“The town on the banks of the lake,” Heafstaag reasoned, “should then be the first that we crush!”
“That is Termalaine,” replied deBernezan. “All of its men are fishermen and will be out on the lake as we pass. You would not find good sport there.”
“We will not leave an enemy alive behind us!” Heafstaag roared, and several other kings cried out their agreement.
“No, of course not,” said deBernezan. “But it will not take many men to defeat Termalaine when the boats are out. Let King Haalfdane and the Tribe of the Bear sack the town while the rest of the force, led by yourself and King Beorg, presses on to Bryn Shander. The fires of the burning town should bring the entire fleet, even the ships from the other towns of Maer Dualdon, into Termalaine where King Haalfdane can destroy them on the docks. It is important that we keep them away from the stronghold of Targos. The people of Bryn Shander will receive no aid from the other lakes in time to support them and will have to stand alone against your charge. The Tribe of the Elk will flank around the base of the hill below the city and cut off any possible escape or any last-minute reinforcements.”
Drizzt watched closely as deBernezan described this second division of the barbarian forces on his map. Already the drow’s calculating mind was formulating initial defense plans. Bryn Shander’s hill wasn’t very high but its base was thick, and the barbarians who were to swing around the back of the hill would be a long way from the main force.
A long way from reinforcements.
“The city will fall before sunset!” deBernezan declared triumphantly. “And your men will feast on the finest booty in all of Ten-Towns!” A sudden cheer went up on cue from the seated kings at the southerner’s declaration of victory.
Drizzt put his back to the tent and considered what he had heard. This dark-haired man named deBernezan knew the towns well and understood their strengths and weaknesses. If Bryn Shander fell, no organized resistance could be formed to drive off the invaders. Indeed, once they held the fortified city, the barbarians would be able to strike at their leisure at any of the other towns.
“Again you have shown me your worth,” Drizzt heard Heafstaag tell the southerner, and the ensuing of conversations told the drow that the plans had been accepted as final. Drizzt then focused his keen senses on the encampment around him, seeking the best path for his escape. He noticed suddenly that two guards were walking his way and talking. Though they were too far away for their human eyes to see him as anything but a shadow on the side of the tent, he knew that any movement on his part would surely alert them.
Acting immediately, Drizzt dropped the black figurine to the ground. “Guenhwyvar,” he called softly. “Come to me, my shadow.”
* * *
Somewhere in a corner of the vast astral plane, the entity of the panther moved in sudden, subtle steps as it stalked the entity of the deer. The beasts of this natural world had played out this scenario countless times, following the harmonious order that guided the lives of their descendents. The panther crouched low for the final spring, sensing the sweetness of the upcoming kill. This strike was the harmony of natural order; the purpose of the panther’s existence, and the meat its reward.
It stopped at once, though, when it heard the call of its true name, compelled above any other directives to heed the call of its master.
The great cat’s spirit rushed down the long, darkened corridor that marked the void between the planes, seeking the the solitary speck of light that was its life on the material plane. And then it was beside the dark elf, its soulmate and master, crouching in the shadows by the hanging skins of a human dwelling.
It understood the urgency of its master’s call and quickly opened its mind to the drow’s instructions.
The two barbarian guards approached cautiously, trying to make out the dark forms that stood beside their kings’ tent. Suddenly Guenhwyvar sprang toward them and soared in a mighty leap past their drawn swords. The guards swung the weapons futilely and charged off after the cat, screaming an alert to the rest of the camp.
In the excitement of the diversion, Drizzt moved calmly and stealthily away in a different direction. He heard the shouts of alarm as Guenhwyvar darted through the campsites of the sleeping warriors and couldn’t help but smile when the cat crossed through one particular group. Upon sighting this feline, who moved with so much grace and speed that it appeared as no more than a cat’s spirit, the Tribe of the Tiger, instead of giving chase, fell to their knees and raised their hands and voices in thanks to Tempos.
Drizzt had little trouble escaping the perimeter of the camp, as all of the sentries were rushing off in the direction of the commotion. When the drow gained the blackness of the open tundra, he turned south toward Kelvin’s Cairn and sped off across the lonely plain in full flight, all the while concentrating on finalizing a deadly counter-plan of defense. The stars told him that there were less than three hours left before dawn, and he knew that he mustn’t be late for his meeting with Bruenor if the ambush were to be properly set.
The noise of the surprised barbarians soon died away, except for the prayers of the Tribe of the Tiger, which would continue until dawn. A few minutes later, Guenhwyvar was trotting easily by Drizzt’s side.
“A hundred times you have saved my life, trusted friend,” Drizzt said as he patted the great cat’s muscled neck. “A hundred times and more!”
* * *
“They’ve been arguin’ and scufflin’ for two days now,” Bruenor remarked disgustedly. “A blessing it is that the greater enemy has finally arrived!”
“Better to name the coming of barbarians in a different way,” Drizzt replied, though a smile had found its way onto his normally stoic features. He knew that his plan was solid and that the battle this day would belong to the people of Ten-Towns. “Go now and lay the trap—you’ve not much time.”
