The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

by R. A. Salvatore

  But invitations from Alustriel, the wondrous Lady of Silverymoon, are not easily ignored, especially by a renegade drow so determined to find acceptance among peoples who fear his kind.

  My pace was easy that first day out. I wanted to make the River Surbrin and put the largest mountains behind me. It was along those very riverbanks, sometime around mid afternoon, that I encountered the tracks. A mixed group, perhaps a score, had passed this way, and not too long before. The largest few sets of tracks belonged to ogres. What worried me the most, though, since such creatures are not uncommon and not unexpected in the region, were the smaller bootprints. By their size and shape, I had to believe that these markings had been made by humans, and some seemed to belong to a human child. Even more disturbing, some bootprints were partially covered by monster tracks, while others partially covered monster tracks. They were all made at approximately the same time. Who, then, was the captive, and who the captor?

  The trail was not hard to follow. My fears only increased when I spotted some dots of bright red along the path. I took some comfort in the equipment that I carried, though. Catti-brie had loaned me Taulmaril, the Heartseeker, for this, my first journey to Silverymoon. With that powerfully enchanted bow in hand, I continued along, confident that I could handle whatever dangers presented themselves.

  I stepped carefully, keeping to the shadows as much as possible and keeping the cowl of my forest green cloak pulled tight about my face. Still, I knew that I was gaining rapidly, that the band, holding to the riverbank, could not be more than an hour ahead of me. It was time to call upon my most trusted ally.

  I took the panther figurine, my link to Guenhwyvar, from my belt pouch and placed it on the ground. My call to the cat was not loud, but it did not have to be, for Guenhwyvar surely recognized my voice. Then came the telltale gray mist, a moment later to be replaced by the black panther, six hundred pounds of fighting perfection.

  “We may have some prisoners to free,” I said to the cat as I showed Guenhwyvar the trampled trail. As always, Guenhwyvar’s growl of understanding reassured me, and together we set off, hoping to discover the enemy before the onset of night.

  The first movement came unexpectedly from across the wide expanse of the Surbrin. I went down behind a boulder, Taulmaril pulled and ready. Guenhwyvar’s reaction was similarly defensive, the panther crouching behind a stone closer to the river, back legs tamping the ground excitedly. I knew that Guenhwyvar could easily make the thirty-foot jump to the other bank. It would take me longer to cross, though, and I feared I could not lend the cat much support from this bank.

  Some scrambling across the way showed that we, too, had been spotted, a fact confirmed a moment later when an arrow cut the air above my head. I thought of responding in kind. The archer ducked behind a rock, but I knew that, with Taulmaril, I could probably put an arrow right through that meager stone cover.

  I held the shot, though, and bade Guenhwyvar to stay in place. If this was the band I had been tracking, then why had no more arrows whistled out beside the first? Why hadn’t the stupid goblinkin started their typical war-whoops?

  “I am no enemy!” I called out, since my position was no secret anyway.

  The reply let me ease my pull on the bowstring.

  “If you’re no enemy, then who might you be?”

  This left me in a predicament that only a dark elf on the surface can know. Of course, I was no enemy to these men—farmers, I presumed, who had come out in pursuit of the raiding monster band. We were unknowingly working toward the same goal, but what would these simple folk think when a drow rose up before them?

  “I am Drizzt Do’Urden, a ranger and friend of King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall!” I called. Off came my hood and out I stepped, wanting this typically tension-filled first meeting to be at an end.

  “A stinking drow!” I heard one man exclaim, but another, an older man of about fifty years, told him and the others to hold their shots.

  “We’re hunting a band of orcs and ogres,” the older man—I later learned his name to be Tharman—explained.

  “Then you are on the wrong side of the river,” I called back. “The tracks are here, heading along the bank. I would guess they’ll lead to a trail not so far from this point. Can you get across?”

