The wizard held his hand out, fingers locked as if it were the talon of a great hunting bird. Sweat streaked his forehead despite the cold wind, and he locked his face into a mask of intensity.
The stone was too heavy for him, but he kept up his telekinetic assault, willing it into the air. Down at the riverbank, dwarf masons on the far bank furiously cranked their come-alongs, while others rushed around the large stone, throwing an extra strap or chain where needed. Still, despite the muscle and ingenuity of the dwarf craftsmen, and magical aid from the Silverymoon wizard, the floating stone teetered on the brink of disaster.
"Joquim!" another citizen of Silverymoon called.
"I...can't...hold...it," the wizard Joquim grunted back, each word forced out through gritted teeth.
The second wizard shouted for help and rushed down to Joquim's side. He had little in the way of telekinetic prowess, but he had memorized a dweomer for just that eventuality. He launched into his spellcasting and threw his magical energies out toward the shaking stone. It stabilized, and when a third member of the Silverymoon contingent rushed over, the balance shifted in favor of the builders. It began to seem almost effortless as the combination of dwarf and wizard guided the stone out over the rushing waters of the River Surbrin.
With a dwarf on the end of a beam guiding the way, the team with the come-alongs positioned the block perfectly over the even larger stones that had already been set in place. The guide dwarf called for a hold, rechecked the alignment, then lifted a red flag.
The wizards eased up their magic gradually, slowly lowering the block.
"Go get the next one!" the dwarf yelled to his companions and the wizards on the near bank. "Seems the Lady's almost ready for this span!"
All eyes turned to the work at the near bank, the point closest to Mithral Hall, where Lady Alustriel stood on the first length of span over the river, her features serene as she whispered the words of a powerful spell of creation. Cold and strong she appeared, almost godlike above the rushing waters. Her white robes, highlighted in light green, blew about her tall and slender form. There was hardly a gasp of surprise when a second stone span appeared before her, reaching out to the next set of supports.
Alustriel's arms slipped down to her sides and she gave a deep exhale, her shoulders slumping as if her effort had thrown out more than magical strength.
"Amazing," Catti-brie said, coming up beside her and inspecting the newly conjured slab.
"The Art, Catti-brie," Alustriel replied. "Mystra's blessings are wondrous indeed." Alustriel turned a sly look her way. "Perhaps I can tutor you."
Catti-brie scoffed at the notion, but coincidentally, as she threw her head back, she twisted her leg at an angle that sent a wave of pain rolling through her damaged hip, and she was reminded that her days as a warrior might indeed be at their end - one way or another.
"Perhaps," she said.
Alustriel's smile beamed genuine and warm. The Lady of Silvery moon glanced back and motioned to the dwarf masons, who flooded forward with their tubs of mortar to seal and smooth the newest span.
"The conjured stone is permanent?" Catti-brie asked as she and Alustriel moved back down the ramp to the bank.
Alustriel looked at her as if the question was completely absurd. "Would you have it vanish beneath the wheels of a wagon?"
They both laughed at the flippant response.
"I mean, it is real stone," the younger woman clarified.
"Not an illusion, to be sure."
"But still the stuff of magic?"
Alustriel furrowed her brow as she considered the woman. "The stone is as real as anything the dwarves could drag in from a quarry, and the dweomer that created it is permanent."
"Unless it is dispelled," Catti-brie replied, and Alustriel said, "Ah," as she caught on to the woman's line of thought.
"It would take Elminster himself to even hope to dispel the work of Lady Alustriel," another nearby wizard interjected.
Catti-brie looked from the mage to Alustriel.
"A bit of an exaggeration, of course," Alustriel admitted. "But truly, any mage of sufficient power to dispel my creations would also have in his arsenal evocations that could easily destroy a bridge constructed without magic."
"But a conventional bridge can be warded against lightning bolts and other destructive evocations," Catti-brie reasoned.
"As this one shall be," promised Alustriel.
"And so it will be as safe as if the dwarves had..." Catti-brie started, and Alustriel finished the thought with her, "dragged the stones from a quarry."
They shared another laugh, until Catti-brie added, "Except from Alustriel."
The Lady of Silverymoon stopped cold and turned to stare directly at Catti-brie.
"It is an easy feat for a wizard to dispel her own magic, so I am told," Catti-brie remarked. "There will be no wards in place to prevent you from waving your hands and making expanse after expanse disappear."
