TORN GROUND AND EXCREMENT

LEAVING TORN GROUND AND PILES OF EXCREMENT IN ITS WAKE, THE MASSIVE army of Many-Arrows

plodded up the road along the north bank of the River Rauvin, the route connecting the ruins of Sundabar to Everlund. The monsters walked many abreast, a mob more than an army, it seemed, with more than ten full miles separating the leading edge of that catastrophe from the trailing ranks.

Warlord Hartusk was near the front of the army, surrounded by his most trusted and most ferocious orc legions, and so he noted the growing excitement at the front of his march. He understood when word finally carried back to him that they were approaching a settlement, a sizable village on the northern banks of the Rauvin.

?Lhuvenhead,? Hartusk?s advisor remarked. The warlord nodded, and grinned wickedly. Lhuvenhead was the largest settlement in the Rauvin Vale, a prosperous merchant community.

?We are only two days from the walls of Everlund, Warlord,? the advisor added.

?Kill them and capture as many as you can,? Hartusk ordered, and the word went forth in eager shouts, and the orcs leading the army launched into a charge, sweeping down upon the village.

But the place was deserted, they found to their disappointment, and no boats remained at the village?s disproportionately large docks. Prudence and good planning would have led the Many-Arrows army to leave the village unscathed. As they passed it, it became their land, after all, and with an important and well-designed system of barges and docks that could bring vast supplies down from Everlund in short order.

But these were orcs, and immediate gratification was a far more urgent call to them than wise long-term planning. By the time Hartusk himself arrived in Lhuvenhead, there really was no Lhuvenhead remaining.

There was just a hundred piles of splintered and burning wood and broken homes, and with a mess of jetsam floating down river, splashing and rolling along the forty miles to mighty Everlund.

Warlord Hartusk did not disapprove, even though he was wise enough to realize the waste. His minions needed blood, and none was to be found here, not with every villager long gone ?no doubt to Everlund. The orcs needed some release for their violent urges, and so be it.

Besides, Hartusk figured that Everlund itself would be his soon enough.

It was the first day of Flamerule, also called Summertide, the seventh month of 1485. How fitting that this particular village, long known as a pleasant summer respite for the lords and ladies of both Sundabar and Everlund, had simply ceased to exist on this day.

?Press on!? Hartusk ordered his charges, and the black wave of Many-Arrows rolled along toward Everlund, the great gateway to the southlands.

More than an hour later, far back in the line, Jarl Greigor Kundknoddick and his entourage came upon the obliterated village.

The frost giant leader was not amused. He, like Hartusk, recognized the waste, and the

opportunity lost. He heard again the drow?s warnings in his thoughts.

Would sheer numbers be enough? To conquer, perhaps, but to gain any lasting hold?

Frost giants were not like orcs and goblins and ogres. They did not war for the sake of war, but for the promise of greater riches and power. They preferred beauty to ugliness, and this town was surely ugly.

?The dwarves are out,? Jarl Greigor said to those around him. He didn?t wait for any answers, and didn?t want any.

In truth, he was speaking more to himself than to the others, as he tried futilely to process the information the drow had offered. He had brought his giants into this fray because he hated the dwarves and because it had seemed then that Hartusk?s march could not fail. That seemed even more assured when Sundabar had fallen.

Greigor looked to the brothers of Thrym, but they could only shrug and shake their heads. They had served well in getting him out here, as with his counterpart, Jarl Orelson, to be

sure. But that was all they had done.

Jarl Greigor shook his head in reply, and thought again of the great victory at Sundabar, truly the high point of Warlord Hartusk?s war. But without the dragons, would that have happened? Without the dragons, and without the surprised dwarves caught in their holes?

A commotion drew Jarl Greigor and his entourage back around the ruins of the village to the east, to view the rear guard of the Many-Arrows force. Dust climbed in the distance and the wind carried cries and screams.

?A battle,? one of the other giants, a brutish female named Jierta, remarked.

?Knights in Silver!? an orc confirmed, running by the group. ?They have come in great numbers!?

?Silverymoon?? Jierta asked. ?They are besieged!?

?So we thought,? Jarl Greigor replied. He started away at a great pace to the east, the others running beside him. Soon enough, on a low hilltop, the behemoth spotted the fight.

?Knights in Silver,? Jierta confirmed.

