Archmage (4 page)

H
undreds of dwarven crossbows were leveled atop the fallen logs of what used to be Dark Arrow Keep. A monstrous band approached: a score of the ugly orcs, a handful of goblins, and a frost giant.

And a dark elf named Drizzt Do’Urden.

“Lorgru,” Sinnafein explained to the dwarf kings. “Lorgru, who would have become the next King Obould had not Warlord Hartusk usurped the throne.”

“The retreating orcs flocked to him in the mountains, so said Drizzt,” Catti-brie put in, and Sinnafein, whose scouts had told her the same thing, nodded her agreement.

“Lorgru ain’t for shieldin’ the dogs from me boys,” King Harnoth proclaimed. “If he’s looking to take up the fight, Adbar’ll finish it for him!”

“Aye, but I’d like his ugly head on a pike outside our western gate,” Oretheo Spikes added, and other nearby dwarves nodded at that.

King Emerus and Bruenor exchanged concerned glances. They had known this wasn’t going to be easy from the first reports that the orcs were congregating around the deposed Lorgru in the Spine of the World.

Bruenor moved up to the central barricade and climbed atop the log. “Put up yer bows, boys,” he called down the line after a cursory scan of the incoming forces. “No threat to be found. Durned elf’d kill ’em all afore ye let yer first bolt fly, if it came to fightin’.”

The dwarves around him relaxed somewhat, but grumbled, too, more than a little disappointed that the meeting would most likely go off as planned.

Bruenor turned and held his hand up high. Drizzt responded in kind, and walked his unicorn mount, Andahar, around in front of the leading orcs, halting their progress.

“Ye with me?” Bruenor asked, turning around. The other three dwarf kings, Catti-brie, and Sinnafein of the elves moved to join him. Aleina Brightlance, who had been given the title and role as Emissary of Silverymoon and Everlund, rode forth as well.

Out from the other ranks rode Drizzt upon Andahar, along with an orc upon a snarling worg, a goblin shuffling fast along behind them, and the frost giant pacing them with its long strides.

“Who will speak for the Alliance of Luruar?” Drizzt asked, purposefully and pointedly evoking the alliance that had crumbled with the march of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows.

All turned to Bruenor.

“King Bruenor,” said Emerus Warcrown. He turned a sly eye upon his opponents, particularly upon Lorgru. “Aye, that Bruenor,” he explained to the visibly startled orc. “The one what signed the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge with Obould the First them years and years ago.”

“I had thought King Bruenor long dead,” the orc leader replied.

“Well, ye thought wrong, I’m guessing,” Bruenor answered and stepped forward. “Is yerself speaking for them goblins and giants, too?”

“You are Bruenor?” Lorgru asked, incredulous, for surely the dwarf standing in front of him was very young.

“Don’t matter who I be,” the dwarf answered. “I’m speaking for ’em, and they’re agreeing, eh?” Behind him, the others all nodded.

That seemed to satisfy the orc, who nodded, though still wore a confused expression. “I speak for Many-Arrows,” he said.

“There ain’t no Many-Arrows,” King Harnoth said from behind, drawing winces from several of the others, Drizzt included.

“The orcs fleeing the field have returned to me,” Lorgru explained to Bruenor. “Never would I have sanctioned such a march against your people, or such a war. It is not the way of Obould!”

“And where’s yerself been this last year o’ fightin’?” Bruenor asked, suspicious.

“In the mountains, in exile,” Lorgru answered.

Drizzt looked at his red-bearded friend and nodded solemnly.

“My kingdom was stolen from me,” Lorgru continued, “by factions determined to return to the warlike ways of the orcs. I reject those ways! She”—he pointed to Sinnafein—“is alive and free by my choice, though I could have ordered her killed, legally, even by your own laws, for intruding upon my kingdom.”

All eyes went to Sinnafein.

“King Lorgru speaks truly,” Sinnafein confirmed. “He would have been within his rights to execute me, but he did not.”

“Are ye expectin’ cheers?” King Harnoth said with a growl, looking from Sinnafein to Lorgru.

“I expect nothing,” Lorgru replied. “I ask for a truce.”

“A truce? Now that we got yer dogs runnin’?” Harnoth argued. “A truce so that ye can put ’em all back together and come hunting dwarfs once more?”

“Bruenor speaks for us, King Harnoth,” Emerus Warcrown said, an edge of anger coming into his tone. Harnoth returned his angry stare, but Connerad Brawnanvil was quick to back up King Emerus, as was Aleina Brightlance.

“Bah, but I’m not needin’ ye,” Harnoth grumbled at length. “The boys o’ Adbar alone can finish the job.”

