"King Gandalug Battlehammer was fairly well known himself," Shoudra sarcastically replied. "Returning from the ages lost, and all."
Elastul shook his head with every word. "Not like Bruenor, who wrested back control of the hall in our time. With his strange friends and hearty clan, Bruenor reshaped the northland, and his return is significant, I fear. With Bruenor back on the throne, you will find an even harder time in securing the contracts we need to prosper."
"Not so."
"It is not a chance I wish to take," Elastul snapped. "Witness what his reputation alone did to shake our own city. A simple pass through, and half the dwarves are muttering his praises. No, this cannot stand."
He sat back and put a finger to his pursed lips. Behind them, a smile gradually widened, as if some devious plan was formulating.
Shoudra looked at him curiously and said, "You cannot be thinking.
"There are ways to see that Mithral Hall's reputation drops a few notches."
"Ways?" an incredulous Shoudra asked.
"We have dwarves here who have befriended King Bruenor, yes? We have dwarves among us who now cal I the King of Mithral Hall their friend, and he returns the compliment."
"Torgar will commit no sabotage against Mithral Hall," Shoudra reasoned, seeing easily enough where this was leading.
"He will if he doesn't know he's doing it," Elastul said mysteriously, and for the first time since Nanfoodle had arrived with the initial, misguided news, the marchion's smile was wide and genuine.
Shoudra Stargleam just looked at the man doubtfully. She had often heard his devious plotting, for he spent a great portion of his time on his throne doing just that. Almost always, though, it was just his wishful thinking at work. Despite his bluster, and even more than that, the bluster of the four Hammers who always stood behind him, Elastul wasn't really a man of action. He wanted to protect what he had and even try to improve it in a safe and secure manner, such as hiring alchemists, but to go an extra step, to actually attempt sabotage against Mithral Hall, for example, and thus risk starting a war, simply was not the man's style.
It was entertaining to watch, though, Shoudra had to admit.
CHAPTER 9 BECAUSE THAT'S HOW WE DO IT
For Tred McKnuckles, the sight was as painful as anything he had ever witnessed. By his estimation, the people of Clicking Heels had treated him and Nikwillig with generosity and tender care, had jeopardized their own safety by getting into a conflict that had not even involved them. Nikwillig and he had done that to them by approaching their town, and they had reacted with more kindness and openness than a pair of lost dwarves from a distant citadel could have expected.
And now they had paid the price.
Tred walked about the ruins of the small village, the blasted and burned houses, and the bodies. He chased away the carrion birds from one corpse, then closed his eyes against the pain, recognizing the woman as one of the caring faces he had seen when he had first opened his eyes after resting against the weariness of the difficult road that had brought him there.
Bruenor Battlehammer watched the dwarf's somber movements, noting always the look on Tred's face. Before there had been a desire for vengeance—the dwarves' caravan had been hit and destroyed, and Tred had lost friends and a brother. Dwarves could accept such tragedies as an inevitability of their existence. They usually lived on the borderlands of the wilderness, and almost always faced danger of one sort or another, but the look on Tred's tough old face was somewhat different, more subdued, and in a way, more pained. A good measure of guilt had been thrown into the tumultuous mix. Tred and Nikwillig had stumbled into Clicking Heels on their desperate road, and as a result, the town was gone.
Simply, brutally, gone.
That frustration and guilt showed clearly as Tred made his way about the smoldering ruins, especially whenever he came upon one of the many orc corpses, always giving it a good kick in the face.
"How many're ye thinking?" Bruenor asked Drizzt when the drow returned from the outlying countryside, checking tracks and trying to get a clearer picture of what had occurred at the ruins of Clicking Heels.
"A handful of giants," the drow explained. He pointed up to a ridge in the distance. "Three to five, I would make it, based on the tracks and the remaining cairns of stones."
"Cairns?"
"They had prepared well for the attack," Drizzt reasoned. "I would guess that the giants rained boulders on the village in the dark of night, softening up the defenses. It went on for a long time, hours at least."
"How're ye knowing that?
"There are places where the walls were hastily repaired—before being knocked down once more," the drow explained. He pointed to a remote corner of the village. "Over there, a woman was crushed under a boulder, yet the townsfolk had the time to remove the stone and drag her away. In desperation, as the bombardment continued, a group even left the village and tried to sneak up on the giants' position." He pointed up toward the ridgeline, to a boulder tumble off to the side of where he had found the giant tracks and the cairns. "They never got close, with a host of orcs laying in wait."
"How many?" Bruenor asked him. "Ye say a handful o' giants, but how many orcs came against the village?"
Drizzt looked around at the wreckage, at the bodies, human and orc.
"A hundred," he guessed. "Maybe less, maybe more, but somewhere around that number. They left only a dozen dead on the field, and that tells me that the villagers were completely overwhelmed. Giant-thrown boulders killed many and methodically tore away the defensive positions. A third of the village's fighting force were slaughtered out by the ridge, and that left but a score of strong, hearty frontiersmen here to defend. T don't think the giants even came into the town to join in the fight." His lips grew very tight, his voice very grave. "I don't think they had to."
"We gotta pay 'em back, ye know?"
Drizzt nodded.
"A hunnerd, ye say?" Bruenor went on, looking around. "We're outnumbered four to one."
When the dwarf looked back at the drow, he saw Drizzt standing easily, hands on his belted scimitars, a look both grim and eager stamped upon his face—that same look that inspired both a bit of fear and the thrill of adventure in Bruenor and all the others who knew the drow.
"Four to one?" Drizzt asked. "You should send half our force back to Pwent and Mithral Hall. . just to make it interesting."
A crooked smile creased Bruenor's weathered old face. "Just what I was thinking."
"Ye're the king, damn ye! Ain't ye knowin' what that means?"
Dagnabbit's less than enthusiastic reaction to Bruenor's announcement that they would hunt down the orcs and giants to avenge the destruction of the town and the attack on Tred's caravan came as no surprise to the dwarf king. Dagnabbit was seeing things through the lens offered by his position as Bruenor's appointed protector—and Bruenor did have to admit that at times he needed protecting from his own judgment.
But this was not one of those limes, as far as he was concerned. His kingdom was but a few days of easy marching from Clicking Heels, and it was his responsibility, and his pleasure, to aid in cleansing the region of foul creature like orcs and renegade giants.
"One thing it means is that I can't be lettin' the damned orcs come down and kill the folks about me kingdom!"
"Ores and giants," Dagnabbit reminded. "A small army. We didn't come out here to—"
"We come out here to kill them that killed Tred's companions," Bruenor interrupted. "Seems likely it's the same band to me."
To the side, Tred nodded his agreement.
"And a bigger band than we thinked," the stubborn Dagnabbit argued. 'Tred was saying that there were a score and a couple of giants, but 'twas more 'n that that leveled this town! Ye let me go back and get Pwent and his boys, and a hunnerd more o' me best fighters, and we'll go and get the durned orcs and giants."