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

I took no offense. Certainly I had suffered worse treatment than blustery insults, and this desperate band, with the exception of Rico, seemed pleased enough to have found any ally, regardless of the color of my skin.

The enemy camp did not prove difficult to locate. We found it on our side of the river, as twilight settled on the land. Conveniently-or rather, stupidly-the monsters had set a blazing fire to ward off the winter night’s cold.

The light of the bonfire also showed me the layout of the encampment. There were no tents, just the fire and a few scattered logs propped on stones for benches. The land was fairly flat, covered with a bed of river-polished stones and dotted by boulders and an occasional tree or bush. Pig-faced orc sentries were in place north and south of the fire, holding crude, but wicked, weapons in their dirty hands. I assumed that similar guards were posted to the west, away from the river. The prisoners, seeming not too badly injured, huddled together behind the blaze, their backs against a large stone. There were four, not three: the two boys and the farmer’s wife joined by a surprisingly well-dressed goblin. At the time, I didn’t question the presence of this unexpected addition. I was more concerned with simply finding a way in and a way out.

“The river,” I whispered at length. “Guenhwyvar and I can get across it without being seen. We can scout the camp better from the other side.”

Rico was thinking the same thing-after a fashion. “You come in from the east, across the river, and we’ll hit them hard on this flank.”

His scowl widened as I shook my head. This Rico just did not seem able to comprehend that I meant to get the prisoners without an all-out fight.

“I will get at them from across the river with Guenhwyvar beside me,” I tried to explain. “But not until the fire has burned low.”

“We should go at them while the light is bright,” Rico argued. “We aren’t like you, drow.” He spat the word derisively. “We can’t see in the dark.”

“But I can,” I retorted rather sharply, for Rico was beginning to bother me more than a little. “I can get in, free the prisoners, and strike at the sentries from behind, hopefully without alerting their fellows. If things go well, we will be far from here before the monsters even realize that their prisoners are gone.”

Tharman and the other three men were nodding their agreement with the simple plan, but Rico remained stubborn.

“And if things do not go well?”

“Guenhwyvar and I should be able to keep the monsters confused enough so that you and your freed kin can get away. I do not believe that the monsters will even attempt to pursue you, not if they think that their prisoners were stolen by dark elves.”

Again I saw Tharman and the others nodding eagerly, and when Rico tried to find a new argument, the older man put a hand firmly on his burly shoulder. Rico shrugged it away, but said nothing more. I did not find much comfort in his silence, not when I looked at the hatred deeply etched on his stubbly face.

Crossing the half-frozen river proved easy enough. Guenhwyvar simply leaped across its width. I followed, picking a careful path along the ice. I did not want to depend wholly upon such a fragile bridge, though, so I chose a course to the opposite bank that offered the most prominent stones.

My new perspective on the enemy camp from across the river revealed some potential problems-more precisely, the gigantic ogres, standing twice my height. Their skin shone dull and dark in the flickering firelight, prominent warts shining darker, and their long, matted hair gleamed bluish black. There were two at least, squatting amidst a tumble of boulders to the north of the prisoners. The prisoners themselves faced the river, faced me, their backs against the stone, and now I saw another guarding orc, sitting with its back flat against the north face of the same stone. A bared sword lay across its lap. Having often witnessed the brutal tactics of orcs, I figured that this guard was under orders to slip around the stone and slaughter the prisoners if trouble came. That orc presented the most danger, I decided. Its throat would be the first I slit this night.

All that was left for preparation was to sit low and wait for the fire to dim, wait for the camp to grow sleepy with boredom.

Barely half an hour later, angry whispers began to drift to me from across the river-but not from the enemy camp. I could not believe what I was hearing; Rico and the others were arguing! Fortunately, the two orc guards nearest the men’s hiding place did not react at once. I could only hope that their ears, not nearly as keen as my own, had not picked up on the slight sound.

Another few moments slipped by, and, thankfully, the voices went silent once more. I did not relax. My instincts warned me that something drastic would soon happen, and Guenhwyvar’s low growl confirmed the feeling.

At that critical moment, I did not want to believe that Rico could be so incredibly foolish, but my instincts and warrior senses overruled what my mind refused to believe. I had Taulmaril off my shoulder, an arrow nocked, and searched out again the exact route that would get me quickly across the water.

The two orcs of the southern watch began to shift nervously and converse with each other in their guttural language. I watched them closely, but more closely I kept my attention on the orc nearest the prisoners. I watched the ogres as well, by far the more dangerous foes. An eight-hundred-pound, ten-foot-tall ogre might not be easily or quickly felled by my scimitars, though a well-aimed strike by Taulmaril could bring one crashing down. Still, my whole plan was predicated on getting the prisoners out without the ogres ever knowing-a battle with those brutes could cost me more time than I, or the prisoners, had to spare.

Then my plan unraveled before my eyes.

One of the orc sentries yelled something. The orc beside him put an arrow into the bushes shielding the farmers. Predictably, the sword-wielding guard was up in an instant, right beside the helpless prisoners. The ogres in the boulder tumble were stirring, but they seemed more curious than alarmed. I still held out some hope that the situation could be salvaged-until I heard Rico’s cry for a charge.

There is a time in every battle when a warrior must let go of his conscious thoughts, must let his instincts guide his moves, must trust in those instincts fully and not waste precious time in questioning them. I had only one shot to stop the sword-wielding orc from killing the nearest prisoner, Tharman’s wife. The creature’s blade was up in the air when I let fly the arrow, its powerful enchantment trailing a silver streak as it flashed across the Surbrin.

I think I got him in the eye, but wherever the missile actually hit, the orc’s head was virtually blown apart. The creature flew back into the darkness, and I started across the river, finding what steps I could without taking my attention from the opposite bank.

The orcs nearest the farmers fired their bows again, then drew out weapons for close melee. And though I did not bother to look, I knew that Rico was leading a charge. The three orcs to the north cried out and looked to the river, trying to figure out what had killed their companion. How vulnerable I felt out there, with only emptiness about me, moving slowly as I picked my careful way! Those fears proved valid, for the orcs spotted me almost immediately. I saw their bows come up to fire.

Perhaps the guards could not see me clearly, or perhaps their aim was simply not as good as mine. Whatever the reason, their hasty first shots went wide. I paused in my frantic charge and returned two arrows of my own; one hit home, its tremendous force throwing the middle orc of the three back and to the ground. I heard an arrow whistle by my ear, just inches away. I think Guenhwyvar, leaping past me, took the next, for I never heard it and, by the luck of the gods, never felt it.