The Halfling’s Gem

7. Stirrings

The first thing he noticed was the absence of the wind. He had lain long hour after hour on his perch at the top of the chimney, and through it all, even in his semiconscious state, there had been the unceasing presence of the wind. It had taken his mind back to Icewind Dale, his home for nearly two centuries. But Bruenor had felt no comfort in the gale’s forlorn moan, a continual reminder of his predicament and the last sound he thought he would ever hear.

But it was no more. Only the crackle of a nearby fire broke the quiet stillness. Bruenor lifted a heavy eyelid and stared absently into the flames, trying to discern his condition and his whereabouts. He was warm and comfortable, with a heavy quilt pulled up tightly around his shoulders. And he was indoors—the flames burned in a hearth, not in the open pit of a campfire.

Bruenor’s eye drifted to the side of the hearth and focused on a neatly stacked pile of equipment.

His equipment!

The one-horned helm, Drizzt’s scimitar, the mithril armor, and his new battle-axe and shining shield. And he was stretched out under the quilt, wearing only a silken nightshirt.

Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, Bruenor pulled himself up to his elbows.

A wave of blackness rolled over him and sent his thoughts reeling in nauseous circles. He dropped heavily to his back.

His vision returned for just a moment, long enough to register the form of a tall and beautiful woman kneeling over him. Her long hair, gleaming silver in the firelight, brushed across his face.

“Spider’s poison,” she said softly. “Would have killed anything but a dwarf.”

Then there was only the blackness.

Bruenor awoke again a few hours later, stronger and more alert. Trying not to stir and bring any attention, he half-opened one eye and surveyed the area, glancing at the pile first. Satisfied that all of his equipment was there, he slowly turned his head over.

He was in a small chamber, apparently a one-roomed structure, for the only door seemed to lead outside. The woman he had seen earlier—though Bruenor wasn’t really sure until now if that image had been a dream—stood beside the door, staring out the room’s single window to the night sky beyond. Her hair was indeed silver. Bruenor could see that its hue was no trick of the firelight. But not silver with the graying of age; this lustrous mane glowed with vibrant life.

“Yer pardon, fair lady,” the dwarf croaked, his voice cracking on every syllable. The woman twirled and looked at him curiously.

“Might I be getting a bit o’ food?” asked Bruenor, never one to mix up his priorities.

The woman floated across the room and helped Bruenor up into a sitting position. Again a wave of blackness swirled over the dwarf, but he managed to shrug it away.

“Only a dwarf!” the woman muttered, astonished that Bruenor had come through his ordeal.

Bruenor cocked his head up at her. “I know ye, lady, though I cannot find yer name in me thoughts.”

“It is not important,” the woman replied. “You have come through much, Bruenor Battlehammer.” Bruenor cocked his head further and leaned away at the mention of his name, but the woman steadied him and continued. “I attended to your wounds as best I could, though I feared that I had come upon you too late to mend the hurts of the spider’s poison.”

Bruenor looked down at his bandaged forearm, reliving those terrible moments when he had first encountered the giant spider. “How long?”

“How long you lay atop the broken grate, I do not know,” the woman answered. “But here you have rested for three days and more—too long for your stomach’s liking! I will prepare some food.” She started to rise, but Bruenor caught her arm.

“Where is this place?”

The lady’s smile eased his grip. “In a clearing not far from the grate. I feared to move you.”

Bruenor didn’t quite understand. “Yer home?”

“Oh, no,” the woman laughed, standing. “A creation, and only temporary. It will be gone with the dawn’s light if you feel able to travel.”

The tie to magic flickered recognition. “Ye’re the Lady of Silverymoon!” Bruenor spouted suddenly.

“Clearmoon Alustriel,” the woman said with a polite bow. “My greetings, noble King.”

“King?” Bruenor echoed in disgust. “Suren me halls are gone to the scum.”

“We shall see,” said Alustriel.

But Bruenor missed the words altogether. His thoughts were not on Mithril Hall, but on Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis, and especially on Catti-brie, the joy of his life. “Me friends,” he begged to the woman. “Do ye know o’ me friends?”

“Rest easy,” Alustriel answered. “They escaped the halls, each of them.”

“Even the drow?”

