“Barghest whelp!” exclaimed Fret, looking upon the scarlet-skinned, giant corpse.
“Barghest?” Roddy asked, perplexed.
“Of course,” piped in Fret. “That does explain the wolf-giant in the gorge.”
“Caught in the change,” Darda reasoned. “Its many wounds and the stone floor took it before it could complete the transition.”
“Barghest?” Roddy asked again, this time angrily, not appreciating being left out of a discussion he could not understand.
“A creature from another plane of existence,” Fret explained. “Gehenna, it is rumored. Barghests send their whelps to other planes, sometimes to our own, to feed and to grow.” He paused a moment in thought. “To feed,” he said again, his tone leading the others. “The woman in the barn!” Dove said evenly.
The members of Dove’s troupe nodded their heads at the sudden revelation, but grim-faced McGristle held stubbornly to his original theory. “Drow killed ‘em!” he growled.
“Have you the broken scimitar?” Dove asked. Roddy produced the weapon from beneath one of the many folds in his layered skin garments.
Dove took the weapon and bent low to examine the dead barghest. The blade unmistakably matched the beast’s wounds, especially the fatal wound in the barghest’s throat. “You said that the drow wielded two of these,” Dove remarked to Roddy as she held up the scimitar.
“The mayor said that,” Roddy corrected, “on account of the story Thistledown’s son told. When I seen the drow—” He took back the weapon—”he had just the one—the one he used to kill the Thistledown clan!” Roddy purposely didn’t mention that the drow, while wielding just the one weapon, had scabbards for two scimitars on his belt.
Dove shook her head, doubting the theory, “The drow killed this barghest,” she said. “The wounds match the blade, the sister blade to the one you hold, I would guess. And if you check the goblins in the front room, you will find that their throats were slashed by a similar curving scimitar.”
“Like the wounds on the Thistledowns!” Roddy snarled. Dove thought it best to keep her budding hypothesis quiet, but Fret, disliking the big man, echoed the thoughts of all but McGristle. “Killed by the barghest,” the dwarf proclaimed, remembering the two sets of footprints at the farmyard. “In the form of the drow!”
Roddy glowered at him and Dove cast Fret a leading look, wanting the dwarf to remain silent. Fret misinterpreted the ranger’s stare, though, thinking it astonishment of his reasoning power, and he proudly continued. “That explains the two sets of tracks, the heavier, earlier set for the bar—”
“But what of the creature in the gorge?” Darda asked Dove, understanding his leader’s desire to shut Fret up. “Might its wounds, too, match the curving blade?”
Dove thought for a moment and managed to subtly nod her thanks to Darda. “Some, perhaps,” she answered. “More likely, that barghest was killed by the panther—” She looked directly at Roddy—”the cat you claimed the drow kept as a pet.”
Roddy kicked the dead barghest. “Drow killed the Thistledown clan!” he growled. Roddy had lost a dog and an ear to the dark elf and would not accept any conclusions that lessened his chances of claiming the two thousand gold piece bounty that the mayor had levied.
A call from outside the cave ended the debate—both Dove and Roddy were glad of that. After leading the troupe into the lair, Kellindil had returned outside, following up on some further clues he had discovered.
“A boot print,” the elf explained, pointing to a small, mossy patch, when the others came out. “And here,” he showed them scratches in the stone, a clear sign of a scuffle.
“My belief is that the drow went to the ledge,” Kellindil explained. “And then over, perhaps in pursuit of the barghest and the panther, though on that point I am merely assuming.”
After a moment of following the trail Kellindil had reconstructed, Dove and Darda, and even Roddy, agreed with the assumption.
“We should go back into the ravine,” Dove suggested. “Perhaps we will find a trail beyond the stony gorge that will lead us toward some clearer answers.”
Roddy scratched at the scabs on his head and flashed Dove a disdainful look that showed her his emotions. Roddy cared not a bit for any of the ranger’s promised “clearer answers,” having drawn all of the conclusions that he needed long ago. Roddy was determined—beyond anything else, Dove knew—to bring back the dark elf’s head.
