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Guenhwyvar came to a small, level area dominated by a single maple. Onlookers to the panther’s rush would have blinked incredulously, wondering if the vertical tree trunk was really a log lying on its side, so fast did Guenhwyvar run up it.
The worg pack came in soon after, sniffing and milling about, certain that the cat was up the tree but unable to pick out Guenhwyvar’s black form among the dark boughs.
The panther showed itself soon enough, though, again dropping heavily to the back of the winter wolf, and this time taking care to lock its jaws onto Caroak’s ear.
The winter wolf thrashed and yelped as Guenhwyvar’s claws did their work. Caroak managed to turn about and Guenhwyvar heard the sharp intake of breath, the same as the one preceding the previous chilling blast. breath came anyway, blasting three charging worgs right in the face. Guenhwyvar’s huge neck muscles flexed, forcing Caroak’s open jaws to the side. The foul
Guenhwyvar’s muscles reversed and flexed again suddenly, and the panther heard Caroak’s neck snap. The winter wolf plopped straight down, Guenhwyvar still atop it.
Those three worgs closest to Guenhwyvar, the three who had caught Caroak’s icy breath, posed no threat. One lay on its side, gasping for air that would not move through its frozen lungs, another turned tight circles, fully blinded, and the last stood perfectly still, staring down at its forelegs, which, for some reason, would not answer its call to move.
The rest of the pack, though, nearly a score strong, came in methodically, surrounding the panther in a deadly ring. Guenhwyvar looked all about for some escape, but the worgs did not rush frantically, leaving openings.
They worked in harmony, shoulder to shoulder, tightening the ring.
* * *
The leading orcs milled about the tangle of bent trees, looking for some way through. Some had begun to make progress, but the whole of the trap was interconnected, and any one of a dozen trip wires would send all the pines springing up.
One of the orcs found Montolio’s net, then, the hard way. It stumbled over a rope, fell facedown on the net, then went high into the air, one of its companions caught beside it. Neither of them could have imagined how much better off they were than those they had left behind, particularly the orc unsuspectingly straddling the knife-set rope. When the trees sprang up, so did this devilish trap, gutting the creature and lifting it head over heels into the air.
Even those orcs not caught by the secondary traps did not fare well. Tangled branches, bristling with prickly pine needles, shot up all about them, sending a few on a pretty fair ride and scratching and disorienting the others.
Even worse for the orcs, Montolio used the sound of the rushing trees as his signal to open fire. Arrow after arrow whistled down the sheltered run, more hitting the mark than not. One orc lifted its spear to throw, then caught one arrow in the face and another in the chest. Another beast turned and fled, crying “Bad magic!” frantically.
To those crossing the rock wall, the screamer seemed to fly, its feet kicking above the ground. Its startled companions understood when the orc came back down in a heap, a quivering arrow shaft protruding from its back.
Drizzt, still on his tenuous perch, didn’t have time to marvel at the efficient execution of Montolio’s well-laid plans. From the west, the giant was now on the move and, back the other way, the two remaining worg-riders had settled enough to resume their charges, torches held high.
* * *
The ring of snarling worgs tightened. Guenhwyvar could smell their stinking breath. The
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panther could not hope to charge through the thick ranks, nor could the cat get over them quickly enough to flee.
Guenhwyvar found another route. Hind paws tamped down on Caroak’s still-twitching body and the panther arrowed straight up into the air, twenty feet and more. Guenhwyvar caught the maple’s lowest branch with long front claws, hooked on, and pulled itself up. Then the panther disappeared into the boughs, leaving the frustrated pack howling and growling.
Guenhwyvar reappeared quickly though, out from the side and back to the ground, and the pack took up the pursuit. The panther had come to know this terrain quite well over the last few weeks and now Guenhwyvar had figured out exactly where to lead the wolves.
They ran along a ridge, with a dark and brooding emptiness on their left flank. Guenhwyvar marked well the boulders and the few scattered trees. The panther couldn’t see the chasm’s opposite bank and had to trust fully in its memory. Incredibly fast, Guenhwyvar pivoted suddenly and sprang out into the night, touching down lightly across the wide way and speeding off toward the grove. The worgs would have a long jump–too long for most of them–or a long way back around if they meant to follow.
They inched up snarling and scratching at the ground. One poised on the lip and meant to try the leap, but an arrow exploded into its side and destroyed its determination.
Worgs were not stupid creatures, and the sight of the arrow put them on the defensive. The ensuing shower by Kellindil and his kin was more than they expected. Dozens of arrows whistled in, dropping the worgs where they stood. Only a few escaped that barrage, and they promptly scattered to the corners of the night.
