Now the elves focused once more on the fleeing orcs, and one after another, they, too, went tumbling down.
In mere heartbeats, four giants and fifty orcs lay dead or dying around the Glimmerwood’s edge, with just a handful running for the orc encampment. A few others might still be about, hiding, but the orders had been explicit, and they were not to draw swords and go out to finish off any of the wounded or those hiding.
And indeed, those orders proved prudent moments later when the orc encampment began to swirl toward the forest like a great black cloud of locusts.
So came the call to scatter, and the elves did, in coordinated fashion, running off into the forest in predetermined groups of five.
The orc wave rolled into the Glimmerwood without resistance.
Many trees went down under orc hatchets then, the frustrated creatures taking out their anger on the living targets that could not flee.
For not an elf did they find.
Some groups of orcs foolishly probed deeper in pursuit, and each in turn was sent running, half of them dying, the others stumbling out to rejoin the main orc force.
“They will be better prepared when next they come to collect their timber,” Allafel said to Sinnafein and the rest when at last the orcs broke off and returned to their camps.
“We killed more than threescore, and a handful of giants besides,” Vyncint reminded, a measure of satisfaction in his voice.
“They lose that number each day to attrition, and yet their ranks continue to grow,” Allafel replied.
“It felt good,” Vyncint countered, drawing a smile from Allafel, who certainly would not disagree.
“They will be more prepared, and no doubt the word of our ambush will spread to the orc encampments all around our home,” Sinnafein agreed. “To the beasts in the northeast besieging Adbar, and to those camped across the river holding tight about Mithral Hall.”
“So what, really, can we do against them?” Allafel asked.
“Truly, Lady,” Myriel added.
Sinnafein looked at her young protégé and saw the pain that Myriel had felt in even asking the despairing question, but Sinnafein knew, too, that the question was an honest one.
“Will sixty dead orcs and a few dead giants make a difference if King Emerus tries again to break out from Citadel Felbarr?” Sinnafein asked them all.
“I don’t know, but likely not,” she admitted before any of the others could answer. “Likely not,” she reiterated glumly. “We will find more opportunities to strike at the beasts.”
“But we’ll not likely prove this effective again,” Allafel interrupted.
Sinnafein nodded, conceding the point. “We will find patrols, and we will slaughter them,” she told her people. “We will find orc scouts too far out from their allies, and we will kill them. Perhaps this vast horde will be thinned by another two hundred when King Emerus comes forth again. Perhaps only by one hundred. But that is one hundred fewer spears the dwarves will face.”
“But will it make any difference?” Vyncint asked.
Sinnafein looked at him, trying to keep a measure of optimism in her expression and her voice. They had just won a great and sudden victory, at least, yet here they were, their mood as dark as the sunless sky above them. “I do not know, and likely not,” she admitted again.
“But we must try,” said Allafel, nodding at her, and she appreciated his support.
“Though there is nothing more,” Sinnafein admitted. “What can we do to truly wound our ugly enemies?”
It was a rhetorical question, of course. They had discussed this at length, but to Sinnafein’s surprise, to Allafel’s surprise, to the surprise of all the elves, there came an answer, and one from a source more surprising still.
“Aye, and now there’s where we might be helpin’ ye,” said a female dwarf carrying a massive mace over one shoulder. Beside her came a man in simple, loose-fitting brown robes—the garb of a monk, it seemed.
A hundred bows went up and turned upon the intruders, elves whispering excitedly and confusedly as to how these two might possibly have gotten through their sentries unseen.
“Who are you?” demanded Allafel, sword in hand, and those around him, too, had weapons drawn.
“Me name’s Amber,” said the dwarf. “Amber Gristle O’Maul o’ the Adbar O’Mauls. This one’s me friend Afafrenfere—if ye canno’ say it proper, just sneeze, and he’ll answer to that! Ha!”
Other elves—the sentries—came rushing in behind the pair, bows in hand and confused expressions clear to see. They, too, had no idea of how these two might have slipped through the perimeter. They, like the others, did not understand the power of the magical enchantment that had been put on this unlikely pair of companions, or the even more unlikely pair that had put those enchantments in place.