“We began loadin’ the womenfolk and children onto the boats as soon as Rumblebelly told us yer news,” Bruenor explained. “We’ll chase the vermin from our borders before the day is through!” The dwarf spread his feet wide in his customary battle stance and banged his axe onto his shield to emphasize his point. “Ye’ve a good eye for battle, elf. Yer plan’ll turn the surprise on the barbarians and it still splits the glory evenly among them that needs glory.”
“Even Kemp of Targos should be pleased,” Drizzt agreed.
Bruenor clapped his friend on the arm and turned to leave. “Ye’ll fight beside me, then?” he asked over his shoulder, though he already knew the answer.
“As it should be,” Drizzt assured him.
“An’ the cat?”
“Guenhwyvar has already played its part in this battle,” replied the drow. “I’ll be sending my friend home soon.”
Bruenor was pleased with the answer; he didn’t trust the drow’s strange beast. “It ain’t natural,” he said to himself as he trekked down Bremen’s Run toward the gathered hosts of Ten-Towns.
Bruenor was too far away for Drizzt to make out his final words, but the drow knew the dwarf well enough to gather the general meaning of his grumblings. He understood the uneasiness that Bruenor, and many others, felt around the mystical cat. Magic was a prominent part of the underworld of his people, a necessary fact of their everyday existence, but it was much rarer and less understood among the common folk of the surface. Dwarves in particular were usually uncomfortable with it, except for the crafted magical weapons and armor they often made themselves.
The drow, though, had no anxiety around Guenhwyvar from the very first day he had met the cat. The figurine had belonged to Masoj Hun’ett, a drow of high standing in a prominent family of the great city of Menzoberranzan, a gift from a demon lord in exchange for some assistance that Masoj had given him in a matter concerning some troublesome gnomes. Drizzt and the cat had crossed paths many times over the years in the dark city, often in planned meetings. They shared an empathy with each other that transcended the relationship that the cat felt with its then master.
He saw no hope for surviving this encounter and vividly understood that a terrible death certainly awaited him.
But then Guenhwyvar had arrived, leaping among the broken clefts and ridges along the wall at the same level as the monster. Without any regard to its own safety and following no orders, the cat charged right in on the fisher, knocking it from its perch. The monster, seeking only its own safety, tried to scramble away, but Guenhwyvar pounced upon it vindictively, as if to punish it for attacking Drizzt.
Both the drow and the cat knew from that day on that they were destined to run together. Yet the cat had no power to disobey the will of its master, and Drizzt had no right to claim the figurine from Masoj, especially since the house of Hun’ett was much more powerful than Drizzt’s own family in the structured hierarchy of the underworld.
And so the drow and the cat continued their casual relationship as distant comrades.
Soon after, though, came an incident that Drizzt could not ignore. Guenhwyvar was often taken on raids with Masoj, whether against enemy drow houses or other denizens of the underworld. The cat normally carried out its orders efficiently, thrilled to aid its master in battle. On one particular raid, though, against a clan of Svirfnebli, the deep mining, unassuming gnomes that often had the misfortune of running up against the drow in their common habitat, Masoj went too far in his maliciousness.
After the initial assault on the clan, the surviving gnomes scattered down the many corridors of their mazework mines. The raid had been successful; the treasures that had been sought were taken, and the clan had been dispatched, obviously never to bother the drow again. But Masoj wanted more blood.
He used Guenhwyvar, the proud, majestic hunter, as his instrument of murder: He sent the cat after the fleeing gnomes one by one until they were all destroyed.
Drizzt and several other drow witnessed the spectacle. The others, in their characteristic vileness, thought it great sport, but Drizzt found himself absolutely disgusted. Furthermore, he recognized the humiliation painfully etched on the proud cat’s features. Guenhwyvar was a hunter, not an assassin, and to use it in such a role was criminally degrading, to say nothing of the horrors that Masoj was inflicting upon the innocent gnomes.
This was actually the final outrage in a long line of outrages which Drizzt could no longer bear. He had always known that he was unlike his kin in many ways, though he had many times feared that he would prove to be more akin to them than he believed. Yet he was rarely passionless, considering the death of another more important than the mere sport it represented to the vast majority of drow. He couldn’t label it, for he had never come across a word in the drow language that spoke of such a trait, but to the surfacedwellers that later came to know Drizzt, it was called conscience.
One day the very next week, Drizzt managed to catch Masoj alone outside the cluttered grounds of Menzoberranzan. He knew that there could be no turning back once the fatal blow had been struck, but he didn’t even hesitate, slipping his scimitar through the ribs of his unsuspecting victim. That was the only time in his life that he had ever killed one of his own race, an act that thoroughly revolted him despite his feelings toward his people.
Then he took the figurine and fled, meaning only to find another of the countless dark holes in the vast underworld to make his home, but eventually winding up on the surface. And then, unaccepted and persecuted for his heritage in city after city in the populated south, he had made his way to the wilderness frontier of Ten-Towns, a melting pot of outcasts, the last outpost of humanity, where he was at least tolerated.
