The Two Swords

There is a balance to be found in life between the self and the community, between the present and the future. The world has seen too much of tyrants interested in the former, selfish men and women who revel in the present at the expense of the future. In theoretical terms, we applaud the one who places community first, and looks to the betterment of the future.

After my experiences in the Underdark, alone and so involved in simple survival that the future meant nothing more than the next day, I have tried to move myself toward that latter, seemingly desirable goal. As I gained friends and learned what friendship truly was, I came to view and appreciate the strength of community over the needs of the self. And as I came to learn of cultures that have progressed in strength, character, and community, I came to try to view all of my choices as an historian might centuries from now. The long-term goal was placed above the short-term gain, and that goal was based always on the needs of the community over the needs of the self.

After my experiences with Innovindil, after seeing the truth of friends lost and love never realized, I understand that I have only been half right.

"To be an elf is to find your distances of time. To be an elf is to live several shorter life spans." I have learned this to be true, but there is something more. To be an elf is to be alive, to experience the joy of the moment within the context of long-term desires. There must be more than distant hopes to sustain the joy of life.

Seize the moment and seize the day. Revel in the joy and fight all the harder against despair.

I had something so wonderful for the last years of my life. I had with me a woman whom I loved, and who was my best of friends. Someone who understood my every mood, and who accepted the bad with the good. Someone who did not judge, except in encouraging me to find my own answers. I found a safe place for my face in her thick hair. I found a reflection of my own soul in the light in her blue eyes. I found the last piece of this puzzle that is Drizzt Do'Urden in the fit of our bodies.

Then I lost her, lost it all.

And only in losing Catti-brie did I come to see the foolishness of my hesitance. I feared rejection. I feared disrupting that which we had. I feared the reactions of Bruenor and later, when he returned from the Abyss, of Wulfgar.

I feared and I feared and I feared, and that fear held back my actions, time and again.

How often do we all do this? How often do we allow often irrational fears to paralyze us in our movements. Not in battle, for me, for never have I shied from locking swords with a foe. But in love and in friendship, where, I know, the wounds can cut deeper than any blade.

Innovindil escaped the frost giant lair, and now I, too, am free. I will find her. I will find her and I will hold onto this new friendship we have forged, and if it becomes something more, I will not be paralyzed by fear.

Because when it is gone, when I lay at death's door or when she is taken from me by circumstance or by a monster, I will have no regrets.

That is the lesson of Shallows.

When first I saw Bruenor fall, when first I learned of the loss of my friends, I retreated into the shell of the Hunter, into the instinctual fury that denied pain. Innovindil and Tarathiel moved me past that destructive, self-destructive state, and now I understand that for me, the greatest tragedy of Shallows lies in the lost years that came before the fall.

I will not make that mistake again. The community remains above the self; the good of the future outweighs the immediate desires. But not so much, perhaps. There is a balance to be found, I know now, for utter selflessness can be as great a fault as utter selfishness, and a life of complete sacrifice, without joy, is, at the end, a lonely and empty existence.

– Drizzt Do'Urden

CHAPTER 26 INTO THE BREACH ONCE MORE

He knew that Innovindil had escaped, of course, but Drizzt could not deny his soaring heart one clear and calm afternoon, when he first spotted the large creature in the distance flying above the rocky plain. He put Sunrise into swift pursuit, and the pegasus, seeming no less excited than he, flew off after the target with all speed. Just a few seconds later, Drizzt knew that he, too, had been spotted, for his counterparts turned his way and Sunset's wings beat the air with no less fervor than those of Sunrise.

Soon after, both Drizzt and Innovindil confirmed that it was indeed the other. The two winged horses swooped by each other, circled, and came back. Neither rider controlled the mounts then, as Sunrise and Sunset flew through an aerial ballet, a dance of joy, weaving and diving side by side, separating with sudden swerving swoops and coming back together in a rush that left both Drizzt and Innovindil breathless.

Finally, they put down upon the stone, and the elf and the drow leaped from their seats and charged into each other's arms.

"I thought you lost to me!" Innovindil cried, burying her face in Drizzt's thick white hair.

Drizzt didn't answer, other than to hug her all the tighter. He never wanted to let go.

Innovindil put him out to arms' length, stared at him, shaking her head in disbelief, then crushed him back in her hug.

Beside them, Sunrise and Sunset pawed the ground and tossed their heads near to each other, then galloped off, leaping and bucking.

"And you rescued Sunrise," Innovindil breathed, again moving back from the drow—and when she did, Drizzt saw that her cheeks were streaked with tears.

"That's one way to explain it," he answered, deadpan.

Innovindil looked at him curiously.

"I have a tale to tell," Drizzt promised. "I have battled with King Obould."

"Then he is dead."

Drizzt's somber silence was all the answer he needed to give.

"I am surprised to find you out here," he said a moment later. "I would have thought that you would return to the Moonwood."

"I did, only to find that most of my people have marched across the river to the aid of Mithral Hall. The dwarves have broken out of the eastern gate, and have joined with Citadel Felbarr. Even now, they strengthen their defenses and have begun construction of a bridge across the River Surbrin to reconnect Mithral Hall to the other kingdoms of the Silver Marches."

"Good news," the drow remarked.

"Obould will not be easily expelled," Innovindil reminded him, and the drow nodded.

"You were flying south, then, to the eastern gate?" Drizzt asked.

"Not yet," Innovindil replied. "I have been scouting the lands. When I go before the assembly at Mithral Hall, I wish to give a complete accounting of Obould's movements here."

"And what you have seen is not promising."

"Obould will not be easily expelled," the elf said again.

"I have seen as much," said Drizzt. "Gerti Orelsdottr informed me that King Obould has sent a large contingent of orcs northeast along the Spine of the World to begin construction of a vast orc city that he will name Dark Arrow Keep."

"Gerti Orelsdottr?" Innovindil's jaw drooped open with disbelief as she spoke the name.

Drizzt grinned at her. "I told you I had a tale to tell."

The two moved to a quiet and sheltered spot and Drizzt did just that, detailing his good fortune in escaping the underground river and the surprising decisions of Gerti Orelsdottr.

"Guenhwyvar saved your life," Innovindil concluded, and Drizzt didn't disagree.

"And the frost giants showed surprising foresight," he added.

"This is good news for all the land," said Innovindil. "If the frost giants are abandoning Obould's cause, then he is far weaker."

Drizzt wasn't so certain of that estimation, given the level of construction on defensive fortifications he had witnessed in flying over the region. And he wasn't even certain that Gerti was truly abandoning Obould's cause. Abandoning Obould, yes, but the greater cause?

"Surely my people, the dwarves, and the humans will fare better against orcs alone than against orc ranks bolstered by frost giants," Innovindil said to the drow's doubting expression.

"True enough," Drizzt had to admit. "And perhaps this is but the beginning of the greater erosion of the invading army that we all believe will occur. Orc tribes, too, have rarely remained loyal to a single leader. Perhaps their nature will reveal itself in the form of battles across the mountaintops, orc fortress against orc fortress."

"We should increase the pressure on the pig-faced creatures," Innovindil said, a sly grin creasing her face. "Now is the time to remind them that perhaps they were not wise in choosing to follow the ill-fated excursion of Obould Many-Arrows."

Drizzt's lavender eyes sparkled. "There is no reason that we have to do all of our scouting from high above. We should come down, now and again, and test the mettle of our enemies."

"And perhaps weaken that resolve?" Innovindil asked, her grin widening.

Drizzt rubbed his fingers together. Fresh from his defeat at the hands of Obould, he was quite anxious to get back into battle.

Before the sun set that very same day, a pair of winged horses bore their riders above a small encampment of orc soldiers. They came down powerfully, side by side, and both drow and moon elf rolled off the back of their respective mounts, hit the ground running and in balance and followed the thundering steeds right through the heart of the camp, scattering orcs as they went.

Both Drizzt and Innovindil managed a few strikes in that initial confusion, but neither slowed long enough to focus on any particular enemy. By the time Sunset and Sunrise had gone out the other side of the small camp, the two elves were joined, forearm to forearm, blades working in perfect and deadly harmony.

They didn't kill all twenty-three orcs in that particular camp, though so confused and terrified were the brutes at the onset of battle, more intent in getting out of the way than in offering any defense, that the devastating pair likely could have. The fight was as much about sending a message to their enemies as it was to kill orcs. Through all the wild moments of fighting, Sunset and Sunrise played their role to perfection, swooping in and kicking at orc heads, and at one point, crashing down atop a cluster of orcs that seemed to be forming a coherent defensive posture.

Soon enough, Drizzt and Innovindil were on their mounts again and thundering away, not taking wing for twilight was upon them, but running off across the stony, snowy ground.

Their message had been delivered.

* * * * *

The orc stared down the end of its bloody blade, to its latest victim squirming on the ground. Three swipes had brought it down, had taken its arm, and had left long, deep gashes running nearly the length of the dying orc's torso. So much blood soaked the fallen orc's leather tunic that anyone viewing the creature would be certain that it had been cut more than three times.

That was the beauty of Khazid'hea, though, for the wicked sword did not snag on leather ties or bone, or even thin metal clasps. Cutter was its nickname, and the name the sentient sword was using when communicating with its current wielder. And Cutter was a name that newest wielder understood to be quite apropos.

Several orcs had challenged the sword-wielder for the blade. All of them, even a pair who attacked the sword-wielder together, and another orc thought to be the best fighter in the region, lay dead.

Is there anything that we cannot accomplish? the sword asked the orc, and the creature responded with a toothy smile. Is there any foe we cannot defeat?

In truth, Khazid'hea thought the orc a rather pitiful specimen, and the sword knew that almost all of the orcs it had killed in its hands might have won their battle had the sword-wielder been holding a lesser weapon. At one point against the most formidable of the foes, Khazid'hea, who was telepathically directing its wielder through the combat, had considered turning the orc the wrong way so that its opponent would win and claim the sword.

But for the moment, Khazid'hea didn't want to take those risks. It had an orc that was capable in combat, though minimally so, but was a wielder Khazid'hea could easily dominate. Through that orc, the sentient sword intended to find a truly worthy companion, and until one presented itself, the orc would suffice.

The sword imagined itself in the hands of mighty Obould Many-Arrows.

With that pleasant thought in mind, Khazid'hea contented itself with its current wielder.

The last fight, this last dead orc, marked the end of any immediate prospective challengers, for all the other orcs working at the defensive fortification had made it quite clear that they wanted nothing to do with the sword-wielder and his new and deadly toy. With that, Khazid'hea went back into its sheath, its work done but its hunger far from sated.

That hunger could never be sated. That hunger had made the sword reach out to Delly Curtie so that it could be free of Catti-brie, a once-capable wielder who would not see battle again anytime soon, though a war waged outside her door. That hunger had made Khazid'hea force Delly into the wild North, for the region beyond the great river was mired in peace.

Khazid'hea hated peace.

And so the sword became quite agitated over the next few days, when no orcs stepped forth to challenge the sword's current wielder. Khazid'hea thus began to execute its plan, whispering in the thoughts of the orc, teasing it with promises of supplanting Obould.

Is there anything we cannot do? the sword kept asking.

But Khazid'hea felt a wall of surprisingly stubborn resistance every time it hinted about Obould. The orc, all the orcs, thought of their leader in terms beyond the norm. It took some time for Khazid'hea to truly appreciate that in compelling the orc to supplant Obould, it was asking the orc to assume the mantle of a god. When that reality sank in, the sentient sword backed away its demands, biding its time, hoping to learn more of the orc army's structure so that it could choose an alternative target.

