The Legacy by R. A. Salvatore
"Dwarfses," one of the front-running goblins cried out, and the others soon echoed him in calls that shifted from terror to hunger when the creatures came to believe they had stumbled on a small band of the bearded folk, perhaps a scouting party.
Whatever the case, these dwarves apparently had no intentions of stopping to fight, and the chase was on.
A few twists and turns put the fleeing dwarves and the goblins near a wide, smoothly worked, torchlit tunnel, one that had been cut by the dwarves of Mithril Hall several hundred years before.
For the first time since that long-ago day, the dwarves were there again, waiting.
Powerful dwarven hands eased great disks onto a wooden beam, one after another until the whole resembled a solid, cylindrical wheel as tall as a dwarf and nearly as wide as the worked corridor, weighing well over a ton. Completing the structure's main frame were a few well-placed pegs, a wrapping of sheet metal (with sharp, nasty ridges hammered into it), and two notched handles that ran from the wheel's side to behind the contraption, where dwarves could man them and push the thing along.
A cloth with the full-sized likenesses of charging dwarves painted on it was hung out in front as a finishing touch that would keep the goblins in line until it was too late to retreat.
"Here they come," one of the forward scouts reported, returning to the main battle group. "They'll turn the corner in a few minutes."
"Are the baiters ready?" asked the dwarf in charge of the toy brigade.
The other dwarf nodded, and the haulers took up the poles, setting their hands firmly behind the appropriate notches. Four soldiers got out in front of the contraption, ready for their wild run, while the rest of the hundred-dwarf contingent fell into lines behind the haulers.
"The cubbies are a hunnerd feet down," the boss dwarf reminded the lead soldiers. "Don't ye miss the mark! Once we get this thing a-rolling, we're not likely to be stopping it!"
Feigned cries of fear came from the fleeing dwarves at the other end of the long corridor, followed by the whooping of the pursuing goblins.
The boss dwarf shook his bearded face; it was so easy to bait goblins. Just let them believe they had the upper hand, and on they'd come.
The lead soldiers began a slow trot, the haulers behind them took up the easy pace, and the army plodded along behind the thunder of the slow-rolling wheel.
Another series of shouts sounded, and mixed in was the unmistakable cry of "Now!"
The lead soldiers roared and broke into a run. The massive toy came right behind, pumping dwarven legs setting the devilish wheel into a great roll. Above the thunder, the dwarves began their growling song:
Tunnel's too tight,
Tunnel's too low,
Better run goblin,
'Cause here we go!
Their charge sounded like an avalanche, rumbling undertones to the goblins' cries. The baiters waved to their approaching kin, then stopped beside the cubbies and turned to hurl insults at their goblin pursuers.
The boss dwarf smiled grimly at the knowledge that he, that the toy, would pass the small alcoves, the only safe places in front of the contraption, a split second before the goblin hosts arrived there.
Just as the dwarves had planned.
With no way to turn back, thinking that they had encountered a simple dwarven expedition, the long lines of goblins hooted their battle cries and continued their charge.
The leading dwarven soldiers joined the baiters; together they dove aside into the alcoves, and the toy rumbled by, its disguising canopy making the front goblins slow their pace and wonder.
Howls of terror replaced battle cries and echoed down the goblin line. The closest goblin bravely hacked at the bouncing dwarven image, taking the painted canopy down and revealing the disaster an instant before the creature was squashed.
The fearsome dwarves called their war toy, "the juicer," and the puddle of goblin fluid that came out the back side of the crushing wheel showed it was a fitting title.
"Sing, my dwarves!" commanded the boss, and they took their chant to great crescendos, their rumbling voices echoing above the goblin howls.
Every bump's a goblins head,
Pools of blood from the goblin dead.
Run, good dwarves, push that toy,
Squish the little goblin boys!
The brutal contraption bounced and bumped; the haulers stumbled on goblin piles. But if any dwarf fell away, a dozen more were ready to take up his part of the pole, powerful legs pumping feverishly.
