The Thousand Orcs

"Ye gotta keep running!" Nikwillig scolded Tred.



The wounded dwarf was slumped against a boulder, sweat pouring down his forehead and cheek, a grimace of pain on his face as he favored his torn leg.



"Got me in the knee," Tred explained, gasping between every syllable. "She's not holding me up no more. Ye run on and I'll give them puppies reason to pause!"



Nikwillig nodded, not in agreement of the whole proposal, but in determination concerning the last part. "Ye can't run, then we'll stop and fight," he answered.



"Bah!" Tred snorted at him. "Bunch o' worgs coming."



"Bunch o' dead worgs, then," Nikwillig answered with as much grit and determination as Tred had ever witnessed from him.



Nikwillig was a merchant more than a warrior, but now he was "showing his dwarf," as the old expression went. And in viewing this transformation, despite their desperate situation, Tred couldn't help but smile. Certainly if the situation had been reversed, with Nikwillig favoring a torn leg, Tred would never have considered leaving him.



"We're needin' a plan, then," said Tred.



"One using fire," Nikwillig agreed, and as he finished, a not-so-distant howl split the air and was answered several times. Still, in that chorus, both dwarves found a bit of hope.



"They're not coming in all together," Tred reasoned.



"Scattered," Nikwillig agreed.



An hour later, with the howling much closer, Tred sat beside a roaring fire, his burly arms crossed before him, his single-bladed, pointy-tipped axe set across his lap. His leg was glad of the reprieve, and his tapping foot alone betrayed his patient posture as he waited for the first of the worgs to make its appearance.



Off to the side, in the shadows behind a pile of boulders, an occasional crackle sounded. Tred winced and bit his bottom lip, hoping the rope held long enough against the weight of the withered but not yet felled pine.



When the first red eyes appeared across the way, Tred began to whistle. He reached to the side and scooped up a large pail of water, dumping it over himself.



"Ye likin' yer meat wet, puppies?" he called to the worgs.



As the huge wolves leaped into sight, he kicked at the closest edge of the fire, sending sparks and burning brands their way, momentarily stopping them. The action brought a cry of pain from the dwarf, as well. His torn leg could not hold him as he kicked out with the good one, and he went tumbling down to the side.



The chopped, dead tree came tumbling too, along the line the cunning dwarves had planned. The dried out old pine fell into the blazing fire, the wind of its descent sending sparks and dry needles rushing out to the side. More than one stung poor Tred, even igniting his beard a bit. He slapped the flickers out, stubbornly growled against his agony, and forced himself into a defensive posture.



Across the way, the rushing flames bit at the handful of worgs that had stepped into the clearing, sending them yelping and scrambling away, biting at sparking bits of fur. More came on, some even getting bit by the frenzy of their companions.



The dried pine went up in a fiery blaze between Tred and the wolves. but not before several dark forms leaped across or circumvented it.



Hands low on the handle, Tred slashed his axe across, batting aside the first flying wolf and sending it spinning to the ground. He reversed quickly, sliding his lead hand up the axe handle and setting it against his belt. As the second wolf leaped at him, it skewered itself on the axe's pointy tip. Tred didn't even try to slow that momentum, just held the flying wolf up high, guiding it over him. He brought his axe back at once, a ferocious downward chop that got the third charging worg right atop the head, smashing and splitting its skull, driving its front end down to the stone with its forelegs splaying out wide.



Nikwillig was beside him, sword in hand. When the next two worgs approached, one from either side, the dwarves turned back to back and fended the attacks.



Frustrated, the worgs circled. Nikwillig pulled a dagger from his belt and sent it flying into one worg's flank. The creature yelped and rushed off into the shadows.



Its companion quickly followed.



"First round's ours," Tred said, shying back as the heat from the burning tree became more intense.



"That pack's not wanting more of a fight," Nikwillig reasoned, "but more'll be catching us, don't ye doubt!"



He started away, pulling Tred along. Just out of the clearing, though, Tred stood taller and held his companion back.



"Unless we're catching them first," Tred said into Nikwillig's puzzled expression, when the merchant turned back to regard him. "Orcs're guiding the worgs," Tred reasoned. "No more orcs, no more worgs."



