a sense of vengeance that did little to defeat the agonizing, bitter memories of the slaughtered farmers. He set off, moving farther into the wild mountains, running from the giant and from the guilt.
ore 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
ore 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
Similar Books
