The Halfling’s Gem

1. Tower of Twilight

“A day and more we have lost,” the barbarian grumbled, reining in his horse and looking back over his shoulder. The lower rim of the sun had just dipped below the horizon. “The assassin moves away from us even now!”

“We do well to trust in Harkle’s advice,” replied Drizzt Do’Urden, the dark elf. “He would not have led us astray.” With the sunshine fading, Drizzt dropped the cowl of his black cloak back onto his shoulders and shook free the locks of his stark white hair.

Wulfgar pointed to some tall pines. “That must be the grove Harkle Harpell spoke of,” he said, “yet I see no tower, nor signs that any structure was ever built in this forsaken area.”

His lavender eyes more at home in the deepening gloom, Drizzt peered ahead intently, trying to find some evidence to dispute his young friend. Surely this was the place that Harkle had indicated, for a short distance ahead of them lay the small pond, and beyond that the thick boughs of Neverwinter Wood. “Take heart,” he reminded Wulfgar. “The wizard called patience the greatest aid in finding the home of Malchor. We have been here but an hour.”

“The road grows ever longer,” the barbarian mumbled, unaware that the drow’s keen ears did not miss a word. There was merit in Wulfgar’s complaints, Drizzt knew, for the tale of a farmer in Longsaddle—that of a dark, cloaked man and a halfling on a single horse—put the assassin fully ten days ahead of them, and moving swiftly.

But Drizzt had faced Entreri before and understood the enormity of the challenge before him. He wanted as much assistance as he could get in rescuing Regis from the deadly man’s clutches. By the farmer’s words, Regis was still alive, and Drizzt was certain that Entreri did not mean to harm the halfling before getting to Calimport.

Harkle Harpell would not have sent them to this place without good reason.

“Do we put up for the night?” asked Wulfgar. “By my word, we’d ride back to the road and to the south. Entreri’s horse carries two and may have tired by now. We can gain on him if we ride through the night.”

Drizzt smiled at his friend. “They have passed through the city of Waterdeep by now,” he explained. “Entreri has acquired new horses, at the least.” Drizzt let the issue drop at that, keeping his deeper fears, that the assassin had taken to the sea, to himself.

“Then to wait is even more folly!” Wulfgar was quick to argue.

But as the barbarian spoke, his horse, a horse raised by Harpells, snorted and moved to the small pond, pawing the air above the water as though searching for a place to step. A moment later, the last of the sun dipped under the western horizon and the daylight faded away. And in the magical dimness of twilight, an enchanted tower phased into view before them on the little island in the pond, its every point twinkling like starlight, and its many twisting spires reaching up into the evening sky. Emerald green it was, and mystically inviting, as if sprites and faeries had lent a hand to its creation.

And across the water, right below the hoof of Wulfgar’s horse, appeared a shining bridge of green light.

Drizzt slipped from his mount. “The Tower of Twilight,” he said to Wulfgar, as though he had seen the obvious logic from the start. He swept his arm out toward the structure, inviting his friend to lead them in.

But Wulfgar was stunned at the appearance of the tower. He clutched the reins of his horse even tighter, causing the beast to rear up and flatten its ears against its head.

“I thought you had overcome your suspicions of magic,” said Drizzt sarcastically. Truly Wulfgar, like all the barbarians of Icewind Dale, had been raised with the belief that wizards were weakling tricksters and not to be trusted. His people, proud warriors of the tundra, regarded strength of arm, not skill in the black arts of wizardry, as the measure of a true man. But in their many weeks on the road, Drizzt had seen Wulfgar overcome his upbringing and develop a tolerance, even a curiosity, for the practices of wizardry.

With a flex of his massive muscles, Wulfgar brought his horse under control. “I have,” he answered through gritted teeth. He slid from his seat. “It is Harpells that worry me!”

Drizzt’s smirk widened across his face as he suddenly came to understand his friend’s trepidations. He himself, who had been raised amidst many of the most powerful and frightening sorcerers in all the Realms, had shaken his head in disbelief many times when they were guests of the eccentric family in Longsaddle. The Harpells had a unique—and often disastrous—way of viewing the world, though no evil festered in their hearts, and they wove their magic in accord with their own perspectives—usually against the presumed logic of rational men.

“Malchor is unlike his kin,” Drizzt assured Wulfgar. “He does not reside in the Ivy Mansion and has played advisor to kings of the northland.”

“He is a Harpell,” Wulfgar stated with a finality that Drizzt could not dispute. With another shake of his head and a deep breath to steady himself, Wulfgar grabbed his horse’s bridle and started out across the bridge. Drizzt, still smiling, was quick to follow.

“Harpell,” Wulfgar muttered again after they had crossed to the island and made a complete circuit of the structure.

The tower had no door.

“Patience,” Drizzt reminded him.

They did not have to wait long, though, for a few seconds later they heard a bolt being thrown, and then the creak of a door opening. A moment later, a boy barely into his teens walked right through the green stone of the wall, like some translucent specter, and moved toward them.

Wulfgar grunted and brought Aegis-fang, his mighty war hammer, down off his shoulder. Drizzt grasped the barbarian’s arm to stay him, fearing that his weary friend might strike in sheer frustration before they could determine the lad’s intentions.

When the boy reached them, they could see clearly that he was flesh and blood, not some otherworldly specter, and Wulfgar relaxed his grip. The youth bowed low to them and motioned for them to follow.

“Malchor?” asked Drizzt.

The boy did not answer, but he motioned again and started back toward the tower.

“I would have thought you to be older, if Malchor you be,” Drizzt said, falling into step behind the boy.

“What of the horses?” Wulfgar asked.

Still the boy continued silently toward the tower.

Drizzt looked at Wulfgar and shrugged. “Bring them in, then, and let our mute friend worry about them!” the dark elf said.

They found one section of the wall—at least—to be an illusion, masking a door that led them into a wide, circular chamber that was the tower’s lowest level. Stalls lining one wall showed that they had done right in bringing the horses, and they tethered the beasts quickly and rushed to catch up to the youth. The boy had not slowed and had entered another doorway.

“Hold for us,” Drizzt called, stepping through the portal, but he found no guide inside. He had entered a dimly lit corridor that rose gently and arced around as it rose, apparently tracing the circumference of the tower. “Only one way to go,” he told Wulfgar, who came in behind him, and they started off.

Drizzt figured that they had done one complete circle and were up to the second level—ten feet at least—when they found the boy waiting for them beside a darkened sidepassage that fell back toward the center of the structure. The lad ignored this passage, though, and started off higher into the tower along the main arcing corridor.

Wulfgar had run out of patience for such cryptic games. His only concern was that Entreri and Regis were running farther away every second. He stepped by Drizzt and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, spinning him about. “Are you Malchor?” he demanded bluntly.

The boy blanched at the giant man’s gruff tone but did not reply.

“Leave him,” Drizzt said. “He is not Malchor. I am sure. We will find the master of the tower soon enough.” He looked to the frightened boy. “True?”

The boy gave a quick nod and started off again.

“Soon,” Drizzt reiterated to quiet Wulfgar’s growl. He prudently stepped by the barbarian, putting himself between Wulfgar and the guide.

“Harpell,” Wulfgar groaned at his back.

The incline grew steeper and the circles tighter, and both friends knew that they were nearing the top. Finally the boy stopped at a door, pushed it open, and motioned for them to enter.

Drizzt moved quickly to be the first inside the room, fearing that the angry barbarian might make less than a pleasant first impression with their wizard host.

Across the room, sitting atop a desk and apparently waiting for them, rested a tall and sturdy man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. His arms were crossed on his chest. Drizzt began to utter a cordial greeting, but Wulfgar nearly bowled him over, bursting in from behind and striding right up to the desk.

The barbarian, with one hand on his hip and one holding Aegis-fang in a prominent display before him, eyed the man for a moment. “Are you the wizard named Malchor Harpell?” he demanded, his voice hinting at explosive anger. “And if not, where in the Nine Hells are we to find him?”

The man’s laugh erupted straight from his belly. “Of course,” he answered, and he sprang from the desk and clapped Wulfgar hard on the shoulder. “I prefer a guest who does not cover his feelings with rosy words!” he cried. He walked past the stunned barbarian toward the door—and the boy.

“Did you speak to them?” he demanded of the lad.

The boy blanched even more than before and shook his head emphatically.

“Not a single word?” Malchor yelled.

The boy trembled visibly and shook his head again.

“He said not a—” Drizzt began, but Malchor cut him off with an outstretched hand.

“If I find that you uttered even a single syllable, ….” he threatened. He turned back to the room and took a step away. Just when he figured that the boy might have relaxed a bit, he spun back on him, nearly causing him to jump from his shoes.

“Why are you still here?” Malchor demanded. “Be gone!”

The door slammed even before the wizard had finished the command. Malchor laughed again, and the tension eased from his muscles as he moved back to his desk. Drizzt came up beside Wulfgar, the two looking at each other in amazement.

“Let us be gone from this place,” Wulfgar said to Drizzt, and the drow could see that his friend was fighting a desire to spring over the desk and throttle the arrogant wizard on the spot.

To a lesser degree, Drizzt shared those feelings, but he knew the tower and its occupants would be explained in time. “Our greetings, Malchor Harpell,” he said, his lavender eyes boring into the man. “Your actions, though, do not fit the description your cousin Harkle mantled upon you.”

“I assure you that I am as Harkle described,” Malchor replied calmly. “And my welcome to you, Drizzt Do’Urden, and to you, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. Rarely have I entertained such fine guests in my humble tower.” He bowed low to them to complete his gracious and diplomatic—if not entirely accurate—greeting.

“The boy did nothing wrong,” Wulfgar snarled at him.

“No, he has performed admirably,” Malchor agreed. “Ah, you fear for him?” The wizard took his measure of the huge barbarian, Wulfgar’s muscles still knotted in rage. “I assure you, the boy is treated well.”

“Not by my eyes,” retorted Wulfgar.

“He aspires to be a wizard,” Malchor explained, not ruffled by the barbarian’s scowl. “His father is a powerful landowner and has employed me to guide the lad. The boy shows potential, a sharp mind, and a love for the arts. But understand, Wulfgar, that wizardry is not so very different from your own trade.”

Wulfgar’s smirk showed a difference of opinion.

“Discipline,” Malchor continued, undaunted. “For whatever we do in our lives, discipline and control over our own actions ultimately measure the level of our success. The boy has high aspirations and hints of power he cannot yet begin to understand. But if he cannot keep his thoughts silent for a single month, then I shan’t waste years of my time on him. Your companion understands.”

Wulfgar looked to Drizzt, standing relaxed by his side.

“I do understand,” Drizzt said to Wulfgar. “Malchor has put the youth on trial, a test of his abilities to follow commands and a revelation to the depth of his desires.”

“I am forgiven?” the wizard asked them.

“It is not important,” Wulfgar grunted. “We have not come to fight the battles of a boy.”

“Of course,” said Malchor. “Your business presses; Harkle has told me. Go back down to the stables and wash. The boy is setting supper. He shall come for you when it is time to eat.”

“Does he have a name?” Wulfgar said with obvious sarcasm.

“None that he has yet earned,” Malchor replied curtly.

Though he was anxious to be back on the road, Wulfgar could not deny the splendor of the table of Malchor Harpell. He and Drizzt feasted well, knowing this to be, most probably, their last fine meal for many days.

“You shall spend the night,” Malchor said to them after they had finished eating. “A soft bed would do you well,” he argued against Wulfgar’s disgruntled look. “And an early start, I promise.”

“We will stay, and thank you,” Drizzt replied. “Surely this tower will do us better than the hard ground outside.”

“Excellent,” said Malchor. “Come along, then. I have some items which should aid your quest.” He led them out of the room and back down the decline of the corridor to the lower levels of the structure. As they walked, Malchor told his guests of the tower’s formation and features. Finally they turned down one of the darkened side-passages and passed through a heavy door.

Drizzt and Wulfgar had to pause at the entrance for a long moment to digest the wondrous sight before them, for they had come to Malchor’s museum, a collection of the finest items, magical and otherwise, that the mage had found during the many years of his travels. Here were swords and full suits of polished armor, a shining mithril shield, and the crown of a long dead king. Ancient tapestries lined the walls, and a glass case of priceless gems and jewels glittered in the flicker of the room’s torches.

Malchor had moved to a cabinet across the room, and by the time Wulfgar and Drizzt looked back to him, he was sitting atop the thing, casually juggling three horseshoes. He added a fourth as they watched, effortlessly guiding them through the rise and fall of the dance.

“I have placed an enchantment upon these that will make your steeds run swifter than any beasts in the land,” he explained. “For a short time only, but long enough to get you to Waterdeep. That alone should be worth your delay in coming here.”

“Two shoes to a horse?” Wulfgar asked, ever doubting.

“That would not do,” Malchor came back at him, tolerant of the weary young barbarian. “Unless you wish your horse to rear up and run as a man!” He laughed, but the scowl did not leave Wulfgar’s face.

“Not to fear,” Malchor said, clearing his throat at the failed joke. “I have another set.” He eyed Drizzt. “I have heard it spoken that few are as agile as the drow elves. And I have heard, as well, by those who have seen Drizzt Do’Urden at fight and at play, that he is brilliant even considering the standards of his dark kin.” Without interrupting the rhythm of his juggling, he flipped one of the horseshoes to Drizzt.

Drizzt caught it easily and in the same motion put it into the air above him. Then came the second and third shoes, and Drizzt, without ever taking his eyes off Malchor, put them into motion with easy movements.

The fourth shoe came in low, causing Drizzt to bend to the ground to catch it. But Drizzt was up to the task, and he never missed a catch or a throw as he included the shoe in his juggling.

Wulfgar watched curiously and wondered at the motives of the wizard in testing the drow.

Malchor reached down into the cabinet and pulled out the other set of shoes. “A fifth,” he warned, launching one at Drizzt. The drow remained unconcerned, catching the shoe deftly and tossing it in line.

“Discipline!” said Malchor emphatically, aiming his remark at Wulfgar. “Show me, drow!” he demanded, firing the sixth, seventh, and eighth at Drizzt in rapid succession.

Drizzt grimaced as they came at him, determined to meet the challenge. His hands moving in a blur, he quickly had all eight horseshoes spinning and dropping harmoniously. And as he settled into an easy rhythm, Drizzt began to understand the wizard’s ploy.

Malchor walked over to Wulfgar and clapped him again on the shoulder. “Discipline,” he said again. “Look at him, young warrior, for your dark-skinned friend is truly a master of his movements and, thus, a master of his craft. You do not yet understand, but we two are not so different.” He caught Wulfgar’s eyes squarely with his own. “We three are not so different. Different methods, I agree. But to the same ends!”

Tiring of his game, Drizzt caught the shoes one by one as they fell and hooked them over his forearm, all the while eyeing Malchor with approval. Seeing his young friend slump back in thought, the drow wasn’t sure which was the greater gift, the enchanted shoes or the lesson.

“But enough of this,” Malchor said suddenly, bursting into motion. He crossed to a section of the wall that held dozens of swords and other weapons.

“I see that one of your scabbards is empty,” he said to Drizzt. Malchor pulled a beautifully crafted scimitar from its mount. “Perhaps this will fill it properly.”

Drizzt sensed the power of the weapon as he took it from the wizard, felt the care of its crafting and the perfection of its balance. A single, star-cut blue sapphire glittered in its pommel.

“Its name is Twinkle,” Malchor said. “Forged by the elves of a past age.”

“Twinkle,” echoed Drizzt. Instantly a bluish light limned the weapon’s blade. Drizzt felt a sudden surge within it, and somehow sensed a finer edge to its cut. He swung it a few times, trailing blue light with each motion. How easily it arced through the air; how easily it would cut down a foe! Drizzt slid it reverently into his empty scabbard.

“It was forged in the magic of the powers that all the surface elves hold dear,” said Malchor. “Of the stars and the moon and the mysteries of their souls. You deserve it, Drizzt Do’Urden, and it will serve you well.”

