The Lone Drow th-2 Page 14

  Tos'un reluctantly nodded his agreement.

  "Obould was always formidable," Ad'non replied. "Even before this ceremony, I had little desire to wage battle with him openly. And surely none of us wishes to do battle with Gerti Orelsdottr. But did the shamans make the orc king brighter and more clever? I hardly think so!"

  "But they gave him, above all else, the confidence of a mandate and the supreme confidence of knowing that his god was with him on his endeavors," Kaer'lic pointed out. "Do not miss the significance of these two gains. Obould will be possessed of no insecurity now, of no inner doubts that we might exploit to our wishes. He walks with confidence, with strength, and with surety. He will look more carefully at our every word that contradicts his instincts, and even more carefully at our suggestions that run tangentially to his previously decided course. He is a stronger and swifter running current now, one that will be more difficult to deflect along our desired course."

  The doubting smirks became scowls, and quickly so.

  "But I believe that we have already set the river's course in proper flow," Kaer'lic went on. "We need not manipulate Obould any longer, for he is determined to execute the very war we desired—and now he seems more able to do it."

  "We become detached and amused onlookers?" Tos'un asked.

  Kaer'lic shrugged and replied, "Not such a bad fate."

  Across the way, Donnia and Ad'non exchanged doubting glances, and Ad'non shook his head.

  "There is still the matter of Gerti," he reasoned. "And this ceremony for Obould will likely put the giantess even more on her guard. Seeing the growth of Obould might bring cohesion to the orc tribes, but it will likely instill grave doubts in Gerti. For all the power you believe the orc king has gained, he will need Gerti's giants to seal the dwarves back in their holes and ravage the countryside."

  "Then we must make certain that Gerti continues to follow Obould," said Tos'un.

  The other three turned somewhat sour looks upon him, silently berating him for his lack of understanding. He took their expressions with proper humility. He was the youngest of the group, after all, and by far the least experienced in such matters.

  "No, not follow," Donnia corrected. "We need to make her continue to travel the course beside him and to make sure that he still understands that he is walking beside her, and not leading her."

  The others nodded; it was a subtle distinction, but a very important one.

  * * *

  Ad'non and Donnia went out as soon as the sun had set, exiting the deep cave the group had taken as their temporary residence, not too far to the east of the ruins of Shallows. The two dark elves blinked repeatedly as they came to the surface, for though no moon was up, the relative light of the surface night remained at first uncomfortable.

  Donnia looked out to the east, beyond the steep slopes and cliffs, to see the Surbrin winding its way south, starlight sparkles dancing around the rushing waters. Beyond that lay the darkness of the Moonwood, Donnia knew, where more elves resided. As far as the four drow knew, only a couple had involved themselves in the affairs of Obould since the orc king, at the drow's bidding, had not yet crossed the Surbrin with any substantial numbers.

  "Perhaps they will come forth from their forest home," Ad'non said to Donnia, reading her mind and her desires.

  The male drow grinned wickedly and gave a low laugh.

  They both hoped that the elves would come forth in force, Donnia knew. Obould could handle a small clan, and how sweet it would be to see some faeries lying dead at orc feet. Or even better—dare she even hope? — to have faeries taken as prisoners and handed over to Donnia and her band for their pleasures.

  "Kaer'lic's continuing fear of Drizzt is disturbing," Ad'non remarked.

  "Tos'un names the rogue as formidable."

  "Indeed, and I do not doubt our Menzoberranyr friend at all in that regard," said Ad'non. "Still«/emphasis·"

  "Kaer'lic seems more fearful of everything lately," Donnia agreed. "She verily trembled when she spoke of Obould. A mere orc!"

  "Perhaps she has been away from our people for too long. Perhaps she needs to revisit the Underdark—back to Ched Nasad, possibly, or even Menzober-ranzan, if Tos'un can smooth our way in."

  "Where we would be homeless rogues until one matron mother or another saw fit to offer us shelter—in exchange for slavish fealty," Donnia said sourly, and Ad'non could only shrug at that distinct possibility.

  "Kaer'lic would not be pleased if she knew our intent this night," Donnia remarked a moment later.

