Hero Page 18

  Balleyho, his senses leaving him, followed the horse’s run, saw his soldier, his friend, slumping off to the side, and finally tumbling from the saddle.

  He didn’t see the man hit the dirt, though, as a giant foot came stomping down upon Balleyho, squashing him into the ground.

  TOOFLESS LEAPED OVER the wagon bench and dropped to the ground in front of the carriage and behind the horse team just as the first arrows from the drivers began to sail in at him. He looked ahead between the horses and saw that his boys had things well in hand. Only a trio of riders were still fighting, with four down and one trying to ride away—though three of Toofless’s best artillerymen had their chain bolos up and spinning. A few of the spriggans were bleeding, but they’d heal fast. One or two dead would give him a bigger share of the treasure and more turns torturing the prisoners.

  With that thought in mind, the spriggan glanced over at the wizard, who lay moaning on the ground. He hoped he hadn’t hit her too hard. They weren’t much fun when they couldn’t even wiggle and scream, after all.

  Another rider went down, two giants yanking his horse down atop him. Behind that line, the flying chain bolos took down the fleeing man, though his horse kept going.

  Toofless sighed. One less meal.

  Off to the side of the action, Toofless spotted Komtoddy. The giant had an arrow in his chest, and another had obviously clipped him across the face, drawing a line of blood.

  “Get ’em,” Toofless quietly coaxed. He winced as his bones began to crackle and extend. His clothing tightened around him—no time to peel it off—and he wished he had his magical spriggan armor.

  Komtoddy’s chain bolo went soaring past him. The horse team on the next wagon whinnied and stomped in protest. Peering out from under the wagon, Toofless saw that second wagon in line lurch and rush off the road and onto the uneven, rough ground. The growing spriggan managed a smile when he saw the female drivers frantically—and futilely—trying to control the team. The ground was simply too uneven. The wagon lurched and turned fast, one wheel digging into the mud. The back of the wagon went up in the air. The two drivers desperately tried to leap aside, but the wagon crashed down upon them, then bounced and rolled away leaving the two women shattered in its wake.

  “Oh, wadies,” Toofless lamented, and out he crept. He sprinted from the side of the wagon, rushing in on the next drivers in line just as they let fly arrows at Komtoddy.

  Toofless had them dead, certainly, but he just ran past, grabbing one man and yanking him from the seat, taking him along as he went after the last wagon. The drivers there were desperately trying to turn it and gallop away.

  A human missile interrupted their work and took one from the seat, slamming him forward between the horses. The team stomped both of them to death in short order.

  They were the lucky ones.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tactical Surrender

  DO YOU RECALL THE DRAGON FIGHT IN THE SILVER MARCHES?” Ilnezhara asked Jarlaxle. The two of them stood out near the blasted Hosttower of the Arcane, with Tazmikella nearby. It was a blustery day, with a chill wind swirling off the water that felt refreshing. Summer was on in full and the sun was quite warm. “The one where the son of Arauthator was slain?”

  Jarlaxle tentatively nodded.

  “Slain by a monk,” said Ilnezhara.

  “A monk possessed by a monk,” Tazmikella agreed.

  “A monk possessed by a monk who long ago transcended his mortal coil,” said Ilnezhara.

  “Godlessly,” Tazmikella added. “And the man should have died of old age before the onset of the Spellplague, even.”

  Jarlaxle stared at them blankly, at a loss as to what this conversation might mean. He knew it involved Drizzt, of course. The sisters had hinted that this concept of ascendance might be the elixir they needed to save the lost drow ranger. He also knew they were speaking of Kane, of the Monastery of the Yellow Rose, and of Brother Afafrenfere, who had returned to that temple of aesthetics.

  “Imagine!” Ilnezhara exclaimed. “A human who found transcendence without the need of a phony god, and entirely from within. Do you think a drow might be so insightful, sister?”

  “I don’t know, sister,” Tazmikella replied, casting a sly look Jarlaxle’s way. “Sometimes these drow appear very dull witted to me.”

  Jarlaxle winked back at her and smiled at the taunt, but his grin disappeared and he began tapping his fingers together pensively as he digested the hints from these two lovely creatures.

