Anthology - Realms of Valor Part 27

Another few moments slipped by, and, thankfully, the voices went silent once more. I did not relax. My instincts warned me that something drastic would soon happen, and Guenhwyvar's low growl confirmed the feeling.

At that critical moment, I did not want to believe that Rico could be so incredibly foolish, but my instincts and warrior senses overruled what my mind refused to believe. I had Taulmaril off my shoulder, an arrow nocked, and searched out again the exact route that would get me quickly across the water.

The two ores of the southern watch began to shift nervously and converse with each other in their guttural language. I watched them closely, but more closely I kept my attention on the ore nearest the prisoners. I watched the ogres as well, by far the more dangerous foes. An eight-hundred-pound, ten-foot-tall ogre might not be easily or quickly felled by my scimitars, though a well-aimed strike by Taulmaril could bring one crashing down. Still, my whole plan was predicated on getting the prisoners out without the ogres ever knowing-a battle with those brutes could cost me more time than I, or the prisoners, had to spare.

Then my plan unraveled before my eyes.

One of the orcish sentries yelled something. The ore beside him put an arrow into the bushes shielding the farmers. Predictably, the sword-wielding guard was up in an instant, right beside the helpless prisoners. The ogres in the boulder tumble were stirring, but they seemed more curious than alarmed. I still held out some hope that the situation could be salvaged-until I heard Rico's cry for a charge.

There is a time in every battle when a warrior must let go of his conscious thoughts, must let his instincts guide his moves, must trust in those instincts fully and not waste precious time in questioning them. I had only one shot to stop the sword-wielding ore from killing the nearest prisoner, Tharman's wife. The creature's blade was up in the air when I let fly the arrow, its powerful enchantment trailing a silver streak as it flashed across the Surbrin.

I think I got him in the eye, but wherever the missile actually hit, the ore's head was virtually blown apart. The creature flew back into the darkness, and I started across the river, finding what steps I could without taking my attention from the opposite bank.

The ores nearest the farmers fired their bows again, then drew out weapons for close melee. And though I did not bother to look, I knew that Rico was leading a charge. The three ores to the north cried out and looked to the river, trying to figure out what had killed their companion. How vulnerable I felt out there, with only emptiness about me, moving slowly as I picked my careful way! Those fears proved valid, for the ores spotted me almost immediately. I saw their bows come up to fire.

Perhaps the guards could not see me clearly, or perhaps their aim was simply not as good as mine. Whatever the reason, their hasty first shots went wide. I paused in my frantic charge and returned two arrows of my own; one hit home, its tremendous force throwing the middle ore of the three back and to the ground. I heard an arrow whistle by my ear, just inches away. I think Guenhwyvar, leaping past me, took the next, for I never heard it and, by the luck of the G.o.ds, never felt it.

Guenhwyvar hit the bank ahead of me and completely shifted her momentum, sleek muscles pulling hard, bringing the panther about. I had seen Guenhwyvar execute maneuvers like this a hundred times, yet my breath, as always, was stolen away. The cat's flight was directly westward, but as soon as her paws touched down, without a single extra step forward, she cut an incredible pivot to the north and fell upon the archers before they had another arrow out of their quivers.

To my relief, I heard the sounds of battle joined to the south as Rico and the others clashed with the ores. They had stirred up this hornets' nest. At least they were going to share in the task of putting it right.

I saw the ogres get up then-four, not two-and I let loose another arrow. It got the leading brute in the chest, tearing through the dirty hides the giant wore and burying itself to its silver fletchings. To my amazement and horror the smelly creature continued on for a few steps. Then it fell to its knees, stunned, but not dead. As it slid to the ground, it looked about curiously, as though it had no idea what had stopped its charge.

I had time for one more shot before I reached the bank, and I wanted desperately to kill another ogre. But an ore appeared behind the prisoners, and its evil intentions were obvious as it lifted its cruel sword over the children's heads.

The ore was turned sideways to me. I shot it in the nearest shoulder, the arrow blasting right through to the opposite shoulder. The ore was still alive when it fell to the ground, flopping helplessly with no use of either arm.

It seems strange to me now, but I remember that when I at last made the opposite bank, dropping the bow and drawing my scimitars, I was truly concerned that I might lose Taulmaril. I even thought of the scolding Catti-brie would give to me when I returned to Mithril Hall without her precious weapon! The images were fleeting, though, a needed diversion until battle was rejoined.

