Perhaps it is that realization, that these hordes threaten the place that for so long was my home, that so drives me on to strike against the raiders. Perhaps my actions are bringing some measure of discomfort to the invaders, and some level of assistance to the dwarves.
Or is that line of thinking merely justification? Can I admit that possibility to myself at least? Because in my heart I know that even if the orcs had retreated back to their holes after the fall of Shallows, I would not have turned back for Mithral Hall. I would have followed the orcs to the darkest places, scimitars high and ready, Guenhwyvar crouched beside me. I would have struck hard at them, as I do now, taking what little pleasure seems left in my life in the warmth of spilling orc blood.
How I hate them.
Or is it even them?
It is all too confusing to me. I strike hard and in my mind I see Bruenor atop the burning tower, tumbling to his death. I strike hard and in my mind I see Ellifain falling wounded across the room, slumping to her death.
I strike hard, and if I am lucky, I see nothing—nothing but the blur of the moment. As my instincts engulf my rational mind, I am at peace.
And yet, as those immediate needs retreat, as the orcs flee or fall dead, I often find unintended and unwelcome consequences.
What pain I have caused Guenhwyvar these last days! The panther comes to my call unerringly and fights as I instruct and as her instincts guide. I ask her to go against great foes, and there is no complaint. I hear her wounded cry as she writhes in the grip of a giant, but there is no accusation toward me buried within that wail. And when I call upon her again, after her rest in the Astral Plane, she is there, by my side, not judging, uncomplaining.
It is as it was in the Underdark those days after I walked out of Men-zoberranzan. She is my only contact to the humanity within me, the only window on my heart and soul. I know that I should be rid of her now, that I should hand her over to one more worthy, for I have no hope that I will survive this ordeal. How great it wounds me to think of the figurine that summons Guenhwyvar, the link to the astral spirit of the panther, in the clutches of an orc.
And yet, I find that I cannot make that trip to Mithral Hall to turn over the panther to the dwarves. I cannot walk this road without her, and it is a road I am unable to turn from.
I am weak, perhaps, or I am a fool. Whichever the case, I am not yet ready to stop this war I wage; I am not yet ready to abandon the warmth of spilled orc blood. These beasts have brought this pain upon me, and I will repay them a thousand thousand times over, until my scimitars slip from my weakened grasp and I fall dying to the stone.
I can only hope that Guenhwyvar has gone beyond the compulsion of the magic figurine, that she has found some free will against its pressure. I believe that she has, and that if an orc pries the figurine from my dead body and somehow discovers how to use it, he will bring to his side the instrument of his death.
That is my hope at least.
Perhaps it is another lie, another justification.
Perhaps I am lost in a web of such soft lies too deep to sift through.
I know only the pain of memory and the pleasure of the hunt. I will take that pleasure, to the end.
— Drizzt Do'Urden
CHAPTER 8 POSTURING
Drizzt stared hard at the elf who had just spoken his name. A flicker of recognition teased the drow, but it was nothing tangible, nothing he could hold onto.
"We have some salves that might help with your wound," the elf offered.
He took a step forward—and Drizzt backed away an equal step.
The elf stopped his approach and held up his hands.
"It has been many years," said the elf. "I am pleased to see that you are well."
Drizzt couldn't completely suppress his wince at the irony of that statement, for he felt anything but "well." The reference that he had met the elf before had his thoughts shifting away from that, however, as he tried hard to place the speaker. He had known few surface elves in his years out of the Underdark. Not many were in Ten-Towns, though Drizzt hadn't been close to many of the folk of the towns, anyway, preferring to spend his hours with the dwarves or out on the open tundra.
As soon as he thought of Ellifain, though, that poor troubled elf who had pursued him to the end of the world, and to the end of her life, Drizzt made the connection.
"You are of the Moonwood," he said.
The elf glanced at his female companion, bowed, and said "Tarathiel, at your service."
It all came flooding back to Drizzt then. Years before, on his journey back to the Underdark, he had traveled through the Moonwood and had met up with the clan of Ellifain. This elf, Tarathiel, had led him away, had even allowed him to ride on of the elf clan's fine horses for a bit. Their meeting had been brief and to the point, but they had left with mutual respect and a bit of trust.
"Forgive my poor memory," Drizzt replied.
He wanted to express his gratitude for Tarathiel's former generosity and to thank the pair for coming to his aid in the recent fight, but he stopped. Drizzt found that he simply did not want to begin that conversation. Did the pair know of Ellifain's pursuit of him and attack upon him? Could he tell them about Elli-fain's fate, slain at the end of the very scimitars Drizzt even then held at his sides?
"Well met again, Tarathiel," Drizzt said, somewhat curtly.
"And Innovindil," Tarathiel remarked, motioning to his beautiful and deadly partner.
Drizzt offered her a somewhat stiff bow.
"The orcs are fast returning," Innovindil remarked, for she alone had been looking around during the brief exchange. "Let us go somewhere that we might better speak of the past, and of the present danger that engulfs this region."
The two started off and motioned for Drizzt to hurry to keep up, but the drow did not.
"We cannot give our enemies a single target of pursuit," Drizzt said. "Perhaps our paths will meet again."
He gave another bow, slid his scimitars away, and rushed off in the opposite direction.
* * *
Tarathiel started after Drizzt and started to call out, but Innovindil caught him by the arm.
"Let him go," Innovindil whispered. "He is not ready to speak with us."
"I would know about Ellifain," Tarathiel protested.
"He knows of us now," Innovindil explained. "He will seek us out when he is ready."
"He should be warned of Ellifain at least."
Innovindil shrugged as if it didn't matter.
"Is she anywhere about?" she asked. "And if so, will her pursuit of Drizzt Do'Urden overrule all sensibility? The land is thick with more immediate enernies."
Tarathiel continued to look after the departing drow and still leaned that way, but he didn't pull away from Innovindil's insistent hold.
"He will seek us out, and soon enough," Innovindil promised.
"You sound as if you know him," Tarathiel remarked.
He turned to regard his companion, to find that she, too, was staring off in the direction of the departing drow.
Innovindil slowly nodded.
"Perhaps," she replied.
* * *
Urlgen Threefist watched the latest wave of his shock troops, goblins mostly, charging up the sloping stone ground, throwing themselves with abandon at the dwarven defenses. The orc leader ignored the sudden shift from battle cry to wail of agony, focusing his attention on the defenders of the high ground.