Clan Grimm has turned north," Toogwik Tuk told his two companions on a clear, calm morning in the middle of Ches, the third month of the year. "King Obould has granted Chieftain Grimsmal a favorable region, a sheltered and wide plateau."

"To prepare?" asked Ung-thol.

"To build," Toogwik Tuk corrected. "To raise the banner of Clan Grimm beside the flag of Many-Arrows above their new village."

"Village?" Dnark asked, spitting the word with surprise.

"King Obould will claim that this is a needed pause to strengthen the lines of supply," Toogwik Tuk said.

"A reasonable claim," said Dnark.

"But one we know is only half true," Toogwik Tuk said.

"What of General Dukka?" asked an obviously agitated Ung-thol. "Has he secured Keeper's Dale?"

"Yes," the other shaman answered.

"And so he marches to the Surbrin?"

"No," said Toogwik Tuk. "General Dukka and his thousands have not moved, though there are rumors that he will assemble several blocks...eventually."

Dnark and Ung-thol exchanged concerned glances.

"King Obould would not allow that collection of warriors to filter back to their tribes," Dnark said. "He would not dare."

"But will he send them around to strike at the dwarves at the Surbrin?" asked Ung-thol. "The dwarf battlements grow higher with each passing day."

"We expected Obould would not proceed," Toogwik Tuk reminded. "Is that not why we coaxed Grguch to the surface?"

Looking at his co-conspirators, Toogwik Tuk recognized that typical doubt right before the moment of truth. The three had long shared their concerns that Obould was veering from the path of conquest, and that was something they, as followers of Gruumsh One-eye, could not suffer. Their shared expectations, however, were that the war was not quite over, and that Obould would strike hard one more time at least, to gain a more advantageous position before his halt.

Leaving the dwarves open to the Surbrin had seemed a more distinct possibility over the past few months, and particularly the past few tendays. The weather was soon to turn, and the appropriate forces were not being moved into a strike position.

Still, in the face of it, the other two couldn't help but be surprised - and concerned, as the weight of their conspiracy settled more heavily on their shoulders.

"Turn them against the elf raiders in the east," Toogwik Tuk said suddenly, jolting his two companions, both of whom looked at him curiously, almost plaintively.

"We had hoped to use Grguch to force the charge to the Surbrin," Toogwik Tuk explained. "But with Obould's waiting to position the warriors, that is not presently an option. But we must offer Grguch some blood."

"Or he will take ours," Ung-thol muttered.

"There have been reports of elf skirmishers along the Surbrin, north of the dwarves," Dnark said, aiming his comment mostly at Ung-thol.

"Grguch and Clan Karuck will build a reputation that will serve them - and us - well when at last it comes to dealing with King Bruenor's troublesome beasts," Toogwik Tuk nudged. "Let us go and bring the Kingdom of Many-Arrows its newest hero."

Like a leaf fluttering silently on a midnight breeze, the dark elf slipped quietly to the side of the darkened stone and mud structure. The orc guards hadn't noted his quiet passing, nor was he leaving any obvious tracks on the frozen snow.

No corporeal creature could move more stealthily than a trained drow, and Tos'un Armgo was proficient even by the lofty standards of his race.

He paused at the wall and glanced around at the cluster of structures - the village of Tungrush, he knew through the conversations he had overheard from various "villagers." He noted the foundation, even a growing base in several places, of a wall that would eventually ring the compound.

Too late, the drow thought with an evil grin.

He inched toward an opening in the house's back wall, though whether it was an actual window or just a gap that had not yet been properly fitted, he could not tell. Nor did it matter, for the missing stone provided ample egress for the lithe creature. Tos'un slithered in like a snake, walking his hands down the inside of the wall until they braced him against the floor. His roll, like all of his other movements, was executed without a whisper of sound.

The room was nearly pitch black, the meager starlight barely filtering through the many breaks in the stone. A surface dweller would have had little chance of quietly navigating the cluttered place. But to Tos'un, who had lived almost all of his life in the lightless corridors of the Underdark, the place verily glowed with brightness. He stood in the main room, twice the size of the smaller chamber sectioned by an interior wall that extended from the front wall to within three feet of the back. From beyond that partition, he heard snoring.