Twinkle, the blade in my right hand, flared an angry blue, aptly reflecting the fires within me. My other scimitar flared bluish white light, a testament to the winter's chill, for the blade would only glow when the air about it was very cold.

The three remaining ogres came at me in no concerted way-whenever I battle such strong but stupid beasts I am reminded of how powerful they would surely be if they could find some order to overrule their natural chaos.

They had erred in their charge, for the lead ogre was too far ahead of its companions. I came in faster than the monster expected, charging low. Twinkle banged hard against one kneecap, and my other blade dug a gash into the opposite thigh as I pa.s.sed between the huge legs and dived into a headlong roll. The ogre tried to stop abruptly-too abruptly-and it skidded to a jerking halt on the smooth, polished stones.

It fell to a seated position just as I came up to my feet behind it. One does not get many opportunities for so clear a strike at an ogre's head, and I took full advantage, slamming Twinkle hard against the beast's skull, cutting one ear almost exactly in half.

The blow didn't kill the hulking thing, but it was stunned. Before the ogre could recover, I leaped up, caught a foothold on its shoulder, and sprang off, soaring straight for the next brute's face. The move caught this second ogre by complete surprise. Its formidable club was postured for a low defense. It couldn't possibly get the heavy weapon up in time to block.

Twinkle slashed across the side of the ogre's thick neck as my other blade bit into its cheek, tearing away the skin so that the monster's black teeth gleamed in the starlight. Neither wound was mortal, though, and I feared that I was in serious trouble when the monster wrapped its free arm around my back, pulling me in tight against its ma.s.sive chest. Fortunately, my right arm was angled so that I managed to pull back Twinkle and get the scimitar's point in line. I drove in with all my strength, knowing that I needed a quick kill, for my sake and for the sake of the helpless prisoners.

The magical blade slipped through the ogre flesh, nicking off a rib that must have been as thick as a fair-sized tree trunk, and then probed deeper. I actually felt the throbbing as Twinkle found the ogre's heart, the violent pumping nearly pulling the scimitar's hilt from my grasp.

I'd needed the quick kill, and I got it. The ogre gasped once, and we tumbled together to the ground. I was away in an instant, the dying ogre taking the club hit its remaining companion had intended for me.

The battle was far from won, though. This last standing ogre crouched low, poised and ready. Even worse, both the brute I had shot with the arrow and the one whose ear I had split were not dead. Stubbornly, they were trying to rise, to get themselves back into the battle.

I took some comfort when Guenhwyvar raced past me again, right between me and my newest opponent. I thought the cat was going to finish one of the wounded ogres, but Guenhwyvar went right past the struggling monsters and leaped over the terrified, huddled prisoners. I understood why when I heard the tw.a.n.g of bows; the ore guards from the west had arrived. There came a thunderous roar, followed, predictably, by terrified screams.

It would take more than a few orcish arrows to slow mighty Guenhwyvar.

I noticed, too, when I glanced to the side, that the goblin prisoner was up and running, fleeing into the night. I took little note of the creature, having no idea then of how profoundly this particular goblin would affect my life.

All thoughts of cowardly goblins disappeared as the unwounded ogre drew me back into the battle. It got in the first swing, the first two or three, actually. I kept on the defensive, picking my openings carefully. As I expected, the ogre's frustration mounted with every miss. Its attacks grew more wild, more open to counters. I had hit the brute four times, cutting painful, if not too serious, wounds in its hide, when I noticed the ogre with the split ear starting to rise.

My opponent swung again and again, forcing me to dodge. I rushed in for a quick and furious flurry of stinging strikes, pushing him back on the heels of his huge feet. Then I turned and rushed the groggy ogre. The beast lifted its great club pitifully, hardly having recovered the strength to line the weapon up at all. Its swing was slow and clumsy, and I easily stepped back out of danger. I followed the club in on its follow-through, slashing wildly with both scimitars. How many lines of blood I drew on that ogre's face, I do not know. In barely an instant, the monster's features all seemed lost in a gory ma.s.s.

I scanned the camp as the huge corpse fell away, and was heartened, for the ogre with the arrow in its chest had given up the fight, had given up everything. It lay facedown, so very still that I knew it was dead.

