The Dao of Drizzt, page 3
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Of all the races in the known Realms, none is more confusing, or more confused, than humans. Mooshie convinced me that gods, rather than being outside entities, are personifications of what lies in our hearts. If this is true, then the many, varied gods of the human sects—deities of vastly different demeanors—reveal much about the race.
If you approach a halfling, or an elf, or a dwarf, or any of the other races, good and bad, you have a fair idea of what to expect. There are exceptions, of course; I name myself as one most fervently! But a dwarf is likely to be gruff, though fair, and I have never met an elf, or even heard of one, who preferred a cave to the open sky. A human’s preference, though, is his own to know—if even he can sort it out.
In terms of good and evil, then, the human race must be judged most carefully. I have battled vile human assassins, witnessed human wizards so caught up in their power that they mercilessly destroyed all other beings in their paths, and seen cities where groups of humans preyed upon the unfortunate of their own race, living in kingly palaces while other men and women, and even children, starved and died in the gutters of the muddy streets. But I have met other humans—Catti-brie, Mooshie, Wulfgar, Agorwal of Termalaine—whose honor could not be questioned and whose contributions to the good of the realms in their short life spans will outweigh that of most dwarves and elves who might live half a millennium and more.
They are indeed a confusing race, and the fate of the world comes more and more into their ever-reaching hands. It may prove a delicate balance, but certainly not a dull one. Humans encompass the spectrum of character more fully than any other beings; they are the only “goodly” race that wages war upon itself—with alarming frequency.
The surface elves hold out hope in the end. They who have lived the longest and seen the birth of many centuries take faith that the human race will mature to goodness, that the evil in it will crush itself to nothingness, leaving the world to those who remain.
In the city of my birth I witnessed the limitations of evil, the self-destruction and inability to achieve higher goals, even goals based upon the acquisition of power. For this reason, I, too, will hold out hope for the humans, and for the Realms. As they are the most varied, so too are humans the most malleable, the most able to disagree with that within themselves that they learn to be false.
My very survival has been based upon my belief that there is a higher purpose to this life: that principles are a reward in and of themselves. I cannot, therefore, look forward in despair, but rather with higher hopes for all in mind and with the determination that I might help to reach those heights.
This is my tale, then, told as completely as I can recall and as completely as I choose to divulge. Mine has been a long road filled with ruts and barriers, and only now that I have put so much so far behind me am I able to recount it honestly. I will never look back on those days and laugh; the toll was too great for humor to seep through. I do often remember Zaknafein, though, and Belwar and Mooshie, and all the other friends I have left behind.
I have often wondered, too, of the many enemies I have faced, of the many lives my blades have ended. Mine has been a violent life in a violent world, full of enemies to myself and to all that I hold dear. I have been praised for the perfect cut of my scimitars, for my abilities in battle, and I must admit that I have many times allowed myself to feel pride in those hard-earned skills.
Whenever I remove myself from the excitement and consider the whole more fully, though, I lament that things could not have been different. It pains me to remember Masoj Hun’ett, the only drow I ever killed; it was he who initiated our battle and he certainly would have killed me if I had not proven the stronger. I can justify my actions on that fated day, but never will I be comfortable with their necessity. There should be a better way than the sword.
In a world so filled with danger, where orcs and trolls loom, seemingly, around every bend in the road, he who can fight is most often hailed as the hero and given generous applause. There is more to the mantle of “hero,” I say, than strength of arm or prowess in battle. Mooshie was a hero, truly, because he overcame adversity, because he never blinked at unfavorable odds, and mostly because he acted within a code of clearly defined principles. Can less be said of Belwar Dissengulp, the handless deep gnome who befriended a renegade drow? Or of Clacker, who offered his own life rather than bring danger to his friends?
Similarly, I name Wulfgar of Icewind Dale a hero, who adhered to principle above battle lust. Wulfgar overcame the misperceptions of his savage boyhood, learned to see the world as a place of hope rather than a field of potential conquests. And Bruenor, the dwarf who taught Wulfgar that important difference, is as rightful a king as ever there was in all the realms. He embodies those tenets that his people hold most dear, and they will gladly defend Bruenor with their very lives, singing a song to him even with their dying breaths.
