If you set up a target thirty strides away and assemble the hundred best archers in any given area to shoot at it, they’d all hit the mark. Add in a bet of gold and a few would fall away, to the hoots of derision from their fellows.
But now replace the target with an assassin, and have that assassin holding at dagger-point the person each successive archer most loves in the world. The archer now has one shot. Just one. If he hits the mark—the assassin—his loved one will be saved. If he misses the assassin, it is certain doom for his beloved.
A hero will hit that mark. Few mere archers would.
That is the extra quality involved, the ability to hold poise and calm and rational thought no matter how devastating the consequences of failure, the ability to go to that place of pure concentration in times most emotionally and physically tumultuous. Not just once and not by luck. The hero makes that shot.
The hero lives for that shot. The hero trains for that shot, every day, for endless hours, with purest concentration.
Many fine warriors live in the world, wielding blade or lightning bolt, who serve well in their respective armies, who weather the elements and the enemies with quiet and laudable stoicism. Many are strong in their craft, and serve with distinction.
But when all teeters precariously on the precipice of disaster, when victory or defeat rests upon matters beyond simple strength and courage and valor, when all balances on that sword-edged line between victory or defeat, the hero finds a way—a way that seems impossible to those who do not truly understand the give and take of battle, the ebb and flow of sword play, the logical follow-up to counter an enemy’s advantage.
For a warrior is one trained in the techniques of various weaponry, one who knows how to lift a shield or parry a thrust and properly counter, but a true warrior, a hero, extends beyond those skills. Every movement is instinctual, is engrained into every muscle to flow with perfect and easy coordination. Every block is based on clear thinking—so clear that it is as much anticipatory as reflexive. And every weakness in an opponent becomes apparent at first glance.
The true warrior fights from a place of calm, of controlled rage and quelled fear. Every situation comes to sharpened focus, every avenue of solution shines its path clearly. And the hero goes one step beyond that, finding a way, any way, to pave a path of victory when there is no apparent route.
The hero finds a way, and when that way is shown, however difficult the path, the hero makes the thrust or the block or the last frantic riposte, stealing his opponent’s victory. As when Regis used his ruby pendant to paralyze a battle-mage in Luskan. As when Wulfgar threw himself at the yochlol to save Catti-brie. As when Catti-brie made that desperate shot in the sewers of Calimport to drive off Entreri, who had gained the advantage over me. As when Bruenor used his cunning, his strength, and his unshakable will to defeat Shimmergloom in the darkness of Mithral Hall.
Certain doom is a term not known in the vocabulary of the hero, for it is precisely at those times when doom seems most certain—when Bruenor rode the flaming shadow dragon down to the depths of Garumn’s Gorge—that the warrior who would be hero elevates himself above the others. It is, instinctually, not about him or his life.
The hero makes the shot.
We are all to be tested now, I fear. In this time of confusion and danger, many will be pulled to the precipice of disaster, and most will fall over that dark ledge. But a few will step beyond that line, will find a way and will make that shot.
In those moments, however, it is important to recognize that reputation means nothing, and while past deeds might inspire confidence, they are no guarantee of present or future victory.
I hope that Taulmaril is steady in my hands when I stand upon that precipice, for I know that I walk into the shadows of doom, where black pits await, and I need only to think of broken Regis or look at my beloved Catti-brie to understand the stakes of this contest.
I hope that I am given that shot at this assassin, whomever or whatever it may be, who holds us all at dagger-point, for if so, I intend to hit the mark.
For that is the last point to make about the hero. In the aforementioned archery contest, the hero wants to be the one chosen to take that most critical shot. When the stakes are highest, the hero wants the outcome to be in his hands. It’s not about hubris, but about necessity, and the confidence that the would-be hero has trained and prepared for exactly that one shot.
— Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 17
NOTHING BUT THE WIND
It all stopped. Everything. The battle, the fear, and the chase. It was over, replaced by only the sound of the wind and the grand view from on high. A sensation of emptiness and solitude washed over the monk. Of freedom. Of impending death.
A twist, a shift, and pure control had Danica upright immediately, and she turned around to face the cliff from which she had just tumbled. She reached out and lunged forward, her eyes scanning before her and below her, all in an instant, yielding a sudden recognition and complete sorting of the larger jags and angles. She slapped her palm against the stone, then the other one, then back and forth repeatedly. With each contact her muscles twitched against the momentum of the fall.
A jut of stone far below and to the left had her thrusting her left foot out that way, and as she slapped the stone with both hands together, she gave the slightest push, again and again, ten times in rapid succession as she descended, subtly shifting to the left.
Her toe touched a jag and she threw her weight to that foot, bending her leg to absorb the impact. She couldn’t begin to stop the momentum of her descent with just that, but she managed to push back with some success, stealing some of her speed.
It was the way of the monk. Danica could run down the wall of a tall building and land without injury. She had done it on more than one occasion. But of course, a tall building was nowhere near the height of that cliff, and the grade was more difficult, sometimes sheer and straight, sometimes less than sheer, sometimes more than sheer. But she worked with all her concentration, her muscles answering her demands.