A wry grin crossed Alustriel's beautiful face, and she cocked an eyebrow, an expression of congratulations for the woman's sound and cunning reasoning.
"An added benefit should the orcs overrun this position and try to use the bridge to spread their darkness to other lands," Catti-brie went on.
"Other lands like Silverymoon," Alustriel admitted.
"Do not be quick to sever the bridge to Mithral Hall, Lady," Catti-brie said.
"Mithral Hall is connected to the eastern bank through tunnels in any case," Alustriel replied. "We will not abandon your father, Catti-brie. We will never abandon King Bruenor and the valiant dwarves of Clan Battlehammer."
Catti-brie's responding smile came easy to her, for she didn't doubt a word of the pledge. She glanced back at the conjured slabs and nodded appreciatively, both for the power in creating them and the strategy of Alustriel in keeping the power to easily destroy them.
The late afternoon sun reflected moisture in Toogwik Tuk's jaundiced brown eyes, for he could hardly contain his tears of joy at the ferocious reminder of what it was to be an orc. Grguch's march through the three remaining villages had been predictably successful, and after Toogwik Tuk had delivered his perfected sermon, every able-bodied orc warrior of those villages had eagerly marched out in Grguch's wake. That alone would have garnered the fierce chieftain of Clan Karuck another two hundred soldiers.
But more impressively, they soon enough discovered, came the reinforcements from villages through which they had not passed. Word of Grguch's march had spread across the region directly north of Mithral Hall, and the war-thirsty orcs of many tribes, frustrated by the winter pause, had rushed to the call.
As he crossed the impromptu encampment, Toogwik Tuk surveyed the scores - no, hundreds - of new recruits. Grguch would hit the dwarven fortifications with closer to two thousand orcs than one thousand, by the shaman's estimation. Victory at the Surbrin was all but assured. Could King Obould hope to hold back the tide of war after that?
Toogwik Tuk shook his head with honest disappointment as he considered the once-great leader. Something had happened to Obould. The shaman wondered if it might have been the stinging defeat Bruenor's dwarves had handed him in his ill-fated attempt to breach Mithral Hall's western door. Or had it been the loss of the conspiring dark elves and Gerti Orelsdottr and her frost giant minions? Or perhaps it had come about because of the loss of his son, Urlgen, in the fight on the cliff tops north of Keeper's Dale.
Whatever the cause, Obould hardly seemed the same fierce warrior who had led the charge into Citadel Adbar, or who had begun his great sweep south from the Spine of the World only a few months before. Obould had lost his understanding of the essence of the orc. He had lost the voice of Gruumsh within his heart.
"He demands that we wait," the shaman mused aloud, staring out at the teeming swarm, "and yet they come by the score to the promise of renewed battle with the cursed dwarves."
Never more certain of the righteousness of his conspiracy, the shaman moved quickly toward Grguch's tent. Obould no longer heard the call of Gruumsh, but Grguch surely did, and after the dwarves were smashed and chased back into their holes, how might King Obould claim dominion over the chieftain of Clan Karuck? And how might Obould secure fealty from the tens of thousands of orcs he had brought forth from their holes with promises of conquest?
Obould demanded they sit and wait, that they till the ground like peasant human farmers. Grguch demanded of them that they sharpen their spears and swords to better cut the flesh of dwarves.
Grguch heard the call of Gruumsh.
The shaman found the chieftain standing on the far side of a small table, surrounded by two of his Karuck warlords and with a much smaller orc standing across from them and manipulating a pile of dirt and stones that had been set upon the table. As he neared, Toogwik Tuk recognized the terrain being described by the smaller orc, for he had seen the mountain ridge that stretched from the eastern end of Mithral Hall down to the Surbrin.
"Welcome, Gruumsh-speaker," Grguch greeted him. "Join us."
Toogwik Tuk moved to an open side of the table and inspected the scout's work, which depicted a wall nearly completed to the Surbrin and a series of towers anchoring it.
"The dwarves have been industrious throughout the winter," said Grguch. "As you feared. King Obould's pause has given them strength."
"They will anticipate an attack like ours," the shaman remarked.
"They have witnessed no large movements of forces to indicate it," said Grguch.
"Other than our own," Toogwik Tuk had to remind him.
But Grguch laughed it off. "Possibly they have taken note of many orcs now moving nearer to their position," he agreed. "They may expect an attack in the coming tendays."