* * *
dancing flames, appeared suddenly below the torch fires, rolling down the wooden instrument to Drizzt called upon another magical trick to stop the torch-bearers. Faerie fire, harmless lick at the orcs’ hands. Faerie fire did not burn–was not even warm–but when the orcs saw the flames engulfing their hands, they were far from rational.
One of them threw its torch out wide, and the jerking motion cost it its seat. It tumbled down in the grass, and the worg turned yet another time and snarled in frustration.
The other orc simply dropped its torch, which fell on top of its mount’s head. Sparks and flames erupted from the worg’s thick coat, stinging its eyes and ears, and the beast went crazy. It dropped into a headlong roll, bouncing right over the startled orc.
The orc staggered back to its feet, dazed and bruised and holding its arms out wide as if in apology. The singed worg wasn’t interested in hearing any, however. It sprang straight in and clamped its powerful jaws on the orc’s face.
* * *
Drizzt didn’t see any of it. The drow could only hope that his trick had worked, for as soon as he had cast the spell, he released his foothold on the crossbow and let the torn branch carry him down to the ground. hands were free of the branch, they held his scimitars. The orcs came in, oblivious, and Drizzt Two orcs, finally seeing a target, rushed at the drow as he landed, but as soon as Drizzt’s slapped their weapons aside and cut them down. The drow waded through more scattered resistance as he made his way to his prepared spot. A grim smile found his face when at last he felt the ranseur’s metal shaft under his bare feet. He remembered the giants back in Maldobar that had slain the innocent family, and he took comfort that now he would kill another of their evil kin.
“Mangura bok woklok! ” Drizzt cried, placing one foot on the root fulcrum and the other on the butt of the hidden weapon.
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Montolio smiled when he heard the drow’s call, gaining confidence in the proximity of his powerful ally. His bow sang out a few more times, but the ranger sensed that the orcs were coming in at him in a roundabout way, using the thick trees as cover. The ranger waited, baiting them in. Then, just before they closed, Montolio dropped his bow, whipped out his sword and slashed the rope at his side, right below a huge knot. The severed rope rolled up into the air, the knot catching on a fork in the lowest branch, and Montolio’s shield, empowered with one of Drizzt’s darkness spells, dropped down to hang at precisely the right height for the ranger’s waiting arm.
Darkness held little influence over the blind ranger, but the few orcs that had come in at Montolio found themselves in a precarious position. They jostled and swung wildly–one cut down its own brother–while Montolio calmly sorted out the melee and went to methodical work. In the flight. matter of a minute, four of the five who had come in were dead or dying and the fifth had taken
Far from sated, the ranger and his portable ball of darkness followed, searching for voices or sounds that would lead him to more orcs. Again came the cry that made Montolio smile.
* * *
“Mangura bok woklok! ” Drizzt yelled again. An orc tossed a spear at the drow, which Drizzt promptly swatted aside. The distant orc was now unarmed, but Drizzt would not pursue, determinedly holding his position.
“Mangura bok woklok! ” Drizzt cried again. “Come in, stupid block head!” This time the giant, approaching the wall in Montolio’s direction, heard the words. The great monster hesitated a moment, regarding the drow curiously.
Drizzt didn’t miss the opportunity. “Mangura bok woklok! ”
strode toward Drizzt. With a howl and a stamp that shook the earth, the giant kicked a hole in the rock wall and
“Mangura bok woklok .” Drizzt said for good measure, angling his feet properly.
The giant broke into a dead run, scattering terrified orcs before it and slamming its stone and its club together angrily. It sputtered a thousand curses at Drizzt in those few seconds, words that the drow would never decipher. Three times the drow’s height and many times his weight, the giant loomed over Drizzt, and its rush seemed as though it would surely bury Drizzt where he calmly stood.
When the giant got only two long strides from Drizzt, committed fully to its collision course, Drizzt dropped all of his weight onto his back foot. The ranseur’s butt dropped into the hole. Its tip angled up.
Drizzt leaped back at the moment the giant plowed into the ranseur. The weapon’s tip and hooked barbs disappeared into the giant’s belly, drove upward through its diaphragm and into its heart and lungs. The metal shaft bowed and seemed as if it would break as its butt end was driven a foot and more into the ground.
The ranseur held, and the giant was stopped cold. It dropped its club and rock, reached helplessly for the metal shaft with hands that had not the strength to even close around it. Huge eyes bulged in denial, in terror, and in absolute surprise. The great mouth opened wide and contorted weirdly, but could not even find the wind to scream.
said, looking back to where Montolio was fighting, for the cry he nearly shouted was a praise to the Drizzt, too, almost cried out, but caught the words before he uttered them. “Amazing,” he goddess Mielikki. Drizzt shook his head helplessly and smiled, stunned by the acute perceptions of his not-so-blind companion.
