Sojourn: The Legend of Drizzt (11 page)

All the while, Dove knew, the shoes would pinch and bite at her feet and the gown would find some place to itch where she could not reach. Alas for the duties of station, Dove thought as she stared at the gown and accessories. She looked into Fret’s beaming face then and realized that it was worth all the trouble.

Alas for the duties of friendship, she mused.

The farmer had ridden straight through for more than a day; the sighting of a dark elf often had such effects on simple villagers. He had taken two horses out of Maldobar; one he had left a score of miles behind, halfway between the two towns. If he was lucky, he’d find the animal unharmed on the return trip. The second horse, the farmer’s prized stallion, was beginning to tire. Still the farmer bent low in the saddle, spurring the steed on. The torches of Sundabar’s night watch, high up on the city’s thick stone walls, were in sight.

“Stop and speak your name!” came the formal cry from the captain of the gate guards when the rider approached, half an hour later.

Dove leaned on Fret for support as they followed Helm’s attendant down the long and decorated corridor to the audience room. The ranger could cross a rope bridge without handrails, could fire her bow with deadly accuracy atop a charging steed, could scramble up a tree in full chain armor, sword and shield in hand. But she could not, for all of her experience and agility, manage the fancy shoes that Fret had squeezed her feet into.

“And this gown,” Dove whispered in exasperation, knowing
that the impractical garment would split in six or seven places if she had occasion to swing her sword while wearing it, let alone inhaled too abruptly.

Fret looked up at her, wounded.

“This gown is surely the most beautiful …” Dove stuttered, careful not to send the tidy dwarf into a tantrum. “Truly I can find no words suitable to my gratitude, dear Fret.”

The dwarf’s gray eyes shone brightly, though he wasn’t sure that he believed a word of it. Either way, Fret figured that Dove cared enough about him to go along with his suggestions, and that fact was all that really mattered to him.

“I beg a thousand pardons, my lady,” came a voice from behind. The whole entourage turned to see the captain of the night watch, a farmer by his side, trotting down the somber hallway.

“Good captain!” Fret protested at the violation of protocol. “If you desire an audience with the lady, you must make an introduction in the hall. Then, and only then, and only if the master allows, you may …”

Dove dropped a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to silence him. She recognized the urgency etched onto the men’s faces, a look the adventuring heroine had seen many times. “Do go on, Captain,” she prompted. To placate Fret, she added, “We have a few moments before our audience is set to begin. Master Helm will not be kept waiting.”

The farmer stepped forward boldly. “A thousand pardons for myself, my lady,” he began, fingering his cap nervously in his hands. “I am but a farmer from Maldobar, a small village north …”

“I know of Maldobar,” Dove assured him. “Many times I have viewed the place from the mountains. A fine and sturdy community.” The farmer brightened at her description. “No harm has befallen Maldobar, I pray.”

“Not as yet, my lady,” the farmer replied, “but we’ve sighted
trouble, we’re not to doubting.” He paused and looked to the captain for support. “Drow.”

Dove’s eyes widened at the news. Even Fret, tapping his foot impatiently throughout the conversation, stopped and took note.

“How many?” Dove asked.

“Only one, as we have seen. We’re fearing he’s a scout or spy, and up to no good.”

Dove nodded her agreement. “Who has seen the drow?”

“Children first,” the farmer replied, drawing a sigh from Fret and setting the dwarf’s foot impatiently tapping once again.

“Children?” the dwarf huffed.

The farmer’s determination did not waver. “Then McGristle saw him,” he said, eyeing Dove directly, “and McGristle’s seen a lot!”

“What is a McGristle?” Fret huffed.

“Roddy McGristle,” Dove answered, somewhat sourly, before the farmer could explain. “A noted bounty hunter and fur trapper.”

“The drow killed one of Roddy’s dogs,” the farmer put in excitedly, “and nearly cut down Roddy! Dropped a tree right on him! He’s lost an ear for the experience.”

Dove didn’t quite understand what the farmer was talking about, but she really didn’t need to. A dark elf had been seen and confirmed in the region, and that fact alone set the ranger into motion. She flipped off her fancy shoes and handed them to Fret, then told one of the attendants to go straight off and find her traveling companions and told the other to deliver her regrets to the Master of Sundabar.

“But Lady Falconhand!” Fret cried.

