Forgotten Realms - The Hunter's Blade 03 - The Two Swords

Prelude

The torchlight seemed such a meager thing against the unrelenting dark-

ness of the dwarven caves. The smoky air drifted around Delly Curtie,

irritating her eyes and throat, much as the continual grumbling and

complaining of the other humans in the large common room irritated her

sensibilities. Steward Regis had graciously given over a considerable suite of

rooms to those seemingly ungrateful people, refugees all from the many

settlements sacked by brutish King Obould and his orcs in their southern trek.

Delly reminded herself not to be too judgmental of the folk. All of them had

suffered grievous losses, with many being the only remaining member of a

murdered family, with three being the only remaining citizens of an entirely

sacked community! And the conditions, as decent as Regis and Bruenor tried

to make them, were not fitting for a human.

That thought struck hard at Delly's sensibilities, and she glanced back over

her shoulder at her toddler, Colson, asleep—finally!—in a small crib. Cottie

Cooperson, a spindly-armed woman with thin straw hair and eyes that

drooped under the weight of a great loss, sat beside the sleeping toddler, her

arms crossed tightly over her chest as she rocked back and forth, back and

forth.

Remembering her own murdered baby, Delly knew.

That horrific thought sobered Delly, to be sure. Colson wasn't really Delly's

child, not by birth. But she had adopted the baby girl, as Wulfgar had adopted

Colson and in turn had taken on Delly as his traveling companion and wife.

Delly had followed him to Mithral Hall willingly, eagerly even, and had thought

herself a good and generous person in granting him his adventurous spirit, in

standing beside him through what he had needed without regard for her own

desires.

Delly's smile was more sad than joyous. It was perhaps the first time the

young woman had ever thought of herself as good and generous.

But the dwarven walls were closing in on her.

Never had Delly Curtie imagined that she could harbor wistful memories of

her street life in Luskan, living wild and on the edge, half-drunk most of the

time and in the arms of a different man night after night. She thought of clever

Morik, a wonderful lover, and of Arumn Gardpeck, the tavern-keeper who had

been as a father to her. She thought of Josi Puddles, too, and found in those

recollections of his undeniably stupid grin some measure of comfort.

"Nah, ye're being silly," the woman muttered under her breath.

She shook her head to throw those memories aside. This was her life now,

with Wulfgar and the others. The dwarves of Clan Battlehammer were goodly

folk, she told herself. Often eccentric, always kind and many times simply and

playfully absurd, they were a lovable lot beneath their typically gruff exteriors.

Some wore outrageous clothing or armor, others carried strange and

ridiculous names, and most wild and absurd beards, but the clan showed

Delly a measure of heart that she had never before seen, other than from

Arumn perhaps. They treated her as kin, or tried to, for the differences

remained.

Undeniably so.

Differences of preference, human to dwarf, like the stifling air of the

caves—air that would grow even more stagnant, no doubt, since both exterior

doors of Mithral Hall had been closed and barricaded.

"Ah, but to feel the wind and sun on my face once more!" a woman from

across the common room shouted, lifting a flagon of mead in toast, as if she

had read Delly's every thought.

From all across the room, mugs came up in response and clanged

together. The group, almost all of them, were well on their way to

drunkenness yet again, Delly realized. They had no place to fit in, and their

drinking was as much to alleviate their helpless frustration as to dull the

horrible memories of Obould's march through their respective communities.

Delly checked on Colson again and filtered about the tables. She had

agreed to tend to the group, calling upon her experiences as a serving wench

in Luskan. She caught bits of conversation wherever she passed, and every

thought found a hold on her, and bit at what little contentment remained within

her heart.

"I'm going to set up a smithy in Silverymoon," one man proclaimed.

"Bah, Silverymoon!" another argued, sounding very much like a dwarf with

his rough dialect. "Silverymoon's nothing but a bunch of dancing elves.

Get ye to Sundabar. Ye're sure to find a better livelihood in a town of folk

who know proper business."

