The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

by R. A. Salvatore

  As large as it was, Anders’s alchemy shop was still a cluttered place, with boxes piled high and tables and cabinets strewn about in a hodgepodge.

  “I heard a growl,” the elf continued. “A hunting cat.”

  Without looking up from some vials he was handling, Anders nodded his head in the direction of a large, blanket-covered container. “See that you do not get too close,” the old mage said with a wicked cackle. “Old Whiskers will grab you by the arm and tug you in, don’t you doubt!

  “And then you’ll need more than your shiny swords,” Anders cackled on.

  Josidiah wasn’t even listening, pacing quietly toward the blanket, moving silently so as not to disturb the cat within. He grabbed the edge of the blanket and, moving safely back, tugged it away. And then the bladesinger’s jaw surely drooped.

  It was a cat, as he had suspected, a great black panther, twice—no thrice—the size of the largest cat Josidiah had ever seen or heard of. And the cat was female, and females were usually much smaller than males. She paced the cage slowly, methodically, as if searching for some weakness, some escape, her rippling muscles guiding her along with unmatched grace.

  “How did you come by such a magnificent beast?” the bladesinger asked. His voice apparently startled the panther, stopping her in her tracks. She stared at Josidiah with an intensity that stole any further words right from the blade singer’s mouth.

  “Oh, I have my ways, elf,” the old mage said. “I’ve been looking for just the right cat for a long, long time, searching all the known world—and bits of it that are not yet known to any but me!”

  “But why?” Josidiah asked, his voice no more than a whisper. His question was aimed as much at the magnificent panther as at the old mage, and truly, the bladesinger could think of no reason to justify putting such a creature into a cage.

  “You remember my tale of the box canyon,” Anders replied, “of how my mentor and I flew owl-back out of the clutches of a thousand goblins?”

  Josidiah nodded and smiled, remembering well that amusing story. A moment later, though, when the implications of Anders’s words hit him fully, the elf turned back to the mage, a scowl clouding his fair face. “The figurine,” Josidiah muttered, for the owl had been but a statuette, enchanted to bring forth a great bird in times of its master’s need. There were many such objects in the world, many in Cormanthor, and Josidiah was not unacquainted with the methods of constructing them (though his own magics were not strong enough along the lines of enchanting). He looked back to the great panther, saw a distinct sadness there, then turned back sharply to Anders.

  “The cat must be killed at the moment of preparation,” the bladesinger protested. “Thus her life energies will be drawn into the statuette you will have created.”

  “Working on that even now,” Anders said lightly. “I have hired a most excellent dwarf craftsman to fashion a panther statuette. The finest craftsman … er, craftsdwarf, in all the area. Fear not, the statuette will do the cat justice.”

  “Justice?” the bladesinger echoed skeptically, looking once more into the intense, intelligent yellow-green eyes of the huge panther. “You will kill the cat?”

  “I offer the cat immortality,” Anders said indignantly.

  “You offer death to her will, and slavery to her body,” snapped Josidiah, more angry than he had ever been with old Anders. The bladesinger had seen figurines and thought them marvelous artifacts, despite the sacrifice of the animal in question. Even Josidiah killed deer and wild pig for his table, after all. So why should a wizard not create some useful item from an animal?

  But this time it was different, Josidiah sensed in his heart. This animal, this great and free cat, must not be so enslaved.

  “You will make the panther …” Josidiah began.

  “Whiskers,” explained Anders.

  “The panther …” the bladesinger reiterated forcefully, unable to come to terms with such a foolish name being tagged on this animal. “You will make the panther a tool, an animation that will function to the will of her master.”

  “What would one expect?” the old mage argued. “What else would one want?”

  Josidiah shrugged and sighed helplessly. “Independence,” he muttered.

  “Then what would be the point of my troubles?”

  Josidiah’s expression clearly showed his thinking. An independent magical companion might not be of much use to an adventurer in a dangerous predicament, but it would surely be preferable from the sacrificed animal’s point of view.