  Again Ad'non shrugged and said, "I answer not to Kaer'lic Suun Wett."

  "Even if her reasoning is sound?"

  Ad'non paused and considered the words for a long while.

  "But we are not seeking Drizzt Do'Urden in any case," he said at length.

  It was true enough, if only technically so. The pair had made up their minds to investigate the troubles Obould's rear lines had been experiencing over the Past couple of tendays. Of course they knew that Drizzt Do'Urden was central to those troubles, but it was not he who had lured the two drow out of their deep holes—both because of Kaer'lic's reasoning and Tos'un's warnings, and because, as far as Donnia and Ad'non were concerned, there was better prey to hunt.

  A pair of surface elves, seen by Gerti's giants riding winged horses— wouldn't those mounts be fine trophies!

  Within the hour, the pair were at the scene of the last assault, near to the smaller river within the mountains. Orc bodies still littered the ground, for no one had bothered to bury them. Following the path of the massacre, the two soon had Drizzt's route of battle discerned, and the bodies of many orcs in a circle around one point showed them where the two surface elves had joined the fray.

  More than a score dead, and only three blades engaged, Donnia flashed with silent hand signals, taking care to hold her silence.

  Most felled by Drizzt, no doubt, before the other two even arrived, came Ad'non's answer.

  They tarried around the battleground for quite a while, trying to learn as much as they could, both from the pattern of the dead to the types of wounds, about the fighting styles of those engaged. More than once, Donnia flashed to Ad'non a signal revealing her admiration for the sword work, and more than once, Ad'non agreed. And, with the night almost half over, the pair went out from the immediate area, working about the perimeter and beyond for some sign of passage.

  To their surprise and delight, they found a trail easily enough and knew from the footprints and the bent blades of grass that it had been made by at least two of the three enemies.

  The surface elves, Ad'non flashed. I would have expected them to better cover their tracks.

  Unless they were not making the trail for the orcs, Donnia reasoned. Few orcs could follow these subtle signs, I expect, though to our trained eyes they seem obvious.

  To our trained eyes and to those of Drizzt Do'Urden, perhaps? asked Ad'non's fingers.

  Donnia grinned and bent low to study one particular stretch of brush. Yes, it made perfect sense to her. The trail seemed obvious to the keen eyes and tracking skills of the trained dark elves, but surely it was nothing that any orcs would find and follow. And yet, with her experiences concerning surface elves, Donnia knew that it was a clumsy passage, at best. The more she looked, the more Ad'non's subtle suggestion that the trail had been left on purpose for Drizzt rang true to her. The elves thought their enemies to be orcs, goblins, and giants, and thought that a dark elf was numbered among their allies. The orcs who had witnessed the massacre had indeed noted that the surface elves and the dark elf had parted ways immediately following the fighting; perhaps the surface elves wanted to make sure that Drizzt Do'Urden knew how to find them should he need them.

  Shall we go and find our pleasure? Ad'non's fingers waggled.

  Donnia brought her hands up before her, a movement of accentuation and exclamation, and tapped the outsides of her thumbs together.

  Indeed!

  * * *

  Tension h
ung thick in the air by the time Kaer'lic and Tos'un entered Obould's great tent. One glance at Gerti, the giantess sitting cross-legged (which still put her head near to the arched deerskin ceiling) between a pair of grim-faced guards, told the two drow that the meeting had not gone well to that point.

  "Nesmй has been overrun in the south," Gerti resumed as soon as the two newcomers took their places across from her and to Obould's right. "Proffit and his wretched trolls have made more progress than we and in a shorter time."

  "Their enemies were not nearly as formidable as ours," Obould countered. "They battled humans in open villages, while we try to dislodge dwarves from their deep holes."

  "Deep holes?" Gerti roared. "We have gotten nowhere near to Mithral Hall yet. All you and your worthless son have encountered are minor settlements and a small force of dwarves on open ground! And Urlgen has not even been able to push a minor force over the cliff face and back to Mithral Hall. This is not victory. It is standstill, and all the while, Proffit the wretch marches from the Trollmoors!"

  Proffit? Tos'un signed to Kaer'lic, spelling the unknown name phonetically.

  Leader of the trolls, Kaer'lic replied, an assumption, of course, for she really had little knowledge of what was happening in the southland.

  Kaer'lic turned her full attention back to the giantess and orc leader as she signed, though, and the expression on Obould's face rang out bells of alarm.

  "King Obould's son claims the head of Bruenor Battlehammer as a trophy," the drow female interjected, trying to diffuse the situation.

  Kaer'lic was only beginning to understand the depth of the change in the orc king, and it occurred to her that with his newfound confidence and prowess, Obould might not be above challenging Gerti or siccing his legions upon her and her minions.

  "I have not seen any Battlehammer head," Gerti sharply replied.

  "His fall was witnessed by many," Kaer'lic pressed. "As the tower fell."

  "My giants claim no small part in that kill."

  "True enough," Kaer'lic replied before Obould could explode—as he surely seemed about to do. "And so our victories to date at least equal those of this troll. . Proffit?"

  "Proffit," Obould confirmed. "Who has bound the trolls and bog blokes under his command. Who has led them from the Trollmoors in greater numbers than ever before."

  "He will squeeze Mithral Hall from the south?" Kaer'lic asked.

  Obould leaned forward and dropped his chin in his hand, mulling it over.

  "Better from the tunnels," Tos'un reasoned, and the eyes of the three leaders turned over him.

  "Let Proffit keep the pressure on the dwarves," the drow went on. "Let him and his minions keep them fighting in their tunnels after we seal them in Mithral Hall. We will raze the land and claim our boundaries and turn our attention to the beleaguered dwarves."

  Kaer'lic's face remained impassive, but she did flash a signal of gratitude to Tos'un for his clever thinking.

  "The fall of Nesmй and the presence of the trolls will more likely incite Sil-verymoon to action," Kaer'lic added. "That, we do not want. Let them go underground and do battle with Mithral Hall, as the son of Barrison Del'Armgo suggests. Perhaps then our greater enemies will think that Proffit and his wretched creatures have retreated back to the Trollmoors, where even Lady Alus-triel would not go in pursuit."

  Obould was nodding, slightly, but what caught Kaer'lic's attention most was the scowl stamped upon Gerti's face and the set of her blue eyes that never once left the specter of King Obould. There was more going on than the lack of recent progress in the march to Mithral Hall, Kaer'lic understood. First and foremost, Gerti was seething about the apparent transformation of Obould. Was it jealousy? Fear?

  For a moment, the notion terrified Kaer'lic. A rift between the giants and the orcs at such a critical juncture could allow the dwarves to regroup and wipe out their gains.

  It was but a fleeting thought, though, for it occurred to Kaer'lic that watching the giants and orcs turn against each other might be as fine a show as watching their combined forces rolling over the dwarves.

  "The suggestion intrigues me," Obould said to Tos'un. "We will speak more on this. I have sent word to Proffit to turn east to the Surbrin and north to Mithral Hall's eastern gate, where we will meet with him as we chase the dwarves into their hole."

  "We must go straight to the south and push the resistance from in front of your worthless son," Gerti demanded. "Urlgen's forces are being slaughtered, and while it pains me not at all to see orcs and goblins shredded, I fear that the losses are too great."

  A look of utter contempt came over Obould at those remarks, and Kaer'lic immediately began preparing a spell that would provide cover so that she and Tos'un could flee should the orc king launch himself at Gerti.

  But to his credit, Obould settled back, staring hard at the giantess.

  "My ranks have swelled threefold since the fall of Shallows," the orc king reminded her.

  "The dwarves are slaughtering your son's forces," Gerti replied.

  "And the dwarves are taking heavy losses in the process," said the orc king. "And they are growing weary, with few to replace them on the battle line, while fresh warriors join Urlgen's ranks every day. If more giants joined in the fray, the dwarf losses would increase even more."

  "I do not sacrifice my warriors."

  Obould began to chuckle and said, "Giants will die in this campaign, Dame Orelsdottr."

  The sheer power of his tone had Kaer'lic tilting her head to study his every movement. Clearly the ceremony had done something to Obould, had instilled in him the confidence to deal with Gerti in a manner even beyond that which the drow cleric had anticipated.

