The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Who are you?” he asked, calm.

  The halfling shrugged.

  “How long have you lived in Iruladoon?”

  “Iruladoon?”

  “This place. How long?”

  Again, the halfling shrugged. “Time has little meaning here. Months? Years? I don’t know.”

  “And what do you do?”

  “I fish. I sculpt—have you an interest in scrimshaw?” He turned and indicated the round door of his home.

  The wizard got splashed again.

  “And you instruct your forest to treat visitors in an ill manner,” Addadearber said. The halfling laughed at that, and as another wave of water sprayed Addadearber, the wizard pointed accusingly and stepped forward to warn, “Do not ever mock me!”

  To his surprise, the little one didn’t shrink back in the least, but just stood there looking at him, curious, shaking his head. Normally when Addadearber voiced such a proclamation, mothers took their children off the streets and great warriors quivered, and that injustice, that little halfling looking at him with something akin to pity, was more than he could take.

  “You insignificant ant! I could reduce you to ash with a mere thought!”

  The halfling glanced to the side, to the waters of the lake, and sighed, and returned his gaze to Addadearber with a finger held up over pursed lips and a warning of, “Shh.”

  “What?” Addadearber replied, then he, too, looked at the lake, and his eyes widened. There, just off shore, the water churned in a wide circle, silent at first but then growing strong enough so that waves cupped over and splashed around the growing whirlpool.

  “You really should leave,” the halfling said.

  “I came here to learn,” the wizard replied, trying hard to keep the rising fear out of his voice. “The world is troubled—magic is ill. My goddess has gone silent.”

  “I know more about that than you ever will, I fear,” the halfling interrupted.

  “Then you must tell me everything.”

  “Go away. For your own sake, wizard, leave this place and do not return.”

  “No!” Addadearber yelled above the rising tumult of the churning water. “Enough of your games and tricks! I will have my answers!”

  He got one, then and there, as a sudden and unseen wind slammed him in the side, throwing his hat far and wide, and throwing him behind it, arms and legs flapping. He splashed hard against the side of the whirlpool and was swept up in its mighty current. Around and around he went, splashing futilely to try to get out of the vortex.

  He called out to the halfling, who just stood there on the bank, thumbs hooked under his suspenders, a resigned and pitying look on his face.

  Down went Addadearber, lower and lower against the unrelenting press of the water. Dizzy and disoriented, the strength leaving his arms, he could not resist, and was plunged under. He came up only once, sputtering a garbled curse at the halfling, then he disappeared.

  The halfling sighed as the water flattened to a nearly dead calm once more, the placid trout pond looking as if nothing had happened.

  Except for the hat. Out in the middle of the pond, the wizard’s floppy, conical hat bobbed on the few remaining ripples.

  The halfling grabbed his fishing pole. He always prided himself on his ability to cast a line.

  Roundabout crept through the trees, his appreciation for the strange forest growing with every step. He hadn’t been through Iruladoon for more than a year, and since then it had changed entirely. A year past it had been a cold pine forest trying to find root in the harsh environs of Icewind Dale, with sparse, seasonal underbrush and a short flowering season. But the forest had indeed changed. He could sense it. The vibrancy of life there could not be ignored; the colors, smells, and sounds filled the air with a sort of heartbeat, a sensation, a vibration or sound, under his feet, a cadence for the rhythms of nature. There was a uniquely divine energy to it, tingling all around him.

  The sun disappeared in the west and the forest grew dark, but the half-elf didn’t fear the place. His hands did not slip near the hilts of his sheathed sword and dirk.

  The heartbeat—music, in a sense—grew. Roundabout felt the power as if its source was approaching him.

  “Where are you, wizard?” he whispered to the empty air.

  The forest went preternaturally silent, and Roundabout held his breath.

  And then he saw her, through the trees not far away, a woman in a white gown and with a black cloak, dancing carefree through the trees. Compelled, he followed, and he wound up lying on a mossy embankment beneath a stand of pines, staring out at a small meadow where the barefoot witch danced in starlight.

