Starlight Enclave

by R. A. Salvatore

  But then she realized that the glow was below the silhouette of the mountain range.

  That could not be.

  Somewhere deep in her thoughts, the word “campfire” whispered, and with it a memory that a campfire meant other people.

  With the last strength within her emaciated, broken form, Doum’wielle crawled for that light. On and on, so long that she expected the sun to rise, and thought that there should be some predawn glow. But no.

  Then the firelight flickered out before her, and she redoubled her pace, fighting, thinking every movement would be her last, feeling a coldness within her beyond anything she had ever known, so cold that she thought her hands and feet were on fire.

  Head down, the withering, dying half elf almost crawled right into a mound of snow, and startled, she looked up and started to move around it—except that her mind couldn’t quite grasp what she was seeing. This was no natural mound, but a nearly perfect dome, and one with a low awning of sorts made of snow, creating an entrance tunnel.

  Not even thinking of anything more than getting out of the wind, Doum’wielle crawled in. She froze when she felt fur, thick and soft, but after a moment of terror, realized that it was not a living animal but a thick blanket.

  It was warm in here, warmer than it should be, she thought, for the walls, too, were of snow.

  She didn’t understand.

  She also didn’t care. She crushed her face into the fur and cried and let herself fall away from the world.

  Until she heard a growl.

  Her eyes popped open to see the pointy fangs of a snarling canine creature barely a finger’s breadth from her face.

  She screamed and the creature half barked, half yelped at her, while another nipped at her from the other side. Doum’wielle screamed again and rolled, slapping desperately, turning about for the doorway . . . to find two forms blocking the entrance. Humans, she thought, and one holding a small lamp.

  “Help me,” she started to say, until the larger of the two pulled back the furry hood of his heavy coat.

  Definitely not humans.

  Orcs.

  Reflexively, Doum’wielle reached out a hand to grab at each and brought forth her lightning magic, shocking them both. She pushed them aside as they lurched in pain, and crawled for the tunnel and her very life.

  Sharp teeth latched down on her foot, so she kicked at the beast with her free leg, but when she tried to bring that foot back, a powerful hand clamped down upon her ankle, grabbing and holding fast. Doum’wielle clawed with all of her strength. She dug her fingers into the ice and snow, crying and screaming, desperate to get away.

  But she had no strength, and the orc tugged her back in so easily. She tried to turn, but the pair were on her, pulling at her, pinning her, their fierce pets yipping and growling, snarling and snapping at her feet.

  The orcs were talking at her or to her or to each other—she didn’t care and just kept thrashing.

  It was no use; she could not fight them. They had her held fast against the floor. They pulled at her clothes. They pulled off her clothes. They pushed her down on the fur where she had first collapsed.

  Disgust filled Doum’wielle when she felt them come against her on either side, their filthy orc flesh against her own. She tried to resist, sobbing, until she could fight no more.

  This was worse than the empty plain. Worse than the cold and hunger. She wanted to escape her body, expecting horrors.

  But they just held her and pressed against her, and pulled another fur over them all, and the orc woman—for one of them certainly was female—began to sing softly in Doum’wielle’s ear, and the sounds were shocking.

  Because they were gentle and melodious.

  It was still dark outside when Doum’wielle woke up, but a small candle burned not far away, offering some light. She was warm under the thick fur, and alone.

  Almost alone, she realized as she struggled to sit up, for the exit to the small dome structure was blocked by one of the pets, a short but thick wolf, or not a wolf, she realized as she leaned forward, but more like a huge badger, but one with too many legs, four on each side! Its thick fur glistened golden in the candlelight, but all Doum’wielle could really see were its long and pointy fangs, bared at her.

  Doum’wielle fell back and the badger creature did likewise, curling into a ball, its middle two legs on one side scratching at its thick fur.

