The Thousand Orcs: The Hunter's Blades Trilogy, Book I (The Legend of Drizzt 14) by R.A. Salvatore

Author:R.A. Salvatore [Salvatore, R.A.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786954148
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2009-06-17T00:00:00+00:00

—Drizzt Do’Urden

“Ye’re really meaning to do this?” Shingles asked Torgar when he found his friend, fresh off his watch, at his modest home in the Mirabar Undercity, stuffing his most important belongings into a large sack.

“Ye knowed I was.”

“I knowed ye was talking about it,” Shingles corrected. “Didn’t think yer brain was rattled enough for ye to actually be doin’ it.”

“Bah!” Torgar snorted, coming up from his packing to look his friend in the eye. “What choice are they leavin’ to me? Agrathan comin’ to me on the wall just to tell me to shut me mouth … Shut me mouth! I been fightin’ for the marchion, for Mirabar, for three hunnerd years. I got more scars than Agrathan, Elastul, and all four o’ his private guards put together. Earned every one o’ them scars, I did, and now I’m to stand quiet and hear the scolding of Agrathan, and that on me watch, with th’ other sentries all lookin’ and listenin’?”

“And where’re ye to go?” Shingles asked. “Mithral Hall?”

“Yep.”

“Where ye’ll be welcomed with a big hug and a bottle o’ ale?” came the sarcastic reply.

“King Bruenor’s not me enemy.”

“And not near the friend ye’re thinkin’,” Shingles argued. “He’s to be wonderin’ what bringed ye there, and he’ll think ye a spy.”

It was a logical argument, but Torgar was shaking his head with every word. Even if Shingles proved right on this point, the potential consequences still seemed preferable to Torgar than his present intolerable situation. He was getting up in years and remained the last of the Hammerstriker line, a situation he was hoping to soon enough correct. Given all that he had learned over the last few tendays of King Bruenor, and more importantly, of his own beloved Mirabar, he was thinking that any children he might sire would be better served growing up among Clan Battlehammer.

Perhaps it would take Torgar months, even years, to win the confidence of Bruenor’s people, but so be it.

He stuffed the last of his items into the sack and hoisted the bulging bag over his shoulder, turning for the door. To his surprise, Shingles presented him a mug of ale, then held up his own in toast.

“To a road full o’ monsters ye can kill!” the older dwarf said.

Torgar banged his mug against the other.

“I’ll be clearing it for yerself,” he remarked.

Shingles gave a little laugh and took a deep drink.

Torgar knew that his response to the toast was purely polite. Shingles’s situation in Mirabar was very different than his own. The old dwarf was the patriarch of a large clan. Uprooting them for a journey to Mithral Hall would be no easy task.

“Ye’re to be missed, Torgar Hammerstriker,” the old dwarf replied. “And the potters and glass-blowers’re sure to be losin’ business, not having to replace all the jugs and mugs ye’re breakin’ in every tavern in town.”

Torgar laughed, took another sip, handed the mug back to Shingles, and continued for the door. He paused just once, to turn and offer

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