Robert Salvatore - The Thousand Orcs

"Almost a third," said Catti-brie.

"And most o' them men — some o' their best fighters," said the dwarf. "Two o' me own are dead, another five down too hurt to fight. If they come on again, we'll be hard pressed to hold."

"We'll hold," Wulfgar said grimly.

"After seein' ye on the wall, I'm almost believing ye," the dwarf replied.

"Almost?" Catti-brie asked.

Dagnabbit, who had seen the extent of destruction to the fortifications above, could only offer a shrug in reply.

"We hold or we die," said Catti-brie.

"We gotta get out," Dagnabbit remarked.

"Or get help in," said Catti-brie. 'Regis got over the wall, though I'm not for knowing if he's dead on the field outside, or if he's running for help." She looked to Wulfgar as she explained, "Right after he went over the wall, the orcs on worgs came charging in."

After the fight, the friends had searched the ground west of Shallows as much as possible, but had found no sign of Regis. That had brought them some hope, at least, but in truth, both of them feared the halfling captured or dead.

"Even if he got away, I'm not for hoping that'll do anyone but himself any good," said Dagnabbit. "How long will it take him to find Pwent? It'll take an army to get through to us, I'm thinking, and not just them Gut-busters. And how long will it take them to gather an army to our aid?"

"As long as it takes," said Wulfgar. "Until then, we must hold."

Dagnabbit started to reply, seeming as if to argue the point, but then he just blew a long sigh.

"Stay with King Bruenor," he bade Catti-brie. "If any're to keep his heart beating, it's yerself. Keep him warm, and wish him well from me and all me boys if he walks his journey to the other side."

He looked to Wulfgar.

"Help me and me boys fix what defenses we can?" he asked the man.

With a nod and a determined look to Catti-brie, the barbarian lifted his bloodied frame and crawled out of the small tunnel to begin the work of shoring up the defenses.

Such as they were.

He caught himself just as he was about to fall off of the branch, and when he realized that, when he realized where he was, the halfling had to spend a long moment telling his heart not to leap out of his chest. The fall probably wouldn't have been so bad, a few bruises and scratches, but Regis knew all too well what awaited him on the ground: a snarling, vicious worg.

He settled himself quickly and looked over the impromptu encampment. The orc was snoring contentedly between a pair of shading rocks, while the worg was curled right at the base of Regis's tree.

Wonderful, the halfling thought.

The sun was up and the day bright and warm, and Regis's heart told him that this was his last and only chance, that he had to find some way out of there. Would the orc still consider him a friend when it awoke? Would the gem-enhanced promises he had made of treasures and new weapons still hold strong in the dim-witted creature's thinking? If not, how could he use his ruby once again? How could he even get close enough to a hostile orc with that hungry worg wanting nothing more than to make a meal of him?

Regis put his head down and fought hard to hold back his sobs, for it seemed to him that it had all been for naught. He wished that he was back in Shallows with his friends, that if he was to die, as he surely believed he was, it would be with Bruenor and the others, with the friends who had walked the road beside him.

Not like this. Not torn apart by a cruel worg on a lonely mountain pass.

"Stop it!" Regis scolded himself, more loudly than he had intended.

Below him, the worg looked up, gave a long, low growl, then put its head back atop its paws.

"No time for self pity," the halfling whispered. "Your friends need you, Regis, so what arc you going to do for them? Sit here and cry?"

No, he decided, and he sat up straighter and resolutely shook his head. Even that motion made his broken arm throb more. It was time to rouse the orc, to hope that the creature was still under the sway of the enchanted ruby, or to find some other way if it was not. If he had to fight them both, orc and worg, then he'd fight and be done with it. His friendship with those who had risked themselves time and again for his sake demanded no less.

Seeming taller, feeling taller, Regis rolled over the side of the branch and caught a foothold below, moving down the tree to a better vantage point where he could rouse the orc and judge its demeanor.

He stopped, though, and suddenly, his head snapping around, as something came bouncing into the encampment.

An old boot.

The worg leaped at it and tore at it with snapping jaws—and those jaws were snapping indeed, as a series of small explosions erupted from within the boot.

The worg yelped and howled, and leaped up into the air, doing a complete somersault.

The most curious looking creature Regis had ever seen rushed in to join the dance: a green-bearded dwarf wearing light green robes, open sandals on his dirty feet, and a cooking pot on his head. The dwarf ran right up to the worg and began waggling his fingers and his lips. The great wolf stopped its yammering and its hopping and froze in place, ears going back, eyes going wide.

With a sound that could only be described as a shriek, the worg put its tail between its legs and ran away.

"Hee hee hee," said the dwarf.

"What?" roared the awakened orc, its protesting cry cut short—as tended to happen when a battle-axe crushed the speaker's skull.

From behind the tumbling orc came a second dwarf, this one with a brilliant yellow beard, and dressed in more conventional dwarven attire—except for a tremendous helm that sported the huge antlers of a full-grown buck.

"Ye should o' killed the damned dog, too," the yellow bearded dwarf roared. "I'm hungry!"

As the green-bearded creature started wagging his finger in a scolding manner, Regis moved down the tree as quickly as his aching arm would permit.

"Who are you?" he called.

Both dwarves spun on him—and the yellow-bearded one almost launched his deadly axe Regis's way.

"No friend o' orcs … like yerself!" the yellow-bearded dwarf roared.

"No, no, no!" Regis insisted coming to the ground and waving his empty hand up in a sign of submission, his other arm tucked in close to his side. "I have come from the town of Shallows."

"Don't know it," said the yellow-bearded dwarf.

He looked to the other, who agreed with a "Nope, nope."

"And King Bruenor Battlehammer," Regis went on.

"Ah, nowye're talking!" said the dwarf with the yellow-beard. "Ivan Bouldershoulder at yer service, little one. And this's me brother—"

"Pikel!" Regis cried.

He had heard quite a bit about these two from Drizzt and Catti-brie, though in truth, no spoken words could do the specter of Pikel Bouldershoulder justice.

"Aye," said Ivan, "and tell me, little one, how're ye knowin' that, and what're ye doing with the likes o' them two?"

"We have to hurry," Regis replied, urgency suddenly flying back into his tone. "Bruenor's in trouble—they all are! — and I have to get to Mithral Hall… no, to the camp that Thibbledorf Pwent was supposed to be building north of the hall."

"Yeah, that's where we're goin'," said Ivan. "To Pwent. We took a circular route, but a bird telled me brother where they were at. We were just fixing to go there when another bird telled me brother about the orc and his puppy."

"He talks to a lot of birds, does he?" Regis asked dryly.

"Aye, and to the trees. Come along and he'll get us there afore ye can ask me how."

"There is no time," Regis said to the Bouldershoulders, to Thibbledorf Pwent and to the other leaders at the second dwarven outpost, some twenty miles across uneven, rocky ground north of Keeper's Dale, the vale heralding the main entrance to Mithral Hall. "Bruenor and the others don't have the four extra days it will take for the runners to gather the army and return here."