  She tried to make sense of it all. Where was she? What had happened to her? Feeling strange, she looked down and kicked the fur off her bare legs, then shuddered to see that her feet were black and swollen, but smudged with some white lotion she did not recognize.

  It was on her hands, too, and she rubbed them together, then smelled them. Her fingers were also blackened, but like her feet, they didn’t hurt. What was this stuff? What was this place?

  She looked around for her clothes, but did not find them. She did, however, see a bowl set beside her bedroll, filled with some mushy substance. Keeping one eye on the fierce and strange badger creature, she picked up the bowl and noted a wooden spoon beside it. An aroma filled her nostrils, a bit pungent and quite fishy, but not off-putting.

  Doum’wielle didn’t know if this was for her, or if it was food at all, but she wasn’t waiting for permission. She scooped up the spoon and shoveled the food into her mouth, only to wince in pain as the large spoon stretched her cracked and broken lips. She tossed the implement down and lifted the bowl like a wide cup, licking at it, swiping her fingers across the bottom and then sticking them in her mouth to get every drop. In that effort, she tasted, too, the lotion on her hand, and it felt wonderful against her lips.

  A healing balm?

  “Won abo, a bik tiknik tu gahta bo,” she heard from the entryway, and she snapped her head around to see the larger orc, the male, crawling into the dome.

  Doum’wielle spoke a bit of Orcish, but she hadn’t a clue what this one was saying to her. She stared at him for just a moment, before realizing that the blanket had fallen, revealing most of her naked torso. She gathered up the covering defensively and set her glare on the orc, silently vowing to fight it to the death if it came at her.

  But that didn’t happen. The orc smiled and nodded, and averted his gaze, then held up a bundle, nodded again, and tossed it to her lap.

  Her clothes.

  He went out and the eight-legged guard followed. Doum’wielle grabbed up her clothing, pausing only in surprise that it was so warm. She moved quickly to dress herself, then fumbled about her breeches and realized that the orcs had apparently discovered and taken the small knife she carried in her pocket. All she had were those breeches, her undersmock, and her shirt.

  No overcoat or cloak or hose or shoes.

  She heard talking outside and the female orc crawled in. She began speaking gruffly and pointing to Doum’wielle’s feet, and when the elf paused to try to decipher any of it, the orc grabbed her ankle and tugged her left leg out straight.

  Doum’wielle kicked at her with her right foot, retracted it, and moved to kick again, but held her leg cocked when the orc brought up her left hand, lifting a very thick spear, with a very long white and decorated tip, up before Doum’wielle’s face.

  “Meenago foto fo!” the orc snapped at her. Behind her, the hulking male entered the dome.

  Doum’wielle let her leg sink back down to the floor. She winced as the female inspected her foot, roughly rolling the leg from side to side. Nodding, apparently satisfied, she then placed the foot down on some smaller furs she had carried in, and began gently but tightly wrapping it.

  The male tossed Doum’wielle a pair of large mittens and motioned for her to put them on.

  She put on the left, but then motioned her right hand to the empty bowl and tapped the same hand against her lips.

  The orcs both shook their heads. “Tu gahta bo,” the male said.

  Disappointed, Doum’wielle put on the other mitten.

  The female orc finished wrapping both feet, tying the
furs tightly in place, then nodded to her partner, who dropped down and grabbed Doum’wielle by the ankles.

  “What?” she cried. “No!” She tried to wriggle free, but hadn’t a chance against those powerful grips. She struggled to roll over, but again, the orc held her feet steady—while his partner tied her legs together with a heavy cord.

  “No!” Doum’wielle demanded again. She grabbed the bowl and threw it at them to little effect. She fell back and tried to bring forth a spell, tried to shake off the mittens so that she could make the proper movements.

  But then she was sliding, being hauled through the short tunnel and out into the cold, cold dark.

  Before she could even make sense of it, the female orc was beside her, hoisting her upright and wrapping her in the fur blanket upon which she had slept—upon which they all had slept, Doum’wielle only then remembered. She shuddered and gasped as it occurred to her what they might have done to her . . .