The two Karuck warlords beside the brutish chieftain chuckled at that.
"They will never expect one this very night," said Grguch.
Toogwik Tuk's face dropped into a sudden frown, and he looked down at the battlefield in near panic. "We have not even sorted out our forces..." he started to weakly protest.
"There is nothing to sort," Grguch replied. "Our tactic is swarm fodder and nothing more."
"Swarm fodder?" asked the shaman.
"A simple swarm to and through the wall," said Grguch. "Darkness is our ally. Speed and surprise are our allies. We will hit them as a wave flattens the ridge of a boot print on a beach."
"You know not the techniques of the many tribes who have come into the fold."
"I don't need to," Grguch declared. "I don't need to count my warriors. I don't need to place them in lines and squares, to form reserves and ensure that our flanks are protected back far enough to prevent an end run by our enemies. That is the way of the dwarf." He paused and looked around at the stupidly grinning warlords and the excited scout. "I see no dwarves in this room," he said, and the others laughed.
Grguch looked back at Toogwik Tuk. His eyes went wide, as if in alarm, and he sniffed at the air a couple of times. "No," he declared, looking again to his warlords. "I smell no dwarves in this room."
The laughter that followed was much more pronounced, and despite his reservations, Toogwik Tuk was wise enough to join in.
"Tactics are for dwarves," the chieftain explained. "Discipline is for elves. For orcs, there is only..." He looked directly at Toogwik Tuk.
"Swarm fodder?" the shaman asked, and a wry grin spread on Grguch's ugly face.
"Chaos," he confirmed. "Ferocity. Bloodlust and abandon. As soon as the sun has set, we begin our run. All the way to the wall. All the way to the Surbrin. All the way to the eastern doors of Mithral Hall. Half, perhaps more than half, of our warriors will find tonight the reward of glorious death."
Toogwik Tuk winced at that, and silently berated himself. Was he beginning to think more like Obould?
Grguch reminded him of the words of Gruumsh One-eye. "They will die with joy," the chieftain promised. "Their last cry will be of elation and not agony. And any who die otherwise, with regret or with sorrow or with fear, should have been slaughtered in sacrifice to Gruumsh before our attack commenced!"
The sudden volume and ferocity of his last proclamation set Toogwik Tuk back on his heels and had both the Clan Karuck warlords and guards at the perimeter of the room growling and gnashing their teeth. For a brief moment, Toogwik Tuk almost reconsidered his call to the deepest holes to rouse Chieftain Grguch.
Almost.
"There has been no sign from the dwarves that they know of our march," Grguch told a great gathering later that day, when the sunlight began to wane. Toogwik Tuk noted the dangerous priest Hakuun standing at his side, and that gave the younger shaman pause. He got the feeling that Hakuun had been watching him all along.
"They do not see the doom that has come against them," Grguch ordered. "Do not shout out, but run. Run fast to the wall, without delay, and whispering praise for Gruumsh with every stride."
There were no lines or coordinated movements, just a wild charge begun miles from the goal. There were no torches to light the way, no magical lights conjured by Toogwik Tuk or the other priests of Gruumsh. They were orcs, after all, raised in the upper tunnels of the lightless Underdark.
The night was their ally, the dark their comfort.
Once, when he was a child, Hralien had found a large pile of sand down by one of the Moonwood's two lakes. From a distance, that mound of light-colored sand had seemed discolored with streaks of red, and as he moved closer, young Hralien realized that the streaks weren't discolored sand, but were actually moving upon the surface of the mound. Being young and inexperienced, he had at first feared that he had happened upon a tiny volcano, perhaps.
On closer inspection, though, the truth had come clear to him, for the pile of sand had been an ant mound, and the red streaks were lines of the six-legged creatures marching to and fro.
Hralien thought of that long-ago experience as he witnessed the charge of the orcs, swarming the small, rocky hills north of King Bruenor's eastern defenses. Their movements seemed no less frenetic, and truly their march appeared no less determined. Given their speed and intensity, and the obstacle that awaited them barely two miles to the south, Hralien recognized their intent.
The elf bit his lip as he remembered his promise to Drizzt Do'Urden. He looked south, sorting out the landscape and recalling the trails that would most quickly return him to Mithral Hall.
Then he was running, and fearing that he could not keep his promise to his drow friend, for the orc line stretched ahead of him and the creatures had not far to travel. With great grace and agility, Hralien sprang from stone to stone. He leaped up and grabbed a low tree branch and swung out across a narrow chasm, landing lightly on the other side and in a full run. He moved with hardly a whisper of sound, unlike the orcs, whose heavy steps echoed in his keen elf's ears.
He knew that he should be cautious, for he could ill afford the delay if he happened into a fight. But neither could he slow his run and carefully pick his path, for some of the orcs were ahead of him, and the dwarves would need every heartbeat of warning he could give them. So he ran on, leaping and scrambling over bluffs and through low dales, where the melting snow had streamed down and pooled in clear, cold pockets. Hralien tried to avoid those pools as much as possible, for they often concealed slick ice. But even with his great dexterity and sharp vision, he occasionally splashed through, cringing at the unavoidable sound.
At one point, he heard an orc cry out, and feared that he had been spotted. Many strides later, he realized that the creature was just calling to a companion, a stark reminder that the lead runners and scouts of the brutish force were all around him.
Finally he left the sounds of orcs behind, for though the brutes could move with great speed, they could not match the pace of a dexterous elf, even across such broken ground.
Soon after, coming up over a rocky rise, Hralien caught sight of squat stone towers in the south, running down from tall mountains to the silvery, moonlit snake that was the River Surbrin.
"Too soon," the elf whispered in dismay, and he glanced back as if expecting Obould's entire army to roll over him. He shook his head and winced, then sprinted off for the south.
"We will have it completed within the tenday," Alustriel said to Catti-brie, the two sitting with some of the other Silverymoon wizards around a small campfire. One of the wizards, a robust human with thick salt and pepper hair and a tightly trimmed goatee, had conjured the flames and was playing with them, casting cantrips to change their color from orange to white to blue and red. A second wizard, a rather eccentric half-elf with shiny black hair magically streaked by a bloom of bright red locks, joined in and wove enchantments to make the red flames form into the shape of a small dragon. Seeing the challenge, the first wizard likewise formed blue flames, and the two spellcasters set their fiery pets into a proxy battle. Almost immediately, several other wizards began excitedly placing their bets.
Catti-brie watched with amusement and interest - more than she would have expected, and Alustriel's words to her about dabbling in the dark arts flitted unbidden through her thoughts. Her experience with wizards was very limited, and mostly involved the unpredictable and dangerously foolish Harpell family from Longsaddle.
"Asa Havel will win," Alustriel whispered to her, leaning in close and indicating the half-elf wizard who had manipulated the red flame. "Duzberyl is far more powerful at manipulating fire, but he has taxed his powers to their limit this day conjuring bright hot flames to seal the stone. And Asa Havel knows it."
"So he challenged," Catti-brie whispered back. "And his friends know, too, so they wager."
"They would wager anyway," Alustriel explained. "It is a matter of pride. Whatever is lost here will be reclaimed soon enough in another challenge."
Catti-brie nodded and watched the unfolding drama, the many faces, elf and human alike, glowing in varying shades and hues in the uneven light, turning blue as the blue dragon leaped atop the red, but then drifting back, green and yellow and toward a feverish red as Asa Havel's drake filtered up through Duzberyl's and gradually gained supremacy. It was all good-natured, of course, but Catti-brie didn't miss the intensity etched onto the faces of the combatants and onlookers alike. It occurred to her that she was looking into an entirely different world. She could relate it to the drinking games, and the arm-wrestling and sparring that so often took place in the taverns of Mithral Hall, for though the venue was different, the emotions were not. Still, there remained enough of a difference to intrigue her. It was a battle of strength, but of mental strength and concentration, and not of muscle and intestinal fortitude.
"Within a month, you could form flames into such shapes, yourself," Alustriel teased.
Catti-brie looked at her and laughed dismissively, but that hardly hid her interest.
She looked back to the fire just in time to see Duzberyl's blue roll over and consume Asa Havel's red, contrary to Alustriel's prediction. The backers of both wizards gasped in surprise and Duzberyl gave a yelp that was more shock than of victory. Catti-brie's gaze turned to Asa Havel, and her surprise turned to confusion.
The half-elf was not looking at the fight, and seemed oblivious to the fact that his dragon had been consumed by the human's blue. He stared out to the north, his sea-blue eyes scanning high above the flames. Catti-brie felt Alustriel turn beside her, then stand. The woman glanced over her shoulder, up at the dark wall, but shook her head slightly in confusion, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Beside her, Alustriel cast a minor spell.
Other wizards rose and peered out to the north.
"An elf has come," Alustriel said to Catti-brie. "And the dwarves are scrambling."
"It's an attack," Asa Havel announced, rising and moving past the two women. He looked right at Alustriel and the princess of Mithral Hall and asked, "Orcs?"
"Prepare for battle," Alustriel said to her contingent. "Area spells to disrupt any charge."
"We have little left this day," Duzberyl reminded her.
In response, Alustriel reached inside one of the folds of her robes and drew forth a pair of slender wands. She half-turned and tossed one to Duzberyl. "Your necklace, too, if needed," she instructed, and the human nodded and brought a hand to a gaudy choker he wore, its golden links set with large stones like rubies of varying sizes, including one so large that Catti-brie couldn't have closed her fist around it.
"Talindra, to the gates of the dwarven halls," Alustriel said to a young elf female. "Warn the dwarves and help them sort the battle."
The elf nodded and took a few fast steps to the west, then disappeared with a flash of blue-white light. A second flash followed almost instantly, over near the hall's eastern gates, transporting Talindra to her assigned position, the surprised Catti-brie assumed, for she couldn't actually see the young elf.
She turned back to hear Alustriel positioning Asa Havel and another pair. "Secure fast passage to the far bank, should we need it. Prepare enough to carry any dwarves routed from the wall."
Catti-brie heard the first shouts from the wall, followed by the blare of horns, many horns, from beyond to the north. Then came the blare of one that overwhelmed all the others, a resonating, low-pitched grumble that shook the stones beneath Catti-brie's feet.
"Damn Obould to the Nine Hells," Catti-brie whispered, and she grimaced at the realization that she had loaned Taulmaril to Drizzt. She looked over at Alustriel. "I haven't my bow, or a sword. A weapon, please? Conjure one or produce one from a deep pocket."
To Catti-brie's surprise, the Lady of Silverymoon did just that, pulling yet another wand from inside her robes. Catti-brie took it, not knowing what to make of the thing, and when she looked back at Alustriel, the tall woman was tugging a ring from her finger.
"And this," she said, handing over the thin gold band set with a trio of sparkling diamonds. "I trust you are not already in the possession of two magical rings."
Catti-brie took it and held it pressed between her thumb and index finger, her expression dumbfounded.
"The command word for the wand is 'twell-in-sey,'" Alustriel explained. "Or 'twell-in-sey-sey' if you wish to loose two magical bolts."
"I don't know..."
"Anyone can use it," Alustriel assured her. "Point it at your target and speak the word. For the bigger orcs, choose two."
"But..."
"Put the ring on your finger and open your mind to it, for it will impart to you its dweomers. And know that they are powerful indeed." With that, Alustriel turned away, and Catti-brie understood that the lesson was at its end.
The Lady of Silverymoon and her wizards, except for those working near the river preparing a magical escape to the far bank, headed off for the wall, nearly all of them drawing forth wands or rods, or switching rings and other jewelry. Catti-brie watched it all with an undeniable sense of excitement, so much so that she was trembling so badly she could hardly line up the ring to slip it on her finger.
Finally she did, and she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She felt as if she were looking up at the heavens, to see stars shooting across the darkened night sky, to see flashes of brilliance so magnificent that it seemed to her as if the gods must be throwing bolts at each other.
The first sounds of battle shook her from her contemplation. She opened her eyes and nearly fell over due to dizziness from the sudden change, as if she had just stepped back to solid ground from the Astral Plane.
She started after Alustriel, inspecting the wand, and garnered quickly which end to hold from a leather strap wrapped diagonally as a hand grip. At least she hoped it was the right end, and she winced at the thought of unloading enchanted bolts of magic into her own face. She dismissed the worry, noting that she wasn't gaining much on Alustriel, and noting more pointedly that the dwarves at the wall scrambled and yelled for support in many places already. She dropped her arms down beside her and ran as fast as her battered hip would allow.
"Twell-in-sey," she whispered, trying to get the inflection correct.
She did.
The wand discharged and a red dart of energy burst forth, snapping into the ground with a hiss right before her running feet. Catti-brie yelped and stumbled, nearly falling over. She caught her balance and her composure, and was glad that no one seemed to notice.