Another jag gave her the opportunity to break a bit more of her momentum, and a narrow ledge allowed her to plant both feet and work her leg muscles against the relentless pull of gravity.
After that, halfway to the ground, the woman looked more like a spider running frantically along a wall, her arms and legs pumping furiously.
A dark form fell past her, startling her and nearly stealing her concentration. One of the fleshy beasts, she recognized, but she didn’t begin to speculate on how it might have fallen.
She had no time for that, no time for anything but absolute concentration on the task before her.
Nothing but the wind filled her senses, that and the contours of the cliff.
She was almost to the ground, still falling too quickly to survive. Danica couldn’t hope to land and roll to absorb the tremendous impact. So she hooked her feet together against the stone and threw herself over backward, rolling over just in time to see the tall pines she had viewed from above.
Then she was crashing through the branches, needles flying, wood splintering. A broken branch hooked her and tore a fair slice of skin out of her side and ripped away half her shirt. A heavier branch not much farther below didn’t break, but bent, and Danica rolled off it head over heels, tumbling and crashing, rebounding off the heaviest lower branches and breaking through amidst a spray of green needles, and still with thirty feet to fall.
Half blinded by pain, barely conscious, the monk still managed to sort herself out and spin to get her feet beneath her.
She bent and rolled sidelong as she landed. Over and over she went, three times, five times, seven times. She stopped with a gasp, explosions of pain rolling up from her legs, from her torn side, from a shoulder she knew to be dislocated.
Danica managed to turn over a bit, to see a lump of splattered black flesh.
At least she didn’t look like that, she thought. But though she had avoided the muti
lation suffered by the crawlers, she feared that the result would be the same and that she would not survive the fall.
Cold darkness closed in.
But Danica fought it, telling herself that the dracolich would come l ooking for her, reminding herself that she was not safe, that even if she somehow managed to not die from the battering she had taken in the fall, the beast would have her.
She rolled to her belly and pushed up on her elbows, or tried to, but her shoulder would not allow it and the waves of agony that rippled out overwhelmed her. She propped herself up on one arm, and there vomited, gasping. Tears filled her almond-shaped eyes as her retching, and the spasms in her ribs, elicited a whole new level of agony.
She had to move, she told herself.
But she had no more to give.
The cold darkness closed in again, and even mighty Danica could not resist.
* * * * *
Looking out the door of the side room in the darkened gorge, Catti-brie could barely make out the forms of her companions in the other chamber’s flickering torchlight. They were all trapped at the apparent dead end, shadow hounds coming in swift pursuit, a dragon blocking the way before them. Drizzt was lost to them, and Wulfgar, beside Catti-brie, had taken the brunt of the dragon’s breath, a horrid cloud of blackness and despair that had left him numb and nearly helpless.
She peered out the door, desperate for an answer, praying that her father would find a way to save them all. She didn’t know what to make of it when Bruenor took off the gem-studded helmet and replaced it with his broken-horned old helm.
When he handed the crown to Regis and said, “Keep the helm safe. It’s the crown of the King of Mithral Hall,” his intent became all too clear.
The halfling protested, “Then it is yours,” and the same gripping fear that coursed through Catti-brie was evident in Regis’s voice.
“Nay, not by me right or me choice. Mithral Hall is no more, Rumble—Regis. Bruenor of Icewind Dale, I am, and have been for two hundred years, though me head’s too thick to know it!”
Catti-brie barely heard the next words as she gasped and understood all too clearly what Bruenor was about to do. Regis asked him something she couldn’t hear, but understood that it was the very same question whose awful answer screamed at her in her own thoughts.
Bruenor came into clear sight then, running out of the room and charging straight for the gorge. “Here’s one from yer tricks, boy!” heyelled, looking at the small side chamber concealing Catti-brie and Wulfgar. “But when me mind’s to jumping on the back of a worm, I ain’t about to miss!”
There it was, spoken openly, a declaration of the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of the rest of them, trapped deep in the bowels of the caverns once known as Mithral Hall by a great dragon of shadow.
“Bruenor!” Catti-brie heard herself cry, though she was hardly conscious of speaking, so numbed was she by the realization that she was about to lose the dwarf, her beloved adoptive father, the great Bruenor who had served as the foundation of her entire life, the strength of Catti-brie Battlehammer.
The world moved in slow motion for the young woman at that terrible moment, as Bruenor sprinted across the floor to the gorge, reaching over his shoulder to set his cloak afire—and under it was a keg of oil!
The dwarf didn’t waver and didn’t slow as he reached the lip and went over, axe high, back aflame.
Compulsion and terror combined to drag Catti-brie over to that ledge, arriving at the same time as Regis, both gawking down at the burning dwarf, locked upon the back of the great shadow dragon.
Bruenor had not wavered, but his actions had taken all the strength from Catti-brie, to be sure! She could hardly hold herself upright as she watched her father die, giving his life so that she, Wulfgar, and Regis could cross the gorge and escape the darkness of Mithral Hall.
But she’d never find the strength to make it, she feared, and Bruenor would die in vain.
Wulfgar was beside her then, grimacing against the magical despair, fighting through it with the determination of a barbarian of Icewind Dale. Catti-brie could hardly comprehend his intent as he lifted his wondrous warhammer high and flung it down at the dragon.