That left only the one behind me, slightly wounded. I knew I could beat any ogre in an even fight, knew that it would never get close to hitting me if I kept my concentration absolute. Always eager to battle such vile creatures, I admit an instant of regret when I turned around and found , that the ogre had run off into the night.

The tinge of regret disappeared when I remembered the prisoners. To my relief, the ores in the south had been defeated by the five farmers, with only one of the men, the youngest, showing any wounds at all. Rico wore a smug expression, one I dearly wanted to pound from the boastful man's face.

Guenhwyvar came trotting back into the camp a moment later at an easy gait, the western area secured. The panther showed a couple of small wounds from orcish arrows, but nothing serious. Thus the fight ended, three ogres and eight ores dead, another ogre and perhaps a half-dozen ores fleeing into the night. A complete victory, for not a single companion had been slain.

Still, I could not help but consider that this battle needn't have happened at all. Any thoughts I held of berating Rico did not remain for long, though, not with the ensuing greetings between Tharman and his family, between another of the farmers and his lost younger brother.

"Where is Nojheim?" Rico demanded. His callous tone surprised me. If he'd lost some kin, a child or a sibling, I would have expected sorrow. But I heard no sorrow behind the man's question, only a desperate anger, as though he had been insulted.

The farmers exchanged confused glances, with all gazes finally coming to rest on me.

"Who is Nojheim?" I asked.

"A goblin," Tharman explained.

"There was a goblin among the prisoners," I told them. "He slipped out during the fight, heading northwest."

"Then we go on," Rico said without the slightest hesitation, without the slightest regard for the beleaguered prisoners. I thought his request absurd; could a single goblin be worth the pains of this man, woman, and boy who had gone through such trials?

"The night grows long," I said to him, my tone far from congenial. "Bring the fire back up and tend to your wounded. I will go after the missing goblin."

"I want him back!" Rico growled. He must have understood my confused and fast-angering expression, for he calmed suddenly and tried to explain.

"Nojheim led a group of goblins that attacked Pengallen several weeks ago," he said and glanced around at the others. "The goblin is a leader, and will likely return with allies.

We were holding him for trial when the newest raiders came."

I had no reason not to take Rico's claims at face value- except that it seemed odd to me that farmers of the small village, so often besieged by the many monsters of the wild region would go to the trouble of holding a trial for the sake of a goblin. The hesitating (or was it fearful?) expressions of those other farmers, particularly of Tharman, also gave me pause, but I dismissed their apparent reservations as fear that Nojheim would return with a sizable force behind him and lay waste to their vulnerable village.

"I am in no hurry to get to Silverymoon," I a.s.sured them. "I will capture Nojheim and return him to Pengallen on the morrow." I started off, but Rico grabbed my shoulder and turned me about to face him.

"Alive," he snarled. I did not like the sound of it. I have never held any reservations about dealing harsh justice to goblins, but Rico's cruel tone seemed to tell of a thirst for vengeance. Still, I had no reason to doubt the burly farmer, no reason to argue against the accepted code of justice of Pengallen. Guenhwyvar and I were away in a moment, tracking to the northwest, easily finding the trail of the fleeing Nojheim.

The chase took longer than I'd expected. We found the tracks of some ore stragglers crossing those of Nojheim, and I decided it to be more important to prevent the ores from getting back to their lair, where they might find some reinforcements. We found them, just three, a short while later. Using the Heartseeker, so marvelous a bow, I finished the beasts from a distance in a matter of three quick shots.

Then Guenhwyvar and I had to backtrack, rejoin Nojheim's trail, and head off into the darkness once more. Nojheim proved to be an intelligent adversary, which was consistent with Rico's claim that he was a leader among his wretched race. The goblin doubled back constantly and climbed among the wide-spread branches of several trees, coming down far from his original trail and heading in an altered direction. Ultimately, he made for the river, the one barrier that might defeat pursuit.

It took all my training as a ranger and all the help of Guenhwyvar's feline senses to close ground before the goblin got across to safety. I admit in all honesty that if Nojheim had not been so weary from his ordeal at the hands of the merciless raiders, he might have eluded us altogether.

When we at last reached the riverbank, I used my innate ability-common to the Underdark races-to view objects by their emanating heat, not their reflected light. I soon spotted the warm glow of a form inching across a rock walkway, picking his strides carefully. Not trusting the obvious limitations of infravision, where shapes are indistinct and details revealed only as patterns of heat, I lifted Taulmaril and loosed a streaking arrow. It skipped off a stone and hit the water just a few feet ahead of the goblin, making him slip one leg hip-deep into the icy flow. The lightninglike flash of silver left no doubt as to the goblin's ident.i.ty. I rushed for the stone crossing.

