DEFYING EXPECTATIONS
T he large moonstone hanging around Catti-brie's neck glowed suddenly and fiercely, and she brought a hand up to clench it.
"Devils," said Drizzt Do'Urden. "So Marchion Elastul's emissary wasn't lying."
"Telled ye as much," said the dwarf Torgar Hammerstriker, who had been of Elastul's court only a few short years before. "Elastul's a shooting pain in a dwarf's arse, but he's not so much the liar, and he's wanting the trade. Always the trade."
"Been more than five years since we went through Mirabar on our road that bringed us home," King Bruenor Battlehammer added. "Elastul lost a lot to our passing, and his nobles ain't been happy with him for a long time. He's reachin' out to us."
"And to him," Drizzt added, nodding down in the direction of Obould, master of the newly formed Kingdom of Many-Arrows.
"The world's gone Gutbuster," Bruenor muttered, a phrase referring to his wildest guardsmen and which Bruenor had aptly appropriated as a synonym for "crazy."
"Better world, then," Thibbledorf Pwent, leader of said guardsmen, was quick to respond.
"When we're done with this, ye're going back to Mirabar," Bruenor said to Torgar. Torgar's eyes widened and he blanched at the notion. "As me own emissary. Elastul done good and we're needing to tell him he done good. And not one's better for telling him that than Torgar Hammerstriker."
Torgar seemed less than convinced, to be sure, but he nodded. He had pledged his loyalty to King Bruenor and would follow his king's commands without complaint.
"Business here first, I'm thinking," Bruenor said.
The dwarf king looked at Catti-brie, who had turned to stare off in the direction the gemstone amulet indicated. The westering sun backlit her, reflecting off the red and purple blouse she wore, a shirt that had once been the magical robes of a gnome wizard. Bruenor's adopted daughter was in her late thirties - not old in the counting of a dwarf, but near middle-aged for a human. And though she still had that luminescence, a beauty that radiated from within, luster to her auburn hair and the sparkle of youth in her large blue eyes, Bruenor could see the changes that had come over her.
She had Taulmaril the Heartseeker, her deadly bow, slung over one shoulder, though of late, Drizzt was the one with that bow in hand. Catti-brie had become a wizard, and one with a tutor as fine as any in the land. Alustriel herself, the Lady of Silverymoon and of the famed Seven Sisters, had taken Catti-brie in as a student shortly after the stalemated war between Bruenor's dwarves and King Obould's orcs. Other than the bow, Catti-brie carried only a small dagger, one that seemed hardly used as it sat on her hip. An assortment of wands lined her belt, though, and she wore a pair of powerfully enchanted rings, including one that she claimed could bring the stars themselves down from the sky upon her enemies.
"They're not far," she said in a voice still melodic and filled with wonder.
"They?" asked Drizzt.
"Such a creature would not travel alone - certainly not for a meeting with an orc of Obould's ferocious reputation." Catti-brie reminded him.
"But escorted by other devils, not a more common guard?"
Catti-brie shrugged, tightened her grip on the amulet, and concentrated for a few moments then nodded.
"A bold move," said Drizzt, "even when dealing with an orc. How confident must the Arcane Brotherhood be to allow devils to openly walk the land?"
"Less confident tomorrow than today's all I'm knowing," muttered Bruenor. He moved down to the side of the stony hill that afforded him the best view of Obould's encampment.
"Indeed," Drizzt agreed, throwing a wink at Catti-brie before moving down beside the dwarf. "For never would they have calculated that King Bruenor Battlehammer would rush to the aid of an orc."
"Just shut yer mouth, elf," Bruenor grumbled, and Drizzt and Catti-brie shared a smile.
Regis glanced around nervously. The agreement was for Obould to come out with a small contingent, but it was clear to the halfling that the orc had unilaterally changed that plan. Scores of orc warriors and shamans had been set around the main camp, hiding behind rocks or in crevices, cunningly concealed and prepared for swift egress.
As soon as Elastul's emissaries had delivered the word that the Arcane Brotherhood meant to move on the Silver Marches, and that enlisting Obould would be their first endeavor, the orc king's every maneuver had been aggressive.
