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backward, reversing his grip on the blade and bringing it up above his face, in line with the leaping dog. The scimitar’s hilt locked fast against the tree trunk, and the dog, unable to turn in its flight, drove hard into the set weapon’s other end, impaling itself through the throat and chest. The wrenching impact tore the scimitar from Drizzt’s hand, and dog and blade bounced away into some scrub to the side of the tree.
Drizzt had barely recovered when Roddy McGristle burst in.
“Ye killed my dogs!” the huge mountain man roared, chopping Bleeder, his large, battle-worn axe, down at the drow’s head. The cut came deceptively swiftly, but Drizzt managed to dodge to the side. The drow couldn’t understand a word of McGristle’s continuing stream of expletives, and he knew that the burly man would not understand a word of any explanations Drizzt might try to offer. nearly caught him, cutting through his gnoll cloak, but he sucked in his stomach, and the axe Wounded and unarmed, Drizzt’s only defense was to continue to dodge away. Another swipe skipped off his fine chain mail. Drizzt danced to the side, toward a tight cluster of smaller trees, where he believed his greater agility might give him some advantage. He had to try to tire the enraged human, or at least make the man reconsider his brutal attack. McGristle’s ire did not lessen, though. He charged right after Drizzt, snarling and swinging with every step.
Drizzt now saw the shortcomings of his plan. While he might keep away from the large human’s bulky body in the tightly packed trees, McGristle’s axe could dive between them quite deftly.
The mighty weapon came in from the side at shoulder level. Drizzt dropped flat down on the ground desperately, narrowly avoiding death. McGristle couldn’t slow his swing in time, and the heavy–and heavily enscorceled–weapon smashed into the four-inch trunk of a young maple, felling the tree.
The tightening angle of the buckling trunk held Roddy’s axe fast. Roddy grunted and tried to tear the weapon free, and did not realize his peril until the last minute. He managed to jump away his face and the side of his head forming a web around him and pinning him tightly to the ground. from the main weight of the trunk but was buried under the maple’s canopy. Branches ripped across “Damn ye, drow!” McGristle roared, shaking futilely at his natural prison.
Drizzt crawled away, still clutching his wounded wrist. He found his remaining scimitar, buried to the hilt in the unfortunate dog. The sight pained Drizzt; he knew the value of animal companions. It took him several heartsick moments to pull the blade free, moments made even more dramatic by the other dog, which, merely stunned, was beginning to stir once again.
“Damn ye, drow!” McGristle roared again.
Drizzt understood the reference to his heritage, and he could guess the rest. He wanted to help the fallen man, thinking that he might make some inroads on opening some more civilized communication, but he didn’t think that the awakening dog would be so ready to lend a paw. With a final glance around for the sprite that had started this whole thing, Drizzt dragged himself out of the grove and fled into the mountains.
* * ** * *
“We should’ve got the thing!” Bartholemew Thistledown grumbled as the troupe returned to the blueberry patch. “If McGristle had come in where he said he would, we’d’ve gotten the cat for sure! Where is that dog pack leader, anyhow?” An ensuing roar of “Drow! Drow!” from the maple grove answered Bartholemew’s question. The farmers rushed over to find Roddy still helplessly pinned by the felled maple tree.
“Damned drow!” Roddy bellowed. “Killed my dog! Damned drow!” He reached for his left ear when his arm was free but found that the ear was no longer attached. “Damned drow!’ he roared again.
Connor Thistledown let everyone see the return of his pride at the confirmation of his oft-doubted tale, but the eldest Thistledown child was the only one pleased at Roddy’s unexpected
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proclamation. The other farmers were older than Connor; they realized the grim implications of having a dark elf haunting the region.
Benson Delmo, wiping sweat from his forehead, made little secret of how he stood on the news. He turned immediately to the farmer by his side, a younger man known for his prowess in raising and riding horses. “Get to Sundabar,” the mayor ordered. “Find us a ranger straightaway!”
In a few minutes, Roddy was pulled free. By this time, his wounded dog had rejoined him, but the knowledge that one of his prized pets had survived did little to calm the rough man.
“Damned drow!” Roddy roared for perhaps the thousandth time, wiping the blood from his cheek. “I’m gonna get me a damned drow!” He emphasized his point by slamming Bleeder, one-handed, into the trunk of another nearby maple, nearly felling that one as well.
5. The Stalk of Doom
cave complex. The open, crisp air of the chill mountain night felt good to the barghest, better still The goblin guards dove to the side as mighty Ulgulu tore through the curtain and exited the when Ulgulu thought of the task before him. He looked to the scimitar that Tephanis had delivered, the crafted weapon appearing tiny in Ulgulu’s huge, dark-skinned hand.
Ulgulu unconsciously dropped the weapon to the ground. He didn’t want to use it this night; the barghest wanted to put his own deadly weapons–claws and teeth–to use, to taste his victims and devour their life essence so that he could become stronger. Ulgulu was an intelligent creature, though, and his rationale quickly overruled the base instincts that so desired the taste of blood. There was purpose in this night’s work, a method that promised greater gains and the elimination of the very real threat that the dark elf’s unexpected appearance posed.