  “You chose wrong, bladesinger,” Anders teased. “You should have studied as a ranger. Surely your sympathies lie in that direction!”

  “A ranger,” the bladesinger asked, “as Anders Beltgarden once was?”

  The old mage blew a long and helpless sigh.

  “Have you so given up the precepts of your former trade in exchange for the often ill-chosen allure of magical mysteries?”

  “Oh, and a fine ranger you would have been,” Anders replied dryly.

  Josidiah shrugged. “My chosen profession is not so different,” he reasoned.

  Anders silently agreed. Indeed, the man did see much of his own youthful and idealistic self in the eyes of Josidiah Starym. That was the curious thing about elves, he noted, that this one, who was twice Anders’s present age, reminded him so much of himself when he had but a third his present years.

  “When will you begin?” Josidiah asked.

  “Begin?” scoffed Anders. “Why, I have been at work over the beast for nearly three weeks, and spent six months before that in preparing the scrolls and powders, the oils, the herbs. Not an easy process, this. And not inexpensive, I might add! Do you know what price a gnome places on the simplest of metal filings, pieces so fine that they might be safely added to the cat’s food?”

  Josidiah found that he really did not want to continue along this line of discussion. He did not want to know about the poisoning—and that was indeed what he considered it to be—of the magnificent panther. He looked back to the cat, looked deep into her intense eyes, intelligent so far beyond what he would normally expect.

  “Fine day outside,” the bladesinger muttered, not that he believed that Anders would take a moment away from his work to enjoy the weather. “Even my stubborn Uncle Taleisin, Lord Protector of House Starym, wears a face touched by sunshine.”

  Anders snorted. “Then he will be smiling this day when he lays low Coronal Eltargrim with a right hook?”

  That caught Josidiah off his guard, and he took up Anders’s infectious laughter. Indeed was Taleisin a stubborn and crusty elf, and if Josidiah returned to House Starym this day to learn that his uncle had punched the elf Coronal, he would not be surprised.

  “It is a momentous decision that Eltargrim has made,” Anders said suddenly, seriously. “And a brave one. By including the other goodly races, your Coronal has begun the turning of the great wheel of fate, a spin that will not easily be stopped.”

  “For good or for ill?”

  “That is for a seer to know,” Anders replied with a shrug. “But his choice was the right one, I am sure, though not without its risks.” The old mage snorted again. “A pity,” he said, “even were I a young man, I doubt I would see the outcome of Eltargrim’s decision, given the way elves measure the passage of time. How many centuries will pass before the Starym even decide if they will accept Eltargrim’s decree?”

  That brought another chuckle from Josidiah, but not a long-lived one. Anders had spoken of risks, and certainly there were many. Several prominent families, and not just the Starym, were outraged by the immigration of peoples that many haughty elves considered to be of inferior races. There were even a few mixed marriages, elf and human, within Cormanthor, but any offspring of such unions were surely ostracized.

  “My people will come to accept Eltargrim’s wise council,” the elf said at length, determinedly.

  “I pray you are right,” said Anders, “for surely Cormanthor will face greater perils
than the squabbling of stubborn elves.”

  Josidiah looked at him curiously.

  “Humans and halflings, gnomes, and most importantly, dwarves, walking among the elves, living in Cormanthor,” Anders muttered. “Why, I would guess that the goblinkin savor the thought of such an occurrence, that all their hated enemies be mixed together into one delicious stew!”

  “Together we are many times more powerful,” the bladesinger argued. “Human wizards oft exceed even our own. Dwarves forge mighty weapons, and gnomes create wondrous and useful items, and halflings, yes, even halflings, are cunning allies, and dangerous adversaries.”

  “I do not disagree with you,” Anders said, waving his tanned and leathery right hand, three-fingered from a goblin bite, in the air to calm the elf. “And as I have said, Eltargrim chose correctly. But pray you that the internal disputes are settled, else the troubles of Cormanthor will come tenfold from without.”