Drizzt could not answer the tribute, but Wulfgar, touched by the honor Malchor had paid to his oft-maligned friend, spoke for him. “Our thanks to you, Malchor Harpell,” he said, biting back the cynicism that had dominated his actions of late. He bowed low.

“Keep to your heart, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar,” Malchor answered him. “Pride can be a useful tool, or it can close your eyes to the truths about you. Go now and take your sleep. I shall awaken you early and set you back along your road.”

Drizzt sat up in his bed and watched his friend after Wulfgar had settled into sleep. Drizzt was concerned for Wulfgar, so far from the empty tundra that had ever been his home. In their quest for Mithril Hall, they had trudged halfway across the northland, fighting every mile of the way. And in finding their goal, their trials had only begun, for they had then battled their way through the ancient dwarven complex. Wulfgar had lost his mentor there, and Drizzt his dearest friend, and truly they had dragged themselves back to the village of Longsaddle in need of a long rest.

But reality had allowed no breaks. Entreri had Regis in his clutches, and Drizzt and Wulfgar were their halfling friend’s only hope. In Longsaddle, they had come to the end of one road but had found the beginning of an even longer one.

Drizzt could deal with his own weariness, but Wulfgar seemed cloaked in gloom, always running on the edge of danger. He was a young man out of Icewind Dale—the land that had been his only home—for the first time in his life. Now that sheltered strip of tundra, where the eternal wind blew, was far to the north.

But Calimport was much farther still, to the south.

Drizzt lay back on his pillow, reminding himself that Wulfgar had chosen to come along. Drizzt couldn’t have stopped him, even if he had tried.

The drow closed his eyes. The best thing that he could do, for himself and for Wulfgar, was to sleep and be ready for whatever the next dawn would bring.

Malchor’s student awakened them—silently—a few hours later and led them to the dining room, where the wizard waited. A fine breakfast was brought out before them.

“Your course is south, by my cousin’s words,” Malchor said to them. “Chasing a man who holds your friend, this halfling, Regis, captive.”

“His name is Entreri,” Drizzt replied, “and we will find him a hard catch, by my measure of him. He flies for Calimport.”

“Harder still,” Wulfgar added, “we had him placed on the road.” He explained to Malchor, though Drizzt knew the words to be aimed at him, “Now we shall have to hope that he did not turn from its course.”

“There was no secret to his path,” argued Drizzt. “He made for Waterdeep, on the coast. He may have passed by there already.”

“Then he is out to sea,” reasoned Malchor.

Wulfgar nearly choked on his food. He hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“That is my fear,” said Drizzt. “And I had thought to do the same.”

“It is a dangerous and costly course,” said Malchor. “The pirates gather for the last runs to the south as the summer draws to an end, and if one has not made the proper arrangements, …” He let the words hang ominously before them.

“But you have little choice,” the wizard continued. “A horse cannot match the speed of a sailing ship, and the sea route is straighter than the road. So take to the sea, is my advice. Perhaps I can make some arrangements to speed your accommodations. My student has already set the enchanted shoes on your mounts, and with their aid, you may get to the great port in short days.”

“And how long shall we sail?” Wulfgar asked, dismayed and hardly believing that Drizzt would go along with the wizard’s suggestion.

“Your young friend does not understand the breadth of this journey,” Malchor said to Drizzt. The wizard laid his fork on the table and another a few inches from it. “Here is Icewind Dale,” he explained to Wulfgar, pointing to the first fork. “And this other, the Tower of Twilight, where you now sit. A distance of nearly four hundred miles lies between.”

He tossed a third fork to Drizzt, who laid it out in front of him, about three feet from the fork representing their present position.

“It is a journey you would travel five times to equal the road ahead of you,” Malchor told Wulfgar, “for that last fork is Calimport, two thousand miles and several kingdoms to the south.”

“Then we are defeated,” moaned Wulfgar, unable to comprehend such a distance.

“Not so,” said Malchor. “For you shall ride with sails full of the northern wind, and beat the first snows of winter. You will find the land and the people more accommodating to the south.”

“We shall see,” said the dark elf, unconvinced. To Drizzt, people had ever spelled trouble.

“Ah,” agreed Malchor, realizing the hardships a drow elf would surely find among the dwellers of the surface world. “But I have one more gift to give to you: a map to a treasure that you can recover this very day.”

“Another delay,” said Wulfgar.

“A small price to pay,” replied Malchor, “and this short trip shall save you many days in the populated South, where a drow elf may walk only in the night. Of this I am certain.”

Drizzt was intrigued that Malchor so clearly understood his dilemma and was apparently hinting at an alternative. Drizzt would not be welcome anywhere in the South. Cities that would grant the foul Entreri free passage would throw chains upon the dark elf if he tried to cross through, for the drow had long ago earned their reputation as ultimately evil and unspeakably vile. Few in all the Realms would be quick to recognize Drizzt Do’Urden as the exception to the rule.

“Just to the west of here, down a dark path in Neverwinter Wood and in a cave of trees, dwells a monster that the local farmers have named Agatha,” said Malchor. “Once an elf, I believe, and a fair mage in her own right, according to legend, this wretched thing lives on after death and calls the night her time.”

Drizzt knew the sinister legends of such creatures, and he knew their name. “A banshee?” he asked.

Malchor nodded. “To her lair you should go, if you are brave enough, for the banshee has collected a fair hoard of treasure, including one item that would prove invaluable to you, Drizzt Do’Urden.”

He saw that he had the drow’s full attention. Drizzt leaned forward over the table and weighed Malchor’s every word.

“A mask,” the wizard explained. “An enchanted mask that will allow you to hide your heritage and walk freely as a surface elf—or as a man, if that suits you.”

Drizzt slumped back, a bit unnerved at the threat to his very identity.

“I understand your hesitancy,” Malchor said to him. “It is not easy to hide from those who accuse you unjustly, to give credibility to their false perceptions. But think of your captive friend and know that I make this suggestion only for his sake. You may get through the southlands as you are, dark elf, but not unhindered.”

Wulfgar bit his lip and said nothing, knowing this to be Drizzt’s own decision. He knew that even his concerns about further delay could not weigh into such a personal discussion.

“We will go to this lair in the wood,” Drizzt said at last, “and I shall wear such a mask if I must.” He looked at Wulfgar. “Our only concern must be Regis.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar sat atop their mounts outside the Tower of Twilight, with Malchor standing beside them.

“Be wary of the thing,” Malchor said, handing Drizzt the map to the banshee’s lair and another parchment that generally showed their course to the far South. “Her touch is deathly cold, and the legends say that to hear her keen is to die.”

“Her keen?” asked Wulfgar.

“An unearthly wail too terrible for mortal ears to bear,” said Malchor. “Take all care!”

“We shall,” Drizzt assured him.

“We will not forget the hospitality or the gifts of Malchor Harpell,” added Wulfgar.

“Nor the lesson, I hope,” the wizard replied with a wink, drawing an embarrassed smile from Wulfgar.

Drizzt was pleased that his friend had shaken at least some of his surliness.

Dawn came upon them then, and the tower quickly faded into nothingness.

“The tower is gone, yet the wizard remains,” remarked Wulfgar.

“The tower is gone, yet the door inside remains,” Malchor corrected. He took a few steps back and stretched his arm out, his hand disappearing from sight.

Wulfgar jerked in bewilderment.

“For those who know how to find it,” Malchor added. “For those who have trained their minds to the properties of magic.” He stepped through the extradimensional portal and was gone from sight, but his voice came back to them one last time. “Discipline!” he called, and Wulfgar knew himself to be the target of Malchor’s final statement.

Drizzt kicked his horse into motion, unrolling the map as he started away. “Harpell?” he asked over his shoulder, imitating Wulfgar’s derisive tone of the previous night.

“Would that all of the Harpells were like Malchor!” Wulfgar replied. He sat staring at the emptiness that had been the Tower of Twilight, fully understanding that the wizard had taught him two valuable lessons in a single night: one of prejudice and one of humility.

From inside the hidden dimension of his home, Malchor watched them go. He wished that he could join them, to travel along the road of adventure as he had so often in his youth, finding a just course and following it against any odds. Harkle had judged the principles of those two correctly, Malchor knew, and had been right in asking Malchor to help them.

The wizard leaned against the door to his home. Alas, his days of adventure, his days of carrying the crusade of justice on his shoulders, were fading behind him.

But Malchor took heart in the events of the last day. If the drow and his barbarian friend were any indication, he had just helped to pass the torch into able hands.

2. A Thousand Thousand Little Candles

The assassin, mesmerized, watched as the ruby turned slowly in the candlelight, catching the dance of the flame in a thousand thousand perfect miniatures—too many reflections; no gem could have facets so small and so flawless.

And yet the procession was there to be seen, a swirl of tiny candles drawing him deeper into the redness of the stone. No jeweler had cut it; its precision went beyond a level attainable with an instrument. This was an artifact of magic, a deliberate creation designed, he reminded himself cautiously, to pull a viewer into that descending swirl, into the serenity of the reddened depths of the stone.

A thousand thousand little candles.

No wonder he had so easily duped the captain into giving him passage to Calimport. Suggestions that came from within the marvelous secrets of this gem could not easily be dismissed. Suggestions of serenity and peace, words spoken only by friends…

A smile cracked the usually grim set of his face. He could wander deep into the calm.

Entreri tore himself from the pull of the ruby and rubbed his eyes, amazed that even one as disciplined as he might be vulnerable to the gem’s insistent tug. He glanced into the corner of the small cabin, where Regis sat huddled and thoroughly miserable.

“I can now understand your desperation in stealing this jewel,” he said to the halfling.

Regis snapped out of his own meditation, surprised that Entreri had spoken to him—the first time since they had boarded the boat back in Waterdeep.

“And I know now why Pasha Pook is so desperate to get it back,” Entreri continued, as much to himself as to Regis.

Regis cocked his head to watch the assassin. Could the ruby pendant take even Artemis Entreri into its hold? “Truly it is a beautiful gem,” he offered hopefully, not quite knowing how to handle this uncharacteristic empathy from the cold assassin.

“Much more than a gemstone,” Entreri said absently, his eyes falling irresistibly back into the mystical swirl of the deceptive facets.

Regis recognized the calm visage of the assassin, for he himself had worn such a look when he had first studied Pook’s wonderful pendant. He had been a successful thief then, living a fine life in Calimport. But the promises of that magical stone outweighed the comforts of the thieves’ guild. “Perhaps the pendant stole me,” he suggested on a sudden impulse.

But he had underestimated the willpower of Entreri. The assassin snapped a cold look at him, with a smirk clearly revealing that he knew where Regis was leading.

But the halfling, grabbing at whatever hope he could find, pressed on anyway. “The power of that pendant overcame me, I think. There could be no crime; I had little choice—”

Entreri’s sharp laugh cut him short. “You are a thief, or you are weak,” he snarled. “Either way you shall find no mercy in my heart. Either way you deserve the wrath of Pook!” He snapped the pendant up into his hand from the end of its golden chain and dropped it into his pouch.

Then he took out the other object, an onyx statuette intricately carved into the likeness of a panther.

“Tell me of this,” he instructed Regis.

Regis had wondered when Entreri would show some curiosity for the figurine. He had seen the assassin toying with it back at Garumn’s Gorge in Mithril Hall, teasing Drizzt from across the chasm. But until this moment, that was the last Regis had seen of Guenhwyvar, the magical panther.

Regis shrugged helplessly.

“I’ll not ask again,” Entreri threatened, and that icy certainty of doom, the inescapable aura of dread that all of Artemis Entreri’s victims came to know well, fell over Regis once more.

“It is the Drow’s,” Regis stammered. “Its name is Guen—” Regis caught the word in his mouth as Entreri’s free hand suddenly snapped out a jeweled dagger, readied for a throw.

“Calling an ally?” Entreri asked wickedly. He dropped the statuette back into his pocket. “I know the beast’s name, halfling. And I assure you, by the time the cat arrived, you would be dead.”

“You fear the cat?” Regis dared to ask.

“I take no chances,” Entreri replied.

“But will you call the panther yourself?” Regis pressed, looking for some way to change the balance of power. “A companion for your lonely roads?”

Entreri’s laugh mocked the very thought. “Companion? Why would I desire a companion, little fool? What gain could I hope to make?”

“With numbers comes strength,” Regis argued.

“Fool,” repeated Entreri. “That is where you err. In the streets, companions bring dependence and doom! Look at yourself, friend of the drow. What strength do you bring to Drizzt Do’Urden now? He rushes blindly to your aid, to fulfill his responsibility as your companion.” He spat the word out with obvious distaste. “To his ultimate demise!”

Regis hung his head and could not answer. Entreri’s words rang true enough. His friends were coming into dangers they could not imagine, and all for his sake, all because of errors he had made before he had ever met them.

Entreri replaced the dagger in its sheath and leaped up in a rush. “Enjoy the night, little thief. Bask in the cold ocean wind; relish all the sensations of this trip as a man staring death in the face, for Calimport surely spells your doom and the doom of your friends!” He swept out of the room, banging the door behind him.

He hadn’t locked it, Regis noted. He never locked the door! But he didn’t have to, Regis admitted in anger. Terror was the assassin’s chain, as tangible as iron shackles. Nowhere to run; nowhere to hide.

Regis dropped his head into his hands. He became aware of the sway of the ship, of the rhythmic, monotonous creaking of old boards, his body irresistibly keeping time.

He felt his insides churning.

Halflings weren’t normally fond of the sea, and Regis was timid even by the measures of his kind. Entreri could not have found a greater torment to Regis than passage south on a ship, on the Sea of Swords.

“Not again,” Regis groaned, dragging himself to the small portal in the cabin. He pulled the window open and stuck his head out into the refreshing chill of the night air.

Entreri walked across the empty deck, his cloak tight about him. Above him, the sails swelled, as they filled with wind; the early winter gales pushed the ship along its southern route. A billion stars dotted the sky, twinkling in the empty darkness to horizons bordered only by the flat line of the sea.

Entreri took out the ruby pendant again and let its magic catch the starlight. He watched it spin and studied its swirl, meaning to know it well before his journey’s end.

Pasha Pook would be thrilled to get the pendant back. It had given him such power! More power, Entreri now realized, than others had assumed. With the pendant, Pook had made friends of enemies and slaves of friends.

“Even me?” Entreri mused, enthralled by the little stars in the red wash of the gem. “Have I been a victim? Or shall I be?” He wouldn’t have believed that he, Artemis Entreri, could ever be caught by a magic charm, but the insistence of the ruby pendant was undeniable.

Entreri laughed aloud. The helmsman, the only other person on the deck, cast him a curious glance but thought no more about it.

“No,” Entreri whispered to the ruby. “You shan’t have me again. I know your tricks, and I’ll learn them better still! I will run the path of your tempting descent and find my way back out again!” Laughing, he fastened the pendant’s golden chain around his neck and tucked the ruby under his leather jerkin.

Then he felt in his pouch, grasped the figurine of the panther, and turned his gaze back to the north. “Are you watching, Drizzt Do’Urden?” he asked into the night.

He knew the answer. Somewhere far behind, in Waterdeep or Longsaddle or somewhere in between, the drow’s lavender eyes were turned southward.

They were destined to meet again; they both knew. They had battled once, in Mithril Hall, but neither could claim victory.

There had to be a winner.

Never before had Entreri encountered anyone with reflexes to match his own or as deadly with a blade as he, and memories of his clash with Drizzt Do’Urden haunted his every thought. They were so akin, their movements cut from the same dance. And yet, the drow, compassionate and caring, possessed a basic humanity that Entreri had long ago discarded. Such emotions, such weaknesses, had no place in the cold void of a pure fighter’s heart, he believed.

Entreri’s hands twitched with eagerness as he thought of the drow. His breath puffed out angrily in the chill air. “Come, Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said through his clenched teeth. “Let us learn who is the stronger!”