“Are ye mad?” she cried, grabbing at him.
“Take up your bow,” he told her, and he was Wulfgar again, freed of the dragon’s insidious spell. “If a true friend of Bruenor’s you be, then let him not fall in vain!”
A true friend? The words hit Catti-brie hard, reminding her poignantly that she was so much more than a friend to that dwarf, her father, the anchor of her life.
She knew that Wulfgar was right, and took up her bow in shaking hands, and sighted her target through tear-filled eyes.
She couldn’t help Bruenor. She couldn’t save him from the choice he had made—the choice that had possibly saved the three of them. It was the toughest shot she had ever had to make, but she had to make it, for Bruenor’s sake.
The silver-flashing arrow streaked away from Taulmaril, its lightning flash filling Catti-brie’s wet eyes.
* * * * *
Someone grabbed her and pulled her arms down to her side. She heard the hiss of a distant whisper, but could make out no words, nor could she see the one whose touch she felt.
It was Drizzt, she knew from the tenderness and strength in those delicate hands.
But Drizzt was lost to her, to them all. It made no sense. And Bruenor….
But the gorge was gone, the dragon was gone, her father was gone, all the world was gone, replaced by that land of brown mists and crawling, shadowy beasts, coming at her, clawing at her.
They could not reach her, they could not hurt her, but Catti-brie found little comfort in the emptiness. She felt nothing, was aware of nothing but the crawling, misshapen, ugly forms in a land she did not recognize.
In a place where she was completely alone.
And worse than that, worst of all, a line of division between two realities so narrow and blurry that the sheer incongruence of it all stole from Catti-brie something much more personal than her friends and familiar surroundings.
She tried to resist, tried to focus on the feeling of those strong arms around her—it had to be Drizzt! — but she realized that she couldn’t even feel the grasp any longer, if it was there.
The huddled images began to blur. The two worlds competed with flashing scenes in her mind and a discordant cacophony of disconnected sounds, a clash of two realities from which there was no escape.
She fell within herself, trying to hold on to her memories, her reality, her individuality.
But there was nothing to hold onto, no grounding pole to remind her of anything, of Catti-brie, even.
She had no cogent thought and no clear memories, and no self-awareness. She was so utterly lost that she didn’t even know that she was utterly lost.
* * * * *
A speck of bright orange found its way past Danica’s closed eyelid, knifing through the blackness that had taken her senses. Wearily, she managed to crack open that eye, to be greeted by the sunrise, the brilliant orb just showing its upper edge in the east, in the V-shaped crook between two mountains. It almost seemed to Danica as if those distant mountains were guiding the light directly to her, to her eyes, to awaken her.
The events of the previous day played out in her thoughts, and she couldn’t begin to sort out where dreams had ended and awful reality had begun.
Or had it all been a dream?
But then why was she lying in a canyon beside a great cliff?
Slowly the woman started to unwind it all, and the darkness receded.
She pulled herself up to her elbows, or tried to until waves of agony in her shoulder laid her low once more. Wincing against the pain, her eyes tightly closed, Danica recalled the fall, the tumble through the trees, then she backtracked from there to the scene atop the cliff in the lair of the undead dragon.
Ivan was dead.
The weight of that hit Danica hard. She heard again the stomp of the
dracolich and saw once more the splattering flesh flying about the cavern. She thought of all the times she had seen Ivan with her kids, the doting uncle offering the wisdom wrought of tough lessons, unlike the doting Pikel, who was so much softer-edged than his brother.
“Pikel,” she whispered into the grass, overwhelmed by the thought of telling him about Ivan.
The mention of Pikel brought Danica’s thoughts careening back to her own children, who were out, somewhere, with the dwarf.
She opened her eyes—the lower rim of the sun was visible, the morning moving along.
Her children were in trouble. That notion seemed inescapable. They were either in trouble or the danger had already found them and taken them, and that, Danica would not allow herself to accept.
With a growl of defiance, the monk pulled up to one arm and tucked her legs under her, then threw herself up and back into a kneeling position, her left arm hanging limp, not quite at her side but a bit behind her. She couldn’t turn her head against the pain to look at her shoulder, but she knew it was dislocated.
That wouldn’t do.
Danica scanned the area behind her, the stone of the cliff wall. With a determined nod, she leaped to her feet, and before the pain could slow her, she rushed toward the wall, jumped into the air, and turned as she descended, slamming the back of her injured shoulder against the stone.
She heard a loud popping sound and knew it was a prelude to agony. Indeed, the waves that came at her had her doubled over and vomiting.
But she could see her shoulder, aligned once more, and the pain fast subsided. She could even move her arm again, though the slightest motion hurt badly.
She stood leaning against the stone wall for a long while, falling within herself to find a place of calm against the furious storm that roiled in her battered form.
When she at last opened her eyes, she first focused upon one of the fallen crawlers, flattened and splattered against the ground. She managed to look up behind her, up the cliff, thinking of the dracolich and what she had to do to warn those who might help her defeat the beast.
The Ghost King t-3 Page 20