In those days of mundane labor and boring peace, Khazid'hea heard the whisper of a name it knew well.

"They're saying that the drow elf is Drizzt Do'Urden, friend of King Bruenor," another orc told a group that including the sword's current wielder.

The sentient sword soaked it all in. Apparently, Drizzt and a companion were striking at orc camps in the region, and many had died.

As soon as the sword-wielder left that discussion, Khazid'hea entered its mind.

How great will you be if you bring Drizzt Do'Urden's head to King Obould? the devilish sword asked, and it accompanied the question with a series of images of glory and accolades, of a hacked drow elf lying dead at the orc champion's feet. Of shamans dancing and throwing their praise, and orc females swooning at the mere sight of the conquering champion.

We can kill him, the sword promised when it sensed doubt. You and I together can defeat Drizzt Do'Urden. I know him well, and know his failings.

That night, the sword-wielder began to ask more pointed questions of the orc who had relayed the rumors of the murderous dark elf. Where had the attacks occurred? Were they certain that the drow had been involved?

The next day, Khazid'hea in its hand and in its thoughts, the sword-wielder slipped away from its companions and started off across the stony ground, seeking its victim and its glory.

But for Khazid'hea, the search was for a new and very worthy wielder.

CHAPTER 27 GROUSING

The audience chamber of Mithral Hall was emptier than it had been in many months, but there could not have been more weight in the room. Four players sat around a circular table, equidistant to each other and all on the diagonal of the room, so that no one would be closer to the raised dais and the symbolic throne.

When the doors banged closed, the last of the escorts departing, King Bruenor spent a moment scrutinizing his peers—or at least, the two he considered to be his peers, and the third, seated directly across from him, whom he realized he had to tolerate. To his left sat the other dwarf, King Emerus Warcrown, his face scrunched in a scowl, his beard neatly trimmed and groomed, but showing a bit more gray, by all accounts. How could Bruenor blame him for that, since Emerus had lost nearly as many dwarves as had Clan Battlehammer, and in an even more sudden and devastating manner?

To Bruenor's right sat another ally, and one he respected greatly. Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon had been a friend to Bruenor and to Mithral Hall for many years. When the dark elves invaded the dwarves' homeland Alustriel had stood strong beside Bruenor and his kin, and at great loss to the people of her city. Many of Alustriel's warriors had died fighting the drow in Keeper's Dale. Alustriel seemed as regal and beautiful as ever. She was dressed in a long gown of rich, deep green, and a silver circlet accentuated her sculpted features and her silvery hair. By all measures, the woman was beautiful, but there was something more about her, a strength and gravity. How many foolish men had underestimated Alustriel, Bruenor wondered, thinking her pretty face the extent of her powers?

Across from the dwarf sat Galen Firth of Nesme. Dirty and disheveled, carrying several recent scars and scabs, the man had just come from a battlefield, obviously, and had repeatedly expressed his desire to get right back to the fighting. Bruenor could respect that, certainly, but still the dwarf had a hard time in offering too much respect to that man. Bruenor still hadn't forgotten the treatment he and his friends had found in Nesme, nor the negative reaction of Nesme to Settlestone, a community of Wulfgar's folk that Bruenor had sponsored.

There was Galen, though, sitting in Mithral Hall as a representative of the town, and brought in by Alustriel as, so she said, a peer.

"Be it known and agreed that I speak not only for Silverymoon, but for Everlund and Sundabar, as well?" Alustriel asked.

"Aye," the other three all answered without debate, for Alustriel had informed them from the beginning that she had been asked to serve as proxy for the other two important cities, and none would doubt the honorable lady's word.

"Then we are all represented," Galen Firth remarked.

"Not all," said Emerus Warcrown, his voice as deep as a boulder's rumble within a mountain cave. "Harbromm's got no voice here."

"Two other dwarves sit at the table," Galen Firth argued. "Two humans for four human kingdoms, but two dwarves do not suffice for only three dwarven mines?"

Bruenor snorted. "Alustriel's getting three votes, and rightly so, since them other two asked her to do their voting here. Why yerself's even getting a voice is something I'm still wondering."

Galen narrowed his eyes, and Bruenor snorted again.

"Not I nor King Bruenor would deign to speak for King Harbromm of Citadel Adbar," Emerus Warcrown added. "King Harbromm has been advised of the situation, and will make his decisions known in time."

"Now is the time to speak!" Galen Firth replied. "Nesme remains under assault. We have driven the trolls and bog blokes from the town and pushed most back into the Trollmoors, but their leader, a great brute named Proffit, has eluded us. While he lives, Nesme will not be safe."

"Well, I'll be sending ye all me warriors then, and right off," Bruenor answered. "I'll just tell Obould to hold back his tens of thousands until we're properly ready for greeting him."

The sarcasm made Galen Firth narrow his eyes all the more.

"We will settle nothing about our enemies if we cannot come to civil agreement among ourselves," the ever-diplomatic Alustriel put in. "Bury old grievances, King Bruenor and Galen Firth, I beg of you both. Our enemies press us—press your two peoples most of all—and that must be our paramount concern."

Emerus Warcrown leaned back in his thick wooden chair and crossed his burly arms over his barrel-like chest.

Bruenor regarded his counterpart, and offered an appreciate wink. Emerus was dwarf first, Bruenor understood clearly. The hierarchy of his loyalty placed Bruenor and Harbromm, and their respective clans, at the top of Emerus's concerns.

As it should be.

"All right then, them grievances are buried," Bruenor answered Alustriel. "And know that I lost more than a few good Battlehammers in helping Galen Firth there and his troubled town. And not a thing have we asked in kind."

Galen started to say something, again in that petulant and negative tone of his, but Alustriel interrupted with a sudden and harsh, "Enough!" aimed directly at him.

"We understand the plight of Nesme," Alustriel went on. "Are not the Knights in Silver doing battle there even now, securing the region so that the tradesmen can rebuild the houses and strengthen the wall? Are not my wizards patrolling those walls, the words of the fireball ready at their lips?"

" 'Tis true, my good lady," Galen admitted, and he settled back in his chair.

"The trolls are on the run, and will be put back in the Trollmoors," Alustriel promised all three of them. "Silverymoon and Everlund will help Nesme see to this need."

"Good enough, and what's yer timetable?" asked Bruenor. "Will ye have them back afore winter settles in too deep?"

The question seemed all the more urgent since the first snows had begun to accumulate that very day outside of Mithral Hall's eastern door.

"That is our hope, so that the people of Nesme can return to their homes before the trails grow deep with snow," Alustriel answered.

"And so that yer armies will be ready to fight beside me own when the winter lets go of the land?" Bruenor asked.

Alustriel's face grew very tight. "If King Obould presses his attack on Mithral Hall, he will find Clan Battlehammer bolstered by the forces of Silverymoon, Everlund, and Sundabar, yes."

Bruenor let a long and uncomfortable moment of silence pass before pressing the point: "And if King Obould decides that his advance is done?"

"We have spoken of this before," Alustriel reminded him.

"Speak of it again," Bruenor demanded.

"By the time winter passes, Obould's army will be powerfully entrenched," said Alustriel. "That army was formidable enough when it was marching against defended positions. Your own people know that better than any."

"Bah, but ye're giving up!" King Emerus interrupted. "Ye're all thinking to leave the orc to his gains!"

"The cost in dislodging him will be terrible," Alustriel explained, not disagreeing. "Perhaps too great a price."

"Bah!" Emerus growled. He slammed a fist onto the heavy wooden table—and it was fortunate that the table was built so sturdily, else Emerus's smash would have splintered it to kindling. "Ye're going to fight for Nesme, but Mithral Hall's not worthy of yer sacrifice?"

"You know me better than to say that, King Emerus."

Alustriel's statement did calm the dwarf, who was far more on his edge than normal after the catastrophe at the river. Earlier that same day, King Emerus had presided over the consecration of the River Surbrin, saying farewell to nearly a thousand good dwarves.

He fell back in his seat, crossed his burly arms again, and gave a great, "Harrumph."

"King Bruenor.. Bruenor, my friend, you must understand our thinking in this," Alustriel said. "Our desire from Silverymoon to Everlund to Sundabar to rid the land of Obould and his thousands is no less than your own. But I have flown over the occupied lands. I have seen the swarms and their preparations. To go against them would invite disaster on a scale heretofore unknown in the Silver Marches. Mithral Hall is open once more—your path across the Surbrin will be assured. You are now the lone outpost, the last bastion for the goodly folk in all the lands between the Trollmoors and the Spine of the World, the Surbrin and Fell Pass. You are not without friends or support. If Obould comes against you again, he will find the Knights in Silver standing shoulder to shoulder with Clan Battlehammer."

"Waist to shoulder, perhaps," Galen Firth quipped, but the scowls of the two dwarves showed him clearly that his feeble attempt at humor was not appreciated, and Alustriel went on without interruption.

"This piece of ground between your eastern door and the Surbrin will not fall, if all of it is to be covered in layers of the dead from the three cities I represent at this meeting," she said. "We are all agreed on this. Winter's Edge will be expanded as a military encampment, and supplies and soldiers will flow through Silverymoon to that town unabated. We will relieve King Emerus's dwarves here, so that they can return to their work in securing the Underdark route between Felbarr and Mithral Hall. We will offer great wagons and drivers to King Harbromm, so that Citadel Adbar can easily enter the conflicted region as they see fit. We will spare no expense."

"But you will spare yer warriors," Bruenor remarked.

"We will not throw thousands against defended mountains for the sake of nearly barren ground," Alustriel bluntly answered.

Bruenor, wearing the same expression and seated in the same posture as his dwarf counterpart, offered a grim nod in response. He wasn't thrilled with Alustriel's decision; he wanted nothing more than to sweep ugly Obould back to his mountain hole. But Bruenor's people had done battle with the orc king and his legions, and so Bruenor surely understood the reasoning.

"Strengthen Winter's Edge, then," he said. "Work your soldiers in concert. Drill them and practice them. I wish that the Moonwood had chosen to attend this meeting. Hralien, who speaks for them, has promised his support, but from afar. Surely they fear that Obould is as likely to turn against their forest as against Mithral Hall, since they chose to enter the fray. I expect the same loyalty to them, from all o' ye, as ye're offering to Mithral Hall."

"Of course," said Alustriel.

"They saved me a thousand dwarves," Emerus agreed.

Galen Firth sat quietly, but not still, Bruenor noted, the man obviously growing agitated that the discussion had so shifted from the fate of his beloved Nesme.

"Ye go get yer town put back together," Bruenor said to him. "Ye make it stronger than ever before—I'll be sending caravans full o' the best weapons me smithies can forge. Ye keep them damned trolls in their smelly moor and off o' me back."

The man visibly relaxed, even uncrossing his arms and coming forward as he replied, "Nesme will not forget the aid that Mithral Hall offered, though Mithral Hall was terribly pressed at the time."

Bruenor responded with a nod, and noted out of the corner of his eye that Alustriel was smiling with approval for his generous offering and words. The King of Mithral Hall wasn't thrilled with the decisions made that day, but he well understood that they all had to stand together.

For if they chose to stand alone, they would fall, one by one, to the swarms of Obould.

* * * * *

"You don't know that," Catti-brie said, trying to be comforting.

"Delly is gone, Colson is gone, and Khazid'hea is gone," Wulfgar replied, and he seemed as if he could hardly stand up while uttering those dreaded words.

