The beams creaked for a moment, then a great rush of air swept across the onlookers as the counterweights sent the massive neck of the catapult swinging past. The basket released its contents, tri-pointed caltrops, in a line from the highest peak of the arc to the point of maximum momentum and distance.

The rain of black metal plummeted from sight, and King Obould moved quickly to the lip of the cliff to watch them drop to the floor of Keeper's Dale.

Nukkels, Kna, and some of the others shifted uneasily, not pleased to see their god-king standing so near to a two-hundred-foot drop. Any of General Dukka's soldiers, or more likely, proud Chieftain Grimsmal and his guards, could have rushed over and ended the rule of Obould with a simple shove.

But Grimsmal, despite his earlier rumblings of discontent, nodded appreciatively at the defenses that had been set up on the northern ridge overlooking Mithral Hall's sealed western door.

"We have filled the valley floor with caltrops," General Dukka assured Obould. He motioned to the many baskets set beside the line of catapults, all filled with stones ranging in size from a large fist to twice an orc's head. "If the ugly dwarves come forth, we'll shower them with death."

Obould looked down to the southwest, about two-thirds of the way across the broken valley from the dwarven complex, where a line of orcs chopped at the stone, digging a wide, deep trench. Directly to the king's left, atop the cliff at the end of the trench, sat a trio of catapults, all sighted to rake the length of the ravine should the dwarves try to use it for cover against the orcs positioned in the west.

Dukka's plan was easy enough to understand: he would slow any dwarven advance across Keeper's Dale as much as possible, so that his artillery and archers on high could inflict massive damage on the break-out army.

"They came out of the eastern wall with great speed and cunning," Obould warned the beaming general. "Encased in metal carts. A collapsed mountain wall did not slow them."

"From their door to the Surbrin was not far, my king," Dukka dared reply. "Keeper's Dale offers no such sanctuary."

"Do not underestimate them," Obould warned. He stepped closer to General Dukka as he spoke, and the other orc seemed to shrink in stature before him. His voice ominous and loud, so that all could hear, Obould roared out, "They will come out with fury. They will have brooms before them to sweep aside your caltrops, and shielding above to block your arrows and stones. They will have folding bridges, no doubt, and your trench will slow them not at all. King Bruenor is no fool, and does not charge into battle unprepared. The dwarves will know exactly where they need to go, and they will get there with all speed."

A long and uncomfortable silence followed, with many of the orcs looking at each other nervously.

"Do you expect them to come forth, my king?" Grimsmal asked.

"All that I expect from King Bruenor is that whatever he chooses to do, he will do it well, and with cunning," Obould replied, and more than one orc jaw fell open to hear such compliments for a dwarf coming forth from an orc king.

Obould considered those looks carefully in light of his disastrous attempt to break into Mithral Hall. He could not let any of them believe that he was speaking from weakness, from memories of his own bad judgment.

"Witness the devastation of the ridge where you now place your catapults," he said, waving his arm out to the west. Where once had stood a ridge line - one atop which Obould had placed allied frost giants and their huge war engines - loomed a torn and jagged crevice of shattered stones. "The dwarves are on their home ground. They know every stone, every rise, and every tunnel. They know how to fight. But we..." he roared, striding about for maximum effect, and lifting his clawing hands to the sky. He let the words hang in the air for many heartbeats before continuing, "We do not deny them the credit they deserve. We accept that they are formidable and worthy foes, and in that knowledge, we prepare."

He turned directly to General Dukka and Chieftain Grimsmal, who had edged closer together. "We know them, but even against what we have shown to them in conquering this land, they still do not know us. This" - he swept his arm out to encompass the catapults, archers, and all the rest - "they know, and expect. Your preparations are half done, General Dukka, and half done well. Now envision how King Bruenor will try to counter everything you have done, and complete your preparations to defeat that counter."

"B-but...my king?" General Dukka stammered.

"I have all confidence in you," Obould said. "Begin by trapping your own entrenchments on the western side of Keeper's Dale, so that if the dwarves reach that goal, your warriors can quickly retreat and leave them exposed on another battlefield of your choosing."

Dukka began to nod, his eyes shining, and his lips curled into a wicked grin.