His voice reflected deadly determination, with a subtle, almost imperceptive, hint of anxiety. This would be the truest challenge of both their lives, the test of the differing tenets that had guided their every actions. For Entreri, there could be no draw. He had sold his soul for his skill, and if Drizzt Do’Urden defeated him, or even proved his equal, the assassin’s existence would be no more than a wasted lie.

But he didn’t think like that.

Entreri lived to win.

Regis, too, was watching the night sky. The crisp air had settled his stomach, and the stars had sent his thoughts across the long miles to his friends. How often they had sat together on such nights in Icewind Dale, to share tales of adventure or just sit quietly in each others’ company. Icewind Dale was a barren strip of frozen tundra, a land of brutal weather and brutal people, but the friends Regis had made there, Bruenor and Catti-brie, Drizzt and Wulfgar, had warmed the coldest of the winter nights and taken the sting out of the biting north wind.

In context, Icewind Dale had been but a short stopover for Regis on his extensive travels, where he had spent less than ten of his fifty years. But now, heading back to the southern kingdom where he had lived for the bulk of his life, Regis realized that Icewind Dale had truly been his home. And those friends he so often took for granted were the only family he would ever know.

He shook away his lament and forced himself to consider the path before him. Drizzt would come for him; probably Wulfgar and Catti-brie, too.

But not Bruenor.

Any relief that Regis had felt when Drizzt returned unharmed from the bowels of Mithril Hall had flown over Garumn’s Gorge with the valiant dwarf. A dragon had them trapped while a host of evil gray dwarves had closed in from behind. But Bruenor, at the cost of his own life, had cleared the way, crashing down onto the dragon’s back with a keg of burning oil, taking the beast—and himself—down into the deep gorge.

Regis couldn’t bear to recall that terrible scene. For all of his gruffness and teasing, Bruenor Battlehammer had been the halfling’s dearest companion.

A shooting star burned a trail across the night sky. The sway of the ship remained and the salty smell of the ocean sat thick in his nose, but here at the portal, in the sharpness of the clear night, Regis felt no sickness—only a sad serenity as he remembered all of those crazy times with the wild dwarf. Truly Bruenor Battlehammer’s flame had burned like a torch in the wind, leaping and dancing and fighting to the very end.

Regis’s other friends had escaped, though. The halfling was certain of it—as certain as Entreri. And they would come for him. Drizzt would come for him and set things right.

Regis had to believe that.

And for his own part, the mission seemed obvious. Once in Calimport, Entreri would find allies among Pook’s people. The assassin would then be on his own ground, where he knew every dark hole and held every advantage. Regis had to slow him down.

Finding strength in the narrow vision of a goal, Regis glanced about the cabin, looking for some clue. Again and again, he found his eyes drawn to the candle.

“The flame,” he muttered to himself, a smile beginning to spread across his face. He moved to the table and plucked the candle from its holder. A small pool of liquid wax glittered at the base of the wick, promising pain.

But Regis didn’t hesitate.

He hitched up one sleeve and dripped a series of wax droplets along the length of his arm, grimacing away the hot sting.

He had to slow Entreri down.

Regis made one of his rare appearances on the deck the next morning. Dawn had come bright and clear, and the halfling wanted to finish his business before the sun got too high in the sky and created that unpleasant mixture of hot rays in the cool spray. He stood at the rail, rehearsing his lines and mustering the courage to defy the unspoken threats of Entreri.

And then Entreri was beside him! Regis clutched the rail tightly, fearing that the assassin had somehow guessed his plan.

“The shoreline,” Entreri said to him.

Regis followed Entreri’s gaze to the horizon and a distant line of land.

“Back in sight,” Entreri continued, “and not too far.” He glanced down at Regis and displayed his wicked smile once again for his prisoner’s benefit.

Regis shrugged. “Too far.”

“Perhaps,” answered the assassin, “but you might make it, though your half-sized breed is not spoken of as the swimming sort. Have you weighed the odds?”

“I do not swim,” Regis said flatly.

“A pity,” laughed Entreri. “But if you do decide to try for the land, tell me first.”

Regis stepped back, confused.

“I would allow you to make the attempt,” Entreri assured him. “I would enjoy the show!”

The halfling’s expression turned to anger. He knew that he was being mocked, but he couldn’t figure the assassin’s purpose.

“They have a strange fish in these waters,” said Entreri, looking back to the water. “Smart fish. It follows the boats, waiting for someone to go over.” He looked back to Regis to weigh the effect of his chiding.

“A pointed fin marks it,” he continued, seeing that he had the halfling’s full attention. “Cutting through the water like the prow of a ship. If you watch from the rail long enough, you will surely spy one.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Sharks, these fish are called,” Entreri went on, ignoring the question. He drew his dagger, putting its point against one of his fingers hard enough to draw a speck of blood. “Marvelous fish. Rows of teeth as long as daggers, sharp and ridged, and a mouth that could bite a man in half.” He looked Regis in the eye. “Or take a halfling whole.”

“I do not swim!” Regis growled, not appreciating Entreri’s macabre, but undeniably effective, methods.

“A pity,” chuckled the assassin. “But do tell me if you change your mind.” He swept away, his black cloak flowing behind him.

“Bastard,” Regis mumbled under his breath. He started back toward the rail, but changed his mind as soon as he saw the deep water looming before him; he turned on his heel and sought the security of the middle of the deck.

Again the color left his face as the vast ocean seemed to close in over him and the interminable, nauseating sway of the ship…

“Ye seem ripe fer de rail, little one,” came a cheery voice. Regis turned to see a short, bowlegged sailor with few teeth and eyes scrunched in a permanent squint. “Ain’t to findin’ yer sea legs yet?”

Regis shuddered through his dizziness and remembered his mission. “It is the other thing,” he replied.

The sailor missed the subtlety of his statement. Still grinning through the dark tan and darker stubble of his dirty face, he started away.

“But thank you for your concern,” Regis said emphatically. “And for all of your courage in taking us to Calimport.”

The sailor stopped, perplexed. “Many a time, we’s to taking ones to the south,” he said, not understanding the reference to “courage.”

“Yes, but considering the danger—though I am sure it is not great!” Regis added quickly, giving the impression that he was trying not to emphasize this unknown peril. “It is not important. Calimport will bring our cure.” Then under his breath but still loud enough for the sailor to hear, he said, “If we get there alive.”

“‘Ere now, what do ye mean?” the sailor demanded, moving back over to Regis. The smile was gone.

Regis squeaked and grabbed his forearm suddenly as if in pain. He grimaced and pretended to battle against the agony, while deftly scratching the dried patch of wax, and the scab beneath it, away. A small trickle of blood rolled out from under his sleeve.

The sailor grabbed him on cue, pulling the sleeve up over Regis’s elbow. He looked at the wound curiously. “Burn?”

“Do not touch it!” Regis cried in a harsh whisper. “That is how it spreads—I think.”

The sailor pulled his hand away in terror, noticing several other scars. “I seen no fire! How’d ye git a burn?”

Regis shrugged helplessly. “They just happen. From the inside.” Now it was the sailor’s turn to pale. “But I will make it to Calimport,” he stated unconvincingly. “It takes a few months to eat you away. And most of my wounds are recent.” Regis looked down, then presented his scarred arm. “See?”

But when he looked back, the sailor was gone, rushing off toward the captain’s quarters.

“Take that, Artemis Entreri,” Regis whispered.

3. Conyberry’s Pride

“Those are the farms that Malchor spoke of,” Wulfgar said as he and Drizzt came around a spur of trees on the great forest’s border. In the distance to the south, a dozen or so houses sat in a cluster on the eastern edge of the forest, surrounded on the other three sides by wide, rolling fields.

Wulfgar started his horse forward, but Drizzt abruptly stopped him.

“These are a simple folk,” the drow explained. “Farmers living in the webs of countless superstitions. They would not welcome a dark elf. Let us enter at night.”

“Perhaps we can find the path without their aid,” Wulfgar offered, not wanting to waste the remainder of yet another day.

“More likely we would get lost in the wood,” Drizzt replied, dismounting. “Rest, my friend. This night promises adventure.”

“Her time, the night,” Wulfgar remarked, remembering Malchor’s words about the banshee.

Drizzt’s smile widened across his face. “Not this night,” he whispered.

Wulfgar saw the familiar gleam in the drow’s lavender eyes and obediently dropped from his saddle. Drizzt was already preparing himself for the imminent battle; already the drow’s finely toned muscles twitched with excitement. But as confident as Wulfgar was in his companion’s prowess, he could not stop the shudder running through his spine when he considered the undead monster that lay before them.

In the night.

They passed the day in peaceful slumber, enjoying the calls and dances of the birds and squirrels, already preparing for winter, and the wholesome atmosphere of the forest. But when dusk crept over the land, Neverwinter Wood took on a very different aura. Gloom settled all too comfortably under the wood’s thick boughs, and a sudden hush descended on the trees, the uneasy quiet of poised danger.

Drizzt roused Wulfgar and led him off to the south at once, not even pausing for a short meal. A few minutes later, they walked their horses to the nearest farmhouse. Luckily the night was moonless, and only a close inspection would reveal Drizzt’s dark heritage.

“State yer business or be gone!” demanded a threatening voice from the low rooftops before they got close enough to knock on the house’s door.

Drizzt had expected as much. “We have come to settle a score,” he said without any hesitation.

“What enemies might the likes of yerselves have in Conyberry?” asked the voice.

“In your fair town?” Drizzt balked. “Nay, our fight is with a foe common to you.”

Some shuffling came from above, and then two men, bows in hand, appeared at the corner of the farmhouse. Both Drizzt and Wulfgar knew that still more sets of eyes—and no doubt more bows—were trained upon them from the roof, and possibly from their flanks. For simple farmers, these folk were apparently well organized for defense.

“A common foe?” one of the men at the corner—the same who had spoken earlier from the roof—asked Drizzt. “Surely we’ve seen none of yer likes before, elf, nor of yer giant friend!”

Wulfgar brought Aegis-fang down from his shoulder, drawing some uneasy shuffling from the roof. “Never have we come through your fair town,” he replied sternly, not thrilled with being called a giant.

Drizzt quickly interjected. “A friend of ours was slain near here, down a dark path in the wood. We were told that you could guide us.”

Suddenly the door of the farmhouse burst open and a wrinkled old woman popped her head out. “Hey, then, what do ye want with the ghost in the wood?” she snapped angrily. “Not fer to both’ring those that leaves her to peace!”

Drizzt and Wulfgar glanced at each other, perplexed by the old woman’s unexpected attitude. But the man at the corner apparently felt the same way.

“Yeah, leave Agatha be,” he said.

“Go away!” added an unseen man from the roof.

Wulfgar, fearing that these people might be under some evil enchantment, gripped his war hammer more tightly, but Drizzt sensed something else in their voices.

“I had been told that the ghost, this Agatha, was an evil spirit,” Drizzt told them calmly. “Might I have heard wrong? For goodly folk defend her.”

“Bah, evil! What be evil?” snapped the old woman, thrusting her wrinkled face and shell of a body closer to Wulfgar. The barbarian took a prudent step back, though the woman’s bent frame barely reached his navel.

“The ghost defends her home,” added the man at the corner. “And woe to those who go there!”

“Woe!” screamed the old woman, pushing closer still and poking a bony finger into Wulfgar’s huge chest.

Wulfgar had heard enough. “Back!” he roared mightily at the woman. He slapped Aegis-fang across his free hand, a sudden rush of blood swelling his bulging arms and shoulders. The woman screamed and vanished into the house, slamming the door in terror.

“A pity,” Drizzt whispered, fully understanding what Wulfgar had set into motion. The drow dove headlong to the side, turning into a roll, as an arrow from the roof cracked into the ground where he had been standing.

Wulfgar, too, started into motion, expecting an arrow. Instead, he saw the dark form of a man leaping down at him from the rooftop. With a single hand the mighty barbarian caught the would-be assailant in midair and held him at bay, his boots fully three feet off the ground.

At that same instant, Drizzt came out of his roll and into position in front of the two men at the corner, a scimitar poised at each of their throats. They hadn’t even had time to draw their bowstrings back. To their further horror, they now recognized Drizzt for what he was, but even if his skin had been as pale as that of his surface cousins, the fire in his eyes would have taken their strength from them.

A few long seconds passed, the only movement being the visible shaking of the three trapped farmers.

“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Drizzt said to the men. He stepped back and sheathed his scimitars. “Let him down,” he said to Wulfgar. “Gently!” the dark elf added quickly.

Wulfgar eased the man to the ground, but the terrified farmer fell to the dirt anyway, looking up at the huge barbarian in awe and fear.

Wulfgar kept the grimace on his face—just to keep the farmer cowed.

The farmhouse door sprang open again, and the little old woman appeared, this time sheepishly. “Ye won’t be killing poor Agatha, will ye?” she pleaded.

“Sure that she’s no harm beyond her own door,” added the man at the corner, his voice quaking with each syllable.

Drizzt looked to Wulfgar. “Nay,” the barbarian said. “We shall visit Agatha and settle our business with her. But be assured that we’ll not harm her.”

“Tell us the way,” Drizzt asked.

The two men at the corner looked at each other and hesitated.

“Now!” Wulfgar roared at the man on the ground.

“To the tangle of birch!” the man replied immediately. “The path’s right there, running back to the east! Twists and turns, it does, but clear of brush!”

“Farewell, Conyberry,” Drizzt said politely, bowing low. “Would that we could remain a while and dispel your fears of us, but we have much to do and a long road ahead.” He and Wulfgar hopped into their saddles and spun their mounts away.

“But wait!” the old woman called after them. Their mounts reared as Drizzt and Wulfgar looked back over their shoulders. “Tell us, ye fearless—or ye stupid warriors,” she implored them, “who might ye be?”

“Wulfgar, son of Beornegar!” the barbarian shouted back, trying to keep an air of humility, though his chest puffed out in pride. “And Drizzt Do’Urden!”

“Names I have heard!” one of the farmers cried out in sudden recognition.

“And names you shall hear again!” Wulfgar promised. He paused a moment as Drizzt moved on, then turned to catch his friend.

Drizzt wasn’t sure that it was wise to be proclaiming their identities, and consequently revealing their location, with Artemis Entreri looking back for them. But when he saw the broad and proud smile on Wulfgar’s face, he kept his concerns to himself and let Wulfgar have his fun.

Soon after the lights of Conyberry had faded to dots behind them, Wulfgar turned more serious. “They did not seem evil,” he said to Drizzt, “yet they protect the banshee, and have even named the thing! We may have left a darkness behind us.”

“Not a darkness,” Drizzt replied. “Conyberry is as it appears: a humble farming village of good and honest folk.”

“But Agatha,” Wulfgar protested.

“A hundred similar villages line this countryside,” Drizzt explained. “Many unnamed, and all unnoticed by the lords of the land. Yet all of the villages, and even the Lords of Waterdeep, I would guess, have heard of Conyberry and the ghost of Neverwinter Wood.”

“Agatha brings them fame,” Wulfgar concluded.

“And a measure of protection, no doubt,” added Drizzt.

“For what bandit would lay out along the road to Conyberry with a ghost haunting the land?” Wulfgar laughed. “Still, it seems a strange marriage.”

“But not our business,” Drizzt said, stopping his horse. “The tangle the man spoke of.” He pointed to a copse of twisted birch trees. Behind it, Neverwinter Wood loomed dark and mysterious.

Wulfgar’s horse flattened its ears. “We are close,” the barbarian said, slipping from the saddle. They tethered their mounts and started into the tangle, Drizzt as silent as a cat, but Wulfgar, too big for the tightness of the trees, crunching with every step.

“Do you mean to kill the thing?” he asked Drizzt.

“Only if we must,” the drow replied. “We are here for the mask alone, and we have given our word to the people of Conyberry.”

“I do not believe that Agatha will willingly hand us her treasures,” Wulfgar reminded Drizzt. He broke through the last line of birch trees and stood beside the drow at the dark entrance to the thick oaks of the forest.

“Be silent now,” Drizzt whispered. He drew Twinkle and let its quiet blue gleam lead them into the gloom.

