The Lesser Evil
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.
Author's Note: Drow translations courtesy of House Maerdyn online translator.
Chapter 10: Brothers-in-Arms
He had waited until Entreri had finally broken the embrace and ended his moment welcoming Drizzt back into the world of the living before making his own presence known; a moment of silence that allowed him to wipe away the tears from his ebony cheeks and put on a more serious face. It only took one look at Drizzt sitting up in bed, lavender eyes wide open with a beaming smile to conjure more.
"So you finally decided to join us," Jarlaxle said stepping further into the room.
Drizzt laughed as Entreri stepped aside and gave Jarlaxle room to walk forward and lock the drow into a tight embrace. Jarlaxle laughed in triumph as a steady stream of tears fell freely against his young friend's bare shoulder before suddenly pulling back and replacing his serious gaze.
"I was afraid you had passed your usefulness," he continued, though one lingering tear slipped down.
"He said you would never admit it," Drizzt muttered with a smile.
"I don't know what I would or would not admit, but I'm glad you made some friends in whatever universe we went to three days ago."
"Three days," Drizzt said, his face becoming serious. So that was why he woke to Entreri holding a dagger over his chest, saying a pained farewell.
"A Reverie, your cleric called it, though Master Artemis had a different opinion."
Drizzt nodded silently, looking back at Entreri, who stared the floor, hands visibly shaking. His gaze then turned to the bandage wrapped around his stomach and fully weighing how grave his condition had been.
"Giving the young priest the benefit of the doubt, did it serve that purpose?" Jarlaxle asked, his demeanor noticeably more serious.
"Most definitely," Drizzt said. "And I ran into an old friend of yours who sends his regards."
Jarlaxle closed his eyes and sighed with this sudden revelation that wiped away any facades left.
Entreri stood silent and listened to this conversation, adrenalin rushing through every muscle and the dreaded, aching burn building behind his eyes. He then walked past Jarlaxle, who barely noticed his presence, and found his way out the door into the cool air he needed to calm his nerves
"I was very concerned," he said. "And I know Artemis felt the same."
Jarlaxle looked over to the other side of the room, only to see empty floor where the assassin had once stood.
"Sensitive bastard," Jarlaxle said, walking towards the door and looking out to see Entreri on the ground walking off to parts unknown.
"Let him go," Drizzt said. "He looked rather strained. A little air would probably do him good. Have the Auzcoyn been treating you well?"
"That is a funny matter," Jarlaxle replied, watching Entreri fade into the brush before shaking his head and turning back around. "I entered Cormanthar expecting my reputation to bring forth a host of angry males who I probably wronged at some point in time. The complete opposite has proven true: we were all given a hero's welcome. They call us royalty, and, oddly enough, I see no flattery with ulterior motives in their eyes. I almost believe they sincerely admire us."
With this statement, Drizzt suddenly noted that Jarlaxle had shed his earlier disguise and proudly wore his large, purple hat, his usual high cut vest, and his cloak took on an almost rainbow hue. He was no longer trying to hide himself and instead was flaunting everything else.
"Entreri too?" Drizzt asked.
"He receives admiration, yet it is obvious they know he's human. The call him Shebali D'aron."
"The Rogue Knight," Drizzt repeated, "how appropriate."
"They call you Shebali Qu'ess."
Drizzt paused and started laughing. So he was now "The Rogue Prince."
"I can get used to that," he said with a grin. "And I suppose you're the Rogue King."
Jarlaxle gave a smug smirk and shrugged, provoking another laugh from Drizzt.
"These titles are only appropriate considering I am your lieutenant," Drizzt said, giving Jarlaxle a semi-serious glare. "Maybe even your protégé?"
Jarlaxle shrugged again and gave an embarrassed laugh.
"So you were conscious enough to hear that conversation," he said.
"Well, if you are so fond of me," Drizzt said, pushing aside his blanket, "I'm sure you want to show me off to your fellows. Are my trousers somewhere in this room?"