“Now to yer question o’ what ye might be doin’,” the dwarf went on. “We got a couple more friends near-about that might be offerin’ ye a bit o’ advice and more than a bit o’ aid on that matter,” she said, ending with a wide and confident smile and an exaggerated wink.
PART TWO
THE GOD INSIDE YOUR HEART
I AM NOT A COURAGEOUS GOBLIN. I PREFER TO LIVE, THOUGH OFTENTIMES I wonder what my life is truly worth.”
Those words haunt me.
In light of the revelations Catti-brie has offered of my goddess, Mielikki, that all of goblinkin are irredeemably evil and should be rightfully put to the sword, those words haunt me.
For they were spoken to me by a goblin named Nojheim, a fellow of intelligence and wit, surprisingly so to me who had never so deeply and honestly conversed with a goblin before. He claimed cowardice because he would not stand up to the humans who had captured him, beaten him, and enslaved him. He questioned the worth of his life because he was truly that, a slave.
They came for Nojheim, and they caught him, and it is forever my shame that I was not able to help him, for when I next saw him, he had been hanged by the neck by his tormentors. Reeling from the scene, I stumbled back to my bed, and that very night I wrote, “There are events that are forever frozen in one’s memory, feelings that exude a more complete aura, a memory so vivid and so lasting. I remember the wind at that horrible moment. The day, thick with low clouds, was unseasonably warm, but the wind, on those occasions it had to gust, carried a chilling bite, coming down from the high mountains and carrying the sting of deep snow with it. That wind was behind me, my long white hair blowing around the side of my face, my cloak pressing tightly against my back as I sat on my mount and stared helplessly at the high cross-pole.
The gusty breeze kept Nojheim’s stiff and bloated body turning slightly, the bolt holding the hemp rope creaking in mournful, helpless protest.
“I will see him forever.”
And so I do see him still, and whenever I manage to put that terrible memory out of thought, I am reminded of it.
Never more poignantly than now, with war brewing, with Bruenor deriding the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge as his worst error, with Catti-brie, my beloved Catti-brie, insisting that on Mielikki’s word, on the sermon of the goddess we both hold dear, those humans in that long ago day, in that long-deserted village along the Surbrin whose name I cannot remember were justified in their actions.
I cannot reconcile it. I simply cannot.
The implications of Catti-brie’s claim overwhelm me and loosen the sand beneath my feet, until I am sinking into despair. For when I kill, even in battle, even in righteous defense, I feel that a part of my soul departs with the vanquished foe. I feel as if I am a bit less goodly. I mend my soul by reminding myself of the necessity of my actions, of course, and so I am not locked in the dark wings of guilt in any way.
But what if I carry Mielikki’s claims to their logical conclusions? What if I force my way into an orc or goblin settlement that has shown no aggression, no intent to wage war or commit any other crimes? What if I find that nursery as Catti-brie mocked in her dwarven brogue, with the old dwarven cry of “Where’s the babies??
? room?”
Surely then, by the sermon of Mielikki, I am to slaughter the goblin children, infants even. And slaughter the elderly and infirm even if they have committed no crimes or no acts of aggression.
No.
I will not.
Such an act rings in my heart and soul as unjust and cruel. Such an act erases the line between good and evil. Such an act would stain my own conscience, whatever Mielikki’s claims!
And that, I believe, is the ultimate downfall of reasoning beings. What pain to the murderer, to the heart and soul of the one who would kill the elderly and infirm orc, or the goblin child? What stain, forevermore, to steal the confidence, the righteousness, the belief in oneself that is so critical for the sensibilities of the warrior?
If I must wage terrible battle, then so be it. If I must kill, then so be it.
If I must.
Only if I must!
My clear conscience protects me from a pit too dark to contemplate, and that is a place I hope Bruenor and Catti-brie never enter.
