Chapter Twenty Five- Coping Mechanisms.
The sound of singing, laughing, and the clanking of tankards could be heard throughout the depths and tunnels of Mithril Hall. Strangers would perhaps think the place under siege by enemy forces, and the racket the sound of battle being joined. It was often the case. Dwarves in battle and Dwarves in celebration tended to have similar noises.
However, the forces of the Drow were still gathering. Their army would take many days, weeks, perhaps, to cross the distance between Menzoberranzan and the Dwarven stronghold. Most of the defensive preparations were finished, save for those that would be reserved for the last minute. For now, the members of the alliance celebrated their ties and their hard work.
Neeshka looked down on it all with strange serenity. She was no stranger to alliances of oddity and necessity. During her travels with Kale, she had seen the Harborman bring together the forces of Neverwinter, the Dwarves of Clan Ironfist, the Lizardfolk of the swamps, and many others. His charisma and wisdom had helped to heal old and festering wounds, cool tempers, and break down walls of prejudice. While she may have had her disagreements with the Deity, or whatever he really was, Helm had chosen well when he had picked him as a champion.
Even so, that alliance had been one born partially of desperation and necessity, as the many individuals of the coalition had come to realize that the King of Shadows and his minions intended to kill them all and shackle all of Faerun into eternal service to his cause. This one, this one was similar, but there was something different, the Tiefling thought. As her tail lashed back and forth, she looked out among the gathered individuals. Plainsmen quaffed ale next to Dwarves, challenging each other to see whom could imbibe the most before slipping into unconsciousness or engaging in arm wrestling contests. The Tiefling giggled slightly, as she realized that Commander Keyes was going to be very unpopular tomorrow among some of the Humans.
She had made it quite clear that hangovers would not be viable excuses, and regardless of how they were feeling, they would be on the training field the next day.
She looked down again, and her eyes focused on Sergeant Johnson. Even from this distance, she could see his eyes twinkle, and he was laughing louder than she had ever heard before. The Tiefling suspected that the reason behind this was mainly due to the fact that he had received a gift from Lord Nasher for his services to Neverwinter and Clan Battlehammer: an elegantly carved mahogany pipe and several bags of the plant that he and the other UNSC troops termed Tobacco.
Neeshka had seen the stuff used before, as Grobnar and a few of the Ironfist dwarves had been quite fond of the stuff. She was never certain why. She was also curious about what Commander Keyes had said about Johnson trying to burn out his third set of lungs.
She suddenly became aware of another presence, and turned to see the Master Chief standing there. He was completely covered by his armor, as usual, and he moved up to stand against the railing. Neeshka shook her head. How could someone who was so large and heavy move so swiftly and silently? She looked into the gold plated visor of his helmet, trying to envision his pale face.
He slowly looked over towards her, and nodded his head.
Inside of his helmet, the Spartan was looking at the young girl, and the frown that suddenly came over her face. He cocked his head to one side quizzically, and wondered what could be wrong. There were a number of things it could be, really, or some combination of them. Best to find out now, he realized. There might be something that he could do about it.
"Are you okay?" he asked. He was tempted to lean against the railing, but decided not to. It might inadvertently damage it.
"Little worried I suppose," Neeshka said with a shrug. "What happens if the Drow manage to find a way around your defenses…" her tail lashed back and forth violently. "What if everything goes wrong? I've just… I've just got this feeling, in the pit of my stomach, that something bad is going to happen."
The Spartan nodded. He was all too aware of that feeling. He got it in his stomach every time he went into battle. Over the long decades of combat, he had learned how to suppress the fear to where it didn't bother him, but at the same time, he still had to listen to it. It was a warning system hardwired into his body, nature's way of letting him know when all was not well.
"We have a saying in the UNSC, something my instructor taught me," he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "No plan survives contact with the enemy. The Drow will try and find a way around what we plan, around what we do. We just have to be able to out-counter their counter plans. That's where we have the edge. They're not going to be used to fighting the kind of war that we're going to introduce them to. We, on the other hand, are familiar with their tactics."
"I think I understand," she whispered. She leaned against the rail, and then looked back up at the enormous soldier. "How many people do you think will survive the battle?"
"I can't say for sure. There are too many variables," the cyborg responded.
Neeshka frowned again, and cradled her chin on her fold arms. The last time that she had been in a battle like this, it had been in the fight for Crossroad Keep. She remembered the betrayal that had happened there, and the hundreds that had died because of it. The Dark Elves and their army of slaves would make Black Garius' forces look paltry and insignificant by comparison.
Down below, Sergeant Johnson excused himself and headed off into the tunnels.
Neeshka let her tail start to swing again, though it seemed to quickly develop a mind of its own, twisting and curling into a number of strange spirals as she continued to look down upon the assembled group.
Lord Nasher suddenly rose from his seat next to Bruenor and the other members of the Lord's alliance. Wearing his ceremonial armor and draped in a deep blue robe, he stood out among the throng. The Lord of Neverwinter raised his mug high, and called for a brief moment of silence.