  No, she realized. They hadn’t hurt her at all in any way. They had just come in and slept against her. Kept her warm. Healed her feet and hands.

  It made no sense.

  Too confused to sort it out or even begin to think of any spells, too weak to have any hope of fighting back, the elf had no choice but to let whatever might happen, happen. Wrapped tight, she couldn’t begin to resist anyway as the large male hoisted her up in his arms and carried her for a bit before plopping her down on a small sled. She was sitting up, her back against the vertical back of the carriage, and a large rope went over her, the orc binding her tightly in place.

  His partner came over and placed hot stones all around her, then dropped other items, including Doum’wielle’s pack, which now appeared stuffed, on the front length of the low sled, securing them. The male returned, leading four of those badger-wolf creatures tethered together, and soon, tethered to the front of the sled.

  He walked back around Doum’wielle and she could feel his weight when he stood upon the back of the sled, right behind her.

  His companion rushed past her then, startling her, driving her own sled and a similar scrabbling team.

  “Hike!” the male shouted, startling her once more, and away they went, sprinting across the snowy and icy plain.

  Hours passed.

  They stopped and rested, throwing large chunks of blubbery meat to the eight strange badger-wolves, or whatever they were.

  Formidable was what they were, Doum’wielle quickly understood as the pack went at the meat, shredding it with ease, ripping it apart with one tear in what seemed like hardly an effort.

  The female orc kneeled beside Doum’wielle, bowl in hand, and began giving her small bites of the fishy mush, while the male inspected and tightened her bindings.

  It occurred to Doum’wielle that they weren’t keeping her alive so much as fattening her up. She wasn’t about to refuse the food, though.

  Off they went again, rushing across the snowpack and coming to another small dome of snow. They didn’t strip her down that night—her clothes weren’t wet, she understood—but they did share the blankets, all three, and they did keep her legs tied, and they did keep one of their pets at Doum’wielle’s feet.

  While she thought about escaping the two orcs, Doum’wielle wasn’t about to do anything to spark the ire of that fearsome and powerful beast.

  It was still dark when she fell asleep, and still dark when she woke up, when they ate again, when they put her back on the sled and started off once more.

  Eternal sunshine, and now eternal darkness.

  Doum’wielle knew that she was lost, that her mind was gone, at least in regard to the passing of time. This was the night that wouldn’t come for what seemed like many tendays, and now . . . it wouldn’t leave.

  They repeated the cycle over and over, moving to more domes set in a line. The mountains loomed much closer now—or was it even a mountain before her? The silhouette against the night sky was level, though high. After the fifth rest—or maybe it was the sixth; Doum’wielle couldn’t be sure—they started off again, but pulled to an abrupt stop soon after. The two orcs moved between the sleds, right beside her, jabbering at each other, and again, Doum’wielle couldn’t make out a word of it.

  She got the feeling, however, that they had sensed something or someone out there.

  The female orc lit a candle, which seemed like quite a stupid thing to do.

  The male took it from her and held it up high above his head, which seemed stupider still.

  She understood, though, as a group of humanoids approached. Allies, clearly, for the female orc rushed out to meet them and converse with them.

  Doum’wielle couldn’t quite make out who or what they might be. They weren’t built with the sturdy frame of an orc, but were lithe, elf-like. But too thin for this freezing weather, she thought. Were they even wearing clothes?

  The male orc began untying her from the sled as a pair of the newcomers approached. Yes, they were dressed, Doum’wielle saw, but in a weird, dark, thin material, a single piece of clothing, booted and gloved and with a coif as one might see on a suit of fine chain mail, and with a full face mask as well.

  Red eyes peeked out from the slit in one, glowing amber orbs from the other.

  They looked at each other and shrugged, then nodded and drew out handcrossbows, bringing them up as the orc unwrapped Doum’wielle from the blanket.

