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

“They did not belong here.”

“You say that a lot.”

“For your own, and for their own, benefit,” the halfling explained. “This is not a place for visitors. You should leave.”

“Little one, do not anger me. You will not enjoy the spectacle of an angry Addadearber. I will leave when I decide …”

Before he could properly finish the thought, a large fish broke the water near the bank beside him and slapped its tail at just an angle to send a spray of water over him.

The wizard glared at the water, then at the halfling. “You did that!” he accused.

He got splashed again, then again.

“No,” the giggling halfling said. “They don’t answer to me. If they did, I wouldn’t need my pole.”

“You try my patience!” Addadearber said when he was splashed yet again. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. There were things here he wanted to learn about, and certainly not in an adversarial way.

“Who are you?” he asked, calm.

The halfling shrugged.

“How long have you lived in Iruladoon?”

“Iruladoon?”

“This place. How long?”

Again, the halfling shrugged. “Time has little meaning here. Months? Years? I don’t know.”

“And what do you do?”

“I fish. I sculpt-have you an interest in scrimshaw?” He turned and indicated the round door of his home.

The wizard got splashed again.

“And you instruct your forest to treat visitors in an ill manner,” Addadearber said. The halfling laughed at that, and as another wave of water sprayed Addadearber, the wizard pointed accusingly and stepped forward to warn, “Do not ever mock me!”

To his surprise, the little one didn’t shrink back in the least, but just stood there looking at him, curious, shaking his head. Normally when Addadearber voiced such a proclamation, mothers took their children off the streets and great warriors quivered, and that injustice, that little halfling looking at him with something akin to pity, was more than he could take.

“You insignificant ant! I could reduce you to ash with a mere thought!”

The halfling glanced to the side, to the waters of the lake, and sighed, and returned his gaze to Addadearber with a finger held up over pursed lips and a warning of, “Shh.”

“What?” Addadearber replied, then he, too, looked at the lake, and his eyes widened. There, just off shore, the water churned in a wide circle, silent at first but then growing strong enough so that waves cupped over and splashed around the growing whirlpool.

“You really should leave,” the halfling said.

“I came here to learn,” the wizard replied, trying hard to keep the rising fear out of his voice. “The world is troubled-magic is ill. My goddess has gone silent.”

“I know more about that than you ever will, I fear,” the halfling interrupted.

“Then you must tell me everything.”

“Go away. For your own sake, wizard, leave this place and do not return.”

“No!” Addadearber yelled above the rising tumult of the churning water. “Enough of your games and tricks! I will have my answers!”

He got one, then and there, as a sudden and unseen wind slammed him in the side, throwing his hat far and wide, and throwing him behind it, arms and legs flapping. He splashed hard against the side of the whirlpool and was swept up in its mighty current. Around and around he went, splashing futilely to try to get out of the vortex.

He called out to the halfling, who just stood there on the bank, thumbs hooked under his suspenders, a resigned and pitying look on his face.

Down went Addadearber, lower and lower against the unrelenting press of the water. Dizzy and disoriented, the strength leaving his arms, he could not resist, and was plunged under. He came up only once, sputtering a garbled curse at the halfling, then he disappeared.

The halfling sighed as the water flattened to a nearly dead calm once more, the placid trout pond looking as if nothing had happened.

Except for the hat. Out in the middle of the pond, the wizard’s floppy, conical hat bobbed on the few remaining ripples.

The halfling grabbed his fishing pole. He always prided himself on his ability to cast a line.

Roundabout crept through the trees, his appreciation for the strange forest growing with every step. He hadn’t been through Iruladoon for more than a year, and since then it had changed entirely. A year past it had been a cold pine forest trying to find root in the harsh environs of Icewind Dale, with sparse, seasonal underbrush and a short flowering season. But the forest had indeed changed. He could sense it. The vibrancy of life there could not be ignored; the colors, smells, and sounds filled the air with a sort of heartbeat, a sensation, a vibration or sound, under his feet, a cadence for the rhythms of nature. There was a uniquely divine energy to it, tingling all around him.

The sun disappeared in the west and the forest grew dark, but the half-elf didn’t fear the place. His hands did not slip near the hilts of his sheathed sword and dirk.

The heartbeat-music, in a sense-grew. Roundabout felt the power as if its source was approaching him.

“Where are you, wizard?” he whispered to the empty air.

The forest went preternaturally silent, and Roundabout held his breath.

And then he saw her, through the trees not far away, a woman in a white gown and with a black cloak, dancing carefree through the trees. Compelled, he followed, and he wound up lying on a mossy embankment beneath a stand of pines, staring out at a small meadow where the barefoot witch danced in starlight.

Roundabout lost his heart at that moment, for never had he seen any woman quite so beautiful and graceful. He couldn’t even blink, fearing to lose the image before him even momentarily. He wouldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let it go.

She danced and she twirled and she sang, and her voice was the song of Iruladoon.

She was the wizard who had enchanted the wood, Roundabout was certain.

Or the goddess … and that thought had the ranger holding his breath once more, had his hands trembling and sweating, and no one who knew Roundabout had ever seen him in such a state.

She stopped her dance and her song, and brushed her thick auburn hair back from in front of her face, revealing eyes so blue that even the night could not dull their inviting luster.

Roundabout shifted uncomfortably. He knew logically that she could not see him, and yet there was no doubt in his mind that she looked at him directly. He thought he should stand and introduce himself, and explain himself.

But he couldn’t move. His legs would not answer his call to stand. His mouth refused to form the words to call out to her.

She smiled and shook her head then spun into her dance again, twirling around and around, faster and faster, until she was but a blur of flowing robes. And from that she leaped, as if upon the starlight itself.

And she was gone.

Gone from the meadow, but not from the mind of Roundabout. He saw her still, he clutched the image. He never wanted to let it go. He never wanted to look at anything else ever again. Just her, forever her. In that dancing creature, that witch, or ghost, or goddess, Roundabout had witnessed the perfection of nature itself.

He managed to mouth the name “Mielikki,” and recognized, albeit briefly, that he wasn’t lying down any longer, but had regained his feet.

Then he saw her again, in his mind or in front of him-it mattered not-dancing under the stars.

Addadearber came up with a gasp and a wild splash, sucking in air. His lungs ached and he desperately gulped more air. It took him a long time to even hear Ashelia calling to him from the bank near the dock, only a few feet from him.