"I want to thank our host for the wonderful gathering that we have had tonight," he nodded towards Bruenor, who chuckled and stood up to take a theatrical bow. "But, as we partake of this food, ale, and good company, let us not forget the purpose that binds us all here together. Be we Dwarf," he nodded towards the Ironfist and Battlehammer Dwarves, "men and women of the Lords Alliance," he let his free hand sweep over towards his fellow nobles and their present troops, "the Riders of Neseme," he gestured to the small group of them that were present, "the Plainsmen of the northern plains and the soldiers of Ten Towns," a hearty cheer met his remark, as Wulfgar and his fellows hefted their fists and let out a mighty warcry, "to the valiant knights of Silverymoon," he nodded to Dove and a small retinue of warriors accompanying her, and to Drizzt as well, sitting by her side, "to our newfound allies of the UNSC and the Neo-Covenant," Miranda Keyes nodded her head while the Elites and Grunts that were present saluted. "No matter our shape of body nor the color of our blood, we are united against a foe that would bind us in shackles, pillage and destroy our homes, and destroy everything that we have worked so hard to accomplish over the centuries." He paused, and lowered his ale sighing softly.
Slowly, he raised his head, and began to speak once more.
"I do not know how many of you will survive the coming battle, or if I myself will," Neeshka watched as he looked around the assembled group in the enormous hall. "Remember, though, that as we go into battle, what we fight for. Remember your children, and what shall be told to them of this time, when darkness gathered 'round like the shroud of Death, that for a single, glorious moment, the free peoples of Faerun forgot their differences and united together for a single purpose and goal." He clenched a hand into a fist and raised it up. "Let them know, and let them remember when bards sing of this coming day, when Plainsman fought with Neseme Rider, where Elves, Dwarves, Men, Sangheili, Unggoy, and Lek'golo saw each other as brothers shed their blood for the good of all goodly folk."
A hearty cheer erupted from all present. Neeshka wondered if deep down in their underground cities, if the Drow would hear that racket. Let them, she thought, her crimson eyes narrowing to a glare, let them know that there was no fear here. Let them know that there was no fear to be found within the hearts of Mithril Hall's defenders.
The Tiefling took a moment to turn her gaze inward. What would she do when confronted by the Dark Elves and their demonic minions? Keyes had told them of Erttu and his demonic soldiers, and she knew that there were a number of them that would be gunning for her. A tingle of apprehension trickled into her mind, but she swiftly squashed it. She needed only remember the King of Shadows, and the unspeakable horrors that he had employed when he had attempted defend his long dead country and suddenly the black skinned Elves, despite their huge numbers, seemed limited in what they could do to her.
Over to her side, the Master Chief could see the battle of serenity and apprehension within the Tiefling, and a smile came to his face as he saw the calm and peace slowly win out. Then a frown came to his face, and he thought about all that had happened in the many weeks that they had been stranded on this world. Neeshka had been with them from the beginning, showing them around, helping them with the locals, assisting them with weapons and fighting alongside them.
True, he had saved her life, but a soldier did not keep a count of such things. He had saved the lives of his brothers and sisters countless times, and they had saved his. A sense of gratitude also went only so far. Neeshka had willingly charged headlong into the depths of the Trollmoores to save soldiers that she knew nothing of and owed no loyalty to. She had gone into places and faced creatures that would have terrified any sane person in order to help their cause. She—
A sudden realization came over the cyborg then. Neeshka's attitude and to a lesser degree, her physical appearance, had reminded him much of his sister Kelly. Now that he thought about it, he wondered how much of it was a subconscious projection of his mind longing for the company of his family, and the genuine actions on the part of the Tiefling to help him and his fellows. She had in a way, become like an extension of his family, like Johnson was. Then came a second sobering realization. She had seen his face once, maybe twice, and still, she did not know more than the scantest of details about himself. She had trusted him with her life and well being on many occasions since they had first met on the frozen plains of Icewind Dale.
It was time to truly return that trust.
"A strange alliance," the Tiefling suddenly mused aloud. The Spartan snapped his gaze back to her, and watched as she pushed back up away from the railing. "So, Chief, when do you think they'll get here?"
"It depends on when they leave. It will take time to move an army as large as the one that they'll be massing. They'll need supply lines, places to rest that are large enough to house such a force, as well as scouts and overseers to make certain that none of the slaves use this as an ideal opportunity to make an escape attempt or a mass revolt…" he closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, "and it's John."
Neeshka gave him a look. "What?"
There was a hiss of air as he broke the seal on his helmet, and slowly lifted it off of his head. His hair was a tad longer as he hadn't taken the time to get it cut in the excitement of prepping the Hall for the assault. His skin was as pale as ever, making him look almost like a walking corpse.
Neeshka blinked as she stared into his green eyes. "My name is John."
The Tiefling's mind tumbled as if she had fallen over a cliff. He was giving her his name. All this time, he had acted as if he hadn't had one. Hells, when they'd first introduced themselves on the Dawn, the day after the battle, he'd denied even having one. What could cause a man wrapped in so much secrecy that even his comrades never addressed him by a name, merely as a title or a number or a code word, to tell her the name that he had been given at birth?
She caught a smile, a strange, crooked half grin, with the left side of the Spartan's mouth twitched up, while the right side remained tight lipped and neutral. Neeshka could see, though, that the smile reached up into his eyes. They sparkled and glowed softly, not with the inner light that they always seemed to possess, but rather, with warmth and camaraderie.
The Spartan placed the helmet back over his head, and sealed himself inside of his protective shell. Then he nodded towards her, and walked away. Neeshka was left speechless, lost in her own thoughts, but not for long.
"I hope you realize what that means."
She snapped her gaze up. Sergeant Johnson was standing at one of the entryways to the balcony level that she was on. He slowly walked towards her, smoke wafting out of the pipe he had clenched between his teeth. The Tiefling cocked her head to the side once again and crossed her arms over her chest.
"He's obviously very… secretive about that sort of thing," she began, chewing on her lip.
