Robert Salvatore - The Pirate King

“He is a useful infiltrator,” Obould remarked. “One whose loyalty is to whoever pays him the most gold. I have much gold.”

Nyphithys’s accepting nod seemed less than convinced.

“Your army is mighty, by all accounts,” said the devil. “Your healers capable. Where you fail is in the Art, which leaves you dangerously vulnerable to the mages that are so prevalent in Silverymoon.”

“And this is what the Arcane Brotherhood offers,” Obould reasoned.

“We can more than match Alustriel’s power.”

“And so with you behind me, the Kingdom of Many-Arrows will overrun the Silver Marches.”

Regis’s knees went weak again at Obould’s proclamation. The halfling’s thoughts screamed of double-cross, and with his friends so dangerously exposed—and with himself so obviously doomed!

“It would be a beautiful coupling,” the erinyes said, and ran her delicate hand across Obould’s massive chest.

“A coupling is a temporary arrangement.”

“A marriage, then,” said Nyphithys.

“Or an enslavement.”

The erinyes stepped back and looked at him curiously.

“I would provide you the fodder to absorb the spears and spells of your enemies,” Obould explained. “My orcs would become to you as those barbezu.”

“You misunderstand.”

“Do I, Nyphithys?” Obould said, and it was his turn to offer a toothy grin.

“The brotherhood seeks to enhance trade and cooperation.”

“Then why do you approach me under the cloak of secrecy? All the kingdoms of the Silver Marches value trade.”

“Surely you don’t consider yourself kin and kind with the dwarves of Mithral Hall, or with Alustriel and her delicate creatures. You are a god among orcs. Gruumsh adores you—I know this, as I have spoken with him.”

Regis, who was growing confident again at Obould’s strong rebuke, winced as surely as did Obould himself when Nyphithys made that particular reference.

“Gruumsh has guided the vision that is Many-Arrows,” Obould replied after a moment of collecting himself. “I know his will.”

Nyphithys beamed. “My master will be pleased. We will send…”

Obould’s mocking laughter stopped her, and she looked at him with both curiosity and skepticism.

“War brought us to this, our home,” Obould explained, “but peace sustains us.”

“Peace with dwarves?” the devil asked.

Obould stood firm and didn’t bother to reply.

“My master will not be pleased.”

“He will exact punishment upon me?”

“Be careful what you wish for, king of orcs,” the devil warned. “Your puny kingdom is no match for the magic of the Arcane Brotherhood.”

“Who ally with devils and will send forth a horde of barbezu to entangle my armies while their overwizards rain death upon us?” Obould asked, and it was Nyphithys’s turn to stand firm.

“While my own allies support my ranks with elven arrows, dwarven war machines, and Lady Alustriel’s own knights and wizards,” the orc said and drew out his greatsword, willing its massive blade to erupt with fire as it came free of its sheath.

To Nyphithys and her two erinyes companions, none of whom were smiling, he yelled, “Let us see how my orc fodder fares against your barbezu and flesh beasts!”

From all around, orcs leaped out of hiding. Brandishing swords and spears, axes and flails, they howled and rushed forward, and the devils, ever eager for battle, fanned out and met the charge.

“Fool orc,” Nyphithys said. She pulled out her own sword, a wicked, straight-edged blade, blood red in color, and took her strange rope from her belt as well, as did her sister erinyes devils. “Our promise to you was of greater power than you will ever know!”

To the sides of the principals, orcs and lesser devils crashed together in a sudden torrent of howls and shrieks.

Obould came forward with frightening speed, his sword driving for the hollow between Nyphithys’s breasts. He roared with victory, thinking the kill assured.

But Nyphithys was gone—just gone, magically disappeared, and so were her sisters.

“Fool orc,” she called down to him from above, and Obould whirled and looked up to see the three devils some twenty feet off the ground, their feathered wings beating easily, holding them aloft and steady against the wind.

A bearded devil rushed at the seemingly distracted orc king, but Obould swept around at the last moment, his flaming greatsword cutting a devastating arc, and the creature fell away…in pieces.

As he turned back to regard Nyphithys, though, a rope slapped down around him. A magical rope, he quickly discerned, as it began to entwine him of its own accord, wrapping with blinding speed and the strength of a giant constrictor snake around his torso and limbs. Before he even began sorting that out, a second rope hit him and began to enwrap him, as each of Nyphithys’s fellow erinyes, flanking their alluring leader, caught him in their extended magical grasp.

“Destroy them all!” Nyphithys called down to her horde. “They are only orcs!”

“Only orcs!” a bearded devil echoed, or tried to, for it came out “only or- glul,” as a spike blasted through the devil’s spine and lungs, exploding out its chest with a spray of blood and gore.

“Yeah, ye keep tellin’ yerself that,” said Thibbledorf Pwent, who had leaped down from a rocky abutment head first—helmet spike first—upon the unsuspecting creature. Pwent pulled himself to his feet, yanking the flailing, dying devil up over his head as he went. With a powerful jerk and twitch, he sent the creature flying away. “It’ll make ye feel better,” he said after it then he howled and charged at the next enemy he could find.

“Slow down, ye durned stoneheaded pile o’ road apples!” Bruenor, who was more gingerly making his way down the same abutment, called after Pwent, to no avail. “So much for formations,” the dwarf king grumbled to Drizzt, who rushed by with a fluid gait, leaping down ledge to ledge as easily as if he were running across flat tundra.

The drow hit the ground running. He darted off to the side and fell into a sidelong roll over a smooth boulder, landing solidly on his feet and with his scimitars already weaving a deadly pattern before him. Oozing lemures bubbled and popped under the slashes of those blades as Drizzt fell fully into his dance. He stopped, and whirled around just in time to double-parry the incoming glaive of a barbezu. Not wanting to fully engage the saw-toothed weapon, Drizzt instead slapped it with a series of shortened strikes, deflecting its thrust out wide.

His magical anklets enhancing his strides, the drow rushed in behind the glaive, Icingdeath and Twinkle, his trusted blades, making short work of the bearded devil.

“I got to get me a fast pony,” Bruenor grumbled.

“War pig,” one of the other dwarves coming down, another Gutbuster, corrected.

“Whatever’s about,” Bruenor agreed. “Anything to get me in the fight afore them two steal all the fun.”

As if on cue, Pwent roared, “Come on, me boys! There’s blood for spillin’!” and all the Gutbusters gave a great cheer and began raining down around Bruenor. They leaped from the stones and crashed down hard, caring not at all, and rolled off as one with all the frenzy of a tornado in an open market.

Bruenor sighed and looked at Torgar, the only other one left beside him at the base of the abutment, who couldn’t suppress a chuckle of his own.

“They do it because they love their king,” the Mirabarran dwarf remarked.

“They do it because they want to hit things,” Bruenor muttered. He glanced over his shoulder, back up the rocks, to Catti-brie, who was crouched low, using a stone to steady her aim.