His two swords, one drow made and the other, the sentient and fabulous Khazid'hea, came out in his hands as he silently approached. At the wall, he peeked in to see a large orc sleeping comfortably, face down on a cot against the house's outer side wall. In the corner near the front of the house rested a large pile of rags.

He meant to quietly slide his sword into the orc's lungs, defeating its shout and finishing it quickly and silently. Khazid'hea, though, had other ideas, and as Tos'un neared and readied the strike, the sword overwhelmed him with a sudden and unexpected burst of sheer outrage.

Down came the blade, through the back of the orc's neck, severing its head and cutting through the wooden frame of the cot with ease, sparking off the floor and drawing a deep line in the hard ground. The cot dropped at the break, clunking down.

Behind Tos'un the rags rose fast, for under them was another orc, a female. Purely on reflex, the drow drove his other arm around, his fine Menzoberranyr sword coming in hard against the female's neck and pinning her up against the wall. That blade could have easily opened her throat, of course, but as he struck, Tos'un, for some reason that had not consciously registered, turned to the flat edge. He had the orc's voice choked off, and a line of blood appeared above the blade, but the creature was not finished.

For Khazid'hea would not suffer that inferior sword to score a kill.

Tos'un shushed the orc, who trembled but did not, could not, resist.

Khazid'hea plunged through her chest, right out her back and into, and through, the stones of the house's front wall.

Surprised by his own movement, Tos'un fast retracted the blade.

The orc stared at him with disbelief. She slipped down to the floor and died with that same expression.

Are you always so hungry? the drow's thoughts asked the sentient sword.

He sensed that Khazid'hea was laughing in response.

It didn't matter anyway, of course. It was just an orc, and even if it had been a superior being, Tos'un Armgo never shied from killing. With the witnesses dispatched, the alarms silenced, the drow went back into the main chamber and found the couple's store of food. He ate and drank, and replenished his pack and his waterskin. He took his time, perfectly at ease, and searched the house for anything that might be of service to him. He even went back into the bedroom, and on a whim, placed the male orc's severed head between its legs, its face pressed into its arse.

He considered his work with a resigned shrug. Like his food, the lonely drow had to take his amusement where he could find it.

He went out soon after, through the same window that had allowed him access. The night was dark - still the time of the drow. He found the orc guards no more alert than when he had come in, and he thought to kill them for their lack of discipline.

A movement in some distant trees caught his attention, however, and the drow was fast to the shadows. It took him some time to realize...

There were elves about.

Tos'un wasn't really surprised. Many Moonwood elves had been reconnoitering the various orc settlements and caravan routes. He had been captured by just such a band not so many tendays before, and had thought to join with them after deceiving them into believing that he was not their enemy.

Or was it really a deception? Tos'un hadn't yet decided. Surely a life among the elves would be better than what he had. He'd thought that then, and thought it again with wretched orc food still heavy in his belly.

But it was not an option, he reminded himself. Drizzt Do'Urden was with the elves, and Drizzt knew that he, Tos'un, had been part and party to King Obould's advance. Furthermore, Drizzt would take Khazid'hea from him, no doubt, and without the sword, Tos'un would be vulnerable to the spells of priests, detecting any lies he might need to weave.

Tos'un shook the futile debate from his thoughts before Khazid'hea could weigh in, and tried to get a better idea of how many elves might be watching Tungrush. He tried to pick out more movement, but found nothing substantial. The drow was wiser than to take any sense of relief from that, however, for he knew well that the elves could move with stealth akin to his own. They had, after all, surrounded him once without him ever knowing they were near.

He went out carefully, even calling upon his natural drow abilities and summoning a globe of darkness around him at one point, as he broke past the tree line. He continued his scan afterward, and even did a wide circuit of the village.

The perimeter was thick with elves, so Tos'un melted away into the winter night.

Albondiel's sword cut the air, and cut the throat of the orc. Gasping and clawing, the creature spun and stumbled. An arrow drove into its side, dropping it to the red-stained snow.

Another orc emerged from a house and shouted for the guards.

But the guards were all dead. All of them lay out on the perimeter, riddled with elven arrows. No alarms had sounded. The orcs of the village had not a whisper of warning.

The shouting, frantic orc tried to run, but an arrow drove her to her knees and an elf warrior was fast to her side, his sword silencing her forever.

