Over on the far wall, across from where Ulgulu had made his crashing entrance, a small pebble dislodged and fell. The drop was only a few feet, but by the time the pebble hit the floor, a slender sprite had zipped out of the small cubby he used as a bedroom, crossed the twenty feet of the audience hall, and run right up Ulgulu’s side to sit comfortably atop the barghest’s immense shoulder.
“You-called-for-me, yes-you-did, my-master,” Tephanis buzzed, too quickly. The others hadn’t even realized that the two-foot-tall sprite had entered the room. Kempfana turned away, shaking his head in amazement.
Ulgulu roared with laughter; he so loved to witness the spectacle of Tephanis, his most prized servant. Tephanis was a quickling, a diminutive sprite that moved in a dimension that transcended the normal concept of time. Possessing boundless energy and an agility that would shame the most proficient halfling thief, quicklings could perform many tasks that no other race could even attempt. Ulgulu had befriended Tephanis early in his tenure on the Material Plane—Tephanis was the only member of the lair’s diverse tenants that the barghest did not claim rulership over—and that bond had given the young whelp a distinct advantage over his sibling. With Tephanis scouting out potential victims, Ulgulu knew exactly which ones to devour and which ones to leave to Kempfana, and knew exactly how to win against those adventurers more powerful than he.
“Dear Tephanis,” Ulgulu purred in an odd sort of grating sound. “Nathak, poor Nathak,”—The goblin didn’t miss the implications of that reference—”has informed me that my gnolls have met with disaster.”
“And-you-want-me-to-go-and-see-what-happened-to-them, my-master,” Tephanis replied. Ulgulu took a moment to decipher the nearly unintelligible string of words, then nodded eagerly.
“Right-away, my-master. Be-back-soon.”
Ulgulu felt a slight shiver on his shoulder, but by the time he, or any of the others, realized what Tephanis had said, the heavy drape separating the chamber from the entry room was floating back to its hanging position. One of the goblins poked its head in for just a moment, to see if Kempfana or Ulgulu had summoned it, then returned to its station, thinking the drape’s movement a trick of the wind.
Ulgulu roared in laughter again; Kempfana cast him a disgusted glare. Kempfana hated the sprite and would have killed it long ago, except that he couldn’t ignore the potential benefits, assuming that Tephanis would work for him once Ulgulu had returned to Gehenna.
Nathak slipped one foot behind the other, meaning to silently retreat from the room. Ulgulu stopped the goblin with a look.
“Your report served me well,” the barghest started.
Nathak relaxed, but only for the moment it took Ulgulu’s great hand to shoot out, catch the goblin by the throat, and lift Nathak from the floor.
“But it would have served me better if you had taken the time to find out what happened to my gnolls!”
Nathak swooned and nearly fainted, and by the time half of his body had been stuffed into Ulgulu’s eager mouth, the spindle-armed goblin wished he had.
* * *
“Rub the behind, ease the pain. Switch it brings it back again. Rub the behind, ease the pain. Switch it brings it back again,” Liam Thistledown repeated over and over, a litany to take his concentration from the burning sensation beneath his britches, a litany that mischievous Liam knew all too well this time was different, though, with Liam actually admitting to himself, after a while, that he had indeed run out on his chores.
“But the drizzit was true,” Liam growled defiantly.
As if in answer to his statement, the shed’s door opened just a crack and Shawno, the second youngest to Liam, and Eleni, the only sister, slipped in.
“Got yourself into it this time,” Eleni scolded in her best big-sister voice. “Bad enough you run off when there’s work to be done, but coming home with such tales!”
“The drizzit was true,” Liam protested, not appreciating Eleni’s pseudomothering. Liam could get into enough trouble with just his parents scolding him; he didn’t need Eleni’s ever-sharp hindsight. “Black as Connor’s anvil and with a lion just as black!”
“Quiet, you both,” Shawno warned. “If dad’s to learn that we’re out here talking such, he’ll whip the lot of us.”
“Drizzit,” Eleni huffed doubtfully.
“True!” Liam protested too loudly, bringing a stinging slap from Shawno. The three turned, faces ashen, when the door swung open.
