Second, humans are not long-lived like elves and dwarves. Even halflings will usually outlast them. Peasants face the possibility of death daily. A mother fortunate enough to survive two or three births will likely witness the death of at least one of her children. Living so intimately with death obviously breeds a curiosity and fear, even terror. At Prisoner’s Carnival these folk witness death at its most horrible, the worst that death can give, and take solace in the fact that their own deaths, unless they become the accused brought before the magistrates, will not likely be nearly as terrible. I have witnessed your worst, grim Death, and I fear you not.
The third explanation for the appeal of Prisoner’s Carnival lies in the necessity of justice and punishment in order to maintain order in a society. This was the side of the debate held up by Robillard the wizard upon my return to the Sea Sprite after witnessing the horror. While he took no pleasure in viewing the carnival and rarely attended, Robillard defended it as vigorously as I might expect from the magistrate himself. The public humiliation of these men, the public display of their agony, would keep other folk on an honest course, he believed. Thus, the cheers of the peasant mob were no more than a rousing affirmation of their belief in the law and order of their society.
It is a difficult argument to defeat, particularly concerning the effectiveness of such displays in dissuading future criminals, but is it truly justice?
Armed with Robillard’s arguments, I went to some minor magistrates in Luskan on the pretense of deciding better protocol for the Sea Sprite to hand over captured pirates, but in truth to get them talking about Prisoner’s Carnival. It became obvious to me, and very quickly, that the carnival itself had little to do with justice. Many innocent men and women had found their way to the stage in Luskan, forced into false confession by sheer brutality, then punished publicly for those crimes. The magistrates knew this and readily admitted it by citing their relief that at least the prisoners we brought to them were assuredly guilty!
For that reason alone I can never come to terms with the Prisoner’s Carnival. One measure of any society is the way it deals with those who have walked away from the course of community and decency, and an indecent treatment of these criminals decreases the standards of morality to the level of the tortured.
Yet the practice continues to thrive in many cities in Faer n and in many, many rural communities, where justice, as a matter of survival, must be even more harsh and definitive.
Perhaps there is a fourth explanation for the carnival. Perhaps the crowds gather around eagerly merely for the excitement of the show. Perhaps there is no underlying cause or explanation other than the fun of it. I do not like to consider this a possibility, for if humans on as large a scale are capable of eliminating empathy and sympathy so completely as to actually enjoy the spectacle of watching another suffer horribly, then that, I fear, is the truest definition of evil.
After all of the hours of investigation, debate, and interrogation, and many, many hours of contemplation on the nature of these humans among whom I live, I am left without simple answers to travesties such as the Prisoner’s Carnival.
I am hardly surprised. Rarely do I find a simple answer to anything concerning humans. That, perhaps, is the reason I find little tedium in my day-to-day travels and encounters. That, perhaps, is the reason I have come to love them.
—Drizzt Do’Urden
ulfgar stood outside of Luskan, staring back at the city where he had been wrongly accused, tortured, and publicly humiliated. Despite all of that, the barbarian held no anger toward the folk of the town, even toward the vicious magistrate. If he happened upon Jharkheld, he would likely twist the man’s head off, but out of a need for closure on that particular incident and not out of hatred. Wulfgar was past hatred, had been for a long time. As it was when Tree Block Breaker had come hunting him at the Cutlass, and he had killed the man. As it was when he happened upon the Sky Ponies, a barbarian tribe akin to his own. He had taken vengeance upon their wicked shaman, an oath of revenge he had sworn years before. It was not for hatred, not even for unbridled rage, but simply Wulfgar’s need to try to push forward in a life where the past was too horrible to contemplate.
Wulfgar had come to realize that he wasn’t moving forward, and that point seemed obvious to him now as he stared back at the city. He was going in circles, small circles, that left him in the same place over and over, a place made tolerable only through use of the bottle, only by blurring the past into oblivion and putting the future out of mind.
