Citadel Felbarr

"Yer Da favored the hammer and the sword,” Ragged Dain said as the group neared the outer gate. Dain had been so nicknamed for his scrappy fighting style, typically leading with his face, which was crisscrossed now by battle scars.

“I ain’t me Da,” Bruenor gruffly answered, hoisting his battle-axe to rest on his shoulder.

“Fine tone for a beardless one, eh?” Ognun Leatherbelt, the battle commander, chimed in. He gave Little Arr Arr a shove on the shoulder and a playful half-punch on the jaw. His eyes widened as he did, though, and as he took closer notice of his youngest foot soldier. “Here now! Little Arr Arr’s got the beginnin’s of a beard, does he?”

“Reginald,” Bruenor corrected, and how he wanted to throw aside this whole facade, then and there. He was Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth King of Mithral Hall, Tenth King of Mithral Hall, champion of Icewind Dale. How he wanted to shout that out, loud and clear!

But Ognun’s observations were true enough, for Bruenor had indeed begun to see-finally-the beginnings of a beard, a fiery red one much like the one he’d worn in his previous existence. He wondered if he would look the same as he had in that other life. He hadn’t really thought about it very much, but now with the beard coming in, it occurred to him that he might well indeed be a physical twin for the king he had been.

Without the scars, at this point, of course, and without, he lamented, glancing at his new axe, the many notches he had earned in battle.

He brought the axe down before him, ignoring the continuing banter at his expense, and instead studying the clean and smooth curving blade of the weapon. He thought of his first notch in his previous existence, in the great ettin adventure in the tunnels around Mithral Hall, and realized that he had been much older in that fight than he was now. Reginald Roundshield’s fifteenth birthday was just three months behind him, which put him a decade and more short of Bruenor’s first true adventure in his former life. Indeed, Reginald Roundshield, Little Arr Arr, was much more accomplished among the soldiers of Citadel Felbarr atStaIes Lord Ulfbinder this age than a teenaged Bruenor had been among the fighters of Clan Battlehammer, even though all of Reginald’s exploits thus far had been on the training grounds. But of course, in counterbalance, in that previous life as the prince of Mithral Hall, Bruenor had been presented with great opportunities to do great things that he, as Reginald, would never know.

His memories swirled through the years, to the many battles-leaping upon the back of Shimmergloom, freeing Wulfgar from the demon Errtu, splitting the skull of Matron Baenre when the drow came a’calling, splitting the waves of Obould’s minions like a stone against the incoming tide in Keeper’s Dale-and Bruenor blew a profound and resigned sigh. Could he really live that journey again? Could he really begin over, not a scratch on his axe, and forge a name worthy of Clan Battlehammer?

And the most troubling question of all, to what end?

“So the gods can just wipe it clean and pretend it never happened, eh?” he mumbled.

“What’s that now, boy?” Ragged Dain asked. “Wipe it clean? Nah, that’s the real hair ye got there, yer beard comin’ in thick and red. No more Little Arr Arr then! Just Arr Arr, as was yer Da.”

“Reginald,” Bruenor calmly replied, and Ragged Dain burst out laughing, as did the other five dwarves on this scouting patrol. They’d never give in and stop the teasing, Bruenor knew.

Not that it bothered him. What did it matter? His name could be Moradin itself and that too would become bones and stones and nothing more.

He felt a snarl coming to his lips but he suppressed it.

“One day at a time, one step at a time,” he told himself, his growing litany against the whispering despair.

“Through the gate, we’re turnin’ north, lads and lasses,” Ognun told his battle group. “Into the Rauvins and Warcrown Trail. Been word o’ some goblinkin getting a bit too comfortable there.”

“Heigh-ho, then, for a fight!” said Tannabritches Fellhammer, the “Fist” of Fist and Fury.

“Heigh-ho!” Ragged Dain joined in the cheer, but in a mocking way. Every patrol that walked out of Felbarr was told to expect trouble, but, alas, trouble was rarely found.

“Now, don’t ye get all Mallabritches on me,” Ognun Leatherbelt said with a laugh, referring to Tannabritches’s twin, who was aptly nicknamed Fury. The two had been split up, and Mallabritches had been sent back for more training after she had punched a traveling human merchant in the nose when he laughed at her suggestion that he might be selling his wares to orcs.

Mallabritches’s demotion had given Bruenor his spot on the battle group, something that hadn’t sat well with Tannabritches, who was three years Bruenor’s senior, as she had reminded him often with the constant refrain of, “Don’t ye get yerself too comfortable, Little Arr Arr. Me sister’s to return and ye’re to be put back with yer own dwarfling friends.”

