Sojourn: The Legend of Drizzt (7 page)

Drizzt was left, his smile fast fading and his arms out wide, standing all alone in the blueberry patch.

A set of dizzily darting eyes had watched the exchange in the blueberry patch with more than a casual interest. The unexpected appearance of a dark elf, particularly one wearing a gnoll cloak, had answered many questions for Tephanis. The quick-ling sleuth had already examined the gnoll corpses but simply could not reconcile the gnolls’ fatal wounds with the crude weapons usually wielded by the simple village farmers. Seeing the magnificent twin scimitars so casually belted on the dark elf’s hips and the ease with which the dark elf had dispatched the farm boy, Tephanis knew the truth.

The dust trail left by the quickling would have confused the best rangers in the Realms. Tephanis, never a straightforward sprite, zipped up the mountain trails, spinning circuits around some trees, running up and down the sides of others, and generally doubling, even tripling, his route. Distance never bothered Tephanis; he stood before the purple-skinned barghest whelp even before Drizzt, considering the implications of the disastrous meeting, had left the blueberry patch.

armer Bartholemew Thistledown’s perspective changed considerably when Connor, his oldest son, renamed Liam’s “drizzit” a dark elf. Farmer Thistledown had spent his entire forty-five years in Maldobar, a village fifty miles up the Dead Orc River north of Sundabar. Bartholemew’s father had lived here, and his father’s father before him. In all that time, the only news any Farmer Thistledown had ever heard of dark elves was the tale of a suspected drow raid on a small settlement of wild elves a hundred miles to the north, in Coldwood. That raid, if it was even perpetrated by the drow, had occurred more than a decade before.

Lack of personal experience with the drow race did not diminish Farmer Thistledown’s fears at hearing his children’s tale of the encounter in the blueberry patch. Connor and Eleni, two trusted sources old enough to keep their wits about them in a time of crisis, had viewed the elf up close, and they held no doubts about the color of his skin.

“The only thing I can’t rightly figure,” Bartholemew told Benson Delmo, the fat and cheerful mayor of Maldobar and several other farmers gathered at his house that night, “is why this drow let the children go free. I’m no expert on the ways of dark elves, but I’ve heard tell enough about them to expect a different sort of action.”

“Perhaps Connor fared better in his attack than he believed,” Delmo piped in tactfully. They had all heard the tale of Connor’s disarming; Liam and the other Thistledown children, except for poor Connor, of course, particularly enjoyed retelling that part.

As much as he appreciated the mayor’s vote of confidence, though, Connor shook his head emphatically at the suggestion. “He took me,” Connor admitted. “Maybe I was too surprised at the sight of him, but he took me—clean.”

“And no easy feat,” Bartholemew put in, deflecting any forthcoming snickers from the gruff crowd. “We’ve all seen Connor at fighting. Just last winter, he took down three goblins and the wolves they were riding!”

“Calm, good Farmer Thistledown,” the mayor offered. “We’ve no doubts of your son’s prowess.”

“I’ve my doubts about the truth o’ the foe!” put in Roddy McGristle, a bear-sized and bear-hairy man, the most battle-seasoned of the group. Roddy spent more time up in the mountains than tending his farm, a recent endeavor he didn’t particularly enjoy, and whenever someone offered a bounty on orc ears, Roddy invariably collected the largest portion of the coffers, often larger than the rest of the town combined.

“Put yer neck hairs down,” Roddy said to Connor as the boy began to rise, a sharp protest obviously forthcoming. “I know what ye says ye seen, and I believe that ye seen what ye says. But ye called it a drow, an’ that title carries more than ye can begin to know. If it was a drow ye found, my guess’s that yerself an’ yer kin’d be lying dead right now in that there blueberry patch. No,
not a drow, by my guess, but there’s other things in them mountains could do what ye says this thing did.”

“Name them,” Bartholemew said crossly, not appreciating the doubts Roddy had cast over his son’s story. Bartholemew didn’t much like Roddy anyway. Farmer Thistledown kept a respectable family, and every time crude and loud Roddy McGristle came to pay a visit, it took Bartholemew and his wife many days to remind the children, particularly Liam, about proper behavior.

Roddy just shrugged, taking no offense at Bartholemew’s tone. “Goblin, troll—might be a wood elf that’s seen too much o’ the sun.” His laughter, erupting after the last statement, rolled over the group, belittling their seriousness.

“Then how do we know for sure,” said Delmo.