  Tharman conferred with his fellows for a moment—there were five of them in all—then signaled for me to wait where I was. I had passed a frozen section of the river, dotted with many large stones, just a short distance back, and it was only a few minutes before the farmers caught up with me. They were raggedly dressed and poorly armed, simple folk and probably no match for the merciless orcs and ogres that had passed this way. Tharman was the only one of the group who had seen more than thirty winters. Two of the farmers looked as if they had not yet seen twenty, and one of these didn’t even show the stubble common to the road-weary faces of the others.

  “Ilmater’s tears!” one of them cried in surprise as the group neared. If the sight of a dark elf was not enough to put them on their nerves, then the presence of Guenhwyvar certainly was.

  The man’s shouted oath startled Guenhwyvar. The panther must have thought the plea to the God of Suffering a threat of some kind, for she flattened her ears and showed her tremendous fangs.

  The man nearly fainted, and a companion beside him tentatively reached for an arrow.

  “Guenhwyvar is a friend,” I explained. “As am I.”

  Tharman looked to a rugged man, half his age and carrying a hammer better suited to a smithy than a war party. The younger man promptly and savagely slapped the nervous archer’s hand away from the bow. I could discern already that this brute was the leader of the group, probably the one who had bullied the others into coming into the woods in the first place.

  Though my claim had apparently been accepted, the tension did not fly from the meeting, not at all. I could smell the fear, the apprehension, emanating from these men, Tharman included. I noticed the younger farmers gripping more tightly to their weapons. They would not move against me, I knew—that was one benefit of the savage reputation of my heritage. Few wanted to wage battle against dark elves. And even if I had not been an exotic drow, the farmers would not have attacked with the mighty panther crouched beside me. They knew that they were overmatched, and they knew, too, that they needed an ally, any ally, to help them in their pursuit.

  Five men, farmers all, poorly armed and poorly armored. What in the Nine Hells did they expect to do against a band of twenty monsters, ogres included? Still, I had to admire their courage, and I could not discount them as foolish. I believed that the raiders had taken prisoners. If those unfortunates were these men’s families, their children perhaps, then their desperation was certainly warranted, their actions admirable.

  Tharman came forward, his soil-stained hand extended. I must admit that the greeting, nervous but sincerely warm, touched me. So often have I been met with taunts and bared weapons! “I have heard of you,” he remarked.

  “Then you have the advantage,” I replied politely, grasping his wrist.

  Behind him, the sturdy man narrowed his eyes angrily. I was surprised somewhat; my benign remark had apparently injured his pride. Did he think himself a renowned fighter?

  Tharman introduced himself, and the tough leader immediately rushed forward to do likewise. “I am Rico,” he declared, coming up to me boldly. “Rico Pengallen of the village Pengallen, fifteen miles to the south and east.” The obvious pride in his voice caused Tharman to wince and set off silent alarms that this Rico might bring trouble when we had caught up with the monsters.

  I had heard of Pengallen, though I had only marked it by its evening lights from a distance. According to Bruenor’s maps, the village was no more than a handful of farmhouses. So much for the hopes that any organized militia would soon arrive.

  “We were attacked early last night, just after sunset,” Rico continued, roughly nudging the older man aside. “Orcs and ogres, as we’ve said. They took some prisoner
s.…”

  “My wife and son,” Tharman put in, his voice full of anxiety.

  “My brother as well,” said another.

  I spent a long while considering that grim news, trying to find some consolation I could offer to the desperate men. I did not want their hopes to soar, though, not with ogres and orcs holding their loved ones and with the odds apparently so heavily weighted against us.

  “We are less than an hour behind,” I explained. “I had hoped to spot the group before sunset. With Guenhwyvar beside me, though, I can find them night or day.”

  “We’re ready for a fight,” Rico declared. It must have been my expression—perhaps it was unintentionally condescending—that he did not like, for he slapped his hammer across his open palm and practically bared his teeth with his ensuing snarl.

  “Let us hope it will not come to a fight,” I said. “I have some experience with ogres and with orcs. Neither are overly adept at setting guards.”

  “You mean to simply slip in and free our kin?”