"Now you can't be planning on getting up and wandering around this dangerous territory in your condition," Jarlaxle said in a semi-scolding tone.
"Well, I am obviously coherent and relatively healthy."
"You did not merely wake from a pleasant nap, friend. In fact I have seen giants spend as much time as comatose as you were and wake not even able to speak. I doubt a drow could come out of the same and be in the picture of health."
"I guess I'm just well made. If I rotted in this bed for three days, the thought of lying in it any longer just turns my stomach. Not give me the benefit of the doubt and fetch me my trousers."
"As you wish, my prince," Jarlaxle said, a creeping grin coming over his face.
The mercenary walked to the corner of the room towards his brown backpack, reached in, and produced a pair of black, leather pants.
"Your other pairs are caked in either mud or blood. These should get you by for a while."
"You're sure these will fit me," Drizzt said, taking the trousers. "You tend to like your trousers rather tight."
Without another word, Drizzt threw aside the blanket and put on the leggings, which fit remarkably well. After lacing them, he slowly undid the bandage wrapped around his torso. The blood spotted cloth was now off, revealing a slightly thinner abdomen with almost flawless skin. Drizzt traced a small scar on his tightly muscled stomach that was left from the arrow, though the wound appeared to be fully healed.
"Remind me to give my gratitude to Mazn'reysla," he said, looking up at Jarlaxle, who turned back towards him.
The mercenary regarded him curiously as he motioned towards the scar, then his eyes widened.
"Are you in any pain?" he asked
"A little stiff in the muscles, but otherwise fine."
Drizzt then planted his feet on the floor and slowly found the strength in his unused legs. Jarlaxle walked forwards and held out a hand, which Drizzt clasped and allowed to pull him up as he gradually came to his feet. He gave a sharp groan as the muscles in his torso and his legs tightened in protest before gradually accepting their use. Clutching Jarlaxle's hand, Drizzt managed to lift his shaking leg and took a small step, then another. Soon, he let go of his partner's hand and felt his legs relaxing and taking their regular movements. He paced around the room and nodded, knowing that walking would no longer be a difficult task.
Jarlaxle watched this with a huge grin, feeling the happiest he had been in three days. He was glad to see friend was still alive and now awake; even looking to be making a remarkable recovery from his grave wounds. The word "miraculous" crossed his mind briefly, but it was a word the mercenary never liked. The word "divine" was also another word that made him slightly uneasy given the situation. No, Drizzt was tended to by a skilled healer while he himself gathered his own strength. Regardless, the circumstances were still favorable.
"We are now in a rather high tree fort," the mercenary said. "I know you cannot levitate, so the only…reasonable way to the ground is by rope. Are you sure you have the strength to climb down?"
Drizzt located his boots on top of a pile of his blood-caked clothes in another corner of the room. He put them on and grabbed his weapon belt.
"I'm willing to take my chances," he said, strapping the belt around his slender waist and noting how he had to fasten it one notch lower than before. He hadn't eaten in three days and his muscles must have thinned slightly from the lack of use.
"As you wish," Jarlaxle replied, reaching back into his small pack, pulling out a black tunic, and throwing it to Drizzt, who caught it and pulled it over his head.
Jarlaxle spun around and walked towards the door. Drizzt followed close behind and walked out to a small deck overlooking an expanse of well-crafted tree houses connected by a series of decks and stairs, though no ladders lead to the ground. Instead Drizzt saw a few, rolled up ropes tied around tree branches with tight, secure knots. Jarlaxle stepped over the small, ineffective fence on the deck and hovered before his companion, who took the end of a rope, found his hold, and gradually slid to the ground followed by his partner. Drizzt then gave the rope a good tug and it wrapped itself around the tree branch it from which it hung.
"There is a command word to make that rope float down," Jarlaxle said, landing beside him. "I will have to get it for you. Now I need to introduce you to a few friends."