  The healing had to come from within Drizzt, Kimmuriel had insisted. And here was an example, an old, old human who was once known well to Jarlaxle—a skilled warrior who had found the kind of inner strength that might serve Drizzt now. Jarlaxle wasn’t deeply schooled in the manners and ways of the monks, though, and had always assumed their mystical powers, if not their almost superhuman fighting techniques, to be the result of some divinity or various arcane enchantments. Was that not the case?

  “The winds are warm again,” he said to the sisters. “How do you feel about a rather long flight?”

  “Not so long,” Tazmikella replied.

  “We were considering a jaunt home to Heliogabalus,” Ilnezhara added.

  “Helgabal,” Tazmikella sourly corrected, and Ilnezhara laughed.

  “To Helgabal, yes, of course,” Ilnezhara explained, “to retrieve some of the things we left behind in our rather hurried exit.”

  “Hurried because of a curious little girl,” Tazmikella said, aiming the remark straight at Jarlaxle, who had, of course, been that very child imposter.

  “Such a gossipy creature,” Ilnezhara said. “We should have dined on her flesh.”

  “Indeed,” the other agreed.

  Jarlaxle took it all in stride. “You will deliver Drizzt to Brother Afafrenfere and the monks at the monastery?”

  “We will deliver you and Drizzt to the forest near the monastery,” Ilnezhara corrected. “From there, the introductions fall to you. We have little desire to go and bargain with the monks, and less to reveal ourselves to the Grandmaster of Flowers, who served a king named Dragonsbane.”

  “A name well-earned, and in no small part, because of that very monk,” Tazmikella elaborated.

  Jarlaxle wasn’t about to quibble. He knew enough about the ways of monks to realize that it had taken Grandmaster Kane, a very special human, the bulk of his life in deep and dedicated training, to reach this level of ascension of which the dragons spoke. He also knew that Kane was the exception, and even the most devout and dedicated practitioners could never approach his level of skill and discipline, whether it came from within or from a god. Drizzt had many years left of life, obviously, perhaps enough to dedicate himself and find his way.

  But wouldn’t it take a human lifetime, the mercenary wondered? In delivering Drizzt to the Monastery of the Yellow Rose, he was doing Drizzt a good deed, perhaps, but to Jarlaxle personally, and certainly to Catti-brie, would it really be any different than if Drizzt had just died? Oh, certainly they could feel better about his fate, and hold on to a thread of hope, but in practicality, he would be lost to them, likely forever as far as Catti-brie was concerned.

  But then again, the mercenary mused, given Drizzt’s continuing descent into this most frustrating and impenetrable madness, wasn’t it as if the ranger had already passed on?

  “YOU ARE SAD to see him go,” Dahlia said. She stood in the tent behind Artemis Entreri, who peered under the flap to watch the goings-on out by the Hosttower.

  The question surprised Entreri, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. “I … we owe him a great deal,” he reminded her. “Drizzt got us out of Menzoberranzan. He went down there, left everything behind, to find you.”

  “So did you,” Dahlia replied. She walked up against the man’s back and looped her arm around him, offering a gentle kiss on the back of the assassin’s neck.

  “Because I had nothing to lose,” Entreri admitted. He turned and returned the hug. “I had nothing in my lif
e. Perhaps, at long last, I saw a way to what I wanted.”

  “Me?”

  Entreri smiled at her and nodded. “You were more than worth the risk for me. But what gain for Drizzt? He had everything he wanted right here in front of him. His friends and his wife returned, and Bruenor on the throne of Gauntlgrym. And yet he went for you, willingly and without hesitation.”

  “And for you?” Dahlia asked, and after a moment of digesting that, Entreri nodded.

  “And he lost himself while saving me,” Dahlia added.

  Entreri glanced back over his shoulder, out of the tent, to see Jarlaxle and some others leading Drizzt to the waiting dragons. He nodded again, his face as tight as his heart.

  “IT’S A DANGEROUS journey,” Jarlaxle explained as Drizzt stared doubtfully at the weapon belt. “Take it.”