Nikwillig considered his friend for a few moments, looking mostly at Tred's torn leg, a clear indication that the pair could not hope to outdistance their pursuit. That seemed to leave only two choices before them.



And the first, leaving Tred behind, simply was not an option.



"Let's go find us some orcs," Nikwillig offered.



His smile was genuine.



So was Tred's.



They moved along as swiftly as they could, backtracking in a roundabout manner through the dark trees and rocky outcroppings, scrambling over uneven ground when they could find no trail. More often than not. Nikwillig was practically carrying Tred, but neither dwarf complained. The sound of worgs echoed all around them, but their diversion had worked, it seemed, throwing the pursuit off the scent and making more than a few of the creatures think twice about continuing their pursuit.



Sometime later, from a high vantage point, the dwarves spotted a few



small campfires in the distance. Not one large encampment, it seemed, but several smaller groups.



"Their mistake," Tred remarked, and Nikwillig thoroughly agreed.



With a new goal in sight, the dwarves moved along at an even swifter pace. When his leg locked up on him, Tred merely hopped, and if he fell to the stone, which he often did, the tough dwarf merely pulled himself up, spat in his hand to clean off the new scrape, and scrambled forward. Down along one clear patch of ground, they encountered another wolf, but even as it bared its teeth and hunched its back in a threatening posture, Tred launched his axe into its flank, laying it low. Nikwillig was quick to the spot, finishing the beast before its yelps could alert the orc camp, which wasn't faraway.



Soon after, and with the eastern sky brightening in the first signs of dawn, the pair crept up a small dirt banking and peered through the gap between a tree trunk and a boulder. A small campfire burned beyond, with a trio of orcs sitting around it and several more sleeping nearby. A single, injured worg sat beside the trio, snarling, growling, licking its wounds, and turning a hateful eye upon one of the orcs whenever it offered a berating curse at the inability of the worg and its companions to catch the fleeing dwarves.



Nikwillig put a finger to his pursed lips and motioned for Tred to stay put. He slipped off to the side, taking full advantage of the obvious fact that the confident orcs weren't expecting any unannounced visitors.



Tred watched his progress with a nod and a grin as Nikwillig belly-crawled to the edge of the encampment, putting his knife to fast work on one, then a second, sleeping orc. The observant dwarf saw the worg's head come up fast, though, and so he knew the game was up. With all the strength he could muster, Tred pulled himself up between the boulder and the tree.



"Well, ye wanted me, and so ye found me!" he roared.



The trio of orcs, and the worg, leaped up and gave a shout. Their third sleeping companion similarly started, but Nikwillig was already beside it, laying it low before it could even begin to respond.



The closest orc brandished a huge axe and charged headlong at Tred, coming in with a fancy, spinning maneuver that showed the creature was no novice with the weapon. But neither was he a profound thinker, obviously, for when Tred lifted his hand and hurled the stone he had picked up when he had announced himself, the orc was caught completely by surprise, and taken right in the face. The stunned orc stumbled forward, and Tred's swinging battle-axe promptly swatted it aside.



The other two orcs glanced around, only then realizing the devious work of Nikwillig, and the presence of the second dwarf.



"Two against two," Nikwillig said to them in the grunting Orcish tongue.



"We got wolfie!" one started to respond, but the battered worg apparently didn't agree, for it darted out of the camp and ran yelping along the dark trails.



One of the orcs tried to take the same course, leaping off to the side. Tred didn't hesitate, launching his axe at the fleeing creature. The spinning weapon didn't miss, but neither did it fully connect, tripping up the orc and slowing it as the handle tangled between its legs, but not hurting it much at all.



The second orc, seeing the obviously wounded dwarf standing there, apparently unarmed, howled and lifted its jagged sword. It charged in hard.



Nikwillig knew he couldn't get to Tred in time, so he went for the fallen orc first. Leaping upon the creature even as it started to rise, he bore it to the ground beneath his heavy boots. Nikwillig stomped and stabbed with his sword, trading a stinging hit from the orc's spear as it came around in exchange for a clear opening at the creature's chest. Nikwillig's shoulder stung from the stab, to be sure, but his sword opened the orc from breast to belly.



He heard Tred crying out for his brother then, with grunts between each shout. Nikwillig turned, expecting to see his friend in dire straits.



