The orcs looked to each other and all around, wondering which way they could flee.
The strange owl dove in again, this time above an orc, and gave a fourth hoot. The orc, understanding the implications, waved its arms and shrieked, then fell silent with an arrow protruding from its face.
The four remaining orcs broke ranks and fled, one up the slope, another running back the way it had come, and two rushing toward Drizzt.
A deft spin of the spear sent its butt end slamming into the face of one orc, then Drizzt fully completed the spinning motion to deflect the other orc’s spear tip toward the ground. The orc dropped the weapon, realizing that it could not get it back in line in time to stop the drow.
The orc climbing the slope understood its doom as the signaling owl closed on it. The terrified creature dove behind a rock upon hearing one hoot, but if it had been a smarter thing, it would have realized its error. By the angle of the shots that had felled the giant, the archer had to be somewhere up on this slope.
An arrow knocked into its thigh as it crouched, dropping it, writhing, to its back. With the orc’s growling and thrashing, the unseen and unseeing archer hardly needed the owl’s next hoot to place his second shot, this one catching the orc squarely in the chest and silencing it forever.
Drizzt reversed his direction immediately, clipping the second orc with the spear’s butt end. In the blink of an eye, the drow reversed his grip a third time and drove the spear tip into the creature’s throat, digging upward into its brain. The first orc that Drizzt had hit reeled and shook its head violently, trying to reorient itself to the battle. It felt the drow’s hands grab at the front of its dirty bearskin tunic, then it felt a rush of air as it flew out over the ledge, taking the same route as the previously trapped worg.
Hearing the screams of its dying companions, the orc on the trail put its head down and sped on, thinking itself quite clever in taking this route. It changed its mind abruptly, though, when it turned a bend and ran straight into the waiting paws of a huge black panther.
Drizzt leaned back, exhausted, against the stone, holding his spear ready for a throw as the strange owl floated back down the mountainside. The owl kept its distance, though, alighting on the outcropping that forced the trail’s sharp bend a dozen steps away.
Movement up above caught the drow’s attention. He could hardly see in the blinding light, but he did make out a humanlike form picking a careful path down toward him.
The owl set off again, circling above the drow and calling, and Drizzt crouched, alert and unnerved, as the man slipped down to a position behind the rocky spur. No arrow whistled out to the owl’s hooting, though. Instead came the archer.
He was tall, straight, and very old, with a huge gray moustache and wild gray hair. Most curious of all were his milky white and pupilless eyes. If Drizzt had not witnessed the man’s archery display, he would have believed the man blind. The old man’s limbs seemed quite frail, too, but Drizzt did not let appearances deceive him. The expert archer kept his heavy longbow bowed and ready, an arrow firmly nocked, with hardly any effort. The drow did not have to look far to see the deadly efficiency with which the human could put the powerful weapon to use.
The old man said something in a language that Drizzt could not understand, then in a second tongue, then in goblin, which Drizzt understood. “Who are you?”
“Drizzt Do’Urden,” the drow replied evenly, taking some hope in the fact that he could at least communicate with this adversary.
“Is that a name?” the old man asked. He chuckled and shrugged. “Whatever it is, and whoever you might be, and whyever you might be here, is of minor consequence.”
The owl, noticing movement, started hooting and swooping wildly, but it was too late for the old man. Behind him, Guenhwyvar slunk around the bend and closed to within an easy spring, ears flattened and teeth bared.
Seemingly oblivious to the peril, the old man finished his thought. “You are my prisoner now.”
Guenhwyvar issued a low, throaty growl and the drow grinned broadly.
“I think not,” Drizzt replied.
13. Montolio
“Friend of yours?” the old man asked calmly.
“Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt explained,
“Big cat?”
“Oh, yes,” Drizzt answered.
The old man eased his bowstring straight and let the arrow slowly slip, point down. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, and seemed to fall within himself. A moment later, Drizzt noticed that Guenhwyvar’s ears came up suddenly, and the drow understood that this strange human was somehow making a telepathic link to the panther.
“Good cat, too,” the old man said a moment later. Guenhwyvar walked out from around the outcropping—sending the owl flapping away in a frenzy—and casually stalked past the old man, moving to stand beside Drizzt. Apparently, the panther had relinquished all concerns that the old man was an enemy.
Drizzt considered Guenhwyvar’s actions curious, viewing them in the same manner as he had his own empathic agreement with the bear in the cave a season ago.
“Good cat,” the old man said again.
Drizzt leaned back against the stone and relaxed his grip on the spear.
“I am Montolio,” the old man explained proudly, as though the name should carry some weight with the drow. “Montolio DeBrouchee.”
“Well met and fare well,” Drizzt said flatly. “If we are done with our meeting, then we may go our own ways.”
“We may,” Montolio agreed, “if we both choose to.”
“Am I to be your… prisoner… once more?” Drizzt asked with a bit of sarcasm in his voice.
The sincerity of Montolio’s ensuing laughter brought a smile to the drow’s face despite his cynicism. “Mine?” the old man asked incredulously. “No, no, I believe we have settled that issue. But you have killed some minions of Graul this day, a deed that the orc king will want punished. Let me offer you a room at my castle. The orcs will not approach the place.” He showed a wry smile and bent over toward Drizzt to whisper, as if to keep his next words a secret between them. “They will not come near me, you know.” Montolio pointed to his strange eyes. “They believe me to be bad magic because of my… ” Montolio struggled for the word that would convey the thought, but the guttural language was limited and he soon grew frustrated.
Drizzt silently recounted the course of the battle, then his jaw drooped open in undeniable amazement as he realized the truth of what had transpired. The old man was indeed blind! The owl, circling over enemies and hooting, had led his shots. Drizzt looked around at the slain giant and orc and his jaw did not close; the old man hadn’t missed.
“Will you come?” Montolio asked. “I would like to gain the”—Again he had to search for an appropriate term—”purposes… a dark elf would have to live a winter in a cave with Bluster the bear.”
Montolio cringed at his own inability to converse with the drow, but from the context, Drizzt could pretty much understand what the old man meant, even figuring out unfamiliar terms such as “winter” and “bear.”
“Orc king Graul has ten hundred more fighters to send against you,” Montolio remarked, sensing that the drow was having a difficult time considering the offer.
“I will not come with you,” Drizzt declared at length. The drow truly wanted to go, wanted to learn a few things about this remarkable man, but too many tragedies had befallen those who had crossed Drizzt’s path.
Guenhwyvar’s low growl told Drizzt that the panther did not approve of his decision.
“I bring trouble,” Drizzt tried to explain to the old man, to the panther, and to himself. “You would be better served, Montolio DeBrouchee, to keep away from me.”