  Roundabout lost his heart at that moment, for never had he seen any woman quite so beautiful and graceful. He couldn’t even blink, fearing to lose the image before him even momentarily. He wouldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let it go.

  She danced and she twirled and she sang, and her voice was the song of Iruladoon.

  She was the wizard who had enchanted the wood, Roundabout was certain.

  Or the goddess … and that thought had the ranger holding his breath once more, had his hands trembling and sweating, and no one who knew Roundabout had ever seen him in such a state.

  She stopped her dance and her song, and brushed her thick auburn hair back from in front of her face, revealing eyes so blue that even the night could not dull their inviting luster.

  Roundabout shifted uncomfortably. He knew logically that she could not see him, and yet there was no doubt in his mind that she looked at him directly. He thought he should stand and introduce himself, and explain himself.

  But he couldn’t move. His legs would not answer his call to stand. His mouth refused to form the words to call out to her.

  She smiled and shook her head then spun into her dance again, twirling around and around, faster and faster, until she was but a blur of flowing robes. And from that she leaped, as if upon the starlight itself.

  And she was gone.

  Gone from the meadow, but not from the mind of Roundabout. He saw her still, he clutched the image. He never wanted to let it go. He never wanted to look at anything else ever again. Just her, forever her. In that dancing creature, that witch, or ghost, or goddess, Roundabout had witnessed the perfection of nature itself.

  He managed to mouth the name “Mielikki,” and recognized, albeit briefly, that he wasn’t lying down any longer, but had regained his feet.

  Then he saw her again, in his mind or in front of him—it mattered not—dancing under the stars.

  Addadearber came up with a gasp and a wild splash, sucking in air. His lungs ached and he desperately gulped more air. It took him a long time to even hear Ashelia calling to him from the bank near the dock, only a few feet from him.

  He managed to get there and crawl out of the lake, trembling with fear and shivering with cold.

  “How in the Nine Hells …?” the woman asked.

  Addadearber shook his head, considering the whirlpool and the tunnel of water that had flushed him from Iruladoon, right back into the small lagoon. It made no sense, even to a man who had flown in the empty air, who had turned enemies into frogs, and who created lightning and fire out of thin air.

  “Well, what do ye know?” Ashelia asked, helping him from the water.

  But Addadearber could only wag his head and sputter.

  Almost at the same moment, Roundabout walked out of the forest, his step light, his eyes glassy, and he seemed not even to recognize them or notice any of his surroundings.

  “Roundabout!” Ashelia called, and she let go of the wizard and ran to the ranger.

  He looked at her as though unable to understand her alarm. Then he looked all around, at the cabin and the lake, at the dock and Larson’s Boneyard tied up against it. His face screwed up with puzzlement, and he shrugged.

  “They attacked me!” Addadearber insisted, storming up to the pair. “I will burn that forest to the ground!

  “If you raise a torch o
r a spell against it, I will kill you,” Roundabout replied, and both Ashelia and Addadearber gasped.

  “Ranger!” the fisherwoman scolded.

  “We have to leave this place,” Roundabout said, retracting not a bit of his threat.

  “We’re sailing in the morning.”

  “We’re sailing now,” the ranger corrected.

  “We? I thought you were to remain on this bank,” Addadearber said with a sharp tone, obviously unhappy with the threat. “With your friends who haunt the forest, perhaps?”

  “Shut up, wizard.” Roundabout turned to Ashelia. “To Lac Dinneshere, all of us, and now.”

  “Spragan’s still stupid, and Lathan’s still hurting,” Ashelia argued.

  “I will row or tack, then, and so will Addadearber.”

  “You have grown quite bold,” the wizard warned.

  But Roundabout only smiled, and glanced back at Iruladoon. He had seen her. The witch, the ghost, the goddess—with that celestial image still fresh in his mind, there was little the blustering Addadearber could say that could bother him.

  Unless the wizard did indeed try to turn his anger, magic or mundane, at the forest.