He didn’t care much about the shunning he usually received even here. He had found friendship with the halfling, and the dwarves, and Bruenor’s adopted daughter, Catti-brie.
And he had Guenhwyvar by his side. He patted the great cat’s muscled neck once again and left Bremen’s Run to find a dark hole where he could rest before the battle.
8. Bloody Fields
The horde entered the mouth of Bremen’s Run just before midday. They longed to announce their glorious charge with a song of war, but they understood that a certain degree of stealth was vital to the ultimate success of deBernezan’s battle plan.
deBernezan was comforted by the familiar sight of sails dotting the waters of Maer Dualdon as he jogged beside King Haalfdane. The surprise would be complete, he believed, and then with ironic amusement he noted that some of the ships already flew the red flags of the catch. “More wealth for the victors,” he hissed under his breath. The barbarians had still not begun their song when the Tribe of the Bear split away from the main group and headed toward Termalaine, though the cloud of dust that followed their run would have told a wary observer that something out of the ordinary was happening. They rolled on toward Bryn Shander and cried out their first cheer when the pennant of the principle city came into sight.
The combined forces of the four towns of Maer Dualdon lay hidden in Termalaine. Their goal was to strike fast and hard at the small tribe that attacked the city, overrunning them as quickly as possible, then charge to the aid of Bryn Shander, trapping the rest of the horde between the two armies. Kemp of Targos was in command of this operation, but he had conceded the first blow to Agorwal, spokesman of the home city.
Torches set the first buildings of the city ablaze as Haalfdane’s wild army rushed in. Termalaine was second only to Targos among the nine fishing villages in population, but it was a sprawling, uncluttered town, with houses spread out over a large area and wide avenues running between them. Its people had retained their privacy and a measure of breathing room, giving the town an air of solitude that belied its numbers. Still, deBernezan sensed that the streets seemed unusually deserted. He mentioned his concern to the barbarian king at his side, though Haalfdane assured him that the rats had gone into hiding at the approach of the Bear.
“Pull them out of their holes and burn their houses!” the barbarian king roared. “Let the fishermen on the lake hear the cries of their women and see the smoke of their burning town!”
But then an arrow thudded into Haalfdane’s chest, burying itself deep within his flesh and biting through, tearing into his heart. The shocked barbarian looked down in horror at the vibrating shaft, though he couldn’t even utter a final cry before the blackness of death closed in around him.
With his ashwood bow, Agorwal of Termalaine had silenced the king of the Tribe of the Bear. And, on signal from Agorwal’s strike, the four armies of Maer Dualdon sprang to life.
They leaped from the rooftops of every building, from the alleys and doorways of every street. Against the ferocious assault of the multitude, the confused and stunned barbarians realized immediately that their battle would soon be at an end. Many were cut down before they could even ready their weapons.
Some of the battle-hardened invaders managed to form into small groups, but the people of Ten-Towns, fighting for their homes and the lives of their loved ones and armed with crafted weapons and shields forged by dwarven smiths, pressed in immediately. Fearlessly, the defenders bore the remaining invaders down under the weight of their greater numbers.
In an alley on the edge of Termalaine, Regis dove behind the concealment of a small cart as two fleeing barbarians passed by. The halfling fought with a personal dilemma: He didn’t want to be labeled a coward, but he had no intention of jumping into the battle of big folk. When the danger had passed, he walked back around
the cart and tried to figure out his next move.
Suddenly a dark-haired man, a member of Ten-Towns’ Militia, Regis supposed, entered the alley and spotted the halfling. Regis knew that his little game of hiding was over, the time had come for him to make his stand. “Two of the scum just passed this way,” he called boldly to the dark-haired southerner. “Come, if we’re quick we can catch them yet!”
deBernezan had different plans, though. In a desperate attempt to save his own life, he had decided to slip down one alley and emerge from another as a member of the Ten-Towns force. He had no intention of leaving any witnesses to his treachery. Steadily he walked toward Regis, his slender sword at the ready.
Regis sensed that the mannerisms of the closing man weren’t quite right. “Who are you?” he asked, though he somehow expected no reply. He thought that he knew nearly everyone in the city, though he didn’t believe that he had ever seen this man before. Already, he had the uncomfortable suspicion that this was the traitor Drizzt had described to Bruenor. “How come I didn’t see you come in with the others earli…”
deBernezan thrust his sword at the halfling’s eye. Regis, dexterous and ever-alert, managed to lurch out of the way, though the blade scratched the side of his head and the momentum of his dodge sent him spinning to the ground. With an unemotional, disturbingly cold-blooded calm, the darkhaired man closed in again.
Regis scrambled to his feet and backed away, step for step with his assailant. But then he bumped up against the side of the small cart. deBernezan advanced methodically. The halfling had nowhere left to run.
Desperate, Regis pulled the ruby pendant from under his waistcoat. “Please don’t kill me,” he pleaded, holding the sparkling stone out by its chain and letting it dance seductively. “If you let me live, I’ll give you this and show you where you can find many more!” Regis was encouraged by deBernezan’s slight hesitation at the sight of the stone. “Surely, it’s a beautiful cut and worth a dragon’s hoard of gold!”
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