Sojourn (frde-3)

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Ten-Towns, the land that Jankin had named a house for the homeless, a gathering ground for those who had nowhere else to go, brought the drow a measure of hope. How many times had fate kicked him? How many gates had he approached hopefully only to be turned away at the tip of a spear? This time will be different, Drizzt told himself, for if he could not find a place in the land of rogues, where then might he turn?

  For the beleaguered drow, who had spent so very long running from tragedy, guilt, and prejudices he could not escape, hope was not a comfortable emotion.

  * * *

  Drizzt camped in a small copse that night while the friars went into the small farming village. They returned the next morning leading a fine horse, but with one of their group conspicuously absent.

  “Where is Jankin?” Drizzt asked, concerned.

  “Tied up in a barn,” Mateus replied. “He tried to get away last night, to go back… ”

  “To Hephaestus,” Drizzt finished for him.

  “If he is still in a mind for it this day, we might just let him go,” added a disgusted Herschel.

  “Here is your horse,” Mateus said, “if the night has not changed your mind.”

  “And here is a new wrap,” offered Herschel. He handed Drizzt a fine, fur-lined cloak. Drizzt knew how uncharacteristically generous the friars were being, and he almost changed his mind. He could not dismiss his other needs, though, and he would not satisfy them among this group.

  To display his resolve, the drow moved straight to the animal, meaning to climb right on. Drizzt had seen a horse before, but never so close. He was amazed by the beast’s sheer strength, the muscles rippling along the animal’s neck, and he was amazed, too, by the height of the animal’s back.

  He spent a moment staring into the horse’s eyes, communicating his intent as best he could. Then, to everyone’s shock, even Drizzt’s, the horse bent low, allowing the drow to climb easily into the saddle.

  “You have a way with horses,” remarked Mateus. “Never did you mention that you were a skilled rider.”

  Drizzt only nodded and did his very best to remain in the saddle when the horse started into a trot. It took the drow many moments to figure out how to control the beast and he had circled far to the east—the wrong way—before he managed to turn about. Throughout the circuit, Drizzt tried hard to keep up his facade, and the friars, never ones for horses themselves, merely nodded and smiled.

  * * *

  Hours later, Drizzt was riding hard to the west, following the southern edge of the Spine of the World.

  “The Weeping Friars,” Roddy McGristle whispered, looking down from a stony bluff at the band as they made their way back toward Mirabar’s tunnel later that same week.

  “What?” Tephanis gawked, rushing from his sack to join Roddy, For the very first time, the sprite’s speed proved a liability. Before he even realized what he was saying, Tephanis blurted, “It-cannot-be! The-dragon… ”

  Roddy’s glare fell over Tephanis like the shadow of a thundercloud.

  “I-mean-I-assumed… ” Tephanis sputtered, but he realized that Roddy, who knew the tunnel better than he and knew, too, the sprite’s ways with locks, had pretty much guessed the indiscretion.

  “Ye took it on yerself to kill the drow,” Roddy said calmly.

  “Please, my-master,” Tephanis replied. “I-did-not-mean… I-feared-for-you. The-drow-is-a-devil, I-say! I-sent-them-down-the-dragon’s-tunnel. I-thought-that-you… ”

  “Forget it,” Roddy growled. “Ye did what ye did, and no more about it. Now get in yer sack. Mighten that we can fix what ye done, if the drow’s not dead.”

  Tephanis nodded, relieved, and zipped back into the sack. Roddy scooped it up and called his dog to his side.

  “I’ll get the friars talking,” the bounty hunter vowed, “but first… ” Roddy whipped the sack about, slamming it into the stone wall.

  “Master!” came the sprite’s muffled cry.

  “Ye drow-stealin… ” Roddy huffed, and he beat the sack mercilessly against the unyielding stone. Tephanis squirmed for the first few whacks, even managed to begin a tear with his little dagger. But then the sack darkened with wetness and the sprite struggled no more.

  “Drow-stealing mutant,” Roddy mumbled, tossing the gory package away. “Come on, dog. If the drow’s alive, the friars’ll know where to find him.”

