“Then you have the advantage,” I replied politely, grasping his wrist.
Behind him, the sturdy man narrowed his eyes angrily. I was surprised somewhat; my benign remark had apparently injured his pride. Did he think himself a renowned fighter?
Tharman introduced himself, and the tough leader immediately rushed forward to do likewise. “I am Rico,” he declared, coming up to me boldly. “Rico Pengallen of the village Pengallen, fifteen miles to the south and east.” The obvious pride in his voice caused Tharman to wince and set off silent alarms that this Rico might bring trouble when we had caught up with the monsters.
I had heard of Pengallen, though I had only marked it by its evening lights from a distance. According to Bruenor’s maps, the village was no more than a handful of farmhouses. So much for the hopes that any organized militia would soon arrive.
“We were attacked early last night, just after sunset,” Rico continued, roughly nudging the older man aside. “Orcs and ogres, as we’ve said. They took some prisoners.…”
“My wife and son,” Tharman put in, his voice full of anxiety.
“My brother as well,” said another.
I spent a long while considering that grim news, trying to find some consolation I could offer to the desperate men. I did not want their hopes to soar, though, not with ogres and orcs holding their loved ones and with the odds apparently so heavily weighted against us.
“We are less than an hour behind,” I explained. “I had hoped to spot the group before sunset. With Guenhwyvar beside me, though, I can find them night or day.”
“We’re ready for a fight,” Rico declared. It must have been my expression-perhaps it was unintentionally condescending-that he did not like, for he slapped his hammer across his open palm and practically bared his teeth with his ensuing snarl.
“Let us hope it will not come to a fight,” I said. “I have some experience with ogres and with orcs. Neither are overly adept at setting guards.”
“You mean to simply slip in and free our kin?”
Rico’s barely tempered anger continued to surprise me, but when I turned to Tharman for some silent explanation, he only slipped his hands into the folds of his worn traveling cloak and looked away.
“We will do whatever we must to free the prisoners,” I said.
“And to stop the monsters from returning to Pengallen,” Rico added roughly.
“They can be dealt with later,” I replied, trying to convince him to solve one problem at a time. A word to Bruenor would have sent scores of dwarves scouring the region, stubborn and battle-ready warriors who would not have stopped their hunting until the threat had been eliminated.
Rico turned to his four comrades, or, more accurately, he turned away from me. “Guess we’re following a damned drow elf,” he said.
I took no offense. Certainly I had suffered worse treatment than blustery insults, and this desperate band, with the exception of Rico, seemed pleased enough to have found any ally, regardless of the color of my skin.
The enemy camp did not prove difficult to locate. We found it on our side of the river, as twilight settled on the land. Conveniently-or rather, stupidly-the monsters had set a blazing fire to ward off the winter night’s cold.
The light of the bonfire also showed me the layout of the encampment. There were no tents, just the fire and a few scattered logs propped on stones for benches. The land was fairly flat, covered with a bed of river-polished stones and dotted by boulders and an occasional tree or bush. Pig-faced orc sentries were in place north and south of the fire, holding crude, but wicked, weapons in their dirty hands. I assumed that similar guards were posted to the west, away from the river. The prisoners, seeming not too badly injured, huddled together behind the blaze, their backs against a large stone. There were four, not three: the two boys and the farmer’s wife joined by a surprisingly well-dressed goblin. At the time, I didn’t question the presence of this unexpected addition. I was more concerned with simply finding a way in and a way out.
“The river,” I whispered at length. “Guenhwyvar and I can get across it without being seen. We can scout the camp better from the other side.”
Rico was thinking the same thing-after a fashion. “You come in from the east, across the river, and we’ll hit them hard on this flank.”
His scowl widened as I shook my head. This Rico just did not seem able to comprehend that I meant to get the prisoners without an all-out fight.
“I will get at them from across the river with Guenhwyvar beside me,” I tried to explain. “But not until the fire has burned low.”
“We should go at them while the light is bright,” Rico argued. “We aren’t like you, drow.” He spat the word derisively. “We can’t see in the dark.”
“But I can,” I retorted rather sharply, for Rico was beginning to bother me more than a little. “I can get in, free the prisoners, and strike at the sentries from behind, hopefully without alerting their fellows. If things go well, we will be far from here before the monsters even realize that their prisoners are gone.”
Tharman and the other three men were nodding their agreement with the simple plan, but Rico remained stubborn.
“And if things do not go well?”
“Guenhwyvar and I should be able to keep the monsters confused enough so that you and your freed kin can get away. I do not believe that the monsters will even attempt to pursue you, not if they think that their prisoners were stolen by dark elves.”
Again I saw Tharman and the others nodding eagerly, and when Rico tried to find a new argument, the older man put a hand firmly on his burly shoulder. Rico shrugged it away, but said nothing more. I did not find much comfort in his silence, not when I looked at the hatred deeply etched on his stubbly face.
Crossing the half-frozen river proved easy enough. Guenhwyvar simply leaped across its width. I followed, picking a careful path along the ice. I did not want to depend wholly upon such a fragile bridge, though, so I chose a course to the opposite bank that offered the most prominent stones.
My new perspective on the enemy camp from across the river revealed some potential problems-more precisely, the gigantic ogres, standing twice my height. Their skin shone dull and dark in the flickering firelight, prominent warts shining darker, and their long, matted hair gleamed bluish black. There were two at least, squatting amidst a tumble of boulders to the north of the prisoners. The prisoners themselves faced the river, faced me, their backs against the stone, and now I saw another guarding orc, sitting with its back flat against the north face of the same stone. A bared sword lay across its lap. Having often witnessed the brutal tactics of orcs, I figured that this guard was under orders to slip around the stone and slaughter the prisoners if trouble came. That orc presented the most danger, I decided. Its throat would be the first I slit this night.
All that was left for preparation was to sit low and wait for the fire to dim, wait for the camp to grow sleepy with boredom.
Barely half an hour later, angry whispers began to drift to me from across the river-but not from the enemy camp. I could not believe what I was hearing; Rico and the others were arguing! Fortunately, the two orc guards nearest the men’s hiding place did not react at once. I could only hope that their ears, not nearly as keen as my own, had not picked up on the slight sound.
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 orcs 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 orc ne
arest 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 orc sentries yelled something. The orc 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 orc 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 orc’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 orcs 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 orcs 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 orcs 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 orc 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 gods, 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 orcs. 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 orc appeared behind the prisoners, and its evil intentions were obvious as it lifted its cruel sword over the children’s heads.
The orc was turned sideways to me. I shot it in the nearest shoulder, the arrow blasting right through to the opposite shoulder. The orc 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 Mithral 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 glow only 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 passed 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 massive 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 twang of bows; the orc 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 c
ounters. 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 up the weapon 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 mass.
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 orcs 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 orcs dead, another ogre and perhaps a half-dozen orcs 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.
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt (forgotten realms) Page 3
