The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

by R. A. Salvatore

  The panther leaped again for the cage door, slamming hard and bouncing away. Anders shook his head, thoroughly confused, for he had never seen the panther like this before—not at all.

  “To the Nine Hells with you, elf,” the wizard grumbled, wishing he had not revealed Whiskers to Josidiah until the transformation had been completed. He took a deep breath, yelled at the cat to calm down, and drew out a slender wand.

  “It will not hurt,” Anders promised apologetically. He spoke a word of command, and a greenish ray shot forth from the wand, striking the panther squarely. The cat stopped her pacing, stopped everything, just stood perfectly still, immobilized by the magic of the wand.

  Anders took up the figurine and the specially prepared knife, and opened the cage door. He had known from the very start that this was not going to be easy.

  He was at the cat’s side, the figurine in hand, the knife moving slowly for the creature’s throat.

  Anders hesitated. “Am I presuming to play the role of a god?” he asked aloud. He looked into those marvelous, intelligent eyes; he thought of Josidiah, who was indeed much like a ranger, much like Anders had been before devoting his life to ways magical.

  Then he looked to the knife, the knife that his hand, his ranger hand, was about to plunge into the neck of this most magnificent creature.

  “Oh, damn you, elf!” the mage cried out, and threw the knife across the cage. He began a spell then, one that came to his lips without conscious thought. He hadn’t used this incantation in months, and how he recalled it then, Anders would never know. He cast it forth, powerfully, and all the cabinet doors in his shop, and the door to the hallway, and all the doors in the lower section of the tower, sprang open and wide.

  The mage moved to the side of the cage and slumped to a sitting position. Already the great cat was stirring—even the powerful magic of his wand could not hold such a creature as this for long. Anders clutched that wand now, wondering if he might need it again, for his own defense.

  The cat shook her head vigorously and took an ambling step, the sensation at last returning to her limbs. She gave Anders a sidelong glance.

  The old mage put the wand away. “I played god with you, Whiskers,” he said softly. “Now it is your turn.”

  But the panther was preoccupied and hardly gave the wizard a thought as she launched herself from the cage, darting across the room and out into the hallway. She was long gone before Anders ever got to his tower door, and he stood there in the night, lamenting not at all his wasted weeks of effort, his wasted gold.

  “Not wasted,” Anders said sincerely, considering the lesson he had just learned. He managed a smile and turned to go back into his tower, then saw the burst of flame, a fireball, mushrooming into the air from the top of a hillock to the north, a place that Anders knew well.

  “Josidiah,” he gasped, a reasonable guess indeed. That hillock was Josidiah’s favorite place, a place Anders would expect the elf to go on a night such as this.

  Cursing that he had few spells prepared for a confrontation, the old man hustled back into his tower and gathered together a few items.

  His only chance lay in speed, in darting about, never letting his enemies close on him. Even that tactic would only delay the inevitable.

  He rushed to the left but had to stop and spin, sensing the pursuit coming from close behind. Backing them off with a sweeping cross of his blades, Josidiah turned and darted left again and, predictably, had to pull up short. This time, though, the elf not only stopped but backtracked, flipping one sword in his hand and stabbing it out behind him, deep into the belly of the closest pursuing orc.

  His grim satisfaction at the deft maneuver couldn’t hold, however, for even as the dead creature slid from his blade, even as the other few orcs scrambled away down the side of the hill, Josidiah noted the approach of the three giants, fifteen-foot-tall behemoths calmly swinging spiked clubs the size of the elf’s entire body.

  Josidiah considered the spells remaining to him, tried to find some way to turn them to his advantage.

  Nothing; he would have to fight this battle with swords only. And with three giants moving toward him in coordinated fashion, he did not like the odds.

  He skittered right, out of the range of a club swipe, then went straight back, away from a second giant, trying to get at the first attacker before it could bring its heavy weapon to bear once more. He would indeed have had the strike, but the third giant cut him off and forced him into a diving roll to avoid a heavy smash.

  I must get them to work against each other, the elf thought. To tangle their long limbs with each other.

  He put his sword up high and screamed, charging straight for the closest brute, then dipped low under the parrying club and dived into a forward roll. He came to his feet and ran on, right between the giant’s widespread legs. Up thrust one sword, out to the side slashed the second, and Josidiah ran out from under the giant, meeting the attack of one of its companions with a double-bladed deflection, his swords accepting the hit of the club and turning it, barely, to the side and down.

  Josidiah’s arms were numbed from the sheer weight of the hit; he could not begin to counterattack. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the sudden rush of the third giant and knew his daring attack on the first had put him in a precarious position indeed. He scrambled out to the side, threw himself into yet another roll as he saw the club come up high.