The trees seemed to close in about them; the dead hush of the wood only made them more concerned with the resounding noise of their own footfalls. Even Drizzt, who had spent centuries in the deepest of caverns, felt the weight of this darkest corner of Neverwinter on his shoulders. Evil brooded here, and if either he or Wulfgar had any doubts about the legend of the banshee, they knew better now. Drizzt pulled a thin candle from his belt pouch and broke it in half, handing a piece to Wulfgar.

“Stuff your ears,” he explained in a breathless whisper, reiterating Malchor’s warning. “To hear her keen is to die.”

The path was easy to follow, even in the deep darkness, for the aura of evil rolled down heavier on their shoulders with every step. A few hundred paces brought the light of a fire into sight. Instinctively they both dropped to a defensive crouch to survey the area.

Before them lay a dome of branches, a cave of trees that was the banshee’s lair. Its single entrance was a small hole, barely large enough for a man to crawl through. The thought of going into the lighted area within while on their hands and knees did not thrill either of them. Wulfgar held Aegis-fang before him and indicated that he would open a bigger door. Boldly he strode toward the dome.

Drizzt crept up beside him, uncertain of the practicality of Wulfgar’s idea. Drizzt had the feeling that a creature who had survived so successfully for so very long would be protected against such obvious tactics. But the drow didn’t have any better ideas at the moment, so he dropped back a step as Wulfgar hoisted the war hammer above his head.

Wulfgar spread his feet wide for balance and took a steadying breath, then slammed Aegis-fang home with all his strength. The dome shuddered under the blow; wood splintered and went flying, but the drow’s concerns soon came to light. For as the wooden shell broke away, Wulfgar’s hammer drove down into a concealed mesh of netting. Before the barbarian could reverse the blow, Aegis-fang and his arms were fully entangled.

Drizzt saw a shadow move across the firelight inside, and, recognizing his companion’s vulnerability, he didn’t hesitate. He dove through Wulfgar’s legs and into the lair, his scimitars nipping and jabbing wildly as he came. Twinkle nicked into something for just a split second, something less than tangible, and Drizzt knew that he had hit the creature of the nether world. But dazed by the sudden intensity of the light as he came into the lair, Drizzt had trouble finding his footing. He kept his head well enough to discern that the banshee had scampered into the shadows off to the other side. He rolled up to a wall, put his back against it for support, and scrambled to his feet, deftly slicing through Wulfgar’s bonds with Twinkle.

Then came the wail.

It cut through the feeble protection of the candle wax with bone-shivering intensity, sapping into Drizzt’s and Wulfgar’s strength and dropping a dizzying blackness over them. Drizzt slumped heavily against the wall, and Wulfgar, finally able to tug free of the stubborn netting, stumbled backward into the black night and toppled onto his back.

Drizzt, alone inside, knew that he was in deep trouble. He battled against the dizzying blur and the stinging pain in his head and tried to focus on the firelight.

But he saw two dozen fires dancing before his eyes, lights he could not shake away. He believed that he had come out of the keen’s effects, and it took him a moment to realize the truth of the place.

A magical creature was Agatha, and magical protections, confusing illusions of mirror images, guarded her home.

Suddenly Drizzt was confronted on more than twenty fronts by the twisted visage of a long-dead elven maiden, her skin withered and stretched along her hollowed face and her eyes bereft of color or any spark of life.

But those orbs could see—more clearly than any other in this deceptive maze. And Drizzt understood that Agatha knew exactly where he was. She waved her arms in circular motions and smirked at her intended victim.

Drizzt recognized the banshee’s movements as the beginnings of a spell. Still caught in the web of her illusions, the drow had only one chance. Calling on the innate abilities of his dark race—and desperately hoping that he had correctly guessed which was the real fire—he placed a globe of darkness over the flames. The inside of the tree cave went pitch black, and Drizzt fell to his belly.

A blue bolt of lightning cut through the darkness, thundering just above the lying drow and through the wall. The air sizzled around him; his stark white hair danced on its ends.

Bursting out into the dark forest, Agatha’s ferocious bolt shook Wulfgar from his stupor. “Drizzt,” he groaned, forcing himself to his feet. His friend was probably already dead, and beyond the entrance was a blackness too deep for human eyes. But fearlessly, without a thought for his own safety, Wulfgar stumbled back toward the dome.

Drizzt crept around the black perimeter, using the heat of the fire as his guide. He brought a scimitar to bear with every step, but caught nothing with his cuts but air and the side of the tree cave.

Then, suddenly, his darkness was no more, leaving him exposed along the middle of the wall to the left of the door. And the leering image of Agatha was all about him, already beginning yet another spell. Drizzt glanced around for an escape route, but realized that Agatha didn’t seem to be looking at him.

Across the room, in what must have been a real mirror, Drizzt caught sight of another image: Wulfgar crawling in defenselessly through the low entrance.

Again Drizzt could not afford to hesitate. He was beginning to understand the layout of the illusion maze and could guess at the general direction of the banshee. He dropped to one knee and scooped up a handful of dirt, splaying it in a wide arc across the room.

All of the images reacted the same way, giving Drizzt no clue as to which was his foe. But the real Agatha, wherever she was, was spitting dirt; Drizzt had disrupted her spell.

Wulfgar regained his feet and immediately smashed his hammer through the wall to the right side of the door, then reversed his swing and heaved Aegis-fang at the image across from the door, directly over the fire. Again Aegisfang crashed into the wall, knocking open a hole to the nighttime forest.

Drizzt, firing his dagger futilely at yet another image across the way, caught a telltale flicker in the area where he had seen the reflection of Wulfgar. As Aegis-fang magically returned to Wulfgar’s hands, Drizzt sprinted for the back of the chamber. “Lead me!” he cried, hoping his voice was loud enough for Wulfgar to hear.

Wulfgar understood. Bellowing “Tempus!” to warn the drow of his throw, he launched Aegis-fang again.

Drizzt dove into a roll, and the hammer whistled over his back, exploding into the mirror. Half of the images in the room disappeared, and Agatha screamed in rage. But Drizzt didn’t even slow. He sprang over the broken mirror stand and the remaining chunks of glass.

Right into Agatha’s treasure room.

The banshee’s scream became a keen, and the killing waves of sound dropped over Drizzt and Wulfgar once again. They had expected the blast this time, though, and they pushed its force away more easily. Drizzt scrambled to the treasure hoard, scooping baubles and gold into a sack. Wulfgar, enraged, stormed about the dome in a destructive frenzy. Soon kindling lined the area where walls had stood, and scratches dripping tiny streams of blood crisscrossed Wulfgar’s huge forearms. But the barbarian felt no pain, only the savage fury.

His sack nearly full, Drizzt was about to turn and flee when one other item caught his eye. He had been almost relieved that he hadn’t found it, and a big part of him wished that it wasn’t here, that such an item did not exist. Yet here it lay, an unremarkable mask of bland features, with a single cord to hold it in place over a wearer’s face. Drizzt knew that, as plain as it seemed, it must be the item Malchor had spoken of, and if he had any thoughts of ignoring it now, they were quickly gone. Regis needed him, and to get to Regis quickly, Drizzt needed the mask. Still, the drow could not belay his sigh when he lifted it from the treasure hoard, sensing its tingling power. Without another thought, he put it in his sack.

Agatha would not so easily surrender her treasures, and the specter that confronted Drizzt when he hopped back over the broken mirror was all too real. Twinkle gleamed wickedly as Drizzt parried away Agatha’s frantic blows.

Wulfgar suspected that Drizzt needed him now, and he dismissed his savage fury, realizing that a clear head was necessary in this predicament. He scanned the room slowly, hoisting Aegis-fang for another throw. But the barbarian found that he had not yet sorted out the pattern of the illusionary spells, and the confusion of a dozen images, and the fear of hitting Drizzt, held him in check.

Effortlessly Drizzt danced around the crazed banshee and backed her up toward the treasure room. He could have struck her several times, but he had given his word to the farmers of Conyberry.

Then he had her in position. He thrust Twinkle out before him and waded in with two steps. Spitting and cursing, Agatha retreated, tripping over the broken mirror stand and falling back into the gloom. Drizzt spun toward the door.

Watching the real Agatha, and the other images, disappear from sight, Wulfgar followed the sound of her grunt and finally sorted out the layout of the dome. He readied Aegis-fang for the killing throw.

“Let it end!” Drizzt shouted at him as he passed, slapping Wulfgar on the backside with the flat of Twinkle to remind him of their mission and their promise.

Wulfgar turned to look at him, but the agile drow was already out into the dark night. Wulfgar turned back to see Agatha, her teeth bared and hands clenched, rise up on her feet.

“Pardon our intrusion,” he said politely, bowing low—low enough to follow his friend outside to safety. He sprinted along the dark path to catch up to Twinkle’s blue glow.

Then came the banshee’s third keen, chasing them down the path. Drizzt was beyond its painful range, but its sting caught up to Wulfgar and knocked him off balance. Blindly, with the smug smile suddenly wiped from his face, he stumbled forward.

Drizzt turned and tried to catch him, but the huge man bowled the drow over and continued on.

Face first into a tree.

Before Drizzt could get over to help, Wulfgar was up again and running, too scared and embarrassed, to even groan.

Behind them, Agatha wailed helplessly.

When the first of Agatha’s keens wafted on the night winds the mile or so to Conyberry, the villagers knew that Drizzt and Wulfgar had found her lair. All of them, even the children, had gathered outside of their houses and listened intently as two more wails had rolled through the night air. And now, most perplexing, came the banshee’s continual, mournful cries.

“So much fer them strangers,” chuckled one man.

“Nah, ye’re wrong,” said the old woman, recognizing the subtle shift in Agatha’s tones. “Them’s wails of losing. They beat her! They did, and got away!”

The others sat quietly, studying Agatha’s cries, and soon realized the truth of the old woman’s observations. They looked at each other incredulously.

“What’d they call themselves?” asked one man.

“Wulfgar,” offered another. “And Drizzt Do’Urden. I heared o’ them before.”

4. The City of Splendors

They were back to the main road before dawn, thundering to the west, to the coast and the city of Waterdeep. With the visit to Malchor and the business with Agatha out of the way, Drizzt and Wulfgar once again focused their thoughts on the road ahead, and they remembered the peril their halfling friend faced if they failed in the rescue. Their mounts, aided by Malchor’s enchanted horseshoes, sped along at a tremendous clip. All the landscape seemed only a blur as it rolled by.

They did not break when dawn came behind them, nor did they stop for a meal as the sun climbed overhead.

“We will have all the rest we need when we board ship and sail to the south,” Drizzt told Wulfgar.

The barbarian, determined that Regis would be saved, needed no prompting.

The dark of night came again, and the thunder of the hooves continued unbroken. Then, when the second morning found their backs, a salty breeze filled the air and the high towers of Waterdeep, the City of Splendors, appeared on the western horizon. The two riders stopped atop the high cliff that formed the fabulous settlement’s eastern border. If Wulfgar had been stunned earlier that year when he had first looked upon Luskan, five hundred miles up the coast, he now was stricken dumb. For Waterdeep, the jewel of the North, the greatest port in all the Realms, was fully ten times the size of Luskan. Even within its high wall, it sprawled out lazily and endlessly down the coast, with towers and spires reaching high into the sea mist to the edges of the companions’ vision.

“How many live here?” Wulfgar gasped at Drizzt.

“A hundred of your tribes could find shelter within the city,” the drow explained. He noted Wulfgar’s anxiety with concern of his own. Cities were beyond the experiences of the young man, and the time Wulfgar had ventured into Luskan had nearly ended in disaster. And now there was Waterdeep, with ten times the people, ten times the intrigue—and ten times the trouble.

Wulfgar settled back a bit, and Drizzt had no choice but to put his trust in the young warrior. The drow had his own dilemma, a personal battle that he now had to settle. Gingerly he took the magical mask out of his belt pouch.

Wulfgar understood the determination guiding the drow’s hesitant motions, and he looked upon his friend with sincere pity. He did not know if he could be so brave—even with Regis’s life hanging on his actions.

Drizzt turned the plain mask over in his hands, wondering at the limits of its magic. He could feel that this was no ordinary item; its power tingled to his sensitive touch. Would it simply rob him of his appearance? Or might it steal his very identity? He had heard of other, supposedly beneficial, magical items that could not be removed once worn.

“Perhaps they will accept you as you are,” Wulfgar offered hopefully.

Drizzt sighed and smiled, his decision made. “No,” he answered. “The soldiers of Waterdeep would not admit a drow elf, nor would any boat captain allow me passage to the south.” Without any more delays, he placed the mask over his face.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Drizzt began to wonder if all of his concerns had been for naught, if the mask were really a fake. “Nothing,” he chuckled uneasily after a few more seconds, tentative relief in his tone. “It does not—” Drizzt stopped in midsentence when he noticed Wulfgar’s stunned expression.

Wulfgar fumbled in his pack and produced a shiny metal cup. “Look,” he bade Drizzt and handed him the makeshift mirror.

Drizzt took the cup in trembling hands—hands that trembled more when Drizzt realized they were no longer black—and raised it to his face. The reflection was poor—even poorer in the morning light to the drow’s night eyes—but Drizzt could not mistake the image before him. His features had not changed, but his black skin now held the golden hue of a surface elf. And his flowing hair, once stark white, showed lustrous yellow, as shiny as if it had caught the rays of the sun and held them fast.

Only Drizzt’s eyes remained as they had been, deep pools of brilliant lavender. No magic could dim their gleam, and Drizzt felt some small measure of relief, at least, that his inner person had apparently remained untainted.

Yet he did not know how to react to this blatant alteration. Embarrassed, he looked to Wulfgar for approval.

Wulfgar’s visage had turned sour. “By all the measures known to me, you appear as any other handsome elven warrior,” he answered to Drizzt’s inquiring gaze. “And surely a maiden or two will blush and turn her eyes when you stride by.”

Drizzt looked to the ground and tried to hide his uneasiness with the assessment.

“But I like it not,” Wulfgar continued sincerely. “Not at all.” Drizzt looked back to him uncomfortably, almost sheepishly.

“And I like the look upon your face, the discomfort of your spirit, even less,” Wulfgar continued, now apparently a bit perturbed. “I am a warrior who has faced giants and dragons without fear. But I would pale at the notion of battling Drizzt Do’Urden. Remember who you are, noble ranger.”

A smile found its way onto Drizzt’s face. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “Of all the challenges I have faced, this is perhaps the most trying.”

“I prefer you without the thing,” said Wulfgar.

“As do I,” came another voice from behind them. They turned to see a middle-aged man, well muscled and tall, walking toward them. He seemed casual enough, wearing simple clothes and sporting a neatly trimmed black beard. His hair, too, was black, though speckles of silver edged it.

“Greetings, Wulfgar and Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said with a graceful bow. “I am Khelben, an associate of Malchor. That most magnificent Harpell bade me to watch for your arrival.”

“A wizard?” Wulfgar asked, not really meaning to speak his thoughts aloud.

Khelben shrugged. “A forester,” he replied, “with a love for painting, though I daresay that I am not very good at it.”

Drizzt studied Khelben, not believing either of his disclaimers. The man had an aura of distinction about him, a distinguished manner and confidence befitting a lord. By Drizzt’s measure, Khelben was more likely Malchor’s peer, at least. And if the man truly loved to paint, Drizzt had no doubt that he had perfected the art as well as any in the North. “A guide through Waterdeep?” Drizzt asked.

“A guide to a guide,” Khelben answered. “I know of your quest and your needs. Passage on a ship is not an easy thing to come by this late in the year, unless you know where to inquire. Come, now, to the south gate, where we might find one who knows.” He found his mount a short distance away and led them to the south at an easy trot.

They passed the sheer cliff that protected the city’s eastern border, a hundred feet high at its peak. And where the cliff sloped down to sea level, they found another city wall. Khelben veered away from the city at this point, though the south gate was now in sight, and indicated a grassy knoll topped by a single willow.