“Aye, but ye won’t,” Bruenor said in a tone that brooked no debate. The red-bearded dwarf spun on Lorgru. “A truce, ye’re wanting?”

The orc nodded.

“Ye want us to leave yerself and yer boys alone in the mountains, do ye?”

Another nod.

“Well ye hear me good, then, King Lorgru, or Obould, or whate’er name ye mean to put on yer ugly face. Yerself and yers ain’t welcome in the Silver Marches anymore. There’s no Kingdom of Many-Arrows, and any o’ yer boys that come out o’ the mountains south of this ruined keep’s north wall, or in the Lands Against The Wall, or anywhere else in the Silver Marches’ll be counted as raiders and treated as such. We’ll be watching ye, don’t ye doubt, and first fight’s last fight, for don’t ye doubt that we’ll be coming in to find ye.”

King Lorgru glanced around like a caged animal, a look that changed to unmistakably crestfallen, as if only then did he realize that the dreams of his ancestors were lost to him. There would be no resurrection of Dark Arrow Keep, no return to the relationships and treaties the orcs had known before the rise of Warlord Hartusk.

He wanted to argue, they could all see, and even started to rebut. But he bit back his argument and accepted Bruenor’s terms with a nod.

“Perhaps one day we will prove ourselves worthy of your trust,” he said.

“I trust an orc corpse,” said King Harnoth. “So there’s a start to an understanding.”

“Ye stay in yer holes,” Bruenor warned. “Ye stay clear o’ the Silver Marches. Or don’t ye doubt that we’ll hunt ye down, every one, and kill ye to death. Every one.”

King Lorgru nodded and held forth his hand, but Bruenor didn’t take it, and indeed, it seemed to all looking on that it took every ounce of control the fiery dwarf could manage to stop him from leaping out and murdering Lorgru then and there.

“What o’ yerself?” Bruenor demanded of the goblin.

The diminutive creature glanced around nervously. “We are done the war!” it shrieked, and cowered.

Bruenor’s gaze shifted to the frost giant, tall and proud, and clearly unbended by the weight of guilt or defeat.

“I am Hengredda of Starshine,” he said in his beautiful and resonant voice. He gave a little chuckle. “It seems that I am all that is left of Starshine.”

He shrugged, as if that was simply the accepted way of war, which to frost giants it surely was.

“I wish to go to Shining White and Jarl Fimmel Orelson,” the giant explained. “I wish to tell him that the war is ended.”

“And why would ye wish to do such a thing as that?” a skeptical Bruenor asked.

“So that Jarl Orelson ends his preparations to continue the war,” Hengredda said with surprising candor.

“Are ye sayin’ he’s meaning to come back with his boys?” Emerus Warcrown demanded.

The frost giant shrugged. “If there is war, Jarl Orelson will fight. If there is war no more, he will not.”

Bruenor turned back to regard the other dwarf kings before he responded, mostly seeking the approval of King Emerus, who was old and wise and had been through this many times before. When Emerus nodded, the red-bearded dwarf turned back to the frost giant.

“Ye go and tell Jarl Orelson what I telled Lorgru here,” Bruenor instructed. “He stays away and we’ll leave him—we’ll leave ye all—be. But if a dwarf o’ the Silver Marches falls to the blade of a frost giant, then tell your Jarl Orelson that we’ll be melting Shining White to a puddle, aye, and one red with giant blood, don’t ye doubt.”

“You boast loudly for such a little creature,” Hengredda remarked.

Drizzt, Catti-brie, and all the dwarves around gasped at that, expecting Bruenor to spring upon the giant and throttle him. King Harnoth even started forward threateningly, but Bruenor swung out an arm and held him back.

Bruenor just stood there and smiled, staring at Hengredda for a long, long while.

“Nothin’ worth sayin’ to the like o’ yerself,” said Bruenor. “I telled ye what was what, so do what ye want with it. But take yerself a good look at the field behind us, giant. At the big holes we’re filling with dead enemies. Ye might want to tell yer Jarl Orelson about that.”

The frost giant snorted derisively.

“And if yer sense of honor, or whatever stupid thing’s driving ye makes ye think ye’re wantin’ to fight me, then go and deliver the message to Shining White and come back,” Bruenor offered. “We’ll fight it out, me and yerself—just me and yerself. And when we’re done, me boys’ll dig a hole and put ye in it.”

“Brave words, dwarf,” the giant replied.