"Silverymoon's more accepting," a woman from another table argued. "And

more beautiful, by all tellings."

Those were almost the very same words that Delly had once heard to

describe Mithral Hall. In many ways, the Hall had lived up to its reputation.

Certainly the reception Bruenor and his kin had given her had been nothing

short of wonderful, in their unique, dwarven way. And Mithral Hall was as

amazing a sight as Luskan's harbor, to be sure. Yet it was a sight that quickly

melted into sameness, Delly had come to know.

She made her way across the room, veering back toward Colson, who was

still sleeping but had begun that same scratchy cough that Delly had been

hearing from all the humans in the smoky tunnels.

"I'm right grateful enough to Steward Regis and King Bruenor," she heard

one woman say, again as if reading her very thoughts, "but here's no place for

a person!" The woman lifted her flagon. "Silverymoon or Sundabar, then!" she

toasted, to many cheers. "Or anywhere else ye might be seeing the sun and

the stars!"

"Everlund!" another man cried.

In the stark crib on the cold stone floor beside Delly Curtie, Colson coughed

again.

Beside the baby girl, Cottie Cooperson swayed.

PART ONE

ORC AMBITIONS

I look upon the hillside, quiet now except for the birds. That's all there is.

The birds, cawing and cackling and poking their beaks into unseeing eyeballs.

Crows do not circle before they alight on a field strewn with the dead. They fly

as the bee to a flower, straight for their goal, with so great a feast before

them. They are the cleaners, along with the crawling insects, the rain, and the

unending wind.

And the passage of time. There is always that. The turn of the day, of the

season, of the year.

When it is done, all that is left are the bones and the stones. The screams

are gone, the smell is gone. The blood is washed away. The fattened birds

take with them in their departing flights all that identified these fallen warriors

as individuals.

Leaving the bones and stones, to mingle and mix. As the wind or the rain

break apart the skeletons and filter them together, as the passage of time

buries some, what is left becomes indistinguishable, perhaps, to all but the

most careful of observers. Who will remember those who died here, and what

have they gained to compensate for all that they, on both sides, lost?

The look upon a dwarf's face when battle is upon him would argue, surely,

that the price is worth the effort, that warfare, when it comes to a dwarven

nation, is a noble cause. Nothing to a dwarf is more revered than fighting to

help a friend; theirs is a community bound tightly by loyalty, by blood shared

and blood spilled.

And so, in the life of an individual, perhaps this is a good way to die, a

worthy end to a life lived honorably, or even to a life made worthy by this last

ultimate sacrifice.

I cannot help but wonder, though, in the larger context, what of the overall?

What of the price, the worth, and the gain? Will Obould accomplish anything

worth the hundreds, perhaps thousands of his dead? Will he gain anything

long-lasting? Will the dwarven stand made out here on this high cliff bring

Bruenor's people anything worthwhile? Could they not have slipped into

Mithral Hall, to tunnels so much more easily defended?

And a hundred years from now, when there remains only dust, will anyone

care?

I wonder what fuels the fires that burn images of glorious battle into the

hearts of so many of the sentient races, my own paramount among them. I

look at the carnage on the slope and I see the inevitable sight of emptiness. I

imagine the cries of pain. I hear in my head the calls for loved ones when the

dying warrior knows his last moment is upon him. I see a tower fall with my

dearest friend atop it. Surely the tangible remnants, the rubble and the bones,

are hardly worth the moment of battle, but is there, I wonder, something less

tangible here, something of a greater place? Or is there, perhaps—and this is

my fear—something of a delusion to it all that drives us to war, again and

again?

Along that latter line of thought, is it within us all, when the memories of war

have faded, to so want to be a part of something great that we throw aside the

quiet, the calm, the mundane, the peace itself? Do we collectively come to

equate peace with boredom and complacency? Perhaps we hold these

embers of war within us, dulled only by sharp memories of the pain and the

loss, and when that smothering blanket dissipates with the passage of healing

time, those fires flare again to life. I saw this within myself, to a smaller extent,

when I realized and admitted to myself that I was not a being of comfort and

complacency, that only by the wind on my face, the trails beneath my feet,

and the adventure along the road could I truly be happy.

