Prologue: The Coming Storm
She dreamed she were floating in a sea of dark weightlessness. Her heart was at peace for once and all was calm. She basked in that refuge of calm, amid a sea of tumultuous and roiling emotions barely kept at bay.
And suddenly the feeling of calm was shattered. A shadow grew over her heart and the peace collapsed. A face, a man's face appeared before her, then his entire body materialized before her. She realized that she was seeing into a dark cave, but it was the man's face that drew her attention.
She knew that face.
It was familiar to her, she recognized the contours of the features, chisled into a noble and proud face. She recognized him down to the hazel tinted eyes, so aware, so kind, the firm jaw, the three-days growth of stubble, which only seemed to enhance his masculine beauty. His hair was dark brown and flowed smoothly to his shoulders. He turned and met her gaze and she filled with a silent kind of terror at being discovered, then there was a great building rumble and the vision vanished in a blinding flash of lavender light she could see even behind her eyelids.
Catti-brie's eyes snapped open and she sat straight up in her bed, sheets tangled about her sweating, slim figure. Slowly, she realized where she was and gave a sigh of relief, slumping down to again lay against her pillow. She pondered over the vision again and again, but she still could make no sense of it. Who was that man? Soon enough, without her even realizing it, she slipped back to sleep.
The huge barbarian trekked cross-country, taking a short-cut to Mithril Hall. The great mountains at the bottom of which Mithril Hall was set were already in sight on the horizon.
Wulfgar had recieved a message from Alustriel at his home in Calimport, bringing news that Catti-brie was gravely injured. He had left that night, kissing Delly goodbye, rushing cross-country and was now reaching the end of his journey.
He reached the edge of a steep bluff and paused, staring down in surprise.
An army of orcs.
The barbarian was so taken aback that he simply stood tall on the lip of the bluff, staring down at the army for a full thirty seconds. Recovering from his astonishment, he dropped to his belly and crawled to the edge.
There was a group of orcs lazing about directly below Wulfgar and he strained to overhear their conversation. He did not understand orcish, but there was one word that they spat with such derision that he needed not listen any longer.
"Mithril Hall!"
He edged away from the lip of the bluff and rolled to his feet. Moving swiftly, he sprinted away at an angle from the direction the army was traveling.
Some minutes later Wulfgar reached the River Surbin and hastily splashed across, heading for the south-eastern edge of the Spine of the World, where he knew he would find Mithril Hall. He had to warn them.
The General brushed aside the cloth covering the Campaign Tent's entrance, and exited into the bright sunlight. The army of orcs milled about like a black sea.
"Gragh!" bellowed the General, calling out the name of the commanding orc. The large brute lumbered up and gave a sloppy salute.
The General pointedly ignored this and gave the beast a deadly look. The orc instantly lost its casual attitude. The General was pleased by this. The orc knew better than to toy will the General, otherwise, it knew, it would be worse than dead.
"Take half of your warriors and diverge from the main group," at this the General waved a hand about, indicating the surrounding orc army, "at the River Surbin. You will destroy Silverymoon. I cannot afford to have that fool of a leader of theirs interfering in my plans."
Gragh gaped.
"But...my General..."
"Do it."
There was a sense of dangerous finality to the General's tone which shut the orc commander up immediately.
"Is dere anything you would like to have remain intact?" the orc dared to ask.
"Absolutely not. Leave not one stone standing upon another."
The orc grinned evilly.
"That we can do, my General!"
"Good," the General sneered with disdain.
"What of the peoples there?"
"I haven't the slightest care. Do what you like with them."
"Even the females?"
"That is not my concern. Just do it, and do it right and swiftly."
The orc bowed, saluted, and hastened off to marshal his troops.
An hour later, seventeen thousand orcs departed the camp and began making their way towards Silverymoon.
The group, comprised entirely of men, hovered around the great elongated table. They peered at each other with mild suspiscion from the shadows of the hoods of their black cloaks. They all knew each other, of course, and had known each other for an extremely long time, as had their fathers known their fathers, and their father's fathers before them, and into the ages past.
This fact, of course, hardly mattered. These were powerful, ruthless men willing to do anything to achieve their wicked goals. They would refer to each other as "trusted friends" the same day that the Abyssal plane froze over.
The room was large and circular. There were no windows; the only light came from the flickering of the torches set into the smooth, black walls and the yellowish candles, casting an undeniable feeling of forboding and evil. This was reinforced by the sinister arcane symbols carved into the walls. Legend spoke of the founder of their council having forced slaves to rend them into the black stone floor and walls with their fingernails, over and over again until the markings were deep enough.