He and Catti-brie had sent the news throughout Mithral Hall that Khazid'hea was missing, and had made it quite clear that the sword was not to be handled casually, that it was a weapon of great and dangerous power.

It was obvious that someone had taken it, and few dwarves would be put under the spell of any sentient weapon. That left Delly, or one of the other human refugees who had set out across the river.

It had to be Delly, Catti-brie silently agreed. She had come to Catti-brie's room before, the woman knew. Half-asleep, she had once or twice seen Delly staring at her from the doorway, though out of concern or jealousy, she did not know. Was it possible that Delly had come in to speak with her and had been intercepted by the machinations of a bored and hungry Khazid'hea?

For where had Delly gone? How dare she leave Mithral Hall with Colson, and without ever speaking to Wulfgar?

The mystery had Wulfgar on the very edge of outrage. The man, battered as he had been, should have been resting, but he hadn't gone to his bed in more than a day, ever since the troubling report of Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder chasing after a lone figure running off to the north. The dwarves were betting it to be Cottie Cooperson, who was quite out of her mind with grief, but both Catti-brie and Wulfgar held a nagging feeling that someone else might be out of her mind, or at least that someone might have inadvertently let a malignant spirit into her mind.

"Or is it that we have been infiltrated by stealthy allies of Obould?" Wulfgar asked. "Have spies come into Mithral Hall? Have they stolen your sword, and my wife and child?"

"We will sort through all of this," Catti-brie assured him. "We will find Delly's trail soon enough. The storms have lessened and the ferry will soon be running again. Or Alustriel and King Emerus will aid us in our search. When they come out from their meeting with Bruenor, bid them to find the refugees who went across the river. There we will find answers, I'm sure."

Wulfgar's expression showed that perhaps he was afraid of finding those answers.

But there was nothing else to be done. Dozens of dwarves were searching the halls, for the sword, the woman, and the toddler. Cordio and some of his fellow priests were even using divining spells to try to help the search.

So far, there were only questions.

Wulfgar slumped against the wall.

* * * * *

"Obould will be dead in three days," Stormsinger the giant growled. "That was your promise, Princess Gerti, yet Obould is alive and more powerful than ever, and our prizes—pegasus, dark elf, and that magical panther he carries—have flown from our grasp."

"We are better off having Drizzt Do'Urden working toward the same goal as we," Gerti argued, and she had to raise her voice to lift it above the tumult of protest that was rising all around her. Once again the weight of events pressed down on the giantess. It had all seemed so simple just a few tendays past: She would lend a few giants here and a few giants there to throw boulders from afar at settlements the orcs had surrounded, softening up the defenses so that Obould could overrun the towns. She would gain spoils of war for the cost of a few rocks.

So she had thought. The explosion at the ridge, where twenty of her giants had been immolated, had irrevocably changed all of that. The assault into Mithral Hall, where several more had fallen to tricks and traps, had irrevocably changed all of that. The ceremony of Gruumsh, where Obould had seemingly taken on godlike proportions, had irrevocably changed all of that.

Gerti was left just trying to bail out of it all, to let Obould and the dwarves battle it out to the last and leave herself and her kin playing on both sides of the equation so that, whoever proved victorious, the battle would not come to Shining White.

The grumbling around her showed her clearly that her kin weren't holding much faith in her or her curious choices.

If only Drizzt Do'Urden had slaughtered the wretched Obould!

"Drizzt is a formidable opponent," Gerti said, following that notion. "He will find a way to strike hard at Obould."

"And at Shining White?"

Gerti narrowed her eyes and scowled at the petulant Stormsinger. Clearly the large warrior was positioning himself as an alternative to her when the great Jarl Orel finally let go of life. And just as clearly, many of the other giants were beginning to look favorably on that positioning.

"Drizzt will not, by his word, and he will dissuade others from coming against us, should Bruenor defeat Obould."

"It is all a waste," Stormsinger groused. "We have lost friends, all of us, and for what gain? Have we more slaves to serve our needs? Have we more wealth than we knew before we followed King Obould of the orcs? Have we more territory, rich mines or wondrous cities? Have we even a single winged horse, one handed over to us and now handed away?"

"We have …" Gerti started to say, but a chorus of complaining rose up in the room. "We have …" she said more loudly, and repeated it over and over until at last the din lessened. "We have gained position," she explained. "We could not have avoided this war. If we had not joined with Obould initially, then we would likely find him as an enemy soon enough, if not already. Now that will not happen, for he is indebted to us. And now King Bruenor and all of his allies are indebted to us, despite our waging war on them, because of Drizzt Do'Urden. We have gained position, and in a time as conflicted and confusing as this, that is no small thing!"

She spoke her words with conviction and with the weight of her royal position behind her, and the room did quiet.

But they would stir again, Gerti feared, and Stormsinger, though he did not respond at that time, would not let the matter drop there.

Far from it.

CHAPTER 28 THE WAVE OF EMOTION

"Well, that's that, then," Ivan Bouldershoulder said.

He and his brother stood over the woman's body. She was lying on her belly, but with one arm reaching up above her and shoulders turned so that they could clearly see her face.

A couple of inches of snow had gathered around the still form. Pikel bent over and gently brushed some from Delly's cold face, and he tried unsuccessfully to close her eyes.

"Poor Wulfgar," said Ivan.

"Oooo," Pikel agreed.

"But I'm not for seeing her little one anywhere near," said Ivan. "Ye think them damned orcs might've taken the kid?"

Pikel shrugged.

Both dwarves scanned the area. It had been a small camp, obviously, for the remnants of a campfire could be seen in the snow, and a collection of branches that had likely served as a lean-to. Delly's body hadn't been there long—no more than a couple of days, Pikel confirmed for his brother.

Ivan moved around the area, kicking at the snow and poking about every rock or log for some sign of Colson. After many minutes, he finally turned back to his brother, who was standing on the highest ground not so far away, his back to Ivan and looking up at the sky, shielding his eyes with one hand.

"Well, that's that, then," Ivan said again. "Delly Curtie's lost to us, and the little kid's not anywhere to be found. Let's get her wrapped up and take her back to Mithral Hall so Wulfgar can properly say farewell."

Pikel didn't turn around, but began hopping up and down excitedly.

"Come on, then," Ivan called to him, but the green-bearded Pikel only grew more agitated.

"Well, what're ye seein?" Ivan asked, finally catching on. He walked toward his brother. "Sign o' where them stupid orcs might've gone? Are ye thinking that we should go and see if the little kid's a prisoner?"

"Oo oi!" Pikel shouted, hopping anxiously then and pointing off to the north.

"What?" Ivan demanded, and he broke into a trot, coming up beside Pikel.

"Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel squealed.

"What?"

"Drizzit Dudden! Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel shouted, hopping even higher and jabbing his stubby finger out toward the north sky. Ivan squinted, shielded his eyes from the glare, and saw a large flying form. After a few moments, he made it out as a flying horse.

"Pegasus," he muttered. "Might be them elfs from the Moonwood."

"Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel corrected, and Ivan looked at him curiously. He guessed that Pikel was once again using those magical abilities that could grant him attributes of various animals. Ivan had seen Pikel imbue himself with the eyes of an eagle before, eyes that could pick out a field mouse running across a meadow from hundreds of yards away.

"Ye got them bird eyes on, don't ye?" Ivan asked.

"Hee hee hee."

"And ye're telling me that's Drizzt up on that flying horse?"

"Drizzit Dudden!" Pikel confirmed.

Ivan looked back at the far distant pegasus, and shook his hairy head. He glanced back at Delly Curtie. If they left her there, the next snow would bury her, perhaps until the spring thaw.

"Nah, we got to find Drizzt," Ivan said after a moment of weighing the options. "Poor Delly and poor Wulfgar, but many've been left out for the birds since Obould come charging down. Stupid orc."

"Stupit orc," Pikel echoed.

"Drizzt?" Ivan asked.

"Drizzit Dudden," his green-bearded brother answered.

"Well, lead on, ye durned fool doo-dad! If we find them orcs and them orcs got Wulfgar's little one, then who better'n Drizzt Do'Urden to take the kid away from them?"

"Hee hee hee."

* * * * *

The sentient sword had worked its way through five wielders since Delly Curtie. Using its insidious telepathic magic, Khazid'hea invaded the thoughts of each successive owner, prying from it the identity of the nearest orc it feared the most. After that, with a more worthy wielder identified, Khazid'hea had little trouble in instigating a fight among the volatile creatures, and in shaping that fight so that the more worthy warrior proved victorious.

Then news had come that the dark elf friend of Bruenor Battlehammer was working in the area once more, slaughtering orcs, and Khazid'hea found its most lofty goal within apparent reach. Ever since the companions had come to possess the sword, Khazid'hea had longed to be wielded by Drizzt Do'Urden. Catti-brie was worthy enough, but Drizzt, the sword knew, was a warrior quite different. In Drizzt's hands, Khazid'hea would find the promise of victory after victory, and would not be hidden away in a scabbard while the drow warrior fired from afar with a bow.

A bow was a cowardly weapon, to Khazid'hea's thinking.

How great will your glory be, how wonderful the riches, when you bring King Obould the head of Drizzt Do'Urden, the sword told its current wielder, a slender and smallish orc who relied on finesse and speed instead of brute strength, as was usually so with his brutish race.

"The drow is death," the orc said aloud, drawing curious stares from some nearby orcs.

Not when I am in your hands, Khazid'hea promised. Iknow this one. I know his movements and his technique. I know how to defeat him.

Even as the orc started away, heading northwest toward the last reported encounter with the drow and his elf companion, Khazid'hea began to wonder the wisdom of his course. For the ease with which the sentient sword had convinced the orc, had convinced every orc that had picked it up, was no small thing. Drizzt Do'Urden was not a weak-willed orc, Khazid'hea knew. The drow would battle against Khazid'hea's intrusions.

Unless those intrusions only reinforced that which Drizzt already had in mind, and from everything Khazid'hea had learned, the drow was on a killing rampage.

It seemed a perfect fit.

* * * * *

Drizzt rolled off the back of Sunrise as the pegasus set down in a fast trot. Landing nimbly, Drizzt ran along right behind the mount as Sunrise charged through the orc encampment, bowling monsters aside.

In the center of the camp, Drizzt broke out from behind, rushing ahead suddenly to cut down one orc still staggering out of the pegasus's path. Two short strokes sent that orc flying to the ground, and the efficiency of the kill allowed Drizzt to reposition his feet immediately, spinning to meet the charge of a second creature. A right-handed, backhanded downward parry lopped the tip off that second orc's thrusting spear, and while he made the block, Drizzt brought his left arm across his chest. The orc overbalanced when it felt only minimal resistance to its thrust, and Drizzt slashed right to left with that cocked blade, tearing out the creature's throat.

A thud behind the drow had him leaping about, but the threat from there was already ended, the creeping orc cut down by a well-placed elven arrow. With a quick salute to Innovindil and Sunset soaring over the camp, Drizzt moved on in search of his next kill.

He spotted a form in the lower boughs of a thick pine and rushed to the trunk. Without slowing, he leaped against it, planting his foot, then pushed off to the side, climbing higher in the air and landing atop one of the lower branches. Three quick springs brought him near to the cowering orc, and a few quick slashes had the humanoid tumbling to the ground.

Drizzt sprang down to the lowest branch again and did a quick survey. He picked a lone orc at the far end of the camp, then a trio closer and to his left. With a grin, he started for the trio, but stopped almost immediately, his gaze suddenly drawn back to the lone figure approaching from across the way.