  “No, no!” she cried, realizing her fate. She tried to turn and pull away, getting so far as to plant one foot and try to leap off the sled. Then she heard a pair of clicks, and felt the burn as two quarrels burrowed into her.

  “Why?” she asked, turning back to the two slender newcomers.

  The strength left her legs and she fell back upon the sled. She felt the cold wind, but then it seemed to go away.

  All of her senses receded.

  Doum’wielle fell in on herself.

  Why won’t the sun come up? she wondered, her last thought on the frozen plane.

  Part 1

  Finding Purpose

  My little Brie.

  For most of my life, I have been blessed with friends and with a sense of, and clear direction of, purpose. I see the world around me and all I ever hoped to do was leave it a bit smoother in my wake than the choppy waters through which I traveled. I gained strength in the hope of some future community, and then indeed, in that community when at long last I found it. Found it, and now embrace it as my world expands wonderfully.

  It’s been a good life. Not one without tragedy, not one without pain, but one with direction, even if so many times that perceived road seemed as if it would lead to an ethereal goal, a tantalizing ring of glittering diamonds so close and yet just outside of my extended grasp. But yes, a good life, even if so many times I looked at the world around me and had to consciously strive to ward off despair, for dark clouds so often sweep across the sky above me, the murky fields about me, and the fears within me.

  I weathered change—poorly and nearly to self-destruction—when my friends were lost to me, and never were the clouds, the fields, or my thoughts darker. During that midnight period of my life, I lost my purpose because I lost my hope.

  But I found it again in the end, or what I thought the end, even before the twists of fate or the whims of a goddess manifested my hope in the return of my lost friends. I might have died alone with Guenhwyvar on that dark night atop Kelvin’s Cairn.

  So be it. I would have died contented because I was once more true to that which I demanded I be, and was satisfied that I had indeed calmed many waters in my long and winding current.

  But then there came more, so unexpectedly. A return of companions, of love and of friendship, of bonds that had been forged through long years of walking side by side into the darkness and into the sunlight.

  And now, more still.

  My little Brie.

  When I burst through that door to first glimpse her, when I saw her there, so tiny, in the midst of my dearest friends, in the midst of those who had taught m
e and comforted me and walked with me, so many emotions poured through my heart. I thought of the sacrifice of Brother Afafrenfere—never will I forget what he did for me.

  Never, too, did I expect that I would understand why he did it, but the moment I passed that threshold and saw my little Brie, it all came clear to me.

  I was overwhelmed—by joy, of course, and by the promise of what might be. More than that, however, I was overwhelmed by a sense I did not expect. Not to this degree. For the first time in my life, I knew that I could be truly destroyed. In that room, looking at my child, the product of a love true and lasting, I was, most of all, vulnerable.

  Yet I cannot let that feeling change my course.

  I cannot hide from my responsibilities to that which I believe—nay, quite the opposite!

  For my little Brie, for other children I might have, for their children, for any children Regis and Donnola might have, for the heirs of King Bruenor, and Wulfgar, and for all who need calmer waters, I will continue to walk forward, with purpose.

  It is a good life.

  That is my choice.

  Fly away on swift winds, clouds of darkness!

  Take root, green grass, and blanket the murky fields!

  Be gone from my thoughts, doubts and fears!

  It is a good life because that is my choice, and it is a better life because I will stride with purpose and determination and without fear to calm the turbulent waters.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  Chapter 1

  Stirring the Pain

  The Year of the Star Walker’s Return

  Dalereckoning 1490

  He sensed the cold, just the cold, like a tomb of ice tightly wrapped about him, squeezing and freezing. He felt her fear, her lament, frozen it seemed, like the physical world about her, as if she was stuck and held in the moment of her death.

  Kimmuriel gripped the feline-shaped hilt of the weapon tighter, physically trying to strengthen the telepathic connection.