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The Lone Drow
R. A. Salvatore
The Hunter's Blades Trilogy
Prelude
"The three mists, Obould Many-Arrows," Tsinka Shrinrill shrieked, her eyes
wide, eyeballs rolling about insanely. She was in her communion as she
addressed the orc king and the others, lost somewhere between the real
world and the land of the gods, so she claimed. "The three mists define
your kingdom beneath the Spine of the World: the long line of the Surbrin
River, giving her vapors to the morning air; the fetid smoke of the
Trollmoors reaching up to your call; the spiritual essence of your long-dead
ancestors, the haunting of Fell Pass. This is your time, King Obould Many-
Arrows, and this will be your domain!"
The orc shaman ended her proclamation by throwing up her arms and
howling, and those many other mouths of Gruumsh One-Eye, god of orcs,
followed her lead, similarly shrieking, raising their arms, and turning
circles as they paced a wider circuit around the orc king and the ruined
wooden statue of their beloved god.
The ruined
hollow
statue used by their enemies, the insult to the image of
Gruumsh. The defiling of their god.
Urlgen Threefist, Obould's son and heir to the throne, looked on with a
mixture of amazement, trepidation, and gratitude. He had never liked
Tsinka—one of the minor, if more colorful shamans of the Many-Arrows
tribe—and he knew that she was speaking largely along the lines scripted
by Obould himself. He scanned the area, noting the sea of snarling orcs, all
angry and frustrated, mouths wide, teeth yellow and green, sharpened and
broken. He looked at the bloodshot and jaundiced eyes, all glancing this
way and that with excitement and fear. He watched the continual jostling
and shoving, and he noted the many hurled insults, which were often
answered by hurled missiles. Warriors all, angry and bitter— as were all
the orcs of the Spine of the World—living in dank caves while the other
races enjoyed the comforts of their respective cities and societies. They were
all anxious, as Urlgen was anxious, pointy tongues licking torn lips. Would
Obould reshape the fate and miserable existence of the orcs of the North?
Urlgen had led the charge against the human town that had been known as
Shallows, and he had found a great victory there. The tower of the
powerful wizard, long a thorn in the side of the orcs, was toppled, and the
mighty wizard was dead, along with most of his townsfolk and a fair
number of dwarves, including, they all believed, King Bruenor
Battlehammer himself, the ruler of Mithral Hall.
But many others had escaped Urlgen's assault, using that blasphemous
statue. Upon seeing the great and towering idol, most of Urlgen's orc forces
had properly prostrated themselves before it, paying homage to the image
of their merciless god. It had all been a ruse, though, and the statue had
opened, revealing a small force of fierce dwarves who had massacred many
of the unsuspecting orcs and sent the rest fleeing for the mountains. And so
there had been an escape by those remaining defenders of the dying town,
and the fleeing refugees had met up with another dwarf
contingent—estimates put their number at four hundred or so. Those
combined forces had fended off Urlgen's chasing army.
The orc commander had lost many.
Thus, when Obould had arrived on the scene, Urlgen had expected to be
berated and probably even beaten for his failure, and indeed, his vicious
father's immediate responses had been along those very lines.
But then, to the surprise of them all, the reports of potential reinforcements
had come filtering in. Many other tribes had begun to crawl out of the
Spine of the World. In reflecting on that startling moment, Urlgen still
marveled at his father's quick-thinking response. Obould had ordered the
battlefield sealed, the southern marches of the area cleared of signs of any
passage whatsoever. The goal was to make it seem as if none had escaped
Shallows—Obould understood that the control of information to the
newcomers would be critical. To that effect, he had put Urlgen to work
instructing his many warriors, telling them that none of their enemies had
escaped, warning them against believing anything other than that.
