Sojourn: The Legend of Drizzt (25 page)

riend of yours?” the old man asked calmly.

“Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt explained.

“Big cat?”

“Oh, yes,” Drizzt answered.

The old man eased his bowstring straight and let the arrow slowly slip, point down. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and seemed to fall within himself. A moment later, Drizzt noticed that Guenhwyvar’s ears came up suddenly, and the drow understood that this strange human was somehow making a telepathic link to the panther.

“Good cat, too,” the old man said a moment later. Guenhwyvar walked out from around the outcropping—sending the owl flapping away in a frenzy—and casually stalked past the old man, moving to stand beside Drizzt. Apparently, the panther had relinquished all concerns that the old man was an enemy.

Drizzt considered Guenhwyvar’s actions curious, viewing them in the same manner as he had his own empathic agreement
with the bear in the cave a season ago. “Good cat,” the old man said again.

Drizzt leaned back against the stone and relaxed his grip on the spear.

“I am Montolio,” the old man explained proudly, as though the name should carry some weight with the drow. “Montolio DeBrouchee.”

“Well met and fare well,” Drizzt said flatly. “If we are done with our meeting, then we may go our own ways.”

“We may,” Montolio agreed, “if we both choose to.”

“Am I to be your … prisoner … once more?” Drizzt asked with a bit of sarcasm in his voice.

The sincerity of Montolio’s ensuing laughter brought a smile to the drow’s face despite his cynicism. “Mine?” the old man asked incredulously. “No, no, I believe we have settled that issue. But you have killed some minions of Graul this day, a deed that the orc king will want punished. Let me offer you a room at my castle. The orcs will not approach the place.” He showed a wry smile and bent over toward Drizzt to whisper, as if to keep his next words a secret between them. “They will not come near me, you know.” Montolio pointed to his strange eyes. “They believe me to be bad magic because of my …” Montolio struggled for the word that would convey the thought, but the guttural language was limited and he soon grew frustrated.

Drizzt silently recounted the course of the battle, then his jaw drooped open in undeniable amazement as he realized the truth of what had transpired. The old man was indeed blind! The owl, circling over enemies and hooting, had led his shots. Drizzt looked around at the slain giant and orc and his jaw did not close; the old man hadn’t missed.

“Will you come?” Montolio asked. “I would like to gain the—” again he had to search for an appropriate term—“purposes … a dark elf would have to live a winter in a cave with Bluster the bear.”

Montolio cringed at his own inability to converse with the drow, but from the context, Drizzt could pretty much understand what the old man meant, even figuring out unfamiliar terms such as “winter” and “bear.”

“Orc king Graul has ten hundred more fighters to send against you,” Montolio remarked, sensing that the drow was having a difficult time considering the offer.

“I will not come with you,” Drizzt declared at length. The drow truly wanted to go, wanted to learn a few things about this remarkable man, but too many tragedies had befallen those who had crossed Drizzt’s path.

Guenhwyvar’s low growl told Drizzt that the panther did not approve of his decision.

“I bring trouble,” Drizzt tried to explain to the old man, to the panther, and to himself. “You would be better served, Montolio DeBrouchee, to keep away from me.”

“Is this a threat?”

“A warning,” Drizzt replied. “If you take me in, if you even allow me to remain near to you, then you will be doomed, as were the farmers in the village.”

Montolio perked his ears up at the mention of the distant farming village. He had heard that one family in Maldobar had been brutally killed and that a ranger, Dove Falconhand had been called in to help.

“I do not fear doom,” Montolio said, forcing a smile. “I have lived through many … fights, Drizzt Do’Urden. I have fought in a dozen bloody wars and spent an entire winter trapped on the side of a mountain with a broken leg. I have killed a giant with only a dagger and … befriended every animal for five thousand steps in any direction. Do not fear for me.” Again came that wry, knowing smile. “But then,” Montolio said slowly, “It is not for me that you fear.”

Drizzt felt confused and a bit insulted.

“You fear for yourself,” Montolio continued, undaunted. “Self-pity? It does not fit one of your prowess. Dismiss and come along with me.”

If Montolio had seen Drizzt’s scowl, he would have guessed the forthcoming answer. Guenhwyvar did notice it, and the panther bumped hard into Drizzt’s leg.

From Guenhwyvar’s reaction, Montolio understood the drow’s intent. “The cat wants you to come along,” he remarked. “It’ll be better than a cave,” he promised, “and better food than half-cooked fish.”

Drizzt looked down at Guenhwyvar and again the panther bumped him, this time voicing a louder and more insistent growl with the action.

Drizzt remained adamant, reminding himself pointedly by conjuring an image of carnage in a farmhouse far away. “I will not come,” he said firmly.

“Then I must name you as an enemy, and a prisoner!” Montolio roared, snapping his bow back to a ready position. “Your cat will not aid you this time, Drizzt Do’Urden!” Montolio leaned in and flashed his smile and whispered, “The cat agrees with me.”

It was too much for Drizzt. He knew that the old man wouldn’t shoot him, but Montolio’s flaky charm soon wore away the drow’s mental defenses, considerable though they were.