"Secretive nothing. There are fewer people that know his name than have seen his face," Johnson chuckled softly. "Outside of the chain of command that has the need to know for that kind of data, I reckon maybe five, six people at most, know who he really is." He sighed, and leaned back against the wall. "It's a sign of trust for a Spartan to tell you their name, Neeshka," he said, puffing slightly on the pipe, and then digging out some more tobacco. "It means they see you as a member of their family. You're one of them as far as they're concerned. It means that they'll trust you with their lives, and just as importantly, that if it comes down to it, they'll trust you to get the mission done if something happens to them and they can't."
"And you're one of those people?" she asked.
"I consider it one of the greatest honors of my life," Johnson said with a nod of his head. He sucked in a breath, and let a ring of smoke fly out of his mouth. "All I ask is that you honor that trust and that secret."
The young rogue nodded her head and her eyes narrowed. In an instant, she went from pondering to deadly serious. Within the realms of magic, names were power. Knowledge of her name and her heritage is what had enabled Black Garius to capture her and try to turn her against Kale and the others. Names were what had enabled Ammon Jerro to bind so many demons and devils to his control and take the battle to the King of Shadows. To know someone's name to was to know them. And for a man who obviously trusted her enough to give her his greatest secret, a man who had seen her for who she was and looked past her heritage and her physical appearance, she could do nothing less. She nodded her head softly, and assumed a UNSC salute.
Johnson broke out into laughter, slapping his thigh and nearly choking upon his pipe. He walked over and ruffled her hair. "You're okay, kid. Going to be a little interesting having a new little sister in the gang."
Neeshka couldn't help it, she smirked. "So what does that make you?"
"Me?" Johnson said and chuckled again. "Why, I'm that favorite uncle that brings all the best presents at the holidays, but you know, deep down, is absolutely out of his mind insane."
This time, the Tiefling joined him in his mirthful laughter.
Helm let out a roar and brought his bastard sword down in a mighty chop too fast for an ordinary man to follow. In the blink of an eye, the haft of a warhammer stopped it. The two weapons were connected for only an instant, and what followed was a flurry of blows that seemed to split the air itself as he and his foe swung back and forth at one another, each one seeking to outdo the other.
At last, though, the contest came to an end. Helm took a step back from his far shorter opponent, and he and Moradin shared a bow of respect towards one another.
"How much longer, do you think?" Moradin grunted, leaning down upon his warhammer.
"I cannot say," the other god said, turning his back on his friend and walking over towards the wall. Then he gazed upon the many weapons and shields that hung from it. "Lolth pushes her army hard. The Time of Troubles made her impatient." A careless mistake, he thought. Still, one for the better. Mithril Hall's defenses were almost finished, and would be ready even if Lolth ordered her forces to run all day and night towards the Hall.
Exhausted troops were all the easier to slaughter.
"How bad do you think it will be?" Moradin asked.
"The future is somewhat clouded about this…" Helm said, turning back to face the Dwarven god. "There are many branches, many paths… more than I can count. I have tried to plan for as many as I can, and studied the others, so as not to be caught off guard." He paused, and his eyes glowed a little dimmer. "All will end in bloodshed, death and sorrow. Some will simply have more than others."
"Something the matter?" Moradin asked.
"Just… old memories, my friend," Helm whispered. "Mistakes of the past, incorrect assumptions that have lead to more death than can be imagined. Blood upon my hands. The feeling that there is more that I could have done. More that I should have done."
"What?" The Dwarf cocked his head to the side.
Helm nearly chuckled and his mind drifted. He saw his past flash before him once again. He stood upon snow capped mountains, lush jungles, fertile plains. Always before him were cities of stone, wood, and metal, and always above him a different star burned and gave life giving light and warmth to the world. He stood before people as they looked up at him, awe and amazement in their eyes as he fashioned a bow with his hands. A spear, a hammer. Other times it was a spell. One to shape the earth or to heal the sick.
Words like Sanctuary, Gaia, and others echoed through his mind as his visions changed, and eternity flowed by him in an instant as he watched and guided the civilizations from the cradle of their infancy until they spanned whole continents and their might was unequaled.
But always, as he had watched, they had grown to a point, and then, right around the age where they should have begun to leap forward into an industrial revolution… it stopped. Magic would advance, certainly, but technology would stagnate. It only made sense, he had come to realize. Magic was quick, it was easy in many ways. Why figure out how to build a damn large enough to block a major river, why try to develop materials and metals strong enough to hold such a gargantuan structure up, when you could simply pay a wizard to alter its course?
As the eons had passed, he had finally understood that if the Human race was ever to attain what it had lost, to become what it had once been, and then to grow ever further, that one of his civilizations would have to be kept pure, clean of all but the barest hints of the arcane.
Once they had reached a certain point where their technology had made them self sufficient, they could be left to their own devices, until they were at last ready to meet their brethren from across the stars. And so he had weaned one such civilization, born on the planet where Diana had died.
And as they had matured and needed him less and less, so he had withdrawn.
The last time he had visited was nearly a half century ago, when they had begun to expand further and further out, towards inevitable contact with other races that remembered well the legacy of his people.
Helm turned angrily away from Moradin, and fought the urge to punch the wall of his sparring room. He had spent too much time away from those he had once helped save, had not seen how they had changed, how their leaders had twisted their original paths and made them a mockery of their former selves. It was a fool's error, something that only an idiot would have made.
And yet, as before he had slipped up, miscalculated, and as before an entire civilization of his people had nearly been wiped out. The eyes behind the armet narrowed and began to glow. There would be no third mistake.
