On closer inspection, though, the truth had come clear to him, for the pile of sand had been an ant mound, and the red streaks were lines of the six-legged creatures marching to and fro.
Hralien thought of that long-ago experience as he witnessed the charge of the orcs, swarming the small, rocky hills north of King Bruenor’s eastern defenses. Their movements seemed no less frenetic, and truly their march appeared no less determined. Given their speed and intensity, and the obstacle that awaited them barely two miles to the south, Hralien recognized their intent.
The elf bit his lip as he remembered his promise to Drizzt Do’Urden. He looked south, sorting out the landscape and recalling the trails that would most quickly return him to Mithral Hall.
Then he was running, and fearing that he could not keep his promise to his drow friend, for the orc line stretched ahead of him and the creatures had not far to travel. With great grace and agility, Hralien sprang from stone to stone. He leaped up and grabbed a low tree branch and swung out across a narrow chasm, landing lightly on the other side and in a full run. He moved with hardly a whisper of sound, unlike the orcs, whose heavy steps echoed in his keen elf’s ears.
He knew that he should be cautious, for he could ill afford the delay if he happened into a fight. But neither could he slow his run and carefully pick his path, for some of the orcs were ahead of him, and the dwarves would need every heartbeat of warning he could give them. So he ran on, leaping and scrambling over bluffs and through low dales, where the melting snow had streamed down and pooled in clear, cold pockets. Hralien tried to avoid those pools as much as possible, for they often concealed slick ice. But even with his great dexterity and sharp vision, he occasionally splashed through, cringing at the unavoidable sound.
At one point, he heard an orc cry out, and feared that he had been spotted. Many strides later, he realized that the creature was just calling to a companion, a stark reminder that the lead runners and scouts of the brutish force were all around him.
Finally he left the sounds of orcs behind, for though the brutes could move with great speed, they could not match the pace of a dexterous elf, even across such broken ground.
Soon after, coming up over a rocky rise, Hralien caught sight of squat stone towers in the south, running down from tall mountains to the silvery, moonlit snake that was the River Surbrin.
“Too soon,” the elf whispered in dismay, and he glanced back as if expecting Obould’s entire army to roll over him. He shook his head and winced, then sprinted off for the south.
“We will have it completed within the tenday,” Alustriel said to Catti-brie, the two sitting with some of the other Silverymoon wizards around a small campfire. One of the wizards, a robust human with thick salt and pepper hair and a tightly trimmed goatee, had conjured the flames and was playing with them, casting cantrips to change their color from orange to white to blue and red. A second wizard, a rather eccentric half-elf with shiny black hair magically streaked by a bloom of bright red locks, joined in and wove enchantments to make the red flames form into the shape of a small dragon. Seeing the challenge, the first wizard likewise formed blue flames, and the two spellcasters set their fiery pets into a proxy battle. Almost immediately, several other wizards began excitedly placing their bets.
Catti-brie watched with amusement and interest—more than she would have expected, and Alustriel’s words to her about dabbling in the dark arts flitted unbidden through her thoughts. Her experience with wizards was very limited, and mostly involved the unpredictable and dangerously foolish Harpell family from Longsaddle.
“Asa Havel will win,” Alustriel whispered to her, leaning in close and indicating the half-elf wizard who had manipulated the red flame. “Duzberyl is far more powerful at manipulating fire, but he has taxed his powers to their limit this day conjuring bright hot flames to seal the stone. And Asa Havel knows it.”
“So he challenged,” Catti-brie whispered back. “And his friends know, too, so they wager.”
“They would wager anyway,” Alustriel explained. “It is a matter of pride. Whatever is lost here will be reclaimed soon enough in another challenge.”
Catti-brie nodded and watched the unfolding drama, the many faces, elf and human alike, glowing in varying shades and hues in the uneven light, turning blue as the blue dragon leaped atop the red, but then drifting back, green and yellow and toward a feverish red as Asa Havel’s drake filtered up through Duzberyl’s and gradually gained supremacy. It was all good-natured, of course, but Catti-brie didn’t miss the intensity etched onto the faces of the combatants and onlookers alike. It occurred to her that she was looking into an entirely different world. She could relate it to the drinking games, and the arm-wrestling and sparring that so often took place in the taverns of Mithral Hall, for though the venue was different, the emotions were not. Still, there remained enough of a difference to intrigue her. It was a battle of strength, but of mental strength and concentration, and not of muscle and intestinal fortitude.
“Within a month, you could form flames into such shapes, yourself,” Alustriel teased.
Catti-brie looked at her and laughed dismissively, but that hardly hid her interest.
She looked back to the fire just in time to see Duzberyl’s blue roll over and consume Asa Havel’s red, contrary to Alustriel’s prediction. The backers of both wizards gasped in surprise and Duzberyl gave a yelp that was more shock than of victory. Catti-brie’s gaze turned to Asa Havel, and her surprise turned to confusion.
The half-elf was not looking at the fight, and seemed oblivious to the fact that his dragon had been consumed by the human’s blue. He stared out to the north, his sea-blue eyes scanning high above the flames. Catti-brie felt Alustriel turn beside her, then stand. The woman glanced over her shoulder, up at the dark wall, but shook her head slightly in confusion, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. Beside her, Alustriel cast a minor spell.
Other wizards rose and peered out to the north.
“An elf has come,” Alustriel said to Catti-brie. “And the dwarves are scrambling.”
“It’s an attack,” Asa Havel announced, rising and moving past the two women. He looked right at Alustriel and the princess of Mithral Hall and asked, “Orcs?”
“Prepare for battle,” Alustriel said to her contingent. “Area spells to disrupt any charge.”
“We have little left this day,” Duzberyl reminded her.
In response, Alustriel reached inside one of the folds of her robes and drew forth a pair of slender wands. She half-turned and tossed one to Duzberyl. “Your necklace, too, if needed,” she instructed, and the human nodded and brought a hand to a gaudy choker he wore, its golden links set with large stones like rubies of varying sizes, including one so large that Catti-brie couldn’t have closed her fist around it.
“Talindra, to the gates of the dwarven halls,” Alustriel said to a young elf female. “Warn the dwarves and help them sort the battle.”
The elf nodded and took a few fast steps to the west, then disappeared with a flash of blue-white light. A second flash followed almost instantly, over near the hall’s eastern gates, transporting Talindra to her assigned position, the surprised Catti-brie assumed, for she couldn’t actually see the young elf.
She turned back to hear Alustriel positioning Asa Havel and another pair. “Secure fast passage to the far bank, should we need it. Prepare enough to carry any dwarves routed from the wall.”