In the end, when he found the strength to deny Matron Malice, my father, too, was a hero. Zaknafein, who had lost his battle for principles and identity throughout most of his life, won in the end. None of these warriors, though, outshines a young girl I came to know when I first traveled across Ten Towns. Of all the people I have ever met, none has held themselves to higher standards of honor and decency than Catti-brie. She has seen many battles, yet her eyes sparkle clearly with innocence and her smile shines untainted. Sad will be the day, and let all the world lament, when a discordant tone of cynicism spoils the harmony of her melodic voice. Often those who call me a hero speak solely of my battle prowess and know nothing of the principles that guide my blades. I accept their mantle for what it is worth, for their satisfaction and not my own. When Catti-brie names me so, then will I allow my heart to swell with the satisfaction of knowing that I have been judged for my heart and not my sword arm; then will I dare to believe that the mantle is justified. And so my tale ends—do I dare to say? I sit now in comfort beside my friend, the rightful king of Mithral Hall, and all is quiet and peaceful and prosperous. Indeed this drow has found his home and his place. But I am young, I must remind myself. I may have ten times the years remaining as those that have already passed. And for all my present contentment, the world remains a dangerous place, where a ranger must hold to his principles, but also to his weapons. Do I dare to believe that my story is fully told? I think not.
Icewind Dale Trilogy
The Crystal Shard
Come gather ’round
Hardy men of the steppes
And listen to my tale
Of heroes bold and friendships fast
And the Tyrant of Icewind Dale
Of a band of friends
By trick or by deed
Bred legends for the bard
The baneful pride of one poor wretch
And the horror of the Crystal Shard
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If I could choose what life would be mine, it would be this life that I now have, at this time. I am at peace, and yet, the world around me swirls with turmoil, with the ever-present threat of barbarian raids and goblin wars, with tundra yetis and gigantic polar worms. The reality of existence here in Icewind Dale is harsh indeed, an environment unforgiving, where one mistake will cost you your life. That is the joy of the place, the very edge of disaster, and not because of treachery, as I knew in my home of Menzoberranzan. I can accept the risks of Icewind Dale; I can revel in them and use them to keep my warrior instincts finely honed. I can use them to remind me every day of the glory and joy of life. There is no complacency here, in this place where safety cannot be taken for granted, where a turn of the wind can pile snow over your head, where a single misstep on a boat can put you into water that will steal your breath away and render muscles useless in mere seconds, or a simple lapse on the tundra can put you in the belly of a fierce yeti. When you live with death so close, you come to appreciate life all the more. And when you share that life with friends like those whom I have come to know these last years, then you know paradise. Never could I have imagined in my years in Menzoberranzan, or in the wilds of the Underdark, or even when I first came to the surface world, that I would ever surround myself with such friends as these. They are of different races, all three, and all three different from my own, and yet, they are more like what is in my heart than anyone I have ever known, save, perhaps, my father Zaknafein and the ranger, Montolio, who trained me in the ways of Mielikki. I have met many folk up here in Ten Towns, in the savage land of Icewind Dale, who accept me despite my dark elf heritage, and yet, these three, above all others, have become as family to me. Why them? Why Bruenor, Regis, and Catti-brie above all others, three friends whom I treasure as much as Guenhwyvar, my companion for all these years? Everyone knows Bruenor as blunt—that is the trademark of many dwarves, but in Bruenor, the trait runs pure. Or so he wants all to believe. I know better. I know the other side of Bruenor, the hidden side, that soft