The Crystal Shard (9 page)

But Drizzt was as nimble as a cat. He landed in a roll and came up to meet Heafstaag's charge with one of his scimitars firmly set. His axe helplessly poised above his head, the surprised barbarian couldn't stop his momentum before he impaled his belly on the wicked point. Still, he glared at the drow and began to swing his axe. Already convinced of the superhuman strength of the barbarian, Drizzt had kept up his guard this time. He knifed his second blade just under the first, opening the lower part of Heafstaag's abdomen from hip to hip.

Heafstaag's axe fell harmlessly to the ground as he grabbed at the wound, desperately trying to keep his belly from spilling out. His huge head lolled from side to side, the world spun about him, and he felt himself endlessly falling.

Several other tribesmen, in full flight and with dwarves hot on their heels, came by at that moment and caught their king before he hit the ground. So great was their dedication to Heafstaag that two of them lifted him and carried him away while the others turned to face the coming tide of dwarves, knowing that they would certainly be cut down, but hoping only to give their comrades enough time to bear their king to safety.

Drizzt rolled away from the barbarians and leaped to his feet, meaning to give chase to the two who bore Heafstaag. He had a sickening feeling that the terrible king would survive even the last grievous wounds, and he was determined to finish the job. But when he rose, he, too, found the world spinning. The side of his cloak was stained with his own blood, and he suddenly found it difficult to catch his breath. The blazing midday sun burned into his night eyes, and he was lathered in sweat.

Drizzt collapsed into darkness.

*****

The three armies waiting behind Bryn Shander's wall had quickly dispatched the first line of invaders and then driven the remaining barbarian host halfway back down the hill.

Undaunted and thinking that time would play in their favor, the ferocious horde had regrouped around Beorg and begun a steady, cautious march back toward the city.

When the barbarians heard the charge coming up the eastern slope, they assumed that Heafstaag had finished his battle on the side of the hill, had learned of the resistance at the front gate, and was returning to help them smash into the city. Then Beorg spotted tribesmen fleeing to the north toward Icewind Pass, the stretch of ground opposite Bremen's Run that passed between Lac Dinneshere and the western side of Kelvin's Cairn. The king of the Tribe of the Wolf knew that his people were in trouble. Offering no explanation beyond the promised thrust of the tip of his spear to any who questioned his orders, Beorg started to turn his men around to head away from the city, hoping to regroup with Haalfdane and the Tribe of the Bear and salvage as many of his people as he could.

Before he had even completed the reversal of the march, he found Kemp and the four armies of Maer Dualdon behind him, their deep ranks barely thinned by the slaughter in Termalaine. Over the wall came the armies of Bryn Shander, Caer-Konig, and Caer-Dineval, and around the hill came Bruenor, leading the dwarven clan and the last three armies of Tin-Towns.

Beorg ordered his men into a tight circle. "Tempos is watching!" he yelled at them. "Make him proud of his people!"

Nearly eight hundred barbarians remained, and they fought with the confidence of the blessing of their god. They held their formation for almost an hour, singing and dying, before the lines broke down and chaos erupted.

Less than fifty escaped with their lives.

*****

After the final blows had at last been swung, the exhausted warriors of Ten-Towns set about the grim task of sorting out their losses. More than five hundred of their companions had been killed and two hundred more would eventually die of their wounds, yet the toll wasn't heavy considering the two thousand barbarians who lay dead in the streets of Termalaine and on the slopes of Bryn Shander.

Many heroes had been made that day, and Bruenor, though anxious to get back to the eastern battlefields to search for missing companions, paused for a long moment as the last of them was carried in glory up the hill to Bryn Shander.

"Rumblebelly?" exclaimed the dwarf.

"The name is Regis," the halfling retorted from his high perch, proudly folding his arms across his chest.

"Respect, good dwarf," said one of the men carrying Regis. "In single combat Spokesman Regis of Lonelywood slew the traitor that brought the horde upon us, though he was wickedly injured in the battle!"

Bruenor snorted in amusement as the procession passed. "There's more to that tale than what's been told, I'll wager!" he chuckled to his equally amused companions. "Or I'm a bearded gnome!"

