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.So much had changed.Bruenor looked back to the podium and the treaty, and the extent of the change weakened his knees beneath him.Along the southern rim of the center platform stood the other dignitaries: Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon, Galen Firth of Nesmé, King Emerus Warcrown of Citadel Felbarr—looking none too pleased, but accepting King Bruenor’s decision—and Hralien of the Moonwood.More would join in, it was said, including the great human city of Sundabar and the largest of the dwarven cities in the region, Citadel Adbar.If it held.That thought made Bruenor look across the podium to the other principal, and he could not believe that he had allowed King Obould Many-Arrows to enter Mithral Hall.Yet there stood the orc, in all his terrible splendor, with his black armor, ridged and spiked, and his mighty greatsword strapped diagonally across his back.Together they walked to opposite sides of the podium.Together they lifted their respective quills.Obould leaned forward, but even though he was a foot and a half taller, his posture did not diminish the splendor and strength of King Bruenor Battlehammer.“If ye’re e’er to deceive…” Bruenor started to whisper, but he shook his head and let the thought drift away.“It is no less bitter for me,” Obould assured him.And still they signed.For the good of their respective peoples, they put their names to the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, recognizing the Kingdom of Many-Arrows and forever changing the face of the Silver Marches.Calls went out from the gorge, and horns blew along the tunnels of Mithral Hall.And there came a greater blast, a rumble and resonance that vibrated through the stones of the hall and beyond, as the great horn once known as Kokto Gung Karuck, a gift from Obould to Bruenor, sounded from its new perch on the high lookout post above Mithral Hall’s eastern door.The world had changed, Bruenor knew.EPILOGUEHow different might the world now be if King Bruenor had not chosen such a course with the first Obould Many-Arrows,” Hralien asked Drizzt.“Better, or worse?”“Who can know?” the drow replied.“But at that time, a war between Obould’s thousands and the gathered armies of the Silver Marches would have changed the region profoundly.How many of Bruenor’s people would have died? How many of your own, who now flourish in the Glimmerwood in relative peace? And in the end, my friend, we do not know who would have prevailed.”“And yet here we stand, a century beyond that ceremony, and can either of us say with absolute truth that Bruenor chose correctly?”He was right, Drizzt knew, to his ultimate frustration.He reminded himself of the roads he had walked over the last decades, of the ruins he had seen, of the devastation of the Spellplague.But in the North, instead of that, because of a brave dwarf named Bruenor Battlehammer, who threw off his baser instincts, his hatred and his hunger for revenge, in light of what he believed to be the greater good, the region had known a century and more of relative peace.More peace than ever it had known before.And that while the world around had fallen to shadow and despair.Hralien started away, but Drizzt called after him.“We both supported Bruenor on that day when he signed the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge,” he reminded.Hralien nodded as he turned.“As we both fought alongside Bruenor on the day he chose to stand beside Obould against Grguch and the old ways of Gruumsh,” Drizzt added.“If I recall that day correctly, a younger Hralien was so taken by the moment that he chose to place his trust in a dark elf, though that same drow had marched to war against Hralien’s people only months before.”Hralien laughed and held up his hands in surrender.“And what resulted from that trust?” Drizzt asked.“How fares Tos’un Armgo, husband of Sinnafain, father of Teirflin and Doum’wielle?”“I will ask him when I return to the Moonwood,” the beaten Hralien replied, but he managed to get in the last arrow when he directed Drizzt’s gaze to the prisoners they had taken that day.Drizzt conceded the point with a polite nod.It wasn’t over.It wasn’t decided.The world rolled on around him, the sand shifted under his feet.He reached down to pet Guenhwyvar, needing to feel the comfort of his panther friend, the one constant in his surprising life, the one great hope along his ever-winding road.Regis glanced around nervously.The agreement was for Obould to come out with a small contingent, but it was clear to the halfling that the orc had unilaterally changed that deal.Scores of orc warriors and shamans had been set all over main encampment, hiding behind rocks or in crevices, cunningly concealed and prepared for easy and swift egress.As soon as Elastul’s emissaries had delivered the word that the Arcane Brotherhood meant to move on the Silver Marches, and that enlisting Obould would be their first endeavor, the orc king’s every move had been increasingly aggressive.Lady Alustriel and King Bruenor had reached out to Obould immediately, but so too had Obould begun to reach out to them.In the four years since the treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, there hadn’t been all that much contact between the various kingdoms, dwarf and orc, and indeed, most of that contact had come in the form of skirmishes along disputed boundaries.But they had joined in their first common mission since Bruenor and his friends, Regis among them, had traveled north to help Obould stave off a coup by a vicious tribe of half-ogre orcs.Or had they? The question nagged at Regis as he continued to glance around.Ostensibly, they had agreed to come together to meet the brotherhood’s emissaries with a show of united force, but a disturbing possibility nagged at the halfling.Suppose Obould instead planned to use his overwhelming number in support of the erinyes emissary and against Regis and his friends?“You would not have me risk the lives of King Bruenor and his princess Catti-brie, student of Alustriel, would you?” came Obould’s voice from behind, shattering the halfling’s train of thought.Regis sheepishly turned to regard the massive humanoid, dressed in his fabulous overlapping black armor with its abundant and imposing spikes, and with that tremendous greatsword strapped across his back.“I—I know not what you mean,” Regis stammered, feeling naked under the knowing gaze of this unusual, and unusually perceptive, orc.Obould laughed at him and turned away, leaving the halfling less than assured.Several of the forward sentries began calling then, announcing the arrival of the outsiders.Regis rushed forward and to the side to get a good look, and when he did spy the newcomers a few moments later, his heart leaped into his throat.A trio of beautiful, barely-dressed women led the way up the path, one stepping proudly in front flanked left and right by her entourage.Tall, statuesque, with beautiful skin, they seemed almost angelic to Regis, for from behind their strong but delicate shoulders, they each sprouted a pair of shining white feathered wings.Everything about them spoke of otherworldliness, from their natural—or supernatural—charms, like hair too lustrous and eyes a bit too shining, to their adornments such as the fine swords and delicate rope, all magically glowing in a rainbow of hues, carried on belts twined of shining gold and silver fibers that sparkled as if enchanted.It would have been easy to confuse these women with the goodly celestials, had it not been for their escort.For behind them came a mob of gruesome and beastly warriors, the barbazu
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