Drizzt didn't have long, for the ogre was coming on in pursuit—though, the drow noted with some hope, not as quickly as it had been moving.
Drizzt skittered away, turning as he went and literally throwing himself backward into a tree, using the solidity of the tree to pop his shoulder back into place. The wave of agony turned his stomach and brought black spots spinning before his eyes. He nearly swooned, but knew that if he gave into that momentary weakness, the ogre would break him apart.
He rolled around the tree and stumbled away, buying himself more time. He knew then, by how easily he could distance himself from the brute, that at least one of the potions had worn off.
Every step was bringing some measure of relief to Drizzt. The ache in his shoulder had lessened already, and he found that he could feel his fingers again. He took a circuitous route that led him back to his fallen scimitar, with the dumb ogre, apparently thinking that it had the fight won, following fast in pursuit.
Drizzt stopped and turned, his lavender eyes boring into the approaching brute. Just before the combatants came together, their gazes met, and the ogre's confidence melted away.
There would be no underestimation by the dark elf this time.
Drizzt came ahead in a fury, holding the ogre's stare with his own. His scimitars worked as if of their own accord, in perfect harmony and with blazing speed—too quickly for the ogre, its magical speed worn away and its giant strength diminishing, to possibly keep up. The brute tried to take an offensive posture instead, swinging wildly, but Drizzt was behind it before it ever completed the blow. That other potion, the one that had someone made the ogre resistant to the drow's scimitar stings, was also dissipating.
This time, both Twinkle and Icingdeath dug in, one taking a kidney, the other hamstringing the brute.
Drizzt worked in a fury but with controlled precision, rushing all around his opponent, stabbing and slashing, and always at a vital area.
The victorious drow put his scimitars away soon after, his right arm going numb again now that the adrenaline of battle was subsiding. Swaying with every step, and cursing himself for taking such an enemy as that for granted, he made his way back to the tower. There he found Bruenor and Regis sitting by the open door, both looking battered, and Catti-brie covered head to toe in blood, standing nearby, tending to a dazed and wounded man.
“A fine thing it'll be if we all wind up killed to death in battle afore we ever get to the pirate Kree,” Bruenor grumbled.
Chapter 19 WULFGAR'S CHOICE
He wasn't dead. Following Donbago's directions, after Jeddith had recovered his wits from the fall, Catti-brie and Regis found his brother behind some brush not far from the tower. His head was bloody and aching. They wrapped some bandages tight around the wound and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but it became obvious that the dazed and delirious man would need to see a healer, and soon.
“He's alive,” Catti-brie announced to the man as she and Regis ushered him back to where Donbago sat propped against the tower.
Tears streamed down Donbago's face. “Me thanks,” he said over and over again. “Whoever ye are, me thanks for me brother's life and me own.”
“Another one's alive inside the tower,” Bruenor announced, coming out. “Ye finally waked up, eh?” he asked Donbago, who was nodding appreciatively.
“And we got one o' them stupid half-ogries alive,” Bruenor added. “Ugly thing.”
“We have to get this one to a healer, and quick,” Catti-brie explained as she and Regis managed to ease the half-conscious Jeddith down beside his brother.
“Auckney,” Donbago insisted. “Ye got to get us to Auckney.”
Drizzt came through the door and heard the man clearly. He and Catti-brie exchanged curious glances, knowing the name well from the tale Delly Curtie had told them of Wulfgar and the baby.
“How far a journey is Auckney?” the drow asked Donbago.
The man turned to regard Drizzt, and his eyes popped open wide. He seemed as if he would just fall over.
“He gets that a lot,” Regis quipped, patting Donbago's shoulder. “He'll forgive you.”
“Drow?” Donbago asked, trying to turn to regard Regis, but seeming unable to tear his eyes from the spectacle of a dark elf.
“Good drow,” Regis explained. “You'll get to like him after a while.”
“Bah, an elf's an elf!” Bruenor snorted.
“Yer pardon, good drow,” Donbago stammered, obviously at a loss, his emotions torn between the fact that this group had just saved his life and his brother's, and all he'd ever known about the race of evil dark elves.
“No pardon is needed,” Drizzt replied, “but an answer would be appreciated.”
Donbago considered the statement for a few moments, then bobbed his head repeatedly. “Auckney,” he echoed. “A few days and no more, if the weather holds.”
“A few days if it don't,” said Bruenor. “Good enough then. We got two to carry and a half-ogrie to drag along by the crotch.”
“I think the brute can walk,” Drizzt remarked. “He's a bit heavy to drag.”
Drizzt fashioned a pair of litters out of blankets and sticks he retrieved from nearby, and the group left soon after. As it turned out, the half-ogre wasn't too badly wounded. That was a good thing, for while Bruenor could drag along Jeddith, the drow's injured shoulder would not allow him the strength to pull the other litter. They made the prisoner do it, with Catti-brie walking right behind, Taulmaril strung and ready, an arrow set to its string.
The weather did hold, and the ragged band, battered as they were, made strong headway, arriving at the outskirts of Auckney in less than three days.
* * * * * * * * * *
Wulfgar blinked repeatedly as the multicolored bubbles popped and dissipated in the air around him. Never fond of, and not very familiar with the ways of magic, the barbarian had to spend a long while reorienting himself to his new surroundings, for no longer was he in the grand city of Waterdeep, One structure, a uniquely designed tower whose branching arms made it look like a living tree, confirmed to Wulfgar that he was in Luskan now, as Robillard had promised.
“I see doubt clearly etched upon your face,” the wizard remarked sourly. “I thought we had agreed—”
“You agreed,” Wulfgar interrupted, “with yourself.”
“You do not believe this to be the best course for you, then?” Robillard asked skeptically. “You would prefer the company of Delly Curtie back in the safety of Waterdeep, back in the security of a blacksmith's shop?”
The words surely stung the barbarian, but it was Robillard's condescending tone that really made Wulfgar want to throttle the skinny man. He didn't look at the wizard, fearing that he would simply spit in Robillard's face. He wasn't really afraid of a fight with the formidable wizard, not when he was this close, but if one did ensue and he did break Robillard in half, he'd have a long walk indeed back to Waterdeep.
“I will not go through this again with you, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale,” Robillard remarked. “Or Wulfgar of Waterdeep, or Wulfgar of wherever you think Wulfgar should be from. I have offered you more than you deserve from me already, and more than I would normally offer to one such as you. I must be in a fine and generous mood this day.”
Wulfgar scowled at him, but that only made Robillard laugh aloud.
“You are in the exact center of the city,” Robillard went on. “Through the south gate lies the road to Waterdeep and Delly, and your job as a smith. Through the north gate, the road back to your friends and what I believe to be your true home. I suspect that you'll find the south road an easier journey by far than the north, Wulfgar son of Beornegar.”
Wulfgar didn't respond, didn't even return the measuring stare Robillard was now casting over him. He knew which road the wizard believed he should take,