Bruenor turned back, just in time to dodge a huge stone flying his way. And there before him stood the giant, an enormous behemoth. Not a hill giant, as one might expect with orcs, but bigger, far bigger indeed.
“Run away!” he heard Ognun yell to him, and that, of course, was the only answer in the face of such an enemy.
The only answer for a fifteen-year-old Reginald, perhaps.
But not for Bruenor Battlehammer, King of Mithral Hall.
He charged.
The mountain giant stood more than thrice his height and outweighed him ten-to-one or more. But he charged, roaring, demanding the giant’s attention as it moved to hurl another boulder.
With a stupid look and a grunt of “huh?” the giant flung the rock at the oncoming, nearly beardless young dwarf. It hit the ground a few feet in front of Bruenor and skipped up at him, and nearly clipped him as he dived to the ground.
By the time the boulder bounced against the hard ground again, Bruenor was already up and running. He thought to charge straight into the behemoth, to led them at a great pace oeverythingonrush around its treelike legs and whack at its knees with his axe.
He changed his mind when the giant reached back and pulled forth its club, an uprooted tree, as thick across as Bruenor’s waist!
To the left veered the dwarf, formulating another plan, for the trail rose up here, moving behind a wall of stone. He got under that cover just in time, the tree-club slamming down just behind him and shaking the ground so forcefully that he almost lost his balance.
Cursing with every step, telling himself to just run away out of spite and to the Nine Hells with them all, Bruenor kept his young legs pumping. The curses were real, as was the rage, but he would not abandon his fellow dwarves. Part of him wanted to, just to spite Moradin, but it simply was not the way of Bruenor Battlehammer.
He ran on, rounding a bend and climbing higher.
An orc leaped out before him, startling him. He threw his shield across desperately, but didn’t deflect the weapon quite enough, and felt the bite of the spear tip in his belly, trading that severe hit with a downward chop of his axe that crushed the orc’s skull. The creature fell away and Bruenor stumbled forward, and that action only drove the spear in deeper.
With a trembling hand, the dwarf reached down and grabbed the shaft, thinking to pull it out. As soon as he started to tug, though, he changed his mind. The head was barbed and surely his entrails would spill forth with it.
“So now ye killed me to death in battle, did ye, Moradin?” he said, sliding down to one knee and trying hard to hold his balance there. “Bah, but ain’t that a fittin’ end for yer games? Ye couldn’t even let the giant do it. It had to be an orc …”
The dwarf, grimacing and trying to stop the world from spinning, considered those words for a few heartbeats.
An orc, probably an orc from Many-Arrows. An orc living around this region because of a decision Bruenor had made a century before.
Another orc appeared on the trail ahead. Spotting the wounded dwarf, it let out a whoop of delight and charged at the kneeling dwarf with a spear deep in his gut.
CHAPTER 14
The Year of the Third Circle (1472 DR) Delthuntle
"He did well to get as far as he did,” Pericolo Topolino said to two of his captains, a halfling prestidigitator aptly nicknamed Wigglefingers, and the Grandfather’s most trusted advisor, his own granddaughter, Donnola Topolino.
“I had a bead on him halfway up the building,” Wigglefingers protested. “I could have blasted him from the wall with ease.”
“He is just a child,” Donnola argued. “And it took you half the building to sight him?”
Wigglefingers ran his fingers down one end of his deliciously curling black mustache, glanced at the pretty young halfling socialite out of the corner of his brown eyes and gave an unappreciative, “Hmm.”
“Has he awakened yet?” an obviously amused Topolino asked, and indeed, he was often amused by the continual banter of these two. It was all in good fun, after all, and they were the best of friends when not vying for his attention. There were rumors that Wigglefingers-Topolino couldn’t even remember his real name most of the time-was even quietly training Donnola in some clever magical suggestion techniques, just to make her information gathering more lucrative to Morada Topolino.
“You shot him good,” Donnola replied. “And perhaps with too much of the poison for one so little.”
In response, Pericolo snapped at the handle of the weapon in the holster at his side, drawing it in the blink of an eye. As it came forth from the cleverly designed scabbard, the spring-loaded wings of the hand crossbow extended, showing the weapon to be cocked and ready to fire, a poison-tipped dart set in place.
“Just a good batch, this one,” Pericolo said with a laugh.
“You still draw well, old one,” said Wigglefingers, who was the same age as the Grandfather and had grown up beside Pericolo on Delthuntle’s streets. Only Wigglefingers would dare to so tease Pericolo Topolino.
“Quick enough to shoot a wizard before he casts his first spell, no doubt,” the Grandfather answered. He worked his hand on a hidden lever on the inside of the pearl-gripped hand crossbow, releasing the catch, and immediately the wings loosened. Pericolo gave the weapon a couple of spins, rolling the trigger guard around his index finger in a dramatic flair before spinning it right back into the holster.
“Good poison,” he said again, for he, of course, had brewed it. “This Spider will sleep another day away, likely, and awaken with a mighty ache in his head, do not doubt.”
“Good enough for the little thief,” said Wigglefingers. “A headache well-deserved for his impudence. How dare he assault the home of Pericolo Topolino? And a fellow halfling! Ah, but Brandobaris is surely shaking his head at that one, eh?”
“A valuable little thief,” Pericolo corrected. “And given the agreement I’ve forced from his father, I expect that Brandobaris would be shaking his head in disappointment had the courageous one not tried to garner a bit of extra recompense.”
“Courageous? Or foolish? He had no chance of succeeding.”
“He is just a child,” Donnola themselvesI struggleon reminded yet again. She rolled her hand around and a perfect pink pearl seemed to appear there out of nowhere. With a subtle movement, she flicked it to the wizard. “Another one worthy of enchanting,” she explained. “Another from the deepwater oysters our little nuisance so easily and skillfully collects.”
Wigglefingers caught the pearl and stared at it lovingly. “Well, he does have his uses, I suppose,” he admitted.
“And think how long and low he might dive when you’ve put enchantments upon him,” said Pericolo. “We have only begun to test the value of this one, I expect.” He turned to Donnola, who returned his look with a sly one of her own, as if catching the hint that the Grandfather might have something more in mind here. “You inspected him?”
“From the hair on his head to the hair on his feet,” she replied. “His teeth, as well,” she added before Pericolo could. “And I used your wand upon him, twice, to detect any items or dweomers. There is no magic around him.”
“As I expected.”
“Then how might he dive so deep and so long?” Wigglefingers asked.
“His mother’s blood,” said Pericolo. “Her family has a bit of the genasi in them, several generations back, so say the rumors. Apparently, Jolee Parrafin was an equally impressive diver, although she never gained enough notice outside of her small group for anyone to properly exploit her talents, or to properly reward her.”