The drow came off the branch in a leaping somersault, landing lightly in a roll before the orc, who nearly jumped out of his boots and threw his hands up defensively. As Drizzt came out of that roll, he sprang and rolled again, going right past the orc, right over the orc’s shoulder as he turned back upright.
Anger drove him, memories of Innovindil. He told himself that he had solved the riddle, that that creature had been the cause.
Fury driving his arms, he slashed back behind him and down with Icingdeath as he landed, and felt the blade slash hard through the orc’s leather tunic and bite deeply into flesh. Drizzt skidded to an abrupt stop and pirouetted, slashing hard with Twinkle, gashing the back-bending orc across the shoulder blades. Drizzt stepped back toward him, moving around him on the other side, and cut Twinkle down hard across the creature’s exposed throat, driving it to the ground on its back.
He moved for the kill, but stopped short, realizing that he needn’t bother. A growl from over by the burning pines showed him that Guenhwyvar hadn’t heeded his call to be gone, but neither had the panther, so swift and clever, been caught in the blast.
Relief flooded through Drizzt, but with the diversion, he didn’t take notice of a small winged snake slithering out of the dead orc’s ear.
Bruenor’s axe slid down hard to the side, and Bruenor stumbled that way. He saw the huge orc’s face twist in glee, in the belief of victory.
But that was exactly the look he had hoped for.
For Bruenor was not stumbling, and had forced the angled block for that very reason, to disengage his axe quickly and down to the side, far to the right of his target. In his stumble, Bruenor was really just re-setting his stance, and he spun away from the orc, daring to turn his back on it for a brief moment.
In that spin, Bruenor sent his axe in a roundabout swing at the end of his arm, and the orc, readying a killing strike, could not redirect his heavy two-bladed axe in time.
Bruenor whirled around, his axe flying out wide to the right, setting himself in a widespread stance, ready to meet any attack.
None came, for his axe had torn the orc’s belly as it had come around, and the creature crumbled backward, holding its heavy axe in its right hand, but clutching at its spilling entrails with its left.
Bruenor stalked forward and began battering it once more. The orc managed to block a blow, then a second, but the third slipped past and gashed its forearm, tearing its hand clear of its belly.
Guts spilled out. The orc howled and tried to back away.
But a flaming sword swept in over Bruenor’s one-horned helmet and cut Grguch’s misshapen head apart.
Guenhwyvar’s roar saved him, for Drizzt glanced back at the last moment, and ducked aside just in time to avoid the brunt of the winged snake’s murderous lightning strike. Still the bolt clipped the drow, and lifted him into the air, flipping him over more than a complete rotation, so that he landed hard on his side.
He bounced right back up, though, and the winged snake dropped to the ground and darted for the trees.
But the curved edge of a scimitar hooked under it and flipped it into the air, where Drizzt’s other blade slashed against it.
Against it, but not through it, for a magical ward prevented the cut—though the force of the blade surely bent the serpent over it!
Undeterred, for that mystery within a mystery somehow confirmed to Drizzt his suspicions about Innovindil’s fall, the drow growled and pushed on. Whether his guess was accurate or not hardly mattered, for Drizzt transformed that rage into blinding, furious action. He flipped the serpent again, then went into a frenzy, slashing left, right, left, right, over and over again, holding the serpent aloft by the sheer speed and precision of his repeated hits. He didn’t slow, he didn’t breathe, he simply battered away with abandon.
The creature flapped its wings, and Drizzt scored a hit at last, cutting up and nearly severing one where it met the serpent’s body.
Again the drow went into a fury, slashing back and forth, and he ended by turning one blade around the torn snake. He fell into a short run and turn behind that strike and used his scimitar to fling the snake out far.
In mid-air, the snake transformed, becoming a gnome as it hit the ground in a roll, turning as it came up and slamming its back hard against a tree.
Drizzt relaxed, convinced that the tree was the only thing holding the surprising creature upright.
“You summoned…the panther…back,” the gnome said, his voice weak and fading.
Drizzt didn’t reply.
“Brilliant diversion,” the gnome congratulated.
A curious expression came over the diminutive creature, and it held up one trembling hand. Blood poured from out of his robe’s voluminous sleeve, though it did not stain the material—material that showed not a tear from the drow’s assault.
“Hmm,” the gnome said, and looked down, and so did Drizzt, to see more blood pouring out from under the hem of the robe, pooling on the ground between the little fellow’s boots.
“Good garment,” the gnome noted. “Know you a mage worthy?”
Drizzt looked at him curiously.
Jack the Gnome shrugged. His left arm fell off then, sliding out of his garment, the tiny piece of remaining skin that attached it to his shoulder tearing free under the dead weight.
Jack looked at it, Drizzt looked at it, and they looked at each other again.
And Jack shrugged. And Jack fell face down. And Jack the Gnome was dead.
CHAPTER 31
GARUMN’S GORGE
Bruenor tried to stand straight, but the pain of his broken arm had him constantly twitching and lowering his left shoulder. Directly across from him, King Obould stared hard, the fingers of his hand kneading the hilt of his gigantic sword. Gradually that blade inched down toward the ground, and Obould dismissed its magical flames.
“Well, what of it, then?” Bruenor asked, feeling the eyes of orcs boring into him from all around.
Obould let his gaze sweep across the crowd, holding them all at bay. “You came to me,” he reminded the dwarf.
“I heared ye wanted to talk, so I come to talk.”
Obould’s expression showed him to be less than convinced. He glanced up the hill, motioning to Nukkels the priest, the emissary, who had never made it near to Bruenor’s court.
Bruenor, too, looked up at the battered shaman, and the dwarf’s eyes widened indeed when Nukkels was joined by another orc, dressed in decorated military garb, who carried a bundle of great interest to Bruenor. The two orcs walked down to stand beside their king, and the second, General Dukka, dropped his cargo, a bloody and limp halfling, at Obould’s feet.
All around them, the orcs stirred, expecting the fight to erupt anew.
But Obould silenced them with an upraised hand, as he looked Bruenor in the eye. Before him, Regis stirred, and Obould reached down and with surprising gentleness, lifted the halfling to his feet.
Regis could not stand on his own, though, his knees buckling. But Obould held him upright and motioned to Nukkels. Immediately, the shaman cast a spell of healing over the halfling, and though it only marginally helped, it was enough for Regis to stand at least. Obould pushed him toward Bruenor, but again, without any evident malice.
“Grguch is dead,” Obould proclaimed to all around, ending as he locked stares with Bruenor. “Grguch’s path is not the way.”
Beside Obould, General Dukka stood firm and nodded, and Bruenor and Obould both understood that the orc king had all the support he needed, and more.
“What are you wantin’, orc?” Bruenor asked, and he held his hand up as he finished, looking past Obould.
Many orcs turned, Obould, Dukka, and Nukkels included, to see Drizzt Do’Urden standing calmly, Taulmaril in hand, arrow resting at ease on its string, and with Guenhwyvar beside him.