“Ah, but then might I tell them all again o’ how I whomped yer skinny butt, eh?” Bruenor always responded, and time and again, it had almost come to blows. Almost, for it became obvious that the blustering Tannabritches wanted no part of Little Arr Arr one-against-one.

“We’ll be half-a-tenday in the mountains,” Bruenor heard Ognun explain in the general direction, and palim as he focused back to the present conversation. “And we’ll be watchin’ all about us every heartbeat o’ them five days, don’t ye doubt. If them goblins are up there, we’re to make sure King Emerus knows it.”

“By bringing back their ears, then?” Tannabritches asked.

Ognun laughed. “Aye, if we’re finding the chance, I expect. But more likely we’ll find goblin sign-scat and prints. We find that and King Emerus is sure to send out a bigger fightin’ group, and …” He paused and patted his hand in the air, calming the ever-excited Tannabritches. “And aye,” he went on, “be sure that I’ll be askin’ for a leading place for us six in that battle group.”

“Heigh-ho!” Tannabritches Fellhammer cheered.

As the youngest members of the patrol, Bruenor and Tannabritches were given most of the menial tasks, like gathering kindling for the campfire. Winter had relinquished its grip on the Rauvin Mountains and all around the Silver Marches, but just barely. This high up above Citadel Felbarr’s gates, there were still some small patches of snow to be found, and the night wind could still send a thick-bearded dwarf’s teeth to chattering.

“Come along then,” Tannabritches scolded Bruenor as they circled around one bend in the trail, moving through a channel carved by centuries of melting mountain streams through the heart of a huge rocky ledge. “They’ve already got the flames started,” she added when she came through the pass, in sight of the camp in a wooded, boulder-strewn dell below.

“By the gods, Fist,” Bruenor replied, “but me legs’re aching and me belly’s grumblin’.”

“All the reason to walk faster then, ain’t it?” she called back over her shoulder, and she ended with a curious grunt that Bruenor took as a snort.

Until her armload of kindling fell to the ground and Tannabritches tumbled backward, a spear protruding from her chest.

Bruenor’s eyes went wide. He threw his own kindling aside and dived down to the ground-and not a heartbeat too soon, for a spear flew just above him, cracking off the stone across the channel.

Bruenor scrambled furiously on all fours to get to his fallen companion, and he winced at the severity of the wound, at the blood gushing around the spear shaft, deeply embedded just below her collarbone and not far above the poor girl’s heart. With a trembling hand, Bruenor tried to hold the spear shaft perfectly still, seeing that every vibration brought wracking pain coursing through poor Tannabritches.

“Get ye gone,” the fallen girl whispered, spitting blood with her words. “I’m for Dwarfhome. Warn th’ others!”

She coughed and started to curl up, and Bruenor, trying to comfort her, looked up suddenly, hearing the approach of enemies, certain from the sound of them that they would swamp the channel in mere moments.

“Go!” she pleaded.

Had he really been Little Arr Arr, had he really been an inexperienced dwarfling of merely fifteen winters, Bruenor would have likely taken her advice-even with his experience, he couldn’t deny the fear that was inside him, or the truth that he had a duty to warn Ognun and Ragged Dain and the others …he had returned to Faerunan off his guardim

But he wasn’t Little Arr Arr. He was Bruenor Battlehammer, who had learned through centuries to put loyalty above all else, who had passed through death itself and come back with a deep and pervading sense of outrage.

With a growl and a burst of strength he didn’t realize he possessed, he grasped the spear shaft in both hands and cleanly snapped it, leaving just a stub poking from the brutal wound. As one hand threw the broken shaft aside, the other grabbed Tannabritches by the collar, and he easily hoisted her across his shoulders, starting off in a run before she had even settled.

He heard the whoops behind him and imagined a volley of spears flying his way, and that only made the furious dwarf spin to face that missile barrage head on, to keep Tannabritches mostly behind him that he wouldn’t inadvertently use her as a shield.

Indeed, a trio of spears reached out at him, and their orc throwers, barely ten paces behind him, howled at the expected kills.

Bruenor managed to dodge one, take a second with his shield and deflect the third enough with his axe so that it only glanced him along the side, stinging painfully through his chainmail armor but doing no mortal harm.

The jerking movements nearly cost him his tentative hold on his companion, though, and she started to tumble. But again, Bruenor merely growled and realigned his feet, catching Tannabritches fully again and rushing off down the path.

“Orcs!” he shouted, leaping from stone to stone down the steep decline and somehow, miraculously, managing to hold his balance.

He pitched into the copse headlong, finally overbalancing and diving into a face plant, with Tannabritches bouncing over him, pressing his face harder into the ground as she rolled limply toward the fire.