Wulfgar spat on the ground, trying for the first time since he had come to Luskan months before to figure out how he had entered this downward spiral. He thought of the open range to the north, his homeland of Icewind Dale, where he had shared such excitement and joy with his friends. He thought of Bruenor, who had beaten him in battle when he was but a boy, but had shown him such mercy. The dwarf had taken him in as his own, then brought Drizzt to train him in the true ways of the warrior. What a friend Drizzt had been, leading him on grand adventures, standing by him in any fight, no matter the odds. He’d lost Drizzt.
He thought again of Bruenor, who had given Wulfgar his greatest achievement in craftsmanship, the wondrous Aegis-fang. The symbol of Bruenor’s love for him. And now he’d lost not only Bruenor, but Aegis-fang as well.
He thought of Catti-brie, perhaps the most special of all to him, the woman who had stolen his heart, the woman he admired and respected above all. Perhaps they could not be lovers, or husband and wife. Perhaps she would never bear his children, but she was his friend, honest and true. When he thought of their last encounter he came to understand the truth of that friendship. Catti-brie would have given anything to help him, would have shared with him her most intimate moments and feelings, but Wulfgar understood that her heart was truly for another.
The fact didn’t bring anger or jealousy to the barbarian. He felt only respect, for despite her feelings, Catti-brie would have given all to help him. Now Cattie-brie was lost to him, too.
Wulfgar spat again. He didn’t deserve them, not Bruenor, Drizzt, nor Catti-brie. Not even Regis, who, despite his diminutive size and lack of fighting prowess, would leap in front of Wulfgar in time of crisis, would shield the barbarian, as much as he could, from harm. How could he have thrown all that away?
His attention shifted abruptly back to the present as a wagon rolled out of Luskan’s western gate. Despite his foul mood, Wulfgar could not hold back a smile as the wagon approached. The driver, a plump elderly woman, came into view.
Morik. The two had been banished only days before, but they had hung around the city’s perimeter. The rogue explained that he was going to have to secure some supplies if he was to survive on the open road, so he’d reentered the city alone. Judging from the way the pair of horses labored, judging from the fact that Morik had a wagon and horses at all, Wulfgar knew his sneaky little friend had succeeded.
The rogue turned the wagon off the wide road and onto a small trail that wove into the forest where Wulfgar waited. He came right up to the bottom of the bluff where Wulfgar sat, then stood up and bowed.
“Not so difficult a thing,” he announced.
“The guards didn’t notice you?” Wulfgar asked.
Morik snorted, as if the notion were preposterous. “They were the same guards as when we were escorted out,” he explained, his tone full of pride.
Their experience at the hands of Luskan’s authorities had reminded Wulfgar that he and Morik were just big players in a small pond, insignificant when measured against the larger pond that was the backdrop of the huge city—but what a large player Morik was in their small corner! “I even lost a bag of food at the gate,” Morik went on. “One of the guards ran to catch up to me so that he could replace it on the wagon.”
Wulfgar moved down the bluff to the side of the wagon and pulled aside the canvas that covered the load. There were bags of food at the back, along with rope and material for shelter, but most prominent to Wulfgar’s sensibilities
were the cases of bottles, full bottles of potent liquor.
“I thought you would be pleased,” Morik remarked, moving beside the big man as he stared at the haul. “Leaving the city doesn’t have to mean leaving our pleasures behind. I was thinking of dragging Delly Curtie along as well.”
Wulfgar snapped an angry glare at Morik. The mention of the woman in such a lewd manner profoundly offended him.
“Come,” Morik said, clearing his throat and obviously changing the subject. “Let us find a quiet place where we may quench our thirst.” The rogue pulled off his disguise slowly, wincing at the pain that still permeated his joints and his ripped stomach. Those wounds, particularly in his knees, would be slow to heal. He paused again a moment later, holding up the wig to admire his handiwork, then climbed onto the driving bench, taking the reins in hand.
“The horses are not so fine,” Wulfgar noted. The team seemed an old, haggard pair.
“I needed the gold to buy the drink,” Morik explained.