He let his weapon slide low, for Tred had the situation, and the orc, well in hand. He gripped the orc by the wrists, holding the creature's arms up high and out wide, and after every cry for his lost brother, Tred snapped his head forward and yanked the orc's arms out wider, the pair connecting forehead to face with each jolt.



The first few belts sounded loud and solid, bone on bone, but each succeeding smash made a crunchier sound, as if Tred was driving his forehead into a pile of dry twigs.



"I think ye can put it down now," Nikwillig remarked dryly after a few more thumps, the orc having long gone limp.



Tred grabbed the battered, dying creature by the collar with one hand and slapped his other hand hard into the orc's groin. A heave and a twist had the orc high over the powerful dwarf's head. With another call for his lost brother, Tred launched the orc down the bank behind him, to crash hard against a rock below.



"Lots of supplies," Nikwillig remarked, hopping about the camp.



"Damn orc sticked me," Tred replied.



Only then did his companion notice a new wound on the sturdy dwarf, a bright line of blood running from the side of Tred's chest. Nikwillig started for his companion, but Tred waved him back.



"Ye gather the supplies and we'll get going," he explained. "I'll dress it meself."



He did just that, and the pair were on their way soon after, Tred grunting in pain with every step, but otherwise offering not the slightest complaint.



He had lost a bucket of blood or more, and every time his foot slipped on a loose rock, the resulting lurch opened his newest wound anew, moistening his side with fresh blood. Still Tred didn't complain, nor did he slow Nikwillig's brisk pace. Their turn and attack had daunted the pursuit, it seemed, for few howls came rolling out to them on the night winds, and none of those were very close.



When Tred and Nikwillig crested a high ridge and looked far down upon a distant village-just a cluster of houses, really -they looked to each other with concern.



"We go in there and we might bring a horde o' orcs and wolfies on 'em," Tred reasoned.



"And if we don't go in, ye're gonna slow, and slow some more," Nikwillig replied. "We'll not be making Mithral Hall anytime soon, if we can even find our way to the place."



"Ye think they're knowin' how to fight?" Tred asked, looking back to the village.



"They're living in the wild mountains, ain't they?"



Simple enough, and true enough, and so Tred just gave a shrug and followed Nikwillig along the descending trail.



A wall of piled stones as tall as a man surrounded the cluster of houses,



but it wasn't until the pair got very close that they noted any sentries. Even the two humans-a man and a women-who finally pecked over the wall to call out to them didn't seem as if they were formal sentries. It was as if they simply happened to be walking by and noticed the dwarves.



"What are you two about?" came the woman's call.



"We'd be about to fall, I'd be guessin'," Nikwillig answered. He propped Tred up a bit to accentuate his point. "Ye got a warm bed and a bit o' hot stew for me injured kinfolk here?"



As if all of his energy had been given in the march, and his stubborn mind finally allowed his body the chance to rest, Tred fell limp and collapsed to the ground. Nikwillig guided him down as softly as possible.



There was no gate on that side of the village, but the woman and man came right out, scrambling over the wall and rushing to the dwarves. They, particularly the woman, went to work inspecting the injured dwarf, but they also both looked past the two dwarves, as if they expected an army of enemies to be chasing the battered duo in.



"You from Mithral Hall?" the man asked.



"Felbarr," Nikwillig answered. "We was headin' for Shallows when we got hit."



"Shallows?" the woman echoed. "Long way."



"Long chase."



"What hit you? Ores?" asked the man.



"Orcs an' giants."



"Giants? Haven't seen any hill giants about in a long time."



"Not hill giants. Blue-skinned dogs. Lookin' pretty and hittin' ugly. Frost giants."



Both the man and woman looked up at him in concern, their eyes going wide. The folk of this region were not unfamiliar with trouble concerning frost giants. The old Grayhand, Jarl Orel, hadn't always kept his mighty people deep within the mountains over the decades, though thankfully, the frost giant forays hadn't been numerous. Still, any fight in any part of the area that included frost giants, perhaps the most formidable enemy in all the region next to the very occasional dragon, became news, dire news, the stuff of fireside tales and nightmares.



"Let's get him inside," the woman offered. "He's needing a bed and a hot meal. I can't believe he's even alive!"