But what does this mean in my servitude to Mielikki, to the concept of a goddess I believed at peace with that which was in my own heart? What does this mean for the unicorn—her steed—that I call from the whistle about my neck? What does this mean for the very return of my friends, the Companions of the Hall? They are beside me once more, we all agree, by the blessing of, and at the suffrage of, Mielikki.
Catti-brie claims the voice of Mielikki with regards to the goblinkin; she is a priestess of Mielikki, with magical powers granted her by the goddess. How could she not speak truly on this matter?
Aye, Catti-brie relayed the truth of what the goddess told her.
That notion pains me most of all. I feel betrayed. I feel discordant, my voice shrill and out of tune with the song of the goddess.
Yet if my heart is not true to the word of Mielikki …
Fie these gods! What beings are these who would play so cruelly with the sensibilities of rational, conscientious mortals?
I have racked my brain and scoured my memories for evidence that I am wrong. I have tried to convince myself that the goblin named Nojheim was actually just manipulating me to try to save its skin.
Nojheim was no poor victim of the humans, but a vile and conniving murderer kept alive by their mercy alone.
So it must be.
And so I cannot believe. I simply cannot. I was not, I am not, wrong in my initial understanding about Nojheim. Nor was I wrong about Jessa, a half-orc, a friend, a companion, who traveled for years beside me, Thibbledorf Pwent, and Bruenor Battlehammer himself.
But I must believe that I was wrong, or must accept that Mielikki is. And how can that be?
How can the goddess I hold as the epitome of goodliness be wrong? How can Mielikki’s song chip the veneer of truth I hold in my heart?
Are these gods, then, fallible beings looking over us as if we were no more than pieces on a sava board? Am I a pawn?
Then my reason, my conscience, my independent thought and moral judgment must be cast aside, subjugated to the will of a superior being …
But no, I cannot do this. Surely not in matters of simple right and wrong. Whatever Mielikki might tell me, I cannot excuse the actions of that slaver Rico and the others who tormented, tortured, and ultimately murdered Nojheim. Whatever Mielikki might tell me, it must hold in accordance with that which I know to be true and right.
It must! This is not arrogance, but the cry that an internal moral compass, the conscience of a reasoning being, cannot be disregarded by edict. I call not for anarchy, I offer nothing in the way of sophistry, but I insist that there must be universal truths about right and wrong.
And one of those truths has to be that the content of character must outweigh the trappings of a mortal coil.
I feel lost. In this, the Winter of the Iron Dwarf, I feel sick and adrift.
As I ask of the dwarves, the humans, indeed even the elves, that they view my actions and not the reputation of my heritage, so I must afford the same courtesy, the same politesse, the same decent deference, to all reasoning beings.
My hands shake now as I read my writings of a century before, for then, with my heart full of Mielikki’s grace, so I believed, I revealed little doubt.
“Sunset,” I wrote, and I see that descending fiery orb as clearly now as on that fateful day a century and more removed. “Another day surrenders to the night as I perch here on the side of a mountain, not so far from Mithral Hall.
“The mystery of the night has begun, but does Nojheim know now the truth of a greater mystery? I often wonder of those who have gone before me, who have discovered what I cannot until the time of my own death. Is Nojheim better off now than he was as Rico’s slave?
“If the afterlife is one of justice, then surely he is.
“I must believe this to be true, yet still it wounds me to know that I inadvertently played a role in the unusual goblin’s death, both in capturing him and in going to him later, going to him with hopes that he could not afford to hold. I cannot forget that I walked away from Nojheim, however well-intentioned I might have been. I rode for Silverymoon and left him vulnerable, left him in wrongful pain.
“And so I learn from my mistake.
“Forever after, I will not ignore such injustice. If ever I chance upon one of Nojheim’s spirit and Nojheim’s peril again, then let his wicked master be wary. Let the lawful powers of the region review my actions and exonerate me if that is what they perceive to be the correct course. If not …
“It does not matter. I will follow my heart.”
Three lines stand clear to me now in light of the revelations offered by Catti-brie.