With a guttural snarl, a small protest from Ulgulu’s base urges, the barghest grabbed the scimitar again and pounded down the mountainside, covering long distances with each stride. The beast stopped on the edge of a ravine, where a single narrow trail wound down along the sheer facing of the cliff. It would take him many minutes to scale down the dangerous trail.
But Ulgulu was hungry.
Ulgulu’s consciousness fell back into itself, focusing on that spot of his being that fluctuated with magical energy. He was not a creature of the Material Plane, and extra-planar creatures inevitably brought with them powers that would seem magical to creatures of the host plane. Ulgulu’s eyes glowed orange with excitement when he emerged from his trance just a few moments mile away. later. He peered down the cliff, visualizing a spot on the flat ground below, perhaps a quarter of a
A shimmering, multicolored door appeared before Ulgulu, hanging in the air beyond the lip of the ravine. His laughter sounding more like a roar, Ulgulu pushed open the door and found, just beyond its threshold, the spot he had visualized. He moved through, circumventing the material distance to the ravine’s floor with a single extradimensional step.
Ulgulu ran on, down the mountain and toward the human village, ran on eagerly to set the gears of his cruel plan turning.
As the barghest approached the lowest mountain slopes, he again found that magical corner of his mind. Ulgulu’s strides slowed, then the creature stopped altogether, jerking spasmodically and gurgling indecipherably. Bones ground together with popping noises, skin ripped and reformed, darkening nearly to black.
When Ulgulu started away again, his strides–the strides of a dark elf–were not so long.
* * ** * *
Bartholemew Thistledown sat with his father, Markhe, and his oldest son that evening in the kitchen of the lone farmhouse on the western outskirts of Maldobar. Bartholemew’s wife and mother had gone out to the barn to settle the animals for the night, and the four youngest children
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were safely tucked into their beds in the small room off the kitchen.
On a normal night the rest of the Thistledown family, all three generations, would also be snugly snoring in their beds, but Bartholemew feared that many nights would pass before any semblance of normalcy returned to the quiet farm. A dark elf had been spotted in the area, and while Bartholemew wasn’t convinced that this stranger meant harm–the drow easily could have killed Connor and the other children–he knew that the drow’s appearance would cause a stir in Maldobar for quite some time.
“We could get back to the town proper,” Connor offered. “They’d find us a place, and all of Maldobar’d stand behind us then.”
“Stand behind us?” Bartholemew responded with sarcasm. “And would they be leaving their farms each day to come out here and help us keep up with our work? Which of them, do ye think, might ride out here each night to tend to the animals?”
Connor’s head drooped at his father’s berating. He slipped one hand to the hilt of his sword, reminding himself that he was no child. Still, Connor was silently grateful for the supporting hand his grandfather casually dropped on his shoulder.
“Ye’ve got to think, boy, before ye make such calls,” Bartholemew continued, his tone mellowing as he began to realize the profound effect his harsh words had on his son. “The farm’s yer lifeblood, the only thing that matters.”
“We could send the little ones,” Markhe put in. “The boy’s got a right to be fearing, with a dark elf about and all.”
Bartholemew turned away and resignedly dropped his chin into his palm. He hated the thought of breaking apart the family. Family was their source of strength, as it had been through five generations of Thistledowns and beyond. Yet, here Bartholemew was berating Connor, even though the boy had spoken only for the good of the family.
“I should have thought better, Dad,” he heard Connor whisper, and he knew that his own pride could not hold out against the realization of Connor’s pain. “I am sorry.” “Ye needn’t be,” Bartholemew replied, turning back to the others. “I’m the one should apologize. All of us got our neck hairs up with this dark elf about. Ye’re right in yer thinking, Connor. We’re too far out here to be safe.”
As if in answer came a sharp crack of breaking wood and a muffled cry from outside the house, from the direction of the barn. In that single horrible moment, Bartholemew Thistledown realized that he should have come to his decision earlier, when the revealing light of day still offered his family some measure of protection.
Connor reacted first, running to the door and throwing it open. The farmyard was deathly quiet; not the chirp of a cricket disturbed the surrealistic scene. A silent moon loomed low in the sky, throwing long and devious shadows from every fencepost and tree. Connor watched, not daring to breathe, through the passing of a second that seemed like an hour.
The barn door creaked and toppled from its hinges. A dark elf walked out into the farmyard.
Connor shut the door and fell back against it, needing its tangible support. “Ma,” he breathed to the startled faces of his father and grandfather. “Drow.”
The older Thistledown men hesitated, their minds whirling through the tumult of a thousand horrible notions. They simultaneously leaped from their seats, Bartholemew going for a weapon and Markhe moving toward Connor and the door.
Their sudden action freed Connor from his paralysis. He pulled the sword from his belt and swung the door open, meaning to rush out and face the intruder. A single spring of his powerful legs had brought Ulgulu right up to the farmhouse door. Connor charged over the threshold blindly, slammed into the creature–which only appeared like a slender drow–and bounced back, stunned, into the kitchen. Before any of the men could react, the scimitar slammed down onto the top of Connor’s head with all the strength of the barghest behind it, nearly splitting the young man in half.
Ulgulu stepped unhindered into the kitchen. He saw the old man–the lesser remaining enemy– reaching out for him, and called upon his magical nature to defeat the attack. A wave of imparted