Guenhwyvar flew by me. I was halfway across the bridge, running as swiftly as I dared, when I heard the panther growl from the darkness beyond, heard the goblin cry out in distress. "Hold, Guenhwyvar!' I called out, not wanting the panther to tear the creature apart.

The slight, yellow-skinned Nojheim was on the ground, pinned by huge paws, when I caught up to them. I ordered Guenhwyvar back, and even as the panther moved away, Nojheim rolled about and grabbed for my boot with his long, spindly arms, his hands still showing the remnants of torn leather bindings.

I nearly slammed him with the b.u.t.t of my scimitar, but before I could react, I found the pitiful Nojheim s...o...b..ring kisses all over my boots.

"Please, my good master," he whined in his annoying, high-pitched voice, so typical of goblins. "Please, oh, please! Nojheim not run. Nojheim scared, scared of big, ugly ogres with big clubs. Nojheim scared."

It took me a few moments to recover my wits. Then I hoisted the goblin to his feet and ordered him to be silent.

Standing there, looking down into Nojheim's ugly, flat face and sloping forehead, his gleaming yellow eyes and squashed nose, it took all of my control to hold back my weapons. I am a ranger, a protector of the goodly races from the many evil races of Faerun, and among those evil races, I name goblins as my most hated enemy.

"Please," he repeated pitifully.

I slid my weapons away, and Nojheim's wide mouth stretched with a strained smile, showing his many small but sharp teeth.

It was nearly dawn by this time and I wanted to be off right away for Pengallen, but Nojheim was half-frozen from his stumble into the river. I could see by his crooked stance that the goblin's drenched leg had little or no feeling in it.

As I have said, I hold no love for goblins and normally offer them no mercy. If Nojheim had precipitated a raid on my own community, I would have put a second arrow in the air before he had ever lifted his leg from the river, ending the whole affair. But I was bound now by my oath to the farmers, and so I set a blazing fire, allowing the goblin to warm up his numbed limb.

Nojheim's actions when I had first caught him continued to bother me, continued to raise quandaries in my mind. I questioned him early the next morning, after I had released Guenhwyvar back to rest on the Astral Plane. The goblin would say nothing. He just took on a resigned expression and looked away from me whenever I tried to address him. So be it, I told myself. It was not my concern.

Later that afternoon, we arrived in Pengallen, a cl.u.s.ter of about a dozen one-story wooden houses set in the middle of a flat field cleared of the common trees and surrounded by a high picket wall. The others had come in a few hours earlier, and Rico had apparently warned the two gate guards manning the village wall of my impending approach. They did not immediately allow me entry, though they were far from inhospitable, and so I waited. Rico was there in a few moments. Apparently he had left word that he should be summoned when I arrived.

The burly man's expression had changed much from the previous night. No longer was his square jaw set in a grimace, revealing Rico's happiness at the turn of events. Even his wide-set blue eyes seemed to smile as he regarded me and my prisoner, all the lines on his ruddy face tilting upward.

"You've been generous with your aid," he said to me, looping a rope about Nojheim's neck the way some in crowded villages leash their dogs. "I know that you have business in Silverymoon, so let me give you my a.s.surance that all is well in Pengallen once more."

I had the distinct feeling that I had just been summarily dismissed.

"Please take a meal at our inn," Rico quickly added, motioning for me to go through the now-open gate. Had my confusion been that obvious? "A meal and a drink," he added cheerfully. 'Tell the barkeep, Aganis, that I will pay."

My intention had been to deliver the prisoner and head off at once, trying to get a good start on my way to Silvery-moon. I was anxious to see the wondrous city on the River Rauvin, to walk freely with the blessings of the ruling lady along the marvelous curving boulevards, to visit the many museums and the unparalleled library. My instincts told me to go in for that meal, though. Something about this whole scenario wasn't quite right.

Aganis, a barrel-shaped, thick-bearded, and oft-smiling man, was indeed surprised to see the likes of a dark elf enter his establishment, a larger two-story building set in the middle of the village's back wall. The place served as inn, trading post, and a variety of other public functions. As soon as he got over his initial reaction-I suppose that terror-stricken is the only word to properly describe his expression-he became quite anxious to please me, at least, judging from the large portions he set before me, portions far larger than those of a farmer sitting not so far down the end of the bar.