  Josidiah calmed and nodded; he really couldn’t disagree with old Anders’s reasoning, and had, in fact, harbored those same fears for many days. With all the goodly races coming together under one roof, the chaotic goblinkin would have cause to band together in numbers greater than ever before. If the varied folk of Cormanthor stood together, gaining strength in their diversity, those goblinkin, whatever their numbers, would surely be pushed away. But if the folk of Cormanthor could not see their way to such a day of unity …

  Josidiah let the thought hang outside consciousness, put it aside for another day, a day of rain and fog, perhaps. He looked back to the panther and sighed even more sadly, feeling helpless indeed. “Treat the cat well, Anders Beltgarden,” he said, and he knew that the old man, once a ranger, would indeed do so.

  Josidiah left then, making his way more slowly as he returned to the elven city. He saw Felicity again on the balcony, wearing a slight silken shift and a mischievous, inviting smile, but he passed her by with a wave. The bladesinger suddenly did not feel so much in the mood for play.

  Many times in the next few weeks, Josidiah returned to Anders’s tower and sat quietly before the cage, silently communing with the panther while the mage went about his work.

  “She will be yours when I am done,” Anders announced unexpectedly, one day when spring had turned to summer.

  Josidiah stared blankly at the old man.

  “The cat, I mean,” said Anders. “Whiskers will be yours when my work is done.”

  Josidiah’s blue eyes opened wide in horror, though Anders interpreted the look as one of supreme elation.

  “She’ll do me little use,” explained the mage. “I rarely venture out of doors these days, and in truth, have little faith that I will live much more than a few winters longer. Who better to have my most prized creation, I say, than Josidiah Starym, my friend, and he who should have been a ranger?”

  “I shall not accept,” Josidiah said abruptly, sternly.

  Anders’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I would be forever reminded of what the cat once was,” said the elf, “and what she should be. Whenever I called the slave body to my side, whenever this magnificent creature sat on her haunches, awaiting my command to bring life to her limbs, I would feel that I had overstepped my bounds as a mortal, that I had played as a god with one undeserving my foolish intervention.”

  “It’s just an animal!” Anders protested.

  Josidiah was glad to see that he had gotten through to the old mage, a man the elf knew to be too sensitive for this present undertaking.

  “No,” said the elf, turning to stare deeply into the panther’s knowing eyes. “Not this one.” He fell silent, then, and Anders, with a huff of protest, went back to his work, leaving the elf to sit and stare, to silently share his thoughts with the panther.

  It was for Josidiah Starym a night of absolute torment, for Anders would complete his work before the moon had set and the great panther would be slain for the sake of a magical item, a mere magical tool. The bladesinger left Cormanthor, heedless of the warnings that had been posted concerning venturing out of the city at night: goblinkin, and enemies even greater, were rumored to be stalking the forest.

  Josidiah hardly cared, hardly gave any thoughts to his personal safety. His fate was not in the balance, so it seemed, not like that of the panther.

  He thought of going to see Anders, to try one last time to talk the old human out of his designs, but the bladesinger dismissed that notion. He didn’t understand humans, he realized, and had indeed lost a bit of faith in the race (and, subsequently, in Eltargrim’s decision) because of what he perceived as Anders’s failure. The mage, once a ranger and more attuned to the elven ideals than so very many of his rough-edged race, should have known better, should not have sacrificed such a wondrous and intelligent animal as that particular panther, for the sake of magic.

  Josidiah moved through the forest, then out of the canopy and under a million stars, shining despite the westering full moon. He reached a treeless hillock. He effortlessly climbed the steep slope through the carpet-thick grass and came to the top of the hill, a private and special place he often used for contemplation.

  Then he simply stood and stared upward at the stars, letting his thoughts fly to the greater mysteries, the unknown and never-known, the heavens themselves. He felt mortal suddenly, as though his last remaining centuries were but a passing sigh in the eternal life of the universe.