Jarl Greigor could only nod in agreement, and wince at the size of the force. Hundreds of armored riders skirmished around the trailing edge of the orc army, firing bows from horseback and running down any monsters who ventured too far from the main throng. Apparently yet another siege had been broken.

?The orcs are organizing,? Jarl Greigor remarked, nodding. He could see that the goblinkin were biding their time until the worg riders could arrive. He spotted those riders, nearing the leading edge of the skirmish.

And at last the defensive ranks of the Many-Arrows army broke open wide, a thick stream of orcs and goblins, some riding, most running, stretching out to meet the threat.

Horns blew, echoing off the mountain walls in the north, and the Silverymoon cavalry broke away as one, fleeing back to the north and the foothills of the Nether Mountains.

?We will have them!? Jierta said to Jarl Greigor.

A far greater Many-Arrows force pursued that cavalry and with the mountains looming so near, the riders would have nowhere to run.

The giants ran toward the skirmish, hoping to get into the fray before it was over. They plowed through their smaller allies, trampling many under their huge feet. They lost sight of the battle, or the chase, intermittently, as they rushed through dells and copses of trees, and

by the time they neared the area of the initial fighting, all was quiet there.

Not so up to the north of that position, however, where screams of abject terror filled the air.

?They have them!? Jierta cried.

Then came such a roar that the blood drained from the frost giant?s face, a monstrous roar ?a dragon?s roar.

Jarl Greigor Kundknoddick?s blue eyes sparkled at that thought. The drow was wrong, just as he?d hoped!

But the screams continued, heightened, and running back from the foothills came the orcs and goblins, desperately falling all over each other.

?A dragon?? Jierta asked her jarl, and the ferocious giantess didn?t seem so eager to charge north to join in the fighting.

More than seven thousand Many-Arrows soldiers had swarmed up into the foothills to pursue the raiding Knights in Silver.

Less than one in five returned.

Jarl Greigor motioned to one of his giants, indicating a trembling orc whimpering amidst some of its colleagues. The giant moved over, scattered the standing orcs, and hoisted the sniveling one up into the air, carrying it back to Jarl Greigor by the ankles, and giving it a little shake every couple of steps.

The giant unceremoniously dropped the orc to the ground at Jarl Greigor?s feet.

?No, no, I chased them ? I?I?I had to run,? the orc stammered when the imposing Jarl bent down over it.

?A coward deserter?? Jarl Greigor said wickedly, as if he meant to cut the cowardly orc in half on the spot with his gigantic sword.

?No, no!? the orc whined.

?Go back and fight them!? Jarl Greigor demanded, and he grabbed the orc by the collar of its filthy jerkin and yanked it to its feet with frightening strength and ease.

But despite the imposing figure of the mighty giant, the orc shook its head and glanced nervously to the north. ?I ? I can?t.?

?You cannot??

?Dragon ?? the orc said, its voice a whisper. ?Dragon.?

?Arauthator has returned?? the frost giant asked, but the orc shook its head so violently that it seemed as if it might simply fly from the creature?s shoulders.

?Not white. Not ? ours.?

Jarl Greigor looked around at his entourage, all of them now nervously stepping from foot to foot.

?The color of a copper piece,? the orc explained.

?This dragon,? Jierta demanded, ?it aided our enemies?

?The humans fled in front of us and rode around the dragon without hindrance.?

Jarl Greigor tossed the orc aside, and the pathetic terrified creature was fleeing once more even as it hit the ground.

?Our dragons are gone, so claimed the drow, but now our enemies ?? Jierta started to say, but Jarl Greigor cut her short with an upraised hand.

?Tell the orcs that we will return to Hartusk Keep to lead the northern armies along the

northern road to put the dogs of Silverymoon back in their hole,? he said. ?Have them tell Warlord Hartusk that we will meet him at the walls of Everlund.?

The others nodded and ran off, all of them understanding that Jarl Greigor had no intention of doing any such thing. His was not the only frost giant force that had come to the call of Warlord Hartusk, but it was among the most powerful, perhaps second only to Shining White itself, particularly with the three huge brothers of the frost giant god Thrym in their ranks.

Threescore giants broke from Hartusk?s vast ranks that day, running north for the Moon Pass and the lands beyond. They would turn west, as they had told the orcs, but not to engage Silverymoon. They were bound for the lands across the Surbrin, west, to the Spine of the World and their icy home.