  “Even Taulmaril?” Drizzt asked when he took the item. “Do you not fear that I’ll shoot you off Ilnezhara’s back?”

  “You might try,” the mercenary said with a wink, and walked away.

  Drizzt strapped on the belt, adjusted his scimitars, and turned to his mount. But he stopped halfway around. King Bruenor stood, hands on hips, with Catti-brie beside him.

  It was a typically blustery and gray Luskan day, the clouds rolling above at a great clip, the brilliant summer sun finding enough of an opening now and then to shoot beams of heavenly light upon the cold city. But even in that gloominess, Catti-brie shined bright. She wore her white robes, opened low enough in front to reveal the brilliant, multicolored blouse that had once been the magical garment of Jack the Gnome. She had her black lace shawl up over her head, holding her thick hair in place only somewhat against the sea breeze, and she carried her silver bark staff, the blue sapphire retaining its rich hue even against the dim reflections of the cloudy sky.

  And that rich blue accentuated those eyes that had haunted Drizzt Do’Urden for most of his life, and that would surely follow him into whatever existence came after this mortal realm.

  He saw profound sadness there now, and it wounded him even though he knew the truth, that this was not really Catti-brie standing there watching him.

  So caught was he by the image of the woman that he hadn’t even noticed Bruenor’s approach.

  “Ye go and do what needs doin’, elf,” the dwarf said.

  Drizzt looked down at him, at the hand Bruenor had extended.

  “Be knowin’ forever that ye’ve e’er a home in Gauntlgrym, even when meself’s no more,” Bruenor added, his voice quaking. When Drizzt took his hand Bruenor yanked him low and wrapped him in a tight hug.

  “E’er a friend,” the dwarf was barely able to whisper. He held on for a long, long time, and Drizzt could tell that Bruenor was trying hard, if futilely, to compose himself.

  And in that moment, Drizzt knew the truth. And what a fool he felt himself to be. How could he have ever doubted this, or any of them? This was no deception of Lolth. It was Bruenor, just Bruenor. And that was Catti-brie, forever his beloved.

  How could he be so stupid as to think otherwise?

  He shoved Bruenor back to arms’ length, smiling widely.

  Then scowling when he realized that he had been deceived yet again. Was that a flicker of Abyssal fire in the back of Bruenor’s eye?

  He nodded curtly and spun around, rushing for the waiting dragon, taking with him that last image of Catti-brie standing resolutely, arms in tight to her sides, auburn hair escaping the edge of the shawl in wisps to wave in the breeze, and her eyes … those eyes …

  The drow paused at the dragon’s side, determined not to look back, determined not to give in to his futile and foolish hopes, for doing so would give Lolth the victory, and that, in turn, would utterly destroy him.

  He climbed up to the saddle, but she was there beside him then, and he couldn’t ignore it.

  “I know you’ll come back to me,” she said.

  Drizzt looked down at her from Tazmikella’s back, but then closed his eyes, trying to shake away the reality he knew to be lurking there, behind the surface of those deceptively wonderful eyes. This wasn’t Catti-brie, he reminded himself. It was the greatest ruse of all, the grand deception designed to utterly destroy him.

  When he opened his eyes again, he found Catti-brie staring at him still, and now holding out a familiar figurine.

  “Guen belongs to you,” she said quietly. “With you.”

  Drizzt recoiled and shook his head. None of this made any sense to him.

  “Take her!” Catti-brie implored him. “She’s your constant, my love, the friend you ever knew, and ever shall. Perhaps she’ll help you find your way through the maze.”

  Despite the warning screams inside his thoughts, the drow wasn’t strong enough to refuse. He reached down and accepted the onyx panther figurine. But as he came up straight once more, it occurred to him that perhaps he was wrong about the nature and expected course of the grand deception. Perhaps it wasn’t ultimately Catti-brie who would be revealed as a lie, but Guenhwyvar.

  “Oh, clever …” he whispered, trying to follow through with the notion.

  But no, that made no sense. Guen had been with him the whole time, all of his adult life. The lie was the resurrection—the woman, the dwarf, Wulfgar, and Regis.