“No time for pleasantries,” Dove replied, and Fret could tell by her obvious excitement that she was not too disappointed at canceling her audience with Helm. Already she was wiggling about, trying to open the catch on the back of her magnificent gown.

“Your sister will not be pleased,” Fret growled loudly over the tapping of his boot.

“My sister hung up her backpack long ago,” Dove retorted, “but mine still wears the fresh dirt of the road!”

“Indeed,” the dwarf mumbled, not in a complimentary way.

“Ye mean to come, then?” the farmer asked hopefully.

“Of course,” Dove replied. “No reputable ranger could ignore the sighting of a dark elf! My three companions and I will set out for Maldobar this very night, though I beg that you remain here, good farmer. You have ridden hard—it is obvious—and need sleep.” Dove glanced around curiously for a moment, then put a finger to her pursed lips.

“What?” the annoyed dwarf asked her.

Dove’s face brightened as her gaze dropped down to Fret. “I have little experience with dark elves,” she began, “and my companions, to my knowledge, have never dealt with one.” Her widening smile set Fret back on his heels.

“Come, dear Fret,” Dove purred at the dwarf. Her bare feet slapping conspicuously on the tiled floor, she led Fret, the captain, and the farmer from Maldobar down the hallway to Helm’s audience room.

Fret was confused—and hopeful—for a moment by Dove’s sudden change of direction. As soon as Dove began talking to Helm, Fret’s master, apologizing for the unexpected inconvenience and asking Helm to send along one who might aid in the mission to Maldobar, the dwarf began to understand.

By the time the sun found its way above the eastern horizon the next morning, Dove’s party, which included an elf archer and two powerful human fighters, had ridden more than ten miles from Sundabar’s heavy gate.

“Ugh!” Fret groaned when the light increased. He rode a sturdy Adbar pony at Dove’s side. “See how the mud has soiled my fine clothes! Surely it will be the end of us all! To die filthy on a gods-forsaken road!”

“Pen a song about it,” Dove suggested, returning the widening smiles of her other three companions. “The Ballad of the Five Choked Adventurers, it shall be named.”

Fret’s angry glare lasted only the moment it took Dove to remind him that Helm Dwarf-friend, the Master of Sundabar himself, had commissioned Fret to travel along.

n the same morning that Dove’s party left on the road to Maldobar, Drizzt set out on a journey of his own. The initial horror of his gruesome discovery the previous night had not diminished, and the drow feared that it never would, but another emotion had also entered Drizzt’s thinking. He could do nothing for the innocent farmers and their children, nothing except avenge their deaths. That thought was not so pleasing to Drizzt; he had left the Underdark behind, and the savagery as well, he had hoped. With the images of the carnage still so horribly clear in his mind, and all alone as he was, Drizzt could look only to his scimitar for justice.

Drizzt took two precautions before he set out on the murderer’s trail. First, he crept back down to the farmyard, to the back of the house, where the farmers had placed a broken plowshare. The metal blade was heavy, but the determined drow hoisted it and carried it away without a thought to the discomfort.

Drizzt then called Guenhwyvar. As soon as the panther arrived and took note of Drizzt’s scowl, it dropped into an alert crouch.
Guenhwyvar had been around Drizzt long enough to recognize that expression and to believe that they would see battle before it returned to its astral home.

They moved off before dawn, Guenhwyvar easily following the barghest’s clear trail, as Ulgulu had hoped. Their pace was slow, with Drizzt hindered by the plowshare, but steady, and as soon as Drizzt caught the sound of a distant buzzing noise, he knew he had done right in collecting the cumbersome item.

Still, the remainder of the morning passed without incident. The trail led the companions into a rocky ravine and to the base of a high, uneven cliff. Drizzt feared that he might have to scale the cliff face—and leave the plowshare behind—but soon he spotted a single narrow trail winding up along the wall. The ascending path remained smooth as it wound around sheer bends in the cliff face, blind and dangerous turns. Wanting to use the terrain to his advantage, Drizzt sent Guenhwyvar far ahead and moved along by himself, dragging the plowshare and feeling vulnerable on the open cliff.

That feeling did nothing to quench the simmering fires in Drizzt’s lavender eyes, though, which burned clearly from under the low-pulled cowl of his oversized gnoll cloak. If the sight of the ravine looming just to the side unnerved the drow, he needed only to remember the farmers. A short while later, when Drizzt heard the expected buzzing noise from somewhere lower on the narrow trail, he only smiled.