The army behind the contraption began to stretch out, dwarves stopping to finish off those broken goblins that still squirmed. The main host stayed close to the bouncing contraption, though, for as it came farther along the tunnel, it began to pass side tunnels. Predetermined brigades of dwarven soldiers turned down these, right behind the passing toy, slaughtering any goblins still in the area.
"Tight turn!" the boss dwarf yelled, and sparks flew from the side of the steel-covered outer stone wheels as they screeched along. The dwarves had counted on this region to stop the rolling monstrosity.
It didn't, and around the bend loomed the end of the corridor, a dozen goblins scratching at the unyielding stone, trying to find escape.
"Let it go!" cried the boss, and the wild-rushing dwarves did, falling all over each other as they continued to bounce along.
With a tremendous explosion that shook the bedrock, the juicer collided with the wall. It wasn't hard for the cheering dwarves to figure out what had happened to the unfortunate creatures caught in between.
"Oh, good work!" the boss dwarf said to his charges as he looked back around the bend to the long line of crushed goblins. The dwarven soldiers were still battling, but now they badly outnumbered their enemies, for more than half the goblin force had been squashed.
"Good work!" the boss reiterated heartily, and by a goblin-hating dwarf's estimation, it certainly was.
Back in the main chamber, Bruenor and Dagna exchanged victorious and wet hugs, "sharing the blood of their enemies," as the brutal dwarves called it. A few dwarves had been killed and many others lay wounded, but neither of the leaders had dared to hope that the rout would be so complete.
"What do ye think o' that, me girl?" Bruenor asked Catti-brie when she came over to join him, her long bow comfortably over one shoulder.
"We did as we had to do," the woman replied. "And the goblins were, as expected, a treacherous bunch. But I'll not back down on me words. We did right in trying to talk first."
Dagna spat on the floor, but Bruenor, the wiser of the two, nodded his agreement with his daughter.
"Tempus!" they heard Wulfgar cry in victory, and the barbarian, spotting the group, began bounding over to them, his mighty warhammer held high above his head.
"I'm still for thinking that ye're all taking a bit too much pleasure in it all," Catti-brie remarked to Bruenor. Apparently not wanting to talk with Wulfgar, she moved away, back to help the wounded.
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted behind her. "Suren ye set yer own bow to some sweet singing!"
Catti-brie brushed her auburn locks out of her face and did not look back. She didn't want Bruenor to see her smile.
The juicer brigade entered the main chamber a half hour later, reporting the right flank clear of goblins. Only a few minutes after them, Drizzt, Regis, and Guenhwyvar came in, the drow telling Bruenor that Cobble's forces were finishing up in the corridors to the left and the rear.
"Did ye get a few for yerself?" the dwarf asked. "After the ettins, I mean?"
Drizzt nodded. "I did," he replied, "as did Guenhwyvar… and Regis." Both Drizzt and the dwarf turned curious eyes on the halfling, who stood easily, his bloodied mace in hand. Noticing the looks, Regis slipped the weapon behind his back as though he were embarrassed.
"I did not even expect ye to come, Rumblebelly," Bruenor said to him. "I thought ye'd be staying up, helping yerself to more food, while the rest of us did all the fighting."
Regis shrugged. "I figured that
Bruenor wasn't about to argue with that logic. "We can set to digging in a few weeks," he explained to his ranger friend. "After some expeditionary miners come through and name the place safe."
By this point, Drizzt was hardly listening to him. He was more interested in the fact that Catti-brie and Wulfgar, moving about the ranks of wounded, obviously were avoiding each other.
"It's the boy," Bruenor told him, noticing his interest.
"He did not think a woman should be at the battle," Drizzt replied.
"Bah!" snorted the red-bearded dwarf. "She's as fine a fighter as we've got. Besides, five dozen dwarf women came along, and two of 'em even got killed."
Drizzt's face twisted with surprise as he regarded the dwarf king. He shook his white shock of hair helplessly and started away to join Catti-brie, but stopped and looked back after only a few steps, shaking his head yet again.