  * * *

  The Weeping Friars were an order dedicated to suffering, and a couple of them, particularly Jankin, had indeed suffered much in their lives. None of them, though, had ever imagined the level of cruelty they found at the hands of wild-eyed Roddy McGristle, and before an hour had passed, Roddy, too, was driving hard to the west along the southern edge of the mountain range.

  * * *

  The cold eastern wind filled his ears with its endless song. Drizzt had heard it every second since he had rounded the western edge of the Spine of the World and turned north and then east, into the barren stretch of land named for this wind, Icewind Dale. He accepted the mournful groan and the wind’s freezing bite willingly, for to Drizzt the rush of air came as a gust of freedom.

  Another symbol of that freedom, the sight of the wide sea, came as the drow rounded the mountain range. Drizzt had visited the shoreline once, on his passage to Luskan, and now he wanted to pause and go the few miles to its shores again. But the cold wind reminded him of the impending winter, and he understood the difficulty he would find in traveling the dale once the first snows had fallen.

  Drizzt spotted Kelvin’s Cairn, the solitary mountain on the tundra north of the great range, the first day after he had turned into the dale. He made for it anxiously, visualizing its singular peak as the marking post to the land he would call home. Tentative hope filled him whenever he focused on that mountain.

  He passed several small groups, solitary wagons or a handful of men on horseback, as he neared the region of Ten-Towns along the caravan route, a southwestern approach. The sun was low in the west and dim, and Drizzt kept the cowl of his fine cloak pulled low, hiding his ebony skin. He nodded curtly as each traveler passed.

  Three lakes dominated the region, along with the peak of rocky Kelvin’s Cairn, which rose a thousand feet above the broken plain and was capped with snow even through the short summer. Of the ten towns that gave the area its name, only the principle city, Bryn Shander, stood apart from the lakes. It sat above the plain, on a short hill, its flag whipping defiantly against the stiff wind. The caravan route, Drizzt’s trail, led to this city, the region’s principle marketplace.

  Drizzt could tell from the rising smoke of distant fires that several other communities were within a few miles of the city on the hill. He considered his course for a moment, wondering if he should go to one of these smaller, more secluded towns instead of continuing straight on to the principle city.

  “No,” the drow said firmly, dropping a hand into his pouch to feel the onyx figurine. Drizzt kicked his horse ahead, up the hill to the walled city’s forbidding gates.

  “Merchant?” asked one of the two guards standing bored before the iron-bound portal. “Ye’re a bit late in the year for trading.”

  “No merchant,” Drizzt replied softly, losing a good measure of his nerve now that the hour was upon him. He reached up slowly to his hood, trying to keep his trembling hand moving.

  “From what town, then?” the other guard asked. Drizzt dropped his hand back, his courage deflected by the blunt question.

  “From Mirabar,” he answered honestly, and then, before he could stop himself and before the guards posed another distracting question, he reached up and pulled back his hood.

  Four eyes popped wide and hands immediately dropped to belted swords.

  “No!” Drizzt retorted suddenly. “No, please.” A weariness came into both his voice and his posture that the guards could not understand. Drizzt had no strength left for senseless battles of misunderstanding. Against a goblin horde or a marauding giant, the drow’s scimitars came easily into his hands, b
ut against one who only battled him because of misperceptions, his blades weighed heavily indeed.

  “I have come from Mirabar,” Drizzt continued, his voice growing steadier with each syllable, “to Ten-Towns to reside in peace.” He held his hands out wide, offering no threat.

  The guards hardly knew how to react. Neither of them had ever seen a dark elf—though they knew beyond doubt that Drizzt was one—or knew more about the race than fireside tales of the ancient war that had split the elven peoples apart.

  “Wait here,” one of the guards breathed to the other, who didn’t seem to appreciate the order. “I will go inform Spokesman Cassius.” He banged on the iron-bound gate and slipped inside as soon as it was opened wide enough to let him through. The remaining guard eyed Drizzt unblinking, his hand never leaving his sword hilt.

  “If you kill me, a hundred crossbows will cut you down,” he declared, trying but utterly failing to sound confident.