  Rico’s barely tempered anger continued to surprise me, but when I turned to Tharman for some silent explanation, he only slipped his hands into the folds of his worn traveling cloak and looked away.

  “We will do whatever we must to free the prisoners,” I said.

  “And to stop the monsters from returning to Pengallen,” Rico added roughly.

  “They can be dealt with later,” I replied, trying to convince him to solve one problem at a time. A word to Bruenor would have sent scores of dwarves scouring the region, stubborn and battle-ready warriors who would not have stopped their hunting until the threat had been eliminated.

  Rico turned to his four comrades, or, more accurately, he turned away from me. “Guess we’re following a damned drow elf,” he said.

  I took no offense. Certainly I had suffered worse treatment than blustery insults, and this desperate band, with the exception of Rico, seemed pleased enough to have found any ally, regardless of the color of my skin.

  The enemy camp did not prove difficult to locate. We found it on our side of the river, as twilight settled on the land. Conveniently—or rather, stupidly—the monsters had set a blazing fire to ward off the winter night’s cold.

  The light of the bonfire also showed me the layout of the encampment. There were no tents, just the fire and a few scattered logs propped on stones for benches. The land was fairly flat, covered with a bed of river-polished stones and dotted by boulders and an occasional tree or bush. Pig-faced orc sentries were in place north and south of the fire, holding crude, but wicked, weapons in their dirty hands. I assumed that similar guards were posted to the west, away from the river. The prisoners, seeming not too badly injured, huddled together behind the blaze, their backs against a large stone. There were four, not three: the two boys and the farmer’s wife joined by a surprisingly well-dressed goblin. At the time, I didn’t question the presence of this unexpected addition. I was more concerned with simply finding a way in and a way out.

  “The river,” I whispered at length. “Guenhwyvar and I can get across it without being seen. We can scout the camp better from the other side.”

  Rico was thinking the same thing—after a fashion. “You come in from the east, across the river, and we’ll hit them hard on this flank.”

  His scowl widened as I shook my head. This Rico just did not seem able to comprehend that I meant to get the prisoners without an all-out fight.

  “I will get at them from across the river with Guenhwyvar beside me,” I tried to explain. “But not until the fire has burned low.”

  “We should go at them while the light is bright,” Rico argued. “We aren’t like you, drow.” He spat the word derisively. “We can’t see in the dark.”

  “But I can,” I retorted rather sharply, for Rico was beginning to bother me more than a little. “I can get in, free the prisoners, and strike at the sentries from behind, hopefully without alerting their fellows. If things go well, we will be far from here before the monsters even realize that their prisoners are gone.”

  Tharman and the other three men were nodding their agreement with the simple plan, but Rico remained stubborn.

  “And if things do not go well?”

  “Guenhwyvar and I should be able to keep the monsters confused enough so that you and your freed kin can get away. I do not believe that the monsters will even attempt to pursue you, not if they think that their prisoners were stolen by dark elves.”

  Again I saw Tharman and the others nodding eagerly, and when Rico tried to find a new argument, the older man put a hand firmly on his burly shoulder. Rico shrugged it away, but said nothing more. I did not find much comfort in his silence, not when I looked at the hatred deeply etched on his stubbly face.

  Crossing the half-frozen river proved easy enough. Guenhwyvar simply leaped across its width. I followed, picking a careful path along the ice. I did not want to depend wholly upon such a fragile bridge, though, so I chose a course to the opposite bank that offered the most prominent stones.

  My new perspective on the enemy camp from across the river revealed some potential problems—more precisely, the gigantic ogres, standing twice my height. Their skin shone dull and dark in the flickering firelight, prominent warts shining darker, and their long, matted hair gleamed bluish black. There were two at least, squatting amidst a tumble of boulders to the north of the prisoners. The prisoners themselves faced the river, faced me, their backs against the stone, and now I saw another guarding orc, sitting with its back flat against the north face of the same stone. A bared sword lay across its lap. Having often witnessed the brutal tactics of orcs, I figured that this guard was under orders to slip around the stone and slaughter the prisoners if trouble came. That orc presented the most danger, I decided. Its throat would be the first I slit this night.

