The hunter squirmed away from Guenhwyvar and leaped to his feet. “Guenhwyvar!” he cried, pushing the panther away. “Get her! Kill… !”
Guenhwyvar replied by falling into a sitting position and issuing a wide and drawn out yawn. With one lazy movement, the panther brought a paw under the string of the neck-purse and snapped it off to the ground.
The hunter burned with rage. “What are you doing?” he screamed, snatching up the purse. Had Guenhwyvar sided against him? Drizzt backed away a step, hesitantly bringing his scimitars up between him and the panther. Guenhwyvar made no move, but just sat there staring at Drizzt.
A moment later, the click of a crossbow told Drizzt of the absolute absurdity of his line of thinking. The dart would have found him, no doubt, but Guenhwyvar sprang up suddenly and intercepted its flight. Drow poison had no effect on the likes of a magical cat.
Three drow fighters appeared on one side of the fork, two more on the other. All thoughts of revenge on Briza flew from Drizzt then, and he followed Guenhwyvar in full flight down the twisting passageways. Without the guidance of the high priestess and her magic, the commoner fighters did not even attempt to follow.
A long while later, Drizzt and Guenhwyvar turned into a side passage and paused in their flight, listening for any sounds of pursuit.
“Come,” Drizzt instructed, and he started slowly away, certain that the threat of Dinin and Briza had been successfully repelled.
Again Guenhwyvar dropped to a sitting position.
Drizzt looked curiously at the panther. “I told you to come.” he growled. Guenhwyvar fixed a stare upon him, a look that filled the renegade drow with guilt. Then the cat rose and walked slowly toward its master.
Drizzt nodded his accord, thinking that Guenhwyvar meant to obey him. He turned and started again to walk off, but the panther circled around him, stopping his progress. Guenhwyvar continued the circular pacing and slowly the telltale mist began to appear.
“What are you doing?” Drizzt demanded.
Guenhwyvar did not slow.
“I did not dismiss you!” Drizzt shouted as the panther’s corporeal form melted away. Drizzt spun about frantically, trying to catch hold of something.
“I did not dismiss you!” he cried again, helplessly.
Guenhwyvar had gone.
It was a long walk back to Drizzt’s sheltered cave. That last image of Guenhwyvar followed his every step, the cat’s saucer eyes boring into his back. Guenhwyvar had judged him, he realized beyond any doubt. In his blind rage, Drizzt had almost killed his sister; he surely would have slain Briza if Guenhwyvar had not pounced upon him. At last, Drizzt crawled into the little stone cubby that served as his bedroom.
His contemplations crawled in with him. A decade before, Drizzt had killed Masoj Hun’ett, and on that occasion had vowed never to kill a drow again. For Drizzt, his word was the core of his principles, those very same principles that had forced him to give up so very much.
Drizzt surely would have forsaken his word this day had it not been for Guenhwyvar’s actions. How much better, then, was he from those dark elves he had left behind?
Drizzt clearly had won the encounter against his siblings and was confident that he could continue to hide from Briza―and from all the other enemies that Matron Malice sent against him. But alone in that tiny cave, Drizzt realized something that distressed him greatly.
He couldn’t hide from himself.
Chapter 4.
Flight From The Hunter
Drizzt gave no thought at all to his actions as he went about his daily routines over the next few days. He would survive, he knew. The hunter would have it no other way. But the rising price of that survival struck a deep and discordant note in the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.
If the constant rituals of the day warded away the pain, Drizzt found himself unprotected at day’s end. The encounter with his siblings haunted him, stayed in his thoughts as vividly as if it were recurring every night. Inevitably, Drizzt awoke terrified and alone, engulfed by the monsters of his dreams. He understood―and the knowledge heightened his helplessness―that no swordplay, however dazzling, could hope to defeat them.
Drizzt did not fear that his mother would continue her quest to capture and punish him, though he knew beyond any doubt that she certainly would. This was his world, far different from Menzoberranzan’s winding avenues, with ways that the drow living in the city could not begin to understand. Out in the wilds, Drizzt held confidence that he could survive against whatever nemeses Matron Malice sent after him.
Drizzt also had managed to release himself from the overwhelming guilt of his actions against Briza. He rationalized that it was his siblings who had forced the dangerous encounter, and it was Briza, in trying to cast a spell, who had initiated the combat. Still, Drizzt realized that he would spend many days finding answers to the questions his actions had raised concerning the nature of his character. Had he become this savage and merciless hunter because of the harsh conditions imposed on him? Or was this hunter an expression of the being Drizzt had been all along? They were not questions that Drizzt would easily answer, but, at this time, they were not foremost among his thoughts.
The thing that Drizzt could not dismiss about the encounter with his siblings was the sound of their voices, the melody of spoken words that he could understand and respond to. In all of his recollections of those few moments with Briza and Dinin, the words, not the blows, stood out most clearly. Drizzt clung to them desperately, listening to them over and over again in his mind and dreading the day when they would fade away. Then, though he might remember them, he would no longer hear them.
He would be alone again.
Drizzt pulled the onyx figurine out of his pocket for the first time since Guenhwyvar had drifted away from him. He placed it on the stone before him and looked at his wall scratches to determine just how long it had been since he had last summoned the panther. Immediately, Drizzt realized the futility of that approach. When was the last time he had scratched that wall? And what use were the markings anyway? How could Drizzt be certain of his count even if he dutifully notched the mark after every one of his sleep periods?
“Time is something of that other world,” Drizzt mumbled, his tone clearly a lament. He lifted his dagger toward the stone, an act of denial against his own proclamation.
“What does it matter?” Drizzt asked rhetorically, and he dropped the dagger to the ground. The ring as it struck the stone sent a shiver along Drizzt’s spine, as though it was a bell signaling his surrender.
His breathing came hard. Sweat beaded on his ebony brow, and his hands felt suddenly cold. All around him, the walls of his cave, the close stone that had sheltered him for years against the ever-encroaching dangers of the Underdark, now pressed in on him. He imagined leering faces in the lines of cracks and the shapes of rocks. The faces mocked him and laughed at him, belittling his stubborn pride.
He turned to flee but stumbled on a stone and fell to the ground. He scraped a knee in the process and tore yet another hole in his tattered piwafwi. Drizzt hardly cared for his knee or his cloak when he looked back to the stumbling stone, for another fact assailed him, leaving him in utter confusion.
The hunter had tripped. For the first time in more than a decade, the hunter had tripped!
“Guenhwyvar!” Drizzt cried frantically. “Come to me! Oh, please, my Guenhwyvar!”
He didn’t know if the panther would respond. After their last less-than-friendly parting, Drizzt couldn’t be certain that Guenhwyvar would ever walk by his side again. Drizzt clawed his way toward the figurine, every inch seeming a tedious fight in the weakness of his despair.