His heart went into his throat; he wanted to scream out in denial and rage.

He knew the sword that orc carried.

Drizzt came out of the tree in a wild rush. He held all respect for the devastating weapon set in the orc's grasp, but it didn't matter. He didn't slow and didn't try to measure his opponent. He just rushed in, his scimitars working in a blur of motion, spinning circles over his shoulder, slashing across and stabbing ahead. He cut, he leaped, and he thrust, over and over. Sometimes he heard the ring of metal as he struck the fine blade of Khazid'hea, other times the rush of air cracking over his blades, and other times the softer sound of a blade striking leather or flesh.

He went into a spin around the orc, blades flying wide and level, turning their angle constantly to avoid any feeble parries, though the orc was already past any semblance of defense. The drow stopped in mid-turn and rushed back the other way, right near the orc, blades stabbing, smashing, and slashing. Technique no longer mattered. All that mattered was striking at the orc. All that mattered was cutting that creature who was holding Catti-brie's sword.

Blood flew everywhere, but Drizzt didn't even notice. The orc dropped the blade from its torn arm, but Drizzt didn't even notice. The light went out of the creature's eyes, the strength left it legs, and the only thing holding it upright was the constant barrage of Drizzt's hits.

But Drizzt didn't notice.

The orc finally fell to the dirt and the drow moved over it, smashing away with his deadly blades.

Sunset set down behind him, Innovindil leaping from her seat to rush to his side.

Drizzt didn't even notice.

He slashed and chopped. He hit the orc a dozen times, a score of times, a hundred times, until his sleeves were heavy with orc blood.

"Drizzt!" he finally heard, and from the tone, it registered to him that Innovindil must have been calling him for some time.

He fell to his knees and dropped his bloody blades to the dirt, then grabbed up Khazid'hea, holding it across his open, bloody palms.

"Drizzt?" Innovindil said again, and she crouched beside him.

The drow began to sob.

"What is it?" Innovindil asked, and she gathered him close.

Drizzt stared at Khazid'hea, tears running from his lavender eyes.

* * * * *

"There are other possible explanations," Innovindil said to Drizzt a short while later. They made camp down near the Surbrin, off to the side of a quiet pool that hadn't quite iced over yet so that Drizzt could clean the blood from his hands, his face, his whole body.

Drizzt looked back at her, and at Khazid'hea, lying on a stone on the ground before the elf. Innovindil, too, stared at the sword.

"It was not unexpected," Drizzt said.

"But that didn't lessen the shock."

The drow stared at her for a moment, then looked down. "No," he admitted.

"The orc was paid back in full," Innovindil reminded him. "Catti-brie has been avenged."

"It seems a small comfort."

The elf's smile comforted him somewhat. She started to rise, but stopped and glanced to the side, her expression drawing Drizzt's eyes that way as well, to a small bird sitting on a stone, chattering at them. As they watched, the bird hopped from its perch and fluttered away.

"Curious," said the elf.

"What is it?"

Innovindil looked at him, but did not reply. Her expression remained somewhat confused, though.

Drizzt looked back to the stone, then scanned the sky for any sign of the bird, which was long gone. With a shrug, he went back to his cleaning.

The mystery didn't take long to unfold, for within an hour, as Drizzt and Innovindil brushed Sunrise and Sunset, they heard a curious voice.

"Drizzit Dudden, hee hee hee."

The two turned to see Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder coming into view, and they both knew at once that the bird had been one of Pikel's spies.

"Well, ain't yerself the fine sight for a tired dwarf's eyes," Ivan greeted, smiling wide as he moved into the camp.

"Well met, yourself," Drizzt replied, stepping forward to clasp the dwarf's offered hand. "And curiously met!"

"Are you not far from the dwarven lines?" Innovindil asked, coming over to similarly greet the brothers. "Or are you, like we two, trapped outside of Mithral Hall?"

"Bah, just come from there," said Ivan. "Ain't no one trapped here—Bruenor busted out to the east and we're holding the ground to the Surbrin."

"Bruenor?" Innovindil asked before Drizzt could.

"Red-bearded dwarf, grumbles a lot?" said Ivan.

"Bruenor fell at Shallows," Drizzt said. "I saw it myself."

"Yeah, he fell, but he bounced," said Ivan. "Priests prayed over him for days and days, but it was Regis that finally woke him up."

"Regis?" Drizzt gasped, and he found it hard to breathe.

"Little one?" Ivan said. "Some call him Rumblebelly."

"Hee hee hee," said Pikel.

"What're ye gone daft, Drizzt?" asked Ivan. "I'm thinking ye're knowing Bruenor and Regis."

Drizzt looked at Innovindil. "This cannot be."

The elf wore a wide smile.

"Ye thought 'em dead, didn't ye?" Ivan asked. "Bah, but where's yer faith then? Nothing dead about them two, I tell ye! Just left them a few days ago." Ivan's face grew suddenly more somber. "But I got some bad news for ye, elf." He looked to the sword and Drizzt's heart sank once more.

"Wulfgar's girl, she took that blade and come out on her own," Ivan explained. "Me and me brother—"

"Me brudder!" Pike! proudly interrupted.

"Me and me brother come out after her, but we found her too late."

"Catti-brie—" Drizzt gasped.

"Nah, not her. Wulfgar's girl. Delly. We found her dead a couple o' days back. Then we spotted yerself flying about on that durned winged horse and so we came to find ye. Bruenor and Regis, Catti-brie and Wulfgar been worrying about ye terribly, ye got to know."

Drizzt stood there transfixed as the weight of the words washed over him.

"Wulfgar and Catti-brie, too?" he asked in a whisper.

Innovindil rushed up beside him and hugged him, and he truly needed the support.

"Ye been out here thinking yer friends all dead?" Ivan asked.

"Shallows was overrun," Drizzt said.

"Well, course it was, but me brother—"

"Me brudder!" Pikel cried on cue.

Ivan snickered. "Me brother there built us a statue to fool them orcs, and with Thibbledorf Pwent beside us, we give them the what's-for! We got 'em all out o' Shallows and run back to Mithral Hall. Been killing orcs ever since. Hunnerds o' the dogs."

"We saw the battlefield north of Keeper's Dale," Innovindil remarked. "And the blasted ridgeline."

"Boom!" cried Pikel.

Drizzt stood there shaking his head, overwhelmed by it all. Could it be true? Could his friends be alive? Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Regis? And Catti-brie? Could it be true? He looked to his partner, to find Innovindil smiling warmly back at him.

"I know not what to say," he admitted.

"Just be happy," she said. "For I am happy for you."

Drizzt crushed her in a hug.

"And they'll be happy to see ye, don't ye doubt," Ivan said to Drizzt. "But there's a few tears to be shed for poor Delly. I don't know what possessed the girl to run off like that."

The words hit Drizzt hard, and he jumped back from Innovindil and turned an angry glower over the sentient sword.

"I do," he said and he cursed Khazid'hea under his breath.

"The sword can dominate its wielder?" Innovindil asked.

Drizzt walked over and grabbed the blade, lifting it before his eyes. He sent his questions telepathically to Khazid'hea, feeling the life there and demanding answers.

But then something else occurred to him.

"Get yer flying horses tacked up then," said Ivan. "The sooner we get ye back to Mithral Hall, the better for everyone. Yer friends are missing ye sorely, Drizzt Do'Urden, and I'm thinking that ye're missing them just as much."

The drow wasn't about to argue that, but as he stood there holding the magnificent sword, the sword that cut through just about anything, his thoughts began cascading down a different avenue.

"I can defeat him," he said.

"What's that?" asked Ivan.

"What do you mean?" Innovindil asked.

Drizzt turned to them and said, "I outfought Obould."

"Ye fought him?" an incredulous Ivan spouted.

"I fought him, not so long ago, on a hillock not so far from here," Drizzt explained. "I fought him and I scored hit after hit, but my blades could not penetrate his armor." He brought Khazid'hea up and sent it slashing across in a powerful stroke. "Do you know the well-earned nickname of this blade?" he asked.

"Cutter," he answered when the other three just stared at him. "With this sword, I can defeat Obould."

"It is a fight for another day," Innovindil said to him. "After you are reunited with those who love you and fear you are lost to them."

Drizzt shook his head. "Obould is moving now, hilltop to hilltop. He is confident and so his entourage is small. I can get to him, and with this blade, I can defeat him."

"Your friends deserve to see you, and your friendship demands you attend to that," said Innovindil.

"My service to Bruenor is a service to all the land," Drizzt replied. "The folk of the North deserve to be free of the hold of Obould. I am given that chance now. To avenge Shallows and all the other towns, to avenge the dwarves who fell before the invaders. To avenge Tarathiel—we'll not get this chance again, perhaps."

The mention of Tarathiel seemed to take all the argument out of the elf.

"Ye're going after him now?" Ivan asked.

"I cannot think of a better time."

Ivan considered things for a bit, then began to nod.

"Hee hee hee," Pikel agreed.

"Ye hit the dog for meself, too," Ivan remarked, and his smile erupted with sudden inspiration. He pulled out his hand crossbow, of near-perfect drow design, and tossed it to Drizzt, then pulled the bandolier of explosive darts from over his shoulder and handed them to the drow.

"Pop a couple o' these into the beast and watch him hop!" Ivan declared.

"Hee hee hee."

"Me and me brother …" Ivan started to say, then he paused and looked at Pikel, expecting an interruption. Pikel stared back at him in confusion.

Ivan sighed. "Me and me brother—" he started again.

"Me brudder!"

"Yeah, us two'll get back to Mithral Hall and tell yer friends that ye're out here," Ivan offered. "We'll be expecting ye soon enough."

Drizzt turned to his elf friend. "Go with them," he bade her. "Watch over them from above and make sure they arrive safely."

"I am to allow you to go off alone after King Obould?"

Drizzt held up the vicious sword, and the bandolier and crossbow.

"I can defeat him," he promised.

"If you can even get him alone," Innovindil argued. "I can aid in that."

Drizzt shook his head. "I will find him and watch him from afar," he promised. "I will find an opportunity and I will seize it. Obould will fall to this sword in my hand."

"Bah, it's not a job for yerself alone," Ivan argued.

"With Sunrise, I can move swiftly. He'll not catch me unless I choose to be caught. In that event, King Obould will die."

The drow's tone was perfectly even and balanced.

"I will not stay at Mithral Hall," said Innovindil. "I will see the dwarves there, and I will come right back out for you."

"And I will be waiting," Drizzt promised. "Obould's head in hand."

It seemed as if there was nothing more to say, but of course Pikel added, "Hee hee hee."

CHAPTER 29 A DEEP BREATH

"I will grow weary of this travel soon enough," Tos'un Armgo said to his drow companion.

They had been on the move for days and days, finally catching up to Obould many miles north of where they had expected to find him, the western door of Mithral Hall. There too, the fight had not gone well, apparently, and the orc king seemed in little mood for any discussion of it. It was fast becoming apparent that the travels had just begun for the two drow if they meant to remain with Obould. The orc king would not set stakes anywhere, it seemed, even in the increasingly inclement weather.

One bright morning, Tos'un and Kaer'lic awaited his arrival on some flat stones outside of the foundation of a small keep atop a steep-sided hill, their first real chance to speak with Obould since their return. Obould would entertain guests only at the pleasure of Obould. All around the two drow, orcs were hard at work clear-cutting the few trees that grew among the gray stone and dirt of the hillsides, and clearing any boulder tumbles that could offer cover to an approaching enemy.

