We, not they, had true collective purpose. We, not they, understoodcohesion, fought for a shared higher principle, and understood and accepted
that any sacrifice we might make would be toward the greater good.
There is a chamber — many chambers, actually — in Mithril Hall,where the heroes of wars and past struggles are honored. Wulfgar's hammer is there; so was the bow — the bow of an elf—that Catti-brie put intoservice once more. Though she has used the bow for years, and has addedconsiderably to its legend, Catti-brie refers to it still as "the bow ofAnariel," that long-dead elf. If the bow is put into service again by a friendof Clan Battlehammer centuries hence, it will be called "the bow of Catti-brie, passed from Anariel. "
There is in Mithril Hall another place, the Hall of Kings, where thebusts of Clan Battlehammer's patrons, the eight kings, have been carved,gigantic and everlasting.
The drow have no such monuments. My mother, Malice, never spokeof the previous matron mother of House Do'Urden, likely because Maliceplayed a hand in her mother's death. In the Academy, there are no plaquesof former mistresses and masters. Indeed, as I consider it now, the onlymonuments in Menzoberranzan are the statues of those punished byBaenre, of those struck by Vendes and her wicked whip, their skin turned toebony, that they might then be placed on display as testaments of disobedience on the plateau of Tier Breche outside the Academy.
That was the difference between the defenders of Mithril Hall andthose who came to conquer. That was the one hope.
Chapter 23 POCKETS OF POWER
Bidderdoo had never seen anything to match it. Literally, it was raining kobolds and pieces of kobolds all about the terrified Harpell as the Gutbuster Brigade went into full battle lust. They had come into a small, wide chamber and found a force of kobolds many times their own number. Before Bidderdoo could suggest a retreat (or a "tactical flanking maneuver," as he planned to call it, because he knew the word «retreat» was not in Thibbledorf Pwent's vocabulary), Pwent had led the forthright charge. Poor Bidderdoo had been sucked up in the brigade's wake, the seven frenzied dwarves blindly, happily, following Pwent's seemingly suicidal lead right into the heart of the cavern. Now it was a frenzy, a massacre the likes of which the studious Harpell, who had lived all his life in the sheltered Ivy Mansion (and a good part of that as a family dog) could not believe.
Pwent darted by him, a dead kobold impaled on his helmet spike and flopping limply. Arms wide, the battlerager leaped into a group of kobolds and pulled as many in as possible, hugging them tightly. Then he began to shake, to convulse so violently that Bidderdoo wondered if some agonizing poison had found its way into the dwarf's veins.
Not so, for this was controlled insanity. Pwent shook, and the nasty ridges of his armor took the skin from his hugged enemies, ripped and tore them. He broke away (and three kobolds fell dying) with a left hook that brought his mailed, spiked gauntlet several inches into the forehead of the next unfortunate enemy.
Bidderdoo came to understand that the charge was not suicidal, that the Gutbusters would win easily by overwhelming the greater numbers with sheer fury. He also realized, suddenly, that the kobolds learned fast to avoid the furious dwarves. Six of them bypassed Pwent, giving the battlerager a respectfully wide berth. Six of them swung about and bore down on the one enemy they could hope to defeat.
Bidderdoo fumbled with the shattered remains of his spellbook, flipping to one page where the ink had not smeared so badly. Holding the parchment in one hand, his other hand straight out in front of him, he began a fast chant, waggling his fingers.
A burst of magical energy erupted from each of his fingertips, green bolts rushing out, each darting and weaving to unerringly strike a target.
Five of the kobolds fell dead; the sixth came on with a shriek, its little sword rushing for Bidderdoo's belly.
The parchment fell from the terrified Harpell's hand. He screamed, thinking he was about to die, and reacted purely on instinct, falling forward over the blade, angling his chest down so that he buried the diminutive kobold beneath him. He felt a burning pain as the small creature's sword cut into his ribs, but there was no strength behind the blow and the sword did not dig in deeply.
Bidderdoo, so unused to combat, screamed in terror. And the pain, the pain…
Bidderdoo's screams became a howl. He looked down and saw the thrashing kobold, and saw more clearly the thrashing kobold's exposed throat.
Then he tasted warm blood and was not repulsed.
Growling, Bidderdoo closed his eyes and held on. The kobold stopped thrashing.
After some time, the poor Harpell noticed that the sounds of battle had ended about him. He gradually opened his eyes, turned his head slightly to look up at Thibbledorf Pwent, standing over him and nodding his head.
Only then did Bidderdoo realize he had killed the kobold, had
bitten the thing's throat out.
"Good technique," Pwent offered, and started away.
*****
While the Gutbuster Brigade's maneuvers were loud and straightforward, wholly dependent on savagery, another party's were a dance of stealth and ambush. Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, Catti-brie, Regis, and Bruenor moved silently from one tunnel to another, the drow and panther leading. Guenhwyvar was the first to detect an approaching enemy, and Drizzt quickly relayed the signals when the panther's ears went flat.
The five worked in unison, setting up so that Catti-brie, with her deadly bow, would strike first, followed by the panther's spring, the drow's impossibly fast rush into the fray, and Bruenor's typically dwarven roaring charge. Regis always found a way to get into the fight, usually moving in behind to slam a drow backside or a kobold's head with his mace when one of his friends became too closely pressed.
This time, though, Regis figured to stay out of the battle altogether. The group was in a wide, high corridor when Guenhwyvar, nearing a bend, fell into a crouch, ears flat. Drizzt slipped into the shadows of an alcove, as did Regis, while Bruenor stepped defensively in front of his archer daughter, so that Catti-brie could use the horns of his helmet to line up her shot.
Around the corner came the enemy, a group of minotaurs and drow, five of each, running swiftly in the general direction of Mithril Hall
Catti-brie wisely went for the drow. There came a flash of silver, and one fell dead.
Guenhwyvar came out hard and fast, burying another dark elf, clawing and biting and rolling right away to bear down on a third drow.
A second flash came, and another elf fell dead.
But the minotaurs came on hard, and Catti-brie would get no third shot. She went for her sword as Bruenor roared and rushed out to meet the closest monster.
The minotaur lowered its bull-like head; Bruenor dropped his notched battle-axe right behind him over his head, holding the handle tightly in both hands.
In came the minotaur, and over came the axe. The crack sounded
like the snapping of a gigantic tree.
Bruenor didn't know what hit him. Suddenly he was flying backward, bowled over by six hundred pounds of minotaur.
* * * * *
Drizzt came out spinning and darting. He hit the first minotaur from the side, a scimitar cutting deep into the back of the creature's thigh, stopping its charge. The ranger spun away and went down to one knee, jabbing straight ahead with Twinkle, hooking the tip of the blue-glowing scimitar over the next monster's kneecap.