A small man jumped down from the tree as they breached the knoll, his dark eyes darting nervously about. He was no pauper, by his dress, and his uneasiness when they approached only added to Drizzt’s suspicions that Khelben was more than he had presumed.

“Ah, Orlpar, so good of you to come,” Khelben said casually. Drizzt and Wulfgar exchanged knowing smiles; the man had been given no choice in the matter.

“Greetings,” Orlpar said quickly, wanting to finish the business as expediently as possible. “The passage is secured. Have you the payment?”

“When?” Khelben asked.

“A week,” replied Orlpar. “The Coast Dancer puts out in a week.”

Khelben did not miss the worried looks that Drizzt and Wulfgar now exchanged. “That is too long,” he told Orlpar. “Every sailor in port owes you a favor. My friends cannot wait.”

“These arrangements take time!” Orlpar argued, his voice rising. But then, as if he suddenly remembered who he was addressing, he shrank back and dropped his eyes.

“Too long,” Khelben reiterated calmly.

Orlpar stroked his face, searching for some solution. “Deudermont,” he said, looking hopefully to Khelben. “Captain Deudermont takes the Sea Sprite out this very night. A fairer man you’ll not find, but I do not know how far south he will venture. And the price will be high.”

“Ah,” Khelben smiled, “but fear not, my little friend. I have wondrous barter for you this day.”

Orlpar looked at him suspiciously. “You said gold.”

“Better than gold,” Khelben replied. “Three days from Longsaddle my friends have come, but their mounts have not broken even a sweat!”

“Horses?” balked Orlpar.

“Nay, not the steeds,” said Khelben. “Their shoes. Magical shoes that can carry a horse like the wind itself!”

“My business is with sailors!” Orlpar protested as vigorously as he dared. “What use would I find with horseshoes?”

“Calm, calm, Orlpar,” Khelben said softly with a wink. “Remember your brother’s embarrassment? You will find some way to turn magical horseshoes into profit, I know.”

Orlpar took a deep breath to blow away his anger. Khelben obviously had him cornered. “Have these two at the Mermaid’s Arms,” he said. “I will see what I can do.” With that, he turned and, trotted off down the hill toward the south gate.

“You handled him with ease,” Drizzt remarked.

“I held every advantage,” Khelben replied. “Orlpar’s brother heads a noble house in the city. At times, this proves a great benefit to Orlpar. Yet, it is also a hindrance, for he must take care not to bring public embarrassment to his family.

“But enough of that business,” Khelben continued. “You may leave the horses with me. Off with you, now, to the south gate. The guards there will guide you to Dock Street, and from there you will have little trouble finding the Mermaid’s Arms.”

“You are not to come with us?” asked Wulfgar, slipping down from his saddle.

“I have other business,” Khelben explained. “It is better that you go alone. You will be safe enough; Orlpar would not cross me, and Captain Deudermont is known to me as an honest seaman. Strangers are common in Waterdeep, especially down in the Dock Ward.”

“But strangers wandering beside Khelben, the painter, might draw attention,” Drizzt reasoned with good-humored sarcasm.

Khelben smiled but did not answer.

Drizzt dropped from his saddle. “The horses are to be returned to Longsaddle?”

“Of course.”

“Our thanks to you, Khelben,” said Drizzt. “Surely you have aided our cause greatly.” Drizzt thought for a moment, eyeing his horse. “You must know that the enchantment Malchor put on the shoes will not remain. Orlpar will not profit from the deal he made this day.”

“Justice,” chuckled Khelben. “That one has turned many an unfair deal, let me assure you. Perhaps this experience will teach him humility and the error of his ways.”

“Perhaps,” said Drizzt, and with a bow, he and Wulfgar started down the hill.

“Keep your guard, but keep your calm,” Khelben called after them. “Ruffians are not unknown on the docks, but the police are ever-present. Many a stranger spends his first night in the city dungeons!” He watched the two of them descend the knoll and remembered, as Malchor had remembered, those long-ago days when it was he who followed the roads to distant adventures.

“He had the man cowed,” Wulfgar remarked when he and Drizzt were out of Khelben’s earshot. “A simple painter?”

“More likely a wizard—a powerful wizard,” Drizzt replied. “And our thanks again are owed to Malchor, whose influence has eased our way. Mark my words, ‘twas no simple painter that tamed the likes of Orlpar.”

Wulfgar looked back to the knoll, but Khelben and the horses were nowhere to be seen. Even with his limited understanding of the black arts, Wulfgar realized that only magic could have moved Khelben and the three horses from the area so quickly. He smiled and shook his head, and marveled again at the eccentric characters the wide world kept showing him.

Following the directions given to them by the guards at the south gate, Drizzt and Wulfgar were soon strolling down Dock Street, a long lane that ran the length of Waterdeep Harbor on the south side of the city. Fish smells and salty air filled their nostrils, gulls complained overhead, and sailors and mercenaries from every stretch of the Realms wandered about, some busy at work, but most ashore for their last rest before the long journey to points south.

Dock Street was well outfitted for such merrymaking; every corner held a tavern. But unlike the city of Luskan’s dockside, which had been given over to the rabble by the lords of the city long ago, Dock Street in Waterdeep was not an evil place. Waterdeep was a city of laws, and members of the Watch, Waterdeep’s famed city guard, seemed always in sight.

Hardy adventurers abounded here, battle-hardened warriors that carried their weapons with cool familiarity. Still, Drizzt and Wulfgar, found many eyes focused upon them, with almost every head turning and watching as they passed. Drizzt felt for his mask, at first worrying that it had somehow slipped off and revealed his heritage to the amazed onlookers. A quick inspection dispelled his fears, for his hands still showed the golden luster of a surface elf.

And Drizzt nearly laughed aloud when he turned to ask Wulfgar for confirmation that the mask still disguised his facial features, for it was then the dark elf realized that he was not the object of the gawks. He had been so close to the young barbarian for the last few years that he was used to Wulfgar’s physical stature. Nearly seven feet tall, with corded muscles that thickened every year, Wulfgar strode down Dock Street with the easy air of sincere confidence, Aegis-fang bouncing casually on one shoulder. Even among the greatest warriors in the Realms, this young man would standout.

“For once, it seems that I am not the target of the stares,” said Drizzt.

“Take off the mask, drow,” Wulfgar replied, his face reddening with a rush of blood. “And take their eyes from me!”

“I would, but for Regis,” Drizzt answered with a wink.

The Mermaid’s Arms was no different that any other of the multitude of taverns that laced this section of Waterdeep. Shouts and cheers drifted out of the place, on air heavily scented with cheap ale and wine. A group of rowdies, pushing and shoving each other and throwing curses to the men they called friends, had gathered in front of the door…

Drizzt looked at Wulfgar with concern. The only other time the young man had been in such a place—at the Cutlass in Luskan—Wulfgar had torn apart the tavern, and most of its patrons, in a brawl. Clinging to ideals of honor and courage, Wulfgar was out of place in the unprincipled world of city taverns.

Orlpar came out of the Mermaid’s Arms then and sifted adeptly through the rowdy crowd. “Deudermont is at the bar,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. He passed Drizzt and Wulfgar and appeared to take no notice of them. “Tall; blue jacket and yellow beard,” added Orlpar.

Wulfgar started to respond, but Drizzt kept him moving forward, understanding Orlpar’s preference for secrecy.

The crowd parted as Drizzt and Wulfgar strode through, all their stares squarely on Wulfgar. “Bungo’ll have ‘im,” one of them whispered when the two companions had moved into the bar.

“Be worth the watchin’, though,” chuckled another.

The drow’s keen ears caught the conversation, and he looked again at his huge friend, noting how Wulfgar’s size always seemed to single the barbarian out for such trouble.

The inside of the Mermaid’s Arms offered no surprises. The air hung thick with the smoke of exotic weeds and the stench of stale ale. A few drunken sailors lay facedown on tables or sat propped against walls while others stumbled about, spilling their drinks—often on more sober patrons, who responded by shoving the offenders to the floor. Wulfgar wondered how many of these men had missed the sailing of their ships. Would they stagger about in here until their money ran out, only then to be dropped into the street to face the coming winter penniless and without shelter? “Twice I have seen the bowels of a city,” Wulfgar whispered to Drizzt. “And both times I have been reminded of the pleasures of the open road!”

“The goblins and the dragons?” Drizzt retorted lightheartedly, leading Wulfgar to an empty table near the bar.

“A far lot better than this,” Wulfgar remarked.

A serving wench was upon them before they had even sat down. “What’s yer pleasure?” she asked absently, having long ago lost interest in the patrons she served.

“Water,” Wulfgar answered gruffly.

“And wine,” Drizzt quickly added, handing over a gold piece to dispel the woman’s sudden scowl.

“That must be Deudermont,” Wulfgar said, deflecting any forthcoming scolding concerning his treatment of the wench. He pointed to a tall man leaning over the bar rail.

Drizzt rose at once, thinking it prudent to be done with their business and out of the tavern as quickly as possible. “Hold the table,” he told Wulfgar.

Captain Deudermont was not the average patron of the Mermaid’s Arms. Tall and straight, he was a refined man accustomed to dining with lords and ladies. But as with all of the ship captains who put into Waterdeep Harbor, especially on the day of their departures, Deudermont spent most of his time ashore, keeping a watchful eye on his valued crew and trying to prevent them from winding up in Waterdeep’s overfilled jails.

Drizzt squeezed in next to the captain, brushing away the inquiring look of the barkeep. “We have a common friend,” Drizzt said softly to Deudermont.

“I would hardly number Orlpar among my friends,” the captain replied casually. “But I see that he did not exaggerate about the size and strength of your young friend.”

Deudermont was not the only one who had noticed Wulfgar. As did every other tavern in this section of Waterdeep—and most bars across the Realms—the Mermaid’s Arms had a champion. A bit farther down the bar rail, a massive, hulking slob named Bungo had eyed Wulfgar from the minute the young barbarian had walked through the door. Bungo didn’t like the looks of this one, not in the least. Even more than the corded arms, Wulfgar’s graceful stride and the easy way he carried his huge war hammer revealed a measure of experience beyond his age.

Bungo’s supporters crowded around him in anticipation of the coming brawl, their twisted smiles and beer-reeking breath spurring their champion to action. Normally confident, Bungo had to work to keep his anxiety under control. He had taken many hits in his seven-year reign at the tavern. His frame was bent now, and dozens of bones had been cracked and muscles torn. Looking at the awesome spectacle of Wulfgar, Bungo honestly wondered if he could have won this match even in his healthier youth.

But the regulars of the Mermaid’s Arms looked up to him. This was their domain, and he their champion. They provided his free meals and drinks—Bungo could not let them down.

He quaffed his full mug in a single gulp and pushed himself off the rail. With a final growl to reassure his supporters, and callously tossing aside anyone in his way, Bungo made his way toward Wulfgar.

Wulfgar had seen the group coming before it had ever started moving. This scene was all too familiar to the young barbarian, and he fully expected that he would once again, as had happened at the Cutlass in Luskan, be singled out because of his size.

“What’re ye fer?” Bungo said with a hiss as he towered, hands on hips, over the seated man. The other ruffians spread out around the table, putting Wulfgar squarely within their ring.

Wulfgar’s instincts told him to stand and drop the pretentious slob where he stood. He had no fears about Bungo’s eight friends. He considered them cowards who needed their leader to spur them on. If a single blow put Bungo down—and Wulfgar knew it would—the others would hesitate before striking, a delay that would cost them dearly against the likes of Wulfgar.

But over the last few months, Wulfgar had learned to temper his anger, and he had learned a broader definition of honor. He shrugged, making no move that resembled a threat. “A place to sit and a drink,” he replied calmly. “And who might you be?”

“Name’s Bungo,” said the slob, spittle spraying with every word. He thrust his chest out proudly, as if his name should mean something to Wulfgar.

Again Wulfgar, wiping Bungo’s spray from his face, had to resist his fighting instincts. He and Drizzt had more important business, he reminded himself.

“Who said ye could come to my bar?” Bungo growled, thinking, hoping—that he had put Wulfgar on the defensive. He looked around at his friends, who leaned closer over Wulfgar, heightening the intimidation.

Surely Drizzt would understand the necessity to put this one down, Wulfgar reasoned, his fists tightening at his sides. “One shot,” he muttered silently, looking around at the wretched group, a group that would look better sprawled out unconscious in the corners of the floor.

Wulfgar summoned an image of Regis to ward off his welling rage, but he could not ignore the fact that his hands were now clenched on the rim of the table so tightly that his knuckles had whitened for lack of blood.

“The arrangements?” Drizzt asked.

“Secured,” replied Deudermont. “I’ve room on the Sea Sprite for you, and I welcome the added hands—and blades—especially of such veteran adventurers. But I’ve a suspicion that you might be missing our sailing.” He grasped Drizzt’s shoulder to turn him toward the trouble brewing at Wulfgar’s table.

“Tavern champion and his cronies,” Deudermont explained, “though my bet would be with your friend.”

“Money well placed,” Drizzt replied, “but we have no time…”

Deudermont guided Drizzt’s gaze across to a shadowy corner of the tavern and to four men sitting calmly watching the growing tumult with interest. “The Watch,” Deudermont said. “A fight will cost your friend a night in the dungeons. I cannot hold port.”

Drizzt searched the tavern, looking for some out. All eyes seemed to be closing in on Wulfgar and the ruffians, eagerly anticipating the fight. The drow realized that if he went to the table now, he would probably ignite the whole thing.

Bungo thrust his belly forward, inches from Wulfgar’s face, to display a wide belt notched in a hundred places. “Fer every man I beat,” he boasted. “Give me somethin’ to do on my night in jail.” He pointed at a large cut to the side of the buckle. “Killed that one there. Squashed ‘is head real good. Cost me five nights.”

Wulfgar eased his grip, not impressed, but wary now of the potential consequences of his actions. He had a ship to catch.

“Perhaps it was Bungo I came to see,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“Get ‘im, then!” growled one of the ruffians.

Bungo eyed Wulfgar wickedly. “Come lookin’ fer a fight?”

“Nay, I think not,” Wulfgar retorted. “A fight? Nay, I am but a boy out to see the wide world.”

Bungo could not hide his confusion. He looked around to his friends, who could only shrug in response.

“Sit,” Wulfgar offered. Bungo made no move.

The ruffian behind Wulfgar poked him hard in the shoulder and growled, “What’re ye fer?”

Wulfgar had to consciously catch his own hand before it shot across and squashed the ruffian’s filthy fingers together. But he had control now. He leaned closer to the huge leader. “Not to fight; to watch,” he said quietly. “One day, perhaps, I might deem myself worthy to challenge the likes of Bungo, and on that day I will return, for I have no doubt that you will still be the champion of this tavern. But that day is many years away, I fear. I have so much to learn.”

“Then why’ve ye come?” Bungo demanded, his confidence brimming over. He leaned over Wulfgar, threateningly close.

“I have come to learn,” Wulfgar replied. “To learn by watching the toughest fighter in Waterdeep. To see how Bungo presents himself and goes about his affairs.”

Bungo straightened and looked around at his anxious friends, who were leaning nearly to the point of falling over the table. Bungo flashed his toothless grin, customary before he clobbered a challenger, and the ruffians tensed. But then their champion surprised them, slapping Wulfgar hard on the shoulder—the clap of a friend.

Audible groans issued throughout the tavern as Bungo pulled up a chair to share a drink with the impressive stranger.

“Get ye gone!” the slob roared at his companions. Their faces twisted in disappointment and confusion, but they did not dare disobey. The one behind Wulfgar poked him again for good measure, then followed the others back to the bar.

“A wise move,” Deudermont remarked to Drizzt.

“For both of them,” the drow replied, relaxing against the rail.

“You have other business in the city?” the captain asked.

Drizzt shook his head. “No. Get us to the ship,” he said. “I fear that Waterdeep can bring only trouble.”