"He is building his kingdom," Kaer'lic remarked. "He has been hinting at this for so long now, and none of us bothered to listen."

"A few castles hardly make a kingdom," said Tos'un. "Particularly when we are speaking of orcs, who will soon turn their garrisons upon one another."

"You would enjoy that, no doubt," a gruff voice responded.

The two dark elves turned to see the approach of Obould, and that annoying shaman Tsinka. Kaer'lic noted that the female did not seem at all pleased.

"A prediction based upon past behavior," Tos'un said, and he offered a bow. "No insult meant to you, of course."

Obould scowled at him. "Behavior before the coming of Obould-who-is-Gruumsh," he replied. "You continue to lack the vision of my kingdom, drow, to your own detriment."

Kaer'lic found herself taking a slight step back from the imposing and unpredictable orc.

"I had figured that you two had followed your two kin to the side of your Spider Queen," the orc said, and it took a moment for the words to register.

"Donnia and Ad'non?" Kaer'lic asked.

"Slain by yet another drow elf," Obould replied, and if he was bothered in the least by that news, he did not show it.

Kaer'lic looked at Tos'un, and the two just accepted the loss with a shrug.

"I believe that one of the shamans collected Ad'non's head as a trophy," Obould said callously. "I can retrieve it for you, if you would like."

The insincerity of his offer stung Kaer'lic more than she would have expected, but she did well to keep her anger out of her face as she regarded the orc king.

"You kept your army together through a defeat at Mithral Hall," she said, thinking it better to let the other line of conversation fall away. "That is a good sign."

"Defeat?" Tsinka Shinriil shrieked. "What do you know of it?"

"I know that you are not inside Mithral Hall."

"The price was not worth the gain," Obould explained. "We fought them to a standstill in the outer halls. We could have pressed in, but it became apparent to us that our allies had not arrived." He narrowed his eyes, glared at Kaer'lic, and added, "As we had planned."

"The unpredictability and unreliability of trolls. . " the drow priestess said with a shrug.

Obould continued to glower, and Kaer'lic knew that he at least suspected that she and Tos'un had played a role in keeping Proffit's trolls from joining in the fight.

"We warned Proffit that his delays could pose problems in the north," Tos'un added. "But he and his wretched trolls smelled human blood, the blood of Nesmians, their hated enemies for so many years. He would not be persuaded to march north to Mithral Hall."

Obould hardly looked convinced.

"And Silverymoon marched upon them," Kaer'lic said, needing to divert attention. "You can expect nothing more from Proffit and his band. Those few who survive."

A low growl issued from between Obould's fangs.

"You knew that Lady Alustriel would come forth," Kaer'lic said. "Take heart that many of her prized warriors now lay dead on those southern bogs. She will not gladly turn her eyes to the north."

"Let her come," Obould growled. "We are preparing, on every mountain and in every pass. Let Silverymoon march forth to the Kingdom of Dark Arrows. Here, they will find only death."

"The Kingdom of Dark Arrows?" Tos'un silently mouthed.

Kaer'lic continued to scrutinize not only Obould, but Tsinka, and she noted that the shaman grimaced at the mention of the supposed kingdom.

A divisive opening, perhaps?

"Proffit is defeated, then," the orc king said. "Is he dead?"

"We know not," Kaer'lic admitted. "In the confusion of the battle, we departed, for it was obvious that the trolls would be forced back into the Trollmoors, and there, I did not wish to go."

"Wish to go?" Obould said. "Did I not instruct you to remain with Proffit?"

"There, I would not go," said Kaer'lic. "Not with Proffit, and not for Obould."

Her brazen attitude brought another fierce scowl, but the orc king made no movement toward her.

"You have accomplished much, King Obould," Kaer'lic offered. "More than I believed possible in so short a time. In honor of your great victories, I have brought you a gift." She nodded to Tos'un as she ended, and the male drow leaped away, skipping down the hillside to the one remaining boulder tumble. He disappeared from sight, then came back out a moment later, pulling along a battered dwarf.

"Our gift to you," said Kaer'lic.

Obould tried to look surprised, but Kaer'lic saw through the facade. He had spies and lookouts everywhere, and had known of the dwarf before he had ever come out to meet the dark elves.

"Flay his skin and eat him," Tsinka said, her eyes suddenly wild and hungry. "I will prepare the spit!"

"You will shut your mouth," Obould corrected. "He is of Clan Battle-hammer?"

"He is," the drow priestess answered.

Obould nodded his approval, then turned to Tsinka and said, "Secure him in the supply wagon. We will keep him close. And do not injure him, on pain of death!"

That elicited a most profound scowl from the shaman, a look Kaer'lic did not miss.

"He will prove valuable to us, perhaps," said Obould. "I expect to be in parlay with the dwarves before the turn of spring."

"Parlay?" Tsinka echoed, her voice rising to a shriek once more.

Obould turned his scowl upon her and she shrank back.

"Take him now and secure him," the orc king said to her, his voice even and threatening.

Tsinka rushed past him to the dwarf, then roughly tugged poor Fender along.

"And injure him not at all!" Obould commanded.

"I had expected you to press into Mithral Hall," Kaer'lic said to the orc king when Tsinka was gone. "In truth, when we returned to Keeper's Dale, we expected to find the orc army scattering back for the Spine of the World."

"Your confidence is inspiring."

"That confidence grows, King Obould," Kaer'lic assured him. "You have shown great restraint and wisdom, I believe."

Obould dismissed the compliment with a snort. "Is there anything else you wish?" he asked. "I have much to do this day."

"Before you move along to the next construction?"

"That is the plan, yes," said Obould.

Kaer'lic bowed low. "Farewell, King of Dark Arrows."

Obould paused just a moment to consider the title, then turned on his heel and marched away.

"One surprise after another," Tos'un remarked when he was gone.

"I am not so surprised anymore," said Kaer'lic. "It was our mistake in underestimating Obould. It will not happen again."

"Let us just go back into the tunnels of the upper Underdark, or find another region in need of our playful cunning."

Kaer'lic's expression did not shift in the least. Eyes narrowed, as if throwing darts at the departing Obould, the priestess mulled over all the information. She thought of her lost companions, then simply let go of them, as was the drow way. She considered Obould's attitude, however, so disrespectful toward the dead drow and toward the Spider Queen. It was not so easy to let go of some things.

"I would speak with Tsinka before we leave," Kaer'lic remarked.

"Tsinka?" came Tos'un's skeptical response. "She is a fool even by orc standards."

"That is how I like my orcs," Kaer'lic answered. "Predictable and stupid."

* * * * *

Later that same day, after casting many spells of creation and imbuing a certain item with a particular dweomer, Kaer'lic sat on a stone opposite the orc priestess. Tsinka regarded her carefully and suspiciously, which she had expected, of course.

"You were not pleased by King Obould's decision to abandon Mithral Hall to the dwarves," Kaer'lic bluntly stated.

"It is not my place to question He-who-is-Gruumsh."

"Is he? Is it the will of Gruumsh to leave dwarves in peace? I am surprised by this."

Tsinka's face twisted in silent frustration and Kaer'lic knew she had hit a nerve here.

"It is often true that when a conqueror makes great gains, he becomes afraid," Kaer'lic explained. "He suddenly has so much more to lose, after all."

"He-who-is-Gruumsh fears nothing!" shrieked the volatile shaman.

Kaer'lic conceded that with a nod. "But likely, King Obould will need more than the prodding of Tsinka to fulfill the will of Gruumsh," the drow said.

The shaman eyed Kaer'lic curiously.

Smiling wickedly, Kaer'lic reached into her belt pouch and pulled forth a small spider-shaped fastener, holding it up before the orc.

"For the straps of a warrior's armor," she explained.

Tsinka seemed both intrigued and afraid.

"Take it," Kaer'lic offered. "Fasten your cloak with it. Or just press it against your skin. You will understand."

Tsinka took the fastener and held it close, and Kaer'lic secretly mouthed a word to release the spells she had placed in contingency upon the fastener.

Tsinka's eyes widened as she felt an infusion of courage and power. She closed her eyes and basked in the warmth of the item, and Kaer'lic used that opportunity to cast another spell upon the orc, an enchantment of friendship that put Tsinka fully at ease.

"The blessing of Lady Lolth," Kaer'lic explained. "She who would see the dwarves routed from Mithral Hall."

Tsinka moved the fastener back out and stared at it curiously. "This will drive He-who-is-Gruumsh back to the dwarven halls to complete the conquest?"

"That alone? Of course not. But I have many of them. And you and I will prod him, for we know that King Obould's greatest glories lay yet before him."

The shaman continued to stare glassy-eyed at the brooch for some time. Then she looked at her new best friend, her smile wide.

Kaer'lic tried hard to make her smile seem reciprocal rather than superior. The drow didn't worry about it too much, though, for Tsinka considered her trustworthy, thought Kaer'lic to be her new best friend.

The drow priestess wondered how Obould might view that friendship.

The walls of Mithral Hall seemed to press in on him as never before. Ivan and Pikel had returned that morning with the news of Delly and of Drizzt, bringing a conflicted spin of emotions to the big man. Wulfgar sat in the candlelight, his back against the stone wall, his eyes unblinking but unseeing as his mind forced him through the memories of the previous months.

He replayed his last conversations with Delly, and saw them in the light of the woman's desperation. How had he missed the clues, the overt cry for help?

He couldn't help but grimace as he considered his responses to Deity's plea that they go to Silverymoon or one of the other great cities. He had so diminished her feelings, brushing them away with a promise of a holiday.

"You cannot blame yourself for this," Catti-brie said from across the room, drawing Wulfgar out of his contemplation.

"She did not wish to stay here," he answered.

Catti-brie walked over and sat on the bed beside him. "Nor did she want to run off into the wild orc lands. It was the sword, and I think myself the fool for leaving it out in the open, where it could catch anyone walking by."

"Delly was leaving," Wulfgar insisted. "She could not tolerate the dark tunnels of dwarves. She came here full of hope for a better life, and found …" His voice trailed off in a great sigh.

"So she decided to cross the river with the other folk. And she took your child with her."

"Colson was as much Delly's as my own. Her claim was no less. She took Colson because she thought it would be best for the girl—of that, I have no doubt."

Catti-brie put her hand on Wulfgar's forearm. He appreciated the touch.

"And Drizzt is alive," he said, looking into her eyes and managing a smile. "There is good news, too, this day."

Catti-brie squeezed his forearm and matched his smile.

She didn't know how to respond, Wulfgar realized. She didn't know what to say or what to do. He had lost Delly and she had found Drizzt in a dwarf's single sentence! Sorrow, sympathy, hope, and relief so obviously swirled inside her as they swirled inside him, and she feared that if the balance tilted too positively, she would be minimizing his loss and showing disrespect.

Her concern about his feelings reminded Wulfgar of how great a friend she truly was to him. He put his other hand atop hers and squeezed back, then smiled more sincerely and nodded.

"Drizzt will find Obould and kill him," he said, strength returning to his voice. "Then he will return to us, where he belongs."

"And we're going to find Colson," Catti-brie replied.

Wulfgar took a deep breath, needing it to settle himself before he just melted down hopelessly.

All of Mithral Hall was searching for the toddler in the hopes that Delly had not taken her out. Dwarves had gone down to the Surbrin, despite the freezing rain that was falling in torrents, trying to get a message across the way to the ferry pilots to see if any of them had noted the child.