*****

Kemp of Targos and one of his lieutenants were the first to come upon the fallen form of Drizzt Do'Urden. Kemp prodded the dark elf with the toe of his blood-stained boot, drawing a semiconscious groan in response.

"He lives," Kemp said to his lieutenant with an amused smile. "A pity." He kicked the injured drow again, this time with more enthusiasm. The other man laughed in approval and lifted his own foot to join in the fun.

Suddenly, a mailed fist slammed into Kemp's kidney with enough force to carry the spokesman over Drizzt and send him bouncing down the long decline of the hill. His lieutenant whirled around, conveniently ducking low to receive Bruenor's second swing square in the face.

"One for yerself, too!" the enraged dwarf growled as he felt the man's nose shatter under his blow.

Cassius of Bryn Shander, viewing the incident from higher up on the hill, screamed in anger and rushed down the slope toward Bruenor. "You should be taught some diplomacy!" he scolded.

"Stand where y' are, son of a swamp pig!" was Bruenor's threatening response. "Ye owe the drow yer stinkin' lives and homes," he roared to all around who could hear him, "and ye treat him as vermin!"

"Ware your words, dwarf!" retorted Cassius, tentatively grabbing at his sword hilt. The dwarves formed a line around their leader, and Cassius's men gathered around him.

Then a third voice sounded clearly. "Ware your own, Cassius," warned Agorwal of Termalaine. "I would have done the same thing to Kemp if I was possessed of the courage of the dwarf!" He pointed to the north. "The sky is clear," he yelled. "Yet were it not for the drow, it would be filled with the smoke of burning Termalaine!" The spokesman from Termalaine and his companions moved over to join Bruenor's line. Two of the men gently lifted Drizzt from the ground.

"Fear not for your friend, valiant dwarf," said Agorwal. "He will be well tended in my city.

Never again shall I, or my fellow men of Termalaine, prejudge him by the color of his skin and the reputation of his kin!"

Cassius was outraged. "Remove your soldiers from the grounds of Bryn Shander!" he screamed at Agorwal, but it was an empty threat, for the men of Termalaine were already departing.

Satisfied that the drow was in safe hands, Bruenor and his clan moved on to search the rest of the battleground.

"I'll not forget this!" Kemp yelled at him from far down the hill.

Bruenor spat at the spokesman from Targos and continued on unshaken.

And so it went that the alliance of the people of Ten-Towns lasted only as long as their common enemy.

Epilogue

All along the hill, the fishermen of Ten-Towns moved among their fallen enemies, looting the barbarians of what small wealth they possessed and putting the sword to the unfortunate ones who were not quite dead.

Yet amid the carnage of the bloody scene, a finger of mercy was to be found. A man from Good Mead rolled the limp form of an unconscious young barbarian over onto its back, preparing to finish the job with his dagger. Bruenor came upon them then and, recognizing the youth as the standard bearer who had dented his helmet, stayed the fisherman's thrust.

"Don't kill 'im. He's nothing but a boy, and he can't have known truly what he an' his people did."

"Bah," huffed the fisherman. "What mercy would these dogs have shown to our children, I ask you? He's half in the grave anyway."

"Still I ask ye to let him be!" Bruenor growled, his axe bouncing impatiently against his shoulder. "In fact, I insist!"

The fisherman returned the dwarf's scowl, but he had witnessed Bruenor's proficiency in battle and thought the better of pushing him too far. With a disgusted sigh, he headed off around the hill to find less protected victims.

The boy stirred on the grass and moaned.

"So ye've a bit of life left in ye yet," said Bruenor. He knelt beside the lad's head and lifted it by the hair to meet his eyes. "Hear me well, boy. I saved yer life here – why, I'm not quite knowin' – but don't ye think ye've been pardoned by the people of Ten-Towns. I want ye to see the misery yer people have brung. Maybe killing is in yer blood, and if it is, then let the fisherman's blade end ye here and now! But I'm feelin' there's more to ye, and ye'll have the tine to show me right.

"Ye're to serve me and me people in our mines for five years and a day to prove yourself worthy of life and freedom."

Bruenor saw that the youth had slumped back into unconsciousness. "Never mind," he muttered. "Ye'll hear me well before all's done, be sure o' that!" He moved to drop the head back to the grass, but laid it down gently instead.