I'll walk those trails indeed, but it seems to me that it is another thing all

together to carry an army along beside me, as Obould has done. For there is

the consideration of a larger morality here, shown so starkly in the bones

among the stones. We rush to the call of arms, to the rally, to the glory, but

what of those caught in the path of this thirst for greatness?

Who will remember those who died here, and what have they gained to

compensate for all that they, on both sides, lost?

Whenever we lose a loved one, we resolve, inevitably, to never forget, to

remember that dear person for all our living days. But we the living contend

with the present, and the present often commands all of our attention. And so

as the years pass, we do not remember those who have gone before us every

day, or even every tenday. Then comes the guilt, for if I am not remembering

Zaknafein my father, my mentor, who sacrificed himself for me, then who is?

And if no one is, then perhaps he really is gone. As the years pass, the guilt

will lessen, because we forget more consistently and the pendulum turns in

our self-serving thoughts to applaud ourselves on those increasingly rare

occasions when we do remember! There is always the guilt, perhaps,

because we are self-centered creatures to the last. It is the truth of

individuality that cannot be denied. In the end, we, all of us, see the world

through our own, personal eyes.

I have heard parents express their fears of their own mortality soon after

the birth of a child. It is a fear that stays with a parent, to a great extent,

through the first dozen years of a child's life. It is not for the child that they

fear, should they die-though surely there is that worry, as well-but rather for

themselves. What father would accept his death before his child was truly old

enough to remember him?

For who better to put a face to the bones among the stones? Who better to

remember the sparkle in an eye before the crow comes a'calling?

I wish the crows would circle and the wind would carry them away, and the

faces would remain forever to remind us of the pain. When the clarion call to

glory sounds, before the armies anew trample the bones among the stones,

let the faces of the dead remind us of the cost.

It is a sobering sight before me, the red-splashed stones.

It is a striking warning in my ears, the cawing of the crows.

-Drizzt Do'Urden

1

FOR THE LOVE OF ME SON

"We must be quicker!" the human commented, for the hundredth time that

morning, it seemed to the more than two-score dwarves moving in a line all

around him. Galen Firth appeared quite out of place in the torchlit, smoky

tunnels. Tall even for a human, he stood more than head and shoulders

above the short and sturdy bearded folk.

"I got me scouts up ahead, working as fast as scouts can work," replied

General Dagna, a venerable warrior of many battles.

The old dwarf stretched and straightened his still-broad shoulders, and

tucked his dirty yellow beard into his thick leather girdle, then considered

Galen with eyes still sharp, a scrutinizing gaze that had kept the dwarves of

Clan Battlehammer ducking defensively out of sight for many, many decades.

Dagna had been a well-respected warcommander for as long as anyone

could remember, longer than Bruenor had been king, and before

Shimmergloom the shadow dragon and his duergar minions had conquered

Mithral Hall. Dagna had climbed to power through deed, as a warrior and field

commander, and no one questioned his prowess in leading dwarves through

difficult conflicts. Many had expected Dagna to lead the defense of the cliff

face above Keeper's Dale, even ahead of venerable Banak Brawn-anvil.

When that had not come to pass, it was assumed Dagna would be named as

Steward of the Hall while Bruenor lay near death.

Indeed, both of those opportunities had been presented to Dagna, and by

those in a position to make either happen. But he had refused.

"Ye wouldn't have me tell me scouts to run along swifter and maybe give

themselves away to trolls and the like, now would ye?" Dagna asked.

Galen Firth rocked back on his heels a bit at that, but he didn't blink and he

didn't stand down. "I would have you move this column as swiftly as is

possible," he replied. "My town is sorely pressed, perhaps overrun, and in the

south, out of these infernal tunnels, many people may now be in dire

jeopardy. I would hope that such would prove an impetus to the dwarves who

claim to be our neighbors."