Dove Falconhand was not so certain about the murderer’s identity. Many questions remained for both the ranger and for the other members of her troupe. Why hadn’t the drow killed the Thistledown children when they had met earlier in the mountains? If Connor’s tale to the mayor had been true, then why had the drow given the boy back his weapon? Dove was firmly convinced that the barghest, and not the drow, had slaughtered the Thistledown family, but why had the drow apparently gone after the barghest lair?
Was the drow in league with the barghests, a communion that fast soured? Even more intriguing to the ranger—whose very creed was to protect civilians in the unending war between the good races and monsters—had the drow sought out the barghest to avenge the slaughter at the farm? Dove suspected the latter was the truth, but she couldn’t understand the drow’s motives. Had the barghest, in killing the family, put the farmers of Maldobar on alert, thereby ruining a planned drow raid?
Again the pieces didn’t fit properly. If the dark elves planned a raid on Maldobar, then certainly none of them would have revealed themselves beforehand. Something inside Dove told her that this single drow had acted alone, had come out and avenged the slain farmers. She shrugged it off as a trick of her own optimism and reminded herself that dark elves were rarely known for such rangerlike acts.
* * *
By the time the five got down the narrow path and returned to the sight of the largest corpse, Gabriel had already found the trail, heading deeper into the mountains. Two sets of tracks were evident, the drow’s and fresher ones belonging to a giant, bipedal creature, possibly a third barghest.
“What happened to the panther?” Fret asked, growing a bit overwhelmed by his first field expedition in many years.
Dove laughed aloud and shook her head helplessly. Every answer seemed to bring so many more questions.
* * *
Drizzt kept on the move at night, running, as he had for so many years, from yet another grim reality. He had not killed the farmers—he had actually saved them from the gnoll band—but now they were dead. Drizzt could not escape that fact. He had entered their lives, quite of his own will, and now they were dead.
On the second night after his encounter with the hill giant, Drizzt saw a distant campfire far down the winding mountain trails, back in the direction of the barghest’s lair. Knowing this sight to be more than coincidence, the drow summoned Guenhwyvar to his side, then sent the panther down for a closer look.
Tirelessly the great cat ran, its sleek, black form invisible in the evening shadows as it rapidly closed the distance to the camp.
* * *
Dove and Gabriel rested easily by their campfire, amused by the continuing antics of Fret, who busily cleaned his soft jerkin with a stiff brush and grumbled all the while.
Roddy kept to himself across the way, securely tucked into a niche between a fallen tree and a large rock, his dog curled up at his feet.
“Oh, bother for this dirt!” Fret groaned. “Never, never will I get this outfit clean! I shall have to buy a new one.” He looked at Dove, who was futilely trying to hold a straight face. “Laugh if you will, Mistress Falconhand,” the dwarf admonished. “The price will come out of your purse, do not doubt!”
“A sorry day it is when one must buy fineries for a dwarf,” Gabriel put in, and at his words, Dove burst into laughter.
“Laugh if you will!” Fret said again, and he rubbed harder with the brush, wearing a hole right through the garment. “Drat and bebother!” he cursed, then he threw the brush to the ground.
“Shut yer mouth!” Roddy groused at them, stealing the mirth. “Do ye mean to bring the drow down upon us?”
Gabriel’s ensuing glare was uncompromising, but Dove realized that the mountain man’s advice, though rudely given, was appropriate. “Let us rest, Gabriel,” the ranger said to her fighting companion. “Darda and Kellindil will be in soon and our turn shall come for watch. I expect that tomorrow’s road will be no less wearisome—” She looked at Fret and winked—”and no less dirty, than today’s.”
Gabriel shrugged, hung his pipe in his mouth, and clasped his hands behind his head. This was the life that he and all of the adventuring companions enjoyed, camping under the stars with the song of the mountain wind in their ears. Fret, though, tossed and turned on the hard ground, grumbling and growling as he moved through each uncomfortable position.