"I'm sorry, Moradin," Helm said, turning back around to face the Dwarf. "I just feel overwhelmed at times, like the universe is trying to tear itself to pieces around me."
"Your job is not an easy one, Guardian," Moradin walked up to his comrade and clapped a hand upon his upper arm. "There are no gods, I think, that envy your position, to have to protect so much, for so little thanks in return." The Dwarf smiled in sympathy. "You do what no one else can, or will, in your efforts to keep Torril safe. For that, and so much more, you have my thanks, and know that I will always stand by your side."
Helm nodded. "Thank you, old friend."
"Wouldn't be much of a Dwarf if I wasn't a good friend, or a good pep talker," Moradin said with a chuckle, and thumped his elbow into Helm's gut.
The Human god laughed softly and shook his head. "True. I'll see you when the time comes."
"Indeed. I'm going to look forward to watching that spider bitch get her face smashed in…" he thumped his fist into his palm hard enough that the air around them rippled.
With that, the Dwarven deity disappeared. Helm sighed again, and looked up. Where were the others, he wondered? Where were Beowulf, Heracles, Cocles and the others? Where were Diana and his children? Did they watch him from some other plane of existence? Did they understand how hard he was trying to make things right again? To make whole the wounds he had slashed open with his selfishness? His thoughts drifted to his wife, of all the memories that they had shared in the millennia that they had spent together. He slumped down to his knees, his armor suddenly feeling as if it had the weight of a whole planet behind it.
Helm managed to catch himself, his arms shaking as rage and grief welled up inside of him. It boiled over and he could contain it no longer. He reached back and slammed his fist into the stone. It shattered as if hit by a bomb, pinging off of the metal of his armor and the shaped rock of the wall.
He would make it right. He swore. Humanity would rise again. The alliance of the Hall would be the first of many, and before it was over, there would be an Empire that would span the stars of the galaxies. No matter what obstacle lay in their path, the Abyss, the Hells, or all the gods of the Dark Pantheons of the universe. They would become what they once were.
He felt a touch on his shoulder, a touch he recognized instantly. He turned and looked back. A pale hand, partially covered in a black, open fingered glove, contrasted against his armor. He followed the hand backwards until it disappeared into a uniformed sleeve, splotched varying shades of gray and black. Behind the man were dozens more, hundreds more, that had all filtered into the room as silently as wraiths. They stood with their hands clasped behind their backs and their eyes straight forward. Slowly, Helm rose and turned to face them. An unseen smile formed on his face and he felt his resolve renewed as he stared out at the group.
"Ready for another practice round, I see."
"As always, Sir," the soldier said. "Semper Vigilantus et Semper Accingere."
Lolth paced back and forth within the darkness of her fortress. She was in her Elven form, but her unearthly beauty was marred by the twisted snarl that seemed forever set in her face these days. Within the Goddess' mind plots and schemes boiled and frothed, twisting and turning back and forth as she fathomed how she might proceed next with her campaign. It had started off so well, and the Dwarves of clan Battlehammer routed with hardly a drop of Drow blood being spilled. The defenders, meanwhile, had bathed the blades of her servants dark with their life essence. She had watched from her fortress and grown nearly drunk upon the carnage and the slaughter, and more still, the slow, torturous demises of the hairy little runts as they had been interrogated.
The many centuries of inter house warfare had made it to where her servants and priestesses were extremely good at the job that they did. She had laughed and cried out like a young child as she watched them flay flesh to the bone, or slowly saw off a finger, a hand, a leg; watched as they would create a thousand tiny cuts in a victim or take off the ears, nose, or put out the eyes.
The Dwarves had been hearty folk, putting up with the abuse for days. But at last, one by one, they had begun to spill the secrets of the Hall. Defenses, traps, resource locations and how quickly it would take for the clan to begin to respond.
With the deals with Luskan complete, and the underground alliances, she had her staging point to begin launching the conquest of the surface. Once the northern areas of Faerun had been secured, she would turn her eyes southward, making alliances with the other dark gods in so much as they would cooperate with her. One by one, the petty, divided nations of men, Dwarves, and surface Elves would fall before her people, and they would become the ruler of all.
Then the Troubles had begun. With one foolish move, Bane had ruined everything. Normally a being that reveled in chaos, the dark goddess had raged for days as she had been reduced to that of a powerful, but still vulnerable mortal. Forced to rely on her priestesses for aid, and feeling fear for the first time in her immortal life. The fear of a heartbeat, knowing that it could stop at any potential moment. The fear of aches and weariness of the body. The fear of hunger and thirst… and the fear that her plans would be dashed to ruins because one single deity got too big for himself far too soon. Ao's rage had been tremendous, and had spared only one.
Lolth felt a vile taste well up in her mouth. Helm. She knew that she had not been the only deity to cast a hateful glance towards the armored God of Guardians as she and the others had been dumped unceremoniously at his feet and Ao's voice raged above them all as He told them of the crime of Bane, and how they were all going to be punished for it.
Almost as bad had been Moradin. The Dwarf had stared at her with such smoldering fury in his eyes that Lolth had half expected him to be audacious enough to take advantage of the Troubles and assault Menzoberranzan with the purpose of killing her. While no harm had befallen her, and her servants and slaves seen to her every need and whim during the time of weakness, once her tablets had been retrieved and she had approached the Staircase with the intent of getting her divinity back, she learned of Bhaal, of Bane, of Mrykell and all the other gods that had fallen to the hands of mortals. More unnerving still had been Helm's fiery gaze and the corpse of Myria at his feet as he stood to judge her.