“Mandarina!” Ragged Dain shouted for Mandarina Dobberbright, the group’s cleric, and the female dwarf spat out a large mouthful of stew and scrambled to get her medicine bag.

“Orcs!” Bruenor shouted, spitting dirt.

As he spoke, there came a large cracking sound above and splintering tree limbs fell around the camp, and a huge stone crashed to the ground, crushing poor Ognun Leatherbelt’s toes! Oh, but how he howled!

Bruenor and Magnus Leatherbelt, the sixth of the party and Ognun’s third cousin on his father’s side, reached the boulder at the same time, trying to push it off Ognun’s foot, but unfortunately, they came to the spot on opposite sides of the stone and inadvertently worked against each other. With a groan and a growl, the two rolled around to meet at opposite sides of their commander, but that, too, proved problematic for poor Bruenor, and poorer Ognun, for when Bruenor came around, the spear shaft, the missile firmly embedded in his shield, swung around and whacked Ognun across the side of his head.

“Bother and bluster!” Bruenor cried and he dropped his axe, reached over with his free hand, and yanked the spear free. He swung around as soon as he had, and threw all of his weight and strength against the stone, and joining with Ognun and Magnus, they managed to hoist it enough for the commander to pull his foot free.

“Better ground to the west!” Ragged Dain cried out from atop a boulder just beyond the dell.

“Go! Go!” ordered Ognun.

“Ah, but I can’t be movin’ her!” Mandarina protested.

“ in the general direction, and palimYe got yerself no choice!” Ognun insisted and he hobbled over, but his voice trailed away when he got there, for it was clear to him and the other two that Mandarina wasn’t speaking lightly, and wasn’t exaggerating.

Tannabritches seemed on the very edge of death.

But now the orcs were coming, and another heavy stone crashed through the branches just above them.

“They’ve a giant,” warned Magnus.

“Run away!” shouted Tannabritches with what seemed the last of her strength.

The other three looked to Ognun-Bruenor could see the pain there on the face of the seasoned but compassionate leader. Ognun had no choice, Bruenor understood, for the good of them all and the good of Citadel Felbarr.

“To Ragged Dain, with all haste,” Ognun said quietly, and somehow his words stuck out clearly among the mounting whoops of the charging orcs.

Ognun fell to one knee and handed the nearly unconscious Tannabritches a long knife, then kissed her on the cheek. A good-bye kiss, surely.

“Go! Go!” he ordered, coming to his feet.

The words prodded at Bruenor’s heart more sharply than the spearhead stuck in Fist’s chest.

“No!” he shouted before he could stop himself. Even as the word echoed in his own thoughts, Bruenor didn’t really understand it. It was a denial, and not just of leaving the girl, but of everything. It was a scream at the gods for this tragedy, for their very mocking of the life Bruenor had given them, centuries of fealty and honor.

No! his mind screamed, at himself and at Moradin. No to everything. Just no!

And in that eye-blink of time, Bruenor could not deny the sudden and unexpected sensation. He felt as he had felt on the throne in ancient Gauntlgrym, and heard the strategic whispers of Dumathoin, the calm command of Moradin, and felt, most of all, the strength of Clanggedin coursing through his young muscles.

“No!” he said again, more forcefully, and he tore the cape off his back and threw it to Ognun. “Make her a litter!” he ordered.

Ognun stared at him incredulously.

“Too many!” Magnus cried.

“They ain’t getting past me!” Bruenor roared, and he spun around, taking up his axe and shield, and with a feral growl, he rushed up to the boulder and threw his back against it. With an exaggerated, confident wink back at the other three tending Tannabritches, he rolled around the boulder, whooping and swinging.

He caught the nearest orc by surprise just as it lifted its arm to hurl a spear at the group, his axe cracking into the beast’s chest and throwing it backward. No sooner had he pulled the axe free, then Bruenor charged along, cutting back in front of the boulder.

He threw his shield up high as he skidded down to his knees, sweeping out an orc’s legs at the same time the beast’s mace thumped hard against the blocking buckler.

The dwarf was to his feet in a heartbeat, leaping along to the next two in line, shield-rushing, skidding short and sweeping across with his bloody axe. He didn’t wound either, though he managed to rip the sword from one’s grasp and cut the other’s spear short by a third.

He did not relent-he would not surrender his rage and ferocity, butting and swinging, shield-charging and asked, and Catti-brie nodded.we in his throat.imscreaming with every step. The overwhelmed orcs scrambled back, turning right into their reinforcements and slowing the orc charge.