The mercenary walked forward and Drizzt followed behind, scanning the woods and hearing the sounds of laughter and various conversations in the distance. His perception was slightly hazy, yet he was recovering his bearings quickly thanks to moving around in fresh, rain soaked woods. The scent of burning wood came to him next, followed by the sight of a burning fire pit and a few, dark figures gathered around. Drizzt walked forward, yet with a few nerves. He was now surrounded by members of his own race, a position that always terrified him in the past. He just hoped this group was indeed different from his Menzoberanzyr kin.
"Sorry for my long departure," Jarlaxle shouted to the group, who turned around to face him, "but I needed to bring along a friend."
The mercenary threw his arm around Drizzt's shoulder. Drizzt looked first at his companion, then the group. The eight drow around the fire, all dressed in casual woodland garb, walked over to them with cheers, triumphant laughs, and an array of grins. Many patted Drizzt on the back while a few others actually bowed. "Malla Qu'ess" and "Abil" were the most common words he heard, though one laughing mumble of "Vhaeraun is great" reached his ear.
Drizzt's nerves gradually melted, replaced by a feeling he had never allowed himself before: a small measure of personal pride enough to make him feel ingratiated, yet not too smug. He returned bows with deep nods of recognition and pats with arm clasps as his gait became more confident. Jarlaxle walked to the side of the fire pit and lifted a mid-sized clay bottle.
"Have some roast boar," he said, taking a sip and motioning towards a spit on the fire. "It's absolutely delicious."
One of the drow handed Drizzt a utility knife, which he used to slice off a large hunk of juicy meat he consumed voraciously. Despite the horrible injury to his stomach, he was famished. The game of bones continued as Jarlaxle jumped back into the group and took the dice while handing the bottle to Drizzt.
"They brew their own ale here too," he said. "It is quite good."
Jarlaxle then looked at the bottle and nodded, Drizzt noticing the gesture not so much as a statement of quality but more as an indication the liquid was untainted. He sniffed its bitter contents and took a sip. The ale was indeed of a good quality. The alcohol was also burning off the lingering taste of blood and gastric juices that still clung to his mouth and the dull sting in his sinuses and the back of his throat woke his senses slightly. Drizzt then took a deep swig that was met with cheers from some of the players and a laugh from Jarlaxle.
"So where is my cleric?" Drizzt asked. "I wish to show him my proper gratitude."
"He is off on other business," Jarlaxle said.
"Helping remove the heads of a few followers of Eilistraee," a wild-haired, female drow in a green, sleeveless shirt added with a laugh that was joined in by other members of the group. "A clan Xalryln found two days ago. We are so much in the Masked Lord's favor now victory will be with us."
The rest of the drow raised their respective knives and bottles with an array of cheers. Drizzt nodded in understanding, though he was neither surprised nor offended by this discussion. In fact it seemed almost ordinary; barbaric, but ordinary. He raised his bottle and took a drink, silently toasting to the death of the Ranger as he enjoyed the conversation.
The next few hours were filled with food, drink, and general merrymaking. His stomach comfortably full with boar meat and a few more drinks making him feel slightly calmer. He had never done any serious drinking in his life, yet he was making an exception this time. Drizzt eventually joined in the game and became more comfortable with his fellows. A few more drow would approach the group and greet Drizzt with a few words of high greeting and he found himself distracted by many different conversations.
The Auzcovyn were a mix of males and females, yet males made the vast majority. All wore clothing of various fashions and indicated various professions. In conversation, he found most were fighters, yet there were many rangers and rogues, while a few others were bards and spellcasters of varying disciplines.