Both he and Moradin would have to be punished, she thought, as she abruptly turned in her pacing, breaking her stride. But how best to do that, she wondered, bringing a hand up to her chin. The Dwarf would be easy enough to strike a blow at. Retaking the Hall would suffice, and then… and then Bruenor, yes, yes, that would work well. Him and that Human daughter of his. She would have both of their hearts torn from their chests to adorn the walls of her throne. That would do nicely.
Helm was somewhat trickier, but wrecking a few of his temples would infuriate him to no end, she suspected. Of course, there was one other way to strike a blow straight at the god's heart, and she knew just what to do to pull that off.
Even as she thought about it, the smell of sulfur and rot reached her nose. She turned and saw a portal opening. Through it stepped a creature, fifteen feet tall, sporting bat like wings and a bestial canine-esque face, the creature radiated power. Powerful though Erttu was, Lolth knew that he was no match for her, so his massive height and his entrance did nothing to intimidate her as it might a lesser being. The dark goddess' face broke out into a wicked smile as she looked at the object that the mighty Balor held between his hands. It was a glowing sphere, set into a pedestal.
"Excellent," she whispered. "It works then?"
"Perfectly," Erttu rumbled. He spread his wings out and bowed low before her, placing it upon the floor. As he did, it began to shine brightly. When the flash cleared, Lolth could see perfectly into the depths of the sphere. Before her, bound by seal and sigil, was Demogorgon. The Demon Prince's four eyes settled upon her, power equaling her own washing over her. Both of his mouth's opened, and the heads spoke in eerie coordination with one another.
"We have thought of your offer, Lolth, thought long and well, and we will accept. Deliver our freedom to us, and ally ourselves in your cause we shall."
"Words cannot express my thanks to you, Prince of the Abyss," she purred, smiling and bowing slightly towards the mighty creature. "But my deeds may yet prove my gratitude. Your forces shall have half of all the arcane artifacts that are gathered, and gain power, slaves, and territory to use in the Blood War. The Devils will not be able to fight you near so well with such a disadvantage to them.
The Demon Prince licked his twin lips. The thoughts of such carnage and chaos, such bloodshed and suffering, would be like a sweet wine to the trapped soul within Watcher's Keep.
"When shall we be freed?" Demogorgon asked.
"As soon as the key to your locks and chains is found and the proper rituals conducted. Worry not, powerful one," Lolth said, walking up closer to the sphere, "we know where the key is already. Retrieving it will be a simple matter.
The Demon Prince roared in triumph and glee. Already he had been trapped for too long. Soon, soon he would unleash all his wrath and fury upon the arrogant god that had dared to imprison him here. He would launch all of his forces at Helm's celestial fortress, and now power would withstand him, no other God dare to come to the aid of the 'Vigilant One.' He would devour the wretched god's soul as Helm begged and pleaded for mercy, consume Helm's power and then mount an assault upon the Hells.
His loud, grating laughter joined Lolth's as the thoughts of victory rushed through his mind like the sweetest of dreams.
Within the depths of Mithril Hall, the crowds had long since dispersed and gone their separate ways. As he walked along the smooth floor, Drizzt Do'Urden let his hand reach out and brush against the hewn stone of the wall. How carefully had the Dwarves of times past carved out these tunnels? How did it feel to know that they had tamed it, worked it into a thing of beauty and pragmatism?
He looked over to his side. Dove walked a half pace behind him, with Guenhwyvar pacing alongside her, occasionally brushing up against the girl's leg. There was much going through her mind as well, he realized, and he wondered what it could be. Dove chewed upon her lip, and her eyes were upon the floor, but beyond that, Drizzt could not read her. She had always been good at hiding her thoughts and feelings when she had wanted to. He had learned that well in the two decades he had known her. She had been the one that had led the ranger party that had tried to track him down when they still believed him a threat to the surface world. And, as he had come to learn, the one that had realized he was a friend rather than a foe.
She looked up for a brief moment, and smiled at him, before dropping her gaze back down and retreating further into her cloak. A breeze of fresh air hit Drizzt's face as he drew nearer and nearer to the surface of the Hall.
There was still a flurry of activity going on around the entrance-way. Commander Keyes had insisted upon having a secondary defensive line inside the main doors in case the exterior lines fell. It was a tactic that he heartily agreed with, but he was still somewhat unnerved by her idea of hardening. A pair of heavy machine guns and a single, thirty millimeter cannon lay surrounded by armored barricades and bags filled with sand. Next to them were a few racks of UNSC weaponry and ammunition for them. The Ranger walked over towards the nearest one, filled with assault rifles, and felt a pang of bitterness rise up inside of him.
He had come to understand the necessity of these weapons. Without the firepower of Keyes and her allies, there would be no way to hold back the massive tide that his people would bring to bear. But at the same time, the sheer bloodshed they were capable of made him wary of them. What would happen after this battle? What would become of the weapons? Suppose, even if defeated, that some of his people managed to capture a handful of them, and learn how to make them?
The Dark Elf shuddered at the thought. His people would become unstoppable.
"Are you okay?"
He turned to see Dove standing there, a look of concern upon her face. Drizzt simply nodded and smiled towards her, before turning and heading out towards the open air. The cool night breeze, a whispered promise that the all too brief summer would be leaving soon, made him want to stretch out his arms and bask in it, as he had basked in the sun in those first few days on the surface to try and adjust to the light and heat.
