Chapter Seven Okay, review time! I finally topped 20! Yay!

Sliph: Yes, I know that Drizzt's eyes glow purple. I forgot, however.

Amigo: Geez, I know, already!

Boohyah: Thank you! Yes, a whole lot of people will be quite a bit more than mildly surprised. Oh, and all the girls at Riva will be drooling over him. You know, same old, same old.

Kell Shock: I'm only going by what the books tell me.

DemonOfShadow: Ha! The chapter you've all been waiting for; the fighting!

Chipmunkagainstheleprechauns: You are very welcome. I've searched the web a couple of times and came up with moot. I really don't usually do disclaimers, but I just pulled off a dance performance at my school and I'm feeling lenient. So here's a disclaimer just for you...

Disclaimer: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING I WRITE ABOUT, SO DON'T SUE ME! Howzat?

On with the show!

.....................................................~*~................................................

"How many soldiers do you have at the moment?" inquired Velvet.

Garion scanned the numbers he had added up on the page. His lips thinned as he read the result. "Fifty-three." He said grimly.

Belgarath slammed his fist against the table furiously. "This was all a setup!" he burst out. Then he turned around to face the Rivan King.

"Where on this earth are your other guards, boy?"

Garion sighed and drew a map out of a pocket. He spread it on the table, and pointed to a fief on the other side of the isle.

"There were reports of bandits in Marellon's duchy. I sent them there."

"You sent four-fifths of your guard to deal with chicken thieves? Were you drinking that night?"

"It was yesterday, Grandfather, and they were doing more than stealing chickens. They-"

"Javelin did say that the Bear-Cult was mobilizing again," interrupted Silk, who was leaning against the table. They were all standing once again in the blue-draped council room, waiting for a lieutenant they had sent out to gauge the time until the attack.

"But not like this! Not by attacking Riva!"

Zakath now stepped forward.

"It could be that this Jarok fellow of yours wants to dominate the central power of the West, which is the Orb, of course. And since he can't touch it without being maimed, like a certain dead God we know, he needs to control Garion. Control Garion, control the Orb, control the West."

At that moment, the lieutenant rushed into the room, his rabbit-like face frightened. He knelt before Garion and blurted out,

"My King, the army will be here within the hour."

Garion swore, and the man looked up in surprise. Then, he stood up, grabbed his sword, and strode toward the door, calling over his shoulder as he went, "I'm going onto the battlements. Anyone care to join me?"

Drizzt was already there, leaning over the battlements, watching as the mob struggled to maintain order. A few had gone berserk, and were hacking at the walls with assorted weaponry. An archer saw him, shouted a warning, and shot an arrow in his general direction. He didn't even flinch when a badly-aimed arrow bounced off the wall only five feet away. He did, however, turn from watching the army when Garion & Co. came up behind him. Then the harried-looking Captain of the Guard came over and gave a smart salute. 'Majesty,' he said respectfully, 'your orders?'

Garion nodded toward the captain, and said,

'Form the guards at the gate. Quickly.'

The man bowed, turned on his heel, and strode out into the night. Faintly, they could hear him shouting orders.

'Not very talkative, was he?' Drizzt drawled from his position on the battlements. Garion shrugged and said simply, 'He's of Algar descent. None of them talk very much.' Drizzt looked confused for a minute, but spoke again.

"Well, what do you think would be the best strategy for this? I've never been in such a situation."

"And from what you've told us, that would be saying a lot, right? But anyway, the only thing to do is meet them head-on. Out-and-out savagery, that's all what the Bear-Cult understands. Which is bad for them. Very bad."

Drizzt looked very interested at this, and even moved a knee up onto the battlements.

"What in the name of Belar are you doing?" muttered Barak as he hurried forward , arms outstretched in an attempt to keep his new friend from falling off the wall. Drizzt replied by giving Barak a grin that could be seen even with his hood down over his face, one of the most evil he had ever seen.

"Why, I'm only going by the advice the king gave me. Out-and-out savagery. Might as well beat them at their own game."

And with a single, wicked, gleeful laugh, he propelled himself from the wall. He landed on the ground with perfect balance, his scimitars appearing in his hands as he did so. Ignoring the cries of shock from both the battlements and the cultists, he charged the nearest group.