Warlord Hartusk suspected as much when he heard of Jarl Greigor?s departure. If it was true, he silently vowed, he would march on Shining White when he was done with Everlund and Silverymoon.

They were much closer to Everlund now than to Hartusk Keep, and the minor skirmishes against his vast army and the desertion of a few here and there would not deter him. Reports of groups of raiding bands of enemy riders were common?Knights in Silver trapped outside their besieged city, he believed. Nay, such minor inconveniences would not deter him.

Nor would ridiculous rumors of enemy dragons.

The army of Many-Arrows pressed on through the dark night, and late the next day, they came in sight of mighty Everlund, settled on the northern bank of the Rauvin River, with two great bridges reaching across the water to the southern road.

Warlord Hartusk nodded grimly. They had to destroy those bridges as soon as they took the city, to prevent enemies from coming up from the great cities in the southlands. Surely the call had already gone out from Everlund.

Nay, this would be no siege, and that very day, Hartusk sent his hordes charging at Everlund?s great wall, thinking to knock the city down with sheer numbers.

Indeed, had it been only Everlund there to defy him, his tactics would likely have proven correct and effective, but barely had the first ranks reached the killing grounds before the walls when another force appeared on the field, riding down from the higher ground in the north, horns blowing.

The Knights in Silver.

And this was no raiding group, Hartusk and his commanders knew at once. This was the garrison of Silverymoon, nearly in full.

And with wizards ? so many wizards.

Fireballs and lightning bolts led that charge, blasting and scattering Hartusk?s minions. The warlord and his elite fighters rushed back, calling for a regrouping.

?Kill the fools outside the walls!? he cried, and the great morass of his army began its slow turn.

But then came the two copper dragons, skimming in low, breathing clouds of magically slowing gasses, or spitting acid that melted orcs where they stood.

And the horns blew from the west as well, as Everlund?s garrison, too, came forth.

There, between the Nether Mountains and the River Rauvin, just east of Everlund, was fought the greatest battle of the War of the Silver Marches.

On a wider field, Many-Arrows would have prevailed, sheer numbers overwhelming the elves and humans and their allies, even the dragons. But this was no wide field, but a bordered corridor of death.

Warlord Hartusk was soon in full flight, back to the east, his force chased every mile by the Knights in Silver, who shot their longbows from horseback with deadly accuracy.

Wulfgar lifted Aleina Brightlance in a great hug when he found her on the bloodied fields, not far from Everlund?s walls.

The fierce woman grabbed him by his blond hair and tugged his head back so that she could look into his blue eyes.

?We will chase them all the way home,? she said. ?We will kill them all!?

Wulfgar kissed her passionately and squeezed her so tightly that Aleina thought her spine might crack apart. But she didn?t complain, just kissed him even harder, and tugged at his hair, her lust unsated by battle.

They had broken the siege at Silverymoon just days before, the arrival of the dragons and word of the dwarven citadels out and free sending the bulk of the besieging armies in full flight before the battle had even begun.

And now the plan Aleina had proposed to Lord Hornblade, which he had taken to the lords of Everlund with help of a wizard?s spell, had worked to perfection.

The fighting wasn?t done, Wulfgar and Aleina knew well as they made their way to a quiet and secluded place and made love under the dark sky to the sound of the rushing river.

But that was for tomorrow.

Riding on the back of a dragon, sitting in front of Brother Afafrenfere, Regis could hardly contain his smile. Far below in the east, what remained of the army of Many-Arrows was in full flight for the Moon Pass.

Raiding knights nipped at the stragglers behind, just to thin the ranks as they could, and more importantly, to keep the orcs running.

Many giants remained among the monstrous force, and giants could throw heavy rocks, so the dragon sisters did not engage. They meant to stay up high and allow their mere presence to bring fear to their enemies. Unless, of course, a sizeable force of monsters turned back to try to catch the pursuing knights.

Then Tazmikella and Ilnezhara would swoop down, alerting the knights of the ambush, to play with the ambushed forces and chase them on their way.

?They?ll not stop at Sundabar,? Afafrenfere said to Regis on the fourth day, as the Many-Arrows army crossed through the Moon Pass and had the city they had named Hartusk Keep in sight. ?They will pass through, with Hartusk hoping that those he leaves behind in the ruined city will hold back the pursuit.?

?He knows he?s lost,? Regis agreed. ?He?ll run all the way to Dark Arrow Keep!?

