He turned directly to General Dukka and Chieftain Grimsmal, who had edged closer together. “We know them, but even against what we have shown to them in conquering this land, they still do not know us. This”—he swept his arm out to encompass the catapults, archers, and all the rest—“they know, and expect. Your preparations are half done, General Dukka, and half done well. Now envision how King Bruenor will try to counter everything you have done, and complete your preparations to defeat that counter.”

“B-but…my king?” General Dukka stammered.

“I have all confidence in you,” Obould said. “Begin by trapping your own entrenchments on the western side of Keeper’s Dale, so that if the dwarves reach that goal, your warriors can quickly retreat and leave them exposed on another battlefield of your choosing.”

Dukka began to nod, his eyes shining, and his lips curled into a wicked grin.

“Tell me,” Obould bade him.

“I can set a second force in the south to get to the doors behind them,” the orc replied. “To cut off any dwarf army that charges across the valley.”

“Or a second force that appears to do so,” said Obould, and he paused and let all around him digest that strange response.

“So they will turn and run back,” Dukka answered at length. “And then have to cross yet again to gain the ground they covet.”

“I have never wavered in my faith in you, General Dukka,” said Obould, and he nodded and even patted the beaming orc on the shoulder as he walked past.

His smile was twofold, and genuine. He had just strengthened the loyalty of an important general, and had impressed the potentially troublesome Grimsmal in the process. Obould knew what played in Grimsmal’s mind as he swept up behind the departing entourage. If Obould, and apparently his commanders, could think so far ahead of King Bruenor, then what might befall any orc chieftain who plotted against the King of Many-Arrows?

Those doubts were the real purpose of his visit to Keeper’s Dale, after all, and not any concerns about General Dukka’s readiness. For it was all moot, Obould understood. King Bruenor would never come forth from those western doors. As the dwarf had learned in his breakout to the east—and as Obould had learned in trying to flood into Mithral Hall—any such advance would demand too high a cost in blood.

Wulfgar screamed at the top of his lungs, as if his voice alone might somehow, impossibly, halt the thrust of the spear.

A blue-white flash stung the barbarian’s eyes, and for a moment he thought it was the burning pain of the spear entering his belly. But when he came out of his blink, he saw the spear-wielding orc flipping awkwardly in front of him. The creature hit the ground limp, already dead, and by the time Wulfgar turned to face its companion that orc had dropped its sword and grasped and clawed at its chest. Blood poured from a wound, both front and back.

Wulfgar didn’t understand. He jabbed his warhammer at the wounded orc and missed—another streaking arrow, a bolt of lightning, soared past Wulfgar and hit the orc in the shoulder, throwing it to the ground near its fallen comrade. Wulfgar knew that tell-tale missile, and he roared again and turned to face his rescuer.

He was surprised to see Drizzt, not Catti-brie, holding Taulmaril the Heartseeker.

The drow sprinted toward him, his light steps barely ruffling the blanket of deep snow. He started to nock another arrow, but tossed the bow aside instead and drew forth his two scimitars. He tossed a salute at Wulfgar then darted to the side as he neared, turning into a handful of battle-ready orcs.

“Biggrin!” Drizzt shouted as Wulfgar charged in his wake.

“Tempus!” the barbarian responded.

He put Aegis-fang up behind his head, and let it fly from both hands, the warhammer spinning end-over-end for the back of Drizzt’s head.

Drizzt ducked and dropped to his knees at the last moment. The five orcs, following the drow’s movements, had no time to react to the spinning surprise. At the last moment, the orcs threw up their arms defensively and tangled each other in their desperation to get out of the way. Aegis-fang took one squarely, and that flying orc clipped another enough to send both tumbling back.

The remaining three hadn’t even begun to re-orient themselves to their opponents when the fury of Drizzt fell over them. He skidded on his knees as the hammer flew past, but leaped right back up to his feet and charged forward with abandon, his deadly blades crossing before him, going out wide, then coming back in another fast cross on the backhand. He counted on confusion, and confusion he found. The three orcs fell away in moments, slashed and stabbed.

Wulfgar, still chasing, summoned Aegis-fang back to his waiting hands, then veered inside the drow’s turn so that his long legs brought him up beside Drizzt as they approached the encampment’s main area of tents, where many orcs had gathered.

But those orcs would not stand against them, and any indecision the porcine humanoids might have had about running away was snapped away a moment later when a giant panther roared from the side.

Weapons went flying, and orcs went running, scattering to the winter’s winds.

Wulfgar heaved Aegis-fang after the nearest, dropping it dead in its tracks. He put his head down and plowed on even faster—or started to, until Drizzt grabbed him by the arm and tugged him around.

“Let them go,” the drow said. “There are many more about, and we will lose our advantage in the chase.”

Wulfgar skidded to a stop and again called his magical war-hammer back to his grasp. He took a moment to survey the dead, the wounded, and the fleeing orcs then met Drizzt’s gaze and nodded, his bloodlust sated.

And he laughed. He couldn’t help it. It came from somewhere deep inside, a desperate release, a burst of protest against the absurdity of his own actions. It came from those distant memories again, of running free in Icewind Dale. He had caught the “Biggrin” reference so easily, understanding in that single name that Drizzt wanted him to throw the warhammer at the back of the drow’s head.

How was that even possible?

“Wulfgar has a desire to die?” Drizzt asked, and he, too, chuckled.

“I knew you would arrive. It is what you do.”

Kna curled around his arm, rubbing his shoulder, purring and growling as always. Seated at the table in the tent, King Obould seemed not even to notice her, which of course only made her twist, curl, and growl even more intensely.

Across the table, General Dukka and Chieftain Grimsmal understood all too clearly that Kna was their reminder that Obould was above them, in ways they simply could never hope to attain.

“Five blocks free,” General Dukka explained, “block” being the orc military term coined by Obould to indicate a column of one thousand warriors, marching ten abreast and one hundred deep. “Before the turn of Tarsakh.”

“You can march them to the Surbrin, north of Mithral Hall, in five days,” Chieftain Grimsmal remarked. “Four days if you drive them hard.”

“I would drive them through the stones for the glory of King Obould!” Dukka replied.

Obould did not appear impressed.

“There is no need of such haste,” he said at length, after sitting with a contemplative stare that had the other two chewing their lips in anticipation.

“The onset of Tarsakh will likely bring a clear path to the dwarven battlements,” Chieftain Grimsmal dared to reply.

“A place we will not go.”

The blunt response had Grimsmal sliding back in his chair, and brought a stupefied blink from Dukka.

“Perhaps I can free six blocks,” the general said.

“Five or fifty changes nothing,” Obould declared. “The ascent is not our wisest course.”

“You know another route to strike at them?” Dukka asked.