Alustriel nodded. “Drizzt Do’Urden was not destined to die in the home of his dearest friend.”

Alustriel’s familiarity with Drizzt triggered another memory in the dwarf. “Ye met him before,” he said, “on our road to Mithril Hall. Ye pointed the way for us. And that is how ye knew me name.”

“And knew where to search for you,” Alustriel added. “Your friends think you dead, to their ultimate grief. But I am a wizard of some talent, and can speak to worlds that oft bring surprising revelations. When the specter of Morkai, an old associate who passed from this world a few years ago, imparted to me an image of a fallen dwarf, half out of a hole on the side of a mountain, I knew the truth of the fate of Bruenor Battlehammer. I only hoped that I would not be too late.”

“Bah! Fit as ever!” Bruenor huffed, thumping a fist into his chest. As he shifted his weight, a stinging pain in his seat made him wince.

“A crossbow quarrel,” Alustriel explained.

Bruenor thought for a moment. He had no recollection of being hit, though the memory of his flight from the undercity was perfectly clear. He shrugged and attributed it to the blindness of his battle-lust. “So one o’ the gray scum got me…” he started to say, but then he blushed and turned his eyes away at the thought of this woman plucking the quarrel from his backside.

Alustriel was kind enough to change the subject. “Dine and then rest,” she instructed. “Your friends are safe…for the present.”

“Where—”

Alustriel cut him off with an outstretched palm. “My knowledge in this matter is not sufficient,” she explained. “You shall find your answers soon enough. In the morning, I will take you to Longsaddle and Catti-brie. She can tell you more than I.”

Bruenor wished that he could go right now to the human girl he had plucked from the ruins of a goblin raid and reared as his daughter, that he could crush her against him in his arms and tell her that everything was all right. But he reminded himself that he had never truly expected to see Catti-brie again, and he could suffer through one more night.

Any fears he had of anxious restlessness were washed away in the serenity of exhausted sleep only minutes after he had finished the meal. Alustriel watched over him until contented snores resounded throughout the magical shelter.

Satisfied that only a healthy sleeper could roar so loudly, the Lady of Silverymoon leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

It had been a long three days.

Bruenor watched in amazement as the structure faded around him with the first light of dawn, as if the dark of night had somehow lent the place the tangible material for its construction. He turned to say something to Alustriel but saw her in the midst of casting a spell, facing the pinkening sky and reaching out as though trying to grab the rays of light.

She clenched her hands and brought them to her mouth, whispering the enchantment into them. Then she flung the captured light out before her, crying out the final words of the dweomer, “Equine aflame!” A glowing ball of red struck the stone and burst into a shower of fire, forming almost instantly into a flaming chariot and two horses. Their images danced with the fire that gave them shape, but they did not burn the ground.

“Gather your things,” the lady instructed Bruenor. “It is time we leave.”

Bruenor stood motionless a moment longer. He had never come to appreciate magic, only the magic that strengthened weapons and armor, but neither did he ever deny its usefulness. He collected his equipment, not bothering to don armor or shield, and joined Alustriel behind the chariot. He followed her onto it, somewhat reluctantly, but it did not burn and it felt as tangible as wood.

Alustriel took a fiery rein in her slender hand and called to the team. A single bound lifted them into the morning sky, and they shot away, west around the bulk of the mountain and then south.

The stunned dwarf dropped his equipment to his feet—his chin to his chest—and clutched the side of the chariot. Mountains rolled out below him; he noted the ruins of Settlestone, the ancient dwarven city, now far below, and only a second later, far behind. The chariot roared over the open grassland and skimmed westward along the northern edge of the Trollmoors. Bruenor had relaxed enough to spit a curse as they soared over the town of Nesme, remembering the less-than-hospitable treatment he and his friends had received at the hands of a patrol from the place. They passed over the Dessarin River network, a shining snake writhing through the fields, and Bruenor saw a large encampment of barbarians far to the north.

Alustriel swung the fiery chariot south again, and only a few minutes later, the famed Ivy Mansion of Harpell Hill, Longsaddle, came into view.

A crowd of curious wizards gathered atop the hill to watch the chariot’s approach, cheering somberly—trying to maintain a distinguished air—as they always did when Lady Alustriel graced them with her presence. One face in the crowd blanched to white when the red beard, pointed nose, and one-horned helm of Bruenor Battlehammer came into view.