  A sigh that was so much longer, so it seemed, than the remaining life of the panther, if the cat was even still alive.

  A subtle rustle at the base of the hillock alerted the elf, brought him from his contemplations. He went into a crouch immediately and stared down at the spot, letting his vision slip into the infrared spectrum.

  Heat sources moved about the trees, all along the base of the hill. Josidiah knew them, and thus was not surprised when the forest erupted suddenly and a host of orcs came screaming out of the underbrush, waving weapons, charging the hill and the lone elf, this apparently easy kill.

  The lead orcs were right before the crest of the hillock, close enough for Josidiah to see the glistening lines of drool about their tusky faces, when the elf released his fireball. The gouts of flame engulfed that entire side of the hill, shriveling orcs. It was a desperate spell, one Josidiah hated casting in the midst of grasslands, but few options presented themselves. Even as those orcs on the side of the hill fell away into the flames, charred and dying, they were replaced by a second group, charging wildly, and then came a third, from the back side of the hill.

  Out came the elf’s twin swords, snapping up to the ready. “Cleansing flames!” the elf cried, commanding the powers within his swords. Greenish fires licked at the metal, blurred the distinct lines of the razor-sharp blades.

  The closest two orcs, those two who had been right before the elf and had thus escaped the fury of the fireball, skidded in surprise at the sudden appearance of the flaming blades and, for just an instant, let their guards drop.

  Too long; Josidiah’s left sword slashed across the throat of one, while his right plunged deep into the chest of the second.

  The elf spun about, deflecting wide a hurled spear, dodging a second, then picking off a third with a furious down-cut. He dived into a roll and came up charging fast for the back side of the hill, meeting the rush of three monsters, cutting at them wildly before they could get their defenses coordinated.

  One fell away, mortally wounded; another lost half of its arm to the searing sweep of the elf’s deadly blade. But almost immediately Josidiah was pressed from all sides, orcs stabbing in at him with long spears or rushing forward suddenly to slash with their short, cruel swords.

  He could not match weapons with this many, so he moved his flaming blades in purely defensive motions, beginning the chant to let loose another spell.

  He took a spear thrust on the side and nearly lost his concentration and his spell. His finely meshed elven chain armor deflected the blow, however, and the elf finished with a twirl, tapping the hilts of his sw
ords together, crying out a word to release the spell. His swords went back up straight, his thumbs came out to touch together, and a burst of flame fanned out from the elf in a half-circle arc.

  Without even stopping to witness the effects of his spell, Josidiah spun about, swords slashing across and behind. Ahead charged the bladesinger, a sudden rush of overwhelming fury that broke apart the orcish line and gave Josidiah several openings in the defensive posture of his enemies.

  A surge of adrenalin kept the bladesinger moving, dancing and cutting down orcs with a fury. He thought of the panther again, and her undeserved fate, and focused his blame for that act upon these very orcs.

  Another fell dead, another atop that one, and many went scrambling down the hill, wanting no part of this mighty warrior.

  Soon Josidiah stood quiet, at the ready, a handful of orcs about him, staying out of his reach. But there was something else, the elf sensed, something more evil, more powerful. Something calmed these orcs, lending them confidence, though more than a score of their kin lay dead and another dozen wounded.

  The elf sucked in his breath as the newest foes came out onto the open grass. Josidiah realized then his folly. He could defeat a score of orcs, two-score, if he got his spells away first, but these three were not orcs.

  These were giants.

  The cat was restless, pacing and growling; Anders wondered if she knew what was to come, knew that this was her last night as a mortal creature. The thought that she might indeed understand shook the old mage profoundly, made all of Josidiah’s arguments against this magical transformation echo again in his mind.

  The panther roared, and threw herself against the cage door, bouncing back and pacing, growling.

  “What are you about?” the old mage asked, but the cat only roared again, angrily, desperately. Anders looked around; what did the cat know? What was going on?