There was a huge double-door set in the wall behind the sole empty seat, a seat of black wood which was intricately carved to appear to be make from skulls, with magical jewels set into every eye socket.
Unexpectedly, the great doors opened slowly, and a lone figure entered the hall, enshrouded in a great, flowing cloak of the deepest black, the cloak's hood raised, conceiling the figure's face from sight. He moved with a flowing sinister grace and bespoke of deadly power and authority. The figure slid into the great chair and set his arms upon the table.
All of them were staring, awaiting expectantly.
There was a lengthy pause as the figure, features totally conceiled from sight by the wrappings of the great hood, did not appear to move. To all in attendance, however, it was known that the figure was slowly eyeing every single one of them individiually. They knew this because they could feel it as his eyes rested upon them, their skin growing clammy and ashen. When the sinister feeling moved on, they relaxed and the colour soon returned to them...at least physically. It was as if the figure were daring them to turn from him, cast aside their esoteric and ancient order and deny him. But this they would—and could—not do, for they were sworn to his eternal cause by vows of bloodline and ability, the words of their vow binding them for their entire lives to the domination of his will.
Finally the figure's gaze fell upon the single empty seat around the table. All present held their collective breath as the silence grew even more deadly. Finally the figure spoke.
"Let this Brotherhood come to order. You all have been summoned here for a reason."
There was a long pause as the hooded figure allowed this to sink in, then continued.
"One of our Order is no longer with us. He was slain."
All eyes glanced at the vacant seat with quiet discomfort.
"This requires for our plans to be amended. Our timetable has been moved up due to this unfortunate, though not unforseen, event. The wizard did not even have the foresight to die for a purpose."
The figure inhaled a long and rasping breath.
"As you all may recall, your Brother, Kilster Dolonen, was sent to the Spine of the World in search of the ninth and largest piece necessary for the complete fruition of our plans. The fool managed to get his caravan attacked—by a group of giants!"
Those gathered desired to shrink back away from the awful voice of rage, but it also held them rooted to their seats, perhaps by morbid facination.
"He then got himself killed by the panther of that drow ranger, Drizzt Do'Urden!"
The figure paused. It reached into its robes and withdrew a crystal ball and set it down on the table before them. It waved a hand over it, and the ball sprung to life. In it, they could clearly see their Brother, Kilster Dolonen, standing over a cowering man.
"Oooh, what a perfect target," Dolonen sighed, and lashed the man writhing on the ground with a distinctive female drow's whip. Then again, and again, he lashed at his victim.
Suddenly, a dark-skinned drow dropped lightly into the snow in front of Dolonen. Dolonen paused, surprised. The drow, recognized as the renegade Drizzt Do'Urden, stood before Dolonen, forearms lightly resting on the handles of his scimitars.
"That is a curious weapon for a wizard," they heard the drow remark. Dolonen sneered.
"Drizzt Do'Urden, I presume?" the wizard commented more than asked.
This seemed to take the drow aback.
"Yes, I know you and your name, drow," they heard Dolonen say, still grinning with menace, "who in all the northland does not?"
The drow bowed low at the remark, and Dolonen instantly moved forward, chanting a spell, when a black blur struck the wizard from behind. Several of the Brothers winced as the black panther finished their one-time companion.
The figure flicked its hand at the crystal ball; the image of red-stained snow vanished in a flash, and it replaced the ball within the confines of its robe.
One of the brothers spoke up.
"How did Kilster control a priestess whip of Lolth? They turn on any but their masters." "The Power of the Jewel is far greater than any paulty charm such as that. Toys like that whip find it impossible to countermand the control of the Jewel," the figure responded.
The brother nodded.
The figure spoke again.
"Do'Urden then stumbled upon the lair of BurningIce, whose dwelling place we have searched for many years to find. BurningIce was the guardian of the ninth piece."
Each of the men around the table glanced at the large jewel hanging from the figure's neck. There was a large chunk clearly missing from the lower portion.
"We have collected all of the pieces save one. That one. It must be recovered—at all cost! Brothers Kilinor and Estael will travel to the Spine of the World in search of the ninth shard. Victory shall be rewarded with life and powers beyond imagination. Failure will be punished with a fate worse than death."
Understanding their instructions, the council was soon dismissed and the brothers scattered and departed, each moving to their appointed places, each according to their instructed purpose.
The Brotherhood of the Skull adjourned.
Next Chapter: Beginnings and Developments