“But…you…uh…dead…fell,” stammered Harkle Harpell as Bruenor jumped from the back of the chariot.

“Nice to see yerself, too,” Bruenor replied, clad only in his nightshirt and helm. He scooped his equipment from the chariot and dropped the pile at Harkle’s feet. “Where’s me girl?”

“Yes, yes…the girl…Catti-brie…oh, where? Oh, there,” he rambled, the fingers of one hand nervously bouncing on his lower lip. “Do come, yes do!” He grabbed Bruenor’s hand and whisked the dwarf off to the Ivy Mansion.

They intercepted Catti-brie, barely out of bed and wearing a fluffy robe, shuffling down a long hall. The young woman’s eyes popped wide when she spotted Bruenor rushing at her, and she dropped the towel she was holding, her arms falling limply to her side. Bruenor buried his face into her, hugging her around the waist so tightly that he forced the air from her lungs. As soon as she recovered from her shock, she returned the hug tenfold.

“Me prayers,” she stammered, her voice quaking with sobs. “By the gods, I’d thought ye dead!”

Bruenor didn’t answer, trying to hold himself steady. His tears were soaking the front of Catti-brie’s robe, and he felt the eyes of a crowd of Harpells behind him. Embarrassed, he pushed open a door to his side, surprising a half-clad Harpell who stood naked to the waist.

“Excuse—” the wizard began, but Bruenor grabbed his shoulder and pulled him out into the hall, at the same time leading Catti-brie into the room. The door slammed in the wizard’s face as he turned back to his chamber. He looked helplessly to his gathered kin, but their wide smiles and erupting laughter told him that they would be of no assistance. With a shrug, the wizard moved on about his morning business as though nothing unusual had happened.

It was the first time Catti-brie had ever seen the stoic dwarf truly cry. Bruenor didn’t care and couldn’t have done a thing to prevent the scene anyway. “Me prayers, too,” he whispered to his beloved daughter, the human child he had taken in as his own more than a decade and a half before.

“If we’d have known,” Catti-brie began, but Bruenor put a gentle finger to her lips to silence her. It was not important; Bruenor knew that Catti-brie and the others would never have left him if they had even suspected that he might be alive.

“Suren I know not why I lived,” the dwarf replied. “None o’ the fire found me skin.” He shuddered at the memories of his weeks alone in the mines of Mithril Hall. “No more talk o’ the place,” he begged. “Behind me it is. Behind me to stay!”

Catti-brie, knowing of the approach of armies to reclaim the dwarven homeland, started to shake her head, but Bruenor didn’t catch the motion.

“Me friends?” he asked the young woman. “Drow eyes I saw as I fell.”

“Drizzt lives,” Catti-brie answered, “as does the assassin that chased Regis. He came up to the ledge just as ye fell and carried the little one away.”

“Rumblebelly?” Bruenor gasped.

“Aye, and the drow’s cat as well.”

“Not dead…”

“Nay, not to me guess,” Catti-brie was quick to respond. “Not yet. Drizzt and Wulfgar have chased the fiend to the south, knowing his goal to be Calimport.”

“A long run,” Bruenor muttered. He looked to Catti-brie, confused. “But I’d have thought ye’d be with them.”

“I have me own course,” Catti-brie replied, her face suddenly stern. “A debt for repaying.”

Bruenor understood at once. “Mithril Hall?” he choked out. “Ye figured to return, avengin’ meself?”

Catti-brie nodded, unblinking.

“Ye’re bats, girl!” Bruenor said. “And the drow would let ye go alone?”

“Alone?” Catti-brie echoed. It was time for the rightful king to know. “Nay, nor would I so foolishly end me life. A hundred kin make their way from the north and west,” she explained. “And a fair number of Wulfgar’s folk beside ‘em.”

“Not enough,” Bruenor replied. “An army of duergar scum holds the halls.”

“And eight-thousand more from Citadel Adbar to the north and east,” Catti-brie continued grimly, not slowing a beat. “King Harbromme of the dwarves of Adbar says he’ll see the halls free again! Even the Harpells have promised their aid.”