As he looked out to the hills and valleys, he wondered how long it would be before they were bathed with the blood of his people. His hands drifted down to his twin scimitars, and he felt the Hunter try and rise within himself. Drizzt quickly squashed the urge. He would use his weapons to defend, not slaughter for the sake of it.
He kept repeating that thought over and over again in his head, the message and mantra that he had so desperately clung to in his efforts to remain distant from the curse that had claimed his people.
He felt Dove's hand fall on his arm, and he looked over to her. She smiled up at him yet again, and for a moment, he forgot his troubles.
"So," she asked, looking out over the pits, trenches, barricades, and other defenses, "when this is all over, you still up for that tour of the city that I offered you."
The Dark Elf chuckled softly. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Wulfgar was out as well, surveying the anvil upon which the Drow surface forces would have to be beaten. The enormous Barbarian was not alone as he stared at the battlefield. Revajik was by his side, and Lord Nasher as well.
"So few, to hold back so many," the Lord of Neverwinter said with a sigh. "May the Gods smile on high and grant us strength in this hour."
"I suspect they will," Wulfgar said. "They have smiled upon us much in the past months. Our mysterious friends from the stars have made many things possible." He rubbed his hand over the hilt of Aegis-Fang. "With them, if nothing else, we will make the Drow pay for every inch of ground they wish to claim."
"No doubt," Nasher said, looking over to the young warrior, "but your people have more to lose than any other. Your women and your children will be depending upon the few warriors and hunters that you have left." He sighed. "You should not have so many of your own people here."
Revajik chuckled, and the white haired Plainsman walked over to Nasher. Lord and Chieftain looked upon each other as equals. "We are brothers in the same cause, Lord Nasher," he said. "Our women are hardy, our children made strong by the wilds of Icewind Dale. Regardless of what happens to us, they will survive. And what would our children think, I ask you?" a deep laugh that came from the Chieftain's belly echoed through the night. "When the bards and minstrels sing of the defense of Mithril Hall, we would have ourselves be a verse, not merely a passing line!"
Wulfgar smiled and nodded his head in agreement with his friend. Too much pride could destroy a man. Drizzt had hammered that into his brain in a very literal fashion during the first few days of his training. It led to hubris, arrogance, the refusal to see any path but one's own. But there was a time where a line had to be drawn in the ground. A time where one would retreat no further. For the Tribe of the Elk, this was where that line was.
His people would sooner die than be slaves to such cruel taskmasters at any rate, and while he tried to keep his confidence up, there was a small part of Wulfgar that knew that if they failed here, and the Drow swept over the land, that the dead would be the lucky ones. He could not even begin to imagine the horrors that would await the ones sent to the Underdark to be worked to death, or worse, become some sort of object for torture or experimentation for a Dark Elf wizard.
The Plainsman's blue eyes became as icy as the Tundra that he hailed from. Though death's chill fingers might take his soul in the coming days, he resolved to take as many Goblinoids, Orcs, and Drow with him as he could. A bit of pride swelled within his chest as he thought that if he were to die, he would make himself a legend in the eyes of the enemy. They would whisper horror stories to their children of the crazed giant that had stormed amongst them, crushing any who dared draw near. Yes. Yes, what better way to die, than to become a living symbol of fear for those who sought to enslave your people?
Within the depths of Mithril Hall, Cortana was at work. There was nothing new about that. Being a computer, she had no need for sleep, for food, or for drink. Her mind performed countless actions as she multitasked, reading through and studying all the tomes of magic that she had scanned. Joy was leaping in her mind as she realized all the things she could do with this, all the applications that happened when one mixed technology with this new arcane science. Such as one spell that she was trying now. She had attempted it before, but never on something this large, never with this purpose.
The construct applied her will, focusing her mental abilities as she drew the words from the spells to mind. She monitored the EM frequencies, and there was a spike that lasted for the appropriate period of time. She activated a pair of robotic arms, and began moving them around the room that she was practicing in. The first one grabbed the target of the spell, a UNSC standard issue rucksack, and opened it up. The second one grabbed a thirty millimeter cannon and brought it over to the table that she'd been working on. Ever so carefully, she placed the back end of the cannon into the open mouth of the rucksack, and lowered it.
One foot of the cannon disappeared, then two feet, three, and on until it was completely enveloped. As she had hoped, there was not a single sign of bulging, stretching, or straining on the material of the sack.
"Yes!" she cheered to herself. But she quickly remembered that the experiment was not over yet.
She let go of the cannon, and it just seemed to disappear without a trace. Next, she grabbed a sensor probe, and inserted it. As the signals began to feed back to her, Cotana knew that she had succeeded in most of her objectives. The cannon was in sight, resting comfortably in the dimensional sub-pocket that she had created inside of the bag. Inside was an area the size of one of the armories on the Dawn, waiting to accept more contents.
A third arm was lowered in, and the A.I. thought about the cannon, willing it to come towards her. It almost flew up into the grip of the manipulator. Another success. Just two more things to test. Well, one more actually. The readings that she was getting on the bag indicated no increase in weight or mass since she had inserted the thirty.
A fourth arm grabbed a Helljumper toothpick, and quickly lashed out with it. A number of strikes, slashes, and stabs were applied to the rucksack, but damage was minimal.
If she'd had hands at the moment, Cortana would have rubbed them together in glee. Her experiment had worked. The Bag of Holding was ready, and improved over the traditional one that she had read about in the tomes. More tear resistant than the standard Faerunian one thanks to its construction material, and able to hold many times as much, all with no increase to weight.