A million stars filled the sky that cloudless night. They reached down from the velvety canopy to join with the distant lights of Waterdeep, setting the northern horizon aglow. Wulfgar found Drizzt above decks, sitting quietly in the rolling serenity offered by the sea.

“I should like to return,” Wulfgar said, following his friend’s gaze to the now distant city.

“To settle a score with a drunken ruffian and his wretched friends,” Drizzt concluded.

Wulfgar laughed but stopped abruptly when Drizzt wheeled on him.

“To what end?” Drizzt asked. “Would you then replace him as the champion of the Mermaid’s Arms?”

“That is a life I do not envy,” Wulfgar replied, chuckling again, though this time uncomfortably.

“Then leave it to Bungo,” Drizzt said, turning back to the glow of the city.

Again Wulfgar’s smile faded.

Seconds, minutes perhaps, slipped by, the only sound the slapping of the waves against the prow of the Sea Sprite. On an impulse, Drizzt slid Twinkle from its sheath. The crafted scimitar came to life in his hand, the blade glowing in the starlight that had given Twinkle its name and its enchantment.

“The weapon fits you well,” Wulfgar remarked.

“A fine companion,” Drizzt acknowledged, examining the intricate designs etched along the curving blade. He remembered another magical scimitar he had once possessed, a blade he had found in the lair of a dragon that he and Wulfgar had slain. That blade, too, had been a fine companion. Wrought of ice magic, the scimitar was forged as a bane to creatures of fire, impervious, along with its wielder, to their flames. It had served Drizzt well, even saving him from the certain and painful death of a demon’s fire.

Drizzt cast his gaze back to Wulfgar. “I was thinking of our first dragon,” he explained to the barbarian’s questioning look. “You and I alone in the ice cave against the likes of Icingdeath, an able foe.”

“He would have had us,” Wulfgar added, “had it not been for the luck of that huge icicle hanging above the dragon’s back.”

“Luck?” Drizzt replied. “Perhaps. But more often, I dare to say, luck is simply the advantage a true warrior gains in executing the correct course of action.”

Wulfgar took the compliment in stride; he had been the one to dislodge the pointed icicle, killing the dragon.

“A pity I do not have the scimitar I plundered from Icingdeath’s lair to serve as a companion for Twinkle,” Drizzt remarked.

“True enough,” replied Wulfgar, smiling as he remembered his early adventures beside the drow. “But, alas, that one went over Garumn’s Gorge with Bruenor.”

Drizzt paused and blinked as if cold water had been thrown in his face. A sudden image flooded through his mind, its implications both hopeful and frightening. The image of Bruenor Battlehammer drifting slowly down into the depths of the gorge on the back of a burning dragon.

A burning dragon!

It was the first time Wulfgar had ever noted a tremble in the voice of his normally composed friend, when Drizzt rasped out, “Bruenor had my blade?”

5. Ashes

The room was empty, the fire burning low. The figure knew that there were gray dwarves, duergar, in the side chamber, through the partly opened door, but he had to chance it. This section of the complex was too full of the scum for him to continue along the tunnels without his disguise.

He slipped in from the main corridor and tiptoed past the side door to get to the hearth. He knelt before it and laid his fine mithril axe at his side. The glow of the embers made him flinch instinctively, though he felt no pain as he dipped his finger into the ash.

He heard the side door swing open a few seconds later and rubbed a final handful of the ash over his face, hoping that he had properly covered his telltale red beard and the pale flesh of his long nose all the length to its tip.

“What ye be doin’?” came a croak behind him.

The ash-covered dwarf blew into the embers, and a small flame came to life. “Bit o’ chill,” he answered. “Be needin’ rest.” He rose and turned, lifting the mithril axe beside him.

Two gray dwarves walked across the room to stand before him, their weapons securely sheathed. “Who ye be?” one asked. “Not o’ Clan McUduck, an’ not belongin’ in these tunnels!”

“Tooktook o’ Clan Trilk,” the dwarf lied, using the name of a gray dwarf he had chopped down just the morning before. “Been patrollin’, and been lost! Glad I be to find a room with a hearth!”

The two gray dwarves looked at each other, and then back to the stranger suspiciously. They had heard the reports over the last few weeks—since Shimmergloom, the shadow dragon that had been their god-figure, had fallen—tales of slaughtered duergar, often beheaded, found in the outer tunnels. And why was this one alone? Where was the rest of his patrol? Surely Clan Trilk knew enough to keep out of the tunnels of Clan McUduck.

And, why, one of them noticed, was there a patch of red on this one’s beard?

The dwarf realized their suspicion immediately and knew that he could not keep this charade going for long. “Lost two o’ me kin,” he said. “To a drow.” He smiled when he saw the duergar’s eyes go wide. The mere mention of a drow elf always sent gray dwarves rocking back on their heels—and bought the dwarf a few extra seconds. “But worth it, it were!” he proclaimed, holding the mithril axe up beside his head. “Found me a wicked blade! See?”

Even as one of the duergar leaned forward, awed by the shining weapon, the red-bearded dwarf gave him a closer look, putting the cruel blade deep into his face. The other duergar just managed to get a hand to his sword hilt when he got hit with a backhand blow that drove the butt of the axe handle into his eye. He stumbled back, reeling, but knew through the blur of pain that he was finished a full second before the mithril axe sliced the side of his neck.

Two more duergar burst in from the anteroom, their weapons drawn. “Get help!” one of them screamed, leaping into the fight. The other bolted for the door.

Again, luck was with the red-bearded dwarf. He kicked hard at an object on the floor, launching it toward the fleeing duergar, while parrying the first blow of his newest opponent with his golden shield.

The fleeing duergar was only a couple of strides from the corridor when something rolled between his feet, tripping him up and sending him sprawling to the floor. He got back to his knees quickly but hesitated, fighting back a gush of bile, when he saw what he had stumbled over.

The head of his kin.

The red-bearded dwarf danced away from another strike, rushing across the room to shield-slam the now-kneeling duergar, smashing the unfortunate creature into the stone wall.

But the dwarf, overbalanced in the fury of his rush, was down on one knee when the remaining duergar caught up to him. The intruder swung his shield back above him to block a downward thrust of the duergar’s sword, and countered with a low sweep of his axe, aiming for the knees.

The duergar sprang back just in time, taking a nick on one leg, and before he could fully recover and come back with a counter, the red-bearded dwarf was up and at the ready.

“Yer bones are for carrion-eaters!” the dwarf growled.

“Who ye be?” the duergar demanded. “Not o’ me kin, fer sure!”

A white smile spread across the dwarf’s ash-covered face. “Battlehammer’s me name,” he growled, displaying the standard emblazoned upon his shield—the foaming mug emblem of Clan Battlehammer. “Bruenor Battlehammer, rightful king of Mithril Hall!”

Bruenor chuckled softly to see the gray dwarf’s face blanch to white. The duergar stumbled back toward the door of the anteroom, understanding now that he was no match for this mighty foe. In desperation, he spun and fled, trying to slam the door shut behind him.

But Bruenor guessed what the duergar had in mind, and he got his heavy boot through the door before it could close. The mighty dwarf slammed his shoulder into the hard wood, sending the duergar flying back into the small room and knocking aside a table and chair.

Bruenor strode in confidently, never fearing even odds.

With no escape, the gray dwarf rushed back at him wildly, his shield leading and his sword above his head. Bruenor easily blocked the downward thrust, then smashed his axe into the duergar’s shield. It, too, was of mithril, and the axe could not cut into it. But so great was Bruenor’s blow that the leather strappings snapped apart and the duergar’s arm went numb and drooped helplessly. The duergar screamed in terror and brought his short sword across his chest to protect his opened flank.

Bruenor followed the duergar’s sword arm with a shield-rush, shoving into his opponent’s elbow and causing the duergar to overbalance. In a lightning combination with his axe, Bruenor slipped the deadly blade over the duergar’s dipped shoulder.

A second head dropped free to the floor.

Bruenor grunted at the job well done and moved back into the larger room. The duergar beside the door was just regaining consciousness when Bruenor came up to him and shield-slammed him back into the wall. “Twenty-two,” he mumbled to himself, keeping count of the number of gray dwarves he had cut down during these last few weeks.

Bruenor peeked out into the dark corridor. All was clear. He closed the door softly and went back to the hearth to touch up his disguise.

Following the wild descent to the bottom of Garumn’s Gorge on the back of a flaming dragon, Bruenor had lost consciousness. Truly he was amazed when he managed to open his eyes. He knew the dragon to be dead as soon as he looked around, but he couldn’t understand why he, still lying atop the smoldering form, had not been burned.

The gorge had been quiet and dark around him; he could not begin to guess how long he had remained unconscious. He knew, though, that his friends, if they had escaped, would probably have made their way out through the back door, to the safety of the surface.

And Drizzt was alive! The image of the drow’s lavender eyes staring at him from the wall of the gorge as the dragon had glided past in its descent remained firmly etched in Bruenor’s mind. Even now, weeks later as far as he could figure, he used that image of the indomitable Drizzt Do’Urden as a litany against the hopelessness of his own situation. For Bruenor could not climb from the bottom of the gorge, where the walls rose straight and sheer. His only option had been to slip into the sole tunnel running off the chasm’s base and make his way though the lower mines.

And through an army of gray dwarves—duergar even more alert, for the dragon Bruenor had killed, Shimmergloom, had been their leader.

He had come far, and each step he took brought him a little closer to the freedom of the surface. But each step also brought him closer to the main host of the duergar. Even now he could hear the thrumming of the furnaces of the great undercity, no doubt teeming with the gray scum. Bruenor knew that he had to pass through there to get to the tunnels connecting the higher levels.

But even here, in the darkness of the mines, his disguise could not hold out to close scrutiny. How would he fare in the glow of the undercity, with a thousand gray dwarves milling all about him?

Bruenor shook away the thought and rubbed more ash onto his face. No need to worry now; he’d find his way through. He gathered up his axe and shield and headed for the door.

He shook his head and smiled as he approached, for the stubborn duergar beside the door was awake again—barely—and struggling to find his feet.

Bruenor slammed him into the wall a third time and casually dropped the axe blade onto his head as he slumped, this time never to awaken. “Twenty-two,” the mighty dwarf reiterated grimly as he stepped into the corridor.

The sound of the closing door echoed through the darkness, and when it died away, Bruenor heard again the thrumming of the furnaces.

The undercity, his only chance.

He steadied himself with a deep breath, then slapped his axe determinedly against his shield and started stomping along the corridor toward the beckoning sound.

It was time to get things done.

The corridor twisted and turned, finally ending in a low archway that opened into a brightly lit cavern.

For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Bruenor Battlehammer looked down upon the great undercity of Mithril Hall. Set in a huge chasm, with walls tiered into steps and lined with decorated doorways, this massive chamber had once housed the entirety of Clan Battlehammer with many rooms to spare.

The place had remained exactly as the dwarf remembered it, and now, as in those distant years of his youth, many of the furnaces were bright with fire and the floor level teemed with the hunched forms of dwarven workers. How many times had young Bruenor and his friends looked down upon the magnificence of this place and heard the chiming of the smithies’ hammers and the heavy sighing of the huge bellows? he wondered.

Bruenor spat away the pleasant memories when he reminded himself that these hunched workers were evil duergar, not his kin. He brought his mind back into the present and the task at hand. Somehow he had to get across the open floor and up the tiers on the far side, to a tunnel that would take him higher in the complex.

A shuffle of boots sent Bruenor back into the shadows of the tunnel. He gripped his axe tightly and didn’t dare to breathe, wondering if the time of his last glory had finally caught up to him. A patrol of heavily armed duergar marched up to the archway then continued past, giving only a casual glance down the tunnel.

Bruenor sighed deeply and scolded himself for his delay. He could not afford to tarry; every moment he spent in this area was a dangerous gamble. Quickly he searched for options. He was about halfway up one wall, five tiers from the floor. One bridge, at the highest tier, traversed the chasm, but no doubt it would be heavily guarded. Walking alone up there, away from the bustle of the floor, would make him too conspicuous.

Across the busy floor seemed a better route. The tunnels halfway up the other wall, almost directly across from where he now stood, would lead him to the western end of the complex, back to the hall he had first entered on his return to Mithril Hall, and to the open valley of Keeper’s Dale beyond. It was his best chance, by his estimation—if he could get across the open floor.

He peeked out under the archway for any signs of the returning patrol. Satisfied that all was clear, he reminded himself that he was a king, the rightful king of the complex, and boldly stepped out onto the tier. The closest steps, down were to the right, but the patrol had headed that way and Bruenor thought it wise to keep clear of them.

His confidence grew with each step. He passed a couple of gray dwarves, answering their casual greetings with a quick nod and never slowing his stride.

He descended one tier and then another, and before he even had time to consider his progress, Bruenor found himself bathed in the bright light of the huge furnaces at the final descent, barely fifteen feet from the floor. He crouched instinctively at the glow of the light, but he realized on a rational level that the brightness was actually his ally. Duergar were creatures of the dark, not accustomed to, nor liking, the light. Those on the floor kept their hoods pulled low to shield their eyes, and Bruenor did likewise, only improving his disguise. With the apparently unorganized movements on the floor, he began to believe that the crossing would be easy.

He moved out slowly at first, gathering speed as he went, but staying in a crouch, the collar of his cloak pulled up tightly around his cheeks, and his battered, one-horned helmet dipped low over his brow. Trying to maintain an air of easiness, Bruenor kept his shield arm at his side, but his other hand rested comfortably on his belted axe. If it came to blows, Bruenor was determined to be ready.

He passed by the three central forges—and the cluster of duergar they attracted—without incident, then waited patiently as a small caravan of ore-filled wheelbarrows were carted by. Bruenor, trying to keep the easy, cordial atmosphere, nodded to the passing band, but bile rose in his throat as he saw the mithril load in the carts and at the thought of the gray scum extracting the precious metals from the walls of his hallowed homeland.

“Ye’ll be paid for yer troubles,” he mumbled under his breath. He rubbed a sleeve over his brow. He had forgotten how very hot the bottom area of the undercity became when the furnaces were burning. As with everyone else there, streaks of sweat began to make their way down his face.

Bruenor thought nothing of the discomfort at first, but then the last of the passing miners gave him a curious sidelong glance.

Bruenor hunched even lower and quickly stepped away, realizing the effect his sweating would have on his feeble disguise. By the time he reached the first stair on the other side of the chasm, his face was fully streaked and parts of his whiskers were showing their true hue.

Still, he thought he might make it. But halfway up the stair, disaster struck. Concentrating more on hiding his face, Bruenor stumbled and bumped into a duergar soldier standing two steps above him. Reflexively Bruenor looked up, and his eyes met with the duergar’s.

The dumbfounded stare of the gray dwarf told Bruenor beyond any doubt that the ploy was over. The gray dwarf went for his sword, but Bruenor didn’t have time for a pitched battle. He drove his head between the duergar’s knees—shattering one kneecap with the remaining horn of his helmet—and heaved the duergar behind him and down the stairs.

Bruenor glanced around. Few had noticed, and fights were commonplace among the duergar ranks. Casually he started again up the stairs.

But the soldier was still conscious after he crashed to the floor and still coherent enough to point a finger up to the tier and shout, “Stop ‘im!”

Bruenor lost all hope of remaining inconspicuous. He pulled out his mithril axe and tore along the tier toward the next stair. Cries of alarm sprang up throughout the chasm. A general commotion of spilled wheelbarrows, the clanging of weapons being drawn, and the thumping of booted feet closed in around Bruenor. Just as he was about to turn onto the next stairway, two guards leaped down in front of him.

“What’s the trouble?” one of them cried, confused and not understanding that the dwarf they now faced had been the cause of the commotion. In horror, the two guards recognized Bruenor for what he was just as his axe tore the face off one and he shoulder-blocked the other off the tier.

Then up the stairs he sprinted, only to reverse his tracks as a patrol appeared at the top. Hundreds of gray dwarves rushed all about the undercity, their focus increasing on Bruenor.

Bruenor found another stair and got to the second tier.