"Tell me," Obould bade him.

"I can set a second force in the south to get to the doors behind them," the orc replied. "To cut off any dwarf army that charges across the valley."

"Or a second force that appears to do so," said Obould, and he paused and let all around him digest that strange response.

"So they will turn and run back," Dukka answered at length. "And then have to cross yet again to gain the ground they covet."

"I have never wavered in my faith in you, General Dukka," said Obould, and he nodded and even patted the beaming orc on the shoulder as he walked past.

His smile was twofold, and genuine. He had just strengthened the loyalty of an important general, and had impressed the potentially troublesome Grimsmal in the process. Obould knew what played in Grimsmal's mind as he swept up behind the departing entourage. If Obould, and apparently his commanders, could think so far ahead of King Bruenor, then what might befall any orc chieftain who plotted against the King of Many-Arrows?

Those doubts were the real purpose of his visit to Keeper's Dale, after all, and not any concerns about General Dukka's readiness. For it was all moot, Obould understood. King Bruenor would never come forth from those western doors. As the dwarf had learned in his breakout to the east - and as Obould had learned in trying to flood into Mithral Hall - any such advance would demand too high a cost in blood.

Wulfgar screamed at the top of his lungs, as if his voice alone might somehow, impossibly, halt the thrust of the spear.

A blue-white flash stung the barbarian's eyes, and for a moment he thought it was the burning pain of the spear entering his belly. But when he came out of his blink, he saw the spear-wielding orc flipping awkwardly in front of him. The creature hit the ground limp, already dead, and by the time Wulfgar turned to face its companion that orc had dropped its sword and grasped and clawed at its chest. Blood poured from a wound, both front and back.

Wulfgar didn't understand. He jabbed his warhammer at the wounded orc and missed - another streaking arrow, a bolt of lightning, soared past Wulfgar and hit the orc in the shoulder, throwing it to the ground near its fallen comrade. Wulfgar knew that tell-tale missile, and he roared again and turned to face his rescuer.

He was surprised to see Drizzt, not Catti-brie, holding Taulmaril the Heartseeker.

The drow sprinted toward him, his light steps barely ruffling the blanket of deep snow. He started to nock another arrow, but tossed the bow aside instead and drew forth his two scimitars. He tossed a salute at Wulfgar then darted to the side as he neared, turning into a handful of battle-ready orcs.

"Biggrin!" Drizzt shouted as Wulfgar charged in his wake.

"Tempus!" the barbarian responded.

He put Aegis-fang up behind his head, and let it fly from both hands, the warhammer spinning end-over-end for the back of Drizzt's head.

Drizzt ducked and dropped to his knees at the last moment. The five orcs, following the drow's movements, had no time to react to the spinning surprise. At the last moment, the orcs threw up their arms defensively and tangled each other in their desperation to get out of the way. Aegis-fang took one squarely, and that flying orc clipped another enough to send both tumbling back.

The remaining three hadn't even begun to re-orient themselves to their opponents when the fury of Drizzt fell over them. He skidded on his knees as the hammer flew past, but leaped right back up to his feet and charged forward with abandon, his deadly blades crossing before him, going out wide, then coming back in another fast cross on the backhand. He counted on confusion, and confusion he found. The three orcs fell away in moments, slashed and stabbed.

Wulfgar, still chasing, summoned Aegis-fang back to his waiting hands, then veered inside the drow's turn so that his long legs brought him up beside Drizzt as they approached the encampment's main area of tents, where many orcs had gathered.

But those orcs would not stand against them, and any indecision the porcine humanoids might have had about running away was snapped away a moment later when a giant panther roared from the side.

Weapons went flying, and orcs went running, scattering to the winter's winds.

Wulfgar heaved Aegis-fang after the nearest, dropping it dead in its tracks. He put his head down and plowed on even faster - or started to, until Drizzt grabbed him by the arm and tugged him around.

"Let them go," the drow said. "There are many more about, and we will lose our advantage in the chase."

Wulfgar skidded to a stop and again called his magical war-hammer back to his grasp. He took a moment to survey the dead, the wounded, and the fleeing orcs then met Drizzt's gaze and nodded, his bloodlust sated.

