All of the major defenses were in place, and Drizzt and Montolio busied themselves finalizing their strategies. Every so often, Hooter or some other owl would rush in, chattering with news. One came in with the expected confirmation: King Graul and his band were on the march.
“You can call Guenhwyvar now,” Montolio said. “They will come in this night.”
“Foolish,” said Drizzt. “The night favors us. You are blind anyway and in no need of daylight and I surely prefer the darkness.”
The owl hooted again.
“The main host will come in from the west,” Montolio told Drizzt smugly. “As I said they would. Scores of orcs and a giant besides! Hooter’s watching another smaller group that split from the first.”
The mention of the giant sent a shudder along Drizzt’s spine, but he had every intention, and a plan already set, for fighting this one. “I want to draw the giant to me,” he said.
Montolio turned to him curiously. “Let us see how the battle goes,” the ranger offered. “There is only one giant—you or I will get it.”
“I want to draw the giant to me,” Drizzt said again, more firmly. Montolio couldn’t see the set of the drow’s jaw or the seething fires in Drizzt’s lavender eyes, but the ranger couldn’t deny the determination in Drizzt’s voice.
“Mangura bok woklok” he said, and he smiled again, knowing that the strange utterance had caught the drow unaware.
“Mangura bok woklok” Montolio declared again. “ ‘Stupid blockhead,’ translated word by word. Stone giants hate that phrase—brings them charging in every time!”
“Mangura bok woklok” Drizzt mouthed quietly. He’d have to remember that.
18. The Battle of Mooshie’s Grove
Drizzt noticed that Montolio looked more than a little troubled after Hooter, back with more news, departed.
“The split of Graul’s forces?” he inquired.
Montolio nodded, his expression grim. “Worg-riding orcs—just a handful—circling around to the west.”
Drizzt looked out beyond the rock wall, to the pass secured by their brandy trough. “We can stop them,” he said.
Still the ranger’s expression told of doom. “Another group of worgs—a score or more—is coming from the south.” Drizzt did not miss the ranger’s fear, as Montolio added, “Caroak is leading them. I never thought that one would fall in with Graul.”
“A giant?” Drizzt asked.
“No, winter wolf,” Montolio replied. At the words, Guenhwyvar flattened its ears and growled angrily.
“The panther knows,” Montolio said as Drizzt looked on in amazement. “A winter wolf is a perversion of nature, a blight against creatures following the natural order, and thus, Guenhwyvar’s enemy.”
The black panther growled again.
“It’s a large creature,” Montolio went on, “and too smart for a wolf. I have fought Caroak before. Alone he could give us a time of it! With the worgs around him, and us busy fighting orcs, he might have his way.”
Guenhwyvar growled a third time and tore the ground with great claws.
“Guenhwyvar will deal with Caroak,” Drizzt remarked.
Montolio moved over and grabbed the panther by the ears, holding Guenhwyvar’s gaze with his own sightless expression. “ ‘Ware the wolf’s breath,” the ranger said. “A cone of frost, it is, that will freeze your muscles to your bones. I have seen a giant felled by it!” Montolio turned to Drizzt and knew that the drow wore a concerned expression.
“Guenhwyvar has to keep them away from us until we can chase off Graul and his group,” the ranger said, “then we can make arrangements for Caroak.” He released his hold on the panther’s ears and swatted Guenhwyvar hard on the scruff of the neck.
Guenhwyvar roared a fourth time and darted off through the grove, a black arrow aimed at the heart of doom.
Graul’s main attack force came, as expected, from the west, whooping and hollering and trampling the brush in its path. The troops approached in two groups, one through each of the dense copses.
“Aim for the group on the south!” Montolio called up to Drizzt, in position on the crossbow-laden rope bridge. “We’ve friends in the other!”
As if in confirmation of the ranger’s decree, the northern copse erupted suddenly in orc cries that sounded more like terrified shrieks than battle calls. A chorus of throaty growls accompanied the screams. Bluster the bear had come to Montolio’s call, Drizzt knew, and by the sounds in the copse, he had brought a number of friends.
Drizzt wasn’t about to question their good fortune. He positioned himself behind the closest crossbow and let the quarrel fly as the first orcs emerged from the southern copse. Right down the line the drow ran, clicking off his shots in rapid succession. From down below, Montolio arced a few arrows over the wall.
In the sudden swarm of orcs, Drizzt couldn’t tell how many of their shots actually hit, but the buzzing bolts did slow the orc charge and scattered their ranks. Several orcs dropped to their bellies; a few turned and headed straight back into the trees. The bulk of the group, though, and some running to join from the other copse, came on.
Montolio fired one last time, then felt his way back into a sheltered run behind the center of his bent tree traps, where he would be protected on three sides by walls of wood and trees. His bow in one hand, he checked his sword and then reached around to touch a rope at his other side.
Drizzt noticed the ranger moving into position twenty feet below him and to the side, and he figured that this might be his last free opportunity. He sorted out an object hanging above Montolio’s head and dropped a spell over it.
The quarrels had brought minimum chaos to the field of charging orcs, but the traps proved more effective. First one, then another, orc stepped in, their cries rising over the din of the charge. As other orcs saw their companions’ pain and peril, they slowed considerably or stopped altogether.
With the commotion growing in the field, Drizzt paused and carefully considered his final shot. He noticed a large, finely outfitted orc watching from the closest boughs of the northern copse. Drizzt knew this was Graul, but his attention shifted immediately to the figure standing next to the orc king. “Damn,” the drow muttered, recognizing McGristle. Now he was torn, and he moved the crossbow back and forth between the adversaries. Drizzt wanted to shoot at Roddy, wanted to end his personal torment then and there. But Roddy was not an orc, and Drizzt found himself repulsed by the thought of killing a human!
“Graul is the more important target,” the drow told himself, more to distract his inner torment than for any other reason. Quickly, before he could find any more arguments, he took aim and fired. The quarrel whistled long and far, knocking into the trunk of a tree just inches above Graul’s head. Roddy promptly grabbed the orc king and pulled him back into the deeper shadows. In their stead came a roaring stone giant, rock in hand.
The boulder clipped the trees beside Drizzt, shaking the branches and bridge alike. A second shot followed at once, this one taking a supporting post squarely and dropping the front half of the bridge.
Drizzt had seen it coming, though he was amazed and horrified by the uncanny accuracy at so far a range. As the front half of the bridge fell away beneath him, Drizzt leaped out, catching a hold in a tangle of branches. When he finally sorted himself out, he was faced by a new problem. From the east came the worg-riders, brandishing torches.
Drizzt looked to the log trap, then to the crossbow. It and the post securing it had survived the boulder hit, but the drow could not hope to cross to it on the faltering bridge.
The leaders of the main host, now behind Drizzt, reached the rock wall then. Fortunately, the first orc leaping over landed squarely into another of the wicked jaw traps, and its companions were not so quick to follow.