Too aggressive? Regis wondered.
Lady Alustriel and Bruenor had reached out to Obould, but so too had Obould begun to reach out to them. In the four years since the treaty of Garumn's Gorge, there hadn't been all that much contact between the various kingdoms, dwarf and orc, and indeed, most of that contact had come in the form of skirmishes along disputed boundaries.
But they had come to join in their first common mission since Bruenor and his friends, Regis among them, had traveled north to help Obould stave off a coup attempt by a vicious tribe of half-ogre orcs.
Or had they? The question nagged at Regis as he continued to glance around. Ostensibly, they had agreed to come together to meet the brotherhood's emissaries with a show of united force, but a disturbing possibility nagged at the halfling. Suppose Obould instead planned to use his overwhelming numbers in support of the fiendish emissary and against Regis and his friends?
"You wouldn't have me risk the lives of King Bruenor and his princess Catti-brie, student of Alustriel, would you?" came Obould's voice from behind, shattering the halfling's train of thought.
Regis sheepishly turned to regard the massive humanoid, dressed in his overlapping black armor with its abundant and imposing spikes, and with that tremendous greatsword strapped across his back.
"I - I know not what you mean," Regis stammered, feeling naked under the knowing gaze of the unusually perceptive orc.
Obould laughed at him and turned away, leaving the halfling less than assured.
Several of the forward sentries began calling then, announcing the arrival of the outsiders. Regis rushed forward and to the side to get a good look, and when he did spy the newcomers a few moments later, his heart leaped into his throat.
A trio of beautiful, barely-dressed women led the way up the path. One stepped proudly in front, flanked left and right by her entourage. Tall, statuesque, with beautiful skin, they seemed almost angelic to Regis, for from behind their strong but delicate shoulders, they each sprouted a pair of shining white feathered wings. Everything about them spoke of otherworldliness, from their natural - or supernatural! - charms, like hair too lustrous and eyes too shining, to their adornments such as the fine swords and delicate rope, all magically glowing in a rainbow of hues, carried on belts twined of shining gold and silver fibers that sparkled with enchantments.
It would have been easy to confuse these women with the goodly celestials, had it not been for their escort. For behind them came a mob of gruesome and beastly warriors, the barbazu. Each carried a saw-toothed glaive, great tips waving in the light as the hunched, green-skinned creatures shuffled behind their leaders. Barbazu were also known as "bearded devils" because of a shock of facial hair that ran ear to ear down under their jawline, beneath a toothy mouth far too wide for their otherwise emaciated-looking faces. Scattered amongst their ranks were their pets, the lemure, oozing, fleshy creatures that had no more definable shape than that of a lump of molten stone, continually rolling, spreading, and contracting to propel themselves forward.
The group, nearly two score by Regis's count, moved steadily up the rock path toward Obould, who had climbed to the top to directly intercept them. Just a dozen paces before him the leading trio motioned for their shock troops to hold and came forward as a group, again with the same one, a most striking and alluring creature with stunning too-red hair, too-red eyes, and too-red lips, taking the point.
"You are Obould, I am sure," the erinyes purred, striding forward to stand right before the imposing orc, and though he was more than half a foot taller than her and twice her weight, she didn't seem diminished before him.
"Nyphithys, I assume," Obould replied.
The she-devil smiled, showing teeth blindingly white and dangerously sharp.
"We're honored to speak with King Obould Many-Arrows," the devil said, her red eyes twinkling coyly. "Your reputation has spread across Faerun. Your kingdom brings hope to all orcs."
"And hope to the Arcane Brotherhood, it would seem," Obould said, as Nyphithys's gaze drifted over to the side, where Regis remained half-hidden by a large rock. The erinyes grinned again - and Regis felt his knees go weak - before finally, mercifully, looking back to the imposing orc king.
"We make no secret of our wishes to expand our influence," she admitted. "Not to those with whom we wish to ally, at least. To others...." Her voice trailed off as she again looked Regis's way.