?Let us hope,? Afafrenfere replied. They both knew what awaited Hartusk?s less-than-triumphant return.

The Surbrin Bridge was unguarded, but neither were any of the vast encampments the orcs had set about the place, around Mithral Hall, evident. Hartusk?s fleeing army encountered many small bands of fellow orcs in the long retreat, and all of them said the same thing: the dwarves had broken the sieges and the Many-Arrows armies had scattered or had been destroyed.

Just north of Fourthpeak, word came to Warlord Hartusk that a large force was again on his tail, an army flying the banners of Silverymoon and Everlund.

Hartusk was not dismayed by the news. He knew the ground around his home fortress, and that ground had been prepared to ward off an attacking army.

Indeed it had, and those defenses had been improved upon greatly since Warlord Hartusk had departed for the south.

But what Hartusk did not know was that Dark Arrow Keep was now in the hands of four dwarf kings and the combined armies of Mithral Hall, Citadel Felbarr, and mighty Citadel Adbar.

How joyous ran the orcs when at last the tall pickets of Dark Arrow Keep?s formidable walls came into view! How great came their cheers, how fast their pace, as they ran for home.

Several balls of catapulted flaming pitch were in the air before any of the monsters even began to understand the truth before them. It was not until those fiery balls hit and exploded, and created a torrent of flames as lines of shallow-buried oil crisscrossed the field south of Dark Arrow Keep, that Warlord Hartusk understood his doom.

Hundreds of elves lined the parapets, their bowstrings playing a deadly song. And among them raced a drow, with a bow more deadly still. And from their ranks came crackling bolts of lightning, and fireballs, the blue glow of magic lifting up from the spellscarred arms of Catti-brie.

Crack artillery teams of skilled dwarves adjusted the catapults and ballistae?scores of the mighty weapons?and sent their fury raining down upon the Many-Arrows army.

Before the orcs had even adjusted to the shock, from the south came the horns of the Knights in Silver and the garrison of Everlund, accentuated by the roars of a pair of copper dragons.

And from the west, out of the foothills, came the charge of King Bruenor and nine thousand shield dwarves, swarming down like an avalanche on the orc forces, driving them east, to the river.

And all the lines blurred, and the dragons came down low, Ilnezhara dropping a pair of wild-eyed dwarves, Athrogate and Ambergris, into the fray near Bruenor, then flying off to wreak her own savagery upon the monstrous enemies.

Tazmikella, too, came in low, but she didn?t pause as her lone passenger, the monk Afafrenfere, leaped down from on high into the midst of a horde of orcs. He landed in a roll and sprang up high out of it, snap-kicking left and right into the surprised faces of a pair of enemies. Almost immediately, orcs began flying away, tumbling and falling as the monk launched into a brutal and unrelenting assault.

And off flew Tazmikella to the walls of Dark Arrow Keep.

In the lone bright spot, the singular force holding the shocked and disorganized hordes of Many-Arrows in any semblance of a fighting posture, was their vicious leader. Bodies piled around Warlord Hartusk, his flaming sword marking the center, the rallying point, of the dwindling but still enormous goblinkin and giantkind forces. Even in the midst of a horrendous slaughter of his people, the orc leader vowed to fight on, and rallied those around him to feats of fury that held the enemies at bay.

His position was not unnoticed.

Bruenor Battlehammer similarly formed the center of the dwarven press, standing tall and singing at the top of his lugs, urging his boys to get to the ugly warlord so that they could at last extinguish his flaming greatsword.

Bruenor heard the flap of great leathery wings before he saw the copper dragon Tazmikella moving up behind him and just above.

?He is an ugly one,? Drizzt called down to his red-bearded friend from the dragon?s back. Catti-brie sat behind him, her arms around his waist. ?I was thinking that perhaps I should go over and put an end to Warlord Hartusk.?

?Bah, elf, but ye leave that dog for me!? said Bruenor, and Drizzt smiled wide.

?He was hoping you would say that,? Catti-brie said to her father, and before Bruenor could begin to decipher her sly tone and jovial mood, Tazmikella flew past, one great clawed foot reaching down to scoop up Bruenor and carry him away.

All around, surprised dwarves howled in shock, but then, sorting it out, cheered instead.

