Robert Salvatore - The Thousand Orcs

"Bah, they'll do it in three!" one of the outpost bosses, a crusty little fellow named Runabout Kickastone, insisted. "Ain't ye never seen a mad dwarf run?"

"Three's three too many!" roared Pwent, who had been leaning toward the north ever since Regis and the Bouldershoulders had arrived with the dire news of Shallows's predicament.

Indeed, Thibbledorf Pwent had been leaning to the north since Bruenor had separated from him and sent him to the south.

"We only got a hunnerd!" said Runabout. "And from what the little one's saying, a hunnerd ain't to do much!"

"Ye got the Gutbusters!" Pwent roared right back. "Them orcs'll think they're outnumbered, don't ye doubt!"

"And you've got clerics," added Regis, who knew they had to be away at once, and who guessed easily enough that some of his friends were likely in desperate need of some healing magic.

Runabout sighed and looked around, planting his hands on his hips.

"We might be doin' some good if we can get to the town," he admitted. "Shorin' up defenses and healing them that's hurt and all that. Don't sound like we'll be getting there with any kind o' ease, though."

Off to the side, Pikel hopped over to Ivan and began whispering excitedly into his brother's car. All the others turned to watch and listen, though they couldn't really make out any clear words or meanings.

"Me brother's got some berries that'll make ye walk longer and faster," Ivan explained. "Takin' away yer need to stop and eat or drink. That'll get us up there all the faster, with short camps."

"Getting up there's sounding like the easy part," the ever-doubting Runabout replied, and before he had even finished, Pikel hopped up to Ivan and put his lips near his brother's ear again.

Ivan's expression turned sour, his face full of doubt, and he began to shake his head, but as Pikel continued, ever more excitedly, the dwarf slowly settled and began to listen more intently.

Finally, Pikel hopped back and Ivan turned an incredulous stare upon him and asked, "Ye think?"

"Hee hee hee."

"What?" Thibbledorf Pwent, Regis, and Runabout all demanded at once.

"Well, me brother's got a plan," Ivan haltingly explained. "Crazy plan. ."

"Yes!" said Pwent, punching his fist into the air.

"But a plan's a plan, at least," Ivan went on. He looked to Pikel and asked again, "Ye think?"

"Hee hee hee."

"Well?" prompted Runabout.

"Well, are we to stand here jawing or to get going?" Ivan shot right back. "Ye got a big, strong wagon?"

"Yes," Runabout answered.

"Ye got a lot o' wood? Especially them big logs ye been using to hold the stone walls in place?"

Runabout looked around and slowly nodded.

"Then get all yer wood and get yer biggest and strongest wagons, and get all yer boys into line on the road north," said Ivan.

"What about yer brother's plan?" Runabout asked.

"I'm thinkin' it'd be better if I tell ye on the way," Ivan responded. "Both because we can't be standing here talking while yer king's in trouble, and because.." He paused and looked at the giggling Pikel, then admitted, "Because when ye hear it, ye might think we'd've been better waiting for the army."

"Hee hee hee," said Pikel.

Within the hour, the hundred dwarves and Regis set out from the outpost, pulling huge wagons laden with tons of strong wood. Pikel wasn't pulling and wasn't even walking. Rather, the dwarf moved from wagon to wagon, working the wood with his druidic magic, considering each piece and how it might fit into his overall design, and giggling. Despite the gravity of the situation, despite the fact that they were walking into an obviously desperate battle, Pikel was always giggling.

Catti-brie sat in the dim light of a single candle, staring at Bruenor, her beloved father, as he lay on the cot. His face was ashen, and it was no trick of the light, she knew. His chest barely moved, and the bandages she had only recently changed were already blood-stained yet again.

Another rock hit close outside, shaking the ground but not even stirring Catti-brie, for the explosions had been sounding repeatedly. The bombardment had increased in tempo and ferocity. Every twentieth missile or so was no rock but a burning fire pot that spread lines of devastation, often igniting secondary fires within the town. Three blazes had already been put out in the wizard's tower, and Dagnabbit had warned that the integrity of the structure had been compromised.

They hadn't moved Bruenor, though, for there was nowhere else to go.

Catti-brie sat and stared at her father, remembering all the good times, all the things he had done for her, all the adventures they had shared. Her mind told her that that was over, though her heart surely argued against that conclusion.

In truth, they were waiting for Bruenor to die, for when he took his last breath, they—all who remained—would crawl out of their holes and over the battered walls and make their desperate run to the south. That was their only hope, slim though it was.

But Catti-brie could hardly believe she was sitting there waiting for Bruenor to die. She could hardly accept that the toughened old dwarf's chest would sometime soon go still, that he would no longer draw breath. She had always thought he would outlive her.

She had witnessed his fall once before and had thought him dead, when he had ridden the shadow dragon down into the gorge in Mithral Hall. She remembered that heartbreak, the unbelievable hole she had felt in her heart, the sense of helplessness and the surreal nature of it all.

She was feeling that again, all of it, only this time the end would come before her eyes, undeniably and with no room for hope.

The woman felt a strong hand on her shoulder then and turned to see Wulfgar moving in beside her. He draped his arm across her shoulders, and she put her head on his strong chest.

"I wish Drizzt would return," Wulfgar remarked quietly, and Catti-brie looked at him. "And with Regis beside him," the barbarian said. "We should all be together for this."

"For the end of Bruenor's life?"

"For all of it," Wulfgar explained. "For the run to the south, or the last stand here. It would be fitting."

They said no more. They didn't have to. Each was feeling the exact same thing, each was remembering the exact same things.

Up above, the rain of boulders continued.

"How many orcs are there?" Innovindil asked Tarathiel.

The two elves were far from the Moonwood, flying through the night on their winged horses. She had to shout to be heard, and even then her voice carried thinly on the night breezes.

"Enough so that the security of our own home will surely be compromised," Tarathiel answered with all confidence.

They were in the foothills to the north of the town of Shallows, looking back at the hundreds of fires of orc camps and at the flames engulfing sections of the town, most notably the lone tower that so clearly marked the place.

The pair set down on one high ridge to better converse.

"We cannot help them," Tarathiel said to his more compassionate companion as soon as they set down and he could better sec the look upon her fair face. "Even if we could get to the Moonwood and rouse all the clan, we'd not return in time to turn the tide of this battle. Nor should we try," he added, seeing her doubting expression. "Our first responsibility is to the forest we name as our home, and if this black tide turns to the east and crosses the Surbrin, we will know war soon enough."

"There is truth in your words," Innovindil admitted. "I wonder if we might go there, though, and perhaps pull some from the disaster before the darkness closes in over them."

Tarathiel shook his head and painted on an expression that showed no room for debate.