“We find out by finding it,” Roddy offered. “Tomorrow mornin’,”—he pointed around at each man sitting at Bartholemew’s table—“we go out an’ see what we can see.” Considering the impromptu meeting at an end, Roddy slammed his hands down on the table and pushed himself to his feet. He looked back before he got to the farmhouse door, though, and cast an exaggerated wink and a nearly toothless smile back at the group. “And boys,” he said, “don’t be forgettin’ yer weapons!”

Roddy’s cackle rolled back in on the group long after the rough-edged mountain man had departed.

“We could call in a ranger,” one of the other farmers offered hopefully as the dispirited group began to depart. “I heard there’s one in Sundabar, one of Lady Alustriel’s sisters.”

“A bit too early for that,” Mayor Delmo answered, defeating any optimistic smiles.

“Is it ever too early when drow are involved?” Bartholemew quickly put in.

The mayor shrugged. “Let us go with McGristle,” he replied. “If anyone can find some truth up in the mountains, it’s him.” He tactfully turned to Connor. “I believe your tale, Connor. Truly I
do. But we’ve got to know for sure before we put out a call for such distinguished assistance as a sister of the Lady of Silverymoon.”

The mayor and the rest of the visiting farmers departed, leaving Bartholemew, his father, Markhe, and Connor alone in the Thistledown kitchen.

“Wasn’t no goblin or wood elf,” Connor said in a low tone that hinted at both anger and embarrassment.

Bartholemew patted his son on the back, never doubting him.

Up in a cave in the mountains, Ulgulu and Kempfana, too, spent a night of worry over the appearance of a dark elf.

“If he’s a drow, then he’s an experienced adventurer,” Kempfana offered to his larger brother. “Experienced enough, perhaps, to send Ulgulu into maturity.”

“And back to Gehenna!” Ulgulu finished for his conniving brother. “You do so dearly desire to see me depart.”

“You, too, hope for the day when you may return to the smoking rifts,” Kempfana reminded him.

Ulgulu snarled and did not reply. The appearance of a dark elf prompted many considerations and fears beyond Kempfana’s simple statement of logic. The barghests, like all intelligent creatures on nearly every plane of existence, knew of the drow and maintained a healthy respect for the race. While one drow might not be too much of a problem, Ulgulu knew that a dark elf war party, perhaps even an army, could prove disastrous. The whelps were not invulnerable. The human village had provided easy pickings for the barghest whelps and might continue to do so for some time if Ulgulu and Kempfana were careful about their attacks. But if a band of dark elves showed up, those easy kills could disappear quite suddenly.

“This drow must be dealt with,” Kempfana remarked. “If he is a scout, then he must not return to report.”

Ulgulu snapped a cold glare on his brother, then called to his quickling. “Tephanis,” he cried, and the quickling was upon his shoulder before he had even finished the word.

“You-need-me-to-go-and-kill-the-drow, my-master,” the quick-ling replied. “I-understand-what-you-need-me-to-do!”

“No!” Ulgulu shouted immediately, sensing that the quickling intended to go right out. Tephanis was halfway to the door by the time Ulgulu finished the syllable, but the quickling returned to Ulgulu’s shoulder before the last note of the shout had died away.

“No,” Ulgulu said again, more easily. “There may be a gain in the drow’s appearance.”

Kempfana read Ulgulu’s evil grin and understood his brother’s intent. “A new enemy for the townspeople,” the smaller whelp reasoned. “A new enemy to cover Ulgulu’s murders?”

“All things can be turned to advantage,” the big, purple-skinned barghest replied wickedly, “even the appearance of a dark elf.” Ulgulu turned back to Tephanis.

“You-wish-to-learn-more-of-the-drow, my-master,” Tephanis spouted excitedly.

“Is he alone?” Ulgulu asked. “Is he a forward scout to a larger group, as we fear, or a lone warrior? What are his intentions toward the townspeople?”

“He-could-have-killed-the-children,” Tephanis reiterated. “I-guess-him-to-desire-friendship.”

“I know,” Ulgulu snarled. “You have made those points before. Go now and learn more! I need more than your guess, Tephanis, and by all accounts, a drow’s actions rarely hint at his true intent!”

Tephanis skipped down from Ulgulu’s shoulder and paused, expecting further instructions.

“Indeed, dear Tephanis,” Ulgulu purred. “Do see if you can
appropriate one of the drow’s weapons for me. It would prove usef—” Ulgulu stopped when he noticed the flutter in the heavy curtain blocking the entry room.

“An excitable little sprite,” Kempfana noted.

“But with his uses,” Ulgulu replied, and Kempfana had to nod in agreement.