"I claim nothing," Dagna was fast to reply. "I do what me steward and me

king're telling me to do."

"And you care not at all for the fallen?"

Galen's blunt question caused several of the nearby dwarves to suck in

their breath, aimed as it was at Dagna, the proud dwarf who had lost his only

son only a few tendays earlier. Dagna stared long and hard at the man, bury-

ing the sting that prompted him to an angry response, remembering his place

and his duty.

"We're going as fast as we're going, and if ye're wanting to be going faster,

then ye're welcome to run up ahead. I'll tell me scouts to let ye pass without

hindrance. Might even be that I'll keep me march going over your dead body

when we find yerself troll-eaten in the corridors ahead. Might even be that yer

Nesme kin, if any're still about, will get rescued without ye." Dagna paused

and let his glare linger a moment longer, a silent assurance to Galen Firth that

he was hardly bluffing. "Then again, might not be."

That seemed to take some of the steam from Galen, and the man gave a

great "harrumph" and turned back to the tunnel ahead, stomping forward

deliberately.

Dagna was beside him in an instant, grabbing him hard by the arm.

"Pout if ye want to pout," the dwarf agreed, "but ye be doing it quietly."

Galen pulled himself away from the dwarf's vicelike grasp, and matched

Dagna's stare with his own glower.

Several nearby dwarves rolled their eyes at that and wondered if Dagna

would leave the fool squirming on the floor with a busted nose. Galen hadn't

been like that until very recently. The fifty dwarves had accompanied him out

of Mithral Hall many days before, with orders from Steward Regis to do what

they could to aid the beleaguered folk of Nesme. Their journey had been

steady and straightforward until they had been attacked in the tunnels by a

group of trolls. That fight had sent them running, a long way to the south and

out into the open air on the edges of the great swamp, the Trollmoors, but too

far to the east, by Galen Firth's reckoning. So they had started west, and had

found more tunnels. Against Galen's protests, Dagna had decided that his

group would be better served under cover of the westward-leading

underground corridors. More dirt than stone, with roots from trees and brush

dangling over their heads and with crawly things wriggling in the black dirt all

around them, the tunnels weren't like those they'd used to come south from

Mithral Hall. That only made Galen all the more miserable. The tunnels were

tighter, lower, and not as wide, which the dwarves thought a good thing,

particularly with huge and ugly trolls chasing them, but which only made

Galen spend half his time walking bent over.

"Ye're pushing the old one hard," a young dwarf, Fender Stouthammer by

name, remarked when they took their next break and meal. He and Galen

were off to the side of the main group, in a wider and higher area that allowed

Galen to stretch his legs a bit, though that had done little to improve his sour

mood.

"My cause is—"

"Known to us, and felt by us, every one," Fender assured him. "We're all

feeling for Mithral Hall in much the same way as ye're feeling for Nesme, don't

ye doubt."

The calming intent of Fender didn't find a hold on Galen, though, and he

wagged his long finger right in the dwarf's face, so close that Fender had to

hold himself back from just biting the digit off at the knuckle.

"What do you know of my feelings?" Galen growled at him. "Do you know

my son, huddled in the cold, perhaps? Slain, perhaps, or with trolls all about

him? Do you know the fate of my neighbors? Do you—"

"General Dagna just lost his boy," Fender interrupted, and that set Galen

back a bit.

"Dagnabbit was his name," Fender went on. "A mighty warrior and loyal

fellow, as are all his kin. He fell to the orc horde at Shallows, defending his

king and kin to the bitter end. He was Dagna's only boy, and with a career as

promising as that of his father. Long will dwarf bards sing the name of

Dagnabbit. But I'm guessing that thought's hardly cooling the boil in old

Dagna's blood, or hardly plastering the crack in his old heart. And now here ye

come, ye short-livin', cloud-sniffin' dolt, demanding this and demanding that,

as if yer own needs're more important than any we dwarves might be

knowing. Bah, I tried to take ye in stride. I tried to see yer side of the fear. But

ye know, ye're a pushy one, and one that's more likely to get boot-trampled

into the stone than to ever see yer home again if ye don't learn to shut yer

stupid mouth."