“If the afterlife is one of justice, then surely he is,” so I told myself, so I believed, and so I must believe. Yet if the afterlife is the domain of Mielikki, then surely Nojheim cannot have found a better place.
“Forever after, I will not ignore such injustice,” I vowed, and so I mean to hold true to that vow, for I believe in the content of the sentiment.
Yes, Bruenor, my dear friend. Yes, Catti-brie, my love and my life. Yes, Mielikki, to whom I ascribed the tenets that make me whole.
“It does not matter. I will follow my heart.”
—Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 8
INFLUENTIAL FRIENDS
YOU KNOW THIS INFORMANT WELL ENOUGH, THEN?” SINNAFEIN ASKED her elf companion as they carefully concealed their small sled under an overhang in the riverbank. The river was frozen over, but one could never take such things for granted, and so the pair had half walked, half ridden the sled to the western bank.
“For many years, decades even,” answered the other, a beautiful and lithe elf maiden with blue eyes that seemed to glow in the dark of night, so intense was their inner sparkle. Her thick, reddish-blonde hair was tucked under a furred hood that framed her delicate face. Without the hood, her hair would hang to her lower back.
“A drow?”
“A friend, I said,” the elf maiden replied. “One who understands the ways of the Underdark.”
“But if a drow …”
“You press me, Lady. I told you that I have eyes upon our enemies. That is all you need to know.”
“So your informant is not connected with this invasion, you assure me?”
“I would do no such thing,” answered the other. “He is connected with everything, in one way or another. That is his way. And since these drow that have accompanied the minions of Many-Arrows are from Menzoberranzan, my friend surely has spies among them.”
“Perhaps even helping them,” Sinnafein said bluntly, and she stopped in her work, letting the other hold the boat, and put her hands on hips.
“You waited until we were out here to make your accusation, Lady Sinnafein? That does not seem so wise to me.”
“There are a dozen bows trained on you as we speak,” Sinnafein warned.
“Seventeen, by my last count,” the other answered, casually going about tying off the sled so
that the howling wind did not send it skidding away across the ice. “But still, why come all the way out here when you could have gotten these inquiries out of the way back in your encampment when the dwarf Ambergris first introduced us?”
Sinnafein stared at her hard, but did not otherwise answer.
“Good lady, we would have needed no convoluted plan to catch you, were we working with the drow and the orcs,” the light-haired elf said. “We found your clan easily enough, and walked into your encampment without notice. We could have brought an army of drow and orcs and giants beside us, were we working with your enemies, were my informant at all loyal to the matron mothers of the city of Menzoberranzan.”
“And to whom is he loyal?”
“To himself, first, foremost, and always,” came the answer, accompanied by a laugh. “And to some ranger named Drizzt Do’Urden for some reason I cannot fathom. Whatever his ultimate goal, which is no doubt convoluted and will surely involve him finding some way to turn this war into personal gain, I promise you that this mission of ours is as it seems.”
“You promise me,” Sinnafein replied. “You? One I do not even know. From a clan I do not know. With a name, Mickey, that I have never heard.”
“A nickname,” Mickey replied.
“And your real name?”
The other laughed and shrugged. “I go by Mickey.”
“You are hardly inspiring confidence,” Sinnafein said.
“Because I am weary of the game. Have your archers let fly if that is your wish, though we both know that you’ll do no such thing. Turn back now and skate back across the Surbrin again, though we both know that you’ll do no such thing. Your options are limited—indeed, they are none. You wish to help the dwarves, but you cannot. You wish to repel the orcs, but you cannot. So sit back in your forest and wait for grim tidings as the cities fall and the citadels become armories for the minions of Many-Arrows. They will take your trees one by one until there are no more trees to take, and no more places for you and your people to hide.
“But then, you know all of this, Lady of the Glimmerwood,” Mickey went on. “My old friend led me and my sister, along with that silly dwarf and her monk companion, to you to be of help, and this help we have offered openly and honestly. Take it or do not, but please, bore me no longer with your suspicions and fears.”