And the orc tribes from the deep holes of the Spine of the World had come
running to Obould's side. Orc chieftains had placed valuable gifts at
Obould's feet and had begged him to accept their fealty. The pilgrimages
had been led by the shamans, so they all said. With their wicked deception,
the dwarves had angered Gruumsh, and so many of Gruumsh's priestly
followers had sent their respective tribes to the side of Obould, who would
lead the way to vengeance. Obould, who had slain King Bruenor
Battlehammer, would make the dwarves pay dearly for their sacrilege.
For Urlgen, of course, it had all come as a great relief. He was taller than his
father, but not nearly strong enough to openly challenge the mighty orc
leader. Add to Obould's great strength and skill his wondrously crafted,
ridged and spiked black battle mail, and that greatsword of his, which
could burst into flame with but a thought, and no one, not even overly
proud Urlgen, would even think of offering challenge for control of the
tribe.
Urlgen didn't have to worry about that, though. The shamans, led by the
gyrating priestess, were promising Obould so many of his dreams and
desires and were praising him for a great victory at Shallows—a victory
that had been achieved by his honored son. Obould looked at Urlgen more
than once as the ceremony continued, and his toothy smile was wide. It
wasn't that vicious smile that promised how greatly he would enjoy
torturing someone. Obould was pleased with Urlgen, pleased with all of it.
King Bruenor Battlehammer was dead, after all, and the dwarves were in
flight. And even though the orcs had lost nearly a thousand warriors at
Shallows, their numbers had since swollen several times over. More were
coming, too, climbing into the sunlight (many for perhaps the first time in
their lives), blinking away the sting of the brightness, and moving along the
mountain trails to the south, to the call of the shamans, to the call of
Gruumsh, to the call of King Obould Many-Arrows.
"I will have my kingdom," Obould proclaimed when the shamans had
finished their dance and their keening. "And once I am done with the land
inside the mountains and the three mists, we will strike out against those
who encircle us and oppose us. I will have Citadel Felbarr!" he cried, and a
thousand orcs cheered.
"I will send the dwarves fleeing to Adbar, where I will seal them in their
filthy holes!" Obould went on, leaping around and running along the front
ranks of the gathered, and a thousand orcs cheered.
"I will shake the ground of Mirabar to the west!" Obould cried, and the
cheers multiplied.
"I will make Silverymoon herself tremble at the mention of my name!"
That brought the greatest cheers of all, and the vocal Tsinka grabbed the
great orc roughly and kissed him, offering herself to him, offering to him
Gru-umsh's blessing in the highest possible terms.
Obould swept her up with one powerful arm, crushing her close to his side,
and the cheering intensified yet again.
Urlgen wasn't cheering, but he was surely smiling as he watched Obould
carry the priestess up the ramp to the defiled statue of Gruumsh. He was
thinking how much greater his inheritance would soon become.
After all, Obould wouldn't live forever.
And if it seemed that he might, Urlgen was confident that he would find a
way to correct that situation.
Part One - Emotional Anarchy
I did everything right. Every step of my journey out of Menzoberranzan
was guided by my inner map of right and wrong, of community and
selflessness. Even on those occasions when I failed, as everyone must, my
missteps were of judgment or simple frailty and were not in disregard of
my conscience. For in there, I know, reside the higher principles and tenets
that move us all closer to our chosen gods, closer to our definitions, hopes,
and understandings of paradise.
I did not abandon my conscience, but it, I fear, has deceived me.
I did everything right.
Yet Ellifain is dead, and my long-ago rescue of her is a mockery.
I did everything right.
And I watched Bruenor fall, and I expect that those others I loved, that
everything I loved, fell with him.
Is there a divine entity out there somewhere, laughing at my foolishness?
Is there even a divine entity out there, anywhere?
Or was it all a lie, and worse, a self-deception?
Often have I considered community, and the betterment of the individual
within the context of the betterment of the whole. This was the guiding
principle of my existence, the realization that forced me from
Menzoberranzan. And now, in this time of pain, I have come to
understand— or perhaps it is just that now I have forced myself to
admit—that my belief was also something much more personal. How ironic
that in my declaration of community, I was in effect and in fact feeding my
own desperate need to belong to something larger than myself.