Wulfgar glanced back at the load, thinking that Morik should have spent the funds on a better team of horses, thinking that his days in the bottle had come to an end. He started up the bluff again, but Morik stopped him with a call.
“There are bandits on the road,” the rogue announced, “or so I was informed in town. Bandits on the road north of the forest, and all the way to the pass through the Spine of the World.”
“You fear bandits?” Wulfgar asked, surprised.
“Only ones who’ve never heard of me,” Morik explained, and Wulfgar understood the deeper implications. In Luskan, Morik’s reputation served him well by keeping most thugs at bay.
“Better that we are prepared for trouble,” the rogue finished. Morik reached under the driver’s bench and produced a huge axe. “Look,” he said with a grin, obviously quite proud of himself as he pointed to the axe head. “It’s still stained with Creeps Sharky’s blood.”
The headsman’s own axe! Wulfgar started to ask Morik how in the Nine Hells he’d managed to get his hands on that weapon but decided he simply didn’t want to know.
“Come along,” Morik instructed, patting the bench beside him. The rogue pulled a bottle from the closest case. “Let’s ride and drink, and plot our defense.”
Wulfgar stared long and hard at that bottle before climbing onto the bench. Morik offered him the bottle, but he declined with gritted teeth. Shrugging, the rogue took a healthy swallow and offered it again. Again Wulfgar declined. That brought a puzzled look to Morik’s face, but it fast turned into a smile as he decided that Wulfgar’s refusal would leave more for him.
“We needn’t live like savages just because we’re on the road,” Morik stated.
The irony of that statement from a man guzzling so potent a drink was not lost on Wulfgar. The barbarian managed to resist the bottle throughout the afternoon, and Morik happily drained it. Keeping the wagon at a swift pace, Morik tossed the empty bottle against a rock as they passed, then howled with delight when it shattered into a thousand pieces.
“You make a lot of noise for one trying to avoid highwaymen,” Wulfgar grumbled.
“Avoid?” Morik asked with a snap of his fingers. “Hardly that. Highwaymen often have well-equipped campsites where we might find some comfort.”
“Such well-equipped campsites must belong to successful highwaymen,” Wulfgar reasoned, “and successful highwaymen are likely very good at what they do.”
“As was Tree Block Breaker, my friend,” Morik reminded. When Wulfgar still didn’t seem convinced, he added, “Perhaps they will accept our offer to join with them.”
“I think not,” said Wulfgar.
Morik shrugged, then nodded. “Then we must chase them off,” he said matter-of-factly.
“We’ll not even find them,” Wulfgar muttered.
“Oh?” Morik asked, and he turned the wagon down a side trail so suddenly that it went up on two wheels and Wulfgar nearly tumbled off.
“What?” the barbarian growled as they bounced along. He just barely ducked a low branch, then got a nasty scratch as another whipped against his arm. “Morik!”
“Quiet, my large friend,” the rogue said. “There’s a river up ahead with but one bridge across it, a bridge bandits would no doubt guard well.” They burst out of the brush, bouncing to the banks of the river. Morik slowed the tired horses to a walk, and they started across a rickety bridge. To the rogue’s dismay they crossed safely with no bandits in sight.
“Novices,” a disappointed Morik grumbled, vowing to go a few miles, then turn back and cross the bridge again.” Morik abruptly stopped the wagon. A large and ugly man stepped onto the road up ahead, pointing a sword their way.
“How interesting that such a pair as yourselves should be walking in my woods without my permission,” the thug remarked, bringing the sword back and dropping it across his shoulder.
“Your woods?” Morik asked. “Why, good sir, I had thought this forest open for travel.” Under his breath to Wulfgar, he added, “Half-orc.”
“Idiot,” Wulfgar replied so that only Morik could hear. “You, I mean, and not the thief. To look for this trouble….”
“I thought it would appeal to your heroic side,” the rogue replied. “Besides, this highwayman has a camp filled with comforts, no doubt.”
“What’re you talking about? the thug demanded.