Bruenor drew a mental image of the approaching armies—wizards, barbarians, and a rolling wall of dwarves—and with Catti-brie at their lead. A thin smile cut the frown from his face. He looked upon his daughter with even more than the considerable respect he had always shown her, his eyes wet with tears once more.

“They wouldn’t beat me,” Catti-brie growled. “I meant to see yer face carved in the Hall of Kings, and meant to put yer name in its proper place o’ glory!”

Bruenor grabbed her close and squeezed with all his strength. Of all the mantles and laurels he had found in the years gone by, or might find in the years ahead, none fit as well or blessed him as much as “Father.”

Bruenor stood solemnly on the southern slope of Harpell Hill that evening, watching the last colors fade out of the western sky and the emptiness of the rolling plain to the south. His thoughts were on his friends, particularly Regis—Rumblebelly—the bothersome halfling that had undeniably found a soft corner in the dwarf’s stone heart.

Drizzt would be okay—Drizzt was always okay—and with mighty Wulfgar walking beside him, it would take an army to bring them down.

But Regis.

Bruenor never had doubted that the halfling’s carefree manner of living, stepping on toes with a half-apologetic and half-amused shrug, would eventually get him in mud too deep for his little legs to carry him through. Rumblebelly had been a fool to steal the guildmaster’s ruby pendant.

But “just deserts” did nothing to dispel the dwarf’s pity at his halfling friend’s dilemma, nor Bruenor’s anger at his own inability to help. By his station, his place was here, and he would lead the gathering armies to victory and glory, crushing the duergar and bringing a level of prosperity back to Mithril Hall. His new kingdom would be the envy of the North, with crafted items that rivaled the works of the ancient days flowing out into the trade routes all across the Realms.

It had been his dream, the goal of his life since that terrible day nearly two centuries before, when Clan Battlehammer had been nearly wiped out and those few who had survived, mostly children, had been chased out of their homeland to the meager mines of Icewind Dale.

Bruenor’s lifelong dream was to return, but how hollow it seemed to him now, with his friends caught in a desperate chase across the southland.

The last light left the sky, and the stars blinked to life. Nighttime, Bruenor thought with a bit of comfort.

The time of the drow.

The first hints of his smile dissipated, though, as soon as they began, as Bruenor suddenly came to view the deepening gloom in a different perspective. “Nighttime,” he whispered aloud.

The time of the assassin.

8. A Plain Brown Wrapper

The simple wooden structure at the end of Rogues Circle seemed understated even for the decrepit side of the sprawling southern city of Calimport. The building had few windows, all boarded or barred, and not a terrace or balcony to speak of. Similarly, no lettering identified the building, not even a number on the door to place it. But everyone in the city knew the house and marked it well, for beyond either of its iron-bound doors, the scene changed—dramatically. Where the outside showed only the weathered brown of old wood, the inside displayed a myriad of bright colors and tapestries, thickly woven carpets, and statues of solid gold. This was the thieves’ guild, rivaling the palace of Calimshan’s ruler himself in riches and decor.

It rose three floors from the street level, with two more levels hidden below. The highest level was the finest, with five rooms—an octagonal central hall and four antechambers off it—all designed for the comfort and convenience of one man: Pasha Pook. He was the guildmaster, the architect of an intricate thieving network. And he made certain that he was the first to enjoy the spoils of his guild’s handiwork.

Pook paced the highest level’s central hall, his audience chamber, stopping every circuit to stroke the shining coat of the leopard that lay beside his great chair. An uncharacteristic anxiety was etched upon the guildmaster’s round face, and he twiddled his fingers nervously when he was not petting his exotic pet.

His clothes were of the finest silk, but other than the brooch that fastened his wrappings, he wore none of the abundant jewelry customary among others of his station—though his teeth did gleam of solid gold. In truth, Pook seemed a half-sized version of one of the four hill giant eunuchs that lined the hall, an inconspicuous appearance for a silver-tongued guildmaster who had brought sultans to their knees and whose name sent the sturdiest of the ruffian street dwellers scurrying for dark holes.

Pook nearly jumped when a loud knock resounded off the room’s main door, the one to the lower levels. He hesitated for a long moment, assuring himself that he would make the other man squirm for waiting—though he really needed the time to compose himself. Then he absently motioned to one of the eunuchs and moved to the overstuffed throne on the raised platform opposite the door and dropped a hand again to his pampered cat.