  Roundabout smiled, hardly believing his own heart, for he knew that in that instance, he truly would kill the man.

  They put out from the dock soon after, all glad to be gone from the haunted forest.

  All, except for Roundabout, who knew that he wasn’t really leaving, that he took a piece of Iruladoon with him, and would hold it forevermore.

  For he would never allow himself to forget the dance of the goddess, and her ladder of starlight.

  o Legend He Goes” was actually part of the prelude of Gauntlgrym. My editor on that book, Phil Athans, suggested to me that we take it out so that I could expand on it and better present the continuing tale of Wulfgar, and better explain the missing decades of his eventful life. When I saw that we could take it out and that the remaining references and scenes with Wulfgar in the novel remained strong and consistent, I agreed—mostly because once again we are going to a place that has become important to me at this stage of my writing journey.

  It occurs to me that being a writer means standing naked on a stage while a chamber full of clothed people point out all of your imperfections … and with the internet, many of those clothed folk can hide in the shadows at the same time.

  A writer has to be honest; there’s no place to hide, and no fabric to hide imperfections. It doesn’t matter what you “meant” to say; it only matters what you said—no, I take that back. It only matters what the reader thinks you said, because the only person who can determine the relationship between a book and a reader is the reader of the book. Not the author, not the critic, not some guy on a message board. Going back to what I said in the introduction to “Iruladoon,” I am a writer because I am the reader of my work, my internal dialogue.

  “To Legend He Goes” is an important piece of this personal, spiritual journey. Now the questions of the pocket heaven, Iruladoon, become all the more poignant and complicated. I invite you readers to see Iruladoon in this light. Instead of asking “what is Bob doing here?” ask yourself the implications of this concept on these characters you, too, have known as friends. Consider the time that has passed for Wulfgar, time in an entirely different and rich life. What must the old barbarian think of the startling revelation he finds in this story?

  And instead of considering (or worrying about, or driving yourself crazy over) the practical implications of these events in the wider story arc of the Legend of Drizzt, consider them in light of the individuals involved.

  Why do I offer this advice? Because if you look through Wulfgar’s eyes, honestly, or through the eyes of the other principal characters involved in this evolving and unexplained circumstance, the questions you will ask of yourself will be far more important, I hope, than the implications to Drizzt Do’Urden. I know that to be the truth for me, and at this point I’m not even considering any implications to the meta-story.

  That meta-story didn’t even matter to me as I wrote this Wulfgar tale. This is a necessary addition to the tales of the Companions of the Hall, owed to Wulfgar, surely. Wulfgar is my vessel of exploration here; it is not a gimmick, but a journey, and one forcing upon me important personal questions.

  Questions, perhaps, without answers.

  Or maybe I just need to write more.

  ulfgar had defied age like no other in recent memory. Some said it was the magic of the dwarves who had raised him wearing off on him. Others just pointed out that the legendary chieftains were often known for long and productive lives. Whatever the cause, Wulfgar had held his own in the hunt and in many battles, and not one in the tribe had whispered that it was time for him to drift on a floe.

  But these were not usual times for the Tribe of the Elk, and the stakes were much higher.

  “Were it not for Wulfgar, we would not be allowed on the hunt,” Canaufa reminded Brayleen, the two women standing off to the side of the large encampment of the Tribe of the Elk.

  “There remain many who question the wisdom of that,” Brayleen countered. “The loss of a man does not weaken the tribe as much as does the loss of a woman. The seed of one can fill the wombs of many, but one womb, one child, one year.”

  “And yet, you will remain here for the hunt.”

  The simple logical retort had Brayleen’s face tightening with defeat.

  “They say he learned it from the elves,” Canaufa went on, “where gender is no matter.”

  “Or from the dwarves,” Brayleen added. “From what few females they claim.”

  Both paused to watch the council across the way. The decision had been made that the tribe would move along to the northwest. Although the caribou had not yet left the mountainous foothills along the Spine of the World, too many monsters had shown themselves in the region, and a tribe of orcs was known to be crawling from a mountain hole not far away. All the other tribes had already begun the winter migration, leaving the Tribe of the Elk alone and exposed.