and warm place. Yes, he has a heart, though he tries hard to bury it! He is blunt, yes, particularly with criticism. He speaks of errors without apology and without judgment, simply telling the honest truth and leaving it up to the offender to correct, or not correct, the situation. Bruenor never allows tact or empathy to get in the way of his telling the world how it can be better! But that is only half of the tale concerning the dwarf; on the other side of the coin, he is far from blunt. Concerning compliments, Bruenor is not dishonest, just quiet. Perhaps that is why I love him. I see in him Icewind Dale itself, cold and harsh and unforgiving, but ultimately honest. He keeps me at my best, all the time, and in doing that, he helps me to survive in this place. There is only one Icewind Dale, and only one Bruenor Battlehammer, and if ever I met a creature and a land created for each other . . . Conversely, Regis stands (or more appropriately, reclines) as a reminder to me of the goals and rewards of a job well done—not that Regis is ever the one who does that job. Regis reminds me, and Bruenor, I would guess, that there is more to life than responsibility, that there are times for personal relaxation and enjoyment of the rewards brought about by good work and vigilance. He is too soft for the tundra, too round in the belly and too slow on his feet. His fighting skills are lacking and he could not track a herd of caribou on fresh snow. Yet he survives, even thrives, up here with wit and attitude, with an understanding, better than Bruenor’s surely, and even better than my own, of how to appease and please those around him, of how to anticipate, rather than just react to the moves of others. Regis knows more than just what people do, he knows why they do it, and that ability to understand motivation allowed him to see past the color of my skin and the reputation of my people. If Bruenor is honest in expressing his observations, then Regis is honest in following the course of his heart. And finally there is Catti-brie, wonderful and so full of life. Catti-brie is the opposite side of the same coin to me, a different reasoning to reach the same conclusions. We are soul mates who see and judge different things in the world to arrive at the same place. Perhaps we thus validate each other. Perhaps seeing Catti-brie arriving at the same place as myself, and knowing that she arrived there along a different road, tells me that I followed my heart truly. Is that it? Do I trust her more than I trust myself? That question is neither indictment of my feelings, nor any self-incrimination. We share beliefs about the way of the world and the way the world should be. She is akin to my heart as is Mielikki, and if I found my goddess by looking honestly into my own heart, then so I have found my dearest friend and ally. They are with me, all three, and Guenhwyvar, dear Guenhwyvar, as well. I am living in a land of stark beauty and stark reality, a place where you have to be wary and alert and at your very best at all times. I call this paradise.
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Tradition.
The very sound of the word invokes a sense of gravity and solemnity. Tradition. “Suuz’chok” in the drow language, and there, too, as in every language that I have heard, the word rolls off of one’s tongue with tremendous weight and power. Tradition. It is the root of who we are, the link to our heritage, the reminder that we as a people, if not individually, will span the ages. To many people and many societies, tradition is the source of structure and of law, the abiding fact of identity that denies the contrary claims of the outlaw or the misbehavior of the rogue. It is that echoing sound deep in our hearts and our minds and our souls that reminds us of who we are by reinforcing who we were. To many it is even more than the law; it is the religion, guiding faith as it guides morality and society. To many, tradition is a god itself, the ancient rituals and holy texts, scribbled on unreadable parchments yellowed with age or chiseled into eternal rocks. To many, tradition is all. Personally, I view it as a double-edged sword, and one that can cut even more deeply in the way of error.
