"Take yer girl and get out o' here."
"Why would you…?"
"Just get!" Pwent growled. "I got no time for ye, ye dog. Ye came here for yer girl, and good enough for her and for yerself! So take her and get out o' here!"
G'nurk understood almost every word, certainly enough to comprehend what had just happened.
He looked over at his girl-his dear, dead girl-then glanced back at the dwarf and asked, "Who did you lose?"
"Shut yer mouth, dog," Pwent barked at him. "And get ye gone afore I change me mind."
The tone spoke volumes to G'nurk. The pain behind the growl rang out clearly to the orc, who carried so similar a combination of hate and grief.
He looked back to Tinguinguay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dwarf lower his head and turn to go.
G'nurk was no average orc warrior. He had served in Obould's elite guard for years, and as a trainer for those who had followed him into that coveted position. The dwarf had beaten him-through a trick, to be sure-and to G'nurk that was no small thing; never had he expected to be defeated in such a manner.
But now he knew better.
He covered the ground between himself and the dwarf with two leaps, and as the dwarf spun to meet the charge, G'nurk hit him with a series of quick slaps and shortened stabs to keep him, most of all, from gaining any balance.
He kept pressing, pushing, and prodding, never allowing a counter, never allowing the dwarf to set any defense.
He pushed the dwarf back, almost over, but the stubborn bearded creature came forward.
G'nurk sidestepped and crashed the pommel of his sword against the back of the dwarf's shoulder, forcing the dwarf to overbalance forward even more. When he reached up to grab at G'nurk, to use the orc as leverage, G'nurk ducked under that arm, catching it as he went so that when he came up fast behind the arm, he had it twisted such that the dwarf had no choice but to fall headlong.
The dwarf wound up flat on his back, G'nurk standing over him, the sword in tight against his throat.
I have heard parents express their fears of their own mortal shy;ity soon after the birth of a child. It is a fear that stays with a parent, to a great extent, through the first dozen years of a child's life. It is not for the child that they fear, should they die-though surely there is that worry, as well-but rather for themselves. What father would accept his death before his child was truly old enough to remember him? For who better to put a face to the bones among the stones? Who better to remember the sparkle in an eye before the crow comes a'calling?
"Bah, ye murderin' treacherous dog!" Thibbledorf Pwent yelled. "Ye got no honor, nor did yer daugh-" He bit the word off as G'nurk pressed the blade in tighter.
"Never speak of her," the orc warned, and he backed off the sword just a bit.
"Ye're thinking this honorable, are ye?"
G'nurk nodded.
Pwent nearly spat with disbelief. "Ye dog! How can ye?"
G'nurk stepped back, taking the sword with him. "Because now you know that I hold gratitude for your mercy, dwarf," he explained. "Now you know in your heart that you made the right choice. You carry with you from this field no burden of guilt for your mercy. Do not think this anything more than it is: a good deed repaid. If we meet in the lines, Obould against Bruenor, then know I will serve my king."
"And meself, me own!" Pwent proclaimed as he pulled himself to his feet.
"But you are not my enemy, dwarf," the orc added, and he stepped back, bowed and walked away.
"I ain't yer durned friend, neither!"
G'nurk turned and smiled, though whether in agreement or in thinking that he knew otherwise, Pwent could not discern.
It had been a strange day.
I wish the crows would circle and the wind would carry them away, and the faces would remain forever to remind us of the pain. When the clarion call to glory sounds, before the armies anew trample the bones among the stones, let the faces of the dead remind us of the cost. It is a sobering sight before me, the red-splashed stones. It is a striking warning in my ears, the cawing of the crows.
— Drizzt Do'Urden
SECOND CHANCE
29 Flamerule, the Year of Risen Elfkin (1375 DR)
The autharch's soldiers tied Kemas's hands together and pulled the rope over a tree limb so that only his toes touched the ground. Then they beat his naked back, shoulders, and ribs with a cane.
The boy tried clenching his jaw so he wouldn't cry out, but that didn't work. Then he tried not to hear anything the autharch, alternately cajoling and screaming as the mood took him, had to say. If he didn't understand the questions, he couldn't answer them and so betray his comrades and his faith a second time.
Preventing that was the most important thing in the world, but he could already feel that it wouldn't always be. The jolting pain would go on and on until stopping it was all that mattered. Then he'd tell the autharch whatever he wanted to know.
So why not give in now, if surrender was inevitable in any case? He struggled to push the tempting thought out of his head.
Then one of the legionnaires said, "Someone's here to see you, Autharch. An officer from Umratharos." The beating stopped as everyone turned to regard the newcomer.
The stranger possessed the thin, long-limbed frame of a Mulan aristocrat, like the autharch, or Kemas himself, for that matter, but contrary to custom, didn't shave his scalp. Straw-colored hair framed a face that might have been pleasant if it weren't so haggard and severe. The blond man bowed slightly, as if the autharch might conceivably outrank him but not by much, and proffered sheets of parchment with green wax seals adhering to them. He wore a massive gold and emerald ring on his middle finger, and Kemas sensed he was displaying that to his fellow noble as well.
Broad-shouldered and coarse-featured for a Mulan and possessed of mean, pouchy eyes, the autharch scanned the documents, then grunted. "A tour of inspection."
"Yes," the blond man said in a rich baritone voice. "Our master"-Kemas assumed he referred to Invarri Metron, tharchion of Delhumide-"wants to make sure every noble in his dominions is loyal to Szass Tam and making ready for war."
The autharch peered about. "But where is your retinue, Lord Uupret? Surely such an important official isn't traveling alone."
"For the moment, yes. My men fell ill, and rather than stay with them and risk catching the sickness myself, I rode on alone. My business is too important to delay."
The autharch blinked. "Yes. I'm sure."
"Then I hope you'll be kind enough to explain what's going on. Why are you and your troops encamped in this field?"
"To further the northern cause, I assure you. Just east of us stands a temple of Kossuth. Obviously, I won't allow a bastion of His Omnipotence's enemies to exist on my own lands, especially when it's positioned to threaten traffic on the Sur Road. I'm going to take the place, kill the fire worshipers, and then my wizards will raise them as zombies to serve our overlords."
The blond man nodded. "That sounds reasonable. But what about the boy?" Kemas flinched.
The autharch chuckled. "Oh, him. I attacked the temple last night, but we didn't make it inside the walls. Which was fine. I didn't expect to on the first try. I was really just feeling out the enemy. Anyway, after we fell back, this little rat evidently decided he doesn't like fighting very much. He sneaked out of the shrine and tried to run away, and our sentries caught him. Now we're persuading him to tell us everything he knows about the temple's defenses."
"He looks about ready." The blond noble advanced on Kemas and gripped his raw, welted shoulder. Kemas gasped and stiffened at the resulting stab of pain.