Gabriel didn’t need to look at Dove to know that she shared his smile. Nor did he have to glance over at Roddy to know that the mountain man fumed at the continuing noise. It no doubt seemed negligible to the ears of a city-living dwarf but rang out conspicuously to those more accustomed to the road.
A whistle from the darkness sounded at the same time Roddy’s dog put its fur up and growled.
Dove and Gabriel were up and over to the side of the camp in a second, moving to the perimeter of the firelight in the direction of Darda’s call. Likewise, Roddy, pulling his dog along, slipped around the large rock, out of the direct light so that their eyes could adjust to the gloom.
Fret, too involved with his own discomfort, finally noticed the movements. “What?” the dwarf asked curiously. “What?”
After a brief and whispered conversation with Darda, Dove and Gabriel split up, circling the camp in opposite directions to ensure the integrity of the perimeter.
“The tree,” came a soft whisper, and Dove dropped into a crouch. In a moment, she sorted out Roddy, cleverly concealed between the rock and some brush. The big man, too, had his weapon readied, and his other hand held his dog’s muzzle tightly, keeping the animal silent.
Dove followed Roddy’s nod to the widespread branches of a solitary elm. At first, the ranger could discern nothing unusual among the leafy branches, but then came the yellow flash of feline eyes.
“Drow’s panther,” Dove whispered. Roddy nodded his agreement. They sat very still and watched, knowing that the slightest movement could alert the cat. A few seconds later, Gabriel joined them, falling into a silent position and following their eyes to the same darker spot on the elm. All three understood that time was their ally; even now, Darda and Kellindil were no doubt moving into position.
Their trap would surely have had Guenhwyvar, but a moment later, the dwarf crashed out of the campsite, stumbling right into Roddy. The mountain man nearly fell over, and when he reflexively threw his weaponless hand out to catch himself, his dog rushed out, baying wildly.
Like a black-shafted arrow, the panther bolted from the tree and flew off into the night. Fortune was not with Guenhwyvar, though, for it crossed straight by Kellindil’s position, and the keen-visioned elven archer saw it clearly.
Kellindil heard the barking and shouting in the distance, back by the camp, but had no way of knowing what had transpired. Any hesitation the elf had, however, was quickly dispelled when one voice called out clearly.
“Kill the murdering thing!” Roddy cried.
Thinking then that the panther or its drow companion must have attacked the campsite, Kellindil let his arrow fly. The enchanted dart buried itself deeply into Guenhwyvar’s flank as the panther rushed by.
Then came Dove’s call, berating Roddy. “Do not!” the ranger shouted. “The panther has done nothing to deserve our ire!”
Kellindil rushed out to the panther’s trail. With his sensitive elven eyes viewing in the infrared spectrum, he clearly saw the heat of blood dotting the area of the hit and trailing off away from the camp.
Dove and the others came upon him a moment later. Kellindil’s elven features, always angular and beautiful, seemed sharp as his angry glare fell over Roddy.
“You have misguided my shot, McGristle,” he said angrily. “On your words, I shot a creature undeserving of an arrow! I warn you once, and once alone, to never do so again.” After a final glare to show the mountain man how much he meant his words, Kellindil stalked off along the blood trail.
Angry fires welled in Roddy, but he sublimated them, understanding that he stood alone against the formidable foursome and the tidy dwarf. Roddy did let his glare drop upon Fret, though, knowing that none of the others could disagree with his judgment.
“Keep yer tongue in yer mouth when danger nears!” Roddy growled. “And keep yer stinkin’ boots off my back!”
Fret looked around incredulously as the group began to move off after Kellindil. “Stinking?” the dwarf asked aloud. He looked down, wounded, to his finely polished boots. “Stinking?” he said to Dove, who paused to offer a comforting smile. “Dirtied by that one’s back, more likely!”
* * *
Guenhwyvar limped back to Drizzt soon after the first rays of dawn peeked through the eastern mountains. Drizzt shook his head helplessly, almost unsurprised by the arrow protruding from Guenhwyvar’s flank. Reluctantly, but knowing it a wise course, Drizzt drew out the dagger he had taken from the quickling and cut the bolt free.
