They crossed around the southern side of the main mountain of the dwarven homeland, then past the wall and bridge that had been built east of the complex. Several dwarf sentries spotted them and recognized them after a moment of apparent panic. Drizzt returned their waves and heard his name shouted from below.
Over the great river, partially covered in ice and its steel gray waters flowing swiftly and angrily, they set down, their shadows long before them.
The land was secure. Obould’s minions had not pressed their attack, and predictably, as their campfire flared in the dark of night, the snow beginning to fall, they were visited by a patrol of elves, Innovindil’s own people scouting the southern reaches of their domain.
There was much rejoicing and welcoming. The elves joined in song and dance, and Drizzt went along with it all, his smile genuine.
The storm grew stronger, the wind howling, but the troupe, nestled in the embrace of a thick stand of pines, were not deterred in their celebration, their joy at the return of Innovindil, and their somber satisfaction that poor Ellifain had come home.
Soon after, Innovindil recounted the journey to her kin, telling them of her disappointment and surprise to see that the orcs had not gone home to their dark holes after the fall of King Obould.
“But Obould is not dead,” one of the elves replied, and Innovindil and her drow companion sat intrigued and quiet.
Another elf stepped forward to explain, “We have found a kin of yours, Drizzt Do’Urden, striking at the orcs much as you once did. His name is Tos’un.”
Drizzt felt as if the wind, diminished as it was through the thick boughs of the pines, might just blow him over. He had killed two other dark elves in the fight with Obould’s invading army, and had seen at least two more in his personal battle. In fact, one of those drow, a priestess, had brought forth a magical earthquake that had sent both Drizzt and the orc king tumbling, Drizzt, with good fortune, to a ledge not far below, and Obould, so Drizzt had thought, into a deep ravine where he surely would have met his demise. Might this Tos’un be one of those who had watched Drizzt’s battle with the orc king?
“Obould is alive,” the elf said again. “He walked from the carnage of the landslide.”
Drizzt didn’t think it possible, but given what he had seen of the orc army, could he truly deny the claim?
“Where is this Tos’un?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
“Across the Surbrin to the north, far from here,” the elf explained. “He fights beside Albondiel and his patrol, and fights well by all reports.”
“You have become accepting,” Drizzt remarked.
“We have been given good reason.”
Drizzt was hardly convinced.
He is in the Moonwood, Khazid’hea reminded Tos’un one brilliant and brutally cold morning.
They were still out across the Surbrin, in the northern stretches of the newly-proclaimed Kingdom of Many Arrows, just south of the towering easternmost peaks of the Spine of the World. The drow tried not to respond, but his thoughts flickered back to Sinnafain’s announcement to him that Drizzt Do’Urden had returned from the west and stopped in the Moonwood.
He saw you on that day he battled Obould, Khazid’hea warned. He knows you were in league with the orcs.
He saw two drow, Tos’un corrected. And from afar. He cannot know for certain that it was me.
And if he does? His eyes are much more attuned to the glare of the sun than are yours. Do not underestimate his understanding. He did battle with two of your companions, as well. You cannot know what Drizzt might have learned from them before he slew them.
Tos’un slid the sword away and glanced around the ring of boulders fronting the shallow cave that he and the elves had taken for their camp the previous night. He had suspected that Drizzt had been involved in the fall of Donnia Soldue and Adnon Khareese, but the sword’s confirmation jarred him.
You will exact vengeance for your dead friends? Khazid’hea asked, and there was something in the sword’s telepathy that led him to understand the folly of that course. In truth, Tos’un wanted no battle with the legendary rogue that had so upset the great city of Menzoberranzan. Kaer’lic had feared that Drizzt was actually in Lolth’s favor, as chaos seemed to widen in his destructive wake, but even if that were not the case, the rogue’s reputation still brought shudders up Tos’un’s spine.
Could he bluff his way past Drizzt’s doubts, or would the rogue just cut him down?