But he stopped there, trapped. A dozen duergar soldiers came at him from both directions, their weapons drawn.

Bruenor scanned the area desperately. The tumult had brought more than a hundred of the gray dwarves on the floor rushing over to, and up, the original stair he had climbed.

A broad smile found the dwarf’s face as he considered a desperate plan. He looked again at the charging soldiers and knew that he had no choice. He saluted the groups, adjusted his helmet and dropped suddenly from the tier, crashing down into the crowd that had assembled on the tier below him. Without losing his momentum, Bruenor continued his roll to the ledge, dropping along with several unfortunate gray dwarves, onto another group on the floor.

Bruenor was up in a flash, chopping his way through. The surprised duergar in the crowd climbed over each other to get out of the way of the wild dwarf and his deadly axe, and in seconds, Bruenor was sprinting unhindered across the floor.

Bruenor stopped and looked all around. Where could he go now? Dozens of duergar stood between him and any of the exits from the undercity, and they grew more organized with every second.

One soldier charged him, only to be chopped down in a single blow. “Come on, then!” Bruenor shouted defiantly, figuring to take a fair share and more of the duergar down with him. “Come on, as many as will! Know the rage of the true king o’ Mithril Hall!”

A crossbow quarrel clanked into his shield, taking a bit of the bluster out of his boastings. More on instinct than conscious thought, the dwarf darted suddenly for the single unguarded path—the roaring furnaces. He dropped the mithril axe into his belt loop and never slowed. Fire hadn’t harmed him on the back of the falling dragon, and the warmth of the ashes he’d rubbed on his face never seemed to touch his skin.

And once again, standing in the center of the open furnace, Bruenor found himself impervious to the flames. He didn’t have time to ponder this mystery and could only guess the protection from fire to be a property of the magical armor he had donned when he had first entered Mithril Hall.

But in truth, it was Drizzt’s lost scimitar, neatly strapped under Bruenor’s pack and almost forgotten by the dwarf, that had once again saved him.

The fire hissed in protest and started to burn low when the magical blade came in. But it roared back to life as Bruenor quickly started up the chimney. He heard the shouts of the astonished duergar behind him, along with cries to get the fire out. Then one voice rose above the others in a commanding tone. “Smoke ‘im!” it cried.

Rags were wetted and thrown into the blaze, and great bursts of billowing gray smoke closed in around Bruenor. Soot filled his eyes and he could find no breath, still he had no choice but to continue his ascent. Blindly he searched for cracks into which he could wedge his stubby fingers and pulled himself along with all of his strength.

He knew that he would surely die if he inhaled, but he had no breath left, and his lungs cried out in pain.

Unexpectedly he found a hole in the wall and nearly fell in from his momentum. A side tunnel? he wondered, astonished. He then remembered that all of the chimneys of the undercity had been interconnected to aid in their cleaning.

Bruenor pulled himself away from the rush of smoke and curled up inside the new passage. He tried to wipe the soot from his eyes as his lungs mercifully took in a deep draft, but he only aggravated the sting with his soot-covered sleeve. He couldn’t see the blood flowing over his hands, but could guess at the extent of his wounds from the sharp ache along his fingernails.

As exhausted as he was, he knew that he could afford no delays. He crawled along the little tunnel, hoping that the furnace below the next chimney he came to was not in use.

The floor dropped away in front of him, and Bruenor almost tumbled down another shaft. No smoke, he noted, and with a wall as broken and climbable as the first. He tightened down all of his equipment, adjusted his helmet one more time, and inched out, blindly seeking a handhold and ignoring the aches in his shoulders and fingers. Soon he was moving steadily again.

But seconds seemed like minutes, and minutes like hours, to the weary dwarf, and he found himself resting as much as climbing, his breaths coming in heavy labored gasps. During one such rest, Bruenor thought he heard a shuffle above him. He paused to consider the sound. These shafts should not connect to any higher side passages, or to the overcity, he thought. Their ascent is straight to the open air of the surface. Bruenor strained to look upward through his soot-filled eyes. He knew that he had heard a sound.

The riddle was solved suddenly, as a monstrous form shuffled down the shaft beside Bruenor’s precarious perch and great, hairy legs began flailing at him. The dwarf knew his peril at once.

A giant spider.

Venom-dripping pincers tore a gash into Bruenor’s forearm. He ignored the pain and the possible implications of the wound and reacted with matched fury. He drove himself up the shaft, butting his head into the bulbous body of the wretched thing, and pushed off from the walls with all his strength.

The spider locked its deadly pincers onto a heavy boot and flailed with as many legs as it could spare while holding its position.

Only one course of attack seemed feasible to the desperate dwarf: dislodge the spider. He grasped at the hairy legs, twisting himself to snap them as he caught them, or at least to pull them from their hold on the wall. His arm burned with the sting of poison, and his foot, though his boot had repelled the pincers, was twisted and probably broken.

But he had no time to think of the pain. With a growl, he grabbed another leg and snapped it apart.

Then they were falling.

The spider—stupid thing—curled up as best it could and released its hold on the dwarf. Bruenor felt the rush of air and the closeness of the wall as they sped along. He could only hope that the shaft was straight enough to keep them clear of any sharp edges. He climbed as far over the spider as he could, putting the bulk of its body between himself and the coming impact.

They landed in a great splat. The air blasted from Bruenor’s lungs, but with the wet explosion of the spider beneath him, he sustained no serious wounds. He still could not see, but he realized that he must again be on the floor level of the undercity, though luckily—for he heard no cries of alarm—in a less busy section. Dazed but undaunted, the stubborn dwarf picked himself up and wiped the spider fluid from his hands.

“Sure to be a mother’s mother of a rainstorm tomorrow,” he muttered, remembering an old dwarven superstition against killing spiders. And he started back up the shaft, dismissing the pain in his hands, the ache in his ribs and foot, and the poisoned burn of his forearm.

And any thoughts of more spiders lurking up ahead.

He climbed for hours, stubbornly putting one hand over the other and pulling himself up. The insidious spider venom swept through him with waves of nausea and sapped the strength from his arms. But Bruenor was tougher than mountain stone. He might die from his wound, but he was determined that it would happen outside, in the free air, under the stars or the sun.

He would escape Mithril Hall.

A cold blast of wind shook the exhaustion from him. He looked up hopefully but still could not see—perhaps it was nighttime outside. He studied the whistle of the wind for a moment and knew that he was only yards from his goal. A burst of adrenaline carried him to the chimney’s exit—and the iron grate that blocked it.

“Damn ye by Moradin’s hammer!” Bruenor spat. He leaped from the walls and grasped the bars of the grate with his bloodied fingers. The bars bent under his weight but held fast.

“Wulfgar could break it,” Bruenor said, half in exhausted delirium. “Lend me yer strength, me big friend,” he called out to the darkness as he began tugging and twisting.

Hundreds of miles away, caught up in nightmares of his lost mentor, Bruenor, Wulfgar tossed uneasily in his bunk on the Sea Sprite. Perhaps the spirit of the young barbarian did come to Bruenor’s aid at that desperate moment, but more likely the dwarf’s unyielding stubbornness proved stronger than the iron. A bar of the grate bent low enough to slip out of the stone wall, and Bruenor held it free.

Hanging by one hand, Bruenor dropped the bar into the emptiness below him. With a wicked smile he hoped that some duergar scum might, at that instant, be at the bottom of the chimney, inspecting the dead spider and looking upward to find the cause.

Bruenor pulled himself halfway through the small hole he had opened, but had not the strength to squeeze his hips and belt through. Thoroughly drained, he accepted the perch, though his legs were dangling freely over a thousand-foot drop.

He put his head on the iron bars and knew no more.

6. Baldur’s Gate

“To de rail! To de rail!” cried one voice.

“Toss ‘em over!” agreed another. The mob of sailors crowded closer, brandishing curved swords and clubs.

Entreri stood calmly in the midst of the storm, Regis nervously beside him. The assassin did not understand the crew’s sudden fit of anger, but he guessed that the sneaky halfling was somehow behind it. He hadn’t drawn weapons; he knew he could have his saber and dagger readied whenever he needed them, and none of the sailors, for all their bluster and threats, had yet come within ten feet of him.

The captain of the ship, a squat, waddling man with stiff gray bristles, pearly white teeth, and eyes tightened in a perpetual squint, made his way out from his cabin to investigate the ruckus.

“To me, Redeye,” he beckoned the grimy sailor who had first brought to his ears the rumor that the passengers were infected with a horrible disease—and who had obviously spread the tale to the other members of the crew. Redeye obeyed at once, following his captain through the parting mob to stand before Entreri and Regis.

The captain slowly took out his pipe and tamped down the weed, his eyes never releasing Entreri’s from a penetrating gaze.

“Send ‘em over!” came an occasional cry, but each time, the captain silenced the speaker with a wave of his hand. He wanted a full measure of these strangers before he acted, and he patiently let the moments pass as he lit the pipe and took a long drag.

Entreri never blinked and never looked away from the captain. He brought his cloak back behind the scabbards on his belt and crossed his arms, the calm and confident action conveniently putting each of his hands in position barely an inch from the hilts of his weapons.

“Ye should have told me, sir,” the captain said at length.

“Your words are as unexpected as the actions of your crew,” Entreri replied evenly.

“Indeed,” the captain answered, drawing another puff.

Some of the crew were not as patient as their skipper. One barrel-chested man, his arms heavily muscled and tattooed, grew weary of the drama. He boldly stepped behind the assassin, meaning to toss him overboard and be done with him.

Just as the sailor started to reach out for the assassin’s slender shoulders, Entreri exploded into motion, spinning and returning to his cross-armed pose so quickly that the sailors watching him tried to blink the sun out of their eyes and figure out whether he had moved at all.

The barrel-chested man slumped to his knees and fell face down on the deck, for in that blink of an eye, a heel had smashed his kneecap, and, even more insidious, a jeweled dagger had come out of its sheath, poked his heart, and returned to rest on the assassin’s hip.

“Your reputation precedes you,” the captain said, not flinching.

“I pray that I do it justice,” Entreri replied with a sarcastic bow.

“Indeed,” said the captain. He motioned to the fallen man. “Might his friends see to his aid?”

“He is already dead,” Entreri assured the captain. “If any of his friends truly wish to go to him, let them, too, step forward.”

“They are scared,” the captain explained. “They have witnessed many terrible diseases in ports up and down the Sword Coast.”

“Disease?” Entreri echoed.

“Your companion let on to it,” said the captain.

A smile widened across Entreri’s face as it all came clear to him. Lightning quick, he tore the cloak from Regis and caught the halfling’s bare wrist, pulling him up off his feet and shooting a glare into the halfling’s terror-filled eyes that promised a slow and painful death. Immediately Entreri noticed the scars on Regis’s arm.

“Burns?” He gawked.

“Aye, that’s how the little one says it happens,” Redeye shouted, sinking back behind his captain when Entreri’s glare settled upon him. “Burns from the inside, it does!”

“Burns from a candle, more likely,” Entreri retorted. “Inspect the wounds for yourself,” he said to the captain. “There is no disease here, just the desperate tricks of a cornered thief,” He dropped Regis to the deck with a thud.

Regis lay very still, not even daring to breathe. The situation had not evolved quite as he had hoped.

“Toss ‘em over!” cried an anonymous voice.

“Not fer chancin’!” yelled another.

“How many do you need to sail your ship?” Entreri asked the captain. “How many can you afford to lose?”

The captain, having seen the assassin in action and knowing the man’s reputation, did not for a moment consider the simple questions as idle threats. Furthermore, the stare Entreri now fixed upon him told him without doubt that he would be the initial target if his crew moved against the assassin.

“I will trust in your word,” he said commandingly, silencing the grumbles of his nervous crew. “No need to inspect the wounds. But, disease or no, our deal is ended.” He looked pointedly to his dead crewman.

“I do not mean to swim to Calimport,” Entreri said in a hiss.

“Indeed,” replied the captain. “We put in at Baldur’s Gate in two days. You shall find other passage there.”

“And you shall repay me,” Entreri said calmly, “every gold piece.”

The captain drew another long drag from his pipe. This was not a battle he would choose to fight. “Indeed,” he said with equal calm. He turned toward his cabin and ordered his crew back to their stations as he went.

He remembered the lazy summer days on the banks of Maer Dualdon in Icewind Dale. How many hours he had spent there, fishing for the elusive knucklehead trout, or just basking in the rare warmth of Icewind Dale’s summer sun. Looking back on his years in Ten-Towns, Regis could hardly believe the course fate had laid out for him.

He thought he had found his niche, a comfortable existence—more comfortable still with the aid of the stolen ruby pendant—in a lucrative career as a scrimshander, carving the ivorylike bone of the knucklehead into marvelous little trinkets. But then came that fateful day, when Artemis Entreri showed up in Bryn Shander, the town Regis had come to call home, and sent the halfling scampering down the road to adventure with his friends.

But even Drizzt, Bruenor, Catti-brie, and Wulfgar had not been able to protect him from Entreri.

The memories provided small comfort to him as several grueling hours of solitude in the locked cabin slipped by. Regis would have liked to hide away in pleasant recollections of his past, but invariably his thoughts led back to the awful present, and he found himself wondering how he would be punished for his failed deception. Entreri had been composed, even amused, after the incident on the deck, leading Regis down to the cabin and then disappearing without a word.

Too composed, Regis thought.

But that was part of the assassin’s mystique. No man knew Artemis Entreri well enough to call him friend, and no enemy could figure the man out well enough to gain an even footing against him.

Regis shrank back against the wall when Entreri at last arrived, sweeping through the door and over to the room’s table without so much as a sidelong glance at the halfling. The assassin sat, brushing back his ink-black hair and eyeing the single candle burning on the table.

“A candle,” he muttered, obviously amused. He looked at Regis. “You have a trick or two, halfling,” he chuckled.

Regis was not smiling. No sudden warmth had come into Entreri’s heart, he knew, and he’d be damned if he let the assassin’s jovial facade take his guard down.

“A worthy ploy,” Entreri continued. “And effective. It may take us a week to gain passage south from Baldur’s Gate. An extra week for your friends to close the distance. I had not expected you to be so daring.”

The smile left his face suddenly, and his tone was noticeably more grim when he added, “I did not believe that you would be so ready to suffer the consequences.”

Regis cocked his head to study the man’s every movement. “Here it comes,” he whispered under his breath.

“Of course there are consequences, little fool. I commend your attempt—I hope you will give me more excitement on this tedious journey! But I cannot belay punishment. Doing so would take the dare, and thus the excitement, out of your trickery.”

He slipped up from his seat and started around the table. Regis sublimated his scream and closed his eyes; he knew that he had no escape.

The last thing he saw was the jeweled dagger turning over slowly in the assassin’s hand.

They made the River Chionthar the next afternoon and bucked the currents with a strong sea breeze filling their sails. By nightfall, the upper tiers of the city of Baldur’s Gate lined the eastern horizon, and when the last hints of daylight disappeared from the sky, the lights of the great port marked their course as a beacon. But the city did not allow access to the docks after sunset, and the ship dropped anchor a half-mile out.

Regis, finding sleep impossible, heard Entreri stir much later that night. The halfling shut his eyes tightly and forced himself into a rhythm of slow, heavy breathing. He had no idea of Entreri’s intent, but whatever the assassin was about, Regis didn’t want him even suspecting that he was awake.

Entreri didn’t give him a second thought. As silent as a cat—as silent as death—the assassin slipped through the cabin door. Twenty-five crewmen manned the ship, but after the long day’s sail, and with Baldur’s Gate awaiting the first light of dawn, only four of them would likely be awake.

The assassin slipped through the crew’s barracks, following the light of a single candle at the rear of the ship. In the galley, the cook busily prepared the morning’s breakfast of thick soup in a huge cauldron. Singing as he always did when he was at work, the cook paid no attention to his surroundings. But even if he had been quiet and alert, he probably would not have heard the slight footfalls behind him.

He died with his face in the soup.

Entreri moved back through the barracks, where twenty more died without a sound. Then he went up to the deck.

The moon hung full in the sky that night, but even a sliver of a shadow was sufficient for the skilled assassin, and Entreri knew well the routines of the watch. He had spent many nights studying the movements of the lookouts, preparing himself, as always, for the worst possible scenario. Timing the steps of the two watchmen on deck, he slithered up the mainmast, his jeweled dagger in his teeth.

An easy spring of his taught muscles brought him into the crow’s nest.

Then there were two.

Back down on deck, Entreri moved calmly and openly to the rail. “A ship!” he called, pointing into the gloom. “Closing on us!”

Instinctively the two remaining watchmen rushed to the assassin’s side and strained their eyes to see the peril in the dark—until the flash of a dagger told them of the deception.

Only the captain remained.

Entreri could easily have picked the lock on his cabin door and killed the man in his sleep, but the assassin wanted a more dramatic ending to his work; he wanted the captain to fully understand the doom that had befallen his ship that night. Entreri moved to the door, which opened onto the deck, and took out his tools and a length of fine wire.

A few minutes later, he was back at his own cabin, rousing Regis. “One sound, and I’ll take your tongue,” he warned the halfling.

Regis now understood what was happening. If the crew got to the docks at Baldur’s Gate, they would no doubt spread the rumors of the deadly killer and his “diseased” friend, making Entreri’s search for passage south impossible to fulfill.

The assassin wouldn’t allow that at any cost, and Regis could not help but feel responsible for the carnage that night.

He moved quietly, helplessly, beside Entreri through the barracks, noting the absence of snores, and the quiet of the galley beyond. Surely the dawn was approaching; surely the cook would be hard at work preparing the morning meal. But no singing floated through the half-closed galley door.

The ship had stocked enough oil in Waterdeep to last the entire journey to Calimport, and kegs of the stuff still remained in the hold. Entreri pulled open the trap door and hoisted out two of the heavy barrels. He broke the seal on one and kicked it into a roll through the barracks, spewing oil as it went. Then he carried the other—and half-carried Regis, who was limp with fear and revulsion—topside, spreading the oil out more quietly and concentrating the spill in a tight arc around the captain’s door.

“Get in,” he told Regis, indicating the single rowboat hanging in a jigger off the starboard side of the ship. “And carry this.” He handed the halfling a tiny pouch.

Bile rose in Regis’s throat when he thought of what was inside the bag, but he took the pouch anyway and held it securely, knowing that if he lost it, Entreri would only get another.

The assassin sprang lightly across the deck, preparing a torch as he went. Regis watched him in horror, shuddering at the cold appearance of his shadowed face as he tossed the torch down the ladder to the oil-soaked barracks. Grimly satisfied as the flames roared to life, Entreri raced back across the deck to the captain’s door.

“Good-bye!” was the only explanation he offered as he banged on the door. Two strides took him to the rowboat.

The captain leaped from his bed, fighting to orient himself. The ship was strangely calm, except for a telltale crackle and a wisp of smoke that slipped up through the floorboards.

Sword in hand, the captain threw the bolt back and pulled open the door. He looked around desperately and called for his crew. The flames had not reached the deck yet, but it was obvious to him—and should have been to his lookouts—that the ship was on fire. Beginning to suspect the awful truth, the captain rushed out, clad only in his nightshirt.

He felt the tug of the trip-wire, then grimaced in further understanding as the wire noose bit deeply into his bare ankle. He sprawled face down, his sword dropping out in front of him. An aroma filled his nostrils, and he fully realized the deadly implications of the slick fluid drenching his nightshirt. He stretched out for his sword’s hilt and clawed futilely at the wooden deck until his fingers bled.

A lick of flame jumped through the floorboards.

Sounds rolled eerily across the open expanse of water, especially in the empty dark of night. One sound filled the ears of Entreri and Regis as the assassin pulled the little rowboat against the currents of the Chionthar. It even cut through the din of the taverns lining the docks of Baldur’s Gate, a half-mile away.

As if enhanced by the unspoken cries of protest of the dead crew and by the dying ship itself—a singular, agonized voice screamed for all of them.

Then there was only the crackle of fire.

Entreri and Regis entered Baldur’s Gate on foot soon after daybreak. They had put the little rowboat into a cove a few hundred yards downriver, then sank the thing. Entreri wanted no evidence linking him to the disaster of the night before.

“It will be good to get home,” the assassin chided Regis as they made their way along the extensive docks of the lower city. He led Regis’s eye to a large merchant ship docked at one of the outer piers. “Do you remember the pennant?”

Regis looked to the flag flying atop the vessel, a gold field cut by slanted blue lines, the standard of Calimport. “Calimshan merchants never take passengers aboard,” he reminded the assassin, hoping to diffuse Entreri’s cocky attitude.

“They will make an exception,” Entreri replied. He pulled the ruby pendant out from under his leather jacket and displayed it beside his wicked smile.

Regis fell silent once more. He knew well the power of the ruby and could not dispute the assassin’s claim.

With sure and direct strides revealing that he had often before been in Baldur’s Gate, Entreri led Regis to the harbormaster’s office, a small shack just off the piers. Regis followed obediently, though his thoughts were hardly focused on the events of the present. He was still caught in the nightmare of the tragedy of the night before, trying to resolve his own part in the deaths of twenty-six men. He hardly noticed the harbormaster and didn’t even catch the man’s name.

But after only a few seconds of conversation, Regis realized that Entreri had fully captured the man under the hypnotic spell of the ruby pendant. The halfling faded out of the meeting altogether, disgusted with how well Entreri had mastered the powers of the pendant. His thoughts drifted again to his friends and his home, though now he looked back with lament, not hope. Had Drizzt and Wulfgar escaped the horrors of Mithril Hall, and were they now in pursuit? Watching Entreri in action and knowing that he would soon be back within the borders of Pook’s realm, Regis almost hoped that they wouldn’t come after him. How much more blood could stain his little hands?

Gradually Regis faded back in, half-listening to the words of the conversation and telling himself that there might be some important knowledge to be gained.

“When do they sail?” Entreri was saying.

Regis perked up his ears. Time was important. Perhaps his friends could get to him here, still a thousand miles from the stronghold of Pasha Pook.

“A week,” replied the harbormaster, his eyes never blinking nor turning from the spectacle of the spinning gemstone.

“Too long,” Entreri muttered under his breath. Then to the harbormaster, “I wish a meeting with the captain.”

“Can be arranged.”

“This very night…here.”

The harbormaster shrugged his accord.

“And one more favor, my friend,” Entreri said with a mock smile. “You track every ship that comes into port?”

“That is my job,” said the dazed man.

“And surely you have eyes at the gates as well?” Entreri inquired with a wink.

“I have many friends,” the harbormaster replied. “Nothing happens in Baldur’s Gate without my knowledge.”

Entreri looked to Regis. “Give it to him,” he ordered.

Regis, not understanding, responded to the command with a blank stare.

“The pouch,” the assassin explained, using the same lighthearted tone that had marked his casual conversation with the duped harbormaster.

Regis narrowed his eyes and did not move, as defiant an act as he had ever dared to show his captor.

“The pouch,” Entreri reiterated, his tone now deadly serious. “Our gift for your friends.” Regis hesitated for just a second, then threw the tiny pouch to the harbormaster.

“Enquire of every ship and every rider that comes through Baldur’s Gate,” Entreri explained to the harbormaster. “Seek out a band of travelers—two at the least, one an elf, likely to be cloaked in secrecy, and the other a giant, yellow-haired barbarian. Seek them out, my friend. Find the adventurer who calls himself Drizzt Do’Urden. That gift is for his eyes alone. Tell him that I await his arrival in Calimport.” He sent a wicked glance over at Regis. “With more gifts.”

The harbormaster slipped the tiny pouch into his pocket and gave Entreri his assurances that he would not fail the task.

“I must be going,” Entreri said, pulling Regis to his feet. “We meet tonight,” he reminded the harbormaster. “An hour after the sun is down.”

Regis knew that Pasha Pook had connections in Baldur’s Gate, but he was amazed at how well the assassin seemed to know his way around. In less than an hour, Entreri had secured their room and enlisted the services of two thugs to stand guard over Regis while the assassin went on some errands.

“Time for your second trick?” he asked Regis slyly just before leaving. He looked at the two thugs leaning against the far wall of the room, engrossed in some less-than-intellectual debate about the reputed virtues of a local “lady.”

“You might get by them,” Entreri whispered.

Regis turned away, not enjoying the assassin’s macabre sense of humor.

“But, remember, my little thief, once outside, you are on the streets in the shadow of the alleyways, where you will find no friends, and where I shall be waiting.” He spun away with an evil chuckle and swept through the door.

Regis looked at the two thugs, now locked in a heated argument. He probably could have walked out the door at that very moment.

He dropped back on his bed with a resigned sigh and awkwardly locked his hands behind his head, the sting in one hand pointedly reminding him of the price of bravery.

Baldur’s Gate was divided into two districts: the lower city of the docks and the upper city beyond the inner wall, where the more important citizens resided. The city had literally burst its bounds with the wild growth of trade along the Sword Coast. Its old wall set a convenient boundary between the transient sailors and adventurers who invariably made their way in and the long-standing houses of the land. “Halfway to everywhere” was a common phrase there, referring to the city’s roughly equal proximity to Waterdeep in the North and Calimport in the South, the two greatest cities of the Sword Coast.

In light of the constant bustle and commotion that followed such a title, Entreri attracted little attention as he slipped through the lanes toward the inner city. He had an ally, a powerful wizard named Oberon, there, who was also an associate of Pasha Pook’s. Oberon’s true loyalty, Entreri knew, lay with Pook, and the wizard would no doubt promptly contact the guildmaster in Calimport with news of the recovered pendant, and of Entreri’s imminent return.

But Entreri cared little whether Pook knew he was coming or not. His intent was behind him, to Drizzt Do’Urden, not in front, to Pook, and the wizard could prove of great value to him in learning more of the whereabouts of his pursuers.

After a meeting that lasted throughout the remainder of the day, Entreri left Oberon’s tower and made his way back to the harbormaster’s for the arranged rendezvous with the captain of the Calimport merchant ship. Entreri’s visage had regained its determined confidence; he had put the unfortunate incident of the night before behind him, and everything was going smoothly again. He fingered the ruby pendant as he approached the shack.

A week was too long a delay.

Regis was hardly surprised later that night when Entreri returned to the room and announced that he had “persuaded” the captain of the Calimport vessel to change his schedule.

They would leave in three days.

Epilogue

Wulfgar heaved and strained on the ropes, trying to keep the mainsail full of the scant ocean wind as the crew of the Sea Sprite looked on in amazement. The currents of the Chionthar pushed against the ship, and a sensible captain would normally have dropped anchor to wait for a more favorable breeze to get them in. But Wulfgar, under the tutelage of an old sea dog named Mirky, was doing a masterful job. The individual docks of Baldur’s Gate were in sight, and the Sea Sprite, to the cheers of several dozen sailors watching the monumental pull, would soon put in.

“I could use ten of him on my crew,” Captain Deudermont remarked to Drizzt.

The drow smiled, ever amazed at the strength of his young friend. “He seems to be enjoying himself. I would never have put him as a sailor.”

“Nor I,” replied Deudermont. “I only hoped to profit from his strength if we engaged with pirates. But Wulfgar found his sea legs early on.”

“And he enjoys the challenge,” Drizzt added. “The open ocean, the pull of the water, and of the wind, tests him in ways different than he has ever known.”

“He does better than many,” Deudermont replied. The experienced captain looked back downriver to where the open ocean waited. “You and your friend have been on but one short journey, skirting a coastline. You cannot yet appreciate the vastness, and the power, of the open sea.”

Drizzt looked at Deudermont with sincere admiration and even a measure of envy. The captain was a proud man, but he tempered his pride with a practical rationale. Deudermont respected the sea and accepted it as his superior. And that acceptance, that profound understanding of his own place in the world, gave the captain as much of an advantage as any man could gain over the untamed ocean. Drizzt followed the captain’s longing stare and wondered about this mysterious allure the open waters seemed to hold over so many.

He considered Deudermont’s last words. “One day, perhaps,” he said quietly.

They were close enough now, and Wulfgar released his hold and slumped, exhausted, to the deck. The crew worked furiously to complete the docking, but each stopped at least once to slap the huge barbarian across the shoulder. Wulfgar was too tired to even respond.

“We will be in for two days,” Deudermont told Drizzt. “It was to be a week, but I am aware of your haste. I spoke with the crew last night, and they agreed—to a man—to put right back out again.”

“Our thanks to them, and to you,” Drizzt replied sincerely.

Just then, a wiry, finely dressed man hopped down to the pier. “What ho, Sea Sprite?” he called. “Is Deudermont at your reins?”

“Penman, the harbormaster,” the captain explained to Drizzt. “He is!” he called to the man. “And glad to see Pellman, as well!”

“Well met, Captain,” Pellman called. “And as fine a pull as I’ve ever seen! How long are you in port?”

“Two days,” Deudermont replied. “Then off to the sea and the south.”

The harbormaster paused for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Then he asked, as he had asked to every ship that had put in over the last few days, the question Entreri had planted in his mind. “I seek two adventurers,” he called to Deudermont. “Might you have seen them?”

Deudermont looked to Drizzt, somehow guessing, as had the drow, that this inquiry was more than a coincidence.

“Drizzt Do’Urden and Wulfgar, by name,” Pellman explained. “Though they may be using others. One’s small and mysterious elflike—and the other’s a giant and as strong as any man alive!”

“Trouble?” Deudermont called.

“Not so,” answered Pellman. “A message.”

Wulfgar had moved up to Drizzt and heard the latter part of the conversation. Deudermont looked to Drizzt for instructions. “Your decision.”

Drizzt didn’t figure that Entreri would lay any serious traps for them; he knew that the assassin meant to fight with them, or at least with him, personally. “We will speak with the man,” he answered.

“They are with me,” Deudermont called to Pellman. “‘Twas Wulfgar,” he looked at the barbarian and winked, then echoed Pellman’s own description, “as strong as any man alive, who made the pull!”

Deudermont led them to the rail. “If there is trouble, I shall do what I can to retrieve you,” he said quietly. “And we can wait in port for as long as two weeks if the need arises.”

“Again, our thanks,” Drizzt replied. “Surely Orlpar of Waterdeep set us aright.”

“Leave that dog’s name unspoken,” Deudermont replied. “Rarely have I had such fortunate outcomes to my dealings with him! Farewell, then. You may take sleep on the ship if you desire.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar moved cautiously toward the harbormaster, Wulfgar in the lead. Drizzt searched for any signs of ambush.

“We are the two you seek,” Wulfgar said sternly, towering over the wiry man.

“Greetings,” Pellman said with a disarming smile. He fished in his pocket. “I have met with an associate of yours,” he explained, “a dark man with a halfling lackey.”

Drizzt moved beside Wulfgar, and the two exchanged concerned glances.

“He left this,” Pellman continued, handing the tiny pouch to Wulfgar. “And bade me to tell you that he will await your arrival in Calimport.”

Wulfgar held the pouch tentatively, as if expecting it to explode in his face.

“Our thanks,” Drizzt told Pellman. “We will tell our associate that you performed the task admirably.”

Pellman nodded and bowed, turning away as he did so, to return to his duties. But first, he realized suddenly, he had another mission to complete, a subconscious command that he could not resist. Following Entreri’s orders, the harbormaster moved from the docks and toward the upper level of the city.

Toward the house of Oberon.

Drizzt led Wulfgar off to the side, out of plain view. Seeing the barbarian’s paling look, he took the tiny pouch and gingerly loosened the draw string, holding it as far away as possible. With a shrug to Wulfgar, who had moved a cautious step away, Drizzt brought the pouch down to his belt level and peeked in.

Wulfgar moved closer, curious and concerned when he saw Drizzt’s shoulders droop. The drow looked to him in helpless resignation and inverted the pouch, revealing its contents.

A halfling’s finger.