“Why, you, good sir,” Morik promptly replied. “My friend here was just saying that he thought you might be a thief and that you do not own this forest at all.”
The bandit’s eyes widened, and he stuttered over several responses unsuccessfully. He wound up spitting on the ground. “I’m saying it’s my wood!” he declared, poking his chest. “Togo’s wood!”
“And the cost of passage through, good Togo?” Morik asked.
“Five gold!” the thug cried and after a pause, he added, “Each of you!”
“Give it to him,” Wulfgar muttered.
Morik chuckled, then an arrow zipped past, barely an inch in front of his face. Surprised that this band was so well organized, the rogue abruptly changed his mind and started reaching for his purse.
However, Wulfgar had changed his mind as well, enraged that someone had nearly killed him. Before Morik could agree on the price, the barbarian leaped from the wagon and rushed at Togo barehanded, then suddenly changed his mind and direction. A pair of arrows cut across his initial path. He turned for the monstrous archer he’d spotted perched high in a tree a dozen feet back from the road. Wulfgar crashed through the first line of brush and slammed hard into a fallen log. Hardly slowing, he lifted the log and threw it into the face of another crouching human, then continued his charge.
He made it to the base of the tree just as an arrow thunked into the ground beside him, a near miss Wulfgar ignored. Leaping to a low branch, he caught hold and hauled himself upward with tremendous strength and agility, nearly running up it. Bashing back small branches, scrambling over others, he came level with the archer. The creature, a gnoll bigger than Wulfgar, was desperately trying to set another arrow.
“Keep it!” the cowardly gnoll yelled, throwing the bow at Wulfgar and stepping off the branch, preferring the twenty-foot drop to Wulfgar’s rage.
Escape wasn’t that easy for the gnoll. Wulfgar thrust out a hand and caught the falling creature by the collar. Despite all the wriggling and punching, the awkward position and the gnoll’s weight, Wulfgar had no trouble hauling it up.
Then he heard Morik’s cry for help.
Standing on the driver’s bench, the rogue worked furiously with his slender sword to fend off the attacks from both Togo and another human swordsman who had come out from the brush. Worse, he heard a third approaching from behind, and worse still, arrows regularly cut the air nearby.
“I’ll pay!” he cried, but the monstrous thugs only laughed.
Out of the corner of his eye Morik spotted an archer taking aim. He leaped backward as the missile came on, dodging both it and the thrust from the surpris
ingly deft swordsman in front of him. The move cost him, though, for he tumbled over the back of the bench, crashing into a case of bottles, shattering them. Morik leaped up and shrieked his outrage, smashing his sword impotently across the chair back.
On came Togo, gaining the bench position, but angry Morik matched his movements, coming ahead powerfully without regard for the other swordsman or archers. Togo retracted his arm for a swing, but Morik, quick with the blade, stabbed first, scoring a hit on Togo’s hand that cost the thug his grip. Even as Togo’s sword clanged against the wooden bench Morik closed in, turning his sword out to fend off the attacks from Togo’s partner. He produced a dagger from his belt, a blade he promptly and repeatedly drove into Togo’s belly. The half-orc tried desperately to fend off the attacks, using his bare hands, but Morik was too quick and too clever, stabbing around them even as his sword worked circles around Togo’s partner’s blade.
Togo fell back from the bench to the ground. He managed only a single running step before he collapsed, clutching his torn guts.
Morik heard the third attacker coming in around the side of the wagon. He heard a terrified scream from above, then another from the approaching enemy. The rogue glanced that way just in time to see Wulfgar’s captured gnoll archer flying down from on high, arms flailing, screaming all the way. The humanoid missile hit the third thug, a small human woman, squarely, smashing both hard against the wagon in a heap. Groaning, the woman began trying to crawl away. The archer lay very still.
Morik pressed the attack on the remaining swordsman, as much to get down from the open driver’s bench as to continue the fight. The swordsman, though, apparently had little heart remaining in the battle with his friends falling all around him. He parried Morik’s thrust, backing all the while as the man leaped down to the road.
The Spine of the World Page 21
