When Drizzt returned through the lair, he found Wulfgar sitting with Guenhwyvar in the main passage just a few yards from the closed and barred front doors. The barbarian stroked the cat’s muscled shoulders and neck.
“I see that Guenhwyvar has won your friendship,” Drizzt said as he approached.
Wulfgar smiled. “A fine ally,” he said, giving the animal a playful shake. “And a true warrior!” He started to rise but was thrown violently back to the floor.
An explosion rocked the lair as a ballista bolt slammed into the heavy doors, splintering their wooden bar and blasting them in. One of the doors broke cleanly in half and the other’s top hinge tore away, leaving the door hanging awkwardly by its twisted bottom hinge.
Drizzt drew his scimitar and stood protectively over Wulfgar as the barbarian tried to regain his balance.
Abruptly a bearded fighter leaped onto the hanging door, a circular shield, its standard a mug of foaming ale, slung over one arm and a notched and bloodstained battle-ax poised in the other. “Come out and play, giants!” Bruenor called, banging his shield with his axe—as if his clan hadn’t already made enough noise to rouse the lair!
“Rest easy, wild dwarf,” Drizzt laughed. “The verbeeg are all dead.”
Bruenor spotted his friends and hopped down into the tunnel, soon followed by the rest of the rowdy clan. “All dead!” the dwarf cried. “Damn ye, elf, I knew ye’d keep all the play to yerself!”
“What about the reinforcements?” Wulfgar asked.
Bruenor chuckled wickedly. “Some faith, will ye, boy? They’re lumped in a common hole, though buryin’s too good for ‘em, I say! Only one’s alive, a miserable orc who’ll breath only as long as ‘e wags ‘is stinkin’ tongue!”
After the episode with the mirror, Drizzt was more than a little interested in interrogating the orc. “Have you questioned him?” he asked Bruenor.
“Ah, he’s mum to now,” the dwarf replied. “But I’ve a few things should make ‘im squeal!”
Drizzt knew better. Orcs were not loyal creatures, but under the enchantment of a mage, torturing techniques weren’t usually much good. They needed something to counteract the magic, and Drizzt had a notion of what might work. “Go for Regis,” he instructed Bruenor. “The halfling can make the orc tell us everything we want to know.”
“Torturin’d be more fun,” lamented Bruenor, but he, too, understood the wisdom of the drow’s suggestion. He was more than a bit curious—and worried—about so many giants working together. And now with orcs beside them…
Drizzt and Wulfgar sat in the far corner of the small chamber, as far from Bruenor and the other two dwarves as they could get. One of Bruenor’s troops had returned from Lonelywood with Regis that same night, and though they were all exhausted from marching and fighting, they were too anxious about the impending information to sleep. Regis and the captive orc had moved into the adjoining room for a private conversation as soon as the halfling had gotten the prisoner firmly under his control with his ruby pendant.
Bruenor busied himself preparing a new recipe—giant-brain stew—boiling the wretched, foul-smelling ingredients right in a hollowed-out verbeeg skull. “Use yer heads!” he had argued in response to Drizzt and Wulfgar’s expressions of horror and disgust. “A barnyard goose tastes better ‘an a wild one cause it don’t use its muscles. The same oughta hold true for a giant’s brains!”
Drizzt and Wulfgar hadn’t seen things quite the same way. They didn’t want to leave the area and miss anything that Regis might have to say, though, so they huddled in the farthest corner of the room, carrying on a private conversation.
Bruenor strained to hear them, for they were talking of something that he had more than a passing interest in.
“Half for the last one in the kitchen,” Wulfgar insisted, “and half for the cat.”
“And you only get half for the one at the chasm,” Drizzt retorted.
“Agreed,” said Wulfgar. “And we split the one in the hall and Biggrin down the middle?”
Drizzt nodded. “Then with all halves and shared kills added up, it’s ten and one-half for me and ten and one-half for you.”
“And four for the cat,” added Wulfgar.
“Four for the cat,” Drizzt echoed. “Well fought, friend. You’ve held your own up to now, but I’ve a feeling that we have a lot more fighting before us, and my greater experience will win out in the end!”
“You grow old, good elf,” Wulfgar teased, leaning back against the wall, the whiteness of a confident grin showing through his blond beard. “We shall see. We shall see.”
Bruenor, too, was smiling, both at the good-natured competition between his friends and at his continued pride in the young barbarian. Wulfgar was doing well to keep pace with a skilled veteran like Drizzt Do’Urden.
Regis emerged from the room, and the gray pall upon his usually jovial face deadened the lighthearted atmosphere. “We are in trouble,” the halfling said grimly.
“Where’s the orc?” Bruenor demanded as he pulled his axe from his belt, misunderstanding the halfling’s meaning.
“In there. He’s all right,” Regis replied. The orc had been happy to tell its new-found friend everything about Akar Kessell’s plans to invade Ten-Towns and the size of the gathering forces. Regis visibly trembled as he told his friends the news.
“All of the orc and goblin tribes and verbeeg clans of this region of the Spine of the World are banding together under a sorcerer named Akar Kessell,” the halfling began. Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other, recognizing Kessell’s name. The barbarian had thought Akar Kessell to be a huge frost giant when the verbeeg had spoken of him, but Drizzt had suspected differently, especially after the incident at the mirror.
“They plan to attack Ten-Towns,” Regis continued. “And even the barbarians, led by some mighty, one-eyed leader, have joined their ranks!”
Wulfgar’s face reddened in anger and embarrassment. His people fighting beside orcs! He knew the leader that Regis spoke of, for Wulfgar was of the Tribe of the Elk and had even once carried the tribe’s standard as Heafstaag’s herald. Drizzt painfully recalled the one-eyed king, too. He put a comforting hand on Wulfgar’s shoulder.
“Go to Bryn Shander,” the drow told Bruenor and Regis. “The people must prepare.”
Regis winced at the futility. If the orc’s estimation of the assembling army had been correct, all of Ten-Towns joined together could not withstand the assault. The halfling dropped his head and mouthed silently, not wanting to alarm his friends any more than was necessary, “We have to leave!”
Though Bruenor and Regis were able to convince Cassius of the urgency and importance of their news, it took several days to round up the other spokesmen for council. It was the height of knucklehead season, late summer, and the last push was on to land a big catch for the final trading caravan to Luskan. The spokesmen of the nine fishing villages understood their responsibilities to their community, but they were reluctant to leave the lakes even for a single day.
And so, with the exceptions of Cassius of Bryn Shander, Muldoon, the new spokesman from Lonelywood, who looked up to Regis as the hero of his town, Glensather of Easthaven, the community ever-willing to join in for the good of Ten-Towns, and Agorwal of Termalaine who held fierce loyalty to Bruenor, the mood of the council was not very receptive.
Kemp, still bearing a grudge against Bruenor for the incident over Drizzt after the Battle of Bryn Shander, was especially disruptive. Before Cassius even had the opportunity to present the Formalities of Order, the gruff spokesman from Targos leaped up from his seat and slammed his fists down on the table. “Damn the formal readings and be on with it!” Kemp growled. “By what right do you order us in from the lakes, Cassius? Even as we sit around this table, the merchants in Luskan are preparing for their journey!”