“Back to the elf and finish him!” Dnark protested as Tos’un continued his flight. “Dukka is coming and we must prepare…”
But Dnark’s voice trailed off as he finished, as he came to realize that Tos’un, that treacherous drow, wasn’t running away from the elf, but was, in fact, charging at him.
Standing at Dnark’s left, Toogwik Tuk gasped as Khazid’hea rudely interrupted his spellcasting, biting deep into his chest. To Chieftain Dnark’s credit, he managed to get his shield up to block Tos’un’s other blade as it came in at him. He couldn’t anticipate the power of Khazid’hea, though, for instead of yanking the blade out of Toogwik Tuk’s chest, Tos’un just drove it across, the impossibly fine edge of the sword known as Cutter slicing through bone and muscle as easily as if it were parting water. The blade came across just under Dnark’s shoulder, and before the chieftain even realized the attack enough to spin away, his left arm was taken, falling free to the ground.
Dnark howled and dropped his weapon, reaching across to grab at the blood spurting from his stumped shoulder. He fell back and to the ground, thrashing and roaring empty threats.
But Tos’un wasn’t even listening, turning to strike at the nearest orcs. Not Ung-thol, though, for the shaman ran away, taking a large portion of Dnark’s elite group with him.
“The dwarves!” Hralien called to the drow, and Tos’un followed the Moonwood elf. He forced back his nearest attackers with a blinding, stabbing routine, then angled away, turning back toward Hralien, who had already swung around in full charge toward the dell in the west.
Bruenor rolled his shield forward, picking off a swing, then advanced, turning his shoulders and rolling his axe at the dodging Grguch. He swung his shield arm up to deflect the next attack, and swiped his axe across underneath it, forcing Grguch to suck in his gut and throw back his hips.
On came the dwarf, pounding away with his shield, slashing wildly with his axe. He had the much larger half-ogre off balance, and knew from the craftsmanship and sheer size of Grguch’s axe that he would do well to keep it that way!
The song of Moradin poured from his lips. He swung across and reversed in a mighty backhand, nearly scoring a hit, then charged forward, shield leading. That is why he had been returned to his people, Bruenor knew in his heart. That was the moment when Moradin needed him, when Clan Battlehammer needed him.
He threw out the confusion of the lost city and its riddles, of Drizzt’s surprising guesses. None of that mattered—it was he and that newest, fiercest foe, battling to the death, old enemies locked in mortal combat. It was the way of Moradin and the way of Gruumsh, or at least, it was the way it had always been.
Light steps propelled the dwarf, spinning, advancing and retreating out of every swing and every block with perfect balance, using his speed to keep his larger, stronger foe slightly off balance.
Every time Grguch tried to wind up for a mighty stroke of that magnificent axe, Bruenor moved out of range, or came in too close, or too far to the same side as the retracted weapon, shortening Grguch’s strike and stealing much of its power.
And always Bruenor’s axe slashed at the orc. Always, the dwarf had Grguch twisting and dodging, and cursing.
Like sweet music to Bruenor’s ears did those orc curses sound.
In utter frustration, Grguch leaped back and roared in protest, bringing his axe up high. Bruenor knew better than to pursue, dropping one foot back instead, then rushing back and to the side, under the branch of a leafless maple.
Grguch, too outraged by the frustrating dwarf to hold back, rushed forward and swung with all his might anyway—and the dragon-axe crashed right through that thick limb, splintering its base and driving it back at the dwarf. Bruenor threw up his shield at the last second, but the weight of the limb sent him staggering backward.
By the time he recovered, Grguch was there, roaring still, his axe cutting a line for Bruenor’s skull.
Bruenor ducked and threw up his shield, and the axe hit it solidly—too solidly! The foaming mug shield, that most recognizable of Mithral Hall’s artifacts, split in half, and below it, the bone in Bruenor’s arm cracked, the weight of the blow driving the dwarf to his knees.
Agony burned through Bruenor’s body, and white flashes filled his vision.
But Moradin was on his lips, and Moradin was in his heart, and he scrambled forward, slashing his axe with all his might, forcing Grguch before him in his frenzy.
Pwent, Torgar, and Shingles formed a triangle around Cordio. The priest directed their movements, mostly coordinating Shingles and Torgar with the wild leaps and surges of the unbridled fury that was Thibble dorf Pwent. Pwent had never viewed battle in terms of defensive formations. To his credit, though, the wild-eyed battlerager did not completely compromise the integrity of their defensive stand, and the bodies of dead orcs began to pile up around them.
But more took the places of the fallen—many more, an endless stream. As weapon arms drooped from simple weariness, the three frontline dwarves took more and more hits, and Cordio’s spells of healing came nearly constant from his lips, depleting his magical energies.
They couldn’t keep it up for much longer, all three knew, and even Pwent suspected that it would be their last, glorious stand.
The orc immediately before Torgar rushed forward suddenly. The Mirabarran dwarf turned the long handle of his axe at the last moment to deflect the creature aside, and only when it started to fall away did Torgar recognize that it was already mortally wounded, blood pouring from a deep wound in its back.
As the dwarf turned to face any other nearby orcs, he saw the way before him cleared of enemies, saw Hralien and Tos’un fighting side by side. They backed as Torgar shifted to his right, moving beside Shingles, and the defensive triangle became two, two and one, and with an apparent escape route open to the east. Hralien and Tos’un started that flight, Cordio bringing the others in behind.
But they became bogged down before they had ever really started, as more and more orcs joined the fray—orcs thirsty for vengeance for their fallen chieftain, and orcs simply thirsty for the taste of dwarf and elf blood.
The panther’s claws raked the fallen orc’s body, but Jack’s wards held strong and Guenhwyvar did little real damage. Even as Guenhwyvar thrashed, Hakuun began to mouth the words of a spell as Jack took control.
Guenhwyvar understood well the power of wizards and priests, though, and the panther clamped her jaws over the orc’s face, pressing and twisting. Still the wizard’s defensive wards held, diminishing the effect. But Hakuun began to feel the pain, and knowing that the magical shields were being torn asunder, the orc panicked.
That mattered little to Jack, safe within Hakuun’s head. Wise old Jack was worldly enough to recognize Guenhwyvar for what she was. In the shelter of Hakuun’s thick skull, Jack calmly went about his task. He reached into the Weave of magical energy, found the nearby loose ends of enchanting emanations, and tied them together, filling the area with countering magical force.
Hakuun screamed as panther claws tore through his leather tunic and raked lines of blood along his shoulder. The cat retracted her huge maw, opened wide and snapped back at his face, and Hakuun screamed louder, certain that the wards were gone and that the panther would crush his skull to dust.
But that head dissipated as the panther bit down, and gray mist replaced the dispelled Guenhwyvar.
Hakuun lay there, trembling. He felt some of the magical wards being renewed about his disheveled frame.