Equipped with something like this, a single trooper could carry and field an amount of firepower usually issued to an entire battalion of soldiers.
John and Sergeant Johnson were going to love her for this. But there was no time to celebrate, there was so much left that she had to do, so much still to be done. Her eyes fell to other weapons that were present, and her consciousness literally boiled with different ideas, applications, and the like.
Her eyes also drifted to a large pile of scrap metal in one corner, material salvaged from the interior of the Dawn and the Covenant scouting craft.
The manipulators exploded into action as Cortana began to gather up more rucksacks and she spun off a number of subroutines to try and think of new applications while she still had the time.
The Master Chief looked at the equipment before him, various pieces to a BR-55 taken apart and spread on a soft cloth. He examined every part, oiled the parts that needed them, configured the sights and scope, adjusted the mounting rails, and checked to make certain that all electronic systems were still operating perfectly. Once he was finished, he quickly reassembled the rifle and slapped a mag of shredder rounds into the weapon. He chambered a round, flicked the safety on, and then attached a GDS to it.
Similar maintenance to his ASG-60 followed, before a scope, range finder backup, tactical grip and a few other pieces of kit. Once he was finished with both weapons, he placed them onto the back plate of his armor, and strapped a pistol to his hip. It was soon to be his turn at patrolling, and he wanted to be prepared, just in case the Drow found some way to magick themselves past the array of sensors that protected the Hall. He wasn't certain how likely it was, but the idea of small groups acting as suicide squads was not out of the realm of possibility.
"Heading out," he announced to Cortana over the comlink. "Will report in at five minute intervals."
"Roger that, I'll be monitoring your progress in the meanwhile." The construct's voice was full of something that the Chief couldn't quite place, somewhere between elation, agitation, and analytical critiquing. She had to be working on something. He briefly wondered what.
The Spartan drew his ASG, and he headed out of the armory and down towards the bowels of the Hall. If nothing else, this would help him to become still better equated with the layout of the Dwarven fortress. When the attack came, he was to be busy helping out the defenders in the underground areas. He wouldn't have time to keep looking around on a map trying to locate the fastest way to reach his opponents. Besides, he could also personally identify points of cover, places of ambush, and things of that nature.
As he moved through the compound, calling in at the appropriate times, the tunnels and well-carved corridors gradually began to give way to roughly hewn rock that bore the scars of mining. There were a handful of Dwarves still out here, trying to harvest some last minute supplies of mithril for forging into armor or weapons, or, if they were defeated in driven out, to ensure that there was that much less available for the Drow and their allies to make use of.
It was hard to tell the difference between the Battlehammer and the Iron-Fists, and the two clans mixed freely with one another. They told jokes, laughed to one another, sang songs of their ancestry and past kings. They were like different sides of a family together for one giant reunion, the Spartan thought to himself. Some took notice of him as he passed, saluting in Dwarven fashion, nodding their heads, or simply cheering.
They saw him as a hero, John mused to himself. He frowned softly behind his helmet as he continued his patrol. It wasn't the first time that he or his brothers and sisters had been given that title. The dress uniform of each of the Spartans reflected this, as did their Combat Service Vitae. He never much cared for the metals, pins, ribbons, and other accolades of honor that were bequeathed to him and his unit.
He was no hero. He was soldier, a trained killer who simply happened to be exceedingly good at his job.
"Shore that buttress up, and make certain that the runes are properly placed!" he heard a voice bark. It was a voice that he recognized. As he rounded the corner in the tunnel, he came upon the sight of Bruenor.
The Dwarf wore his golden armor, and was holding a map in one hand. A number of Dwarven engineers were around him, applying carefully crafted runes to the support buttress of a large junction in the mine. In the event the defenses were overrun in this sector, a command word would be shouted, and the runes would detonate, bringing the tunnel down and blocking access further up the mines.
Looking up, Bruenor saw the Master Chief approaching. John shifted his assault weapon, and brought his hand up in salute as he approached the king. The Dwarf returned it, and then smiled. At least, the Spartan thought he did. The beard made it somewhat difficult to read Bruenor's face at times.
The Master Chief briefly wondered how much time was left before the Drow arrived. Every moment they delayed was another advantage for him and his allies, true, but there was a primal part of his mind that longed for the familiarity of a battlefield.
"Out on patrol?" Bruenor asked.
"Yes, your majesty," the cyborg said. "I'm heading down to the lower levels to scope things out. After that, there are some more chapters in the books Helm gave us that I need to convert to memory."
"Olthick, think you can handle this?" Bruenor asked, looking over to his bodyguard.
"Aye, Milord," the other Dwarf nodded.
Bruenor handed things off, and then fell in beside the Spartan. The cyborg looked over and down at the small humanoid next to him. It was almost comical, in some strange way to see the two of them walking alongside, one so small and the other so large.
"I want to thank you again, for everything you've done for us," the Dwarf said suddenly, looking up at the Spartan.
John mulled over a response for a few moments. He was used to receiving gratitude from grateful civilians or fellow military personnel that he saved, even if that gratitude was all too often tempered with grief over the loss of their homes, friends, and family. There was something different about this though. Something that the Spartan couldn't quite put his finger on.
"Thanks aren't necessary. I know what it's like to be forced back by an enemy again and again," he let the sentence drop there. John suddenly felt as if he were moving further and further away from the tunnels of the Hall, back to the UNSC and the space it controlled. Again and again they were driven back by the invincible Covenant juggernaut. Every victory made meaningless by a glassing operation. Where did one draw the lines? Where did one say "This far, no further." Where did you cast aside retreat as a viable option and simply hold until either you died or your enemy gave up?
