“Grguch is strong,” the orc king said, and he brought his great-sword from its scabbard strapped diagonally across his back. “But Obould is stronger. You will learn.”

General Dukka eyed that sword for a long while, recalling the many occasions when he had seen it put to devastating use. Gradually, he began to nod then to grin.

“Your flanks will be secure,” he promised his king. “And any fodder prodded before Grguch’s clan will be swept clean before they reach the hill. Clan Karuck alone will press the center.”

“Ye lost yer wits, ye durned orc-brained, pointy-eared elf!” Bruenor bellowed and stomped the ground in frustration. “I come out here to kill the beast!”

“Tos’un speaks the truth.”

“I ain’t for trusting drow elfs, exceptin’ yerself!”

“Then trust me, for I overheard much of his conversation with the orc conspirators. Obould dispatched an emissary to Mithral Hall to forbid the attack.”

“Ye don’t know what Tos’un telled them orcs to say afore they got out to ye.”

“True enough,” Drizzt conceded, “but I suspected that which Tos’un reports long before I ever caught up to him. Obould’s pause has run too long.”

“He attacked me wall! And the Moonwood. Are ye so quick in forgetting Innovindil?”

The accusation rocked Drizzt back on his heels, and he winced, profoundly stung. For he had not forgotten Innovindil, not at all. He could still hear her sweet voice all around him, coaxing him to explore his innermost thoughts and feelings, coaching him on what it was to be an elf. Innovindil had given to him a great and wondrous gift, and in that gift, Drizzt Do’Urden had found himself, his heart and his course. With her lessons, offered in the purest friendship, Innovindil had solidified the sand beneath Drizzt’ Do’Urden’s feet, which had been shifting unsteadily for so many years.

He hadn’t forgotten Innovindil. He could see her. He could smell her. He could hear her voice and the song of her spirit.

But her demise was not the work of Obould, he was certain. That terrible loss was the consequence of the absence of Obould, a prelude to the chaos that would ensue if that new threat, the beast Grguch, assumed command of Obould’s vast and savage army.

“What are ye askin’ me for, elf?” Bruenor said after the long and uncomfortable pause.

“It wasn’t Gauntlgrym.”

Bruenor locked his gaze, unblinking.

“But it was beautiful, was it not?” Drizzt asked. “A testament—”

“An abomination,” Bruenor interrupted.

“Was it? Would Dagna and Dagnabbit think it so? Would Shoudra?”

“Ye ask me to dishonor them!”

“I ask you to honor them with the most uncommon courage, will and vision. In all the recorded and violent histories of all the races, there are few who could claim such.”

Bruenor tightened his grip on his many-notched axe and lifted it before him.

“No one doubts the courage of King Bruenor Battlehammer,” Drizzt assured the dwarf. “Any who witnessed your stand against the tide of orcs on the retreat into Mithral Hall places you among the legends of dwarf warriors, and rightly so. But I seek in you the courage not to fight.”

“Ye’re bats, elf, and I knowed ye’d be nothing but trouble when I first laid eyes on ye on the side o’ Kelvin’s Cairn.”

Drizzt drew out Twinkle and Icingdeath and tapped them on either side of Bruenor’s axe.

“I’ll be watchin’ the fight afore us,” Bruenor promised. “And when I find me place in it, don’t ye be blocking me axe, where’er it’s aimed.”

Drizzt snapped his scimitars away and bowed before Bruenor. “You are my king. My counsel has been given. My blades are ready.”

Bruenor nodded and started to turn away, but stopped abruptly and swiveled his head back at Drizzt, a sly look in his eye. “And if ye send yer durned cat to pin me down, elf, I’ll be cooking kitty, don’t ye doubt.”

Bruenor stomped away and Drizzt looked back at the probable battlefield, where the distant lines of orcs were converging. He pulled the onyx figurine from his belt pouch and summoned Guenhwyvar to his side, confident that the fight would ensue long before the panther began to tire.

Besides, he needed the surety of Guenhwyvar, the nonjudgmental companionship. For as he had asked for courage from Bruenor, so Drizzt had demanded it of himself. He thought of Tarathiel and Shoudra and all the others, dead now because of the march of Obould, dead at Obould’s own hand. He thought of Innovindil, always he thought of Innovindil, and of Sunset, and he knew that he would carry that pain with him for the rest of his life. And though he could logically remove that last atrocity from the bloody hands of Obould, would any of it have happened in the Moonwood, in Mithral Hall, in Shallows and Nesmé, and all throughout the Silver Marches, had not Obould come forth with designs of conquest?

And yet, there he was, asking for uncommon courage from Bruenor, betting on Tos’un, and gambling with all the world, it seemed.

He brought his hand down to stroke Guenhwyvar’s sleek black coat, and the panther sat down then collapsed onto her belly, her tongue hanging out between her formidable fangs.

“If I am wrong, Guenhwyvar, my friend, and to my ultimate loss, then I ask of you this one thing: dig your claws deep into the flesh of King Obould of the orcs. Leave him in agony upon the ground, dying of mortal wounds.”

Guenhwyvar gave a lazy growl and rolled to her side, calling for a scratching on her ribs.

But Drizzt knew that she had understood every word, and that she, above all others, would not let him down.

CHAPTER 29

DWARVEN KING, DWARVEN ARROW

Shingles and Torgar stood quietly, staring at Bruenor, letting him lead without question, while an eager Pwent hopped around them. Cordio kept his eyes closed, praying to Moradin—and to Clangeddin, for he understood that the road to battle was clear. For Hralien, there showed only grim determination, and beside him, the bound Tos’un matched that intensity. Regis shifted from foot to foot nervously. And Drizzt, who had just delivered the assessment that battle was soon to be joined, and that the time had come for them to either leave or engage, waited patiently.

All focus fell to Bruenor, and the weight of that responsibility showed clearly on the face of the agitated dwarf. He had brought them there, and on his word they would either flee to safety or leap into the jaws of a tremendous battle—a battle they could not hope to win, or likely even survive, but one that they might, if their gods blessed them, influence.

To the south, Obould saw Dukka’s force rolling forward like a dark cloud, streaming toward a line of orcs moving west to flank the hills. The clan of the Wolf Jaw, he knew, and he nodded and growled softly, imagining all the horrors he would inflict upon Dnark when his business with Grguch was over.

Confident that General Dukka would keep Wolf Jaw at bay, Obould focused his gaze directly to the east, where rising dust showed the approach of a powerful force, and yellow banners shot with red proclaimed Clan Karuck. The orc king closed his eyes and fell within his thoughts, imagining again his great kingdom, full of walls and castles, and teeming cities of orcs living under the sun and sharing fully in the bounty of the world.

Kna’s shriek brought him from his quiet meditation, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Obould understood her distress.

An orc approached, a zombie orc, holding its head plaintively in its hands before it. Before any of his warriors and guards could react, Obould leaped the low wall before him and charged down, drawing his greatsword as he went. A single swing cleaved the zombie in half and sent the head flying.

So it was, the orc king knew as he executed the swing. Grguch had stated his intent and Obould had answered. There was no more to be said.