  All that was left for preparation was to sit low and wait for the fire to dim, wait for the camp to grow sleepy with boredom.

  Barely half an hour later, angry whispers began to drift to me from across the river—but not from the enemy camp. I could not believe what I was hearing; Rico and the others were arguing! Fortunately, the two orc guards nearest the men’s hiding place did not react at once. I could only hope that their ears, not nearly as keen as my own, had not picked up on the slight sound.

  Another few moments slipped by, and, thankfully, the voices went silent once more. I did not relax. My instincts warned me that something drastic would soon happen, and Guenhwyvar’s low growl confirmed the feeling.

  At that critical moment, I did not want to believe that Rico could be so incredibly foolish, but my instincts and warrior senses overruled what my mind refused to believe. I had Taulmaril off my shoulder, an arrow nocked, and searched out again the exact route that would get me quickly across the water.

  The two orcs of the southern watch began to shift nervously and converse with each other in their guttural language. I watched them closely, but more closely I kept my attention on the orc nearest the prisoners. I watched the ogres as well, by far the more dangerous foes. An eight-hundred-pound, ten-foot-tall ogre might not be easily or quickly felled by my scimitars, though a well-aimed strike by Taulmaril could bring one crashing down. Still, my whole plan was predicated on getting the prisoners out without the ogres ever knowing—a battle with those brutes could cost me more time than I, or the prisoners, had to spare.

  Then my plan unraveled before my eyes.

  One of the orc sentries yelled something. The orc beside him put an arrow into the bushes shielding the farmers. Predictably, the sword-wielding guard was up in an instant, right beside the helpless prisoners. The ogres in the boulder tumble were stirring, but they seemed more curious than alarmed. I still held out some hope that the situation could be salvaged—until I heard Rico’s cry for a charge.

  There is a time in every battle when a warrior must let go of his conscious thoughts, must let his instincts guide his moves, must trust in those instincts fully and not waste precious time i
n questioning them. I had only one shot to stop the sword-wielding orc from killing the nearest prisoner, Tharman’s wife. The creature’s blade was up in the air when I let fly the arrow, its powerful enchantment trailing a silver streak as it flashed across the Surbrin.

  I think I got him in the eye, but wherever the missile actually hit, the orc’s head was virtually blown apart. The creature flew back into the darkness, and I started across the river, finding what steps I could without taking my attention from the opposite bank.

  The orcs nearest the farmers fired their bows again, then drew out weapons for close melee. And though I did not bother to look, I knew that Rico was leading a charge. The three orcs to the north cried out and looked to the river, trying to figure out what had killed their companion. How vulnerable I felt out there, with only emptiness about me, moving slowly as I picked my careful way! Those fears proved valid, for the orcs spotted me almost immediately. I saw their bows come up to fire.

  Perhaps the guards could not see me clearly, or perhaps their aim was simply not as good as mine. Whatever the reason, their hasty first shots went wide. I paused in my frantic charge and returned two arrows of my own; one hit home, its tremendous force throwing the middle orc of the three back and to the ground. I heard an arrow whistle by my ear, just inches away. I think Guenhwyvar, leaping past me, took the next, for I never heard it and, by the luck of the gods, never felt it.

  Guenhwyvar hit the bank ahead of me and completely shifted her momentum, sleek muscles pulling hard, bringing the panther about. I had seen Guenhwyvar execute maneuvers like this a hundred times, yet my breath, as always, was stolen away. The cat’s flight was directly westward, but as soon as her paws touched down, without a single extra step forward, she cut an incredible pivot to the north and fell upon the archers before they had another arrow out of their quivers.

  To my relief, I heard the sounds of battle joined to the south as Rico and the others clashed with the orcs. They had stirred up this hornets’ nest. At least they were going to share in the task of putting it right.