What Montolio had described as a castle turned out to be a series of wooden caves dug around the roots of huge and tightly packed evergreens. Lean-tos of woven sticks furthered the protection and somewhat linked the caves together, and a low wall of stacked rocks ringed the whole complex. As Drizzt neared the place, he noticed several rope-and-wood bridges crossing from tree to tree at various heights, with rope ladders leading up to them from the ground level and with crossbows securely mounted at fairly regular intervals.

The drow didn’t complain that the castle was of wood and dirt, though. Drizzt had spent three decades in Menzoberranzan living in a wondrous castle of stone and surrounded by many more breathtakingly beautiful structures, but none of them seemed as welcoming as Montolio’s home.

Birds chittered their welcome at the old ranger’s approach. Squirrels, even a raccoon, hopped excitedly among the tree branches to get near him—though they kept their distance when they noticed that a huge panther accompanied Montolio.

“I have many rooms,” Montolio explained to Drizzt. “Many blankets and much food.” Montolio hated the limited goblin tongue. He had so many things he wanted to say to the drow, and so many things he wanted to learn from the drow. This seemed impossible, if not overly tedious, in a language so base and negative in nature, not designed for complex thoughts or notions. The goblin tongue sported more than a hundred words for killing and for hatred, but not a one for higher emotions such as compassion. The goblin word for friendship could be translated to mean either a temporary military alliance or servitude to a stronger goblin, and neither definition fit Montolio’s intentions toward the lone dark elf.

The first task then, the ranger decided, was to teach this drow the common tongue.

“We cannot speak”—There was no word for “properly” in Goblin, so Montolio had to improvise “… well … in this language,” he explained to Drizzt, “but it will serve us as I teach you the tongue of humans—if you wish to learn.”

Drizzt remained tentative in his acceptance. When he had walked away from the farming village, he had decided that his lot in life would be as a hermit, and thus far he had done pretty well—better than he had expected. The offer was tempting, though, and on a practical level, Drizzt knew that knowing the common language of the region might keep him out of trouble.
Montolio’s smile nearly took in the ranger’s ears when the drow accepted.

Hooter, the owl, however, seemed not so pleased. With the drow—or, more particularly, with the drow’s panther—about, the owl would be spending less time in the comforts of the evergreens’ lower boughs.

“Cousin, Montolio DeBrouchee has taken the drow in!” an elf cried excitedly to Kellindil. All the group had been out searching for Drizzt’s trail since the winter had broken. With the drow gone from Dead Orc Pass, the elves, particularly Kellindil, had feared trouble, had feared that the drow had perhaps taken in with Graul and his orc minions.

Kellindil jumped to his feet, hardly able to grasp the startling news. He knew of Montolio, the legendary if somewhat eccentric ranger, and he knew, too, that Montolio, with all of his animal contacts, could judge intruders quite accurately.

“When? How?” Kellindil asked, barely knowing where to begin. If the drow had confused him through the previous months, the surface elf was thoroughly flustered now.

“A tenday ago,” the other elf answered. “I know not how it came about, but the drow now walks in Montolio’s grove, openly and with his panther beside him.”

“Is Montolio …”

The other elf interrupted Kellindil, seeing where his line of concern was heading. “Montolio is unharmed and in control,” he assured Kellindil. “He has taken in the drow of his own accord, it would seem, and now it appears that the old ranger is teaching the dark elf the common tongue.”

“Amazing,” was all that Kellindil could reply.

“We could set a watch over Montolio’s grove,” the other elf
offered. “If you fear for the old ranger’s safety—”

“No,” Kellindil replied. “No, the drow once again has proven himself no enemy. I have suspected his friendly intentions since I encountered him near Maldobar. Now I am satisfied. Let us get on with our business and leave the drow and the ranger to theirs.”

The other elf nodded his agreement, but a diminutive creature listening outside Kellindil’s tent was not so certain.

Tephanis came into the elven camp nightly, to steal food and other items that would make him more comfortable. The sprite had heard of the dark elf a few days earlier, when the elves had resumed their search for Drizzt, and he had taken great pains to listen to their conversation ever since, as curious as any about the whereabouts of the one who had destroyed Ulgulu and Kempfana.

Tephanis shook his floppy-eared head violently. “Drat-the-day-that-that-one-returned!” he whispered, sounding somewhat like an excited bumblebee. Then he ran off, his little feet barely touching the ground. Tephanis had made another connection in the months since Ulgulu’s demise, another powerful ally that he did not want to lose.

Within minutes he found Caroak, the great, silver-haired winter wolf, on the high peak that they called their home.

“The-drow-is-with-the-ranger,” Tephanis spouted, and the canine beast seemed to understand. “Beware-of-that-one-I-say! It-was-he-who-killed-my-former-masters. Dead!”

Caroak looked down the wide expanse to the mountain that held Montolio’s grove. The winter wolf knew that place well, and he knew well enough to stay away from it. Montolio DeBrouchee was friends with all sorts of animals, but winter wolves were more monster than animal, and no friend of rangers.

Tephanis, too, looked Montolio’s way, worried that he might again have to face the sneaky drow. The mere thought of
encountering that one again made the little sprite’s head ache (and the bruise from the plowshare had never completely gone away).