A soldier from Everlund rolled and squirmed down to the ground, disemboweled by the mighty sword of Hartusk. The orc warlord stood tall, sword upraised in one hand, his other fist upraised as well. He roared in victory and told his minions that the tide of battle would turn.

But before the orcs and others could respond with cheers of their own, a dragon glided in to hover above the great orc, and the monsters around Hartusk cowered and fled.

Surely the wyrm could have killed Hartusk there where he stood, but she did not. Instead, she swooped down lower and deposited her cargo, a dwarf held in one claw, on the field in front of the warlord.

An orc lifted its bow to shoot the dwarf, but one of the dragon?s three riders had his arrow nocked first and shot that orc dead with a silver-streaking arrow that launched the ugly archer into the air.

On the ground below Tazmikella, Bruenor Battlehammer straightened and dusted himself off.

?Been waitin? a long time for this,? the dwarf said. He adjusted his one-horned helm, then

pulled a mug of ale out from behind his burnished magical shield. He lifted it in toast.

?To yer ugly head bouncing about the ground,? he said, then drained the flagon with one great gulp.

Hartusk growled and lifted his greatsword.

Bruenor laughed at him and lifted his many-notched axe.

They came together like a pair of raging giants, Hartusk pressing hard with great sweeps of his longer blade.

But Bruenor was hearing the song of Clangeddin then, his arms swelling with strength, his heart lifted in the thrill of battle. Again and again, Hartusk?s sword slammed against the shield, but even that mighty weapon in the hands of the powerful orc could not mar the image of the foaming mug emblazoned on the buckler that had twice known the fires of Gauntlgrym?s Forge.

The orc?s fury played out, the warlord?s swing slowing after a dozen-dozen sweeps.

And now came Bruenor, leaping ahead, inside the orc?s reach, bashing Hartusk with his axe, denting the warlord?s mighty armor and driving him back, step by step.

On one such step back, Hartusk retreated farther and tucked his sword in tight. Then he thrust it ahead powerfully, and roared in victory, knowing that the dwarf could not bring his mighty shield across to block and could dodge neither left nor right.

But Hartusk did not hit.

Bruenor leaped and rolled into the air, his right side thrown back. Spinning a sidelong circuit all the way around, he held there, defying Toril?s pull, seemingly floating like a condor on mountain updrafts?or like the dragons watching from above.

Around he went, and for Hartusk, time seemed to slow, agonizingly, for as the dwarf at last came around, that mighty axe led the way, and with his arms and sword extended, with the dwarf above that thrusting blade, Warlord Hartusk had no defense.

The wish of Bruenor?s toast had come to pass.

EPILOGUE

HE WEREN?T NO OBOULD, TO BE SURE,? BRUENOR SAID AGAINST THE stream of huzzahs and heigh-

ho?s that came his way. He sat with his peers around a small fire in front of the gates of Dark Arrow Keep.

With Hartusk fallen, the battle had quickly disintegrated into a hodgepodge of small pockets of fighting, and usually with those warriors of Many-Arrows more interested in running away than in fighting.

Many orcs and other monsters did get off that field, indeed, tens of thousands, running north into the mountains.

?Might that they?ll be comin? back,? King Emerus warned.

?Aye, but we should chase ?em and kill ?em to death,? King Harnoth agreed.

?Tear Dark Arrow Keep down, log by log,? Bruenor declared. ?And float them logs down the Surbrin. Me boys?ll take ?em for burning in Mithral Hall.?

?Yer boys?? King Emerus said slyly, and he glanced at King Connerad, who looked up at that surprising remark.

Bruenor looked from king to king, then laughed heartily. ?Nah,? he said. ?Connerad?s boys. Me place?s done here, me friends. I got a road I?m needin? to walk.?

?Back to Icewind Dale?? King Connerad asked, but Bruenor shook his head. ?I?ll tell ye soon enough.? He motioned to the side then, noting the approach of Drizzt and the other Companions of the Hall. He knew where they had been, with whom they had met.

?What?re ye knowin?, elf?? Bruenor asked as Drizzt arrived.

?The orcs will not return,? Drizzt replied. ?Not soon, at least, and under no king or warlord. Lorgru, the son of Obould, has many of them now under his command, and that one had no designs of conquest.? He looked over at Sinnafein as he finished, and the elf nodded knowingly. Lorgru?s mercy toward her had started this war, after all.