  The snows had come early this year, and that was never a good thing for the barbarian tribes roaming the tundra of Icewind Dale. The unseasonal storms had brought the yetis down from the peaks and thinned the caribou herd before they even began their great trek across the narrow tundra to the sea. For the barbarians, the result was that supplies were short and danger was ever present.

  All that was left to decide was who would remain for the last hunt—which was as much an exercise of deciding who would no longer partake of the dwindling supplies.

  “It is different to allow women to hunt and fight than to allow an old man along,” Brayleen countered. “His presence alone may prove a threat.”

  “Not so!” Canaufa interrupted sharply. “He will not be burdensome. Wulfgar would never allow such a thing! He would not accept a litter if his legs rotted away underneath him. Nay, he would be left to die by his own demand.”

  She snorted and continued, “And likely, knowing Wulfgar, he will not continue to eat the foodstuffs of a hungry tribe.”

  Brayleen sighed.

  “I would be proud to have him along,” Canaufa said.

  “You cannot do this!” Bruenorson argued.

  “You claim no power over me, my son,” Wulfgar reminded him calmly.

  “I am Chieftain.”

  “And I am your father,” Wulfgar said. “And the grandfather of your brood.”

  “And you would have me sentence you to death,” Bruenorson said. “How might I explain that to my sisters, my children, my grandchildren?”

  “Are you so sentencing Ilfgol and the others?” Wulfgar countered.

  “That’s different!” Bruenorson said.

  “Because they are young and strong,” Wulfgar said, “and I am old and will surely die in the weather and among the monsters?”

  Bruenorson licked his lips. He was nearly forty years old, and had led the Tribe of the Elk for almost a decade, since the death of Kierstaad the Swift, but
truly he felt a child before this man, Wulfgar, his father, his mentor, his hero. Wulfgar had been well past sixty when he had sired Bruenorson, the third of his children and the first boy. The other two had married into other tribes, royally binding Elk with Bear and Seal, and had begun families of their own.

  “Do not answer,” Wulfgar went on. “Your loyalty is touching.”

  Bruenorson began to speak, but Wulfgar cut him short. “Yes,” he admitted, “your eyes do not deceive. I am failing. At long last, the Halls of Tempus have begun to whisper of the arrival of Wulfgar.”

  “No,” Bruenorson said.

  “Yes,” Wulfgar replied. “But fear not, for I have not yet breathed my last. I know these foothills better than any in the tribe. I know where to find the caribou as they prepare for their journey. I know how to find sign of the yeti and avoid them—again, better than any. You do no service to the tribe or to those who will remain to hunt by keeping me with you.”

  “Perhaps those who will hunt do not wish you along,” Bruenorson said, and he winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Wulfgar puffed out his still-massive chest and stood tall over him, those icy blue eyes boring into the chieftain and making him seem very small indeed.

  “Your responsibility is to your tribe, not your family,” Wulfgar reminded him. “If you make the decision along those lines alone, you will accede to the council’s decision.”

  Bruenorson swallowed hard. “And bid farewell to a man I most love?”

  Wulfgar leaned over and hugged his son, a rare display of affection among the stoic people. But Bruenorson didn’t recoil and didn’t stiffen in the least, burying his face in his huge father’s strong shoulder.

  The tribe of the Elk left the foothills that morning, leaving twelve, Wulfgar among them, to seek the caribou.

  This was the illness that would at last claim him, he knew. His lungs felt heavy with fluid, his limbs weak, and a great fire burned within him. Wulfgar would not lament his death; what man could ask for more of a life than he had lived? He did feel guilty, though, given the timing and the circumstances. The Tribe of the Elk had been gone for nearly a tenday, leaving behind the hunters in their critical role: finding the caribou and sending supplies while the migrating herd caught up to the tribe. Few in number, the hunters couldn’t be burdened with the likes of Wulfgar, withering in his fever.