  “Why would I?” Drizzt asked innocently, keeping his hands wide apart and his posture unthreatening. This encounter had gone well so far, he believed. In every other village he had dared approach, those first seeing him had fled in terror or chased him with bared weapons.

  The other guard returned a short time later with a small and slender man, clean-shaven and with bright blue eyes that scanned continuously, taking in every detail. He wore fine clothes, and from the respect the two guards showed the man, Drizzt knew at once that he was of high rank.

  He studied Drizzt for a long while, considering every move and every feature. “I am Cassius,” he said at length, “Spokesman of Bryn Shander and Principle Spokesman of Ten-Towns’ Ruling Council.”

  Drizzt dipped a short bow. “I am Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said, “of Mirabar and points beyond, now come to Ten-Towns.”

  “Why?” Cassius asked sharply, trying to catch him off guard.

  Drizzt shrugged. “Is a reason required?”

  “For a dark elf, perhaps,” Cassius replied honestly. Drizzt’s accepting smile disarmed the spokesman and quieted the two guards, who now stood protectively close to his sides. “I can offer no reason for coming, beyond my desire to come,” Drizzt continued. “Long has been my road, Spokesman Cassius. I am weary and in need of rest. Ten-Towns is the place of rogues, I have been told, and do not doubt that a dark elf is a rogue among the dwellers of the surface.”

  It seemed logical enough, and Drizzt’s sincerity came through clearly to the observant spokesman. Cassius dropped his chin in his palm and thought for a long while. He didn’t fear the drow, or doubt the elf’s words, but he had no intention of allowing the stir that a drow would cause in his city.

  “Bryn Shander is not your place,” Cassius said bluntly, and Drizzt’s lavender eyes narrowed at the unfair proclamation. Undaunted, Cassius pointed to the north. “Go to Lonelywood, in the forest on the northern banks of Maer Dualdon,” he offered. He swung his gaze to the southeast. “Or to Good Mead or Dougan’s Hole on the southern lake, Redwaters. These are smaller towns, where you will cause less stir and find less trouble.”

  “And when they refuse my entry?” Drizzt asked. “Where then, fair spokesman? Out in the wind to die on the empty plain?”

  “You do not know—”

  “I know,” Drizzt interrupted. “I have played this game many times. Who will welcome a drow, even one who has forsaken his people and their ways and who desires nothing more than peace?” Drizzt’s voice was stern and showed no self-pity, and Cassius again understood the words to be true.

  Truly Cassius sympathized. He himself had been a rogue once and had been forced to the ends of the world, to forlorn Icewind Dale, to find a home. There were no ends farther than this; Icewind Dale was a rogue’s last stop. Another thought came to Cassius then, a possible solution to the dilemma that would not nag at his conscience.

  “How long have you lived on the surface?” Cassius asked, sincerely interested.

  Drizzt considered the question for a moment, wondering what point the spokesman meant to make. “Seven years,” he replied.

  “In the northland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet you have found no home, no village to take you in,” Cassius said. “You have survived hostile winters and, doubtless, more direct enemies. Are you skilled with those blades you hang on your belt?”

  “I am a ranger,” Drizzt said evenly.

  “An unusual profession for a drow,” Cassius remarked.

  “I am a ranger,” Drizzt said again, more forcefully, “well trained in the ways of nature and in the use of my weapons.”

  “I do not doubt,” Cassius mused. He paused, then said, “There is a place offering shelter and seclusion.” The spokesman led Drizzt’s gaze to the north, to the rocky slopes of Kelvin’s Cairn. “Beyond the dwarven vale lies the mountain,” Cassius explained, “and beyond that the open tundra. It would do Ten-Towns well to have a scout on the mountain’s northern slopes. Danger always seems to come from that direction.”

  “I came to find my home,” Drizzt interrupted. “You offer me a hole in a pile of rock and a duty to those whom I owe nothing.” In truth, the suggestion appealed to Drizzt’s ranger spirit.

  “Would you have me tell you that things are different?” Cassius replied. “I’ll not let a wandering drow into Bryn Shander.”