“Get in here!” Eleni whispered harshly, grabbing Flanny, who was a bit older than Shawno but three years Eleni’s junior, by the collar and hoisting him into the woodshed. Shawno, always the worrier of the group, quickly poked his head outside to see that no one was watching, then softly closed the door.
“You should not be spying on us!” Eleni protested.
“How’d I know you was in here?” Flanny shot back. “I just came to tease the little one.” He looked at Liam, twisted his mouth, and waved his fingers menacingly in the air. “Ware, ware,” Flanny crooned. “I am the drizzit, come to eat little boys!”
Liam turned away, but Shawno was not so impressed. “Aw, shut up!” he growled at Flanny, emphasizing his point with a slap on the back of his brother’s head. Flanny turned to retaliate, but Eleni stepped between them.
“Stop it!” Eleni cried, so loudly that all four Thistledown children slapped a finger over their lips and said, “Ssssh!”
“The drizzit was true,” Liam protested again. “I can prove it—if you’re not too scared!”
Liam’s three siblings eyed him curiously. He was a notorious fibber, they all knew, but what now would be the gain? Their father hadn’t believed Liam, and that was all that mattered as far as the punishment was concerned. Yet Liam was adamant, and his tone told them all that there was substance behind the proclamation.
“How can you prove the drizzit?” Flanny asked.
“We’ve no chores tomorrow,” Liam replied. “We’ll go blueberry picking in the mountains.”
“Ma and Daddy’d never let us,” Eleni put in.
“They would if we can get Connor to go along,” said Liam, referring to their oldest brother.
“Connor’d not believe you,” Eleni argued.
“But he’d believe you!” Liam replied sharply, drawing another communal “Ssssh!”
“I don’t believe you,” Eleni retorted quietly. “You’re always making things up, always causing trouble and then lying to get out of it!”
Liam crossed his little arms over his chest and stamped one foot impatiently at his sister’s continuing stream of logic. “But you will believe me,” Liam growled, “if you get Connor to go!”
“Aw, do it,” Flanny pleaded to Eleni, though Shawno, thinking of the potential consequences, shook his head.
“So we go up into the mountains,” Eleni said to Liam, prompting him to continue and thus revealing her agreement.
Liam smiled widely and dropped to one knee, collecting a pile of sawdust in which to draw a rough map of the area where he had encountered the drizzit. His plan was a simple one, using Eleni, casually picking blueberries, as bait. The four brothers would follow secretly and watch as she feigned a twisted ankle or some other injury. Distress had brought the drizzit before; surely with a pretty young girl as bait, it would bring the drizzit again.
Eleni balked at the idea, not thrilled at being planted as a worm on a hook.
“But you don’t believe me anyway,” Liam quickly pointed out. His inevitable smile, complete with a gaping hole where a tooth had been knocked out, showed that her own stubbornness had cornered her.
“So I’ll do it, then!” Eleni huffed. “And I don’t believe in your drizzit, Liam Thistledown! But if the lion is real, and I get chewed, I’ll tan you good!” With that, Eleni turned and stormed out of the woodshed.
Liam and Flanny spit in their hands, then turned daring glares on Shawno until he overcame his fears. Then the three brothers brought their palms together in a triumphant, wet slap. Any disagreem
ents between them always seemed to vanish whenever one of them found a way to bother Eleni.
None of them told Connor about their planned hunt for the drizzit. Rather, Eleni reminded him of the many favors he owed her and promised that she would consider the debt paid in full—but only after Liam had agreed to take on Connor’s debt if they didn’t find the drizzit—if Connor would only take her and the boys blueberry picking.
Connor grumbled and balked, complaining about some shoeing that needed to be done to one of the mares, but he could never resist his little sister’s batting blue eyes and wide, bright smile, and Eleni’s promise of erasing his considerable debt had sealed his fate. With his parents’ blessing, Connor led the Thistledown children up into the mountains, buckets in the children’s hands and a crude sword belted on his hip.
* * *
Drizzt saw the ruse coming long before the farmer’s young daughter moved out alone in the blueberry patch. He saw, too, the four Thistledown boys, crouched in the shadows of a nearby grove of maple trees, Connor, somewhat less than expertly, brandishing the crude sword.
