“We’re headin’ for—” Bruenor started to say, but Beniago cut him short with an emphatic wave. The red-haired man bowed then, and disappeared into the night.
“Well, that was interesting,” said Bruenor when he was gone.
Regis looked at Drizzt.
“Tiago Baenre,” Drizzt remarked, his voice still a whisper, and the halfling nodded, and Catti-brie said, “Oh,” and also nodded, apparently catching on.
“What’re ye huffing about?” Bruenor demanded.
“I would guess more trouble has followed in Drizzt’s wake than the demon fight at Bryn Shander’s gate,” said Regis.
“Demon fight?” Bruenor asked.
Wulfgar gave a laugh. “Such a simple life I left behind,” he lamented.
“So Entreri’s been by here and Jarlaxle is gone and won’t return,” said Catti-brie. “You said he had a secret way into Gauntlgrym, but that is lost to us, I would expect.”
“I got me a map,” Bruenor said. “We’ll get there.”
“But not straightaway,” Drizzt said, looking at the woman who had once been his wife.
“Longsaddle,” Catti-brie agreed.
“Perhaps we should use our new names,” Regis suggested. “And find an alias for Drizzt.”
“No!” Bruenor insisted and stamped his boot. “Carried that name too long already.”
“Someone’s hunting—”
“Then let ’em come,” said the dwarf, and he was no longer whispering. “Me name’s King Bruenor to any who’re askin’, and King Bruenor to any who ain’t.”
“How much can we trust this Beniago?” Wulfgar asked, and when Drizzt gave him a noncommittal look, the giant barbarian stood up, began re-rolling his bedroll, and packing up the wagon.
They set off soon after, heading east across the fields. Barely into the journey, Bruenor began to sing, a mournful song of loss and a grandeur and era that could not be again, the Delzoun song of Gauntlgrym.
There was no moon this night, and no clouds, and a million stars twinkled in the clear skies above, and the gray swirl of a distant galaxy—clouds in one of the overlapping celestial spheres, Regis named them—striped the sky directly above. It was one of those nights when the heavens seemed to reach down to the earth itself, lifting up the soul and the imagination, much as Drizzt had known in the quiet dark atop Bruenor’s Climb on Kelvin’s Cairn.
It was a night where the rogue drow felt tiny, and yet grand, a part of something ancient, eternal, and as vast as his imagination and as warm as the love among these five friends surrounding him in the wagon, even Guenhwyvar, for he could not bring himself to dismiss her back to her Astral home.
Indeed, on a night such as this, in a night such as this, it seemed to Drizzt as if Guenhwyvar’s home had come to them.
Yes, it was good to be home, Drizzt decided.
And this, a rolling wagon bouncing across the farmlands east of Luskan, was home, because home wasn’t a place, oh no, but a bond, and one that had never seemed stronger.
PART TWO
CROSSING PATHS AND CROSSING SWORDS
I am haunted by the expression on Bruenor’s face, and by the words of Catti-brie. “The burden you carry blurs your judgment,” she told me without reservation. “As you see yourself, you hope to find in others—in orcs and goblins, even.”
She alone said this, but Bruenor’s expression and wholehearted nod certainly agreed with Catti-brie’s assessment. I wanted to argue, but found I could not. I wanted to scream against them both, to tell them that fate is not predetermined by nature, that a reasoning being could escape the determination of heredity, that intellect could overwhelm instinct.
I wanted to tell them that I had escaped.
And so, in that roundabout reasoning-turned-admission, Catti-brie’s description of my burden ultimately rang true to me, and so, were I not bound by my own experiences, and the uncertainty that has followed me every step out of Menzoberranzan, even these many decades later, my expression would likely have matched Bruenor’s own.
Was the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge a mistake? To this day, I still do not know, but I find now, in light of this discussion, that my ambiguous stance relies more on the averted suffering to the dwarves and elves and humans of the Silver Marches, and less on the benefit to the orcs. For in my heart, I suspect that Bruenor is right, and that Catti-brie’s newfound understanding of orc nature is confirmed by the goings-on in the Silver Marches. The Kingdom of Many-Arrows holds as an entity, so Bruenor claims, but the peace it promotes is a sham. And perhaps, I must admit, that peace only facilitates the orc raiders and allows them more freedom than they would find if Many-Arrows did not exist.