"Bah, Tred's too ugly to die," Nikwillig remarked. Tred opened a weary eye and slowly lifted his hand toward his friend's face, as if to pat him thankfully.



But as he got close, he pressed his index finger under his thumb, and flicked Nikwillig under the nose. Nikwillig fell back, grabbing his nose, and Tred settled back down, closing his eyes, a slight smile spreading on his crusty, pale face.



The folk of the small village, Clicking Heels, multiplied their guarding duties many times over, with a third of the two hundred sturdy folk working at a time as sentries and scouts in eight hour shifts. After two days recuperating, Nikwillig joined in those duties, bolstering the line, and even helping to direct the construction of some additional fortification.



Tred, though, was in no position to take part in anything. The dwarf slept through the night and through the day. Even after a couple of days, he woke only long enough to devour a huge meal the good folk of Clicking Heels were kind enough to supply. There was one cleric in the town, as well, but he wasn't very skilled at the magical pan of his vocation and his healing skills, though he piled them on Tred, did little more good than the rest.



By the fifth day, Tred was up and about and starting to look and sound like his surly old self once more. By the end of a tenday, and still with no pursuit-giant, orc or worg-in sight, Tred was anxious to get moving.



"We're off to Mithral Hall," Nikwillig announced one morning, and the folk of Clicking Heels, humans all, seemed genuinely sorry to see the dwarves off. "We'll get King Gandalug to send some warriors up to check in on ye."



"King Bruenor, you mean," one of the villagers replied. "If he's returned to his folk from far off Icewind Dale."



"That right?"



"So we've heard."



Nikwillig nodded, offering a sigh for the loss of Gandalug before returning to his typically determined expression.



"King Bruenor then, as fair a dwarf as e'er there's been."



"I'm not sure he' II comply and send his soldiers, nor am ! convinced that we need them," the man went on.



"Well, we'll tell him what's about and let him make up his own mind, then," Tred interjected. "That's why he's the king, after all."



That same morning, Tred and Nikwillig walked out of Clicking Heels, their steps strong once more, their packs full of supplies-good and tasty food and drink, not the slop they had stolen from the orcs. The folk had given them detailed directions to Mithral Hall as well, and so the dwarves were hopeful that they would find the end of this part of their journey soon enough. They intended to go to Mithral Hall, warn King Bruenor, or whomever it was leading their bearded kin, then get an escort from there through the connecting tunnels of the upper Underdark, back to their homes in Citadel Felbarr.



Even that wouldn't be the end of the road for Tred at least, for the tough dwarf had every intention of raising a band of warriors to head back out and avenge his brother and the others.



First things first, though, and that meant finding their way to Mithral Hall. Despite the directions, the dwarves found that no easy task in the winding and confusing mountain trails. A wrong turn along the narrow channels running through the stone often meant a long and difficult backtrack.



"It's the wrong damn stream," Tred grumbled one morning, the pair moving along steadily, but going south and east, whereas Mithral Hall was southwest of Clicking Heels.



"It'll wind back," Nikwillig assured him.



"Bah!" Tred snorted, shaking a fist at his companion.



They were lost and he knew it, and so did Nikwillig, whether he'd admit it or not. They didn't turn back, though. The road along the river had led them down a pair of very difficult descents that promised to be even more difficult climbs. To turn around after having gone so far seemed foolish.



They continued on, and when the stream took another unexpected dive over a waterfall, Tred grunted, grumbled, and climbed down the rocks to the side.



"Might be that it's time to think about going th' other way," Nikwillig offered.



"Bah!" was all that stubborn Tred would reply, and that grunt was exaggerated, for Tred hit an especially slick stone as he had waved his hand in a dismissive manner at Nikwillig.



He got down to the bottom faster at least.



They went on in silence after that and were looking about for a place to set camp when they crested one outcropping of huge cracked boulders to see the land fall away, wide and low before them, a huge valley running east and west.



"Big pass," Nikwillig remarked.



"One caravans might be using to get to Mithral Hall," Tred reasoned. "West it is!"



Nikwillig nodded, standing beside his companion, glad, as was Tred, to see that the going might be much easier the next day.



Of course, neither knew that they were standing on the northern rim of Fell Pass, the site of a great battle of old, where the very real and very dangerous ghosts of the vanquished lingered in great numbers.