?He ain?t coming back, no matter his designs!? King Harnoth said, and all the others, Bruenor included, nodded at that demand.

Drizzt bowed to diffuse the sudden tension.

?Hartusk usurped the throne from Lorgru, who wanted no war,? Drizzt explained. ?And how might ye be knowin? all this, Mister Drizzt Do?Urden?? Ragged Dain asked. ?From a friend.?

?A friend?? King Harnoth asked suspiciously.

?A friend who brought dragons,? Drizzt replied without hesitation, and that set the young king of Adbar back on his haunches.

The drow started to elaborate, but he stopped suddenly, a curious look coming over him. He looked to Catti-brie first, and his expression gave her pause.

?What is it?? she asked with great concern. ?Drizzt?? Regis added.

But the drow couldn?t hear them at that moment. A song was in his head, a spell actually, calling to him. He walked away from the small fire, moving among many campfires, to the curious looks from dwarves and elves and humans.

The Companions of the Hall and many others gave chase, calling to him.

Finally he stopped in the midst of a wide area cleared of bodies and camps. Catti -brie rushed to him, but he lifted his arms to her and motioned her back. The song was loud now in his mind, deafeningly so, urgently so, begging release.

And so Drizzt Do?Urden began to sing. His arms lifted up to the side and hung outstretched. His head went back, his words aimed at the sky above.

To the gasps of the onlookers, Drizzt floated up from the ground. A glow came about him, like faerie fire at first, but then intensifying.

?Drizzt!? his friends shouted?except for Catti-brie, who was crying and laughing all at once, overwhelmed as she believed she had solved the mystery. She had thought herself the Chosen of Mielikki, but how silly that seemed now, considering the drow floating in the air in front of her.

Beams of light shot from Drizzt?s hands, reaching up to the Darkening. Subtle and soft at first, they gathered in strength and multitude, and now the flashes came so quickly they couldn?t be counted. Into the sky they soared, striking the roiling blackness, and there, fires erupted and lightning flashes shot the night, as the great battle roared.

?Mielikki,? Catti-brie said, tears streaking her cheeks, and the sheer glory and weight of the experience drove her to her knees.

Though he was on a hillock far away, Tiago Baenre couldn?t miss the spectacle of Drizzt throwing shards of brilliant light up into the sky. The young noble drow ducked behind a bush, its leaves meager to nonexistent, as with all of the flora in the Silver Marches this year. He watched with amazement, and anger.

He grasped the scraggly branches, mesmerized by the mounting display.

?We will have him soon enough,? promised a voice behind him, a voice so unexpected that Tiago nearly leaped out of his boots, and spun around with his sword drawn and shield spiraling out to a larger size.

?What are you doing here?? he asked when he recognized the speaker.

?I came to find you,? Doum?wielle lied. She had come here to find another, of course, but Khazid?hea had sensed a Baenre House emblem, the residue of Tiago?s long float back to Faerûn. For that emblem, like all of House Baenre?s marks, had been fashioned of a stone from the Faerzress, the same Underdark region, with its magical emanations, that had granted Khazid?hea its sentience.

?I did not summon you,? Tiago barked at her. ?Where is Ravel, and my wife??

?I know not,? Doum?wielle answered. ?They were chased from the Rauvin ford back to the south. I was cast into the river and washed all the way to the Surbrin. My sword led me to my father, and from there, on the slope of the mountain above the dwarves? home, we came

north in search of you.?

Tiago looked at her with clear doubt. How could she have known that he would be up here, or even alive? He lowered his sword, and Doum?wielle moved closer.

?You should be glad that I have come, for I can prove to be of great value to you, up here on the World Above,? she said, and there was a bit of tease in her soft voice.

?You are worthless, and worthless to me.? ?You should rethink that,? Doum?wielle said. ?You dare question me??

?I am not worthless to you, noble son of House Baenre,? she said, standing tall. ?I can move among the folk of the surface easily, and besides ?? She moved a bit closer. ?I can offer you something the women of Menzoberranzan cannot.?

?Do tell,? Tiago said when she was standing right in front of him. ?Respect,? Doum?wielle said.

Tiago feigned anger at that, and managed a scowl, but Doum?wielle could see that she had gotten through to him a bit, at least, though whether because of the practical benefit she offered or the emotional one, she could not tell.

It didn?t matter, she decided. Because she hated him in any case, and needed him to help with her quest, even as he thought she was aiding him in his own.