“Not just any dwarf,” King Emerus said, stepping forward. “King Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth King of Mithral Hall, Tenth King of Mithral Hall, who slew Hartusk. So go and run yer errands, boy, and ye come back and play. Ye’ll get the chance to kill a legend, or think ye’ll get the chance, because we’re knowin’, and yerself should be too, that Bruenor’ll cut ye down bit by bit and spit in yer eye afore he finishes ye.”

Through it all, Bruenor never blinked, never changed his expression, never seemed anything but calm.

Hengredda, though, did blink. “Aye, I will! I will come back and kill a legend!” he said, but no one, not even Lorgru and the goblin standing beside him, believed him.

“Ye don’t come back,” Bruenor warned Lorgru. “And ye don’t get too many o’ yer dogs all in one place, or we’ll find ye and break ye. Now get on. Go to yer holes and stay there.”

Lorgru, looking thoroughly defeated, nodded his agreement and led the others away.

“We’ll watch for the giant,” Connerad assured Bruenor.

“He won’t be back,” Bruenor told him. He noted then the scowl of King Harnoth, off to the side and standing beside Emerus, so he moved over to the pair, with Connerad in tow.

“Ah, but we erred in lettin’ that dog go,” Harnoth insisted. “He’s an orc king and they’ll swarm about him, and so we’re to be knowin’ war soon enough.”

“No,” said Sinnafein, off to the side, and she, too, moved over to join the impromptu meeting. “Lorgru is not like Hartusk or the other war chiefs. He is the son of Obould, and traces his bloodline to the first Obould. He believes in that vision.”

“Then he shouldn’t’ve let his dogs come huntin’,” was all that Bruenor would say.

“King Harnoth wants to push into the mountains to hunt down the orcs,” Catti-brie explained to Drizzt, the two off to the side and watching the small gathering. “Bruenor won’t let him, and Emerus and Connerad back Bruenor. Harnoth may still go. He is outraged about the death of his brother and will never rest easy knowing the orcs are so close.”

Drizzt spent a long while staring at her, measuring her tone and the tenseness within her strong frame. “You agree with Harnoth,” he said.

Catti-brie matched his stare but didn’t respond.

“Because of the goddess,” Drizzt reasoned. “You think it our . . .
your
duty to hunt down and kill the orcs, one and all.”

“We did not start this war.”

“But we ended it,” Drizzt replied. “Lorgru won’t come back.”

“What of his son?” Catti-brie asked. “Or his grandson? Or the next warlord who usurps the throne with visions of glory in his eyes?”

“Do you mean to kill every orc in all the world?”

Catti-brie just stared at him again, and Drizzt knew then that he and his wife would spend many hours on this topic in the coming days and months. Many unpleasant hours.

Drizzt turned back to the dwarves and nodded at Bruenor. “Do you think he’s told them yet?”

Even as he asked the question, King Harnoth cried out in dismay.

“He has now,” Catti-brie dryly replied.

Bruenor had confided his plans to the couple. He was going west with as many soldiers as the three dwarven citadels of the Silver Marches would afford him. Bruenor meant to reclaim Gauntlgrym from the drow and any other inhabitants who might have made the place a home.

Across the way, Harnoth had become quite animated, waving his arms and stomping in circles. Drizzt and Catti-brie went over to lend support to their dwarf friend.

“Why don’t ye just empty all the durned citadels and let the durned orcs come walking in?” Harnoth roared.

“Never said I’d empty any,” Bruenor calmly replied.

“Four thousand, he said,” King Emerus added solemnly, his demeanor cutting at Harnoth as much as his words. “We’ve twice that number and half again right here on the field. And we’ve all left worthy garrisons back behind us.”

“Four thousand!” said Harnoth. “That orc swine ye just sent walking’s got ten times that number!
Twenty
times that number!”

“And you’ve got Silverymoon and Everlund,” Aleina Brightlance remarked, all the dwarves turning to regard her with surprise—and in the case of all but fiery Harnoth, with gratitude.

“We’ll not be abandoning you,” Aleina vowed. “And we will rebuild Sundabar, do not doubt. The alliance will be stronger than ever, if the three dwarven citadels and the Moonwood elves so desire it.”

“Aye,” Bruenor, Emerus, and Connerad all said together, while Sinnafein nodded.

“My people will serve as your eyes in the north,” Sinnafein added. “If the orcs begin to stir, we will know, and you will know, and any march they might make will be hampered by the sting of elven arrows, do not doubt.”

“The dogs almost won this time,” King Harnoth warned. “And now we’d be down four thousand dwarves, and with Sundabar a shell o’ what she was, and with so many others dead—all o’ Nesmé dead! Who’ll stop ’em this time if they come calling?”