The badger seemed confused by the drow’s deliberate motions. Late in term, the expectant mother did not want a fight, and as Drizzt carefully slipped the berry bush back in place to conceal the den, the badger eased down to all fours, sniffed the air so that it could remember the dark elf’s scent, and went back into its hole.

When Drizzt turned around, he found Montolio smiling and clapping. “Even a ranger would be hard put to calm a riled badger,” the old man explained.

“The badger was with pups,” Drizzt replied. “She wanted to fight less than I.”

“How do you know that?” Montolio asked, though he did not doubt the drow’s perceptions.

Drizzt started to answer, then realized that he could not. He looked back to the berry bush, then to Montolio helplessly.

Montolio laughed loudly and returned to his work. He, who had followed the ways of the goddess Mielikki for so many years, knew what was happening, even if Drizzt did not.

“The badger could have ripped you, you do know,” the ranger said wryly when Drizzt moved beside him.

“She was with pups,” Drizzt reminded him, “and not so large a foe.”

Montolio’s laughter mocked him. “Not so large?” the ranger echoed. “Trust me, Drizzt, you would rather tangle with Bluster than with a mother badger!”

Drizzt only shrugged in response, having no arguments for the more experienced man.

“Do you really believe that puny knife would have been any defense against her?” Montolio asked, now wanting to take the discussion in a different direction.

Drizzt regarded the dagger, the one he had taken from the sprite. Again he could not argue; the knife was indeed puny. He laughed both to and at himself. “It is all that I have, I fear,” he replied.

“We shall see about that,” the ranger promised, then said no more about it. Montolio, for all his calm and confidence, knew well the dangers of the wild, mountainous region.

The ranger had come to trust in Drizzt without reservations.

Montolio roused Drizzt shortly before sunset and led the drow to a wide tree in the northern end of the grove. A large hole, almost a cave, lay at the base of the tree, cunningly concealed by shrubs and a blanket colored to resemble the tree trunk. As soon as Montolio pushed this aside, Drizzt understood the secrecy.

“An armory?” the drow asked in amazement.

“You fancy the scimitar,” Montolio replied, remembering the weapon Drizzt had broken on the stone giant. “I have a good one, too.” He crawled inside and fished about for a while, then returned with a fine, curving blade. Drizzt moved in to the hole to survey the marvelous display of weapons as the ranger exited. Montolio possessed a huge variety of weapons, from ornamental daggers to great bardiche axes to crossbows, light and heavy, all polished and cared for meticulously. Set against the back of the inner tree trunk, running right up into the tree, were a variety of spears, including one metal-shafted ranseur, a ten-foot-long pike with a long and pointed head and two smaller barbs sticking out to the sides near the tip.

“Do you prefer a shield, or perhaps a dirk, for your other hand?” Montolio asked when the drow, muttering to himself in sincere admiration, reappeared. “You may have any but those bearing the taloned owl. That shield, sword, and helmet are my own.”

Drizzt hesitated a moment, trying to imagine the blind ranger so outfitted for close melee. “A sword,” he said at length, “or another scimitar if you have one.”

Montolio looked at him curiously. “Two long blades for fighting,” he remarked. “You would likely tangle yourself up in them, I would guess.”

“It is not so uncommon a fighting style among the drow,” Drizzt said.

Montolio shrugged, not doubting, and went back in. “This one is more for show, I fear,” he said as he returned, bearing an overly ornamented blade. “You may use it if you choose, or take a sword. I’ve a number of those.”

Drizzt took the scimitar to measure its balance. It was a bit too light and perhaps a bit too fragile. The drow decided to keep it, though, thinking its curving blade a better compliment to his other scimitar than a straight and cumbersome sword.

“I will care for these as well as you have,” Drizzt promised, realizing how great a gift the human had given him. “And I will use them,” he added, knowing what Montolio truly wanted to hear, “only when I must.”

“Then pray that you may never need them, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Montolio replied. “I have seen peace and I have seen war, and I can tell you that I prefer the former! Come now, friend. There are so many more things I wish to show you.”

Drizzt regarded the scimitars one final time, then slipped them into the sheaths on his belt and followed Montolio.

With summer fast approaching and with such fine and exciting companionship, both the teacher and his unusual student were in high spirits, anticipating a season of valuable lessons and wondrous events.

How diminished their smiles would have been if they had known that a certain orc king, angered at the loss of ten soldiers, two worgs, and a valued giant ally, had its yellow, bloodshot eyes scanning the region, searching for the drow. The big orc was beginning to wonder if Drizzt had gone back to the Underdark or had taken in with some other group, perhaps with the small elven bands known to be in the region, or with the damnable blind ranger, Montolio.

If the drow was still in the area, Graul meant to find him. The orc chieftain took no chances, and the mere presence of the drow constituted a risk.

14. Montolio’s Test

“Well, I have waited long enough!” Montolio said sternly late one afternoon. He gave the drow another shake.

“Waited?” Drizzt asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Are you a fighter or a wizard?” Montolio went on. “Or both? One of those multitalented types? The elves of the surface are known for that.”

Drizzt’s expression twisted in confusion. “I am no wizard,” he said with a laugh.

“Keeping secrets, are you?” Montolio scolded, though his continuing smirk lessened his gruff facade. He pointedly straightened himself outside of Drizzt’s bedroom hole and folded his arms over his chest. “That will not do. I have taken you in, and if you are a wizard, I must be told!”

“Why do you say that?” asked the perplexed drow. “Wherever did you—”

“Hooter told me!” Montolio blurted. Drizzt was truly confused. “In the fight when first we met,” Montolio explained, “you darkened the area around yourself and some orcs. Do not deny it, wizard. Hooter told me!”

“That was no wizard’s spell,” Drizzt protested helplessly, “and I am no wizard.”

“No spell?” echoed Montolio. “A device then? Well, let me see it!”

“Not a device,” Drizzt replied, “an ability. All drow, even the lowest ranking, can create globes of darkness. It is not such a difficult task.”

Montolio considered the revelation for a moment. He had no experience with dark elves before Drizzt had come into his life. “What other ‘abilities’ do you possess?”

“Faerie fire,” Drizzt replied. “It is a line of—”

“I know of the spell,” Montolio said to him. “It is commonly used by woodland priests. Can all drow create this as well?”

“I do not know,” Drizzt answered honestly. “Also, I am, or was—able to levitate. Only drow nobles can accomplish that feat. I fear that the power is lost to me, or soon shall be. That ability has begun to fail me since I came to the surface, as my piwafwi, my boots, and my drow-crafted scimitars have failed me.”

“Try it,” Montolio offered.

Drizzt concentrated for a long moment. He felt himself growing lighter, then he lifted off the ground. As soon as he got up, though, his weight returned and he settled back to his feet. He rose no more than three inches.