  Or did it go back longer than that?

  In that case, what matter?

  “Jarlaxle told you not to wait for me,” he said coldly. “This is farewell.”

  “How would I do anything but wait for you?” Catti-brie asked with a sad smile that tugged at Drizzt’s heart and tore it asunder all at once. “I’ve no choice in such a matter.”

  “No …” Drizzt started, but Catti-brie cut him short.

  “You, above all, understand that,” she told him. “When I was gone …”

  Drizzt had no answer to that. In this moment of clarity, he wanted her to be Catti-brie, exactly as he thought of her. Catti-brie, that girl standing on the side of Kelvin’s Cairn who had welcomed him to Icewind Dale; that young woman who had served as his conscience, his guide, his friend, through all those difficult early years when he had been trying to make better sense of a daunting world; that lover with whom he had found his way.

  “Who are you?” he asked, and Catti-brie could only stare at him blankly.

  “You waited for me,” she whispered.

  Drizzt wanted to argue further, but the reminder hit him hard, brought his thoughts cascading through the last century, and all the journeys and adventures and companions he had known, and the underlying emptiness of it all throughout that time, even in Bruenor’s triumph in Gauntlgrym, even in his own experiences with Dahlia and the others.

  Because she, this woman, hadn’t been there with him.

  He winced and silently cursed that he had ever known the love of Catti-brie, for what was life itself without her? What joy might Drizzt Do’Urden ever know to match the sweetness of that experience, to fall asleep inside her, to wake up in her arms, to the warmth of her smile, to the knowing love of her wondrous eyes?

  It took all of his resolve not to draw out his new sword, the very weapon forged and given to him by this imposter, and strike the damned illusion down, then and there.

  Indeed, his resolve would not prove to be enough to stop him, he realized, nodding and going for the blade, determined to be done with it all. But then Jarlaxle called out, and before Drizzt even touched the hilt of Vidrinath, his dragon mount leaped away and into the air, climbing high beside her sister, who bore Jarlaxle.

  “Perhaps we will find a fool riding a white wyrm that we can engage, my friend,” Tazmikella said when they were among the clouds, the dragon turning her head back to regard him. “Have you your bow ready?”

  Drizzt nodded, even managed to fake a smile. But only so that the copper dragon would turn around and leave him alone.

  He rested back in the saddle and watched the world opening wide below him. He glanced back to see Luskan receding, the dark waters of the Sword Coast spreading wide beyond the City of Sails
. Turning north, he saw the Spine of the World, a mountain range he knew so very well, though mostly from the other side, from the north, from Icewind Dale that had been his home for so long.

  His first home.

  The world had seemed so simple then, even to this drow who had walked out of Menzoberranzan and into the tumultuous wilds of the Underdark, even to this young man who had felt the agony of grief when Zaknafein had been murdered, and who had watched friends die in battle, and who had known and lost Montolio. Everything had made sense, even when so profoundly painful. His life had followed a logical path, guided by conscience, through the Underdark and to Mooshie’s Grove, and to Kelvin’s Cairn in Icewind Dale.

  To Catti-brie and to Bruenor.

  And to the banks of Maer Dualdon and Regis.

  He caught a flash of silver through a pass in the mountains to the north, and thought it might be one of the lakes—Redwaters, perhaps, or Lac Dinneshire

  And he remembered when young Wulfgar had come into his life, captured on the battlefield by a merciful Bruenor.

  His life’s journey rolled out in his thoughts as the world rolled out below him, to the lairs of dragons, to Bruenor’s homeland, to the far south and his fierce struggles with Artemis Entreri. All of it, all the way to that fateful day when the Weave had unwoven, when Catti-brie had been struck in the blue fire of the Spellplague, when the whole world had stopped making sense.

  He felt as if he had wasted the subsequent century of his life, but he felt as if he’d wasted the last century of his life.

  It was all an illusion, a deception. Or if not all, then somewhere within that time, reality had become unbound, and perception had become reality, and the passing of time had become meaningless because it was no more than a deception.

  Had he even really found Gauntlgrym with Bruenor, when and where he had watched Bruenor die?