Sojourn: The Legend of Drizzt (20 page)

The snarling giant took a step in, meaning to finish the puny man, but then came a sharp
crack!
and the monster halted abruptly. Its eyes darted about weirdly for a moment or two, then it toppled at Gabriel’s feet, quite dead.

Gabriel looked up to the side, to the top of the boulder wall, and nearly laughed out loud.

Fret’s hammer was not a large weapon—its head being only two inches across—but it was a solid thing, and in a single swing, the dwarf had driven it clean through the stone giant’s thick skull.

Dove approached, sheathing her sword, equally at a loss.

Looking upon their amazed expressions, Fret was not amused.

“I am a dwarf, after all!” he blurted at them, crossing his arms indignantly. The action brought the brain-stained hammer in contact with Fret’s tunic, and the dwarf lost his bluster in a fit of panic. He licked his stubby fingers and wiped at the gruesome stain, then regarded the gore on his hand with even greater horror.

Dove and Gabriel did laugh aloud.

“Know that you are paying for the tunic!” Fret railed at Dove. “Oh, you most certainly are!”

A shout to the side brought them from their momentary relief. The four remaining giants, having seen one group of their companions buried in an avalanche and another group cut down so very efficiently, had lost interest in the ambush and had taken flight.

Right behind them went Roddy McGristle and his howling dog.

A single giant had escaped both the avalanche’s thunder and the panther’s terrible claws. It ran wildly now across the mountainside, seeking the top ridge.

Drizzt set Guenhwyvar in quick pursuit, then found a stick to use as a cane and managed to get to his feet. Bruised, dusty, and still nursing wounds from the barghest battle—and now a dozen more from his mountain ride—Drizzt started away. A movement
at the bottom of the slope caught his attention and held him, though. He turned to face the elf and more pointedly, the arrow nocked in the elf’s drawn bow.

Drizzt looked around but had nowhere to duck. He could place a globe of darkness somewhere between himself and the elf, possibly, but he realized that the skilled archer, having drawn a bead on him, would not miss him even with that obstacle. Drizzt steadied his shoulders and turned about slowly, facing the elf squarely and proudly.

Kellindil eased his bowstring back and pulled the arrow from its nock. Kellindil, too, had seen the dark-cloaked form floating above the rock slide.

“The others are back with Darda,” Dove said, coming upon the elf at that moment, “and McGristle is chasing …”

Kellindil neither answered nor looked to the ranger. He nodded curtly, leading Dove’s gaze up the slope to the dark form, which moved again up the mountainside.

“Let him go,” Dove offered. “That one was never our enemy.”

“I fear to let a drow walk free,” Kellindil replied.

“As do I,” Dove answered, “but I fear the consequences more if McGristle finds the drow.”

“We will return to Maldobar and rid ourselves of that man,” Kellindil offered, “then you and the others may return to Sundabar for your appointment. I have kin in these mountains; together they and I will watch out for our dark-skinned friend and see that he causes no harm.”

“Agreed,” said Dove. She turned and started away, and Kellindil, needing no further convincing, turned to follow.

The elf paused and looked back one final time. He reached into his backpack and produced a flask, then laid it out in the open on the ground. Almost as an afterthought, Kellindil produced a second item, this one from his belt, and dropped it to the ground next to the flask. Satisfied, he turned and followed the ranger.

By the time Roddy McGristle returned from his wild, fruitless chase, Dove and the others had packed everything together and were prepared to leave.

“Back after the drow,” Roddy proclaimed. “He’s gained a bit o’ time, but we’ll close on him fast.”

“The drow is gone,” Dove said sharply. “We shall pursue him no more.”

Roddy’s face crinkled in disbelief and he seemed on the verge of exploding.

“Darda is badly in need of rest!” Dove growled at him, not backing down a bit. “Kellindil’s arrows are nearly exhausted, as are our supplies.”

“I’ll not so easily forget the Thistledowns!” Roddy declared.

“Neither did the drow,” Kellindil put in.

“The Thistledowns have already been avenged,” Dove added, “and you know it is true, McGristle. The drow did not kill them, but he most definitely slew their killers!”

Roddy snarled and turned away. He was an experienced bounty hunter and thus, an experienced investigator. He had, of course, figured out the truth long ago, but Roddy couldn’t ignore the scar on his face or the loss of his ear—or the heavy bounty on the drow’s head.

Dove anticipated and understood his silent reasoning. “The people of Maldobar will not be so anxious to see the drow brought in when they learn the truth of the massacre,” she said, “and not so willing to pay, I would guess.”

Roddy snapped a glare at her, but again he could not dispute her logic. When Dove’s party set out on the trail back to Maldobar, Roddy McGristle went with them.

Drizzt came back down the mountainside later that day, searching for something that would tell him his pursuers’ whereabouts. He found Kellindil’s flask and approached it tentatively, then relaxed when he noticed the other item lying next to it, the tiny dagger he had taken from the sprite, the same one he had used to sever the elf’s bowstring on their first meeting.

The liquid within the flask smelled sweet, and the drow, his throat still parched from the rock dust, gladly took a quaff. Tingling chills ran through Drizzt’s body, refreshing him and revitalizing him. He had barely eaten for several days, but the strength that had seeped from his now-frail form came rushing back in a sudden burst. His torn leg went numb for a moment, and Drizzt felt that, too, grow stronger.

A wave of dizziness washed over Drizzt then, and he shuffled over to the shade of a nearby boulder and sat down to rest.

When he awoke, the sky was dark and filled with stars, and he felt much better. Even his leg, so torn in the ride down the avalanche, would once again support his weight. Drizzt knew who had left the flask and dagger for him, and now that he understood the nature of the healing potion, his confusion and indecision only grew.

M
ONTOLIO

o all the varied peoples of the world nothing is so out of reach, yet so deeply personal and controlling, as the concept of god. My experience in my homeland showed me little of these supernatural beings beyond the influences of the vile drow deity, the Spider Queen, Lolth.

After witnessing the carnage of Lolth’s workings, I was not so quick to embrace the concept of any god, of any being that could so dictate, codes of behavior and precepts of an entire society. Is morality not an internal force, and if it is, are principles then to be dictated or felt?

So follows the question of the gods themselves: Are these named entities, in truth, actual beings, or are they manifestations of shared beliefs? Are the dark elves evil because they follow the precepts of the Spider Queen, or is Lolth a culmination of the drow’s natural evil conduct?

Likewise, when the barbarians of Ice-wind Dale charge across the tundra to war, shouting the name of Tempus, Lord of Battles, are they following the precepts of Tempus, or is Tempus merely the idealized name they give to their actions?

This I cannot answer, nor, I have come to realize, can any one else, no matter how loudly they—particularly priests of certain gods—might argue otherwise. In the end, to a preacher’s ultimate sorrow, the choice of a god is a personal one, and the alignment to a being is in accord with one’s internal code of principles. A missionary might coerce and trick would-be disciples, but no rational being can truly follow the determined orders of any god-figure if those orders run contrary to his own tenets. Neither I, Drizzt Do’Urden, nor my father, Zaknafein, could ever have become disciples of the Spider Queen. And Wulfgar of Icewind Dale, my friend of later years, though he still might yell out to the battle god, does not please this entity called Tempus except on those occasions when he puts his mighty war hammer to use.

The gods of the realms are many and varied—or they are the many and varied names and identities tagged onto the same being.

I know not—and care not—which.

—Drizzt Do’Urden