Good, Khazid’hea purred in his thoughts. You understand that this is not a battle you are ready to fight. The sword led his gaze to Sinnafain, sitting on a rock not far away and staring out at the wide valley beyond.
Kill her quickly and let us be gone, Khazid’hea offered. The others are out or deep in Reverie—they will not arrive in time to stop you.
Despite his reservations, Tos’un’s hand closed on the sword’s hilt. But he let go almost immediately.
Drizzt will not strike me down. I can dissuade him. He will accept me.
At the very least, he will demand my return, Khazid’hea protested, so that he can give me back to that human woman.
I will not allow that.
How will you prevent it? And how will Tos’un answer the calls of the priests when Khazid’hea is not helping him to defeat their truth-seeking spells?
We are beyond that point, the drow replied.
Not if I betray you, the sword warned.
Tos’un sucked in his breath and knew he was caught. The thought of going back out alone in the winter cold did not sit well with him, but he had no answer for the wretched sword.
Nor was he willing to surrender Khazid’hea, to Drizzt or to anyone. Tos’un understood that his fighting skills were improving because of the tutoring of the blade, and few weapons in the world possessed a finer edge. Still, he did not doubt Khazid’hea’s estimation that he was not ready to do battle with the likes of Drizzt Do’Urden.
Hardly aware of the movements, the drow walked up behind Sinnafain.
“It is a beautiful day, but the wind will keep us about the cave,” she said, and Tos’un caught most of the words and her meaning. He was a quick student, and the Elvish language was not so different from that of the drow, with many similar words and word roots, and an identical structure.
She turned on the rock to face him just as he struck.
The world must have seemed to spin for Sinnafain. She lay on the ground, the drow standing above her, his deadly sword’s tip at her chin, forcing her to arch her neck.
Kill her! Khazid’hea demanded.
Tos’un’s mind raced. He wanted to plunge his sword into her throat and head. Or maybe he should take her hostage. She would be a valuable bargaining chip, and one that would afford him many pleasures before it was spent, to be sure.
But to what end?
Kill her! Khazid’hea screamed in his mind.
Tos’un eased the blade back and Sinnafain tilted her chin down and looked at him. The terror in her blue eyes felt good to him, and he almost pulled the sword back, just to give her some hope, before reversing and cutting out her throat.
But to what end?
Kill her!
“I am not your enemy, but Drizzt will not understand,” Tos’un heard himself saying, though his command of the language was so poor that Sinnafain’s face screwed up in confusion.
“Not your enemy,” he said slowly, focusing on the words. “Drizzt will not understand.”
He shook his head in frustration, reached down, and removed the helpless elf’s weapons, tossing them far aside. He jerked Sinnafain to her feet and shoved her away, Khazid’hea at her back. He glanced back at the cave a few times, but soon was far enough away to understand that no pursuit would be forthcoming.
He spun Sinnafain around and forced her to the ground. “I am not your enemy,” he said yet again.
Then, to Khazid’hea’s supreme outrage, Tos’un Armgo ran away.
“It is Catti-brie’s sword,” Drizzt s
aid when Sinnafain told him the tale of Tos’un a few days later, when she and her troupe returned to the Moonwood. “He was one of the pair I saw when I did battle with Obould.”
“Our spells of truth-seeking did not detect his lie, or any malice,” Sinnafain argued.
“He is drow,” Innovindil put in. “They are a race full of tricks.”
But Sinnafain’s simple response, “He did not kill me,” mitigated much of the weight of that argument.
“He was with Obould,” Drizzt said again. “I know that several drow aided the orc king, even prompted his attack.” He looked over at Innovindil, who nodded her agreement.
“I will find him,” Drizzt promised.
“And kill him?” Sinnafain asked.
Drizzt didn’t answer, but only because he managed to bite back the word “yes,” before it escaped his lips.
“You understand the concept?” Priest Jallinal asked Innovindil. “The revenant?”