"Five dozen of 'em," Bruenor reiterated into his doubting expression. "Dwarf women, I tell ye."
"My friend," Drizzt answered, moving off once more, "I never could tell the difference."
Coble s forces joined the other dwarves two hours later, reporting rear areas clear of enemies. The rout was complete, as fare as Bruenor and his commanders could discern, with not a single enemy left alive.
Non of the dwarven forces had noticed the slender, dark forms— dark elves, Jarlaxle s spies — floating among the stalactites near critical areas of the battle, watching the dwarven movements and battle techniques with more than passive interest.
The goblin threat was ended, but that was the least of Bruenor Battlehammer's problems.
Chapter 5 Ye of Little Faith
Dinin watched Vierna's every move, watched how his sister went through the precise rituals I to honor the Spider Queen. The drow were in a Ismail chapel Jarlaxle had secured for Vierna's use in one of the minor houses of Menzoberranzan. Dinin remained faithful to the dark deity Lloth and willingly had agreed to accompany Vierna to her prayers this day, but, in truth, the male drow thought the whole thing a senseless facade, thought his sister a ridiculous mockery of her former self.
"You should not be so doubting," Vierna remarked to him, still going about her ritual and not bothering to look over her shoulder to regard Dinin.
At the sound of Dinin's disgusted sigh, though, Vierna did spin about, an angry red glower in her narrow-set eyes.
"What is the purpose?" Dinin demanded, facing her wrath bravely. Even if she was out of Lloth's favor, as Dinin stubbornly believed, Vierna was larger and stronger than he and armed with some clerical magic. He gritted his teeth, firmed his resolve, and did not back down, fearful that Vierna's mounting obsession again would lead those around him down a path to destruction.
In answer, Vierna produced a curious whip from under the folds of her clerical robes. While its handle was unremarkable black adamantite, the instrument's five tendrils were writhing, living snakes. Dinin's eyes widened; he understood the weapon's significance.
"Lloth does not allow any but her high priestesses to wield these," Vierna reminded him, affectionately petting the heads.
"But we lost favor…" Dinin started to protest, but it was a lame argument in the face of Vierna's demonstration.
Vierna eyed him and laughed evilly, almost purred, as she bent to kiss one of the heads.
"Then why go after Drizzt?" Dinin asked her. "You have regained the favor of Lloth. Why risk everything chasing our traitorous brother?"
"That is how I regained the favor!" Vierna screamed at him. She advanced a step, and Dinin wisely backed away. He remembered his younger days at House Do'Urden, when Briza, his oldest and most vicious sister, often tortured him with one of those dreaded, snake-headed whips.
Vierna calmed immediately, though, and looked back to her dark, (both live and sculpted) spider-covered altar. "Our family fell because of Matron Malice's weakness," she explained. "Malice failed in the most important task Lloth ever gave her."
"To kill Drizzt," Dinin reasoned.
"Yes," Vierna said simply, looking back over her shoulder to regard her brother. "To kill Drizzt, wretched, traitorous Drizzt. I have promised his heart to Lloth, have promised to right the family's wrong, so that we-you and I-might regain the favor of our goddess."
"To what end?" Dinin had to ask, looking around the unremarkable chapel with obvious scorn. "Our house is no more. The name of Do'Urden cannot be spoken anywhere in the city. What will be the gain if we again find Lloth's favor? You will be a high priestess, and for that I am glad, but you will have no house over which to preside."
"But I will!" Vierna retorted, her eyes flashing. "I am a surviving noble of a destroyed house, as are you, my brother. We have all the Rights of Accusation."
Dinin's eyes went wide. Vierna was technically correct; the Rights of Accusation was a privilege reserved for surviving noble children of destroyed houses, wherein the children named their attackers and thus brought the weight of drow justice upon the guilty party. In the continuing back-room intrigue of chaotic Menzoberranzan, though, justice was selectively meted out.
"Accusation?" Dinin stammered, barely able to get the word out of his suddenly dry mouth. "Have you forgotten which house it was that destroyed our own?"
"It is all the sweeter," purred his stubborn sister.