Garion, however, was not nearly so elated. Shrugging off his aunt's arms, he ran down off the battlements, his friends pounding behind him. As he neared the gates, which were opening slowly, despite the efforts of the soldiers, Garion gathered his Will, pointed at the gates, and shouted, "Open!"

The gates opened with an ear-splitting crash, and the cultists poured in. Garion was too angry at all this foolishness to even notice the overwhelming odds.

Silk dove and slashed with his daggers, and each cut was perfect, for a man who was truly too old for this kind of thing. His wife, Velvet, wearing clothes very similar to those she had worn at Korim, fought beside him, her movements in perfect harmony with his.

Barak, cursed with becoming into a giant bear when the Rivan King was in danger (because of a certain meddling Prophecy) lost all vestiges of humanity to transform into a bear (were-bear, ahhhhhh!) and tore into the ranks of soldiers like bits of chaff.

Mandorallen, his great two-handed sword seeming a small thing in his large hands, roared his battle cry to Chaldan, as he mowed through the cultists.

Durnik, good old sensible Durnik, seemed a terrible thing indeed, wielding his great sledge, with which he had slain the demon Nahaz, and his face an icy mask of rage.

Zakath, the ruler of half the world, had his saber, maimed more than killed, and the moans of his victims raised a fearful din on the battlefield.

Hettar, fighting with an unearthly skill, managed to defend himself, while stampeding the horses of those mounted, no mean feat.

Relg with his hook pointed Ulgo knife, fought with almost a clinical detachment, all the while murmuring in his guttural language.

Lelldorin stood on the battlements, his blond hair streaming in the breeze, was shooting down cultists, many in a minute. What the Austurian lacked in intelligence, he made up for it with unwavering loyalty and childlike exuberance.

Around the edges of the fray bounded two wolves, hamstringing the stragglers. These were, in truth, Belgarath and Poledra, with Poledra in her natural form.

Garion fought with classic berserker rage. In his anger, he did not see the slingstone coming. He staggered and fell, unconscious. A cultist rushed toward him, yelling with triumph. Drizzt saw everything, and began cursing in drow, the only language he knew that had more swear words than goblin. Still fending off attackers, he drew the tiny figurine out of his pouch. Calling Guenhwyvar, he explained the situation, and she loped off in the direction of Garion, her tail held high. From the shouts and screams coming from her direction, Drizzt could only guess what was happening.

Above all, Drizzt, with both scimitars whirling, was poetry in motion. Even the cultists he was about to cut down gaped at him. Just then, in the height of the battle, an arrow whizzed over his head, missing him, but snagging his hood, yanking it back, and tearing it off.

There was a collective gasp from everyone around, and in the lull, Silk covered his eyes.

"The priests are going to give us hell over this...," he mumbled through gritted teeth. Nobody, however, expected the first three ranks of cultists to throw down their weapons and run screaming off into the chill night. Their fears were rightly founded, too. With the pale, wan moonlight shining off his hair, his black skin contrasting so sharply, and fires in his eyes, he was a fiend out of nightmares.

With the cultists out of the way, nothing was between him and the High Priest. The man visibly cowered as Drizzt approached him, bloodstained scimitars at the ready. Despite everything, Drizzt vaguely pitied the man, ruthless as he had been to his men, watching them being cut down, without making any move to help them. The large man turned to flee, but Drizzt's enchanted bracers quickly put him in front. Desperate, Jarok scrabbled at his word belt, but a neat kick from his adversary spun his sword out of reach. Jarok suddenly found a scimitar against his throat, and made himself absolutely still. Jarok, apparently, had gotten a good close look at Death, and he didn't like it.

"Call off your men," Drizzt instructed, no sign of the earlier pity in his voice. Jarok gulped, and called out,

"Throw down your swords!" His voice was squeaky, and seemed all the more ridiculous coming from a man his size. The cultists looked at each other for support and, slowly, one by one, dropped their weapons. Jarok, still standing still, suddenly had an idea. Slowly he maneuvered himself into the right position, and kicked back at his captor. Momentarily startled, Drizzt gave chase, and the head cultist was quickly put to sleep with the pommel of Twinkle.

Slowly, shyly, the horizon over the ocean began to lighten, then rays of light spread across the still-dark sky. Weary, cultist, soldier, and noble watched the sky brightened, bringing with it a new dawn. The battle, which, in the future, would come to be called the Battle of the Rivan Hall, was over.

Whew, I'm too exhausted to type anymore, so that's it!