Sojourn: The Legend of Drizzt (29 page)

“Might that I have,” Montolio replied. He turned and let out a shrill, barely audible whistle. Immediately, Roddy’s dog, hearing the ranger’s clear ire in no uncertain terms, dropped its tail between its legs and slunk back to stand beside its master’s horse.

“I’ve a brood of fox pups in there,” the ranger lied angrily. “If your dog sets on them …” Montolio let the threat hang at that, and apparently Roddy was impressed. He dropped a noose down over the dog’s head and pulled it tight to his side.

“A drow, must be the same one, came through here before the first snows,” Montolio went on. “You will have a hard hunt for that one, bounty hunter.” He laughed. “He had some trouble with Graul, by my knowledge, then set out again, back for his dark home, I would guess. Do you mean to follow the drow down into the Underdark? Certainly your reputation would grow considerably, bounty hunter, though your very life might prove the cost!”

Drizzt relaxed at the words; Montolio had lied for him! He could see that the ranger did not hold McGristle in high regard, and that fact, too, brought comfort to Drizzt. Then Roddy came
back forcefully, laying out the story of the tragedy in Maldobar in a blunt and warped way that put Drizzt and Montolio’s friendship to a tough test.

“The drow killed the Thistledowns!” Roddy roared at the ranger’s smug smile, which vanished in the blink of an eye. “Slaughtered them, and his panther ate one o’ them. Ye knew Bartholemew Thistledown, ranger. Shame on ye for talkin’ lightly on his murderer!”

“Drow killed them?” Montolio asked grimly.

Roddy held out the broken scimitar once more. “Cut ’em down,” he growled. “There’s two thousand gold pieces on that one’s head—I’ll give ye back five hunnerd if ye can find out more for me.”

“I have no need of your gold,” Montolio quickly replied.

“But do ye have need to see the killer brought in?” Roddy shot back. “Do ye mourn for the deaths o’ the Thistledown clan, as fine a family as any?”

Montolio’s ensuing pause led Drizzt to believe that the ranger might turn him in. Drizzt decided then that he would not run, whatever Montolio’s decision. He could deny the bounty hunter’s anger, but not Montolio’s. If the ranger accused him, Drizzt would have to face him and be judged.

“Sad day,” Montolio muttered. “Fine family, indeed. Catch the drow, McGristle. It would be the best bounty you ever earned.”

“Where to start?” Roddy asked calmly, apparently thinking he had won Montolio over. Drizzt thought so, too, especially when Montolio turned and looked back toward the grove.

“You have heard of Morueme’s Cave?” Montolio asked.

Roddy’s expression visibly dropped at the question. Morueme’s Cave, on the edge of the great desert Anauroch, was so named for the family of blue dragons that lived there. “Hunnerd an’ fifty miles,” McGristle groaned. “Through the Nethers—a tough range.”

“The drow went there, or about there, early in the winter,” Montolio lied.

“Drow went to the dragons?” Roddy asked, surprised.

“More likely, the drow went to some other hole in that region,” Montolio replied. “The dragons of Morueme could possibly know of him. You should inquire there.”

“I’m not so quick to bargain with dragons,” Roddy said somberly. “Too risky, and even goin’, well, it costs too much!”

“Then it seems that Roddy McGristle has missed his first catch,” Montolio said. “A good try, though, against the likes of a dark elf.”

Roddy reined in his horse and spun the beast about. “Don’t ye put yer bets against me, Mooshie!” he roared back over his shoulder. “I’ll not let this one get away, if I have to search every hole in the Nethers myself.”

“Seems a bit of trouble for two thousand gold,” Montolio remarked, not impressed.

“Drow took my dog, my ear, and give me this scar!” Roddy countered, pointing to his torn face. The bounty hunter realized the absurdity of his actions—of course, the blind ranger could not see him—and spun back, setting his horse charging out of the grove.

Montolio waved a hand disgustedly at McGristle’s back, then turned to find the drow. Drizzt met him on the edge of the grove, hardly knowing how to thank Montolio.

“Never liked that one,” Montolio explained.

“The Thistledown family was murdered,” Drizzt admitted bluntly.

Montolio nodded.

“You knew?”

“I knew before you came here,” the ranger answered. “Honestly, I wondered if you did it, at first.” “I did not,” Drizzt said. Again Montolio nodded.

The time had come for Drizzt to fill in the details of his first few months on the surface. All the guilt came back to him when he recounted his battle with the gnoll group, and all the pain came rushing back, focused on the word “drizzit,” when he told of the Thistledowns and his gruesome discovery. Montolio identified the speedy sprite as a quickling but was quite at a loss to explain the giant goblin and wolf creatures that Drizzt had battled in the cave.

“You did right in killing the gnolls,” Montolio said when Drizzt had finished. “Release your guilt for that act and let it fall to nothingness.”

“How could I know?” Drizzt asked honestly. “All of my learning ties to Menzoberranzan and still I have not sorted the truth from the lies.”