  “Would a man have to prove himself worthy?”

  “A man does not carry so grim a reputation,” Cassius replied evenly, without hesitation. “If I were so magnanimous, if I welcomed you on your words alone and threw my gates wide, would you enter and find your home? We both know better than that, drow. Not everyone in Bryn Shander would be so open-hearted, I promise. You would cause an uproar wherever you went and, whatever your demeanor and intent, you would be forced into battles.

  “It would be the same in any of the towns,” Cassius went on, guessing that his words had struck a chord of truth in the homeless drow. “I offer you a hole in a pile of rock, within the borders of Ten-Towns, where your actions, good or bad, will become your reputation beyond the color of your skin. Does rny offer seem so shallow now?”

  “I shall need supplies,” Drizzt said, accepting the truth of Cassius’s words. “And what of my horse? I do not think the slopes of a mountain are a proper place for such a beast.”

  “Trade your horse then,” Cassius offered. “My guard will get a fair price and return here with the supplies you will need.”

  Drizzt thought about the suggestion for a moment, then handed the reins to Cassius.

  The spokesman left then, thinking himself quite clever. Not only had he averted any immediate trouble, he had convinced Drizzt to guard his borders, all in a place where Bruenor Battlehammer and his clan of grim-faced dwarves could certainly keep the drow from causing any trouble.

  * * *

  Roddy McGristle pulled his wagon into a small village nestled in the shadows of the mountain range’s western end. Snow would come soon, the bounty hunter knew, and he had no desire to be caught halfway up the dale when it began. He’d stay here with the farmers and wait out the winter. Nothing could leave the dale without passing this area, and if Drizzt had gone there, as the friars had revealed, he had nowhere left to run.

  * * *

  Drizzt set out from the gates that night, preferring the darkness for his journey, despite the cold. His direct approach to the mountain took him along the eastern rim of the rocky gorge that the dwarves had claimed as their home. Drizzt took extra care to avoid any guards the bearded folk might have set. He had encountered dwarves only once before, when he had passed Citadel Adbar on his earliest wanderings out of Mooshie’s Grove, and it had not been a pleasant experience. Dwarven patrols had chased him off without waiting for any explanations, and they had dogged him through the mountains for many days.

  For all his prudence in getting past the valley, though, Drizzt could not ignore a high mound of rocks he came upon, a climb with steps cut into the piled stones. He was less than halfway to the mountain, with several mil
es and hours of night still to go, but Drizzt moved up the detour, step over step, enchanted by the widening panorama of town lights about him.

  The climb was not high, only fifty feet or so, but with the flat tundra and clear night Drizzt was afforded a view of five cities: two on the banks of the lake to the east, two to the west on the largest lake, and Bryn Shander, on its hillock a few miles to the south.

  How many minutes passed Drizzt did not know, for the sights sparked too many hopes and fantasies for him to notice. He had been in Ten-Towns for barely a day, but already he was feeling comfortable with the sights, with knowing that thousands of people about the mountain would hear of him and possibly come to accept him.

  A grumbling, gravelly voice shook Drizzt from his contemplations. He dropped into a defensive crouch and circled behind a rock. The stream of complaints marked the coming figure clearly. He was wide-shouldered and about a foot shorter than Drizzt, though obviously heavier than the drow. Drizzt knew it was a dwarf even before the figure paused to adjust its helmet—by slamming its head into a stone.

  “Dagnaggit blasted,” the dwarf muttered, “adjusting” the helmet a second time.

  Drizzt was certainly intrigued, but he was also smart enough to realize that a grumbling dwarf wouldn’t likely welcome an uninvited drow in the middle of a dark night. As the dwarf moved for yet another adjustment, Drizzt skipped off, running lightly and silently along the side of the trail. He passed close by the dwarf but then was gone with no more rustle than the shadow of a cloud.

  “Eh?” the dwarf mumbled when he came back up, this time satisfied with his headgear’s fit. “Who’s that? What’re ye about?” He went into a series of short, spinning hops, eyes darting alertly all about.