I saw the workings of tradition in Menzoberranzan, the ritualistic sacrifice of the third male child (which was almost my own fate), the workings of the three drow schools. Tradition justified my sister’s advances toward me in the graduation of Melee-Magthere, and denied me any claims against that wretched ceremony. Tradition holds the matrons in power, limiting the ascent of any males. Even the vicious wars of Menzoberranzan, house against house, are rooted in tradition, are justified because that is the way it has always been. Such failings are not exclusive to the drow. Often I sit on the northern face of Kelvin’s Cairn looking out over the empty tundra and the twinkling lights of the campfires in the vast barbarian encampments. There, too, is a people wholly consumed by tradition, a people clinging to ancient codes and ways that once allowed them to survive as a society in an inhospitable land but that now hinder them as much as, or more than, help them. The barbarians of Icewind Dale follow the caribou herd from one end of the dale to the other. In days long past that was the only way they could have survived up here, but how much easier might their existence be now if they only traded with the folk of Ten Towns, offering pelts and good meat in exchange for stronger materials brought up from the south so they might construct more permanent homes for themselves? In days long past, before any real civilization crept this far to the north, the barbarians refused to speak with, or even to accept, anyone else within Icewind Dale, the various tribes often joining for the sole purpose of driving out any intruders. In those past times, any newcomers would inevitably become rivals for the meager food and other scarce supplies, and so such xenophobia was necessary for basic survival. The folk of Ten Towns, with their advanced fishing techniques, and their rich trade with Luskan, are not rivals of the barbarians—most have never even eaten venison, I would guess. And yet, tradition demands of the barbarians that they do not make friends with those folk, and indeed, often war upon them. Tradition. What gravity indeed does that word impart! What power it wields! As it roots us and grounds us and gives us hope for who we are because of who we were, so it also wreaks destruction and denies change. I would never pretend to understand another people well enough to demand that they change their traditions, yet how foolish it seems to me to hold fast and unyieldingly to those mores and ways without regard for any changes that have taken place in the world about us. For that world is a changing place, moved by advancements in technology and magic, by the rise and fall of populations, even by the blending of races, as in the half-elf communities. The world is not static, and if the roots of our perceptions, traditions, hold static, then we are doomed, I say, into destructive dogma. Then we fall upon the darker blade of that double-edged sword.
* * *
What does Wulfgar see when he looks out over the tundra—when his crystal blue eyes stare across the dark plain to the points of light that mark the fires of his people’s encampment? Does he view the past, perhaps, with a longing to return to that place and those ways? Does he view the present, comparing that which he has learned with me and Bruenor with those harsh lessons of life among his nomadic tribesmen? Or does Wulfgar see the future, the potential for change, for bringing new and better ways to his people? A bit of all three, I would guess. That is the turmoil within Wulfgar, I suspect, the simmering fire behind those blue eyes. He fights with such passion! Some of that comes from his upbringing among the fierce tribesmen, the war games of the barbarian boys, often bloody, sometimes even fatal. Part of that passion for battle stems from Wulfgar’s inner turmoil, the frustration he must feel when he contrasts his lessons at my hands and at Bruenor’s hands with those gained in his years among his own people. Wulfgar’s people invaded Ten Towns, entered with merciless rage ready to slaughter anyone who stood in their path without regard. How does Wulfgar reconcile that truth with the fact that Bruenor Battlehammer did not let him die on the field, that the dwarf saved him, though he tried to kill Bruenor in battle (though the foolish young lad made the mistake of swatting Bruenor on the head!)? How does Wulfgar reconcile the love Bruenor has shown him against his previous notions of dwarves as hateful, merciless enemies? For that is how the barbarians of Icewind Dale surely view dwarves, a lie that they perpetuate among themselves so they may justify their murderous raiding ways. It is not so different than the lies that the drow tell themselves to justify their hatred of anyone who is not drow. But now Wulfgar has been faced with the truth of Bruenor and the dwarves. Irrevocably. He must weigh that personal revelation against every “truth” he spent his years of childhood learning. He must come to accept that what his parents and all the elders of the tribe told him were lies. I know from personal experience that this is no easy thing to reconcile. For to do so is to admit that a great part of your own life was no more than a lie, that a great part of that which makes you who you are is wrong. I recognized the ills of Menzoberranzan early on, because its teachings went against logic and went against that which was in my heart. Yet even though those wrongs were painfully obvious, those first steps that carried me out of my homeland were not easy ones. The errors of the barbarians of Icewind Dale pale compared to those of the drow, and so the steps that Wulfgar must take emotionally away from his people will be even more difficult, I fear. There is far more truth in the ways of the barbarians, more justification for their actions, warlike though they may be, yet it falls upon Wulfgar’s strong, but painfully young, shoulders to differentiate between the ways of his people and those of his new friends, to accept compassion and acceptance above the solid walls of prejudice that have so encapsulated his entire youth. I do not envy him the task before him, the confusion, the frustration. It is good that he fights every day—I only pray that in a blind fit while playing out that frustration, my sparring companion does not tear the head from my shoulders.
