Gabriel didn’t need to look at Dove to know that she shared his smile. Nor did he have to glance over at Roddy to know that the mountain man fumed at the continuing noise. It no doubt seemed negligible to the ears of a city-living dwarf but rang out conspicuously to those more accustomed to the road.
A whistle from the darkness sounded at the same time Roddy’s dog put its fur up and growled.
Dove and Gabriel were up and over to the side of the camp in a second, moving to the perimeter of the firelight in the direction of Darda’s call. Likewise, Roddy, pulling his dog along, slipped around the large rock, out of the direct light so that their eyes could adjust to the gloom.
Fret, too involved with his own discomfort, finally noticed the movements. “What?” the dwarf asked curiously. “What?”
After a brief and whispered conversation with Darda, Dove and Gabriel split up, circling the camp in opposite directions to ensure the integrity of the perimeter.
“The tree,” came a soft whisper, and Dove dropped into a crouch. In a moment, she sorted out Roddy, cleverly concealed between the rock and some brush. The big man, too, had his weapon readied, and his other hand held his dog’s muzzle tightly, keeping the animal silent.
Dove followed Roddy’s nod to the widespread branches of a solitary elm. At first, the ranger could discern nothing unusual among the leafy branches, but then came the yellow flash of feline eyes.
“Drow’s panther,” Dove whispered. Roddy nodded his agreement. They sat very still and watched, knowing that the slightest movement could alert the cat. A few seconds later, Gabriel joined them, falling into a silent position and following their eyes to the same darker spot on the elm. All three understood that time was their ally; even now, Darda and Kellindil were no doubt moving into position.
Their trap would surely have had Guenhwyvar, but a moment later, the dwarf crashed out of the campsite, stumbling right into Roddy. The mountain man nearly fell over, and when he reflexively threw his weaponless hand out to catch himself, his dog rushed out, baying wildly.
Like a black-shafted arrow, the panther bolted from the tree and flew off into the night. Fortune was not with Guenhwyvar, though, for it crossed straight by Kellindil’s position, and the keen-visioned elven archer saw it clearly.
Kellindil heard the barking and shouting in the distance, back by the camp, but had no way of knowing what had transpired. Any hesitation the elf had, however, was quickly dispelled when one voice called out clearly.
“Kill the murdering thing!” Roddy cried.
Thinking then that the panther or its drow companion must have attacked the campsite, Kellindil let his arrow fly. The enchanted dart buried itself deeply into Guenhwyvar’s flank as the panther rushed by.
Then came Dove’s call, berating Roddy. “Do not!” the ranger shouted. “The panther has done nothing to deserve our ire!”
Kellindil rushed out to the panther’s trail. With his sensitive elven eyes viewing in the infrared spectrum, he clearly saw the heat of blood dotting the area of the hit and trailing off away from the camp.
Dove and the others came upon him a moment later. Kellindil’s elven features, always angular and beautiful, seemed sharp as his angry glare fell over Roddy.
“You have misguided my shot, McGristle,” he said angrily. “On your words, I shot a creature undeserving of an arrow! I warn you once, and once alone, to never do so again.” After a final glare to show the mountain man how much he meant his words, Kellindil stalked off along the blood trail.
Angry fires welled in Roddy, but he sublimated them, understanding that he stood alone against the formidable foursome and the tidy dwarf. Roddy did let his glare drop upon Fret, though, knowing that none of the others could disagree with his judgment.
“Keep yer tongue in yer mouth when danger nears!” Roddy growled. “And keep yer stinkin’ boots off my back!”
Fret looked around incredulously as the group began to move off after Kellindil. “Stinking?” the dwarf asked aloud. He looked down, wounded, to his finely polished boots. “Stinking?” he said to Dove, who paused to offer a comforting smile. “Dirtied by that one’s back, more likely!”
Guenhwyvar limped back to Drizzt soon after the first rays of dawn peeked through the eastern mountains. Drizzt shook his head helplessly, almost unsurprised by the arrow protruding from Guenhwyvar’s flank. Reluctantly, but knowing it a wise course, Drizzt drew out the dagger he had taken from the quickling and cut the bolt free.
Guenhwyvar growled softly through the procedure but lay still and offered no resistance. Then Drizzt, though he wanted to keep Guenhwyvar by his side, allowed the panther to return to its astral home, where the wound would heal faster. The arrow had told the drow all he needed to know about his pursuers, and Drizzt believed that he would need the panther again all too soon. He stood out on a rocky outcropping and peered through the growing brightness to the lower trails, to the expected approach of yet another enemy.
He saw nothing, of course; even wounded, Guenhwyvar had easily outdistanced the pursuit and, for a man or similar being, the campfire was many hours’ travel.
But they would come, Drizzt knew, forcing him into yet another battle he did not want. Drizzt looked all around, wondering what devious traps he could set for them, what advantages he could gain when the encounter came to blows, as every encounter seemed to.
Memories of his last meeting with humans, of the man with the dogs and the other farmers, abruptly altered Drizzt’s thinking. On that occasion, the battle had been inspired by misunderstanding, a barrier that Drizzt doubted he could ever overcome. Drizzt had fostered no desire then to fight against the humans and fostered none now, despite Guenhwyvar’s wound.
The light was growing and the still-injured drow, though he had rested through the night, wanted to find a dark and comfortable hole. But Drizzt could afford no delays, not if he wanted to keep ahead of the coming battle.
“How far will you follow me?” Drizzt whispered into the morning breeze. He vowed in a somber but determined tone, “We shall see.”
10. A Question of Honor
“The panther found the drow,” Dove concluded after she and her companions had spent some time inspecting the region near the rocky outcropping. Kellindil’s arrow lay broken on the ground, at about the same spot where the panther tracks ended. “And then the panther disappeared.”
“So it would seem,” Gabriel agreed, scratching his head and looking down at the confusing trail.
“Hell cat,” Roddy McGristle growled. “Gone back to its filthy home!”
Fret wanted to ask, “Your house?” but he wisely held the sarcastic thought to himself.
The others, too, let the mountain man’s proclamation slip by. They had no answers to this riddle, and Roddy’s guess was as good as any of them could manage. The wounded panther and the fresh blood trail were gone, but Roddy’s dog soon had Drizzt’s scent. Baying excitedly, the dog led them on, and Dove and Kellindil, both skilled trackers, often discovered other evidence that confirmed the direction.
The trail lay along the side of the mountain, dipped through some thickly packed trees, and continued on across an expanse of bare stone, ending abruptly at yet another ravine. Roddy’s dog moved right to the lip and even down to the first step on a rocky and treacherous descent.
“Damned drow magic,” Roddy grumbled. He looked around and bounced a fist off his thigh, guessing that it would take him many hours to circumvent the steep wall.
“The daylight wanes,” Dove offered. “Let us set camp here and find our way down in the morn.”