The youngest had led them here, Drizzt knew. The day before, the drow had witnessed the boy being pulled out into the woodshed. Cries of “drizzit!” had issued forth after every switch, at least at the beginning. Now the stubborn lad wanted to prove his outrageous story.
The blueberry picker jerked suddenly, then fell to the ground and cried out. Drizzt recognized “Help!” as the same distress call the sandy-haired boy had used, and a smile widened across his dark face. By the ridiculous way the girl had fallen, Drizzt saw the game for what it was. The girl was not injured now; she was simply calling out for the drizzit.
With an incredulous shake of his thick white mane, Drizzt started away, but an impulse grabbed at him. He looked back to the blueberry patch, where the girl sat rubbing her ankle, all the while glancing nervously around or back toward her concealed brothers. Something pulled at Drizzt’s heartstrings at that moment, an urge he could not resist. How long had he been alone, wandering without companionship? He longed for Belwar at that moment, the svirfneblin who had accompanied him through many trials in the wilds of the Underdark. He longed for Zaknafein, his father and friend. Seeing the interplay between the caring siblings was more than Drizzt Do’Urden could bear. The time had come for Drizzt to meet his neighbors. Drizzt hiked the hood of his oversized gnoll cloak up over his head, though the ragged garment did little to hide the truth of his heritage, and bounded across the field. He hoped that if he could at least deflect the girl’s initial reaction to seeing him, he might find some way to communicate with her. The hopes were farfetched at best.
“The drizzit!” Eleni gasped under her breath when she saw him coming. She wanted to cry out loud but found no breath; she wanted to run, but her terror held her firmly. From the copse of trees, Liam spoke for her. “The drizzit!” the boy cried. “I told you so! I told you so!” He looked to his brothers, and Flanny and Shawno were having the expected excited reactions. Connor’s face, though, was locked into a look of dread so profound that one glance at it stole the joy from Liam.
“By the gods,” the eldest Thistledown son muttered. Connor had adventured with his father and had been trained to spot enemies. He looked now to his three confused brothers and muttered a single word that explained nothing to the inexperienced boys. “Drow.”
Drizzt stopped a dozen paces from the frightened girl, the first human woman he had seen up close, and studied her. Eleni was pretty by any race’s standards, with huge, soft eyes, dimpled cheeks, and smooth, golden skin. Drizzt knew there would be no fight here. He smiled at Eleni and crossed his arms gently over his chest. “Drizzt,” he corrected, pointing to his chest. A movement to the side turned him away from the girl.
“Run, Eleni!” Connor Thistledown cried, waving his sword and bearing down on the drow. “It is a dark elf! A drow! Run for your life!”
Of all that Connor had cried, Drizzt only understood the word “drow.” The young man’s attitude and intent could not be mistaken, though, for Connor charged straight between Drizzt and Eleni, his sword tip pointed Drizzt’s way. Eleni managed to get to her feet behind her brother, but she did not flee as he had instructed. She, too, had heard of the evil dark elves, and she would not leave Connor to face one alone.
“Turn away, dark elf,” Connor growled. “I am an expert swordsman and much stronger than you.”
Drizzt held his hands out helplessly, not understanding a word.
“Turn away!” Connor yelled.
On an impulse, Drizzt tried to reply in the drow silent code, an intricate language of hand and facial gestures.
“He’s casting a spell!” Eleni cried, and she dove down into the blueberries. Connor shrieked and charged.
Before Connor even knew of the counter, Drizzt grabbed him by the forearm, used his other hand to twist the boy’s wrist and take away the sword, spun the crude weapon three times over Connor’s head, flipped it in his slender hand, then handed it, hilt first, back to the boy.
Drizzt held his arms out wide and smiled. In drow custom, such a show of superiority without injuring the opponent invariably signaled a desire for friendship. To the oldest son of farmer Bartholemew Thistledown, the drow’s blinding display brought only awe-inspired terror.
Connor stood, mouth agape, for a long moment. His sword fell from his hand, but he didn’t notice; his pants, soiled, clung to his thighs, but he didn’t notice.
A scream erupted from somewhere within Connor. He grabbed Eleni, who joined in his scream, and they fled back to the grove to collect the others, then farther, running until they crossed the threshold of their own home.