A lanky fighter entered, his thin rapier dancing to the swagger of his stride. He wore a black cape that floated behind him and was bunched at his neck. His thick brown hair curled into and around it. His clothes were dark and plain but crisscrossed by straps and belts, each with a pouch or sheathed dagger or some other unusual weapon hanging from it. His high leather boots, worn beyond any creases, made no sound other than the timed clump of his agile stride.

“Greetings, Pook,” he said informally.

Pook’s eyes narrowed immediately at the sight of the man. “Rassiter,” he replied to the wererat.

Rassiter walked up to the throne and bowed halfheartedly, throwing the reclining leopard a distasteful glance. Flashing a rotted smile that revealed his lowly heritage, he put one foot upon the chair and bent low to let the guildmaster feel the heat of his breath.

Pook glanced at the dirty boot on his beautiful chair, then back at the man with a smile that even the uncouth Rassiter noticed was a bit too disarming. Figuring that he might be taking his familiarity with his partner a bit too far, Rassiter removed his foot from its perch and shuffled back a step.

Pook’s smile faded, but he was satisfied. “It is done?” he asked the man.

Rassiter danced a circle and nearly laughed out loud. “Of course,” he answered, and he pulled a pearl necklace from his pouch.

Pook frowned at the sight, just the expression the sly fighter had expected. “Must you kill them all?” the guildmaster said in a hiss.

Rassiter shrugged and replaced the necklace. “You said you wanted her removed. She is removed.”

Pook’s hands clutched the arms of the throne. “I said I wanted her taken from the streets until the job was completed!”

“She knew too much,” Rassiter replied, examining his fingernails.

“She was a valuable wench,” Pook said, back in control now. Few men could anger Pasha Pook as did Rassiter, and fewer still would have left the chamber alive.

“One of a thousand,” chuckled the lanky fighter.

Another door opened, and an older man entered, his purple robes embroidered with golden stars and quartermoons and a huge diamond fastening his high turban. “I must see—”

Pook cast him a sidelong glance. “Not now, LaValle.”

“But Master—”

Pook’s eyes went dangerously thin again, nearly matching the lines of his lipless grimace. The old man bowed apologetically and disappeared back through the door, closing it carefully and silently behind him.

Rassiter laughed at the spectacle. “Well done!”

“You should learn LaValle’s manners,” Pook said to him.

“Come, Pook, we are partners,” Rassiter replied. He skipped over to one of the room’s two windows, the one that looked south to the docks and the wide ocean. “The moon will be full tonight,” he said excitedly, spinning back on Pook. “You should join us, Pasha! A grand feasting there will be!”

Pook shuddered to think of the macabre table that Rassiter and his fellow wererats planned to set. Perhaps the wench was not yet dead…

He shook away such thoughts. “I am afraid I must decline,” he said quietly.

Rassiter understood—and had purposely enticed—Pook’s disgust. He danced back over and put his foot on the throne, again showing Pook that foul smile. “You do not know what you are missing,” he said. “But the choice is yours; that was our deal.” He spun away and bowed low. “And you are the master.”

“An arrangement that does well by you and yours,” Pook reminded him.

Rassiter turned his palms out in concession, then clapped his hands together. “I cannot argue that my guild fares better since you brought us in.” He bowed again. “Forgive my insolence, my dear friend, but I can hardly contain the mirth of my fortunes. And tonight the moon will be full!”

“Then go to your feast, Rassiter.”

The lanky man bowed again, cast one more glare at the leopard, and skipped from the room.

When the door had closed, Pook ran his fingers over his brow and down through the stylishly matted remains of what once had been a thick tousle of black hair. Then he dropped his chin helplessly into a plump palm and chuckled at his own discomfort in dealing with Rassiter, the wererat.

He looked to the harem door, wondering if he might take his mind off his associate. But he remembered LaValle. The wizard would not have disturbed him, certainly not with Rassiter in the room, unless his news was important.

He gave his pet a final scratch on the chin and moved through the chamber’s southeast door, into the wizard’s dimly lit quarters. LaValle, staring intently into his crystal ball, did not notice him as he entered. Not wanting to disturb the wizard, