The Lone Drow th-2 Page 39

Shoudra brought forth her magical power and struck him head-on with a lightning bolt, one that lifted him from his feet and threw him back into the throng. Figuring him dead, the sceptrana turned her attention back to the throng pressing the dwarves, and she ignited another fireball just forward of the dwar-ven line, so close that even the dwarves felt the rush of heat.

  Again, flaming orcs scrambled and fell burning to the ground, but through that opening came a familiar figure, that great orc carrying a huge greatsword.

  Shoudra's eyes widened when she saw him, for no orc could so readily accept the hit of one of her lightning blasts!

  But it was the same orc, she knew, and he came on with fury, plowing over any orcs who could not scramble out of his way, reaching the wall and dwar-ven line in a rush, his sword slashing across, scattering the dwarves. He dropped his shoulder and plowed on, driving right through the hastily built rock wall, knocking heavy stones aside with ease.

  Dwarves went at him, and dwarves went flying away, slashed by the sword, swatted with his free arm, even kicked high into the air.

  And all the while, Shoudra suddenly realized, he was looking directly at her.

  On came the mighty orc, and Nanfoodle gave a shriek. Shoudra heard the gnome quickly casting, but she knew instinctively that he would not divert that beast. She brought her hands up before her, thumbs touching tip to tip.

  "Be gone, little demon," she said, and a wide arc of orange flames erupted from her fingers.

  The sceptrana turned, using the distraction to get out of the way, but then she got punched—or thought it was a punch. She tried to move, but her feet skidded on the stone, and she was strangely held in place. She looked back, and she understood, for it was no punch that had hit her, but the thrust of a great-sword. Shoudra looked down to see less than half of that blade remaining before her chest; she knew that it had gone right through her.

  Still with only the one mighty hand holding the sword, the orc lifted Shoudra Stargleam up into the air.

  She heard Nanfoodle shriek, but it was somehow very far away.

  She heard the dwarves cry out and saw them scrambling, in fear, it seemed.

  She saw a sudden flash of silver and felt the jerk as the great orc staggered backward.

  * * *

  Her legs looped within the coils of the drop rope, Catti-brie hung upside down, reloading her bow, letting fly another shot at the monstrous beast who held Shoudra aloft. Her first arrow had struck home, right in the thing's chest, and had knocked the orc backward a single step.

  But it had not penetrated.

  "Get him away!" Catti-brie yelled to Wulfgar.

  The barbarian had leaped to the ground and was even then bearing down on the orc. He cried out to Tempus and brought his hammer to bear—brought his whole body to bear—throwing himself at the orc, trying to knock it aside.

  Suddenly Wulfgar was flying backward, blocked, stopped and thrown back by a swipe of the great ore's arm. The great barbarian, who had taken hits offered by giants, staggered back and stumbled to the ground.

  The orc lifted his arm higher, presented the squirming Shoudra up into the air, and roared. The sword came to fiery life, and Shoudra howled all the louder. The mighty orc jerked his arm side to side.

  Shoudra Stargleam fell apart.

  Catti-brie hit the beast with another arrow, and a third, but by that last shot, he wasn't even staggering backward from the blows anymore. He turned and started toward Wulfgar.

  The spinning Aegis-fang hit him hard. The orc stumbled back a few steps, and almost fell to the ground.

  Almost.

  On came the beast, charging Wulfgar with abandon.

  The barbarian recalled Aegis-fang to his hand and met that charge with another cry to his god, and a great swipe of his mighty hammer. Sword against hammer they battled, two titans standing tall above the onlookers.

  Down came Aegis-fang, smashing hard against the ore's shoulder, sending him skidding to the side. Across came the flaming greatsword, and Wulfgar had to throw his hips back, barely getting out of reach.

  The orc followed that wide slash by leaping forward even as Wulfgar came forward behind the blade, and the two collided hard, muscle against muscle.

  A heavy punch sent Wulfgar flying away, had him staggering on the stones, barely able to keep his feet.

  The orc pursued, sword in both hands, leaping in for the killing blow that the barbarian couldn't begin to block,

  An arrow hit the orc in the face, spraying sparks across the glassteel, but he came on anyway and cleaved at the barbarian.

  At least, the orc thought it was the barbarian, for where force and fire had failed, Nanfoodle had succeeded, misdirecting the blow with an illusionary Wulfgar, to the swift demise of a second orc who happened to be standing too close to King Obould's rage.

  Catti-brie leaped down to the stone, caught up Wulfgar under one arm, and shoved him away.

  The orc moved to catch them—or tried to, for suddenly the stone around his feet turned to mud, right up to his ankles, then turned back to stone.

  "Bad orc!" cried a green-bearded dwarf, and he poked the fingers of his one hand in Obould's direction.

  The furious orc king roared and squirmed, then reached down and punched the stone. Then, with strength beyond belief, he tore one foot free.

  "Oooo," said the green-bearded dwarf.

  Down came more help then, in the form of the Gutbusters, falling all around the pair, leaping into battle. Any who got near to the great orc, though, fell fast and fell hard.

  Down came Torgar and Tred, Shingles and Ivan, and the wounded Banak, sweeping up Catti-brie and Wulfgar, the stunned and crying Nanfoodle, and all the others in their wake as they ran flat out across Keeper's Dale, angling for the doors of Mithral Hall.

  Only then did Catti-brie notice the pillar of strength that stood supporting the routed dwarves in the wider battle, the indomitable power of her own father, legs planted firmly upon a tall stone, axe sweeping orcs away, dwarves rallying all around him.

  "Bruenor," she mouthed, unable to even comprehend how it could be, how her father could have arisen once more.

  * * *

  Out toward the center of the dale, Bruenor marked well the run of Banak's retreat and of his own son and daughter—and glad he was to see them alive.

  His forces had held strong, somehow, against the overwhelming odds, had stemmed the undeniable tide.

  At great cost, the dwarf king knew, and he knew, too, that that orc sea would not be denied—especially since the giants were fast approaching, bolstering the orc lines.

  From up on his rock, the dwarf king called for a retreat, told his boys to turn and run for the doors. But Bruenor didn't move, not an inch, until the others had all broken ranks.

  His axe led the way as he chased after them. He felt the spears and swords reaching out for him, but there were no openings within the fury that was Bruenor Battlehammer. He spun and he dodged. He fled for the doors and stopped suddenly, reversing his course and chopping down the closest orc, and sending those others nearby into a terrified retreat.

  He ushered all behind him as the doors drew near, refusing to break and flee until all were within. He fought with the strength of ten dwarves and the heart of a thousand, his many notched axe earning more marks that day than in many years previous. He piled orc bodies around him and painted all the ground a bloody red.

  And it was time to go, he knew, and those holding the door called out to him. A swipe of his axe drove back the orc wall before him, and Bruenor turned and sprinted.

  Or started to, for there behind him stood an orc, spear coming forward at an angle that Bruenor could not hope to fend. Seeing his doom, the dwarf king gave a howl of denial.

  The orc lurched over backward and a spike drove out through its chest. A helmet spike, Bruenor realized as Thibbledorf Pwent stood straight behind his attacker, lifting the orc up in the air atop his head.

  Before Bruenor could utter a word, Pwent grabbed him by t
he beard and yanked him into a stumbling charge that brought him into the hall.

  And so Thibbledorf Pwent was the last to enter the dwarven stronghold that fateful day, the great doors booming closed behind him, the dead orc still flopping about atop his helmet, impaled by the long spike.

  CHAPTER 31 THROUGH THE BODIES

  It hadn't been the victory he had hoped to achieve, for most of Clan Battle-hammer's dwarves, even those from atop the cliff, had gotten back into the safety of Mithral Hall. Worse still for King Obould, there could be little doubt of the identity of the dwarf leader who had emerged to bolster the retreat. It had been King Bruenor, thought dead and buried in the rubble of Shallows.

  The Battlehammer dwarves had chanted his name when he'd charged from the hall, and the sudden increased ferocity and stubbornness of their defense upon the red-bearded dwarf's arrival left little real doubt for Obould about the authenticity of their leader.

  The orc king made a mental note to speak with his son about that curious turn of events.

  Despite the unexpected arrival, despite the dwarves' success in retreating from the cliffs, Obould took satisfaction in knowing that the dwarves could not claim a victory there. They had been pushed into their hall, with little chance of getting out anytime soon—even then, Gerti's giants were hard at work sealing the hall's western doors. The orc losses in Keeper's Dale had been considerable, but there was no shortage of dwarf dead lying among that carnage.

  "It was Bruenor!" came the predictable cry of Gerti Orelsdottr, and the giantess stormed up to the orc king. "Bruenor himself! The King of Mithral Hall! You claimed he was dead!"

  "As I was told by my son, and your own giants," Obould calmly and quietly reminded her.

  "The death of Bruenor was the rallying cry, dog!"

  "Lower your voice," Obould told the giantess. "We have won here. This is not the moment to voice our fears."

  Gerti narrowed her eyes and issued a low growl.

  "You did not lose a single giant," Obould reminded her, and that seemed to take the wind out of Gerti's bluster. "The Battlehammer dwarves are in their hole, their numbers depleted, and you did not lose a single giant."

  Still staring hard at the orc king and still snarling, she walked off.

  Obould's gaze went up the cliff face, and he thought of the tremendous explosion that had heralded the beginning of the battle and the shower of debris that had followed. He hoped that his claim to Gerti was correct. He hoped that the fight atop the cliff had been a success.

  If not, Obould decided, he would murder his son.

  * * *

  Her face wet with sweat and tears, blood and mud, Catti-brie fell to her knees before her father and wrapped him in a tight hug.

  Bruenor, his face scarred and bloody, with part of his beard ripped away and one eye swollen and closed, lifted one arm (for the other hung limply at his side) and returned the hug.

  "How's it possible?" Banak Brawnanvil asked.

  He stood with many others in the entry hall, staring incredulously at their king, returned from death itself, it seemed.

  "'Twas Steward Regis who found the answer," said Stumpet Rakingclaw.

  "Was him who showed us the way," agreed Cordio Muffinhead.

  He walked over and slapped Regis so hard on the shoulder that the halfling stumbled and nearly dropped from his feet.

  All eyes, particularly those of Wulfgar and Catti-brie, fell over Regis, who seemed uncharacteristically embarrassed by all the attention.

  "Cordio woke him," he offered sheepishly.

  "Bah! Was yer own work with yer ruby," Cordio explained. "Regis called to Bruenor through the gem. 'No real king'd lie there and let his people fight without him, he said."

  "You said the same thing to me some days ago," said Regis.

  But Cordio just laughed, slapped him again, and continued, "So he went into that body and found the spark o' Bruenor, the one piece left o' the king keeping his body breathing. And Regis telled him what was going on. And when me and Stumpet went back to our healing spells, Bruenor's spirit was back to catch 'em. His spirit heard our call as sure as his body was taking the physical healing. Come straight from Moradin's side, I'm guessing!"

  Everyone turned to regard Bruenor, who just shrugged and shook his head. Cordio became suddenly solemn, and he moved up before the dwarf king.

  "And so ye returned to us when we were in need," the cleric said quietly. "We pulled ye back for our own needs, and true to yer line, ye answered them. No dwarf can deny yer sacrifice, me king, and no dwarf could ever ask more o' ye. We're in now, and the halls're closed to our enemies. Ye've done yer duty to kin and clan."

  All around began to murmur and to look on more closely. They quieted almost immediately, many holding their breath, as Cordio's intent became clearer.

  "Ye've come to us, returned from Moradin's own halls," the cleric said to Bruenor, and he brought his hands up before the dwarf king to offer a blessing. "We can'no compel ye to stay. Ye've done yer duty, and so ye've earned yer rest."

  Eyes went wide all around. Wulfgar had to grab Catti-brie, who seemed as if she would just fall over. In truth, the barbarian needed the support every bit as much as she.

  For it seemed like Cordio's words were affecting Bruenor greatly. His eyes were half-closed, and he leaned forward, shoulders slumped.

  "Ye need feel no more pain, me king," Cordio went on, his voice breaking.

  He reached up to support Bruenor's shoulder, for indeed it seemed as if the dwarf would tumble face down.

  "Moradin's welcomed ye. Ye can go home."

  The gasp came from Regis, the sobs from everywhere around.

  Bruenor closed his eyes.

  Then Bruenor opened his eyes, and wide! And he stood straight and fixed the priest with the most incredulous look any dwarf ever offered.

  "Ye dolt!" he bellowed. "I got me home surrounded by stinkin' orcs and giants, and ye're telling me to lie down and die?"

  "B-but. . but…" Cordio stammered.

  "Bah!" Bruenor snorted. "No more o' the stupid talk. We got work to do!"

  For a moment, no one moved or said anything, or even breathed. Then such a cheer went up in Mithral Hall as had not been known since the defeat of the drow those years before. They had been chased in, yes, and could hardly claim victory, but Bruenor was with them again, and he was fighting mad.

  "All cheers for Bruenor!" one dwarf cried, and the throng erupted. "Hero of the day!"

  "Who fought no more than the rest of ye," Bruenor shouted them down. "Was one of us alone who found the way to call me home."

  And his gaze led those of all the others to a particular halfling.

  "Then Steward Regis is the hero of the day!" one dwarf cried from the back of the hall.

  "One of many," Wulfgar was quick to reply. "Nanfoodle the gnome facilitated our retreat from above."

  "And Pikel!" Ivan Bouldershoulder put in.

  "And Pwent and his boys," said Banak. "And without Pwent, King Bruenor'd be dead on our doorstep!"

  The cheers went up with each proclamation.

  Bruenor heard them keenly and let them continue, but he did not join in any longer. He still wasn't quite sure of what had happened to him. He recalled a feeling of bliss, a sense of complete peace, a place he never wanted to leave. But then he had heard a cry of help from afar, from a familiar halfling, and he walked a dark path, back to the realm of the living.

  Just in time to jump into the fight with both feet. It would take some time to sort through the fog of the battle and measure their success or failure, Bruenor knew, but one thing was certain at that moment: Clan Battlehammer had been pushed back into Mithral Hall. Whatever the count of the dead, orc and dwarf, it had not been a victory.

  Bruenor knew that he and his kin had a lot of work to do.

  * * *

  In the corridor running off the main entry chamber, Nanfoodle sat against the wall and wept.

  Wulfgar found him there, among the many wounded and the many
dwarves attending to them.

  "You did well today," the barbarian said, crouching down beside the gnome.

  Nanfoodle looked up at him, his face streaked with tears, and with more still rolling down his cheeks.

  "Shoudra," he whispered and he shook his head.

  Wulfgar had no answer to that simple remark and the horrific images it conjured, and so he patted the gnome on the head and rose. He brought a hand up tenderly to his ribs, wondering how bad he had been hurt by that tremendous blow the mighty orc had delivered.

  But then all thoughts of pain washed away from the barbarian as he spotted a familiar figure rushing down the corridor toward him.

  Delly ran up and wrapped her husband in a tight hug, and as soon as they were joined, all strength seemed to leave the woman, and she just melted into Wulfgar's strong chest, her shoulders bobbing with sobs.

  Wulfgar held her tight.

  From the entrance to the corridor, Catti-brie witnessed the scene and smiled and nodded.

  * * *

  In Keeper's Dale, Obould had lost orcs at somewhere around a four-to-one pace to the dying dwarves, an acceptable ratio indeed against a dug-in and battle-hardened defender. No one could question the cost of that victory, given the gains they had achieved.

  Up there, though, without even getting any real body counts, Obould understood that the dwarves had slaughtered Urlgen's orcs at a far higher ratio, perhaps as sorely as twenty-to-one.

  The ridge was gone, and all but one of the giants who had been up there were dead, and that one, who had been thrown several hundred feet by the monstrous explosion, would likely soon join his deceased companions.

  Obould wanted nothing more than to call his son out for that disaster and to slaughter the fool openly before the entire army, to lay all the blame at Urlgen's deserving feet.

  "Go and find my son!" he commanded all of those around him, and his crooked teeth seemed locked together as he spat the words. "Bring Urlgen to me!"

  He stormed around, looking for any sign of his son, kicking dead bodies with nearly every stride. Only a few moments later, an orc ran up and nervously bowed over and over again, and explained to the great orc that his son had been found among the dead. Obould grabbed the messenger by the throat and with just that one strong hand, lifted him into the air.