After the initial assault, no orcs had come out in any semblance of defense. Almost all the remaining orcs were running, nothing more, to the edge of the village and beyond, willy-nilly into the snow. Most soon lay dead well within the village's perimeter, for the elves were ready, and fast and deadly with their bows.

"Enough," Albondiel called to his warriors and to the archers who moved to launch a barrage of death on the remaining fleeing orcs. "Let them run. Their terror works in our favor. Let them spread the word of doom, that more will flee beside them."

"You have little taste for this," noted another elf, a young warrior standing at Albondiel's side.

"I shy not at all from killing orcs," Albondiel answered, turning a stern gaze the upstart's way. "But this is less battle than slaughter."

"Because we were cunning in our approach."

Albondiel smirked and shrugged as if it did not matter. For indeed it did not, the wizened elf understood. The orcs had come, had swept down like a black plague, stomping underfoot all before them. They were to be repelled by any means. It was that simple.

Or was it, the elf wondered as he looked down at his latest kill, an unarmed creature, still gurgling as the last air escaped its lungs. It wore only its nightclothes.

Defenseless and dead.

Albondiel had spoken the truth in his response. He did not shy from battle, and had killed dozens of orcs in combat. Raiding villages, however, left a sour taste in his mouth.

A series of cries from across the way told him that some of the orcs had not fled or come out from their homes. He watched as one emerged from an open door, staggering, bleeding. It fell down dead.

A small one, a child.

With brutal efficiency, the elf raiding party collected the bodies in a large pile. Then they began emptying the houses of anything that would burn, tossing furniture, bedding, blankets, clothes, and all the rest on that same pile.

"Lord Albondiel," one called to him, motioning him to a small house on the village's northern perimeter.

As he approached the caller, Albondiel noted a stain of blood running down the stones at the front of the house, to the left side of the door. Following his summoner's movements, Albondiel saw the hole, a clean gash, through the stones - all the way through to the interior.

"Two were in there, dead before we arrived," the elf explained. "One was beheaded, and the other stabbed against this wall."

"Inside the wall," Albondiel remarked.

"Yes, and by a blade that came right through."

"Tos'un," Albondiel whispered, for he had been in Sinnafain's hunting party when she had captured the drow. The drow who carried Khazid'hea, the sword of Catti-brie. A sword that could cut through solid stone.

"When were they killed?" Albondiel asked.

"Before the dawn. No longer."

Albondiel shifted his gaze outward, beyond the limits of the village. "So he is still out there. Perhaps even watching us now."

"I can send scouts..."

"No," Albondiel answered. "There is no need, and I would have none of our people confront the rogue. Be on with our business here, and let us be gone."

Soon after, the pile of rags, wood, and bodies was set ablaze, and from that fire, the elves gathered brands with which to light the thatched roofs. Using fallen trees from the nearby woods, the elves battered down the sides of the burning structures, and any stones that could be pried from the smoking piles were quickly carried to the western side of the village, which was bordered by a long, steep slope, and were thrown down.

What the orcs had created on that windswept hilltop, the elves fast destroyed. To the ground. As if the ugly creatures had never been there.

When they left later that same morning, dark smoke still lifting into the air behind them, Albondiel swept his gaze long and wide across the rugged landscape, wondering if Tos'un might be looking back at him.

He was.

Tos'un Armgo let his gaze linger on the thickest line of black smoke drifting skyward and dissipating into the smothering gray of the continuing overcast. Though he didn't know the specific players in that scene - whether or not Albondiel or Sinnafain, or any of the others he had met, even traveled with, might be up there - they were Moonwood elves. Of that he had no doubt.

They were growing bolder, and more aggressive, and Tos'un knew why. The clouds would soon break, and the wind would shift southward, ferrying the milder breezes of spring. The elves sought to create chaos among the orc ranks. They wanted to inspire terror, confusion, and cowardice, to erode King Obould's foundations before the turn of the season allowed for the orc army to march against the dwarves in the south.

Or even across the river to the east, to the Moonwood, their precious home.

A pang of loneliness stabbed at Tos'un's thoughts and heart as he looked back at the burned village. He would have liked to join in that battle. More than that, the drow admitted, he would have liked departing with the victorious elves.