"The weather will break soon," Catti-brie said. "Then we will go and find your daughter."

"And Drizzt," Wulfgar replied.

Catti-brie grinned and gave a little shrug. "He'll find us long before that, if I'm knowing Drizzt."

"With Obould's head in hand," Wulfgar added.

It was a little bit of hope, at least, on as dark a day as Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, had ever known.

* * * * *

"… orc-brained, goblin-sniffing son of an ogre and a rock!" Bruenor fumed. He stalked about his audience hall, kicking anything within reach.

"Hee hee hee," said Pikel.

Ivan shot his brother a look and motioned for him to be silent.

"Someone get me armor!" Bruenor roared. "And me axe! Got me a few hunnerd smelly orcs to kill!"

"Hee hee hee."

Ivan cleared his throat to cover his brother's impertinence. They had just informed King Bruenor of Drizzt's intentions, how the drow had taken the magical sword and Ivan's hand crossbow and had gone off after Obould.

Bruenor hadn't taken the news well.

Thrilled as he was that his dear friend was alive, Bruenor couldn't stand his current state of inaction. A storm was whipping up outside, with driving and freezing rain, and heavy snow at the higher elevations, and there was simply no way for Bruenor or anyone else to get out of Mithral Hall. Even if the weather had been clear, Bruenor realized that there would be little he could do to help Drizzt. The drow was astride a flying horse—how could he possibly hope to catch him?

"Durned stupid elf," he muttered and he kicked the edge of his stone dais, then grumbled some more as he limped away.

"Hee hee hee," Pikel snickered.

"You'll only break your foot, and you won't be able to even go out to the walls," said Regis, rushing into the hall to see what was the matter. For word was passing through the complex that Drizzt had been found alive and well, and that King Bruenor was out of sorts.

"Ye heared?"

Regis nodded. "I knew he was alive. It will take more than orcs and frost giants to kill Drizzt."

"He's going after Obould. All by himself," Bruenor growled.

"I would not want to be Obould, then," the halfling said with a grin.

"Bah!" snorted the dwarf. "Durned stupid elf's taking all the fun again!"

"Hee hee hee," said Pikel, and Ivan elbowed him.

Pikel turned fiercely on his brother, his eyes going wild, and he began to waggle his fingers menacingly, all the while uttering birdlike sounds.

Ivan just shook his head.

"Boo," said Pikel, then "hee hee hee," again.

"Will ye just shut up?" Ivan said and he shook his head and turned away, crossing his burly arms over his chest.

He found Regis staring at him and chuckling.

"What?"

King Bruenor stopped, then, and similarly regarded Ivan, and he, too, began to chuckle.

Ivan stared at them both curiously, for unlike the pair, he couldn't see that his brother had just turned his beard as green as Pikel's own.

"They're thinking yerself to be amusing," Ivan said to Pikel.

"Hee hee hee."

* * * * *

Head down, cowl pulled low, Drizzt Do'Urden did not remain under shelter against the storm. North of Mithral Hall, it was all snow, blowing and deepening all around him, but with Sunrise in tow, the drow made his way across the uneven, rocky terrain, moving in the general direction of where he had last seen Obould. As the daylight waned, the drow ranger found a sheltered overhang and settled in, lying right along Sunrise's back to share some of the steed's body heat.

The storm finally broke after sunset, but the wind kicked up even more furiously. Drizzt went out and watched the clouds whip across the sky, stars blinking in and out with their passing. He climbed up over the jag of stone he had used for shelter and scanned the area. Several clusters of campfires were visible from up there, for the region was thick with the remnants of Obould's army. He marked the direction of the largest such cluster, then went back down and forced himself to get some much-needed rest.

He was up and out before the dawn, though, riding Sunrise, and even putting the pegasus up into a series of short, low flights.

A smile spread on the drow's face as he neared the region of the previous night's campfires, for the pennant of Obould soon came into view—the same flag he had seen flying with the orc king's personal caravan. He found a good vantage point and settled in, and soon enough, that same caravan was on the move once more.

Drizzt studied them closely. He spotted Obould among the ranks, growling orders.

The drow nodded and took a wide scan of the region, picking his path so that he could shadow the caravan.

He'd bide his time and await the opportunity.

We will kill them all, the vicious Khazid'hea whispered in his mind.

Drizzt focused his will and simply shut the telepathic intrusion off, then sent his own warning to the sword. Bother me again and I will feed you to a dragon. You will sit in its treasure piles for a thousand years and more.

The sword went silent once again.

Drizzt knew that Khazid'hea had sought him out purposely, and knew that the sword had desired him as its wielder for some time. He considered that perhaps he should be more amenable to the sentient blade, should accept its intrusions and even let it believe that it was somewhat in charge.

It didn't matter, he decided, and he kept up his wall of mental defense. Khazid'hea could dominate most people, had even taken Catti-brie by surprise initially and had bent her actions to its will.

But against a warrior as seasoned and disciplined as Drizzt Do'Urden, a warrior who knew well the intrusive nature of the sentient sword, Khazid'hea's willpower seemed no more than a minor inconvenience. Drizzt considered that for a moment, and realized that he must take no chances. Obould would prove enough of a foe.

"We will kill them all," Drizzt said, and he lifted the blade up before his intense eyes.

He felt Khazid'hea's approval.

CHAPTER 30 WHEN GODS ROAR

Kaer'lic Suun Wett nearly fell over when she saw the distinctive form of the winged horse sweeping in from the south. Orcs readied their bows, and Kaer'lic considered a spell, but Obould moved first and fast, and with little ambiguity.

"Hold your shots!" he bellowed, rushing and turning about so that there could be no mistaking him.

As he turned Kaer'lic's way, the drow priestess saw such fires raging in his eyes that they washed away any thoughts she entertained of ignoring his command and throwing some Lolth-granted spell at the pegasus rider.

That only infuriated her more as the winged horse closed and she recognized the black-skinned rider astride the magnificent creature.

"Drizzt Do'Urden," she mouthed.

"He dares approach?" asked Tos'un, who was standing at her side.

The pegasus banked and reared up, stopping its approach and seeming to hover in the air through a few great wing beats.

"Obould!" Drizzt cried, and as he had maneuvered himself upwind, his words were carried to the orcs. "I would speak with you! Alone! We have an unfinished conversation, you and I!"

"He has lost all sensibility," Kaer'lic whispered.

"Or is he in parlay with Obould?" asked Tos'un. "As an emissary of Mithral Hall, perhaps?"

"Destroy him!" Kaer'lic called to Obould. "Send your archers and cut him down or I will do it my—"

"You will hold your spells, or you will discuss this matter with Ad'non and Donnia in short order," Obould replied.

"Kill the ugly beast," Tos'un whispered to her, and Kaer'lic almost launched a magical assault upon the orc king—until good sense overruled her instinctive hatred. She looked from Obould over to Drizzt, who was taking the pegasus down lower onto an adjoining high point, a huge flat rock wedged against the steep hillside, its far end propped by several tall natural stone columns.

Kaer'lic did well to hide her grin as she looked back at the orc king, all adorned in his fine plate mail fastened by spider-shaped buckles. Though she hadn't planned on getting anywhere near to Drizzt Do'Urden, in effect, the scene was playing out exactly as she had hoped. Better than she had hoped, she thought, since she had not expected that Drizzt Do'Urden himself would prove to be the first formidable foe King Obould faced in his «improved» armor. If Drizzt was half as good as Kaer'lic had come to believe, then Obould was in for a very bad surprise.

"You intend to speak with this infidel?" she asked.

"If he speaks for Mithral Hall and they have anything to say that I wish to hear," Obould answered.

"And if not?"

"Then he has come to kill me, no doubt."

"And you will walk out to him?"

"And slaughter him." Obould's look was one of perfect confidence. He seemed almost bored by it all, as if Drizzt was no serious issue.

"You cannot do this," Tsinka said, moving fast behind her god-figure. "There is no reason. Let us destroy him from afar and continue on our way. Or send an emissary—send Kaer'lic, who knows the way of the drow elves!"

The sudden widening of Kaer'lic's red eyes betrayed her terror at that prospect, but she recovered quickly and flashed Tsinka a hateful look. When Tsinka's responding expression became concerned, even deeply wounded, Kaer'lic remembered the enchantment, remembered that she was "best friends" with the pitiful shaman. She managed a smile at the fool orc, then lifted her index finger and waggled it back and forth, bidding Tsinka not to interfere.

Tsinka continued to look at her dear, dear dark elf friend curiously for a moment longer, then happily smiled to indicate that she understood.

"This one is formidable, so I have heard," Kaer'lic said, but only because she knew she would hardly dissuade Obould from his intended course.

"I have battled him before," Obould assured her with a shrug.

"Perhaps it is a trap," Tsinka said, her voice falling away to ineffectiveness as she sheepishly looked at Kaer'lic.

Obould snickered and started to walk away, but stopped and glanced back, his yellow teeth showing behind the mouth slit in his bone-white helmet. Two strides put him past Kaer'lic, and he reached over and grabbed poor Fender by the scruff of his neck, and easily hoisted the dwarf under one arm.

"Never parlay without a counteroffer prepared," he remarked, and he stormed away.

* * * * *

Drizzt was not surprised to see Obould stalking from the far hilltop, though the sight of the dwarf prisoner did catch him off his guard. Other than that squirming prisoner, though, Obould was moving out alone. As he had shadowed Obould looking for the proper terrain, Drizzt had concocted elaborate ambushes, where he and Sunrise might swoop down from behind a shielding high bluff in a fast and deadly attack on Obould. But Drizzt had known those plans to be unnecessary. He had taken a good measure of the orc king in their fight, in more ways than physical. Obould would not run from his challenge, fairly offered.

But what of the dwarf? Drizzt had to find a way to make sure that Obould would not kill the poor fellow. He would refuse the fight unless the orc king guaranteed the prisoner's safety, perhaps. As he watched the approach, the drow became more convinced that he would be able to do just that, that Obould would not kill the dwarf. There was something about Obould, Drizzt was just beginning to see. In a strange way, the orc reminded Drizzt of Artemis Entreri. Single-minded and overly proud, always needing to prove himself—but to whom? To himself, perhaps.

Drizzt had known beyond the slightest bit of doubt that Obould would come out to meet him. He watched the orc king's long strides, noted the other orcs and a pair of drow creeping about in a widening arc behind the solitary figure of the great king. He had his left hand on Icingdeath, and he drew Khazid'hea from a scabbard strapped on Sunrise's side, but put the blade low immediately so as not to offer any overt threat.

We will cut out his heart, the sword started to promise.

You will be silent and remain out of my thoughts, Drizzt answered telepathically. Distract me but once and I will throw you down the mountainside and rain an avalanche of snow and cold stones upon you.

So forceful and dominant was the focused drow that the sentient sword went silent.

* * * * *

"He will win, yes? With the magic you put on his armor, Obould will win, yes?" Tsinka babbled as she moved to a closer vantage point beside the two drow.

Kaer'lic ignored her for most of the way, which only made the foolish shaman more insistent and demanding.

Finally the drow priestess turned on her and said, "He is Gruumsh, yes?"

Tsinka stopped short—stopped both walking and babbling.

"Drizzt is a mere drow warrior," said Kaer'lic. "Obould is Gruumsh. Do you fear for Gruumsh?"

Tsinka blanked, her doubts spinning around to reflect a lack of faith.