"He is a useful infiltrator," Obould remarked. "One whose loyalty is to whoever pays him the most gold. I have much gold."
Nyphithys's accepting nod seemed less than convinced.
"Your army is mighty, by all accounts," said the devil. "Your healers capable. Where you fail is in the Art, which leaves you dangerously vulnerable to the mages that are so prevalent in Silverymoon."
"And this is what the Arcane Brotherhood offers," Obould reasoned.
"We can more than match Alustriel's power."
"And so with you behind me, the Kingdom of Many-Arrows will overrun the Silver Marches."
Regis's knees went weak again at Obould's proclamation. The halfling's thoughts screamed of double-cross, and with his friends so dangerously exposed - and with himself so obviously doomed!
"It would be a beautiful coupling," the erinyes said, and ran her delicate hand across Obould's massive chest.
"A coupling is a temporary arrangement."
"A marriage, then," said Nyphithys.
"Or an enslavement."
The erinyes stepped back and looked at him curiously.
"I would provide you the fodder to absorb the spears and spells of your enemies," Obould explained. "My orcs would become to you as those barbezu."
"You misunderstand."
"Do I, Nyphithys?" Obould said, and it was his turn to offer a toothy grin.
"The brotherhood seeks to enhance trade and cooperation."
"Then why do you approach me under the cloak of secrecy? All the kingdoms of the Silver Marches value trade."
"Surely you don't consider yourself kin and kind with the dwarves of Mithral Hall, or with Alustriel and her delicate creatures. You are a god among orcs. Gruumsh adores you - I know this, as I have spoken with him."
Regis, who was growing confident again at Obould's strong rebuke, winced as surely as did Obould himself when Nyphithys made that particular reference.
"Gruumsh has guided the vision that is Many-Arrows," Obould replied after a moment of collecting himself. "I know his will."
Nyphithys beamed. "My master will be pleased. We will send..."
Obould's mocking laughter stopped her, and she looked at him with both curiosity and skepticism.
"War brought us to this, our home," Obould explained, "but peace sustains us."
"Peace with dwarves?" the devil asked.
Obould stood firm and didn't bother to reply.
"My master will not be pleased."
"He will exact punishment upon me?"
"Be careful what you wish for, king of orcs," the devil warned. "Your puny kingdom is no match for the magic of the Arcane Brotherhood."
"Who ally with devils and will send forth a horde of barbezu to entangle my armies while their overwizards rain death upon us?" Obould asked, and it was Nyphithys's turn to stand firm.
"While my own allies support my ranks with elven arrows, dwarven war machines, and Lady Alustriel's own knights and wizards," the orc said and drew out his greatsword, willing its massive blade to erupt with fire as it came free of its sheath.
To Nyphithys and her two erinyes companions, none of whom were smiling, he yelled, "Let us see how my orc fodder fares against your barbezu and flesh beasts!"
From all around, orcs leaped out of hiding. Brandishing swords and spears, axes and flails, they howled and rushed forward, and the devils, ever eager for battle, fanned out and met the charge.
"Fool orc," Nyphithys said. She pulled out her own sword, a wicked, straight-edged blade, blood red in color, and took her strange rope from her belt as well, as did her sister erinyes devils. "Our promise to you was of greater power than you will ever know!"
To the sides of the principals, orcs and lesser devils crashed together in a sudden torrent of howls and shrieks.
Obould came forward with frightening speed, his sword driving for the hollow between Nyphithys's breasts. He roared with victory, thinking the kill assured.
But Nyphithys was gone - just gone, magically disappeared, and so were her sisters.
"Fool orc," she called down to him from above, and Obould whirled and looked up to see the three devils some twenty feet off the ground, their feathered wings beating easily, holding them aloft and steady against the wind.
A bearded devil rushed at the seemingly distracted orc king, but Obould swept around at the last moment, his flaming greatsword cutting a devastating arc, and the creature fell away...in pieces.
As he turned back to regard Nyphithys, though, a rope slapped down around him. A magical rope, he quickly discerned, as it began to entwine him of its own accord, wrapping with blinding speed and the strength of a giant constrictor snake around his torso and limbs. Before he even began sorting that out, a second rope hit him and began to enwrap him, as each of Nyphithys's fellow erinyes, flanking their alluring leader, caught him in their extended magical grasp.
