The orcs and goblins were wearing them down.
The monsters didn't care for their dead.
* * *
He came to the lip of the huge boulder silently, on bare feet and with an easy and balanced stride. Drizzt went down to his belly to peer over and spotted the cave opening almost immediately.
As he lay there watching, the female elf walked into sight, leading a pega-s. The great steed had one wing tied up tight against its side, but that was no effort to hobble the winged horse, Drizzt knew, but rather some sort of sling. The creature's discomfort seemed minimal, though.
As Drizzt continued to watch, the sun sliding to the horizon behind him, the female elf began to brush the glistening white coat of the pegasus, and she began to sing softly, her voice carrying sweetly to Drizzt's ears.
It all seemed so … normal. So warm and quiet.
The other pegasus came into view then, and Drizzt ducked back a little bit as Tarathiel flew the creature down across the way, beyond his partner. As soon as the steed's hooves touched stone, Tarathiel dismounted with a graceful movement, putting his left leg over the saddle to the right before him, then turning sidesaddle and simply rolling over into a backward somersault. He landed in easy balance and moved to join his companion—who promptly tossed him a brush so that he could groom his mount.
Drizzt watched the pair for a bit longer with a mixture of bitterness and hope. For in them, he saw the promise of Ellifain, saw who she might have become, who she should have become. The unfairness of it all had the drow clenching his hands at his sides, had him gnashing his teeth, had him wanting nothing more than to run off right then and find more enemies to destroy.
The sun dipped lower and twilight descended over the land. Side by side, the two elves led their winged horses into the cave.
Drizzt rolled onto his back, marking the first twinkling stars of the evening. He rubbed his hands across his face and thought again of Ellifain, and thought again of Bruenor.
And he wondered once more what it was all about, what worth all the sacrifice had been, what value was to be found in his adherence to his moral codes. He knew that he should go right off for Mithral Hall, to find out which of his friends, if any, had survived the orc victory at Shallows.
But he could not bring himself to do that. Not now.
He knew, then, that he should crawl off his rock and go and speak with those elves, with Ellifain's people, to explain her end and express his sorrow.
But the thought of telling Tarathiel such grim news froze him where he lay.
He saw again the tower falling, saw again the death of his dearest friend.
The saddest day of Drizzt's life played out so clearly and began to pull him down into the darkness of despair. He rose from the boulder, then, and rushed off into the deepening gloom, running the mile or so to his own tiny cave shelter, and there he sat for a long while, holding the one-horned helmet he had retrieved from the ruins.
The sadness deepened as he turned that helmet in his hands. He felt the blackness rising up around him, grabbing at him, and he knew that it would swallow him and destroy him.
And so Drizzt used the only weapon he possessed against such despair. He wanted to bring in Guenhwy var, but he could not, for the panther had not rested long enough, given the wounds the giant had inflicted.
And so the Hunter went out alone into the dark of night to kill some enemies.
CHAPTER 9 WITH GRUUMSH WATCHING
King Obould built a wall of tough guards all around him as he made his way through the vast encampment at the ruins of Shallows. The great orc was tentative that day, for the ripples emanating from the murder of Achtel were still flowing out among the gathering and Obould had to wonder if that backlash would turn some of the tribes against him and his cause. The reactions of the orcs guarding the region's perimeter had been promising, at least, with several falling flat before Obould and groveling, which was always welcomed, and all the others bowing low and staying there, averting their eyes to the ground whenever they reverently answered the great orc king's questions. As one, the sentries had directed Obould to seek out Arganth Snarrl.
The spectacular shaman was not difficult to locate. With his wild clothing and feathered headdress, the cloak he had proffered from dead Achtel, and his continual gyrations, Arganth commanded the attention of all around him. Any trepidation Obould held that the charismatic shaman might pose some rivalry to him were dispelled almost immediately when he came in sight of the shaman. The shaman caught sight of Obould and fell flat to his face as completely and as surely as if he had been felled by a giant-thrown boulder.
"Obould Many-Arrows!" Arganth shrieked, and it was obvious that the shaman was literally crying with joy. "Obould! Obould! Obould!"
Around Arganth, all the other orcs similarly prostrated themselves and took up the glorious cry.
Obould looked to his personal guards curiously and returned their shrugs with a suddenly superior look. Yes, he was enjoying it! Perhaps, he mused, he should demand more from those closest around him..
"Are you Snarrl? Arganth Snarrl?" the king asked, moving up to tower over the still gyrating, facedown shaman.
"Obould speaks to me!" Arganth cried out. "The blessings of Gruumsh upon me!"
"Get up!" King Obould demanded.
When Arganth hesitated, he reached down, grabbed the shaman by the scruff of his neck and jerked him to his feet.
"We have awaited your arrival, great one," Arganth said at once, and he averted his eyes.
Obould, falling back off balance a bit, realizing then that such apparent overblown fealty could be naught but a prelude to an assassination, grabbed the shaman's chin and forced him to look up.
"We two will speak," he declared.
Arganth seemed to calm then, finally. His red-streaked eyes glanced around at the other prone orcs, then settled back to meet Obould's imposing stare.
"In my tent, great one?" he asked hopefully.
Obould released him and motioned for him to lead the way. He also motioned for his guards to stay on alert and to stay very close.
Arganth seemed a completely different creature when he and Obould were out of sight of the rest of the orcs.
"It is good that you have come, King Obould Many-Arrows," the shaman said, still holding a measure of reverence in his tone, but also an apparent inner strength—something that had been lacking outside. "The tribes are anxious now and ready to kill."
"You had a … problem," Obould remarked.
"Achtel did not believe, and so Achtel was murdered," said Arganth.
"Believe?"
"That Obould is Gruumsh and Gruumsh is Obould," Arganth boldly stated.
That put the orc king back on his heels. He narrowed his dark eyes and furrowed his prominent brow.
"I have seen this to be true," Arganth explained. "King Obould is great. King Obould was always great. King Obould is greater now, because the One-Eye will be one with him."
Obould's expression did not lose its aura of obvious skepticism.
"What sacrilege was done here by the dwarves!" Arganth exclaimed. "To use the idol!"
Obould nodded, beginning to catch on.
"They defiled and desecrated Gruumsh, and the One-Eye is not pleased!" Arganth proclaimed, his voice rising and beginning to crack into a high-pitched squeal. "The One-Eye will exact vengeance upon them all! He will crush them beneath his boot! He will cleave them with his greatsword! He will chew out their throats and leave them gasping in the dirt!"
Obould continued to stare and even brought his hand up in a wave to try to calm the increasingly animated shaman.
"His boot," Arganth explained, pointing to Obould's feet. "His greatsword," the shaman went on, pointing to the massive weapon strapped across Obould's strong back. "Obould is the tool of Gruumsh. Obould is Gruumsh. Gruumsh is Obould! I have seen this!"