8. Clues and Riddles

More than a day had passed since the massacre when the first of the Thistledowns’ neighbors rode out to their secluded farm. The stench of death alerted the visiting farmer to the carnage even before he looked in the house or barn.

He returned an hour later with Mayor Delmo and several other armed farmers at his side. They crawled through the Thistledown house and across the grounds cautiously, putting cloth over their faces to combat the terrible smell.

“Who could have done this?” the mayor demanded. “What monster?” As if in answer, one of the farmers walked out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, holding a broken scimitar in his hands.

“A drow weapon?” the farmer asked. “We should be getting McGristle.”

Delmo hesitated. He expected the party from Sundabar to arrive any day and felt that the famed ranger Dove Falconhand would be better able to handle the situation than the volatile and uncontrollable mountain man.

The debate never really began, though, for the snarl of a dog alerted all in the house that McGristle had arrived. The burly, dirty man stalked into the kitchen, the side of his face horribly scarred and caked with brown, dried blood.

“Drow weapon!” he spat, recognizing the scimitar all too clearly. “Same as he used agin me!”

“The ranger will be in soon,” Delmo began, but McGristle hardly listened. He stalked about the room and into the adjoining bedroom, gruffly tapping bodies with his foot and bending low to inspect some minor details.

“Saw the tracks outside,” McGristle stated suddenly. “Two sets, I make ‘em.”

“The drow has an ally,” the mayor reasoned. “More cause for us to wait for the party from Sundabar.”

“Bah, ye hardly know if they’re even comin’!” McGristle snorted. “Got to get after the drow now, while the trail’s fine for my dog’s nose!”

Several of the gathered farmers nodded their accord—until Delmo prudently reminded them of exactly what they might be facing.

“A single drow took you down, McGristle,” the mayor said. “Now you think there’s two of them, maybe more, and you want us to go and hunt them?”

“Bad fortune, it was, that took me down!” Roddy snapped back. He looked around, appealing to the now less-than-eager farmers. “I had that drow, had him cleaned an’ dressed!”

The farmers milled nervously and whispered to each other as the mayor took Roddy by the arm and led him to the side of the room.

“Wait a day,” Delmo begged. “Our chances will be much greater if the ranger comes.”

Roddy didn’t seem convinced. “My battle’s my own to fight,” he snarled. “He killed my dog an’ left me ugly.”

“You want him, and you’ll have him,” the mayor promised, “but there might be more on the table here than your dog or your pride.”

Roddy’s face contorted ominously, but the mayor was adamant. If a drow war party was indeed operating in the area, all of Maldobar was in imminent danger. The small group’s greatest defense until help could arrive from Sundabar was unity, and that defense would fail if Roddy led a group of men—fighters who were scarce enough already—on a chase through the mountains. Benson Delmo was astute enough to know that he could not appeal to Roddy on those terms, though. While the mountain man had remained in Maldobar for a couple of years, he was, in essence, a drifter and owed no allegiance to the town.

Roddy turned away, deciding that the meeting was at its end, but the mayor boldly grabbed his arm and turned him back around. Roddy’s dog bared its teeth and growled, but that threat was a small consideration to the fat man in light of the awful scowl that Roddy shot him.

“You’ll have the drow,” the mayor said quickly, “but wait for the help from Sundabar, I beg.” He switched to terms that Roddy could truly appreciate. “I am a man of no small means, McGristle, and you were a bounty hunter before you got here, and still are, I’d expect.”

Roddy’s expression quickly changed from outrage to curiosity.

“Wait for the help, then go get the drow.” The mayor paused, considering his forthcoming offer. He really had no experience in this sort of thing and, while he didn’t want to come in too low and spoil the interest he had sparked, he didn’t want to tax his own purse strings any more than was necessary. “A thousand gold for the drow’s head.”

Roddy had played this pricing game many times. He hid his delight well; the mayor’s offer was five times his normal fee and he would have gone after the drow in any case, with or without payment.

“Two thousand!” the mountain man grumbled without missing a beat, suspecting that more could be exacted for his troubles. The mayor rocked back on his heels but reminded himself several times that the town’s very existence might be at stake.

“And not a copper less!” Roddy added, crossing his burly arms over his chest.

“Wait for Mistress Falconhand,” Delmo said meekly, “and you shall have your two thousand.”

All through the night, Lagerbottoms followed the wounded drow’s trail. The bulky hill giant was not yet certain how it felt about the death of Ulgulu and Kempfana, the unasked for masters who had taken over his lair and his life. While Lagerbottoms feared any enemy who could defeat those two, the giant knew that the drow was sorely wounded.

Drizzt realized he was being followed but could do little to hide his tracks. One leg, injured in his bouncing descent into the ravine, dragged painfully and Drizzt had all he could do to keep ahead of the giant. When dawn came, bright and clear, Drizzt knew that his disadvantage had increased. He could not hope to escape the hill giant through the long and revealing light of day.

The trail dipped into a small grouping of variously sized trees, sprouting up wherever they could find cracks between the numerous boulders. Drizzt meant to go straight through—he saw no option other than continuing his flight—but while he leaned on one of the larger trees for support to catch his breath, a thought came to him. The tree’s branches hung limply, supple and cordlike.

Drizzt glanced back along the trail. Higher up and crossing a bare expanse of rock, the relentless hill giant plodded along. Drizzt drew his scimitar with the one arm that still seemed to work and hacked down the longest branch he could find. Then he looked for a suitable boulder.

The giant crashed into the copse about a half-hour later, its huge club swinging at the end of one massive arm. Lagerbottoms stopped abruptly when the drow appeared from behind a tree, blocking the path.

Drizzt nearly sighed aloud when the giant stopped, exactly at the appointed area. He had feared that the huge monster would just continue on and swat him down, for Drizzt, injured as he was, could have offered little resistance. Seizing the moment of the monster’s hesitation, Drizzt shouted “Halt!” in the goblin language and enacted a simple spell, limning the giant in blue-glowing, harmless flames.

Lagerbottoms shifted uncomfortably but made no advance toward this strange and dangerous enemy. Drizzt eyed the giant’s shuffling feet with more than a casual interest.

“Why do you follow me?” Drizzt demanded. “Do you desire to join the others in the sleep of death?”

Lagerbottoms ran his plump tongue over dry lips. So far, this encounter hadn’t gone as expected. Now the giant thought past those first instinctual urges that had led him out here and tried to consider the options. Ulgulu and Kempfana were dead; Lagerbottoms had his cave back. But the gnolls and goblins, too, were gone, and that pesky little quickling sprite hadn’t been around for a while. A sudden thought came to the giant.

“Friends?” Lagerbottoms asked hopefully.

Though he was relieved to find that combat might be avoided, Drizzt was more than a little skeptical at the offer. The gnoll band had given him a similar offer, to disastrous ends, and this giant was obviously connected to those other monsters that Drizzt had just killed, those who had slaughtered the farm family.