R. Salvatore: The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

The first movement came unexpectedly from across the wide expanse of the Surbrin. I went down behind a boulder, Taulmaril pulled and ready. Guenhwyvar’s reaction was similarly defensive, the panther crouching behind a stone closer to the river, back legs tamping the ground excitedly. I knew that Guenhwyvar could easily make the thirty-foot jump to the other bank. It would take me longer to cross, though, and I feared I could not lend the cat much support from this bank.

Some scrambling across the way showed that we, too, had been spotted, a fact confirmed a moment later when an arrow cut the air above my head. I thought of responding in kind. The archer ducked behind a rock, but I knew that, with Taulmaril, I could probably put an arrow right through that meager stone cover.

I held the shot, though, and bade Guenhwyvar to stay in place. If this was the band I had been tracking, then why had no more arrows whistled out beside the first? Why hadn’t the stupid goblinkin started their typical war-whoops?

“I am no enemy!” I called out, since my position was no secret anyway.

The reply let me ease my pull on the bowstring.

“If you’re no enemy, then who might you be?”

This left me in a predicament that only a dark elf on the surface can know. Of course, I was no enemy to these men-farmers, I presumed, who had come out in pursuit of the raiding monster band. We were unknowingly working toward the same goal, but what would these simple folk think when a drow rose up before them?

“I am Drizzt Do’Urden, a ranger and friend of King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall!” I called. Off came my hood and out I stepped, wanting this typically tension-filled first meeting to be at an end.

“A stinking drow!” I heard one man exclaim, but another, an older man of about fifty years, told him and the others to hold their shots.

“We’re hunting a band of orcs and ogres,” the older man-I later learned his name to be Tharman-explained.

“Then you are on the wrong side of the river,” I called back. “The tracks are here, heading along the bank. I would guess they’ll lead to a trail not so far from this point. Can you get across?”

Tharman conferred with his fellows for a moment-there were five of them in all-then signaled for me to wait where I was. I had passed a frozen section of the river, dotted with many large stones, just a short distance back, and it was only a few minutes before the farmers caught up with me. They were raggedly dressed and poorly armed, simple folk and probably no match for the merciless orcs and ogres that had passed this way. Tharman was the only one of the group who had seen more than thirty winters. Two of the farmers looked as if they had not yet seen twenty, and one of these didn’t even show the stubble common to the road-weary faces of the others.

“Ilmater’s tears!” one of them cried in surprise as the group neared. If the sight of a dark elf was not enough to put them on their nerves, then the presence of Guenhwyvar certainly was.

The man’s shouted oath startled Guenhwyvar. The panther must have thought the plea to the God of Suffering a threat of some kind, for she flattened her ears and showed her tremendous fangs.

The man nearly fainted, and a companion beside him tentatively reached for an arrow.

“Guenhwyvar is a friend,” I explained. “As am I.”

Tharman looked to a rugged man, half his age and carrying a hammer better suited to a smithy than a war party. The younger man promptly and savagely slapped the nervous archer’s hand away from the bow. I could discern already that this brute was the leader of the group, probably the one who had bullied the others into coming into the woods in the first place.

Though my claim had apparently been accepted, the tension did not fly from the meeting, not at all. I could smell the fear, the apprehension, emanating from these men, Tharman included. I noticed the younger farmers gripping more tightly to their weapons. They would not move against me, I knew-that was one benefit of the savage reputation of my heritage. Few wanted to wage battle against dark elves. And even if I had not been an exotic drow, the farmers would not have attacked with the mighty panther crouched beside me. They knew that they were overmatched, and they knew, too, that they needed an ally, any ally, to help them in their pursuit.

Five men, farmers all, poorly armed and poorly armored. What in the Nine Hells did they expect to do against a band of twenty monsters, ogres included? Still, I had to admire their courage, and I could not discount them as foolish. I believed that the raiders had taken prisoners. If those unfortunates were these men’s families, their children perhaps, then their desperation was certainly warranted, their actions admirable.

Tharman came forward, his soil-stained hand extended. I must admit that the greeting, nervous but sincerely warm, touched me. So often have I been met with taunts and bared weapons! “I have heard of you,” he remarked.

“Then you have the advantage,” I replied politely, grasping his wrist.

Behind him, the sturdy man narrowed his eyes angrily. I was surprised somewhat; my benign remark had apparently injured his pride. Did he think himself a renowned fighter?

Tharman introduced himself, and the tough leader immediately rushed forward to do likewise. “I am Rico,” he declared, coming up to me boldly. “Rico Pengallen of the village Pengallen, fifteen miles to the south and east.” The obvious pride in his voice caused Tharman to wince and set off silent alarms that this Rico might bring trouble when we had caught up with the monsters.

I had heard of Pengallen, though I had only marked it by its evening lights from a distance. According to Bruenor’s maps, the village was no more than a handful of farmhouses. So much for the hopes that any organized militia would soon arrive.

“We were attacked early last night, just after sunset,” Rico continued, roughly nudging the older man aside. “Orcs and ogres, as we’ve said. They took some prisoners.…”

“My wife and son,” Tharman put in, his voice full of anxiety.

“My brother as well,” said another.

I spent a long while considering that grim news, trying to find some consolation I could offer to the desperate men. I did not want their hopes to soar, though, not with ogres and orcs holding their loved ones and with the odds apparently so heavily weighted against us.

“We are less than an hour behind,” I explained. “I had hoped to spot the group before sunset. With Guenhwyvar beside me, though, I can find them night or day.”

“We’re ready for a fight,” Rico declared. It must have been my expression-perhaps it was unintentionally condescending-that he did not like, for he slapped his hammer across his open palm and practically bared his teeth with his ensuing snarl.

“Let us hope it will not come to a fight,” I said. “I have some experience with ogres and with orcs. Neither are overly adept at setting guards.”

“You mean to simply slip in and free our kin?”

Rico’s barely tempered anger continued to surprise me, but when I turned to Tharman for some silent explanation, he only slipped his hands into the folds of his worn traveling cloak and looked away.

“We will do whatever we must to free the prisoners,” I said.

“And to stop the monsters from returning to Pengallen,” Rico added roughly.

“They can be dealt with later,” I replied, trying to convince him to solve one problem at a time. A word to Bruenor would have sent scores of dwarves scouring the region, stubborn and battle-ready warriors who would not have stopped their hunting until the threat had been eliminated.

Rico turned to his four comrades, or, more accurately, he turned away from me. “Guess we’re following a damned drow elf,” he said.