"So be silent and enjoy the show," said Kaer'lic, and so overpowering was her tone, particularly given the enchantment she still maintained regarding Tsinka, that her effect over the babbling shaman proved no less than Drizzt's dominance over Khazid'hea.

* * * * *

"Say what you must, and be quick," Obould said as he mounted the high flat stone directly across from the drow. Sunrise took a few quick strides and flew off the other way, as Drizzt had instructed.

"Say?" the drow asked.

Obould dropped poor Fender down onto the stone, the dwarf grunting as he hit face first. "You have come with parlay from Mithral Hall?"

"I have not been to Mithral Hall."

A smile widened on Obould's face, barely visible behind that awful skull-like helmet.

"You believe that the dwarves will parlay with you?" Drizzt asked.

"Have they a choice?"

"They will speak with their axes and their bows. They will answer with fury, and nothing more."

"You said that you have not been to Mithral Hall."

"Need I return to a place and people I know so well to anticipate the course of Clan Battlehammer?"

"This is beyond Clan Battlehammer," said Obould, and Drizzt could see that his smile had disappeared. With a growl, the orc king kicked the squirming Fender, sending the dwarf flying off the back side of the stone and bouncing down a short descending path.

The sudden surge of anger caught the drow off guard.

"You wish for a parlay with Mithral Hall?" Drizzt stated as much as asked, and he didn't even try to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Obould stared at him hatefully through the glassy eye-plates.

Questions came at Drizzt from every corner of his mind. If Obould desired a parlay, could it be that the war was at its end? If Drizzt battled the orc king, would he be showing disloyalty to Bruenor and his people, given that he might have just witnessed a sliver of hope that the war could be ended?

"You will return to your mountain homes?" Drizzt blurted, even as the question formulated in his thoughts.

Obould scoffed at him. "Look around you, drow," he said. "This is my home now. My kingdom! When you fly on your pet, you see the greatness of Obould. You see the Kingdom of Dark Arrows. Remember that name for the last minutes of your life. You die in Dark Arrows, Drizzt Do'Urden, and will be eaten by birds on a mountainside in the home of King Obould." He ended with a snarl and lifted his greatsword up before him, beginning a determined approach.

"Who is your second?" Drizzt asked, the unexpected words halting

Obould. "For when you are dead, I will need to know. Perhaps that orc will be wiser than Obould and will see that he has no place here, among the dwarves, the elves, and the humans. Or if not, I will kill him, too, and speak with his second."

Drizzt saw Obould's eyes widen behind the glassy plates, and with a roar that shook the stones, Obould leaped ahead, stabbing ferociously with his powerful sword, the blade bursting into flame as he thrust.

Out snapped Icingdeath, in the blink of a drow eye, the enchanted weapon slapping across the greatsword, extinguishing the fires in an angry puff of smoke as Drizzt hopped to the side. He could have struck with Khazid'hea, for Obould, in his supreme confidence, had abandoned all semblance of defense in the assault. But Drizzt held the attack.

The greatsword came slashing across, predictably, forcing the drow into a fast retreat. Had he taken that first opening and struck with his newfound sword, Drizzt would have scored a hit, but nothing substantial.

And in that instance, Obould would have recognized his unanticipated vulnerability.

Obould pressed the attack wildly, slashing and stabbing, rushing ahead, and on the high ground behind and to the side of the flat stone, orcs cheered and shouted in glee.

Drizzt measured every turn and retreat, letting the fury play out, using less energy than his outraged opponent. He wasn't trying to tire Obould, but rather to gain better insight into the orc's turns and movements, that he could better anticipate.

The greatsword flamed to life again with one feinted stab that became a sudden reversal into a downward chop, and had Drizzt not seen a similar distraction tactic used against the elf Tarathiel, he might have found himself caught by surprise. As it was, the descending greatsword met only the slap of Icingdeath, extinguishing the larger weapon's fires.

Obould came on suddenly and wildly, charging straight for the drow, who stepped left, then leaped back right, going into a roll as Obould started one way then threw himself back the other, slashing his sword across. That sword flamed to life again, and the rolling Drizzt felt the heat of those magical fires as the blade cut above him.

Drizzt came up to his feet and spun, then back-stepped and slid off to the side once more as Obould continued to press. Around and around they went, the orcs cheering and howling with every slash of Obould's sword, though he got nowhere close to hitting the elusive drow.

Neither did he show any signs of tiring, though.

Finally, Obould stopped his charge and stood glaring at Drizzt from behind the flames of the upraised greatsword.

"Are you going to fight me?" he asked.

"I thought I was."

Obould growled. "Run away, if that is your course. Cross blades if you are not afraid."

"You grow tired?"

"I grow bored!" Obould roared.

Drizzt smiled and faked a sudden rush, then stopped abruptly and caught everyone by surprise when he simply tossed Icingdeath up into the air. Obould's eyes followed the ascent of the sword.

Drizzt reached his free hand behind his back and brought out the loaded hand crossbow, and as Obould snapped his gaze back upon him—yes, he wanted the orc king to see it coming! — the drow gave a shrug and let fly.

The dart hit Obould's helmet in the left eye then collapsed in on itself and exploded with a burst of angry flame and black smoke. Obould's head snapped back viciously, and the orc king went flying down to the stone, flat on his back, as surely as if a mountain had fallen atop him. He lay very still.

Gasps and silence replaced the wild cheering of all those looking on.

* * * * *

"Impressive," Tos'un quietly remarked.

Beside him, Kaer'lic stood with her jaw hanging open, and beside her, Tsinka whimpered and gasped.

They watched Drizzt snap the hand crossbow back behind him, then casually catch the falling scimitar.

Kaer'lic noticed the approach of the pegasus, and suddenly feared that Drizzt would escape once more—and that, she could not allow.

She began casting a powerful spell, aiming for the flying horse and not the too-lucky drow, when she was interrupted by Tsinka, who grabbed her arm, and screamed, "He moves!"

The drow priestess looked back at Obould, who rocked up onto his shoulders, arching his back and bending his legs, then snapped back the other way, leaping up to his feet.

The orcs screamed in glee.

* * * * *

Drizzt hid his surprise well when Obould was suddenly standing before him once more. He noted the tip of the dart, embedded in the glassteel plate of the helmet, and the black scorch marks showing over the rest of that plate, and partially over the other one as well.

He hadn't expected to kill Obould with the dart, after all, and it was a fortunate thing that the orc king's fall had caught him more by surprise than his sudden return, for Obould howled and attacked once more, slashing with abandon.

But…

He couldn't see! Drizzt realized as he stepped aside and Obould continued to press the attack at the empty air before him.

Kill him now! the hungry Khazid'hea implored, and the drow, in complete agreement, didn't even scold the sentient sword.

He stepped in suddenly and drove Khazid'hea at a seam in the orc king's fabulous armor, and the fine blade bit through and slid into Obould's side.

How the great orc howled and leaped, tearing the sword right from Drizzt's grasp. Obould staggered back several steps, blood leaking out beside the sticking blade.

"Treachery!" Obould yelled, and he reached up and yanked the ruined helmet from his head, throwing it over the cliff face. "You cannot beat me fairly, and you cannot beat me unfairly!"

To Drizzt's amazement, he came on again.

* * * * *

"Unbelievable," whispered Tos'un.

"Stubborn," Kaer'lic corrected with a snarl.

"Gruumsh!" howled the gleeful and crying Tsinka, and all the orcs cheered, for if that sword protruding from Obould's side would prove a mortal wound, it did not show at all in the great orc's pressing attacks.

"He doesn't even know when he's dead," Kaer'lic grumbled, and she launched into a spell, then, a calling to magical items she had fastened by the grace of Lady Lolth.

It was time to end the travesty.

* * * * *

Drizzt tried to battle past his incredulity and properly respond to Obould's renewed attacks. It took him several parries and a few last-second dodges to even realize that he should draw out Twinkle to replace his lost sword.

"And what have you gained for all of your treachery, drow?" Obould demanded, pressing forward and slashing away.

"You are without a helmet, and that is no small thing," Drizzt shouted back. "The turtle has come out of its shell."

"Only so that I can look down upon you in the last moments of your life, fool!" Obould assured him. "That you might see the pleasure on my face as your body grows cold!" He ended with a devastating charge, and turned in anticipation even as Drizzt started to jump aside.

The move caught Drizzt off guard, for it was truly an all-or-nothing, victory-or-defeat maneuver. If Obould guessed wrong, turning opposite Drizzt's sudden dodge, then Drizzt would have little trouble in slamming one or both of his scimitars down upon the back of the orc's skull.

But Obould guessed right.

On his heels, corralled and running out of retreating room, Drizzt parried desperately. So fast was Obould's sword-work that Drizzt couldn't even think of launching an effective counter. So furious was the orc king's attack that Drizzt didn't even entertain any thoughts of swinging for his exposed head. Drizzt understood the power behind Obould's swings, and he knew that he could not fend that greatsword. Not the shirt he had taken from the dead dark elf, not even the finest suit of Bruenor's best mithral stock would save him from being cloven in half.

Very simply, Obould had guessed right in his turn and Drizzt understood that he was beaten.

Both his blades slapped against the slashing greatsword, Icingdeath extinguishing the stubborn fires yet again. But the shock of the block sent waves of numbness up the drow's arm, and even with a two-bladed parry, he could not fully deflect the swing. He fell down—that, or he would have been cut in half—and scrambled into a forward roll, but he could not get fully past Obould without taking a hit, a kick at least. He braced himself for the blow.

But it did not fall.

Drizzt came around as he got back to his feet, to see Obould squirming and jerking wildly.

"What?" the orc king growled, and he jolted left then right.

It took Drizzt several seconds to sort it out, to notice that the spider clasps on Obould's armor were animating. Eight-legged creatures scrambled all over the orc, and by Obould's roars and jerking movements, it seemed as if more than a few were stopping to bite him.

As the orc thrashed, pieces of that fabulous armor suit went flying. One vambrace fell to the stone, and he kicked his legs to free himself of the tangle of flapping jambs. His great breastplate fell away, as well as one pauldron and the backplate. The remaining pauldron flapped outward, held in place only by the embedded sword—and how Obould howled whenever that vicious blade moved.

Not understanding, not even caring, Drizzt leaped in for the kill.

And promptly leaped back out, as Obould found his focus and countered with a sudden and well-timed sword thrust. Drizzt winced as he back-stepped, blood staining his enchanted shirt on the side. He stared at his opponent through every inch of his retreat, stunned that Obould had found the clarity to so counter.

Separated and with a moment's respite, Obould straightened. His face twisted into a grimace and he slapped one hand across to splatter a spider that had found a soft spot in his toughened orc hide. He brought his hand across, throwing the arachnid carcass to the ground, then reached over, growled and grimacing, and pulled Khazid'hea free of his side, taking the pauldron with it.

Wield me as your own! the sword screamed at him.

With a feral and explosive roar, Obould threw the annoying sword over the cliff.

"Treachery again!" he roared at Drizzt. "You live up to the sinister reputation of your heritage, drow."

"That was not my doing," Drizzt yelled back. "Speak not to me of treachery, Obould, when you encase yourself in an armor my blades cannot penetrate."

That retort seemed to quiet and calm the orc, who stood more upright and assumed a pensive posture. He even offered a nod of concession to Drizzt on that point, ending with a smile and an invitation: "I wear none now."

Obould held his arms out wide, and brought his greatsword flaming to life, inviting the drow to continue.

Drizzt straightened against the sting in his side, returned the nod, and leaped ahead.

