Robert Salvatore - The Thousand Orcs

The first few belts sounded loud and solid, bone on bone, but each succeeding smash made a crunchier sound, as if Tred was driving his forehead into a pile of dry twigs.

"I think ye can put it down now," Nikwillig remarked dryly after a few more thumps, the orc having long gone limp.

Tred grabbed the battered, dying creature by the collar with one hand and slapped his other hand hard into the orc's groin. A heave and a twist had the orc high over the powerful dwarf's head. With another call for his lost brother, Tred launched the orc down the bank behind him, to crash hard against a rock below.

"Lots of supplies," Nikwillig remarked, hopping about the camp.

"Damn orc sticked me," Tred replied.

Only then did his companion notice a new wound on the sturdy dwarf, a bright line of blood running from the side of Tred's chest. Nikwillig started for his companion, but Tred waved him back.

"Ye gather the supplies and we'll get going," he explained. "I'll dress it meself."

He did just that, and the pair were on their way soon after, Tred grunting in pain with every step, but otherwise offering not the slightest complaint.

He had lost a bucket of blood or more, and every time his foot slipped on a loose rock, the resulting lurch opened his newest wound anew, moistening his side with fresh blood. Still Tred didn't complain, nor did he slow Nikwillig's brisk pace. Their turn and attack had daunted the pursuit, it seemed, for few howls came rolling out to them on the night winds, and none of those were very close.

When Tred and Nikwillig crested a high ridge and looked far down upon a distant village—just a cluster of houses, really — they looked to each other with concern.

"We go in there and we might bring a horde o' orcs and wolfies on 'em," Tred reasoned.

"And if we don't go in, ye're gonna slow, and slow some more," Nikwillig replied. "We'll not be making Mithral Hall anytime soon, if we can even find our way to the place."

"Ye think they're knowin' how to fight?" Tred asked, looking back to the village.

"They're living in the wild mountains, ain't they?"

Simple enough, and true enough, and so Tred just gave a shrug and followed Nikwillig along the descending trail.

A wall of piled stones as tall as a man surrounded the cluster of houses,

but it wasn't until the pair got very close that they noted any sentries. Even the two humans—a man and a women—who finally pecked over the wall to call out to them didn't seem as if they were formal sentries. It was as if they simply happened to be walking by and noticed the dwarves.

"What are you two about?" came the woman's call.

"We'd be about to fall, I'd be guessin'," Nikwillig answered. He propped Tred up a bit to accentuate his point. "Ye got a warm bed and a bit o' hot stew for me injured kinfolk here?"

As if all of his energy had been given in the march, and his stubborn mind finally allowed his body the chance to rest, Tred fell limp and collapsed to the ground. Nikwillig guided him down as softly as possible.

There was no gate on that side of the village, but the woman and man came right out, scrambling over the wall and rushing to the dwarves. They, particularly the woman, went to work inspecting the injured dwarf, but they also both looked past the two dwarves, as if they expected an army of enemies to be chasing the battered duo in.

"You from Mithral Hall?" the man asked.

"Felbarr," Nikwillig answered. "We was headin' for Shallows when we got hit."

"Shallows?" the woman echoed. "Long way."

"Long chase."

"What hit you? Ores?" asked the man.

"Orcs an' giants."

"Giants? Haven't seen any hill giants about in a long time."

"Not hill giants. Blue-skinned dogs. Lookin' pretty and hittin' ugly. Frost giants."

Both the man and woman looked up at him in concern, their eyes going wide. The folk of this region were not unfamiliar with trouble concerning frost giants. The old Grayhand, Jarl Orel, hadn't always kept his mighty people deep within the mountains over the decades, though thankfully, the frost giant forays hadn't been numerous. Still, any fight in any part of the area that included frost giants, perhaps the most formidable enemy in all the region next to the very occasional dragon, became news, dire news, the stuff of fireside tales and nightmares.

"Let's get him inside," the woman offered. "He's needing a bed and a hot meal. I can't believe he's even alive!"

"Bah, Tred's too ugly to die," Nikwillig remarked. Tred opened a weary eye and slowly lifted his hand toward his friend's face, as if to pat him thankfully.

But as he got close, he pressed his index finger under his thumb, and flicked Nikwillig under the nose. Nikwillig fell back, grabbing his nose, and Tred settled back down, closing his eyes, a slight smile spreading on his crusty, pale face.

The folk of the small village, Clicking Heels, multiplied their guarding duties many times over, with a third of the two hundred sturdy folk working at a time as sentries and scouts in eight hour shifts. After two days recuperating, Nikwillig joined in those duties, bolstering the line, and even helping to direct the construction of some additional fortification.

Tred, though, was in no position to take part in anything. The dwarf slept through the night and through the day. Even after a couple of days, he woke only long enough to devour a huge meal the good folk of Clicking Heels were kind enough to supply. There was one cleric in the town, as well, but he wasn't very skilled at the magical pan of his vocation and his healing skills, though he piled them on Tred, did little more good than the rest.

By the fifth day, Tred was up and about and starting to look and sound like his surly old self once more. By the end of a tenday, and still with no pursuit—giant, orc or worg—in sight, Tred was anxious to get moving.

"We're off to Mithral Hall," Nikwillig announced one morning, and the folk of Clicking Heels, humans all, seemed genuinely sorry to see the dwarves off. "We'll get King Gandalug to send some warriors up to check in on ye."

"King Bruenor, you mean," one of the villagers replied. "If he's returned to his folk from far off Icewind Dale."

"That right?"

"So we've heard."

Nikwillig nodded, offering a sigh for the loss of Gandalug before returning to his typically determined expression.

"King Bruenor then, as fair a dwarf as e'er there's been."

"I'm not sure he' II comply and send his soldiers, nor am! convinced that we need them," the man went on.

"Well, we'll tell him what's about and let him make up his own mind, then," Tred interjected. "That's why he's the king, after all."

That same morning, Tred and Nikwillig walked out of Clicking Heels, their steps strong once more, their packs full of supplies—good and tasty food and drink, not the slop they had stolen from the orcs. The folk had given them detailed directions to Mithral Hall as well, and so the dwarves were hopeful that they would find the end of this part of their journey soon enough. They intended to go to Mithral Hall, warn King Bruenor, or whomever it was leading their bearded kin, then get an escort from there through the connecting tunnels of the upper Underdark, back to their homes in Citadel Felbarr.

Even that wouldn't be the end of the road for Tred at least, for the tough dwarf had every intention of raising a band of warriors to head back out and avenge his brother and the others.

First things first, though, and that meant finding their way to Mithral Hall. Despite the directions, the dwarves found that no easy task in the winding and confusing mountain trails. A wrong turn along the narrow channels running through the stone often meant a long and difficult backtrack.

"It's the wrong damn stream," Tred grumbled one morning, the pair moving along steadily, but going south and east, whereas Mithral Hall was southwest of Clicking Heels.