In privately declaring and reinforcing the righteousness of my beliefs, I was
doing no differently from those who flock before the preacher's pulpit. I
was seeking comfort and guidance, only I was looking for the needed
answers within, whereas so many others seek them without.
By that understanding, I did everything right. And yet, I cannot dismiss the
growing realization, the growing trepidation, the growing terror, that I,
ultimately, was wrong.
For what is the point if Ellifain is dead, and if she existed in such turmoil
through all the short years of her life? For what is the point if I and my
friends followed our hearts and trusted in our swords, only for me to watch
them die beneath the rubble of a collapsing tower?
If I have been right all along, then where is justice, and where is the
reciprocation of a grateful god?
Even in asking that question, I see the hubris that has so infected me. Even
in asking that question, I see the machinations of my soul laid bare. I cannot
help but ask, am I any different than my kin? In technique, surely, but in
effect? For in declaring community and dedication, did I not truly seek
exactly the same things as the priestesses I left behind in Men-zoberranzan?
Did I, like they, not seek eternal life and higher standing among my peers?
As the foundation of Withegroo's tower swayed and toppled, so too have
the illusions that have guided my steps.
I was trained to be a warrior. Were it not for my skill with my scimitars, I
expect I would be a smaller player in the world around me, less respected
and less accepted. That training and talent are all that I have left now; it is
the foundation upon which I intend to build this new chapter in the curious
and winding road that is the life of Drizzt Do Urden. It is the extension of
my rage that I will turn loose upon the wretched creatures that have so
shattered all that I held dear. It is the expression of what I have lost:
Ellifain, Bruenor, Wulfgar, Regis, Catti-brie, and, in effect, Drizzt Do'Urden.
These scimitars, Icingdeath and Twinkle by name, become my definition of
myself now, and Guenhwyvar again is my only companion. I trust in both,
and in nothing else.
-Drizzt Do'Urden
Drizzt didn't like to think of it as a shrine. Propped on a forked stick, the
one-horned helmet of Bruenor Battlehammer dominated the small hollow
that the dark elf had taken as his home. The helm was set right before the
cliff face that served as the hollow's rear wall, in the only place within the
natural shelter that got any sunlight at all.
Drizzt wanted it that way. He wanted to see the helmet. He wanted never
to forget. And it wasn't just Bruenor he was determined to remember, and
not just his other friends.
Most of all, Drizzt wanted to remember who had done that horrible thing
to him and to his world.
He had to fall to his belly to crawl between the two fallen boulders and into
the hollow, and even then the going was slow and tight. Drizzt didn't care;
he actually preferred it that way. The total lack of comforts, the almost
animalistic nature of his existence, was good for him, was cathartic, and
even more than that, was yet another reminder to him of what he had to
become, of whom he had to be if he wanted to survive. No more was he
Drizzt Do'Urden of Icewind Dale, friend to Bruenor and Catti-brie, Wulfgar
and Regis. No more was he Drizzt Do'Urden, the ranger trained by
Montolio deBrouchee in the ways of nature and the spirit of Mielikki. He
was once again that lone drow who had wandered out of Menzoberranzan.
He was once again that refugee from the city of dark elves, who had
forsaken the ways of the priestesses who had so wronged him and who had
murdered his father.
He was the Hunter, the instinctual creature who had defeated the fell ways
of the Underdark, and who would repay the orc hordes for the death of his
dearest friends.
He was the Hunter, who sealed his mind against all but survival, who put
aside the emotional pain of the loss of Ellifain.
Drizzt knelt before the sacred totem one afternoon, watching the splay of
sunlight on the tilted helmet. Bruenor had lost one of the horns on it years
and years past, long before Drizzt had come into his life. The dwarf had
never replaced the horn, he had told Drizzt, because it was a reminder to
him always to keep his head low.
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