Many boasted of how many people they killed, how creative they could be with torture techniques, and how many times they had raided the villages of some local enemy or another, be it hostile elves or small cells of Eilistraee worshipers. Drizzt knew this was a typical gathering of rowdy, bloodthirsty drow, but it was obvious this group had a culture different from Menzoberranzan: the usual sense of constant rivalry and intrigue was significantly muted. The manner and interactions of these drow showed they actually seemed to have some loyalty towards each other; almost a slight, unspoken sense of honor that united them in a common purpose. It made Drizzt wonder if Vhaeraun was more a leader of his flock instead of a divisive presence who ruled by fear like Lolth. These thoughts went through his head as he savored the first warm company he had known in three months besides his two partners; his brothers-in-arms.
The introspection slowly crept in, the realities of the past three days coming before him. He wanted to push these thoughts out of his head, but they clung onto his slowly growing inebriation and could not be lost so easily. He continued the games and conversations, trying to mask this sudden distress from his fellows, but the growing pressure in his bladder gave him a fortunately convenient excuse for leaving and settling his problems alone.
"I need to give some offerings to the trees," he said rising, "I shall return."
With the bottle still in his hand, he walked away from the group and found a secluded patch of trees by a small stream where he could complete any physical or mental business alone. He put the bottle by the stream and walked further towards the trees to relieve himself, then finished, restrung his trousers, and crashed to a sitting position beside the water, grapping the bottle and taking another swig with a pained sigh that resembled a slight sob.
It was then when all the bizarre events of the past three days crashed on him. He had almost died three times in the course of three days: once at the end of an arrow, the other in his deep state, and the last at the end of Entreri's dagger. It was almost as it was five years ago, yet Entreri was the one who saved him the first time. The last time was more likely the beginnings of a mercy killing than an act of pride or rage.
Drizzt had faced his own death on more occasions than he could count, starting with the moment of staring down a dagger after his birth to this latest incident. He had even been seconds away from the end before, yet none of these occasions ever gave him the slightest pause. He never feared death and wasted no time to dread the consequences of his mortality.
For some reason, this time was different. This time was not a simple matter of a near-death experience that was simply started and resolved. He remembered returning to Mithril Hall after the Thousand Orcs War and hearing stories about how Bruenor had lingered in a deep coma for days, leading many to believe his soul had escaped, though his body still lived. Drizzt had been in a coma and his visions seemed something other than a dream; had the same happened to him?
Drizzt stared at the stream as a small smile came over his pensive face has he reached a personal conclusion: he was glad the potion had not fully worked. He was glad his body rebelled against any attempts at healing his wounds, finally giving him a blissful time of rest and contemplation he had never known before. He finally allowed himself the perfect moment to resolve so many issues that plagued his mind for years, making him finally able to hush the yells of both the Hunter and the Ranger and find some sense of his true self. Then there was Zaknafein standing before him with a huge grin, telling him he was making the right decisions.
Mazn'reysla had called his coma a Reverie, and, in Drizzt's eyes, the cleric was right. Now he was back in the world, given a real second opportunity. It was a proposition that terrified him.
He threw back the bottle again and felt the stinging tears well in his eyes, fully giving into the wave of emotion he lost after Catti-brie died. He let out a few quiet sobs and feeling a great release after three months of constant anger. As his tears were finally spent, his keen ears caught a slight shifting of brush behind him. He looked back to see Entreri approaching.
"Enjoy your walk," Drizzt said with a slight laugh through his suddenly ceased tears.
Entreri nodded slightly as he walked over.
"That will not help matters," the assassin said, reaching down and grabbing the bottle from Drizzt's hand with a glare. "Believe me."
Before Drizzt could say anything, Entreri took a long swig and sat down beside him.
"You appear to be doing well," the assassin said, glancing in his direction.
Drizzt nodded.
"Remarkably well," he said, "especially for someone who just came out of a state that would have felled a giant. At least that's what Jarlaxle seems to think."
"If my opinion means anything, I would agree."
"I assume that is why I woke to find you aiming a dagger over my chest."
Entreri took a swig, his face bearing a look of irritation and pain.
"That is a statement of observation not anger," Drizzt said softly. "You figured hope was lost for me and you made a decision that I thank you for, though I was glad I could wake in time. If hope was lost, I would have wanted you to take that blow."