Drizzt was left, his smile fast fading and his arms out wide, standing all alone in the blueberry patch.
* * *
A set of dizzily darting eyes had watched the exchange in the blueberry patch with more than a casual interest. The unexpected appearance of a dark elf, particularly one wearing a gnoll cloak, had answered many questions for Tephanis. The quickling sleuth had already examined the gnoll corpses but simply could not reconcile the gnolls’ fatal wounds with the crude weapons usually wielded by the simple village farmers. Seeing the magnificent twin scimitars so casually belted on the dark elf’s hips and the ease with which the dark elf had dispatched the farm boy, Tephanis knew the truth.
The dust trail left by the quickling would have confused the best rangers in the Realms. Tephanis, never a straightforward sprite, zipped up the mountain trails, spinning circuits around some trees, running up and down the sides of others, and generally doubling, even tripling, his route. Distance never bothered Tephanis; he stood before the purple-skinned barghest whelp even before Drizzt, considering the implications of the disastrous meeting, had left the blueberry patch.
4. Worries
Farmer Bartholemew Thistledown’s perspective changed considerably when Connor, his oldest son, renamed Liam’s “drizzit” a dark elf. Farmer Thistledown had spent his entire forty-five years in Maldobar, a village fifty miles up the Dead Orc River north of Sundabar. Bartholemew’s father had lived here, and his father’s father before him. In all that time, the only news any Farmer Thistledown had ever heard of dark elves was the tale of a suspected drow raid on a small settlement of wild elves a hundred miles to the north, in Coldwood. That raid, if it was even perpetrated by the drow, had occurred more than a decade before.
Lack of personal experience with the drow race did not diminish Farmer Thistledown’s fears at hearing his children’s tale of the encounter in the blueberry patch. Connor and Eleni, two trusted sources old enough to keep their wits about them in a time of crisis, had viewed the elf up close, and they held no doubts about the color of his skin.
“The only thing I can’t rightly figure,” Bartholemew told Benson Delmo, the fat and cheerful mayor of Maldobar and several other farmers gathered at his house that night, “is why this drow let the children go free. I’m no expert on the ways of dark elves, but I’ve heard t
ell enough about them to expect a different sort of action.”
“Perhaps Connor fared better in his attack than he believed,” Delmo piped in tactfully. They had all heard the tale of Connor’s disarming; Liam and the other Thistledown children, except for poor Connor, of course, particularly enjoyed retelling that part.
As much as he appreciated the mayor’s vote of confidence, though, Connor shook his head emphatically at the suggestion. “He took me,” Connor admitted. “Maybe I was too surprised at the sight of him, but he took me—clean.”
“And no easy feat,” Bartholemew put in, deflecting any forthcoming snickers from the gruff crowd. “We’ve all seen Connor at fighting. Just last winter, he took down three goblins and the wolves they were riding!”
“Calm, good Farmer Thistledown,” the mayor offered. “We’ve no doubts of your son’s prowess.”
“I’ve my doubts about the truth o’ the foe!” put in Roddy McGristle, a bear-sized and bear-hairy man, the most battle-seasoned of the group. Roddy spent more time up in the mountains than tending his farm, a recent endeavor he didn’t particularly enjoy, and whenever someone offered a bounty on orc ears, Roddy invariably collected the largest portion of the coffers, often larger than the rest of the town combined.
“Put yer neck hairs down,” Roddy said to Connor as the boy began to rise, a sharp protest obviously forthcoming. “I know what ye says ye seen, and I believe that ye seen what ye says. But ye called it a drow, an’ that title carries more than ye can begin to know. If it was a drow ye found, my guess’s that yerself an’ yer kin’d be lying dead right now in that there blueberry patch. No, not a drow, by my guess, but there’s other things in them mountains could do what ye says this thing did.”
“Name them,” Bartholemew said crossly, not appreciating the doubts Roddy had cast over his son’s story. Bartholemew didn’t much like Roddy anyway. Farmer Thistledown kept a respectable family, and every time crude and loud Roddy McGristle came to pay a visit, it took Bartholemew and his wife many days to remind the children, particularly Liam, about proper behavior.
Sojourn (frde-3) Page 4