“Hold!” the drow called. Even as he spoke, Drizzt noted another curious sight, that of smoke up ahead, some distance away, rising in a thin line as if from a chimney. He considered it for just a moment, then glanced back to the trail, which seemed to be going in that general direction. He wondered if the two were somehow connected. A trapper's house, perhaps, or a hermit.
Figuring that the friends could all use a bit of rest, Drizzt 'made good speed for the trail. They had been out from Luskan for nearly a tenday, finding good shelter only twice, once with a farmer the first night and another night spent in a cave.
Drizzt wasn't as hopeful for shelter when he arrived at the line in the snow and saw footprints more than twice the size of his own.
“What'd'ye got, elf?” Bruenor called.
Drizzt motioned for the group to be quiet and for them to come and join him.
“Big orcs, perhaps,” he remarked when they were all there. “Or small ogres.”
“Or barbarians,” Bruenor remarked. “Them folk got the biggest feet I ever seen on a human.”
Drizzt examined one clear print more carefully, bending over to put his eyes only a few inches from it. He shook his head. “These are too heavy, and those who made them wore hard boots, not the doeskin Wulfgar's people would wear,” he explained.
“Ogres, then,” said Catti-brie. “Or big orcs.”
“Plenty of those in these mountains,” Regis put in.
“And heading for that line of smoke,” Drizzt explained, pointing ahead to the thin plume.
“Might be their kinfolk making the smoke,” Bruenor reasoned. With a wry grin, the dwarf turned to Regis. “Get to it, Rumblebelly.”
Regis branched, thinking then that perhaps he had done too well with that last orc camp, when he and Bruenor were making their way to Luskan. The halfling wasn't going to shy from his responsibilities, but if these were ogres, he'd be sorely overmatched. And Regis knew that ogres favored halfling as one of their most desired meals.
When Regis came out of his contemplation, he noted that Drizzt was looking at him, smiling knowingly, as if he'd read the halfling's every thought.
“This is no job for Regis,” the dark elf said.
“He done it on the way to Luskan,” Bruenor protested. “Done it well, too.”
“But not in this snow,” Drizzt replied. “No thief would be able to find appropriate shadows in this white-out. No, let us go in together to see what friends or enemies we might find.”
“And if they are ogres?” Catti-brie asked. “Ye thinking we're overdue for a fight?”
Drizzt's expression showed clearly that the notion was not an unpleasant one, but he shook his head. “If they do not concern us, then better that we do not concern them,” he said. “But let us learn what we might—it may be that we will find shelter and good food for the night.”
Drizzt moved off to the side and a little ahead, and Bruenor led the way along the carved trail. The dwarf brought out his large axe, slapping its handle across his shield hand, and set his one-horned helmet firmly on his head, more than ready for a fight. Behind him, Catti-brie set an arrow to Taulmaril and tested the pull.
If these were ogres or orcs and they happened to have a decent shelter constructed, then Catti-brie fully expected to be occupying that shelter long before nightfall. She knew Bruenor Battle-hammer too well to think that the dwarf would ever walk away from a fight with either of those beasts.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Yer turn to get the firewood,” Donbago snarled at his younger brother, Jeddith. He pushed the young man toward the tower door. “We'll all be frozen by morning if ye don't bring it!”
“Yeah, I know,” the younger soldier grumbled, running a hand through his greasy hair and scratching at some lice. “Damn weather. Shouldn't be this cold yet.”
The other two soldiers in the stone tower grumbled their agreement. Winter had come early, and with vigor, to the Spine of the World, sweeping down on an icy wind that cut right through the stones of the simple tower fortress to bite at the soldiers. They did have a fire burning in the hearth, but it was getting thin, and they didn't have enough wood to get through the night. There was plenty to be found, though, so none of them were worried.
“If ye help me, we'll bring enough to get it blazing,” Jeddith observed, but Donbago grumbled about taking his turn on the tower top watch, and headed for the stairs even as Jeddith started for the outside door.
A breeze whistling in through the opened door pushed Donbago along as he made the landing to the second floor, to find the other two soldiers of the remote outpost.
“Well, who's up top?” Donbago scolded.
“No one,” answered one of the pair, scaling the ladder running up from the center of the circular floor to the center of the ceiling. “The trapdoor's frozen stuck.”
Donbago grumbled and moved to the base of the ladder, watching as his companion for the sentry duty banged at the metal trapdoor. It took them some time to break through the ice, and so Donbago wasn't on the rooftop and didn't have to watch helplessly as Jeddith, some thirty feet from the tower door, bent over to retrieve some deadwood, oblivious to the hulking ogre that stepped out from behind a tree and crushed his skull with a single blow from a heavy club.
Jeddith went down without a sound, and the marauder dragged him out of sight.
The brute working at the back of the tower was noisier, throwing a grapnel attached to a heavy rope at the tower's top lip, but its tumult was covered by the banging on the metal trapdoor.
Before Donbago and his companion had the door unstuck, the half-ogre grabbed the knotted rope in its powerful hands and walked itself right up the nearly thirty feet of the tower wall, heaving itself to the roof.
The brute turned about, reaching for a large axe it had strapped across its back, even as the door banged open and Donbago climbed through.
With a roar, the half-ogre leaped at him, but it wound up just bowling the man aside. Fortune was with Donbago, and the half-ogre's axe got hooked on the heavy strapping. Still, the man went flying down hard against the tower crenellation, his breath blasting away.
Gasping, Donbago couldn't even cry out a warning as his companion climbed onto the roof. The half-ogre tore its axe free.
Donbago winced and grimaced as the brute cut his companion nearly in half. Donbago drew his sword and forced himself to his feet and into a charge. He let his rage be his guide as he closed on the brute, saw his companion, his friend, half out of the trapdoor, squirming in the last moments of his life. A seasoned warrior, Donbago didn't let the image force him into any rash movements. He came in fast and furiously, but in a tempered manner, launching what looked like a wild swing then retracting the sword just enough so that the brute's powerful parry whistled past without hitting anything.
Now Donbago came forward with a stab, and another, driving the brute back and opening its gut.
The half-ogre wailed and tried to retreat, but lost its footing on the slippery stone and went down hard.
On came Donbago, leaping forward with a tremendous slash, but even as his sword descended, the half-ogre's great leg kicked up, connecting solidly and launching the man into a head-over-heels somersault. His blow still landed, though, and the ragged half-ogre had to work hard to regain its footing.
Donbago was up before it, stabbing and slashing. He kept looking from his target to his dead friend, letting the rage drive him on. Even as the ogre attacked he scored a deep strike. Still, in his offensive stance, he couldn't get aside, and he took a glancing blow from that awful axe. Then he took a heavy punch in the face, one that shattered his nose, cracked the bones in both his cheeks, and sent him skidding back hard into the wall.