"Destroy them all!" Nyphithys called down to her horde. "They are only orcs!"
"Only orcs!" a bearded devil echoed, or tried to, for it came out "only or-glul," as a spike blasted through the devil's spine and lungs, exploding out its chest with a spray of blood and gore.
"Yeah, ye keep tellin' yerself that," said Thibbledorf Pwent, who had leaped down from a rocky abutment head first - helmet spike first - upon the unsuspecting creature. Pwent pulled himself to his feet, yanking the flailing, dying devil up over his head as he went. With a powerful jerk and twitch, he sent the creature flying away. "It'll make ye feel better," he said after it then he howled and charged at the next enemy he could find.
"Slow down, ye durned stoneheaded pile o' road apples!" Bruenor, who was more gingerly making his way down the same abutment, called after Pwent, to no avail. "So much for formations," the dwarf king grumbled to Drizzt, who rushed by with a fluid gait, leaping down ledge to ledge as easily as if he were running across flat tundra.
The drow hit the ground running. He darted off to the side and fell into a sidelong roll over a smooth boulder, landing solidly on his feet and with his scimitars already weaving a deadly pattern before him. Oozing lemures bubbled and popped under the slashes of those blades as Drizzt fell fully into his dance. He stopped, and whirled around just in time to double-parry the incoming glaive of a barbezu. Not wanting to fully engage the saw-toothed weapon, Drizzt instead slapped it with a series of shortened strikes, deflecting its thrust out wide.
His magical anklets enhancing his strides, the drow rushed in behind the glaive, Icingdeath and Twinkle, his trusted blades, making short work of the bearded devil.
"I got to get me a fast pony," Bruenor grumbled.
"War pig," one of the other dwarves coming down, another Gutbuster, corrected.
"Whatever's about," Bruenor agreed. "Anything to get me in the fight afore them two steal all the fun."
As if on cue, Pwent roared, "Come on, me boys! There's blood for spillin'!" and all the Gutbusters gave a great cheer and began raining down around Bruenor. They leaped from the stones and crashed down hard, caring not at all, and rolled off as one with all the frenzy of a tornado in an open market.
Bruenor sighed and looked at Torgar, the only other one left beside him at the base of the abutment, who couldn't suppress a chuckle of his own.
"They do it because they love their king," the Mirabarran dwarf remarked.
"They do it because they want to hit things," Bruenor muttered. He glanced over his shoulder, back up the rocks, to Catti-brie, who was crouched low, using a stone to steady her aim.
She looked down at Bruenor and winked then nodded forward, leading the dwarf's gaze to the three flying erinyes.
A dozen orc missiles reached up at Nyphithys and her sisters in the few moments Bruenor regarded them, but not one got close to penetrating the skin of the devils, who had enacted magical shields to prevent just such an attack.
Bruenor looked back to Catti-brie, who winked again and drew back far on her powerfully enchanted bow. She let fly a sizzling, lightning-like arrow that flashed brilliantly, cutting the air.
Nyphithys's magical shield sparked in protest as the missile slashed in, and to the devil's credit, the protection did deflect Catti-brie's arrow - just enough to turn it from the side of Nyphithys's chest to her wings. White feathers flew in a burst as the missile exploded through one wing then the other. The devil, her face a mask of surprise and agony, began to twist in a downward spiral.
"Good shot," Torgar remarked.
"Wasting her time with that stupid wizard stuff...." Bruenor replied.
A cacophony of metallic clangs turned them both to the side, to see Drizzt backing furiously, skipping up to the top of rocks, leaping from one to another, always just ahead of one or another of a multitude of glaives slashing at him.
"Who's wasting time?" the dark elf asked between desperate parries.
Bruenor and Torgar took the not-so-subtle hint, hoisted their weapons, and ran in support.
From on high, another arrow flashed, splitting the air just to the side of Drizzt and splitting the face of the bearded devil standing before him.
