A call from outside the cave ended the debate—both Dove and Roddy were glad of that. After leading the troupe into the lair, Kellindil had returned outside, following up on some further clues he had discovered.
“A boot print,” the elf explained, pointing to a small, mossy patch, when the others came out. “And here,” he showed them scratches in the stone, a clear sign of a scuffle.
“My belief is that the drow went to the ledge,” Kellindil explained. “And then over, perhaps in pursuit of the barghest and the panther, though on that point I am merely assuming.”
After a moment of following the trail Kellindil had reconstructed, Dove and Darda, and even Roddy, agreed with the assumption.
“We should go back into the ravine,” Dove suggested. “Perhaps we will find a trail beyond the stony gorge that will lead us toward some clearer answers.”
Roddy scratched at the scabs on his head and flashed Dove a disdainful look that showed her his emotions. Roddy cared not a bit for any of the ranger’s promised “clearer answers,” having drawn all of the conclusions that he needed long ago. Roddy was determined—beyond anything else, Dove knew—to bring back the dark elf’s head.
Dove Falconhand was not so certain about the murderer’s identity. Many questions remained for both the ranger and for the other members of her troupe. Why hadn’t the drow killed the Thistledown children when they had met earlier in the mountains? If Connor’s tale to the mayor had been true, then why had the drow given the boy back his weapon? Dove was firmly convinced that the barghest, and not the drow, had slaughtered the Thistledown family, but why had the drow apparently gone after the barghest lair?
Was the drow in league with the barghests, a communion that fast soured? Even more intriguing to the ranger—whose very creed was to protect civilians in the unending war between the good races and monsters—had the drow sought out the barghest to avenge the slaughter at the farm? Dove suspected the latter was the truth, but she couldn’t understand the drow’s motives. Had the barghest, in killing the family, put the farmers of Maldobar on alert, thereby ruining a planned drow raid?
Again the pieces didn’t fit properly. If the dark elves planned a raid on Maldobar, then certainly none of them would have revealed themselves beforehand. Something inside Dove told her that this single drow had acted alone, had come out and avenged the slain farmers. She shrugged it off as a trick of her own optimism and reminded herself that dark elves were rarely known for such rangerlike acts.
By the time the five got down the narrow path and returned to the sight of the largest corpse, Gabriel had already found the trail, heading deeper into the mountains. Two sets of tracks were evident, the drow’s and fresher ones belonging to a giant, bipedal creature, possibly a third barghest.
“What happened to the panther?” Fret asked, growing a bit overwhelmed by his first field expedition in many years.
Dove laughed aloud and shook her head helplessly. Every answer seemed to bring so many more questions.
Drizzt kept on the move at night, running, as he had for so many years, from yet another grim reality. He had not killed the farmers—he had actually saved them from the gnoll band—but now they were dead. Drizzt could not escape that fact. He had entered their lives, quite of his own will, and now they were dead.
On the second night after his encounter with the hill giant, Drizzt saw a distant campfire far down the winding mountain trails, back in the direction of the barghest’s lair. Knowing this sight to be more than coincidence, the drow summoned Guenhwyvar to his side, then sent the panther down for a closer look.
Tirelessly the great cat ran, its sleek, black form invisible in the evening shadows as it rapidly closed the distance to the camp.
Dove and Gabriel rested easily by their campfire, amused by the continuing antics of Fret, who busily cleaned his soft jerkin with a stiff brush and grumbled all the while.
Roddy kept to himself across the way, securely tucked into a niche between a fallen tree and a large rock, his dog curled up at his feet.
“Oh, bother for this dirt!” Fret groaned. “Never, never will I get this outfit clean! I shall have to buy a new one.” He looked at Dove, who was futilely trying to hold a straight face. “Laugh if you will, Mistress Falconhand,” the dwarf admonished. “The price will come out of your purse, do not doubt!”
“A sorry day it is when one must buy fineries for a dwarf,” Gabriel put in, and at his words, Dove burst into laughter.
“Laugh if you will!” Fret said again, and he rubbed harder with the brush, wearing a hole right through the garment. “Drat and bebother!” he cursed, then he threw the brush to the ground.
“Shut yer mouth!” Roddy groused at them, stealing the mirth. “Do ye mean to bring the drow down upon us?”
Gabriel’s ensuing glare was uncompromising, but Dove realized that the mountain man’s advice, though rudely given, was appropriate. “Let us rest, Gabriel,” the ranger said to her fighting companion. “Darda and Kellindil will be in soon and our turn shall come for watch. I expect that tomorrow’s road will be no less wearisome—” She looked at Fret and winked—”and no less dirty, than today’s.”
Gabriel shrugged, hung his pipe in his mouth, and clasped his hands behind his head. This was the life that he and all of the adventuring companions enjoyed, camping under the stars with the song of the mountain wind in their ears. Fret, though, tossed and turned on the hard ground, grumbling and growling as he moved through each uncomfortable position.
Gabriel didn’t need to look at Dove to know that she shared his smile. Nor did he have to glance over at Roddy to know that the mountain man fumed at the continuing noise. It no doubt seemed negligible to the ears of a city-living dwarf but rang out conspicuously to those more accustomed to the road.
A whistle from the darkness sounded at the same time Roddy’s dog put its fur up and growled.
Dove and Gabriel were up and over to the side of the camp in a second, moving to the perimeter of the firelight in the direction of Darda’s call. Likewise, Roddy, pulling his dog along, slipped around the large rock, out of the direct light so that their eyes could adjust to the gloom.
Fret, too involved with his own discomfort, finally noticed the movements. “What?” the dwarf asked curiously. “What?”
After a brief and whispered conversation with Darda, Dove and Gabriel split up, circling the camp in opposite directions to ensure the integrity of the perimeter.
“The tree,” came a soft whisper, and Dove dropped into a crouch. In a moment, she sorted out Roddy, cleverly concealed between the rock and some brush. The big man, too, had his weapon readied, and his other hand held his dog’s muzzle tightly, keeping the animal silent.
Dove followed Roddy’s nod to the widespread branches of a solitary elm. At first, the ranger could discern nothing unusual among the leafy branches, but then came the yellow flash of feline eyes.
“Drow’s panther,” Dove whispered. Roddy nodded his agreement. They sat very still and watched, knowing that the slightest movement could alert the cat. A few seconds later, Gabriel joined them, falling into a silent position and following their eyes to the same darker spot on the elm. All three understood that time was their ally; even now, Darda and Kellindil were no doubt moving into position.
Their trap would surely have had Guenhwyvar, but a moment later, the dwarf crashed out of the campsite, stumbling right into Roddy. The mountain man nearly fell over, and when he reflexively threw his weaponless hand out to catch himself, his dog rushed out, baying wildly.