  But this giant was a smart one, and it held the strike as it closed another long, loping stride. Josidiah rolled right over a second time and a third, but he could not get out of range, not this time.

  The giant roared. Up went the club, high and back over its head, and Josidiah started a sidelong scramble, but stopped, startled, as a huge black spear—a spear?—flew over him.

  No, it was not a spear, the bladesinger realized, but a panther, the old mage’s cat! She landed heavily on the giant’s chest, claws grabbing a firm hold, maw snapping for the stunned monster’s face. Back the behemoth stumbled, overbalanced, and down the giant went, the panther riding it all the way to the ground.

  The cat was in too close for any strike, so the giant let go of its club and tried to grab at the thing. The panther’s front claws held fast, though, while her back legs began a running rake, tearing through the giant’s bearskin tunic and then through the giant’s own skin.

  Josidiah had no time to stop and ask how, or why, or anything else. He was back on his feet, another giant closing fast. The one he had hit shuffled to join in as well. Out to the side rushed the bladesinger, trying to keep one giant in front of the other, trying to fight them one at a time.

  He ducked a lumbering swing, ducked again as the club rushed past from a vicious backhand, then hopped high, tucking his legs as the giant came swiping across a third time, this time predictably low. And getting the club so low meant that the giant was bending near to the ground. Josidiah landed in a run, charging forward, getting inside the range of the coming backhand and sticking the monster, once, twice, right in the face.

  It howled and fell away, and its companion shuffled in, one hand swinging the club, the other clutching its torn loins.

  A sudden blast, a lightning stroke, off to the side of the hill, temporarily blinded both elf and giant, but Josidiah did not need his eyes to fight. He waded right in, striking hard.

  The giant’s hand closed on the cat, but the agile panther twisted about suddenly, biting hard, taking off three fingers, and the behemoth fostered no further thoughts of squeezing its foe. It merely shoved hard with its other hand, pushing the cat from its chest. The giant rolled about, grabbing for its club, knowing it must get to its feet before the cat came back in.

  No chance of that; the panther hit the ground solidly, all four claws digging a firm hold, every muscle snapping taut to steal, to reverse the cat’s momentum. Turf went flying as the panther pivoted and leaped, hitting the rising giant on the head, latching on, biting, and raking.

  The behemoth wailed in agony and d
ropped its club again. It flailed at the cat with both arms and scored several heavy blows. But the panther would not let go, great fangs tearing deep holes in the behemoth’s flesh, mighty claws erasing the features from the giant’s face.

  Josidiah came up square against his one opponent, the giant bleeding from several wounds, but far from finished. Its companion moved in beside it, shoulder to shoulder.

  Then another form crested the hill, a hunched, human form, and the second giant turned to meet this newest enemy.

  “It took you long enough to get here,” the elf remarked sarcastically.

  “Orcs in the woods,” Anders explained. “Pesky little rats.”

  The human had no apparent defenses in place, and so the giant waded right in, taking up its club in both hands. Anders paid it little heed, beginning a chant for another spell.

  The club swished across, and Josidiah nearly cried out, thinking Anders was about to be batted a mile from the hilltop.

  The giant might as well have hit the side of a stone mountain. The club slammed hard against Anders’s shoulder and simply bounced off. Anders didn’t even blink, never stopped his chanting.

  “Oh, I do love that spell,” the old mage remarked between syllables of his present casting.

  “Stoneskin,” Josidiah said dryly. “Do teach it to me.”

  “And this one, too,” Anders added, laughing. He finished his present casting, throwing his arms down toward the ground at the giant’s feet. Immediately, earth began flying wildly, as though a dozen giants with huge spades were digging furiously at the spot. When it ended, the giant was standing in a hole, its eyes even with those of the wizard.

  “That’s more fair,” Anders remarked.

  The giant howled and moved to raise its club, but found the hole too constricting for it to properly get the weapon up high. The wizard began yet another chant, holding his hand out toward the monster, pointing one finger right between the giant’s eyes and bending the digit to show the giant a bejeweled ring.

  With its weapon tangled in the tight quarters of the hole, the monster improvised, snapping its head forward and biting hard the wizard’s extended hand.

  Again, Anders hardly finished, and the giant groaned loudly, one tooth shattered by the impact.

  Anders thrust his hand forward, putting the ring barely an inch from the monster’s open mouth and loosing the magic of his ring. Balls of lightning popped forth, into the open mouth, lighting up the behemoth’s head.

  “Ta da!” said the old mage, bending his legs, more of a curtsy than a bow, and throwing his arms out wide, palms up, as the giant slumped down into the hole.

  “And the grave is already dug,” Anders boasted.