The obviously flabbergasted Galen Firth just sat there for a moment,

stuttering.

"Are you threatening me, a Rider of Nesme?" he finally managed to blurt.

"I'm telling ye, as a friend or as an enemy—choice is yer own to make—

that ye're not helping yerself or yer people by fighting with Dagna at every turn

in the tunnel."

"The tunnel...." the stubborn man spat back. "We should be out in the open

air, where we might hear the calls of my people, or see the light of their fires!"

"Or find ourselves surrounded by an army o' trolls, and wouldn't that smell

wonderful?"

Galen Firth gave a snort and held up his hand dismissively. Fender took

the cue, rose, and started away.

He did pause long enough to look back and offer, "Ye keep acting as if

ye're among enemies, or lessers. If all the folk o' Nesme are as stupid as

yerself—too dumb to know a friend when one's ready to help—then who's to

doubt that the trolls might be doing all the world a favor?"

Galen Firth trembled, and for a moment Fender half expected the man to

leap up and try to throttle him.

"I came to you, to Mithral Hall, in friendship!" he argued, loudly enough to

gain the attention of those dwarves crowded around Dagna in the main

chamber down the tunnel.

"Yerself came to Mithral Hall in need, offerin' nothing but complaints and

asking for more than we could give ye," Fender corrected. "And still Steward

Regis, and all the clan, accepted the responsibility of friendship—not the

burden, but the responsibility, ye dolt! We ain't here because we're owing

Nesme a damned thing, and we ain't here asking Nesme for a damned thing,

and in the end, even yerself should be smart enough to know that we're all

hopin' for the same thing here. And that thing's finding yer boy, and all the

others of yer town, alive and well."

The blunt assessment did give Galen pause and in that moment, before he

could decide whether to scream or to punch out, Fender rolled up to his feet,

offered a dismissive, "Bah!" and waved his calloused hands the man's way.

"Ye might be thinking to make a bit less noise, yeah?" came a voice from

the other direction, that of General Dagna, who glared at the two.

"Get along with ye, then," Fender said to Galen, and he waved at him

again. "Think on what I said or don't—it's yer own to choose."

Galen Firth slowly moved back from the dwarf, and toward the larger

gathering in the middle of the wider chamber. He walked more sidelong than

in any straightforward manner, though, as if warding his back from the pursuit

of words that had surely stung him.

Fender was glad of that, for the sake of Galen Firth and Nesme Town, if for

nothing else. * * * * *

Tos'un Armgo, lithe and graceful, moved silently along the low corridor, a

dart clenched in his teeth and a serrated knife in his hand. The dark elf was

glad that the dwarves had gone back underground. He felt vulnerable and

exposed in the open air. A noise made him pause and huddle closer to the

rocky wall, his limber form melting into the jags and depressions. He pulled

his piwafwi, his enchanted drow cloak that could hide him from the most

scrutinizing of gazes, a bit tighter around him and turned his face to the stone,

peering out of the corner of only one eye.

A few moments passed. Tos'un relaxed as he heard the dwarves back at

their normal routines, eating and chatting. They thought they were safe back

in the tunnels, since they believed they had left the trolls far behind. What troll

could have tracked them over the last couple days since the skirmish, after

all?

No troll, Tos'un knew, and he smiled at the thought. For the dwarves hadn't

counted on their crude and beastlike enemies being accompanied by a pair of

dark elves. Tracking them, leading the two-headed troll named Prof-fit and his

smelly band back into this second stretch of tunnel, had been no difficult task

for Tos'un.

The drow glanced back the other way, where his companion, the priestess

Kaer'lic Suun Wett waited, crouched atop a boulder against the wall. Even

Tos'un would not have seen her there, buried under her piwafwi, except that

she shifted as he turned, lifting one arm out toward him.

