“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 the woman and boys 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 assured 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 orc stragglers crossing those of Nojheim, and I decided it to be more important to prevent the orcs 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 identity. 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 butt of my scimitar, but before I could react, I found the pitiful Nojheim slobbering 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 cluster 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 assurance 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 prison
er and head off at once, trying to get a good start on my way to Silverymoon. I was eager 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 pronounce 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 Mithral 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 orcs.
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 chores-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 slobbering 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 compassion?”
“You know my name?” By the gods, he even pronounced it correctly.
“I have heard great tales of Drizzt Do’Urden, and of Bruenor Battlehammer and the fight to reclaim Mithral Hall,” he replied, and again, his command of the proper inflections of the language was astounding. “It is common talk among the farmers of the lower valleys, all of them hoping that the new dwarf king will prove generous with his abundant wealth.”
I sat back from him. He just continued to stare blankly at the flames, his eyes lowered. I do not know exactly how much time passed in silence. I do not even know what I was thinking.
Nojheim was perceptive, though. He knew.
“I accept my fate,” he replied to my unspoken question, though there was little conviction in his voice.
“You are no ordinary goblin.”
Nojheim spat on the fire. “I do not know that I’m a goblin at all,” he answered. If I had been eating at the time, I surely would have choked once more.
“I am like no goblin I’ve ever met,” he explained with a hopeless chuckle. Always resigned, I thought, so typical of his helpless predicament. “Even my mother … she murdered my father and my younger sister.” He snapped his fingers to mock his next point, to accentuate the sarcasm in his voice. “They deserved it, by goblin standards, for they hadn’t properly shared their supper with her.”
Nojheim went silent and shook his head. Physically, he was indeed a goblin, but I could tell already by the sincerity of his tone that he was far different in temperament from his wicked kin. The thought shook me more than a little. In my years as a ranger, I had never stopped to question my actions against goblins, never held back my scimitars long enough to determine if any of them might possibly be of a different demeanor than I had come to know as typical of the normally evil creatures.
“You should have told me that you were a slave,” I said again.
“I’m not proud of that fact.”
“Why do you sit in here?” I demanded, though I knew the answer immediately. I, too, had once been a slave, a captive of wicked mind flayers, among the most evil of the Underdark’s denizens. There is no condition so crippling, no torment so profound. In my homeland, I had seen a contingent of a hundred orcs held under complet
e control by no more than six drow soldiers. If they had mustered a common courage, those orcs could surely have destroyed their keepers. But while courage is not the first thing to be stripped from a slave, it is certainly among the most important.
“You do not deserve this fate,” I said more softly.
“What do you know of it?” Nojheim demanded.
“I know that it is wrong,” I said. “I know that something should be done.”
“I know that I would be hung by my neck if I tried to break free,” he said bluntly. “I have never done any harm to any person or any thing. Neither do I desire to harm anyone. But, this is my lot in life.”
“We are not bound by our race,” I told him, finding some conviction finally in remembering my own long trail from the dark ways of Menzoberranzan. “You said that you have heard tales of me. Are they what you might expect of a dark elf?”
“You are drow, not goblin,” he said, as if that fact explained everything.
“By your own words, you are no more akin to goblins than I am to drow,” I reminded him.
“Who can tell?” he replied with a shrug, a helpless gesture that pained me deeply. “Am I to tell Rico that I am not a goblin in heart and action, just a victim of merciless fate? Do you think that he would believe me? Do you think that sort of understanding is within the grasp of these simple farmer folk?”
“Are you afraid to try?” I asked him.
“Yes!” His intensity was surprising. “I’m not Rico’s first slave,” he said. “He’s held goblins, orcs, even a bugbear once. He enjoys forcing others to do his own work, you see. Yet, how many of these other slaves did you see when you came into Rico’s compound, Drizzt Do’Urden?”
He knew that I had not seen any, and I was not surprised by his explanation. I was beginning to hate this Rico Pengallen more than a little.
“Rico finished with them,” Nojheim went on. “They lost their ability to survive. They lost their usefulness. Did you notice the high cross-pole beside the front gate?”
The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt (forgotten realms) Page 4