  The second giant had seen enough, and started for the side of the hill, but Josidiah would not let it get away so easily. The bladesinger sprinted right behind, sheathing one sword. He let the giant get far enough down the hillside so that when he leaped for it, he came in even with the monster’s bulbous nose. He held fast and brought his sword arm in hard around the other side, slashing deep into the monster’s throat. The giant tried to reach up and grab the elf, but suddenly it was gasping, stumbling, skidding to its knees, and sliding down the hill.

  Josidiah’s sword arm pumped furiously, widening the wound, tearing at the brute’s arteries and windpipe. He pushed away as the giant tumbled facedown, coming to a standing position atop the monster’s back. It was still alive, still gasping, but the wound was mortal, Josidiah knew, and so he turned back for the hilltop.

  Anders’s self-congratulatory smile was short-lived, dissipating as soon as the mage looked to the battered panther. The cat had done her work well—the giant lay dead on the ground—but she had been battered in the process and lay awkwardly, breath coming in forced gasps, backbone obviously shattered.

  Anders ran to the panther’s side; Josidiah joined him there a moment later.

  “Do something!” the elf pleaded.

  “There is nothing I can do,” Anders protested.

  “Send the cat back into the figurine,” Josidiah said. “She should be whole again when she returns.”

  Anders turned on the elf, grabbed him by the front of his tunic. “I have not completed the spell,” he cried, and only then did it hit the mage. What had brought the panther out here? Why would a panther, a wild panther, run to the aid of an elf?

  “I never got close to finishing,” the mage said more calmly, letting go of the elf. “I just let her go.”

  Josidiah turned his wide-eyed stare from Anders to the panther. The questions were obvious then; neither the elf nor the mage bothered to speak them aloud.

  “We must get her back to my tower,” Anders said.

  Josidiah’s expression remained incredulous. How were they to carry six hundred pounds of limp cat all the way back to the tower?

  But Anders had an answer for that. He took out a swatch of black velvet and unfolded it several times, until he had a patch of blackness several feet in diameter on the hilltop. Then the mage lifted one side of the cloth and gently eased it against the rear of the panther.

  Josidiah blinked, realizing that the cat’s tail had disappeared into the cloth!

  “Lift her as I pass this over her,” Anders begged. Josidiah did just that, lifting the cat inch by inch as the mage moved the cloth along. The panther was swallowed up by the blackness.

  “Extradimensional hole,” the mage explained, slipping it forward to engulf the cat’s head. Then he laid the cloth flat once more and carefully folded it back to a size that would fit in his pocket. “She is quite fine,” he said. “Well, except for the giant’s wounds.”

  “Wondrous toys, wizard,” Josidiah congratulated.

  “Spoils of adventuring,” Anders replied with a wink. “You should get out more.”

  The mirth could not hold as the pair ran off, back for Beltgarden Home. What might they do there but make the dying cat comfortable, after all?

  Anders did just that, opening his portable hole and gently easing the panther part of the way out of it. He stopped short, though, and Josidiah winced, understanding that the cat was drawing her last breaths.

  “Perhaps I can finish the figurine enchantment,” Anders reasoned. He looked sympathetically to Josidiah. “Be gone,” he said, “for I must slay the cat quickly, mercifully.”

  Josidiah shook his head, determined to bear witness to the transformation, to the mortal end of this most wondrous cat, to this intelligent panther that had come, unbidden, to his rescue. How might the elf explain the bond that had grown between him and the cat? Had Anders’s magical preparation imparted a sense of loyalty to the panther, given her the beginnings of that mindless slavery she would have known as a magical tool?

  Josidiah looked once more into the cat’s eyes and knew that was not the case. Something else had happened here, something of a higher order, though perhaps in part facilitated by the magic of Anders’s preparation.

  Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. “You will take the figurine,” he said to Josidiah.

  “I cannot,” the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.

  Anders did not argue—there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat’s head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther’s eyes.

  “I name you Whiskers,” he began, putting his dagger against the animal’s throat.

  “No!” Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man’s hand and pulling the dagger away. “Not Whiskers, never that!”

  Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. “Shadow,” he declared.

  “No, not shadow,” said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. “The high elvish word for shadow.” He looked right into the cat’s eyes, se
arching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther’s name all along.

  “Guenhwyvar.”

  As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders’s lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.

  Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything—panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.

  “What did you do?” Josidiah asked the mage.

  “I?” balked Anders. “What did you do?”

  Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement.

  “Guenhwyvar,” the elf called nervously.

  A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf’s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.

  This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!

  “How did you do this?” the elf asked.

  “I know not,” Anders replied. “And I do not even know what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!” The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. “Send her away to heal,” he bade.

  Josidiah looked to the cat. “Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise.”

  The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.

  “That is the joy of magic,” Anders said. “The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, perhaps the magic of the hole—ah, yes, my dear, lost hole!—perhaps the combination of all these things.