Take down the sentry, her fingers flashed to him in the intricate sign

language of the drow elves. A prisoner is desirable.

Tos'un took a deep breath and instinctively reached for the dart he held

clenched in his teeth. Its tip was coated with drow poison, a paralyzing con-

coction of tremendous power that few could resist. How often had Tos'un

heard that command from Kaer'lic and his other two drow companions over

the last few years, for he among all the group had become the most adept at

gathering creatures for interrogation, especially when the target was part of a

larger group.

Tos'un paused and moved his free hand out where Kaer'lic could see, then

answered, Do we need bother? They are alert, and they are many.

Kaer'lic's fingers flashed back immediately, I would know if this is a remote

group or the forward scouts of Mithral Hall's army!

Tos'un's hand went right back to the dart. He didn't dare argue with Kaer'lic

on such matters. They were drow, and in the realm of the drow, even for a

group who was so far removed from the conventions of the great Under-dark

cities, females ranked higher than males, and priestesses of the Spider

Queen Lolth, like Kaer'lic, ranked highest of all.

The scout turned and slid down lower toward the floor, then began to half

walk, half crawl toward his target. He paused when he heard the dwarf raise

his voice, arguing with the single human among the troop. The drow moved to

a properly hidden vantage point and bided his time.

Soon enough, several of the dwarves farther along told the two to be quiet,

and the dwarf near to Tos'un grumbled something and waved the human

away.

Tos'un glanced back just once, then paused and listened until his sensitive

ears picked out the rumble of Proffit's closing war party.

Tos'un slithered in. His left arm struck first, jabbing the dart into the dwarf's

shoulder as his right hand came across, the serrated knife cutting a very

precise line on the dwarf's throat. It could easily have been a killing blow, but

Tos'un angled the blade so as not to cut the main veins, the same technique

he had recently used on a dwarf in a tower near the Surbrin. Eventually his

cut would prove mortal, but not for a long time, not until Kaer'lic could

intervene and with but a few minor spells granted by the Spider Queen save

the wretched creature's life.

Though, Tos'un thought, the prisoner would surely wish he had been

allowed to die.

The dwarf shifted fast and tried to cry out, but the drow had taken its vocal

chords. Then the dwarf tried to punch and lash out, but the poison was

already there. Blood streaming from the mortal wound, the dwarf crumbled

down to the stone, and Tos'un slithered back.

"Bah, ye're still a bigmouth!" came a quiet call from the main group. "Keep

still, will ya, Fender?"

Tos'un continued to retreat.

"Fender?" The call sounded more insistent.

Tos'un flattened against the corner of the wall and the floor, making himself

very small and all but invisible under his enchanted cloak.

"Fender!" a dwarf ahead of him cried, and Tos'un smiled at his cleverness,

knowing the stupid dwarves would surely think their poisoned companion

dead.

The camp began to stir, dwarves leaping up and grabbing their weapons,

and it occurred to Tos'un that Kaer'lic's decision to go for a captive might cost

Proffit and his trolls dearly. The price of the drow's initial assault had been the

element of surprise.

Of course, for the dark elf, that only made the attack all the more sweet.

* * * * *

Some dwarves cried out for Fender, but the shout that rose above them all

came from Bonnerbas Ironcap, the dwarf closest to their fallen companion.

"Trolls!" he yelled, and even as the word registered with his companions,

so did the smell of the wretched brutes.

"Fall back to the fire!" General Dagna shouted.

Bonnerbas hesitated, for he was but one stride from poor Fender. He went

forward instead of back, and grabbed his friend by the collar. Fender flopped

over and Bonnerbas sucked in his breath, seeing clearly the line of bright

blood. The dwarf was limp, unfeeling.

Fender was dead, Bonnerbas believed, or soon would be.

He heard the charge of the trolls then, looked up, and realized that he

would soon join Fender in the halls of Moradin.