"Baenre!" Dinin cried. "House Baenre, First House of Menzoberranzan! You cannot speak against Baenre. No house, alone or in alliance, will move against them, and Matron Baenre controls the Academy. Where will your force of justice be garnered?
"And what of Bregan D'aerthe?" Dinin reminded her. "The very band of mercenaries that took us in helped defeat our house." Dinin stopped abruptly, considering his own words, ever amazed by the paradox, the cruel irony, of drow society.
"You are a male and cannot understand the beauty of Lloth," Vierna replied. "Our goddess feeds from this chaos, considers this situation all the sweeter simply because of the many furious ironies."
"The city will not wage war against House Baenre," Dinin said flatly.
"It will never come to that!" Vierna snapped back, and again came that wild flash in her red-glowing orbs. "Matron Baenre is old, my brother. Her time has long past. When Drizzt is dead, as the Spider Queen demands, I will be granted an audience in House Baenre, wherein I… we will make our accusation."
"Then we will be fed to Baenre's goblin slaves," Dinin replied dryly.
"Matron Baenre's own daughters will force her out so that the house might regain the Spider Queen's favor," the excited Vierna went on, ignoring her doubting brother. "To that end, they will place me in control."
Dinin could hardly find the words to rebut Vierna's preposterous claims.
"Think of it, my brother," Vierna went on. "Envision yourself standing beside me as I preside over the First House of Menzoberranzan!"
"Lloth has promised this to you?"
"Through Triel," Vierna replied, "Matron Baenre's oldest daughter, herself Matron Mistress of the Academy."
Dinin was beginning to catch on. If Triel, much more powerful than Vierna, meant to replace her admittedly ancient mother, she certainly would claim the throne of House Baenre for herself, or at least allow one of her many worthy sisters to take the seat. Dinin's doubts were obvious as he half-sat on one bench, crossing his arms in front of him and shaking his head slowly, back and forth.
"I have no room for disbelievers in my entourage," Vierna warned.
"Your entourage?" Dinin replied.
"Bregan D'aerthe is but a tool, provided to me so that I might please the goddess," Vierna explained without hesitation.
"You are insane," Dinin said before he could find the wisdom to keep the thought to himself. To his relief, though, Vierna did not advance toward him.
"You shall regret those sacrilegious words when our traitorous Drizzt is given to Lloth," the priestess promised.
"You'll never get near our brother," Dinin replied sharply
"Silence!" The word carried magical weight, and Dinin found his next planned protests stuck in his throat.
"Mightier?" Vierna scoffed a moment later. "What do you know of power, impotent male?" A wry smile crossed her face, an expression that made Dinin squirm in his seat. "Come with me, doubting Dinin," Vierna bade. She started for a side door in the small chapel, but Dinin made no move to follow.
"Come!" Vierna commanded, and Dinin found his legs moving under him, found himself leaving the single stalagmite mound of the lesser house, then leaving Menzoberranzan altogether, faithfully following his insane sister's every step.
As soon as the two Do'Urdens walked from view, Jarlaxle lowered the curtain in front of his scrying mirror, dispelling the image of the small chapel. He thought he should speak with Dinin soon, to warn the obstinate fighter of the consequences he might face. Jarlaxle honestly liked Dinin and knew that the drow was heading for disaster.
"You have baited her well," the mercenary remarked to the priestess standing beside him, giving her a devious wink with his left eye-the uncovered one this day.
The female, shorter than Jarlaxle but carrying herself with an undeniable strength, snarled at the mercenary, her contempt obvious.
"My dear Triel," Jarlaxle cooed.
"Hold your tongue," Triel Baenre warned, "or I will tear it out and give it to you, that you might hold it in your hand."
Jarlaxle shrugged and wisely shifted the conversation back to the business at hand. "Vierna believes your claim," he remarked.
"Vierna is desperate," Triel Baenre replied.
"She would have gone after Drizzt on the simple promise that you would take her into your family," the mercenary reasoned, "but to bait her with delusions of replacing Matron Baenre…"