“Are there not couples of humans still in love after so many years together?” Drizzt asked. “Are there not human husbands who love their wives still when seventy is a birthday passed?”
“But the husbands are not usually in the springtime of their lives.”
“You err because you pretend that it will happen overnight, in the snap of fingers,” Drizzt said. “That is far from the case, even for an elf looking upon the human lifespan. Every wrinkle is earned, my love. Day by day, we spend our time together, and the changes that come will be well earned. In your heart you know that I love you, and I have no doubt but that my love will grow with the passage of years. I know your heart, Catti-brie. You are blissfully predictable to me in some ways, never so in others. I know where your choices will be, time and again, and ever are they on the right side of justice and integrity.”
Catti-brie smiled and kissed him, but Drizzt broke it off fast and pushed her back.
“If a dragon’s fiery breath were to catch up with me, and scar my skin hideously, blind me, and keep about me a stench of burnt flesh, would Catti-brie still love me?”
“Wonderful thought,” the woman said dryly.
“Would she? Would you stand beside me?”
“Of course.”
“And if I thought otherwise, at all, then never would I have desired to be your husband. Do you not similarly trust in me?”
Catti-brie grinned and kissed him again, then pushed him on his back on the bed.
The packing could wait.
Early the next morning, Drizzt leaned over the sleeping Catti-brie and gently brushed her lips with his own. He stared at her for a long while, even while he walked from the bed to the door. He at last turned and nearly jumped back in surprise, for set against the door was Taulmaril, the Heartseeker, Catti-brie’s bow, and lying below it was her magical quiver, one that never ran out of arrows. For a moment, Drizzt stood confused, until he noticed a small note on the floor by the quiver. From a puncture in its side, he deduced that it had been pressed onto the top of the bow but had not held its perch.
He knew what it said before he ever brought it close enough to read the scribbling.
He looked back at Catti-brie once more. She couldn’t be with him in body, perhaps, but with Taulmaril in his hand, she’d be there in spirit.
Drizzt slung the bow over his shoulder then retrieved the quiver and did likewise. He looked back once more to his love then left the room without a sound.
CHAPTER 16
TOOGWIK TUK’S PARADE
The warriors of Clan Karuck paraded onto the muddy plaza centering a small orc village one rainy morning, the dreary overcast and pounding rain doing nothing to diminish the glory of their thunderous march.
“Stand and stomp!” the warriors sang in voices that resonated deeply from their massive half-ogre chests. “Smash and crush! All for the glory of One-eye Gruumsh!”
Yellow pennants flapping in the wind, waves of mud splattering with every coordinated step, the clan came on in tight and precise formation, their six flags moving, two-by-two, in near perfect synchronization. The curious onlookers couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the huge half-ogre, half-orcs and the scores of orcs from other tribes that had been swept up into their wake from the first villages through which Chieftain Grguch had marched.
Only one full-blooded orc marched with Grguch, a young and fiery shaman. Toogwik Tuk wasted no time as the villagers gathered. He moved out in front as Grguch halted his march.
“We are fresh from victory in the Moonwood!” Toogwik Tuk proclaimed, and every orc along the eastern reaches of Obould’s fledgling kingdom knew well that hated place. Thus, predictably, a great cheer greeted the news.
“All hail Chieftain Grguch of Clan Karuck!” Toogwik Tuk proclaimed, and that was met with an uncomfortable pause until he added, “For the glory of King Obould!”
Toogwik Tuk glanced back to Grguch, who nodded his agreement, and the young shaman started the chant, “Grguch! Obould! Grguch! Obould! Grguch! Grguch! Grguch!”
All of Clan Karuck fell in quickly with the cadence, as did the orcs who had already joined in with the march, and the villagers’ doubts were quickly overwhelmed.
“As Obould before him, Chieftain Grguch will bring the judgment of Gruumsh upon our enemies!” Toogwik Tuk cried, running through the mob and whipping them into frenzy. “The snow retreats, and we advance!” With every glorious proclamation, he took care to add, “For the glory of Obould! By the power of Grguch!”
Toogwik Tuk understood well the weight that had settled on his shoulders. Dnark and Ung-thol had departed for the west to meet with Obould regarding the new developments, and it fell squarely upon Toogwik Tuk to facilitate Grguch’s determined march to the south. Clan Karuck alone would not stand against Obould and his thousands, obviously, but if Clan Karuck carried along with them the orc warriors from the dozen villages lining the Surbrin, their arrival on the field north of King Bruenor’s fortifications would carry great import—enough, so the conspirators hoped, to coerce the involvement of the army Obould had likely already positioned there.
That sort of rabble rousing had been Toogwik Tuk’s signature for years. His rise through the ranks to become the chief shaman of his tribe—almost all of whom were dead, crushed in the mysterious, devastating explosion of a mountain ridge north of Keeper’s Dale—had been expedited by precisely that talent. He knew well how to manipulate the emotions of the peasant orcs, to conflate their present loyalties with what he wanted their loyalties to be. Every time he mentioned Obould, he was quick to add the name Grguch. Every time he spoke of Gruumsh, he was quick to add the name of Grguch. Mingle them, say them together enough times so that his audience would unwittingly add “Grguch” whenever they heard the names of the other two.
His energy again proved infectious, and he soon had all of the villagers hopping about and chanting with him, always for the glory of Obould, and always by the power of Grguch.
Those two names needed to be intimately linked, the three conspirators had decided before Dnark and Ung-thol had departed. To even hint against Obould after such dramatic and sweeping victories as the orc king had brought would have spelled a fast end to the coup. Even considering the disastrous attempt to enter Mithral Hall’s western gate, or the loss of the eastern ground between the dwarven halls and the Surbrin, or the stall throughout winter and the whispers that it might be longer than that, the vast majority of orcs spoke of Obould in the hushed tones usually reserved for Gruumsh himself. But Toogwik Tuk and two companions planned to move the tribes to oppose their king, one baby-step at a time.
“By the power of Grguch!” Toogwik Tuk cried again, and before the cheer could erupt, he added, “Will the dwarven wall hold against a warrior who burned the Moonwood?”
Though he expected a cheer, Toogwik Tuk was answered with looks of suspicion and confusion.
“The dwarves will flee before us,” the shaman promised. “Into their hole they will run, and we will control the Surbrin for King Obould! For the glory of King Obould!” he finished, screaming with all his power.
The orcs around him cheered wildly, insanely.
“By the power of Grguch!” the not-quite-so-out-of-control Toogwik Tuk cleverly added, and many of the villagers, so used to the chant by then, shouted the words right along beside him.
Toogwik Tuk glanced back at Chieftain Grguch, who wore a most satisfied grin.
Another step taken, Toogwik Tuk knew.
Taking many offered supplies, Clan Karuck soon resumed their march, and a new pennant flew among the many in the mob behind them, and another forty warriors eagerly melded into Chieftain Grguch’s trailing ranks. With several larger villages before them, both the chieftain and his shaman spokesman expected that they would number in the thousands when they at last reached the dwarven wall.