The quickling stifled his scream and covered the wound with his torn shirt, then ambled—slowly—off into the trees.
The orc crept along silently, glad for the covering noises of the fight between the panther and a worg. All thoughts of killing the old man or the drow had flown from this orc now; it had seen its comrades chased away by a pack of bears. Now the orc only wanted to find a way out, not an easy feat in the thick, low tangle of pine branches.
It stepped on some dry leaves as it came into one clear area and froze at the resounding crackle. The orc glanced to the left, then slowly brought its head back around to the right. All of a sudden, it jumped and spun, expecting an attack from the rear. But all was clear as far as it could tell and all, except for the distant panther growls and worg yelps, was quiet. The orc let out a profound sigh of relief and sought the trail once again.
It stopped suddenly on instinct and threw its head way back to look up. A dark form crouched on a branch just above the orc’s head, and the silvery flash shot down before the orc could begin to react. The curve of the scimitar’s blade proved perfect for slipping around the orc’s chin and diving into its throat.
The orc stood very still, arms wide and twitching, and tried to scream, but the whole length of its larynx was torn apart. The scimitar came out in a rush and the orc fell backward into death.
Not so far away, another orc finally extracted itself from the hanging net and quickly cut free its buddy. The two of them, enraged and not as anxious to run away without a fight, crept in quietly.
“In the dark,” the first explained as they came through one thicket and found the landscape blotted out by an impenetrable globe. “Deep.”
Together, the orcs raised their spears and threw, grunting savagely with the effort. The spears disappeared into the dark globe, dead center, one banging into a metallic object but the other striking something softer.
The orcs’ cries of victory were cut short by two twangs of a bowstring. One of the creatures lurched forward, dead before it hit the ground, but the other, stubbornly holding its footing, managed to look down to its chest, to the protruding point of an arrowhead. It lived long enough to see Montolio casually stride past and disappear into the darkness to retrieve his shield.
Drizzt watched the old man from a distance, shaking his head and wondering.
“It is ended,” the elven scout told the others when they caught up to him among the boulders just south of Mooshie’s Grove.
“I am not so certain,” Kellindil replied, looking curiously back to the west and hearing the echoes of bear growls and orc screams. Kellindil suspected that something beyond Graul was behind this attack and, feeling somewhat responsible for the drow, he wanted to know what it might be.
“The ranger and drow have won the grove,” the scout explained.
“Agreed,” said Kellindil, “and so your part is ended. Go back, all of you, to the campsite,”
“And will you join us?” one of the elves asked, though he had already guessed the answer.
“If the fates decree it,” Kellindil replied. “For now, I have other business to attend.”
The others did not question Kellindil further. Rarely did he come to their realm and never did he remain with them for long. Kellindil was an adventurer; the road was his home. He set off at once, running to catch up to the fleeing orcs, then paralleling their movements just south of them.
“Ye let just two of them beat ye!” Roddy griped when he and Graul had a moment to stop and catch their breath. “Two of them!”
Graul’s answer came in the swing of a heavy club. Roddy partially blocked the blow, but its weight knocked him backward.
“Ye’re to pay for that!” the mountain man growled, tearing Bleeder from his belt. A dozen of Graul’s minions appeared beside the orc king then and immediately understood the situation.
“Yous has brought ruin to us!” Graul snapped at Roddy. Then to his orcs, he shouted, “Kill him!”
Roddy’s dog tripped the closest of the group and Roddy didn’t wait for the others to catch up. He turned and sprinted off into the night, using every trick he knew to get ahead of the pursuing band.
His efforts were quickly successful—the orcs really didn’t want any more battles this night—and Roddy would have been wise to stop looking over his shoulder.
He heard a rustle up ahead and turned just in time to catch the pommel of a swinging sword squarely in the face. The weight of the blow, multiplied by Roddy’s own momentum, dropped the mountain man straight to the ground and into unconsciousness.
“I am not surprised,” Kellindil said over the writhing body.
19. Separate Ways
Eight days had done nothing to ease the pain in Tephanis’s foot. The sprite ambled about as best he could, but whenever he broke into a sprint, he inevitably veered to one side and more often than not crashed into a bush or, worse, the unbending trunk of a tree.
“Will-you-please-quit-growling-at-me, stupid-dog!” Tephanis snapped at the yellow canine he had been with since the day after the battle. Neither had become comfortable around the other. Tephanis often lamented that this ugly mutt was in no way akin to Caroak.
But Caroak was dead; the quickling had found the winter wolf’s torn body. Another companion gone, and now the sprite was alone again. “Alone-except-for-you, stupid-dog!” he lamented.
The dog bared its teeth and growled.
Tephanis wanted to slice its throat, wanted to run up and down the length of the mangy animal, cutting and slashing at every inch. He saw the sun riding low in the sky, though, and knew that the beast might soon prove valuable.
“Time-for-me-to-go!” the quickling spouted. Faster than the dog could react, Tephanis darted by it, grabbed at the rope he had hung about the dog’s neck, and zipped three complete circuits of a nearby tree. The dog went after him, but Tephanis easily kept out of its reach until the leash snapped taut, flipping the dog right over. “Be-back-soon, you-stupid-thing!”
Tephanis sped along the mountain paths, knowing that this night might be his last chance. The lights of Maldobar burned in the far distance, but it was a different light, a campfire, that guided the quickling. He came upon the small camp just a few minutes later, glad to see that the elf was not around.
He found Roddy McGristle sitting at the base of a huge tree, his arms pulled behind him and tied at the wrists around the trunk. The mountain man seemed a wretched thing—as wretched as the dog—but Tephanis was out of options. Ulgulu and Kempfana were dead, Caroak was dead, and Graul, after the disaster at the grove, had actually placed a bounty on the quickling’s head.
That left only Roddy—not much of a choice, but Tephanis had no desire to survive on his own ever again. He sped, unnoticed, to the back of the tree and whispered in the mountain man’s ear. “You-will-be-in-Maldobar-tomorrow.”
Roddy froze at the unexpected, squeaky voice.
“You will be in Maldobar tomorrow,” Tephanis said again, as slowly as he could.
“Go away,” Roddy growled at him, thinking that the sprite was teasing him.
“You-should-be-kinder-to-me, oh-you-should!” Tephanis snapped right back. “The-elf-means-to-imprison-you, you-know. For-crimes-against-the-blind-ranger.”
“Shut yer mouth,” McGristle growled, louder than he had intended.
“What are you about?” came Kellindil’s call from not so far away.
“There, you-have-done-it-now, silly-man!” Tephanis whispered.