“It has been a confusing journey,” Montolio said, and his sincere smile relieved the tension considerably. “Come along, and let me tell you of the races, and of why your scimitars struck for justice when they felled the gnolls.”

As a ranger, Montolio had dedicated his life to the unending struggle between the good races—humans, elves, dwarves, gnomes, and halflings being the most prominent members—and the evil goblinoids and giantkind, who lived only to destroy as a bane to the innocent.

“Orcs are my particular unfavorites,” Montolio explained. “So now I content myself with keeping an eye—an owl’s eye, that is—on Graul and his smelly kin.”

So much fell into perspective for Drizzt then. Comfort flooded through the drow, for Drizzt’s instincts had proven correct and he could now, for a while and to some measure at least, be free from the guilt.

“What of the bounty hunter and those like him?” Drizzt asked. “They do not seem to fit so well into your descriptions of the races.”

“There is good and bad in every race,” Montolio explained. “I spoke only of the general conduct, and do not doubt that the general conduct of goblinoids and giantkind is an evil one!”

“How can we know?” Drizzt pressed.

“Just watch the children,” Montolio answered. He went on to explain the not-so-subtle differences between children of the goodly races and children of the evil races. Drizzt heard him, but distantly, needing no clarification. Always it seemed to come down to the children. Drizzt had felt better concerning his actions against the gnolls when he had looked upon the Thistledown children at play. And back in Menzoberranzan, what seemed like only a day ago and a thousand years ago at the same time, Drizzt’s father had expressed similar beliefs. “Are all drow children evil?” Zaknafein had wondered, and through all of his beleaguered life, Zaknafein had been haunted by the screams of dying children, drow nobles caught in the fire between warring families.

A long, silent moment ensued when Montolio finished, both friends taking the time to digest the day’s many revelations. Montolio knew that Drizzt was comforted when the drow, quite unexpectedly, turned to him, smiled widely, and abruptly changed the grim subject.

“Mooshie?” Drizzt asked, recalling the name McGristle had tagged on Montolio at the rock wall.

“Montolio DeBrouchee.” The old ranger cackled, tossing a grotesque wink Drizzt’s way. “Mooshie, to my friends, and to those like McGristle, who struggle so with any words bigger than ‘spit,’ ‘bear,’ or ‘kill!’”

“Mooshie,” Drizzt mumbled under his breath, taking some mirth at Montolio’s expense.

“Have you no chores to do, Drizzit?” the old ranger huffed.

Drizzt nodded and started boisterously away. This time, the ring of “drizzit” did not sting so very badly.

“Morueme’s Cave,” Roddy griped. “Damned Morueme’s Cave!” A split second later, a small sprite sat atop Roddy’s horse, staring the stunned bounty hunter in the face. Tephanis had watched the exchange at Montolio’s grove and had cursed his luck when the ranger had turned the bounty hunter away. If Roddy could catch Drizzt, the quickling figured, they’d both be out of his way, a fact that did not alarm Tephanis.

“Surely-you-are-not-so-stupid-as-to-believe-that-old-Car?” Tephanis blurted.

“Here!” Roddy cried, grabbing clumsily at the sprite, who merely hopped down, darted back, past the startled dog, and climbed up to sit behind Roddy.

“What in the Nine Hells are you?” the bounty hunter roared. “And sit still!”

“I am a friend,” Tephanis said as slowly as he could.

Roddy eyed him cautiously over one shoulder.

“If-you-want-the-drow, you-are-going-the-wrong-way,” the sprite said smugly.

A short while later, Roddy crouched in the high bluffs south of Montolio’s grove and watched the ranger and his dark-skinned guest going about their chores.

“Good-hunting!” Tephanis offered, then he was gone, back to Caroak, the great wolf that smelled better than this particular human.

Roddy, his eyes fixed upon the distant scene, hardly noticed the quickling’s departure. “Ye’ll pay for yer lies, ranger,” he muttered under his breath. An evil smile spread over his face as he thought of a way to get at the companions. It would be a delicate feat. But then, dealing with Graul always was.

Montolio’s messenger returned two days later with a note from Dove Falconhand. Hooter tried to recount the ranger’s response, but the excitable owl was completely inept at conveying such long and intricate tales. Flustered and having no other option, Montolio handed the letter to Drizzt and told the drow to read it aloud, and quickly. Not yet a skilled reader, Drizzt was several lines through the creased paper before he realized what it was. The note detailed Dove’s accounts of what had happened in Maldobar and along the subsequent chase. Dove’s version struck near to the truth, vindicating Drizzt and naming the barghest whelps as the murderers.

Drizzt’s relief was so great that he could hardly utter the words as the letter went on to express Dove’s pleasure and gratitude that the “deserving drow” had taken in with the old ranger.

“You get your due in the end, my friend,” was all that Montolio needed to say.

R
ESOLUTIONS

now view my long road as a search for truth-truth in my own heart, in the world around me, and in the larger questions of purpose and of existence. How does one define good and evil?