Regis straightened his shoulders immediately, bolstered by his sense of duty. His promise had not been idly given, and he did indeed owe Bruenor at least that much, and surely even more.
First things first, Regis decided, and he moved off more quickly and determinedly for his meeting with Galen Firth. He found the man in the appointed audience room, a smaller and more personable sitting area than the grand chamber. It was appointed with comfortable chairs—three padded ones with arm rests and wide-flaring backs—set on a thick-woven rug patterned in the foaming mug emblem of Clan Battlehammer. Completing the square of the sitting area was a stone hearth, wherein burned a small and cozy fire.
Despite the obvious comforts, Galen Firth was pacing, his hands behind his back, his fingers running all around, his eyes cast down at the floor. Regis had to wonder if this man was ever anything but agitated.
"Well met again, Galen Firth of Nesmй," the halfling steward greeted as he entered the room. "Forgive my tardiness, I beg, for there are many pressing problems all needing my attention."
"Your tardiness this day is more forgivable than the tardiness of Mithral Hall's answer to Nesmй's desperate call," the disagreeable man replied rather harshly.
Regis gave a sigh, walked past Galen and plopped himself down in one of the chairs. When the warrior made no move to join him in the sitting area, the halfling pointedly gestured to the seat directly across from him, to the right of the fire as his was to the left.
Never blinking and never taking his eyes from the halfling, the Rider of Nesmй moved to the chair.
"What would you have me do?" Regis asked as Galen at last sat down.
"Launch an army of dwarves to the aid of Nesmй, that we can drive the trolls back into their brackish waters and restore my town."
"And when this army marches south and a greater army of orcs and giants offers pursuit, then what would you have any of us do?" Regis reasoned, and Galen's eyes narrowed. "For that is what will happen, you do understand. The orcs press us on the north and have sealed the door to Mithral Hall on the east—you have heard of this latest battle, yes? I have one force up on the cliff north of Keeper's Dale waging battle daily against the orcs, but if the reports of the size of the attacking force in the east were anywhere near to accurate, my warriors will soon be even harder pressed and likely forced to forfeit the ground.
"You do not fully comprehend what is transpiring all around us, do you?" the halfling asked.
Galen Firth sat there staring, grim faced.
"It is no accident that Nesmй was attacked just now," Regis explained. "These enemy forces, north and south, have coordinated their movements."
"That cannot be!"
"Did you hear no details of the fall of Mithral Hall's eastern gate?"
"Few, nor do I care to—"
"The forces out there were besieged by giants and orcs from the north and by a host of trolls from the south," Regis interrupted, and Galen's bluster fell away as clearly as his suddenly drooping jaw.
"It would seem that our common enemies are sweeping all the land from the Surbrin to Nesmй, from the Trollmoors to the Spine of the World," Regis went on. "That leaves only a handful of settlements, Mithral Hall, and Nesmй to stop them, unless we can elicit help from the neighboring lands."
"Then you admit that we must join our forces," Galen reasoned. "Then you see the wisdom of sending a force fast for Nesmй."
"I do," said Regis, "and I do not. We must stand together, and so we shall, but I believe your desire to hold our ground at Nesmй is ill considered. Mithral Hall will hold, but outside of our gates, all is lost—or soon shall be."
"What foolishness is this?" Galen Firth demanded, leaping from his chair, his eyes ablaze with anger.
"We fight for every inch of ground," Regis countered, and his voice didn't waver in the least, nor did he tense up or shy away from the imposing man. "And when we cannot hold, we retreat into the defensible tunnels of Mithral Hall. From here, we keep the lines of tunnels open to Citadel Felbarr; they will be our eyes, ears, and mouth to the outside world. From here, we continue to implore Silverymoon and Sundabar to mobilize their forces. I already have emissaries hurrying along their way through tunnels to find Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon and the leaders of Sundabar. From here, we hold the one remaining fortress against the onslaught of monstrous enemies."
"While my people die?" Galen Firth spat.
"No," said Regis. "Not if we can help them. From the moment you arrived, I had dwarf scouts striking out to the southwest, underground, seeking a course to Nesmй. Their progress has been strong, and I expect that they will find an exit to the surface near enough to your town to join up with your people."
"Then send an army, and let us drive the trolls back!"
"I will send what I can spare, but I expect that will be far fewer than needed for the task you espouse," said Regis.
"Then what?" the warrior's voice suddenly mellowed, and he even slumped back in the chair.
He turned his head and rested his chin in his hand, staring into the flames.
"Let us find your people and help them as we may," Regis explained. "We will fight beside them, if that remains a viable option. And if not, or when it becomes not, we will retreat, with your people in tow, back into the Underdark and back to Mithral Hall. Though my dwarves will not be able to defeat our enemies aboveground, I have little doubt that they can hold their own tunnels against pursuing monsters."
Galen Firth said nothing, just kept staring into the fire.
"I wish I could offer more," Regis went on. "I wish I could empty Mithral Hall and charge south to overrun the trolls. But I cannot, and you must understand."
Galen sat there quietly for a long while, then turned to Regis, his features softened.
"You truly believe that the orcs and giants work in concert with the Trollmoors trolls?"
"The fall of the eastern gate would indicate as much," the halfling replied.
"And it tells, too, that my people are in dire trouble," Galen said. "If the trolls had enough strength to send a force as far east and north as your gates on the Surbrin…."
"Then tarry no more," Regis said. He reached into his vest and produced a rolled parchment, tossing it across to the man. "Take that to the Undercity and Taskman Bellows. The expedition is outfitting even now and will be ready to march this very day."
Again Galen Firth paused, staring at the parchment, then back at Regis as he slowly climbed out of the chair once more. He said nothing more, but his nod held enough appreciation for Regis to see that the man understood the reasoning, even if he did not necessarily agree.
He gave a slight bow and left the room and the halfling steward breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he had one less issue pressing.
Regis slid back in his chair and turned to the fire, but before he could even begin to relax, a knock on the door turned him back.
"Enter, please," he said, expecting it to be a returned Galen Firth.
The door pushed open and in walked a soot-covered dwarf, Miccarl Ironforge by name, one of Mithral Hall's best blacksmiths. So dirty was this one that the color of his wide, short beard (rumored to be red) was impossible to tell. He wore a thick leather apron and a black shirt with only one sleeve, covering his left arm completely and sewn as one with a heavy heat-resistant glove. His bare right arm, streaked with soot, was nearly twice the girth of his left, muscled from years and years of lifting heavy hammers.
"The gnome again?" Regis asked.
Miccarl had sought him out twice before in the last tenday, offering reports that their little visitor from Mirabar had been acting overly curious in snooping around the Undercity.
"The little one's been in the maps again," Miccarl explained.