With those thoughts in mind and a sense of righteousness in his heart, Drizzt ran up the shaft and slashed at the giant’s throat with both weapons. He continued on, stepping right on the giant’s shoulder and head and then leaping off toward a group of watching orcs, whooping as he went.
The sight of the giant, their bully, quivering and gasping, had already unnerved the orcs, but
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when this ebony-skinned and wild-eyed drow monster leaped at them, they broke rank altogether. Drizzt’s charge got him to the closest two, and he promptly cut them down and charged on.
Twenty feet to the drow’s left, a ball of blackness rolled out of the trees, leading a dozen frightened orcs before it. The orcs knew that to fall within that impenetrable globe was to fall within the blind hermit’s reach and to die.
* * *
Two orcs and three worgs, all that remained of the torch-bearers, regrouped and slipped quietly toward the grove’s eastern edge. If they could get in behind the enemy, they believed the battle still could be won.
The orc farthest to the north never even saw the rushing black form. Guenhwyvar plowed it down and charged on, confident that that one would never rise again.
A worg was next in line. Quicker to react than the orc, the worg spun and faced the panther, its teeth bared and jaws snapping.
Guenhwyvar snarled, pulling up short right before it. Great claws came in alternately in a series of slaps. The worg could not match the cat’s speed. It swung its jaws from side to side, always a moment too late to catch up to the darting paws. After only five slaps, the worg was defeated. One eye had closed forever, its tongue, half torn, lolled helplessly out one side of its mouth, and its lower jaw was no longer in line with its upper. Only the presence of other targets saved the worg, for when it turned and fled the way it had come, Guenhwyvar, seeing closer prey, did not follow.
* * *
Drizzt and Montolio had flushed most of the invading force back out over the rock wall. “Bad magic!” came the general orc cry, voices edged on desperation. Hooter and his owl companions aided the growing frenzy, flapping down all of a sudden in orc faces, nipping with a talon or beak, then rushing off again into the sky. Still another orc discovered one of the traps as it tried to flee. It went down howling and shrieking, its cries only heightening its companions’ terror.
“No!” Roddy McGristle cried in disbelief. “Ye’ve let two beat up yer whole force!”
Graul’s glare settled on the burly man.
“We can turn ‘em back,” Roddy said. “If they see ye, they’ll go back to the fight.” The mountain man’s appraisal was not off the mark. If Graul and Roddy had made their entrance then, the orcs, still numbering more than fifty, might have regrouped. With most of their traps exhausted, Drizzt and Montolio would have been in a sore position indeed! But the orc king had seen another brewing problem to the north and had decided, despite Roddy’s protests, that the old man and the dark elf simply weren’t worth the effort.
Most of the orcs in the field heard the newest danger before they saw it, for Bluster and his friends were a noisy lot. The largest obstacle the bears found as they rolled through the orc ranks was picking out a single target in the mad rush. They swatted orcs as they passed, then chased them into the copse and beyond, all the way back to their holes by the river. It was high spring; the air was charged with energy and excitement, and how these playful bears loved to swat orcs!
* * *
The whole horde of rushing bodies swarmed right past the fallen quickling. When Tephanis awoke, he found that he was the only one alive on the blood-soaked field. Growls and shouts wafted in from the west, the fleeing band, and sounds of battle still sounded in the ranger’s grove. Tephanis
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knew that his part in the battle, minor though it had been, was over. Tremendous pain rolled up the sprite’s leg, more pain than he had ever known. He looked down to his torn foot and to his horror realized that the only way out of the wicked trap was to complete the gruesome cut, losing the end of his foot and all five of his toes in the process. It was not a difficult job–the foot was hanging by a thin piece of skin–and Tephanis did not hesitate, fearing that the drow would come out at any moment and find him.
The quickling stifled his scream and covered the wound with his torn shirt, then ambled– slowly–off into the trees.
* * *
The orc crept along silently, glad for the covering noises of the fight between the panther and a worg. All thoughts of killing the old man or the drow had flown from this orc now; it had seen its comrades chased away by a pack of bears. Now the orc only wanted to find a way out, not an easy feat in the thick, low tangle of pine branches.
It stepped on some dry leaves as it came into one clear area and froze at the resounding crackle. The orc glanced to the left, then slowly brought its head back around to the right. All of a sudden, it jumped and spun, expecting an attack from the rear. But all was clear as far as it could tell and all, except for the distant panther growls and worg yelps, was quiet. The orc let out a profound sigh of relief and sought the trail once again.