And he laughed. He couldn't help it. It came from somewhere deep inside, a desperate release, a burst of protest against the absurdity of his own actions. It came from those distant memories again, of running free in Icewind Dale. He had caught the "Biggrin" reference so easily, understanding in that single name that Drizzt wanted him to throw the warhammer at the back of the drow's head.

How was that even possible?

"Wulfgar has a desire to die?" Drizzt asked, and he, too, chuckled.

"I knew you would arrive. It is what you do."

Kna curled around his arm, rubbing his shoulder, purring and growling as always. Seated at the table in the tent, King Obould seemed not even to notice her, which of course only made her twist, curl, and growl even more intensely.

Across the table, General Dukka and Chieftain Grimsmal understood all too clearly that Kna was their reminder that Obould was above them, in ways they simply could never hope to attain.

"Five blocks free," General Dukka explained, "block" being the orc military term coined by Obould to indicate a column of one thousand warriors, marching ten abreast and one hundred deep. "Before the turn of Tarsakh."

"You can march them to the Surbrin, north of Mithral Hall, in five days," Chieftain Grimsmal remarked. "Four days if you drive them hard."

"I would drive them through the stones for the glory of King Obould!" Dukka replied.

Obould did not appear impressed.

"There is no need of such haste," he said at length, after sitting with a contemplative stare that had the other two chewing their lips in anticipation.

"The onset of Tarsakh will likely bring a clear path to the dwarven battlements," Chieftain Grimsmal dared to reply.

"A place we will not go."

The blunt response had Grimsmal sliding back in his chair, and brought a stupefied blink from Dukka.

"Perhaps I can free six blocks," the general said.

"Five or fifty changes nothing," Obould declared. "The ascent is not our wisest course."

"You know another route to strike at them?" Dukka asked.

"No," said Grimsmal, shaking his head as he looked knowingly at Obould. "The whispers are true, then. King Obould's war is over."

The chieftain wisely kept his tone flat and non-judgmental, but Dukka's wide eyes betrayed the general's shock, albeit briefly.

"We pause to see how many roads are open to us," Obould explained.

"Roads to victory?" asked General Dukka.

"Victory in ways you cannot yet imagine," said Obould, and he wagged his large head and showed a confident and toothy grin. For greater effect, he brought one of his huge fists up on the table before him, and clenched it tightly so that the muscles of his bare forearm bulged and twisted to proportions that pointedly reminded the other orcs of the superiority of this creature. Grimsmal was large by orc standards, and a mighty warrior, which was how he had attained the leadership of his warrior tribe, of course. But even he blanched before the spectacle of Obould's sheer power. Truly it seemed that if the orc king had been holding a block of granite in that hand, he would have easily ground it to dust.

No less overpowering was Obould's expression of supreme confidence and power, heightened by his disciplined detachment to Kna's writhing and purring at his side.

Grimsmal and General Dukka left that meeting having no idea what Obould was planning, but having no doubt of Obould's certainty in that plan. Obould watched them go with a knowing smile that the two would not plot against him. The orc king grabbed Kna and yanked her around before him, deciding that it was time to celebrate.

The body was frozen solid, and Wulfgar and Drizzt could not bend Delly's arms back down against her. Tenderly, Wulfgar took the blankets from his pack and wrapped them around her, keeping her face exposed to the last, as if he wanted her to see his sincere remorse and sorrow.

"She did not deserve this," Wulfgar said, standing straight and staring down at the poor woman. He looked at Drizzt, who stood with Guenhwyvar at his side, one hand on the tuft at the back of the panther's neck. "She had her life in Luskan before I arrived to steal her from it."

"She chose the road with you."

"Foolishly," Wulfgar replied with a self-deprecating laugh and sigh.

Drizzt shrugged as if the point was moot, which of course it was. "Many roads end suddenly, in the wilds and also in the alleyways of Luskan. There is no way of truly knowing where a road will lead until it is walked."

"Her trust in me was misplaced, I fear."

"You did not bring her out here to die," said Drizzt. "Nor did you drive her from the safety of Mithral Hall."