Those watching the fight, drow and orc alike, did not cheer, hoot, or groan over the next few moments. They stood, one and all, transfixed by the sudden fury of the engagement, by the hum of swords, and the dives and leaps of the principals. Blade rang against blade too many times to be heard as distinguishable sounds. Blades missed a killing mark by so narrow a margin, again and again, that the onlookers continually gasped.

The confusion of the battle challenged Drizzt at every level. One moment, he felt as if he was fighting Artemis Entreri, so fluid, fast, and devious were Obould's movements. And the next moment, he was painfully reminded by a shocking wave of reverberating energy flowing up his arm that he might well be battling a mighty giant.

He let go of all his thoughts then, and fell into the Hunter, allowing his rage to rise within him, allowing for perfect focus and fury.

He knew in an instant that the creature he faced was no less intense.

* * * * *

Any traces of her charm spell was gone then, Kaer'lic knew, as Tsinka Shinriil, finding herself deceived by the drow's work on Obould's armor, leaped up beside Kaer'lic and began shrieking at her.

"You cannot defeat him! Even your treachery pales against the power of

Obould!" she screamed. "You chose to betray a god, and now you will learn the folly of your ways!"

Truly it seemed a moment of absolute glee for the idiot Tsinka, and that, Kaer'lic could not allow. The drow's hand shot up as she mouthed the last words of a spell, creating a sudden disturbance in the air, a crackling jolt of energy that sent Tsinka flying away and to the ground.

"Kill her," Kaer'lic instructed Tos'un, who moved immediately to see to the enjoyable task.

"Wait," Kaer'lic said. "Let her live a bit longer. Let her witness the death of her god."

"We should just be gone from this place," said Tos'un, clearly intimidated by the spectacle of King Obould, who was matching the skilled drow cut for cut.

Kaer'lic flashed her companion a warning look, then turned her focus back upon that high stone. Her eyes went wild and she began to chant to Lady Lolth, reaching within herself for every ounce of magical strength she could muster for her powerful spell. The very air seemed to gather about her as she moved through the incantation. Her hair bristled and waved, though there was no wind. She grasped at the air with her outstretched hand then brought it in close and reached with the other one. Then she repeated the movements again and again as if she was taking all of the energy around her and bringing it into her torso.

The ground began to tremble beneath them. Kaer'lic began a low growl that increased in tempo and volume, slowly at first, but then more forcefully and quickly as the drow priestess began to reach out toward Drizzt and Obould with both hands.

Thunder rolled all around them. The orcs began to cower, shout, or run away. And the ground began to shake, quick and darting movements at first that grew into great rolling waves of stone. Rock split and crumbled. A crevice appeared before Kaer'lic and charged out toward the unfazed combatants.

And the high rock split apart under the force of Kaer'lic's earthquake. And stones tumbled down in an avalanche. And Obould fell away, roaring in protest.

And Drizzt went right behind him.

CHAPTER 31 TO BE AN ELF

Her nose was no more than a misshapen lump of torn flesh, with blood and grime caked all around it and over her left eye. Kaer'lic's spell had broken most of the bones in Tsinka's face, the shaman knew, and Tsinka was glad indeed when she had awakened to find the two drow long gone. Everyone was long gone, it seemed, for the orcs had run away from that terrible earthquake.

For many minutes, Tsinka Shinriil sat and stared at the broken rock across the way, plumes of dust still hanging in the air from the weight of the avalanche. What had Kaer'lic done? Why had Lady Lolth gone against He-Who-Was-Gruumsh? It made no sense to the poor, broken shaman.

Moving against hope, Tsinka pulled herself to her feet and staggered toward the area of disaster. She followed the same path Obould had taken on his approach to the renegade drow. She could still see some of her god's footprints in the snow and dirt before her. Half-blinded by drying blood and streams of tears, Tsinka stumbled along, falling more than once, crying out to her god.

"How did you let this happen?"

She nearly tripped over a form half-buried in the snow and rubble, then recoiled and kicked out at it when she saw it was that ugly little dwarf. He grunted, so she kicked him again and moved along. She pulled herself up on the remains of the flat rock that had served as the battleground. The earthquake had split it in half, and the far half, where both Obould and Drizzt had been standing, had fallen away.

Tsinka wiped her arm across her face and forced herself to stagger forward. She fell to her knees and peered into the area of ruin, into the dust.

And there, only a dozen feet below her, she saw the form of a battered but very much alive dark elf.

"You!" she howled, and she spat at him.

Drizzt looked up at her. Filthy and bruised, bloody on one side and holding one arm in close, the drow had not escaped unharmed. But he had escaped, landing on a small ledge, perched on the very edge of oblivion.

"Where will you run now?" Tsinka shouted at him.

She glanced all around then scrambled to the side, returning a moment later with a rock in each hand. She pegged one down at him and missed, then took more careful aim with the second and whipped it off his upraised, blocking arm.

"Your flying horse is nowhere about, drow!" she shouted, and she hopped around in search of more ammo.

Again she pelted Drizzt with rocks, and there was nothing he could do but lift his arm to block and accept the stinging hits. He had no room to maneuver, and try as he may, he could not find any handholds that would propel him back up to the flat rock.

Every time she threw a stone, Tsinka scanned the skies. The pegasus wouldn't catch her by surprise, she vowed. The drow had played a role in destroying He-Who-Was-Gruumsh, and so the drow would have to die.

* * * * *

He was out of options. There was nothing Drizzt could do against the assault. He still had his scimitars and Ivan's crossbow, but the remaining darts he'd left on Sunrise, who was nowhere to be seen. Sitting on the tiny ledge, Drizzt had hoped that the pegasus would find him before the inevitable return of his enemies.

No such luck, and so all he could do was deflect the stinging stones with his upraised arms.

The orc shaman disappeared for a longer period of time, then, and Drizzt desperately looked around. No pegasus came into view—and in his rational thoughts, he knew that it would be some time before Sunrise would come back to the unstable, devastated area.

"At least Obould is gone," he whispered, and he glanced out over the ledge, where the shifting stones continued to rumble. "Bruenor will win the day."

Whatever hope that notion inspired disappeared in the realization of his mortality, as Drizzt looked back up to see the orc hoist a huge rock over her head in both hands. He glanced to the sides quickly, looking for some place he might leap.

But there was nothing.

The orc snarled at him and moved to throw.

And she lurched and went flying, both her and the rock tumbling out too far, past the surprised drow and down the broken mountainside. On the rock above, hanging over the edge, loomed a hairy and battered face.

"Well met, Drizzt Do'Urden," said Fender. "Think ye might be taking me home?"

* * * * *

"We will go to Gerti and determine what she is about," said Kaer'lic.

"The dwarf is gone and Tsinka is likely plotting our demise," Tos'un replied.

"If the pig-faced shaman even lives," Kaer'lic retorted. "I hope she does, that I might make her death even more unpleasant. Too much have I seen of these wretched and foul-smelling orcs. Too many tendays have we spent in their filthy company, listening to their foolish gibbering, and pretending that anything they might have to say would be of the least bit of interest to us. Gruumsh take Obould, and Lady Lolth take Drizzt, and may they both be tortured until eternity's end!"

So caught up was she in her ranting, that Kaer'lic didn't even notice Tos'un's eyes go so wide that they seemed as if they might just roll out of his face. So full of spit and anger was she that it took her some time to even realize that Tos'un wasn't looking at her, but rather past her.

Kaer'lic froze in place.

Tos'un squealed, turned, and ran away.

Kaer'lic realized she should just follow, without question, but before her mind could command her feet to run, a powerful hand grabbed her by the back of her hair and jerked her head back so violently and forcefully that she felt as if her entire body had been suddenly compacted.

"Do you recognize the foul smell?" Obould Many-Arrows whispered into her ear. He tugged harder with that one hand pulling her down and back, but not letting her fall. "Does my gibbering offend you now?"

Kaer'lic could hardly move, so forceful was that grasp. She saw Obould's greatsword sticking past her, off to the side. She felt his breath, hot against her neck, and stinking as only an orc's breath could. She had to tug back and stretch her jaw muscles so that they could even move against that incredible pull, and she tried futilely to form some words, any words.

"Casting a spell, witch?" Obould asked her. "Sorry, but that I cannot allow."

His face came forward suddenly, his jaw clamping on Kaer'lic's exposed throat. She reached up and grabbed at him and squirmed and thrashed desperately, with all her might.

Obould tore his face away, taking her throat with it. He yanked Kaer'lic back and put his bloody and battered face right before her, then spat her own flesh into her face.

"I am imbued with the blessing of Gruumsh," he said. "Did you truly believe that you could kill me?"

Kaer'lic gasped, her arms flailing wildly and uncontrollably, blood pouring from her torn throat, and bubbling from the air escaping her lungs.

Obould threw her to the ground and let her die slowly.

He scanned the region, and noted some movement on a distant ridge. It wasn't Tsinka, he knew, for he had seen her broken body on the stones as he climbed back up the mountainside.

He'd need to find a new shaman, a new consort who treated him as a god. He'd need to move quickly to reconsolidate his power, to cut short the rumors of his demise. The orcs would be fast to flee, he knew, and only he, imbued with the power of Gruumsh, could stop the retreat.

"Dark Arrows," he said with determination. "My home."

* * * * *

The weather broke, leaving the air fresh and clean, and with a warm south wind blowing. Bruenor and his friends would not stay inside, spending their days along the northern mountain spur, staring off into the north.

Pikel Bouldershoulder's bird scouts were the first to report a pair of winged horses, making all speed for Mithral Hall, and so it was not a surprise, but such a tremendous relief nonetheless, when the distinctive forms finally came into view.

Bruenor and Wulfgar moved a couple of paces out in front of the others, Regis, the Bouldershoulders, Cordio, Stumpet, and Pwent behind them, and Catti-brie in back, leaning heavily on a wooden cane and on the side of the tower.

Sunset set down on the stone before the dwarf king, Innovindil lifted her leg over before her and dropping quickly, turning as she went to support poor Fender through the move. Without that support, the dwarf would surely have tumbled off.

Wulfgar stepped forward and gently hoisted the dwarf from the pegasus, then handed him to Cordio and Stumpet, who hustled him away.

"Obould is gone," Innovindil reported. "The orcs will not hold, and all the northland will be free again."

As she finished, Sunrise landed on the stone.

"A sight for an old dwarf's sore eyes," Bruenor said.

Drizzt slipped down to the ground. He glanced at Bruenor, but his stare remained straight ahead, cutting through the ranks, which parted as surely as if he had shouldered his way through, leaving the line of sight open between the drow and Catti-brie.

"Welcome home," Regis said.

"We never doubted your return," offered Wulfgar.

Drizzt nodded at each, though he never stopped staring ahead. He patted Bruenor as he walked past. He tousled Regis's hair and he grabbed and squeezed Wulfgar's strong forearm.

But he never stopped moving and never stopped staring.

He hit Catti-brie with a great hug, pressing up against her, kissing her and crushing her, lifting her right from the ground.

And he kept walking, carrying her along.

"That is what it is to be an elf, Drizzt Do'Urden," Innovindil whispered as the two moved to, and through, Mithral Hall's new eastern door.

"Well I'll be a bearded gnome," said Bruenor.

"Hee hee hee," said Pikel, and Regis giggled, embarrassed.

They all were fairly amused, it seemed, but Bruenor's mirth disappeared when he glanced across at Wulfgar.

The big man stared at the path Drizzt and Catti-brie had taken, and there was a wince of profound pain to be found behind his mask of stoicism.