I let the obvious pandering go without comment. It had been a long night and I was hungry.

"So you're Drizzit Do'Urden?" the farmer at the end of the bar asked. He was an older man with thinning gray hair and a wizened face that had seen countless days under the sun.

Aganis blanched at the question. Did he think I would take offense and tear apart his place of business?

"Drizzt," I corrected, looking to the man.

"Jak Timberline," the man said. He extended his hand, then retracted it and wiped it on his shirt before putting it back out. "I've heard of you, Drizzt." He took extra care to p.r.o.nounce the name correctly, and I'll admit, I was flattered. "They say you're a ranger."

I accepted the shake firmly, and my smile was wide, I am sure.

"I'll tell you right here, Drizzt-" again, the extra care with the name "-I don't care what color a fellow's skin might be. I heard of you, heard good things about what you and your friends've done up in Mithril Hall."

His compliment was a bit condescending, and poor Aganis blanched again. I took no offense, though, accepting Jak's clumsiness as inexperience. The greeting was actually quite tactful, weighed against so many others I have received since I came to the surface world-so many others that took place at the end of a drawn weapon.

"It is a good thing that the dwarves have reclaimed the halls," I agreed.

"And a good thing, too, that you happened by Rico's group," Jak added.

"Tharman was a happy soul this morning," put in the nervous barkeep.

It seemed so normal to me, and you have to understand that I was used to anything but normal in my dealings with the various surface races.

"Did you get Rico back his slave?" Jak asked bluntly.

My last bite of food suddenly refused to go down my throat.

"Nojheim," Jak explained. "The goblin."

I had seen slavery in all its brutality in Menzoberranzan, the city of my birth. Dark elves kept many slaves of many races, working them brutally until they were no longer useful, then torturing them, butchering them, breaking their bodies as they had broken their spirits. I had always felt slavery to be the most repulsive of acts, even when practiced against the so-called unredeemable races, such as goblins and ores.

I nodded in answer to Jak, but my sudden grimace put the man off. Aganis nervously cleaned the same plate several times, all the while staring at me and occasionally putting his towel up to wipe his sweaty brow.

I finished the meal without much more conversation, except to innocently discover which farmhouse belonged to Rico. I wanted no answers from these two. I wanted to see for myself what I had done.

I was outside Rico's fenced-in yard by dusk. The farmhouse was a simple structure of boards and logs, mud patted in against the cracks to keep the wind out and a roof angled to handle the winter snows. Nojheim was going about his ch.o.r.es-unshackled, I noticed-but no one else was in sight. I did see the curtains of the single window on this side of the farmhouse move a few times. Rico, or one of his family, was probably keeping an eye out for the goblin.

When he was done tending to a goat tied near the house, Nojheim considered the darkening sky and went into the small barn, barely more than a shed, a short distance from the house. Through the many cracks of this rough structure, I saw the light of a fire come up a moment later.

What was this all about? I could not reconcile any of it. If Nojheim had initially come to Pengallen at the head of a raiding force, then why was he allowed such freedom? He could have taken a brand from that fire he had burning in the barn and set the main house ablaze.

I decided not to get my answers from Rico-decided, since I knew in my heart what was going on, that I would get no honest answers from him.

Nojheim went into his pitiful s...o...b..ring as soon as I walked into the shadows of the dimly lit barn.

"Please, oh, please," he whined in his squeaky goblin voice, his fat tongue smacking against his lips.

I pushed him away, and my anger must have been obvious, for he suddenly sat quietly across the fire from me, staring into the orange and yellow flames.

"Why did you not tell me?"

He glanced up at me curiously, his expression a clear image of resignation.

"Did you lead a raid against Pengallen?" I pressed.

He looked back to the flames, his face twisted incredulously as though that question should not even be justified with an answer. And I believed him.

"Then why?" I demanded, shifting over to grab his shoulder and force him to look me in the eye. "Why did you not tell me Rico's reason for wanting you back?"

"Tell you?" he balked. His goblin accent had suddenly flown. "A goblin tell Drizzt Do'Urden of his plight? A goblin appeal to a ranger for compa.s.sion?"