Onlookers to the spectacle of the gruff dwarf showing kindness to the barbarian youth were indeed startled, but none could guess the implications of what they had witnessed. Bruenor himself, for all of his assumptions of this barbarian's character, could not have foreseen that this boy, Wulfgar, would grow into the man who would reshape this harsh region of the tundra.

*****

Far to the south, in a wide pass among the towering peaks of the Spine of the World, Akar Kessell languished in the soft life that Crenshinibon had provided for him. His goblin slaves had captured yet another female from a merchant caravan for him to play with, but now something else had caught his eye. Smoke, rising into the empty sky from the direction of Ten-Towns.

"Barbarians," Kessell guessed. He had heard rumors that the tribes were gathering when he and the wizards from Luskan had been visiting Easthaven. But it didn't matter to him, and why should it? He had all that he needed right here in Cryshal-Tirith and had no desire to travel anywhere else.

No desires that were wrought of his own will.

Crenshinibon was a relic that was truly alive in its magic. And part of its life was the desire to conquer and command. The crystal shard was not content with an existence in a desolate mountain range, where the only servants were lowly goblins. It wanted more. It wanted power.

Kessell's own subconscious recollections of Ten-Towns when he had spotted the column of smoke had stirred the relic's hunger, so it now used the same empathetic power of suggestion on Kessell.

A sudden image grasped at the wizard's deepest needs. He saw himself seated on a throne in Bryn Shander, immeasurably wealthy and respected by all in his court. He imagined the response from the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan when the mages there, especially Eldulac and Dendybar, learned of Akar Kessell, Lord of Ten-Towns and Ruler of all Icewind Dale! Would they offer him a robe in their puny order then?

Despite Kessell's true enjoyment of the leisurely existence he had found, the thought appealed to him. He let his mind continue through the fantasy, exploring the paths that he might take to accomplish such an ambitious goal.

He ruled out trying to dominate the fisherfolk as he had dominated this goblin tribe, for even the least intelligent of the goblins had held out against his imposing will for quite a long time. And when any of these had gotten away from the immediate area of the tower, they regained their ability to determine their own actions and had fled into the mountains.

No, simple domination would not work against the humans.

Kessell pondered using the power that he felt pulsing within the structure of Cryshal-Tirith, destructive forces beyond anything he had ever heard of, even in the Hosttower. This would help, but it wouldn't be enough. Even the strength of Crenshinibon was limited, requiring lengths of time under the sun to gather new power to replace expended energy. Furthermore, in Ten-Towns there were too many people too widely scattered to be corralled by a single sphere of influence, and Kessell didn't want to destroy them all. Goblins were convenient, but the wizard longed to have humans bowing before him, real men like the ones who had persecuted him for all of his life.

For all of his life before he had gained the shard.

His ponderings eventually led him inevitably down the same line of reasoning. He would need an army.

He considered the goblins he presently commanded. Fanatically devoted to his every wish, they would (in fact, severalhad) gladly die for him. Yet even they weren't nearly numerous enough to engulf the wide region of the three lakes with any semblance of strength.

And then an evil thought, again covertly insinuated into his will by the crystal shard, came upon the wizard. "How many holes and caves," Kessell cried aloud, "are there in this vast and rugged mountain range? And how many goblins, ogres, even trolls and giants, do they harbor?" The beginnings of a devious vision took shape in his mind. He saw himself at the head of a huge goblin and giant army, sweeping across the plains, unstoppable and irresistable.

How he would make men tremble!

He lay back on a soft pillow and called for the new harem girl. He had another game in mind, one that had also come to him in a strange dream; it called for her to beg and whimper, and finally, to die. The wizard decided, though, that he would certainly consider the possibilities of lordship over Ten-Towns that had opened wide before him. But there was no need to hurry; he had time. The goblins could always find him another plaything.

Crenshinibon, too, seemed to be at peace. It had placed the seed within Kessell's mind, a seed that it knew would germinate into a plan of conquest. But, like Kessell, the relic had no need for haste.

The crystal shard had waited ten thousand years -to return to life and see this opportunity of power flicker again. It could wait a few more.