Guenhwyvar growled softly through the procedure but lay still and offered no resistance. Then Drizzt, though he wanted to keep Guenhwyvar by his side, allowed the panther to return to its astral home, where the wound would heal faster. The arrow had told the drow all he needed to know about his pursuers, and Drizzt believed that he would need the panther again all too soon. He stood out on a rocky outcropping and peered through the growing brightness to the lower trails, to the expected approach of yet another enemy.
He saw nothing, of course; even wounded, Guenhwyvar had easily outdistanced the pursuit and, for a man or similar being, the campfire was many hours’ travel.
But they would come, Drizzt knew, forcing him into yet another battle he did not want. Drizzt looked all around, wondering what devious traps he could set for them, what advantages he could gain when the encounter came to blows, as every encounter seemed to.
Memories of his last meeting with humans, of the man with the dogs and the other farmers, abruptly altered Drizzt’s thinking. On that occasion, the battle had been inspired by misunderstanding, a barrier that Drizzt doubted he could ever overcome. Drizzt had fostered no desire then to fight against the humans and fostered none now, despite Guenhwyvar’s wound.
The light was growing and the still-injured drow, though he had rested through the night, wanted to find a dark and comfortable hole. But Drizzt could afford no delays, not if he wanted to keep ahead of the coming battle.
“How far will you follow me?” Drizzt whispered into the morning breeze. He vowed in a somber but determined tone, “We shall see.”
10. A Question of Honor
“The panther found the drow,” Dove concluded after she and her companions had spent some time inspecting the region near the rocky outcropping. Kellindil’s arrow lay broken on the ground, at about the same spot where the panther tracks ended. “And then the panther disappeared.”
“So it would seem,” Gabriel agreed, scratching his head and looking down at the confusing trail.
“Hell cat,” Roddy McGristle growled. “Gone back to its filthy home!”
Fret wanted to ask, “Your house?” but he wisely held the sarcastic thought to himself.
The others, too, let the mountain man’s proclamation slip by. They had no answers to this riddle, and Roddy’s guess was as good as any of them could manage. The wounded panther and the fresh blood trail were gone, but Roddy’s dog soon had Drizzt’s scent. Baying excitedly, the dog led them on, and Dove and Kellindil, both skilled trackers, often discovered other evidence that confirmed the direction.
The trail lay along the side of the mountain, dipped through some thickly packed trees, and continued on acr
oss an expanse of bare stone, ending abruptly at yet another ravine. Roddy’s dog moved right to the lip and even down to the first step on a rocky and treacherous descent.
“Damned drow magic,” Roddy grumbled. He looked around and bounced a fist off his thigh, guessing that it would take him many hours to circumvent the steep wall.
“The daylight wanes,” Dove offered. “Let us set camp here and find our way down in the morn.”
Gabriel and Fret nodded their accord, but Roddy disagreed. “The trail’s fresh now!” the mountain man argued. “We should get the dog down there and back on it, at least, before we’re taking to our beds.”
“That could take hours… “ Fret began to protest, but Dove hushed the tidy dwarf.
“Come “ the ranger bade the others, and she walked off to the west, to where the ground sloped at a steep, but climbable decline.
Dove did not agree with Roddy’s reasoning, but she wanted no further arguments with Maldobar’s appointed representative.
At the bottom of the ravine they found only more riddles. Roddy spurred his dog off in every direction but could find no trace of the elusive drow. After many minutes of contemplation, the truth sparked in Dove’s mind and her smile revealed everything to her other seasoned companions.
“He doubled us!” Gabriel laughed, guessing the source of Dove’s mirth. “He led us right to the cliff, knowing we would assume he used some magic to get down!”
“What’re ye talkin’ about?” Roddy demanded angrily, though the experienced bounty hunter understood exactly what had happened.
“You mean that we have to climb all the way back up there?” Fret asked, his voice a whine.
Dove laughed again but sobered quickly as she looked to Roddy and said, “In the morning.”