Bruenor's old, notched axe took out the devil chasing the drow from the other side, and Torgar rushed past the drow, shield-blocking another glaive aside, and as he passed, Drizzt sprinted in behind him to slash out the surprised devil's throat.
"We kill more than Pwent and his boys do, and I'm buying the ale for a year and a day," Bruenor cried, charging in beside his companions.
"Ten o' them, three of us," Torgar reminded his king as another arrow from Taulmaril blasted a lemure that roiled toward them.
"Four of us," Bruenor corrected with a wink back at Catti-brie, "and I'm thinking I'll make that bet!"
Either unaware or uncaring for the fall of Nyphithys, the other erinyes tightened their pressure and focus on Obould. Their magical ropes had wrapped him tightly and the devils pulled with all their otherworldly might in opposing directions to wrench and tear the orc king and lift him from the ground.
But they weren't the only ones possessed of otherworldly strength.
Obould let the ropes tighten around his waist, and locked his abdominal muscles to prevent them from doing any real damage. He dropped his greatsword to the ground, slapped his hands on the ropes running diagonally from him, and flipped them over and around once to secure his grasp. While almost any other creature would have tried to free itself from the grasp of two devils, Obould welcomed it. As soon as he was satisfied with his grip, his every muscle corded against the tightening rope and the pull of the erinyes, the orc began a series of sudden and brutal downward tugs.
Despite their powerful wings, despite their devilish power, the erinyes couldn't resist the pull of the mighty orc, and each tug reeled them down. Working like a fisherman, Obould's every muscle jerked in synch, and he let go of the ropes at precisely the right moment to grasp them higher up.
Around him the battle raged and Obould knew that he was vulnerable, but rage drove him on. Even as a barbezu approached him, he continued his work against the erinyes.
The barbezu howled, thinking it had found an opening, and leaped forward, but a series of small flashes of silver whipped past Obould's side. The barbezu jerked and gyrated, trying to avoid or deflect the stream of daggers. Obould managed a glance back to see the halfling friend of Bruenor shrugging, almost apologetically, as he loosed the last of his missiles.
That barrage wasn't about to stop a barbezu, of course, but it did deter the devil long enough. Another form, lithe and fast, rushed past Regis and Obould. Drizzt leaped high as he neared the surprised bearded devil, too high for the creature to lift its saw-toothed glaive to intercept. Drizzt managed to stamp down on the flat of its heavy blade as he descended, and he skipped right past the barbezu, launching a knee into its face for good measure as he soared by. That knee was more to slow his progress than to defeat the creature, though it caught the devil off guard. The real attack came from behind, Drizzt spinning around and putting his scimitars to deadly work before the devil could counter with any semblance of a defense.
The wounded barbezu, flailing crazily, looked around for support, but all around it, its comrades were crumbling. The orcs, the Gutbusters, and Bruenor's small group simply overwhelmed them.
Obould saw it, too, and he gave another huge tug, pulling down the erinyes. Barely a dozen feet from the ground, the devils recognized their doom. As one, they unfastened their respective ropes in an attempt to soar away, but before they could even get free of their own entanglement, a barrage of spears, stones, knives, and axes whipped up at them. Then came a devastating missile at the devil fluttering to Obould's left. A pair of dwarves, hands locked between them, made a platform from which jumped one Thibbledorf Pwent. He went up high enough to wrap the devil in a great hug, and the wild dwarf immediately went into his frenzied gyrations, his ridged armor biting deep and hard.
The erinyes screamed in protest, and Pwent punched a spiked gauntlet right through her face.
The two fell like a stone. Pwent expertly twisted to put the devil under him before they landed.
"You know not what you do, drow," Nyphithys said as Drizzt, fresh from his kill of the barbezu, approached. The devil's wings hung bloody and useless behind her, but she stood steadily, and seemed more angry than hurt. She held her sword in her left hand, her enchanted rope, coiled like a whip, in her right.
"I have battled and defeated a marilith and a balor," Drizzt replied, though the erinyes laughed at him. "I do not tremble."
