“Or is your blindness, perhaps, a ruse, a deception you use to gain the advantage?” Drizzt pressed relentlessly.
“If it is?” Montolio replied offhandedly.
“Then it is a good one, Montolio DeBrouchee,” Drizzt replied. “Surely it aids you against enemies… and friends alike.” The words tasted bitter to Drizzt, and he suspected that he was letting his pride get the best of him.
“You have not often been bested in battle,” Montolio replied, recognizing the source of Drizzt’s frustrations as their sparring match. If he could have seen the drow then, Drizzt’s expression would have revealed much.
“You take it too hard,” Montolio continued after an uneasy silence. “I did not truly defeat you.”
“You had me down and helpless.”
“You beat yourself,” Montolio explained. “I am indeed blind, but not as helpless as you seem to think. You underestimated me. I knew that you would, too, though I hardly believed that you could be so blind.”
Drizzt stopped abruptly, and Montolio stopped on cue as the drag on the branch suddenly increased. The old ranger shook his head and cackled. He then pulled out a dagger, spun it high into the air, caught it, and, yelling, “Birch!” heaved it squarely into one of the few birch trees by the evergreen grove.
“Could a blind man do that?” Montolio asked rhetorically.
“Then you can see,” Drizzt stated.
“Of course not,” Montolio retorted sharply. “My eyes have not functioned for five years. But neither am I blind, Drizzt, especially in this place I call my home!
“Yet you thought me blind,” the ranger went on, his voice calm again. “In our sparring, when your spell of darkness expired, you believed that you had gained the edge. Did you think that all of my actions—effective actions, I must say—both in the battle against the orcs and in our fight were simply prepared and rehearsed? If I were as crippled as Drizzt Do’Urden believes me, how should I survive another day in these mountains?”
“I did not… ” Drizzt began, but his embarrassment silenced him. Montolio spoke the truth, and Drizzt knew it. He had, at least on an unconscious level, thought the ranger less than whole since their very first meeting. Drizzt felt he showed his friend no disrespect—indeed, he thought highly of the man—but he had taken Montolio for granted and thought the ranger’s limitations greater than his own.
“You did,” Montolio corrected, “and I forgive you that. To your credit, you treated me more fairly than any who knew me before, even those who had traveled beside me through uncounted campaigns. Sit now,” he bade Drizzt. “It is my turn to tell my tale, as you have told yours.”
“Where to begin?” Montolio mused, scratching at his chin. It all seemed so distant to him now, another life that he had left behind. He retained one link to his past, though: his training as a ranger of the goddess Mielikki. Drizzt, similarly instructed by Montolio, would understand.
“I gave my life to the forest, to the natural order, at a very young age,” Montolio began. “I learned, as I have begun to teach you, the ways of the wild world and decided soon enough that I would defend that perfection, that harmony of cycles too vast and wonderful to be understood. That is why I so enjoy battling orcs and the like. As I have told you before, they are the enemies of natural order, the enemies of trees and animals as much as of men and the goodly races. Wretched things, all in all, and I feel no guilt in cutting them down!”
Montolio then spent many hours recounting some of his campaigns, expeditions in which he acted singly or as a scout for huge armies. He told Drizzt of his own teacher, Dilamon, a ranger so skilled with a bow that he had never seen her miss, not once in ten thousand shots. “She died in battle,” Montolio explained, “defending a farmhouse from a raiding band of giants. Weep not for Mistress Dilamon, though, for not a single farmer was injured and not one of the few giants who crawled away ever showed its ugly face in that region again!”
Montolio’s voice dropped noticeably when he came to his more recent past. He told of the Rangewatchers, his last adventuring company, and of how they came to battle a red dragon that had been marauding the villages. The dragon was slain, as were three of the Rangewatchers, and Montolio had his face burned away.
“The clerics fixed me up well,” Montolio said somberly. “Hardly a scar to show for my pain.” He paused, and Drizzt saw, for the first time since he had met the old ranger, a cloud of pain cross Montolio’s face. “They could do nothing for my eyes, though. The wounds were beyond their abilities.”
“You came out here to die,” Drizzt said, more accusingly than he intended.
Montolio did not refute the claim. “I have suffered the breath of dragons, the spears of orcs, the anger of evil men, and the greed of those who would rape the land for their own gain,” the ranger said. “None of those things wounded as deeply as pity. Even my Rangewatcher companions, who had fought beside me so many times pitied me. Even you.”
“I did not… ” Drizzt tried to interject.
“You did indeed,” Montolio retorted. “In our battle, you thought yourself superior. That is why you lost! The strength of any ranger is wisdom, Drizzt. A ranger understands himself, his enemies, and his friends. You thought me impaired, else you never would have attempted so brash a maneuver as to jump over me. But I understood you and anticipated the move.” That sly smile flashed wickedly. “Does your head still hurt?”
“It does,” Drizzt admitted, rubbing the bruise, “though my thoughts seem to be clearing.”
“As to your original question,” Montolio said, satisfied that his point had been made, “there is nothing exceptional about my hearing, or any of my other senses. I just pay more attention to what they tell than do other folks, and they guide me quite well, as you now understand. Truly, I did not know of their abilities myself when I first came out here, and you are correct in your guess as to why I did. Without my eyes, I thought myself a dead man, and I wanted to die here, in this grove that I had come to know and love in my earlier travels.
“Perhaps it was due to Mielikki, the Mistress of the Forest—though more likely it was Graul, an enemy so close at hand—but it did not take me long to change my intentions concerning my own life. I found a purpose out here, alone and crippled—and I was crippled in those first days. With that purpose came a renewal of meaning in my life, and that in turn led me to realize again my limits. I am old now, and weary, and blind. If I had died five years ago, as I had intended, I would have died with my life incomplete. I never would have known how far I could go. Only in adversity, beyond anything Montolio DeBrouchee had ever imagined, could I have come to know myself and my goddess so well.”
Montolio stopped to consider Drizzt. He heard a shuffle at the mention of his goddess, and he took it to be an uncomfortable movement. Wanting to explore this revelation, Montolio reached inside his chain mail and tunic and produced a pendant shaped like a unicorn’s head.
“Is it not beautiful?” he pointedly asked.
Drizzt hesitated. The unicorn was perfectly crafted and marvelous in design, but the connotations of such a pendant did not sit easily with the drow. Back in Menzoberranzan Drizzt had witnessed the folly of following the commands of deities, and he liked not at all what he had seen.
“Who is your god, drow?” Montolio asked. In all the weeks he and Drizzt had been together, they had not really discussed religion.
“I have no god,” Drizzt answered boldly, “and neither do I want one.”
It was Montolio’s turn to pause.
Drizzt rose and walked off a few paces.
“My people follow Lloth,” he began. “She, if not the cause, is surely the continuation of their wickedness, as this Gruumsh is to the orcs, and as other gods are to other peoples. To follow a god is folly. I shall follow my heart instead.”