“I told ye to go away!” Roddy replied.
“I-might, and-then-where-would-you-be? In-prison?” Tephanis said angrily. “I-can-help-you-now, if-you-want-my-help.”
Roddy was beginning to understand. “Untie my hands,” he ordered.
“They-already-are-untied,” Tephanis replied, and Roddy found the sprite’s words to be true. He started to rise but changed his mind abruptly as Kellindil entered the camp.
“Keep-still,” Tephanis advised. “I-will-distract-your-captor.”
Tephanis had moved as he spoke the words and Roddy heard only an unintelligible murmur. He kept his hands behind him, though, seeing no other course available with the heavily armed elf approaching.
“Our last night on the road,” Kellindil remarked, dropping by the fire the coney he had shot for a meal. He moved in front of Roddy and bent low. “I will send for Lady Falconhand once we have arrived in Maldobar,” he said. “She names Montolio DeBrouchee as a friend and will be interested to learn of the events in the grove.”
“What do ye know?” Roddy spat at him. “The ranger was a friend o’ mine, too!”
“If you are a friend of orc king Graul, then you are no friend of the ranger in the grove,” Kellindil retorted.
Roddy had no immediate rebuttal, but Tephanis supplied one. A buzzing noise came from behind the elf and Kellindil, dropping a hand to his sword, spun about.
“What manner of being are you?” he asked the quickling, his eyes wide in amazement.
Kellindil never learned the answer, for Roddy came up suddenly behind him and slammed him to the ground. Kellindil was a seasoned fighter, but in close he was no match for the sheer brawn of Roddy McGristle. Roddy’s huge and dirty hands closed on the slender elf’s throat.
“I-have-your-dog,” Tephanis said to Roddy when the foul business was done. “Tied-it-to-a-tree.”
“Who are ye?” Roddy asked, trying to hide his elation, both for his freedom and for the knowledge that his dog still lived. “And what do ye want with me?”
“I-am-a-little-thing, you-can-see-that-to-be-true,” Tephanis explained. “Like-keeping-big-friends.”
Roddy considered the offer for a moment. “Well, ye’ve earned it,” he said with a laugh. He found Bleeder, his trusted axe, among the dead elf’s belongings and rose up huge and grim-faced. “Come on then, let’s get back to the mountains. I’ve a drow to deal with.”
A sour expression crossed the quickling’s delicate features, but Tephanis hid it before Roddy could notice. Tephanis had no desire to go anywhere near the blind ranger’s grove. Aside from the fact that the orc king had placed a bounty on his head, he knew that the other elves might get suspicious if Roddy showed up without Kellindil. More than that, Tephanis found the pain in his head and foot even more acute at the mere thought of facing the dark elf again.
“No!” the sprite blurted. Roddy, not used to being disobeyed, eyed him dangerously.
“No-need,” Tephanis lied. “The-drow-is-dead, killed-by-a-worg.”
Roddy didn’t seem convinced.
“I-led-you-to-the-drow-once,” Tephanis reminded him.
Truly Roddy was disappointed, but he no longer doubted the quickling. If it hadn’t been for Tephanis, Roddy knew, he never would have located Drizzt. He would be more than a hundred miles away, sniffing around Morueme’s Cave and spending all of his gold on dragon lies. “What about the blind ranger?” Roddy asked.
“He-lives, but-let-him-live,” Tephanis replied. “Many-powerful-friends-have-joined-him.” He led Roddy’s gaze to Kellindil’s body. “Elves, many-elves.”
Roddy nodded his assent. He had no real grudge against Mooshie and had no desire to face Kellindil’s kin.
They buried Kellindil and all of the supplies they couldn’t take with them, found Roddy’s dog, and set out later that same night for the wide lands to the west.
Back at Mooshie’s grove, the summer passed peacefully and productively, with Drizzt coming into the ways and methods of a ranger even more easily than optimistic Montolio had believed. Drizzt learned the name for every tree or bush in the region, and every animal, and more importantly, he learned how to learn, how to observe the clues that Mielikki gave him. When he came upon an animal that he had not encountered before, he found that simply by watching its movements and actions he could quickly discern its intent demeanor, and mood.
“Go and feel its coat,” Montolio whispered to him one day in the gray and blustery twilight. The old ranger pointed across a field, to the tree line and the white flicking of a deer’s tail. Even in the dim light, Drizzt had trouble seeing the deer, but he sensed its presence, as Montolio obviously had.
“Will it let me?” Drizzt whispered back. Montolio smiled and shrugged.
Drizzt crept out silently and carefully, following the shadows along the edge of the meadow. He chose a northern, downwind approach, but to get north of the deer, he had to come around from the east. He knew his error when he was still two dozen yards from the deer. It lifted its head suddenly, sniffed, and flicked its white tail.
Drizzt froze and waited for a long moment while the deer resumed its grazing. The skittish creature was on the alert now, and as soon as Drizzt took another measured step, the deer bolted away.
But not before Montolio, taking the southern approach, had gotten close enough to pat its rump as it ran past.
Drizzt blinked in amazement. “The wind favored me!” he protested to the smug ranger.
Montolio shook his head. “Only over the last twenty yards, when you came north of the deer,” he explained. “West was better than east until then.”
“But you could not get north of the deer from the west,” Drizzt said.
“I did not have to,” Montolio replied. “There is a high bluff back there,” he pointed to the south. “It cuts the wind at this angle—swirls it back around.”
“I did not know.”
“You have to know,” Montolio said lightly. “That is the trick of it. You have to see as a bird might and look down upon all the region before you choose your course.”
“I have not learned to fly,” Drizzt replied sarcastically.
“Nor have I!” roared the old ranger. “Look above you.”
Drizzt squinted as he turned his eyes to the gray sky. He made out a solitary form, gliding easily with great wings held wide to catch the breeze.
“A hawk,” the drow said.
“Rode the breeze from the south,” Montolio explained, “then banked west on the breaking currents around the bluff. If you had observed its flight, you might have suspected the change in terrain.”
“That is impossible,” Drizzt said helplessly.
“Is it?” Montolio asked, and he started away—to hide his smile. Of course the drow was correct; one could not tell the topography of the terrain by the flight patterns of a hawk. Montolio had learned of the shifting wind from a certain sneaky owl who had slipped in at the ranger’s bidding right after Drizzt had started out across the meadow, but Drizzt didn’t have to know that. Let the drow consider the fib for a while, the old ranger decided. The contemplation, recounting all he had learned, would be a valuable lesson.
“Hooter told you,” Drizzt said a half-hour later, on the trail back to the grove. “Hooter told you of the wind and told you of the hawk.”
“You seem sure of yourself.”
“I am,” Drizzt said firmly. “The hawk did not cry—I have become aware enough to know that. You could not see the bird, and I know that you did not hear the rush of wind over its wings, whatever you may say!”
Montolio’s laughter brought a smile of confirmation to the drow’s face.
“You have done well this day,” the old ranger said.
“I did not get near the deer,” Drizzt reminded him.
“That was not the test,” Montolio replied. “You trusted in your knowledge to dispute my claims. You are sure of the lessons you have learned. Now hear some more. Let me tell you a few tricks when approaching a skittish deer.”