R. Salvatore: The Companions

“Aye, should have a sword in his hand by now, I’m thinkin’,” said Reginald, and they all laughed some more.

Bouncing around on his father’s back, Bruenor was glad to be out of the nursery and the cradle, and his happiness at being brought along only increased when the three dwarves began discussing the political and security situation of the Runegates of Citadel Felbarr.

Bruenor listened intently-for a few moments. But then he thought of eating, because his stomach growled. Then he thought of the itchiness around his backside.

Then he looked at his hand, his chubby little dwarfling hand … and a “goo” sound came forth from his saliva-dripping lips.

He tried to remind himself to focus, to listen to this conversation, for it would take him from the immediate needs that seemed so ever-pressing to him. But he found himself lamentJelvus GrinchIDraygo Quickestoing the indignities of his station. He, King Bruenor Battlehammer, was bouncing around helplessly on the back of a guard captain. He, the king of Mithral Hall, had to be fed and changed and bathed and …

The baby let out a shriek, one that came from somewhere deep inside and simply bubbled out before Bruenor could even consider it. How he hated this!

“ ’Ere now, ye keep yer brat quiet or drop him back on his Ma,” Parson Glaive said.

“Bah, not for worryin’,” King Emerus said. “Them shrieks’ll be battle cries soon enough, and little Arr Arr’s got some orc heads to squish.”

So they went on with their meeting, and Bruenor tried to listen, hoping to catch up on the events here in the Silver Marches.

But he was hungry, and he was itchy, and his hand was so enticing …

“And how long?” Uween Roundshield asked Parson Glaive when he arrived at her house one morning a couple of months later. The Roundshield home was a neat stone affair in the upper level of the Citadel Felbarr complex.

Bruenor perked up his ears and tried to turn around on the blanket his mother Uween had set out on the floor for him. He wanted to get a better look at the speaker, but alas, his little body would barely move to his call and he had to settle for turning his too-big head hard to the side and staring at the cleric out of the very corner of his eye.

“Hard to say,” Parson Glaive replied. “The passes’re open again, and the orcs been fast to fill ’em.”

“Orcs, always orcs!” Uween grumbled. “Many-Arrows, many orcs!”

Those words caused the child on the blanket to wince, and brought great discomfort to the confused sensibilities of Bruenor Battlehammer. Many-Arrows … the kingdom of orcs … set up by the beast Obould, its existence ratified in a treaty signed by Bruenor himself a century before. Bruenor had spent the rest of his life-his first life at least-wondering if he had erred in signing the peace with Obould. He had never been content with his decision, even though he had been given little choice in the matter. His forces of Mithral Hall could not have defeated Obould’s thousands, could not have begun to drive them from the land, and the other kingdoms of the Silver Marches, notably Sundabar and Silverymoon, and even the dwarven citadels of Felbarr and Adbar, had deferred from entering such a war. The price would have been too high, so they all had determined.

And so the Kingdom of Many-Arrows had come to be, and peace had ensued … such as it was.

For these were orcs, after all, and the constant incursions of rogue bands had plagued the land throughout the rest of Bruenor’s (first) life, and apparently, given the conversation before him now, continued to this day.

“Arr Arr’ll put ’em back in their holes,” Parson Glaive assured Uween.

“We should be marchin’ across the Surbrin, and put ’em down for the dogs they are,” Uween replied.

“I’m not for arguin’,” said Parson Glaive. “And know that many’re grumbling that same song o’ late. Too many fights, too many raids. King Obould the Whatever’s been telled to put a rein on his underlings, and evenextract{text-indent: 0an;font-style: italic;font-weight: on Mithral Hall’s been sounding that warning.”

“Good on Mithral Hall, then, that they might be fixin’ the mistake o’ their old king …,”

Bruenor’s eyes grew moist at that, even when Parson Glaive cut Uween short. “Don’t ye be speakin’ such things,” he said. “A different time, a different world, and King Bruenor signed with the blessing o’ Emerus Warcrown himself. Might be that we were all wrong, then. Be sure that our king’s never been happy with that long-ago choice.”

“Might be,” Uween agreed.

Parson Glaive took his leave then, and Uween went about her chores (which included a fair amount of sword play as she put herself back into fighting condition), leaving Bruenor, Little Arr Arr, to his own amusement on the blanketed floor. Soon after, the baby fell asleep.

Images of Garumn’s Gorge filled Bruenor’s dreams, a quill floating in the air before him, scratching his name on the treaty that bore the place’s name.

A gnarled and wart-covered orc hand pulled the quill from the air and Obould-and how clearly Bruenor still pictured that ugly beast! — nearly broke the writing instrument’s tip when he dug his own name into the document. The great orc was clearly no more satisfied than Bruenor by this “peace” even though it had been his demand.

Bruenor’s thoughts flew away from that place, to his old chambers in Mithral Hall, with Drizzt sitting beside him, assuring him that he had done right by his people and for his legacy.

But had he? Even now, it seemed, a century removed, the doubts remained. Had he done anything more than give the filthy orcs a foothold from which thousands of rogue bands could launch their incessant ambushes?

He tried to think it through, but he could not, for though he was nearly three months old, the pestering demands of a body he could hardly control gnawed at his sensibilities, pulling him from his dreams and then his contemplations to more immediate needs.

“No!” the baby growled, and another memory came to him, washing through him as poignantly as the moment of the experience. He sat on the throne of Gauntlgrym, and the wisdom of Moradin, the strength of Clangeddin, and the mysteries of Dumathoin all were revealed to him and imparted to him.

He was up on his hands and knees then. He tried to curl his toes under to put his feet flat on the floor, but he toppled to the side.

“Ah, but ye finally rolled, did ye?” he heard his mother say, and then she gasped as Bruenor stubbornly forced himself back to his hands and knees.

“Oh, well done!” Uween congratulated. “Ain’t yerself the smart …”

Her voice fell away, for this time, Bruenor did get his toes properly curled. He felt the power of the Throne coursing through his veins and he pulled himself upright, standing firmly on two feet.

“But how’d ye do that?” Uween cried, and she seemed distressed, and only then did Bruenor realize that he was pushing it too far and too fast. He looked at her, and took care to paint a look of astonishment, even fear, upon his cherubic, beardless face, before falling over to the floor.

Uween was there to grab him up, holding him before her and telling him what a smart and mighty little one he was.

Bruenor almost formed a word then, to tell her that, I believe.”IDraygo Quickestohe was hungry, but he wisely remembered his place.

Now he had his focus like never before. Now when he lay in the dark for a nap or the nighttime sleep, Bruenor narrowed his always-jumbled thoughts more keenly, remembering the Throne of the Gods, feeling again the blessing of the mighty three. He should have been lying still, perhaps twitching and half-rolling to get more comfortable, but instead, Bruenor worked his little fingers and his toes, bent his legs and straightened them repeatedly, and worked his jaw, forming words, remembering words, teaching this new body the patterns of speech.