  "The choice remains yours to make," Obould went on. "If you fear losses, then retreat to the Spine of the World and the safety of Shining White. If you wish the rewards, then press on. The Battlehammers will be beaten back into their hole, and the Spine is ours. Once secured, we will flush the dwarves from that hole, and Mithral Hall will be renamed the Citadel of Many-Arrows."

  That bit of news brought surprise to everyone in the room who was not an orc. Since the day she had met Obould, Kaer'lic had seen in him a singular desire: to retrieve lost Citadel Felbarr. Had he abandoned that course in favor of the closer dwarven settlement of Mithral Hall?

  "And how will King Emerus Warcrown react to this?" Gerti said slyly, Picking up on the same discrepancy and not-so-subtly reminding Obould of that other goal.

  "We cannot cross the Surbrin," Obould countered without the slightest hesitation. "I'll not allow the greater powers of the North to ally against us—not now. Citadel Felbarr will send aid and warriors to Clan Battlehammer, of course, but when Mithral Hall is lost to them, with King Bruenor dead, the dwarves in the east will more likely welcome the refugees of Mithral Hall to their own deep holes. Then, once the adjoining tunnels are secured, our victory is complete and all the land from the mountains to the Surbrin, south to the Trollmoors, will be ours."

  A smaller bite, Tos'un signaled to Kaer'lic.

  A wiser course, Kaer'lic flashed back. Obould seeks more than vengeance and battle now. He seeks victory.

  The notion astonished Kaer'lic even as her delicate fingers communicated it to Tos'un. While quite worthy among his inferior kin, Obould had always seemed to Kaer'lic so much less refined than that. From the day she'd met him, the orc king had spoken almost exclusively of retaking Citadel Felbarr, which, with the reclamation of Mithral Hall and the solidification of the alliances between the dwarven triumvirate—Mithral Hall, Citadel Felbarr, and Citadel Adbar—seemed completely unattainable. Even in fostering this alliance and campaign, the four plotting dark elves had always assumed that Obould would reach for that goal, to abject disaster. Kaer'lic and her associates had never considered any real and lasting victory, but rather a simple state of resulting chaos from which they could find enjoyment and profit.

  Had the shaman Arganth's ceremony granted some sort of greater insight to the orc king
? Had the dwarves' blasphemy with the idol of Gruumsh brought the possibility of true and lasting victory to Obould and his swelling ranks of minions?

  Kaer'lic took care not to let those thought spiral out of control, reminding herself that they were but orcs, after all, whatever their numbers. All she had to do was look at the simmering hatred in Gerti's eyes to recognize that Obould's designs could splinter and shatter at any moment.

  "We seal the region under our domain at the onset of winter," Obould explained. "Put the dwarves in their hole and secure all the land above to the corner of the mountain range. We will fight through Mithral Hall's tunnels throughout the winter."

  "The dwarves will prove more formidable in their underground halls, Kaer'lic said.

  "But how long will they deign to remain there in battle?" Obould asked. "King Bruenor is dead, and they will have no trade unless they try to break out."

  It made a lot of sense, Kaer'lic had to admit to herself, and the thought was both optimistic and fear-inspiring. Perhaps Obould was making too much sense. Ever skeptical of the entire endeavor, the drow priestess could see both a higher potential climb and a higher potential fall.

  The worst part of it was her confirmation that King Obould had suddenly become much less malleable to the designs and deceptions of the dark elves.

  That could make him dangerous.

  Kaer'lic looked at Gerti and recognized that the giantess was thinking along pretty much the same lines.

  CHAPTER 11 UNSHACKLING

  In a rare moment of respite, the exhausted Wulfgar leaned back against a boulder and stared out over Keeper's Dale, his gaze drawn to the western gates of MithralHall.

  "Thinking of Bruenor," Catti-brie remarked when she joined him.

  "Aye," the big man whispered. He glanced over at the woman and nearly laughed at the sight, though it would have been a chuckle of sheer resignation and nothing out of true amusement. For Catti-brie was covered in blood, her blond hair matted to her head, her clothing stained, her boots soaked with the stuff. "Your sword cuts too deep, I fear," he said.