“A spirit with unfinished business, yes,” Innovindil replied, and she couldn’t keep the tremor out of her voice. The priests would not undertake such a ritual lightly. Normally revenants were thankfully rare, restless spirits of those who had died in great tumult, unable to resolve central questions of their very being. But Ellifain was not a revenant—not yet. In their communion with their god, the elf priests had come to believe that it would be for the best to create a revenant of Ellifain, something altogether unheard of. They were convinced of their course, though, and with their confidence, and given all that was at stake, Innovindil was hardly about to decline. She, after all, was the obvious choice.
“Possession is not painful,” Jallinal assured her. “Not physically. But it is unsettling to the highest degree. You are certain that you can do this?”
Innovindil sat back and glanced out the left side of the wooden structure, to the hut where she knew Drizzt to be. She found herself nodding as she considered Drizzt, the drow she had come to love as a cherished friend. He needed it to happen as much as Ellifain did.
“Be done with it, and let us all rest more comfortably,” Innovindil said.
Jallinal and the other clerics began their ritual casting, and Innovindil reclined on the floor pillows and closed her eyes. The magic filtered through her gently, softly, opening the conduit to the spirit the priests called forth. Her consciousness dulled, but was not expelled. Rather, her thoughts seemed as if filtered through those of her former friend, as if she was seeing and hearing everything reflected off the consciousness of Ellifain.
For Ellifain was there with her, she knew, and when her body sat up, it was through Ellifain’s control and not Innovindil’s.
There was something else, Innovindil recognized, for though it was Ellifain within her body along with her own spirit, her friend was different. She was calm and serene, at peace for the first time. Innovindil’s thoughts instinctively questioned the change, and Ellifain answered with memories—memories of a distant past recently brought forth into her consciousness.
The view was cloudy and blocked—by the crook of an arm. Screams of agony and terror rent the air.
She felt warmth, wet warmth, and knew it to be blood.
The sky spun above her. She felt herself falling then landing atop the body of the woman who held her.
Ellifain’s mother, of course!
Innovindil’s mind whirled through the images and sounds—confused, overwhelmed. But then they focused clearly on a single image that dominated her vision: lavender eyes.
Innovindil knew those eyes. She had stared into those same eyes for months.
The world grew darker, warmer, and wetter.
The image faded, and Innovindil understood what Ellifain had been shown in the afterlife: the truth of Drizzt Do’Urden’s actions on that horrible night. Ellifain had been shown her error in her single-minded hatred of that dark elf, her mistake in refusing to believe his reported actions in the deadly attack.
Innovindil’s body stood up and walked out of the hut, moving with purpose across the way to the hut wherein Drizzt rested. She went through the door without as much as a knock, and there sat Drizzt, looking at her curiously, recognizing, no doubt, that something was amiss.
She moved up and knelt before him. She stared closely into those lavender eyes, those same eyes she, Ellifain, had seen so intimately on the night of her mother’s murder. She brought a hand up against Drizzt’s cheek, then brought her other hand up so that she held his face, staring at her.
“Innovindil?” he asked, and his voice sounded uncertain. He drew in his breath.
“Ellifain, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Innovindil heard her voice reply. “Who you knew as Le’lorinel.”
Drizzt labored to catch his breath.
Ellifain pulled his head low and kissed him on the forehead, holding him there for a long, long while.
Then she pulled him back to arms’ length. Innovindil felt the warm wetness of tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I know now,” Ellifain whispered.
Drizzt reached up and clasped her wrists. He moved his lips as if to respond, but no words came forth.
“I know now,” Ellifain said again. She nodded and rose, then walked out of the hut.
Innovindil felt it all so keenly. Her friend was at last at peace.
The smile that was stamped upon Drizzt’s face was as genuine as any he had ever worn. The tears on his cheeks were wrought of joy and contentment.
He knew that a troubled road lay ahead for him and for his friends. The orcs remained, and he had to deal with a dark elf wielding the ever-deadly Khazid’hea.