Bonnerbas fell back one step and took up his axe, swiping across viciously

and cutting a deep line across the arms of the nearest, low-bending troll. That

one fell back, stumbling to the side and toppling, but before it even hit the floor

it came flying ahead, bowled over by a pair of trolls charging forward at

Bonnerbas.

The dwarf swung again, and turned to flee, but a clawed troll hand hooked

his shoulder. Bonnerbas understood then the frightful strength of the brutes,

for suddenly he was flying backward, spinning and bouncing off legs as solid

as the trunks of tall trees. He stumbled and fell, winding up on his back. Still,

the furious dwarf flailed with his axe, and he scored a couple of hits. But the

trolls were all around him, were between him and Dagna and the others, and

poor Bonnerbas had nowhere to run.

One troll reached for him and he managed to swat the arm with enough

force to take it off at the elbow. That troll howled and fell back, but then, even

as the dwarf tried to roll to his side and stand the biggest and ugliest troll Bon-

nerbas had ever seen towered over him, a gruesome two-headed brute

staring at him with a wide smile on both of its twisted faces. It started to reach

down, and Bonnerbas started to swing.

As his axe flew past without hitting anything, the dwarf recognized the

dupe, and before he could bring the axe back over him, a huge foot appeared

above him and crashed down hard, stomping him into the stone.

Bonnerbas tried to struggle, but there was nothing he could do. He tried to

breathe, but the press was too great.

* * * * *

As the trolls pushed past the two fallen dwarves, General Dagna could only

growl and silently curse himself for allowing his force to be caught so

unawares. Questions and curses roiled in his mind. How could stupid, smelly

trolls have possibly followed them back into the tunnels? How could the brutes

have scouted and navigated the difficult approach to where Dagna had

thought it safe to break for a meal?

That jumble quickly calmed in the thoughts of the seasoned commander,

though, and he began barking orders to put his command in line. His first

thought was to move back into the lower tunnels, to get the trolls bent over

even more, but the dwarf's instincts told him to stay put, with a ready fire at

hand. He ordered his boys to form up a defensive hold on the far side of the

cooking fire. Dagna himself led the countercharge and the push, centering the

front line of five dwarves abreast and refusing to retreat against the troll press.

"Hold 'em fast!" he cried repeatedly as he smashed away with his war-

hammer. "Go to crushing!" he told the axe-wielding dwarf beside him. "Don't

yet cut through 'em if that's giving them a single step forward!"

The other dwarf, apparently catching on to the reasoning that they had to

hold the far side of the fire at all costs, flipped his axe over in his hand and

began pounding away at the closest troll, smashing it with the flat back of the

weapon to keep it at bay.

All the five dwarves did likewise, and Galen Firth ran up behind Dagna and

began slashing away with his fine long sword. They knew they would not be

able to hold for long, though, for more trolls crowded behind the front ranks,

the sheer weight of them driving the force forward.

Thinking that all of them were doomed, Dagna screamed in rage and

whacked so hard at the troll reaching for him that his nasty hammer tore the

creature's arm off at the elbow.

The troll didn't seem to even notice as it came forward, and Dagna realized

his error. He had over-swung the mark and was vulnerable.

But the troll backed suddenly, and Dagna ducked and cried out in surprise,

as the first of the torches, compliments of Galen Firth, entered the fray. The

man reached over and past the ducking Dagna and thrust the flaming torch at

the troll, and how the creature scrambled to get back from the fire!

Trolls were mighty opponents indeed, and it was said—and it was true—

that if you cut a troll into a hundred pieces, the result would be a hundred new

trolls, with every piece regenerating into an entirely new creature. They had a

weakness, though, one that every person in all the Realms knew well: fire

stopped that regeneration process.

Trolls didn't like fire.

More torches were quickly passed up to Dagna and the four others and the

trolls fell back, but only a step.

Forgotten Realms - The Hunter's Blade 03 - The Two Swords

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: