Robert Salvatore - The Thousand Orcs

But Catti-brie's returning look showed him that she saw better. The woman stepped back and nodded, catching on.

"Ye're thinking of the elf," she reasoned.

Drizzt looked away, back toward Mirabar, and said, "I wish we could have saved her."

"We're all wishing that."

"I wish you had given the potion to her and not to me."

"Aye, and Bruenor would've killed me," Catti-brie said. She grabbed the drow and made him look back at her, a smile widening on her pretty face. "Is that what ye're hoping?"

Drizzt couldn't resist her charm and the much-needed levity.

"It is just difficult," he explained. "There are times when I so wish that things could be different, that tidy and acceptable endings could find every tale."

"So ye keep trying to make them endings acceptable," Catti-brie said to him. "It's all ye can do."

True enough, Drizzt admitted to himself. He gave a great sigh and looked back to Mirabar and thought again of Ellifain.

Dagnabbit went out later that afternoon, the sun setting and a cold wind kicking up through the streets of the city. He didn't return until right before the dawn, and spent the day inside with Bruenor, discussing the political intrigue of the city and the implications to Mithral Hall, while the merchants and Regis worked their wagons outside.

Not many came to those wagons — a few dwarves and fewer humans — and most of those who did bargained for deals so poor that the Clan Battlehammer dwarves ultimately refused. The lone exception arrived soon after highsun.

"Well, show me yer work, halfling," Torgar bade Regis.

A dozen heads, those of Torgar's friends, bobbed eagerly behind him.

"Regis," the halfling explained, extending his hand, which Torgar took in a firm and friendly shake.

"Show me, Regis," the dwarf said. "Me and me friends'll need a bit o' convincing to be spendin' our gold pieces on anything ye can't drink!"

That brought a laugh from all the dwarves, Battlehammer and Mirabarran alike, and from Regis. The halfling was wondering if he should consider using his enchanted ruby necklace, with its magical powers of persuasion, to «convince» the dwarves of a good deal. He dismissed that thought almost immediately, though, reminding himself of how stubborn some dwarves could be against any kind of magic. Regis also considered the implications on the relationship between Mithral Hall and Mirabar should he get caught.

Still, soon enough it became apparent to Regis that he wouldn't need the pendant's influence. The dwarves had come well stocked with coin, and many of their friends joined them. The goods on the wagons, Regis's work and many other items, began to disappear.

From the window of the house, Bruenor and Dagnabbit watched the bazaar with growing satisfaction as dozens and dozens of new patrons, almost exclusively dwarves, followed Torgar's lead. They also noted, with a mixture of apprehension and hope, the grim faces of those others nearby, humans mostly, looking upon the eager and animated trading with open disdain.

"I'm thinking that ye've knocked a wedge down the middle o' Mirabar by coming here," Dagnabbit observed. "Might be that fewer curses'll flow from the lips o' the dwarfs here when we're on the road out."

"And more curses than ever'll be flowing from the mouths o' the humans," Bruenor added, and he seemed quite pleased by that prospect.

Quite pleased indeed.

A short while later, Torgar, carrying a bag full of purchases, knocked on the door.

"Ye're coming to tell me that yer marchion's too busy," Bruenor said as he answered the knock, pulling the door open wide.

"He's got his own business, it seems," Torgar confirmed.

"Bet he didn't answer yer knock," Dagnabbit remarked from behind Bruenor.

Torgar shrugged helplessly.

"How about yerself?" Bruenor asked. "And yer boys? Ye got yer own business, or ye got time to come in and share some drink?"

"Got no coins left."

"Didn't ask for none."

Torgar chewed his lip a bit.

"I can't be speaking as a representative o' Mirabar," he explained.

"Who asked ye to?" Bruenor was quick to reply. "A good dwarf's putting more into his mouth than he's spilling out. Ye got some tales to tell that I ain't heared, to be sure. That's more than worth the price o' some ale."

And so, with Torgar's agreement, they had a party that night in the unremarkable stone house on the windswept streets of Mirabar. More than a hundred Mirabarran dwarves made an appearance, with most staying for some time, and many sleeping right there on the floor.

Bruenor wasn't surprised to find the house surrounded by armed, grim-faced soldiers — humans, not dwarves — when daylight broke.

It was lime for Bruenor and his friends to go.

Torgar and his buddies would find a bit of trouble over this, no doubt, but when Bruenor looked back at him with concern, the tough old veteran merely winked and grinned.

"Ye find yer way to Mithral Hall, Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker!" Bruenor called back to him as the wagons began to roll back out the gates. "Ye bring all the friends ye want, and all the tales ye can tell! We'll find enough food and drink to make ye belch, and a warm bed for as long as ye want to warm yer butt in it!"

No one on the caravan from Icewind Dale missed the scowls the human guards offered at those dangerous remarks.

"You do like to cause trouble, don't you," Regis said to Bruenor.

"The marchion was too busy for me, eh?" Bruenor replied with a smirk. "He'll be wishing he met with me, don't ye doubt."

Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Wulfgar linked up with Bruenor's wagon when it and the others had rejoined the bigger caravan outside the city gates.

"What happened in there?" the dark elf asked.

"A bit o' intrigue, a bit o' fun," Bruenor replied, "and a bit o' insurance that if Mirabar e'er decides to openly fight against Mithral Hall, they'll be missing a few hunnerd o' their shorter warriors!”

"Ye gotta keep running!" Nikwillig scolded Tred.

The wounded dwarf was slumped against a boulder, sweat pouring down his forehead and cheek, a grimace of pain on his face as he favored his torn leg.

"Got me in the knee," Tred explained, gasping between every syllable. "She's not holding me up no more. Ye run on and I'll give them puppies reason to pause!"

Nikwillig nodded, not in agreement of the whole proposal, but in determination concerning the last part. "Ye can't run, then we'll stop and fight," he answered.

"Bah!" Tred snorted at him. "Bunch o' worgs coming."

"Bunch o' dead worgs, then," Nikwillig answered with as much grit and determination as Tred had ever witnessed from him.

Nikwillig was a merchant more than a warrior, but now he was "showing his dwarf," as the old expression went. And in viewing this transformation, despite their desperate situation, Tred couldn't help but smile. Certainly if the situation had been reversed, with Nikwillig favoring a torn leg, Tred would never have considered leaving him.

"We're needin' a plan, then," said Tred.

"One using fire," Nikwillig agreed, and as he finished, a not-so-distant howl split the air and was answered several times. Still, in that chorus, both dwarves found a bit of hope.

"They're not coming in all together," Tred reasoned.

"Scattered," Nikwillig agreed.

An hour later, with the howling much closer, Tred sat beside a roaring fire, his burly arms crossed before him, his single-bladed, pointy-tipped axe set across his lap. His leg was glad of the reprieve, and his tapping foot alone betrayed his patient posture as he waited for the first of the worgs to make its appearance.

Off to the side, in the shadows behind a pile of boulders, an occasional crackle sounded. Tred winced and bit his bottom lip, hoping the rope held long enough against the weight of the withered but not yet felled pine.