"Even should you beat me, you will be making enemies more dangerous than you could ever imagine!" Nyphithys warned, and it was Drizzt's turn to laugh.
"You don't know my history," he said dryly.
"The Arcane Brotherhood - "
Drizzt cut her short. "Would be a minor House in the city of Menzoberranzan, where all the families looked long to see the end of me. I do not tremble, Nyphithys of Stygia, who calls Luskan her home."
The devil's eyes flashed.
"Yes, we know your name," Drizzt assured her. "And we know who sent you."
"Arabeth," Nyphithys mouthed with a hiss.
The name meant nothing to Drizzt, though if she had added Arabeth's surname, Raurym, he would have made the connection to Marchion Elastul Raurym, who had indeed tipped them off.
"At least I will see the end of you before I am banished to the Nine Hells," Nyphithys declared, and she raised her right arm, letting free several lengths of rope, and snapped it like a whip at Drizzt.
He moved before she ever came forward, turning sidelong to the snapping rope. He slashed at it with Icingdeath, his right-hand blade, turned fully to strike it higher up with a backhanded uppercut of Twinkle in his left hand, then came around again with Icingdeath, slashing harder.
And around he went again, and again, turning three circles that had the rope out wide, and shortened its length with every powerful slash.
As he came around the fourth time, he met Nyphithys's thrusting sword with a slashing backhand parry.
The devil was ready for it, though, and she easily rolled her blade over the scimitar and thrust again for Drizzt's belly as he continued his turn.
Drizzt was ready for her to be ready for it, though, and Icingdeath came up under the long sword, catching it with its curved back edge. The dark elf completed the upward movement, rotating his arm up and out, throwing Nyphithys's blade far and high to his right.
Before the devil could extract her blade, Drizzt did a three-way movement of perfect coordination, bringing Twinkle snapping up and across to replace its companion blade in keeping the devil's sword out of the way, stepping forward and snapping his right down and ahead, its edge coming in tight against the devil's throat.
He had her helpless.
But she kept smiling.
And she was gone - just gone - vanished from his sight.
Drizzt whirled around and fell into a defensive roll, but relaxed somewhat when he spotted the devil, some thirty feet away on an island of rock a few feet up from his level.
"Fool drow," she scolded. "Fools, all of you. My masters will melt your land to ash and molten stone!"
A movement to the side turned her, to see Obould stalking her way.
"And you are the biggest fool of all," she roared at him. "We promised you power beyond anything you could ever imagine."
The orc took three sudden and furious strides then leaped as only Obould could leap, a greater leap than any orc would even attempt, a leap that seemed more akin to magical flight.
Nyphithys didn't anticipate it. Drizzt didn't, either. And neither did Bruenor or Catti-brie, who was readying an arrow to try to finish off the devil. She quickly deduced that there was no need for it, when Obould cleared the remaining distance and went high enough to land beside Nyphithys. He delivered his answer by transferring all of his momentum into a swing of his powerful greatsword.
Drizzt winced, for he had seen that play before. He thought of Tarathiel, his fallen friend, and pictured the elf in Nyphithys's place as she was shorn in half by the orc's mighty, fiery blade.
The devil fell to the stone, in two pieces.
"By Moradin's own mug," said Thibbledorf Pwent, standing between Bruenor and Regis. "I'm knowin' he's an orc, but I'm likin' this one."
Bruenor smirked at his battlerager escort, but his gaze went right back to Obould, who seemed almost godlike standing up on that stone, his foe, vanquished, at his feet.
Realizing that he had to react, Bruenor stalked the orc's way. "She'd have made a fine prisoner," he reminded Obould.
"She makes a better trophy," the orc king insisted, and he and Bruenor locked their typically angry stares, the two always seeming on the verge of battle.
"Don't ye forget that we came to help ye," said Bruenor.
"Don't you forget that I let you," Obould countered, and they continued to stare.
Over to the side, Drizzt found his way to Catti-brie. "Been four years," the woman lamented, watching the two rival kings and their unending growling at each other. "I wonder if I will live long enough to see them change."
"They're staring, not fighting," Drizzt replied. "You already have."