But those obstacles seemed far less imposing to Drizzt Do’Urden that morning, and when Innovindil—the whole and unpossessed Innovindil—came to him and wrapped him in a hug, he felt as if nothing in all the world was amiss.
For Drizzt Do’Urden trusted his friends, and with the forgiveness and serenity of Ellifain, Drizzt Do’Urden again trusted himself.
any years ago, Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman suggested that the three of us, along with Ed Greenwood, should do a book together. The idea was to each write a novella with our signature characters, taking them through the same challenges. It sounded like a blast to me, but unfortunately, for one reason or another, it never got off the ground.
So when I was approached for Dragons: Worlds Afire, I was already softened to the idea. “If Ever They Happened Upon My Lair” is the only novella I’ve ever written, and I have to admit that I like the format much more than the short story. I’ve always been a fan of Fritz Leiber’s novellas, and James Joyce’s “The Dead” is probably my favorite piece of writing of all.
Since we weren’t all writing the same conundrum for our heroes in this book, I was able to go back again to my favorite villains, Entreri and Jarlaxle. Although they don’t appear in this tale, the events certainly tie in to their adventuring days in Vaasa and Damara, for once again, I’m writing a supplement to the novels.
I love the Bloodstone Lands, and I have since I read those old Douglas Niles game modules. It’s no accident that many of the characters appearing in Promise of the Witch King come straight from those modules. I wrote the resource book for the region for the AD&D game, and wanted to set my “Monk Quintet” in these lands (but the Monk Quintet became the Cleric Quintet and went to other reaches of the Realms). In addition, I’m intrigued by Zhengyi the Witch King—mostly because I know there’s an inside joke about the creation of the lich dating back to the old TSR days, and no one will let me in on it!
I had a lot of fun with dragons in “Wickless in the Nether,” so I was quite comfortable in letting these beasts take center stage here. And just because I’m using dragons doesn’t mean I can’t continue my exploration of yet another theme that has played so prominently in the Legend of Drizzt: mortality. Dragons live a long, long time in the Forgotten Realms, but is even that long enough, I wonder? I always hear people declaring, “I wouldn’t want to live forever!” but I don’t really believe them—not most of them, an
yway. I’m sure for some there is such certainty in “what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil” that the sentiment is sincere and would hold in the face of the ultimate test. I expect that most people might say it, but when the moment of truth came, they’d recant if doing so would do any good.
And that really is the promise of the Witch King, after all, and the promise of vampires and the promise of most religions. So much of what we do in life relates to our fears and hopes of an afterlife, or an absence of one. This is the conundrum of rational, self-aware creatures, the eternal question of purpose or one big joke. Are we more than our mortal coils, or an accident of molecular combinations?
Drizzt claims that he is free of the petty concerns of life because he knows, truly understands, that he will one day die. How often have we heard a survivor of a terrible illness claim it to be the greatest blessing of her life because it has focused her so greatly on the present, reminding her to live each day as a blessing?
To die, to sleep,
To sleep, and perchance to dream?
Aye, there’s the rub.
Even for dragons.
ill the buckets, grab a fish,” muttered Ringo Heffenstone, a dwarf with exceptionally broad shoulders, even for a dwarf, and a large, square head. Ringo was quite an exception among the group of dwarves who had ventured out into the mud lands of northeastern Vaasa in that he wore no beard. A gigantic handlebar mustache, yes, but no beard. An unfortunate encounter with a gnomish fire-rocket a few years before back in the hills of northwestern Damara, the southern and more civilized neighbor to Vaasa, had left a patch of scarred skin on Ringo’s chin from which no hairs would sprout.
It was a sad scar for a dwarf, to be sure, but with his typical pragmatism and stoicism, Ringo had just shrugged it off and redesigned his facial hair appropriately. Nothing ever really bothered Ringo. Certainly he could grump and mutter as well as the next dwarf about present indignities, such as his current position as water mule for the troop of dwarves, but in the end everything rolled out far and wide from him, eventually toppling off his broad shoulders.
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt Page 21