Still, with all the revelations and epiphanies, it hurts, all of this, and the apparent solution seems a chasm too far for me to jump. Bruenor is ready to march to Mithral Hall, rouse the dwarves, and raise an army, and with that force, wage open war on the Kingdom of Many-Arrows.
Bruenor is determined to begin a war. So determined is he that he will put aside the suffering, the death, the disease, the utter misery that such a conflict will wreak on the land, so that, as he puts it, he might right the wrong he caused that century ago.
I cannot start a war. Even if I embraced what Catti-brie has claimed, even if I believed that her every word came from the mouth of Mielikki herself, I cannot start a war!
I will not, I say—and I fear—nor will I allow Bruenor to do so. Even if his words about the nature of orcs are true—and likely they are—then the current situation still, in my view, remains better than the open conflict he so desires. Perhaps I am bound to caution because of my burden of personal experience, but Bruenor is bound by guilt to try to correct what he sees as his chance at redemption.
Is that any less a burden?
Likely it is more so.
He will run headlong into misery, for himself, his legacy, and for all the goodly folk of the Silver Marches. That is my fear, and as such, as a friend, I must stop him if I can.
I can only wince at the possibilities illuminated by this course, for I have never seen Bruenor more determined, more sure of his steps. So much so, that should I try to dissuade him, I fear we might come to blows!
As indeed, I fear my road back to Mithral Hall. My last visit was not pleasant, and not one I often consider, for it pains me to realize that I, a ranger, have worked openly against dwarves and elves for the sake of orcs. For the sake of the “peace,” I tell myself, but in the end, that dodge can only hold true if Catti-brie’s admonition, if Mielikki’s claim, is not true. If orcs are not to be counted among the reasoning beings born of a choice in their road, then …
I will follow Bruenor to Mithral Hall. If the orc raiders are as prevalent as Bruenor insists, then I am sure I will find good use for my blades, and likely at Bruenor’s side, vigilant hunters striking without hesitation or guilt.
But I will not start a war.
That chasm is too wide.
Am I wrong, then, in hoping that the decision is taken from us before we ever arrive? In hoping that the Kingdom of Many-Arrows proves Catti-brie’s point in no uncertain terms?
“Where’s the babies’ room!” I hear her again, often in my thoughts, in that Dwarvish brogue of old, and with the ferocity befitting a daughter of King Bruenor Battlehammer. And though Catti-brie carried this accent for many years, and can fight as well as any, this time her cheer rang discordantly, painfully, in my ears.
What of Nojheim, then, the goblin I once knew who seemed a decent sort undeserving of his harsh fate?
Or am I really saying, what, then, of Drizzt?
I want to deny the message of Mielikki; once I claimed the goddess as that which was in my heart, a name for what I knew to be true and right. And now I want to deny it, desperately so, and yet I cannot. Perhaps it is the harsh truth of Faerûn that goblinkin and evil giantkind are just evil, by nature and not nurture.
And likely, my perception of this truth has been distorted by my own determined escape from the
seemingly inevitable path I was born to follow, and perhaps distorted in dangerous ways.
On a very basic level, this message wounds me, and that wound is the burden. Is there, in this instance, no place for optimism and an insistence that there is good to be found? Does that outlook, the guiding philosophy of my existence, simply have no place in the darkness of an orc’s heart?
Can I start a war?
I walk this road tentatively, but also eagerly, for I am filled with conflict. I wish to know, I must know! I am afraid to know.
Alas, so much has changed, but so much remains the same. The Spellplague is gone, yet trouble seems ever to be brewing in our wake. Yet we walk a road into deeper darkness, into Gauntlgrym for the sake of a lost friend, and then, if we survive, into the midst of a greater storm.