Even the dwarves were crying soon, all the onlookers on the field overwhelmed by the spectacle.

And the stars peeked through, shining on the Silver Marches for the first time in so many months.

And still it went on, the shards of brilliance leaping from Drizzt to join in the fight. And still he sang, though he felt as if his very life-force was engaged in this perilous struggle now, the Lightening against the Darkening.

It went on through most of that midsummer night, which for the first time in so long became true night once more, with stars and a full silvery Selûne and her Tears bathing the land.

It ended with a whisper, a final, gasping note, and then the spell was broken and Drizzt fell back to the ground and crumpled into a heap. His friends ran to him, thinking him dead and crying to Mielikki.

In the foothills to the west, the normally unflappable Jarlaxle had to slap his hand over his mouth to stop from crying out with laughter. ?Brilliant!? he said. ?They think it their goddess!?

As the Darkening above fully dissipated, Kimmuriel broke the mental connection he had enacted between Drizzt and Gromph Baenre, wherein the archmage had used the unsuspecting Drizzt as a surrogate for his powerful enchantment, a spell to defeat Tsabrak?s.

?I know not what to say,? Jarlaxle remarked, shaking his head.

It took Gromph a long time to steady himself after the exertion of that spell, as great a casting as he had ever performed. He opened his eyes and stepped back from the psionicist, closed his huge spellbook, and let his imposing stare fall over Jarlaxle.

?A feint within a feint within a feint, if ever I?ve seen one,? said Jarlaxle, who couldn?t remain speechless for long, after all. ?All witnessed Drizzt casting the enchantment, and all believed it the power of his goddess flowing through him. The task is far removed from the caster. Brilliant. Why, Brother, you are beginning to remind me of ? me!?

Gromph arched an eyebrow, and didn?t have to utter the threat it signified.

?But surely you understand my confusion, Archmage,? Jarlaxle said with proper deference. ?Matron Mother??

?Damn Quenthel to the Nine Hells where devils can play with her,? Gromph growled back, and both Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel fell back a step.

?The true Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan sleeps in the arms of Minolin Fey Baenre this day, awaiting my return,? Gromph explained. ?Quenthel, all of the city, will learn that truth soon enough.?

Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel looked to each other with surprise.

The massive pickets of Dark Arrow Keep came tumbling down under the brilliant sunshine of the following day, the dwarves happily carrying them to the Surbrin and tossing them in. Riders had already left for Mithral Hall, and the dwarves at the Surbrin Bridge would be ready to receive the firewood.

The meeting inside the audience chamber of Dark Arrow Keep that day was limited to the four dwarf kings, for this was Delzoun business most serious.

?Mithral Hall?s for Connerad,? Bruenor asserted as soon as the formalities, including several hearty ales from Bruenor?s magical shield, were out of the way. ?Even if meself was to stay, it?d not be me place to challenge that what was rightfully and properly given.?

?Always?ll be a place for Little Arr Arr in Citadel Felbarr!? King Emerus assured the red-bearded dwarf, to a chorus of huzzahs and clanging mugs.

?Bah, but his place is Mithral Hall, and don?t ye doubt it!? King Connerad demanded.

?Me place?s in the west,? Bruenor corrected solemnly, and the flagons drifted lower, and the three kings stared at him somberly. ?And I?m hopin? that yerselves, me friends, will afford me the boys I?m needin? to get to that place.?

?Gauntlgrym,? Connerad said quietly.

?Aye,? Bruenor replied. ?Damned drow elfs got it, but they ain?t for holding it.?

?We should be sendin? word to Mirabar,? King Harnoth offered. ?Aye, and Icewind Dale, course.?

?How many boys?? King Emerus asked.

?All ye can spare,? Bruenor replied. ?It?s Gauntlgrym, and the throne?s there, and the Forge ?ah, but she?s the stuff o? legend!?

?There were rumors that ye found it,? said Emerus.

?More?n rumors. Found it twice?ye see me shield and axe? Been through the Forge o? Gauntlgrym, and that forge?s burnin? with the power of a great beast o? fire. It?s all that ye

heared, boys, and more, I tell ye.?

He lifted his flagon and the others brought theirs up beside it, and the four dwarf kings looked into each other?s eyes and hearts, and knew then that Gauntlgrym would be returned to the line of Delzoun.

Date: 2016-06-13; view: 126