"You are very perceptive, I will give you that much," Entreri said, taking a sip. "It is the one thing I hated about you most of all."
Drizzt gave a chuckle in spite of himself.
"I know. My perception of individual nature is remarkable," Drizzt said sarcastically, reaching over and taking the bottle. "I can see things about people, know them better than they know themselves, give advice or make judgments about people's strengths and flaws that they themselves are too ashamed, or maybe cowardly to admit. Dear gods if only I could apply that to myself."
Entreri gave a dirty laugh.
"Your words not mine," he replied with a grin.
"Yes, I am sure you are just enjoying this," Drizzt said with a laugh, taking a long swig. "You probably love seeing this haughty bastard who has haunted your thoughts for years finally admit he doesn't know everything."
"I shouldn't have fought you," Entreri said, taking the bottle back. "I could have saved so much blood and energy by just getting a few drinks into you."
Drizzt gave a loud, soul-clearing laugh.
"So tell me, Entreri," he said, "Did you actually start to like me before or after I was impaled?"
Entreri wanted to make some kind of snide comment, but it was a question that stuck him deeply. He leaned forward and ran a hand over his goatee wondering how he could find an intelligent response to a question he himself had no answers for, yet at least. It was bad enough trying to contemplate this in his own head, but now Do'Urden was fully conscious and asking this question.
"I really have no answers to that," he said in a calm tone. "Perceive that how you will, it is the absolute truth."
Drizzt paused in contemplation, and then nodded in complete understanding. The meaning of that statement was profound: Entreri was at last admitting a point of weakness. Entreri's somber expression broke into a small smile.
"I think the best phrase that describes our situation came from your mouth after you were shot," the assassin said, taking a sip.
Drizzt regarded him with a curious expression before grabbing the bottle from his hand.
"I have been reading lips since I was ten," Entreri explained, "and I saw those last words pass your mouth before you were consumed by blackness. You said, 'Fate does have a sense of humor.' It is a statement to which I paid no mind at the time, but it lingered. Those words struck me as appropriate, even though I don't completely agree."
"And what makes you say that?" Drizzt asked, taking a swig and noting that the bottle was almost empty.
"I don't believe in fate, it is a term used by those who either deny or don't understand their own actions. It is too convenient to blame all one's fortunes on some game the gods play for their own amusement; it is quite foolish, actually. Yes, we cannot control all events around us, but we can certainly control how we react to them. In the end, what matters most?"
Drizzt looked into the trees letting the words sink in and remembering what he said to the Ranger during his deep trance.
"We decide our own fates," Drizzt said. "If fate brought us here, we certainly played a significant role ourselves.
Entreri raised the bottle with a half smirk before taking another swig.
"My you have grown wise in your later years," Drizzt said with a laugh. "Though I can only imagine the experience of killing people for a pay can conjure some profound philosophies on the universe."
"With each kill, I grow wiser," Entreri replied with a wicked grin, suddenly remembering one of his favorite, personal mottos.
Drizzt smiled and looked at the stream as the weight of his words began to sink in.
"With added wisdom, I grow stronger," Drizzt said softly.
Entreri's smile melted. There was no way the drow could have heard even part of that statement before, but his damn perception…
"Do you actually want to know why I saved your hide, Do'Urden," Entreri said, snatching the bottle and coming to his feet to face the drow. His expression was a cross between a grin and a sneer. "And perhaps I can answer the question you posed earlier, though I can guarantee it will not be pleasant."
Drizzt raised his eyebrows and regarded him silently.
"Yes, I kept your flesh from rotting. You still breathe, you're heart still beats, and you can sit beside me and make conversation in the physical world. By physical definition, you are still alive; though in many other ways you are dead. I have always found that dead men make the best company."
Entreri threw the bottle back and consumed its last few drops. He then placed it before Drizzt, who rested his head in his hands in silent contemplation, before turning on his heel and walking away.
To be continued…