It stopped suddenly on instinct and threw its head way back to look up. A dark form crouched on a branch just above the orc’s head, and the silvery flash shot down before the orc could begin to react. The curve of the scimitar’s blade proved perfect for slipping around the orc’s chin and diving into its throat. its larynx was torn apart. The scimitar came out in a rush and the orc fell backward into death. The orc stood very still, arms wide and twitching, and tried to scream, but the whole length of
Not so far away, another orc finally extracted itself from the hanging net and quickly cut free its buddy. The two of them, enraged and not as anxious to run away without a fight, crept in quietly.
“In the dark,” the first explained as they came through one thicket and found the landscape blotted out by an impenetrable globe. “Deep.”
Together, the orcs raised their spears and threw, grunting savagely with the effort. The spears disappeared into the dark globe, dead center, one banging into a metallic object but the other striking something softer.
The orcs’ cries of victory were cut short by two twangs of a bowstring. One of the creatures lurched forward, dead before it hit the ground, but the other, stubbornly holding its footing, managed to look down to its chest, to the protruding point of an arrowhead. It lived long enough to see Montolio casually stride past and disappear into the darkness to retrieve his shield.
Drizzt watched the old man from a distance, shaking his head and wondering.
* * *
“It is ended,” the elven scout told the others when they caught up to him among the boulders just south of Mooshie’s Grove. “I am not so certain,” Kellindil replied, looking curiously back to the west and hearing the echoes of bear growls and orc screams. Kellindil suspected that something beyond Graul was behind this attack and, feeling somewhat responsible for the drow, he wanted to know what it might be.
“The ranger and drow have won the grove,” the scout explained.
“Agreed,” said Kellindil, “and so your part is ended. Go back, all of you, to the campsite,”
“And will you join us?” one of the elves asked, though he had already guessed the answer.
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“If the fates decree it,” Kellindil replied. “For now, I have other business to attend.”
The others did not question Kellindil further. Rarely did he come to their realm and never did he remain with them for long. Kellindil was an adventurer; the road was his home. He set off at once, running to catch up to the fleeing orcs, then paralleling their movements just south of them.
* * *
“Ye let just two of them beat ye!” Roddy griped when he and Graul had a moment to stop and catch their breath. “Two of them!”
weight knocked him backward. Graul’s answer came in the swing of a heavy club. Roddy partially blocked the blow, but its
“Ye’re to pay for that!” the mountain man growled, tearing Bleeder from his belt. A dozen of Graul’s minions appeared beside the orc king then and immediately understood the situation.
“Yous has brought ruin to us!” Graul snapped at Roddy. Then to his orcs, he shouted, “Kill him!”
Roddy’s dog tripped the closest of the group and Roddy didn’t wait for the others to catch up. He turned and sprinted off into the night, using every trick he knew to get ahead of the pursuing band.
His efforts were quickly successful–the orcs really didn’t want any more battles this night–and Roddy would have been wise to stop looking over his shoulder.
He heard a rustle up ahead and turned just in time to catch the pommel of a swinging sword squarely in the face. The weight of the blow, multiplied by Roddy’s own momentum, dropped the mountain man straight to the ground and into unconsciousness.
“I am not surprised,” Kellindil said over the writhing body.
19. Separate Ways
Eight days had done nothing to ease the pain in Tephanis’s foot. The sprite ambled about as best he could, but whenever he broke into a sprint, he inevitably veered to one side and more often than not crashed into a bush or, worse, the unbending trunk of a tree.
“Will-you-please-quit-growling-at-me, stupid-dog!” Tephanis snapped at the yellow canine he had been with since the day after the battle. Neither had become comfortable around the other. Tephanis often lamented that this ugly mutt was in no way akin to Caroak.
But Caroak was dead; the quickling had found the winter wolf’s torn body. Another companion gone, and now the sprite was alone again. “Alone-except-for-you, stupid-dog!” he lamented.
The dog bared its teeth and growled.
Tephanis wanted to slice its throat, wanted to run up and down the length of the mangy animal, cutting and slashing at every inch. He saw the sun riding low in the sky, though, and knew that the beast might soon prove valuable.
“Time-for-me-to-go!” the quickling spouted. Faster than the dog could react, Tephanis darted by it, grabbed at the rope he had hung about the dog’s neck, and zipped three complete circuits of a nearby tree. The dog went after him, but Tephanis easily kept out of its reach until the leash snapped taut, flipping the dog right over. “Be-back-soon, you-stupid-thing!”
Tephanis sped along the mountain paths, knowing that this night might be his last chance. The lights of Maldobar burned in the far distance, but it was a different light, a campfire, that guided the quickling. He came upon the small camp just a few minutes later, glad to see that the elf was not around.
He found Roddy McGristle sitting at the base of a huge tree, his arms pulled behind him and tied at the wrists around the trunk. The mountain man seemed a wretched thing–as wretched as the dog–but Tephanis was out of options. Ulgulu and Kempfana were dead, Caroak was dead, and