"I did not hear her calls for help. She told me that she could not suffer the dwarven tunnels, but I would not hear."

"And her way was clear across the Surbrin, had that been the route she truly wanted. You are no more to blame for this than is Catti-brie, who did not anticipate the reach of that wicked sword."

The mention of Catti-brie jolted Wulfgar a bit, for he knew that she felt the weight of guilt indeed about Khazid'hea's apparent role in Delly Curtie's tragic death.

"Sometimes what is, just is," said Drizzt. "An accident, a cruel twist of fate, a conjunction of forces that could not have been anticipated."

Wulfgar nodded, and it seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from his broad shoulders. "She did not deserve this," he said again.

"Nor did Dagnabbit, nor did Dagna, nor did Tarathiel, and so many others, like those who took Colson across the Surbrin," said Drizzt. "It is the tragedy of war, the inevitability of armies crashing together, the legacy of orcs and dwarves and elves and humans alike. Many roads end suddenly - it is a reality of which we should all be aware - and Delly could just as easily have fallen to a thief in the dark of Luskan's night, or have been caught in the middle of a brawl in the Cutlass. We know for certain only one thing, my friend, that we will one day share in Delly's fate. If we walk our roads solely to avoid such an inevitability, if we step with too much caution and concern..."

"Then we should just as well lie under the snow and let the cold find our bones," Wulfgar finished. He nodded with every word, assuring Drizzt that he needn't worry about the weight of harsh reality bending Wulfgar low.

"You will go for Colson?" Drizzt asked.

"How could I not? You speak of our responsibility to ourselves in choosing our roads with courage and acceptance, yet there remains our responsibility to others. Mine is to Colson. It is the pact I willingly accepted when I took her from Meralda of Auckney. Even if I were assured that she was safe with the goodly refugees who crossed the Surbrin, I could not abandon my promise to Colson's mother, nor to the girl.

"For yourself there is Gauntlgrym?" Wulfgar asked. "Beside Bruenor?"

"That is his expectation, and my duty to him, yes."

Wulfgar gave a nod and scanned the horizon.

"Perhaps Bruenor is right, and Gauntlgrym will show us an end to this war," said Drizzt.

"There will be another war close behind," Wulfgar said with a helpless shrug and chuckle. "It is the way of things."

"Biggrin," Drizzt said, drawing a smile from his large friend.

"Indeed," said Wulfgar. "If we cannot change the way of things, then we are wise to enjoy the journey."

"You knew that I would duck, yes?"

Wulfgar shrugged. "I figured that if you did not, it was - "

" - the way of things," Drizzt finished with him.

They shared a laugh and Wulfgar looked down at Delly once more, his face somber. "I will miss her. She was so much more than she appeared. A fine companion and mother. Her road was difficult for all her days, but she oft found within herself a sense of hope and even joy. My life is lessened with her passing. There is a hole within me that will not be easily filled."

"Which cannot be filled," Drizzt corrected. "That is the thing of loss. And so you will go on, and you will take solace in your memories of Delly, in the good things you shared. You will see her in Colson, though the girl was not of her womb. You will feel her beside you on occasion, and though the sadness will ever remain, it will settle behind treasured memories."

Wulfgar bent down and gently slid his arms beneath Delly and lifted her. It didn't appear as if he was holding a body, for the frozen form did not bend at all. But he hugged her close to his chest and moisture filled his bright blue eyes.

"Do you now hate Obould as much as I do?" Drizzt asked.

Wulfgar didn't reply, but the answer that came fast into his thoughts surprised him. Obould was just a name to him, not even a symbol on which he could focus his inner turmoil. Somehow he had moved past rage and into acceptance.

It is what it is, he thought, echoing Drizzt's earlier sentiments, and Obould diminished to become a circumstance, one of many. An orc, a thief, a dragon, a demon, an assassin from Calimport - it did not matter.

"It was good to fight beside you again," Wulfgar said, and in such a tone as to give Drizzt pause, for the words sounded more like a farewell than anything else.

Drizzt sent Guenhwyvar out to the point, and side-by-side, he and Wulfgar began their trek back to Mithral Hall, with Wulfgar holding Delly close all the way.