Something occurred to him then, and the cyborg realized that he didn't know where Bruenor was going to be during the battle.
"Where are you going to be stationed, my lord?" he asked, looking over and down at the Dwarf.
Bruenor stared up at him, and raised a bushy eyebrow. "What do you mean, asking a question like that?" he snorted. "I plan to be down there with the rest of me kin, slugging it out and fighting for my home."
The Spartan frowned behind his helmet. He had been afraid of that. He knew that in the medieval way of combat, that the lords and kings had usually been among the most skilled warriors on the battlefield, due to their near constant training, and that made decapitating the command structure of an army somewhat difficult. But it still worried him. One mage in the right place, one arrow at the wrong time, and Bruenor would be out of the fight permanently.
The Spartan wished he could be there to protect him. Unfortunately, the battle plan called for him to operate with Pwent, Johnson, and a few of the Harpell magi to function as an elite hunter-killer unit searching for commanders and captains within the Drow army.
Still, the Master Chief remembered that Orna had requested to be stationed with the King, something that the Dwarf had allowed. The Sangheili would protect Bruenor with his life, if nothing else. The Spartan realized that Bruenor was still looking at him, and he cocked his head slightly.
"My apologies, my Lord, I was simply concerned," he said.
Bruenor smiled, reached up, and thumped the cyborg in his arm. "Don't worry about it, Son, ye meant no harm by it." Then the Dwarf sighed. "I know why you're concerned about it. But this is one fight where the Dwarves of my clan need to know that I'm in there with them. Slugging it out in the thick of it. Me Father's father gave his life to defend these halls, and I would dishonor his memory by not being willing to put myself in the same position."
"The Drow will try to kill you specifically, they will single you out. I'm worried about what it might do to your comrades."
Bruenor began to laugh so hard that he nearly doubled over from it. He placed a gauntleted hand out against the walls of the cave, while the Spartan raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. Wheezing softly, Bruenor looked back up at him, his eyes glistening slightly from how hard he'd been laughing.
"Master Chief," he said, laughing slightly again, "pray that we are so fortunate. Nothing gets the blood boiling in a Dwarf like standing amongst the bodies of his slain kin and knowing that the murderer is within reach of an axe. And a Dwarven King? The Drow'll think the Gods themselves had descended to strike them down if they should slay me." Then his face grew serious, and the laughter died in his eyes. "I fear capture more than death. The Drow have means of extracting formation that make the Luskans look pleasant. Poisons, magic, and more demonic curses that I can shake me axe at. Once they get their hands on you… it's a matter of when you break, not if. That, Spartan, is the one prospect of this battle that terrifies me. Getting dragged back down to their foul cities to spend the rest of my life in those dungeons of theirs." The Master Chief watched as a shudder actually wracked the body of the Dwarf. "They'd force me to give up everything I know about the Hall. Every secret, every artifact. Then they'd use it against everyone, every last man woman an' child on the surface."
The Master Chief looked down and cocked his head to one side. He understood Bruenor's fear quite well. It was one of his own, one that his Spartans had faced. He and Captain Keyes had spoken briefly on the first Halo ring they'd found, right after he'd freed him from the Truth and Reconciliation. Covenant interrogation tactics were ruthlessly efficient, and the Spartan had long feared the consequences of him or one of his brothers and sisters falling into enemy hands. He had always had a solution for that, he wasn't certain how well Bruenor would react to it, but it might ease the King's spirits a bit.
He reached up and plucked a frag grenade off of his bandoleer, before handing it over to the Dwarf.
"Here," he said, as the Dwarf took it and stared at it curiously. "Hopefully you won't need it, but keep it, just in case."
"What for?"
"Often times, in the wars of my people, when capture and torture seemed imminent, soldiers would arm their grenades and charge the enemy lines. It's called a kamikaze rush, you effectively silence yourself, and with luck, you take a few of the enemy with you."
Bruenor looked down at the grenade, and seemed to be wrestling with himself over whether to accept it or not. At last, the Dwarven King nodded and stuffed the grenade into one of his pouches.
"Thank you," he said. "I don't plan on dying if I can help it, but it's nice to know that even if they get their hands on me, they'll be in for a nasty farewell present."
The Master Chief merely nodded, and the two continued along the patrol route. Bruenor spoke of the glories of his people in their past, while occasionally pausing to ask the inquisitive question about what life in the UNSC was like, and what some of the wonders of the Milky Way were.
All throughout the Hall, stories were swapped, jokes told, promises made. For all there new that battle would soon be joined.
Well, there it is. I hope these two chapters were okay, or at least not train wrecks. I once again apologize to anyone who was… unsettled, by certain incidents in the last chapter. Like I said, feedback is always welcomed, especially constructive criticism. Despite my (hopefully) budding legal career, I still have dreams of one day becoming a published author, and there's only one way to get better.
I wish you all a good day, wherever you are. Please stay safe.
As a final note before I sign off for this update, I would like to direct anyone who hasn't stumbled across or otherwise checked out a very good story here on Fanfiction . net. That would be Peptuck's "Command and Conquer: Tiberium Wars" story. While still a work in progress, the story is one of, if not the, best that I have ever read (putting the original Tib Wars novelization to absolute shame), and the guy more than makes me look like a spastic amateur without the slightest idea of what I'm doing. So please give it a look, you won't regret it.