Into that confusion went Bruenor, wildly chopping and punching, shield-butting, and even biting when one opportunity presented itself. He got hit hard by a club, a resounding thud that nearly knocked his helmet from his head. Things didn’t sort out clearly for him at that moment and for many afterward, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t worried about precision or about tactics even.

He was just mad. Mad at Mielikki for tempting him, for making him start anew. Mad at Moradin for allowing it! Mad at Catti-brie and Drizzt and mostly at himself for not having the sense to step into Iruladoon’s pond beside Wulfgar, to go to Dwarfhome and his just reward.

And now … the uselessness of it all! The thought that he had wasted a decade-and-a-half only to be cut down on a cold mountain trail in defense of a clan that wasn’t his own, for the honor of a name that wasn’t his own, and to the ultimate futility of his “mission” to help Drizzt.

It was too much … too, too much.

He felt the punches-or were they stabs? — of orc spears, and he ignored them and charged on, roaring, denying. He felt his axe dig into flesh and crack through bone. He heard the varied screams of his enemies, of rage, of pain, and sweetest of all, of fear.

He managed to glance back only once, and hardly registered the scene, though it seemed as if the three were hard at work with Tannabritches, attempting to ferry her away, he hoped.

No longer did it even matter.

He shield-rushed the next two orcs in line and down they went, all three, in a tangled ball. Even as he tasted dirt, Bruenor kept chopping, cutting the spine of one. He somehow got the edge of his shield on the throat of the other and pressed down, using the orc’s neck as support to allow him to stand once more.

And then he was free, standing alone, and he hopped all around.

Orcs fled in every direction, some, to Bruenor’s anger, past him. But when he glanced back, he took comfort in the fact that Magnus and Mandarina had Tannabritches up in a stretcher, and mighty Ognun was ready for the incoming enemies, and with capable Ragged Dain huffing and puffing to join him.

Bruenor turned back, just in time to dodge a huge stone flying his way. And there before him stood the giant, an enormous behemoth. Not a hill giant, as one might expect with orcs, but bigger, far bigger indeed.

“Run away!” he heard Ognun yell to him, and that, of course, was the only answer in the face of such an enemy.

The only answer for a fifteen-year-old Reginald, perhaps.

But not for Bruenor Battlehammer, King of Mithral Hall.

He charged.

The mountain giant stood more than thrice his height and outweighed him ten-to-one or more. But he charged, roaring, demanding the giant’s attention as it moved to hurl another boulder.

With a stupid look and a grunt of “huh?” the giant flung the rock at the oncoming, nearly beardless young dwarf. It hit the ground a few feet in front of Bruenor and skipped up at him, and nearly clipped him as he dived to the ground.

By the time the boulder bounced against the hard ground again, Bruenor was already up and running. He thought to charge straight into the behemoth, to led them at a great pace oeverythingonrush around its treelike legs and whack at its knees with his axe.

He changed his mind when the giant reached back and pulled forth its club, an uprooted tree, as thick across as Bruenor’s waist!

To the left veered the dwarf, formulating another plan, for the trail rose up here, moving behind a wall of stone. He got under that cover just in time, the tree-club slamming down just behind him and shaking the ground so forcefully that he almost lost his balance.

Cursing with every step, telling himself to just run away out of spite and to the Nine Hells with them all, Bruenor kept his young legs pumping. The curses were real, as was the rage, but he would not abandon his fellow dwarves. Part of him wanted to, just to spite Moradin, but it simply was not the way of Bruenor Battlehammer.

He ran on, rounding a bend and climbing higher.

An orc leaped out before him, startling him. He threw his shield across desperately, but didn’t deflect the weapon quite enough, and felt the bite of the spear tip in his belly, trading that severe hit with a downward chop of his axe that crushed the orc’s skull. The creature fell away and Bruenor stumbled forward, and that action only drove the spear in deeper.

With a trembling hand, the dwarf reached down and grabbed the shaft, thinking to pull it out. As soon as he started to tug, though, he changed his mind. The head was barbed and surely his entrails would spill forth with it.

“So now ye killed me to death in battle, did ye, Moradin?” he said, sliding down to one knee and trying hard to hold his balance there. “Bah, but ain’t that a fittin’ end for yer games? Ye couldn’t even let the giant do it. It had to be an orc …”

The dwarf, grimacing and trying to stop the world from spinning, considered those words for a few heartbeats.

An orc, probably an orc from Many-Arrows. An orc living around this region because of a decision Bruenor had made a century before.

Another orc appeared on the trail ahead. Spotting the wounded dwarf, it let out a whoop of delight and charged at the kneeling dwarf with a spear deep in his gut.