For all of that, have I ever been happier?
—Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 9
WHEN THE SUN WENT DOWN
YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE STOPPED ME,” DAHLIA SAID WITH AN ACCOMPANYING hiss when Entreri walked back into the room they shared in Port Llast, a high room in the inn called Stonecutter’s Solace tucked up against the eastern cliffs of the sheltered city. Dahlia sat at the room’s lone window, looking west, to the docks and the ocean of the reclaimed city—reclaimed in no small part because of the actions of this very group of adventurers. The sun sat low on the horizon before her, ready to surrender to the twilight.
“That again?” Entreri asked with a snort. He was returning from a late supper with the other three of their party, a meal in which the pouting Dahlia had refused to partake.
Dahlia swiveled around in her seat to regard him, her face scrunching with that unrelenting anger. She wore her hair in the top-braid again, something she had not done in some time, and her magical blue facial woad seemed particularly angry to Entreri this evening, somewhat resembling a hunting cat, and she turned and tilted her head obstinately. At least, that was the impression it gave to him.
“Do you think he is following us?” she asked.
“No.” In truth, the assassin had no idea whether Drizzt had decided to follow them out of Icewind Dale, nor was he overly concerned, in any case. At least, not for the reason Dahlia was clearly concerned. Likely Drizzt had remained in Icewind Dale, as he had indicated he would. He was probably licking his wounds and looking for some way to redeem his reputation among the folk of Ten-Towns, Entreri figured, for the assassin had seen the pain on Drizzt’s face when they had been denied entry to Bryn Shander.
Drizzt should have come with them, Entreri believed, although Dahlia had made that road far more difficult.
Or perhaps Entreri was simply considering his own preferences, to have the capable and steady drow warrior at his side. That realization surprised him more than a little.
“He will seek revenge,” Dahlia insisted. “You should not have stopped me!”
Entreri laughed at her.
“He deserved to die!” Dahlia spat, and she leaped out of her seat and stormed across the room to stand before the man.
“We were the ones who betrayed him, remember?” Entreri came back with a snicker. “And Drizzt forgave you, and never once confronted me—”
“He dismissed me,” Dahlia interrupted, as if that explained everything regarding her outright attack on the drow. She poked her finger into Entreri’s chest as she spoke, which brought another amused smile from the man.
So Dahlia slapped him across the face.
But he intercepted, catching her by the wrist and turning her arm down and around with a painful jerk.
“I am not Drizzt Do’Urden,” he assured her evenly. “If you attack me, I will fight back.”
“We have battled before,” Dahlia reminded him.
“Yes, but then I didn’t understand your strange weapon,” the assassin replied, using that voice that had chilled the blood of so many victims over the decades, usually right before his blades had drained that same blood. “I know your style and tricks now. If you attack me, have no doubt, I will kill you.”
He let go of her wrist, shoving the arm aside, and Dahlia fell back a step, staring at him with an expression caught somewhere between outrage and intrigue. Behind her, through the window, the sun disappeared, the long shadows giving way to dusk.
“Is that what you want?” Entreri reasoned. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”
Dahlia straightened and squared her shoulders but couldn’t seem to find a response.
“Because you are a coward?” Entreri asked.
The woman’s hands reflexively moved toward her flail, the pair set in a belt loop on her left hip.
Artemis Entreri smiled again, and Dahlia stopped short of grabbing them.
“To what end, Dahlia?” he asked quietly. “You have your son back, and he forgives you, even if you cannot find the strength to forgive yourself. How long will you continue hating what you see in the mirror?”
“You know nothing of it.”
“I know that you went after Drizzt because he rejected you,” Entreri answered. “I also know your game.”
She tilted her head in curiosity, prompting him to elaborate.
“To find a lover who will confirm what you hate about yourself,” Entreri obliged. “And to find one who will, when you confront him, be strong enough to finally grant you peace. Well take heart, elf, for here I stand.”
Dahlia fell back a step, staring at Entreri and seemingly at a loss.
“We are done, here and now,” Entreri announced. “I will sail from this place without you.”
Dahlia’s expression went blank, and she mouthed “no,” though she couldn’t seem to find the breath to actually speak the word, as she shook her head slowly in denial.
“So draw your weapons as you will,” Entreri said, and he made sure he did so rather flippantly. “I long ago lost count of those I’ve killed. One more shan’t matter.”
Dahlia continued to shake her head, and it seemed to Entreri that she might simply melt then and there before him. Tears gathered in her eyes, one rolling down her cheek. Her lips moved as if she were trying to find something to say to him, some denial.
What he didn’t see, to his great satisfaction, was anger.
“Please,” she finally managed to say.
Entreri laughed callously and turned for the door. He did so while moving his hands close to his weapons, fully expecting an attack.
And indeed, Dahlia came after him, but not with her weapon, throwing herself at him plaintively, crying out for him not to leave. He turned and caught her charge, and twisted around as they moved for the door so that he pushed her up against it, and not the other way around.
“Please,” she said, trembling, and Entreri realized that he was the only thing holding her up.
“I grow tired of hearing of Drizzt,” he said to her, and she was nodding with every word. “If you truly believe that I did you no favor in ending your fight on the mountain, then tell me now.”
It took Dahlia a moment, and then she lowered her eyes and slowly shook her head.
Entreri pushed up against her, pinning her tightly to the closed door, his face a finger’s breadth from hers. “Do you want me to lead you back to him, that together we can finish what you started?” he asked. “Would it please you to kill Drizzt Do’Urden?”
Dahlia’s expression showed her shock at the blunt question.
“Say the word,” he teased.
“No,” she said, but calmly. She shook her head again, but with conviction now as she straightened against the door. “No.”
Entreri smiled once more, and when she pressed in closer to kiss him, he did not resist.
Artemis Entreri understood the power and significance of Dahlia’s epiphany, even though it was something that Dahlia did not yet fully comprehend.
“It took me many years to be able to look into a mirror honestly,” he said quietly, pulling back from her just a bit. “And even still, shadows lurk—”
His sentence was cut
short by a sudden explosion that shook Stonecutter’s Solace to its foundation, threw Entreri up against Dahlia, and jolted both of them hard into the door.
Entreri jumped back and pulled Dahlia around behind him. He threw the door open and charged into the hall, cutting left for the stairway, drawing his weapons as he went. The corridor ran twenty feet before turning back to the right around the corner, at the top of the stairs.
The building rocked again, shaking under a tremendous blast, and a burst of flames exploded up from the stairs and into Entreri’s corridor, rolling and dissipating, licking the walls to blackness. Beneath that gout came Afafrenfere, rolling low along the floor, tucked fully under his heavy robes. He came up as the flames disappeared, and glanced to Entreri.
“Drow!” he cried. “Many! Run!”
Darkness engulfed him, blacking out the end of the corridor.
Entreri took a step the monk’s way, before falling back in surprise at a thunderous retort from the end of the hall—a lightning bolt, he knew, burned into the magical darkness.
The assassin skidded and turned around, crashing into Dahlia as she exited the room and shoving her back in before him. He swung the door closed and kept running, across the room to the small window.
“Drow!” he yelled back at Dahlia, who was repeatedly screaming,
“What? What?”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Effron!” she cried.
Entreri kicked the window out. “He left for a walk with the dwarf when I returned to you,” he said. “Be quick!” And out he went, catching hold on the top border of the glass, then standing atop the pane. Stonecutter’s Solace was set up against the eastern cliff wall of the valley city of Port Llast, up high on a foundation of stone. The buildings before it were also below it, and when Entreri looked out this window, he could see over the rooftops of the lesser structures to the west.
Even in the dim light of dusk, Entreri saw that the fighting wasn’t confined to Stonecutter’s Solace. Down the street, a man staggered out of a building and fell face down in the road. On the porch below, patrons of the inn scrambled and ran—or tried to, for Afafrenfere’s call had indeed been accurate, and murderous dark elves caught them and cut them down.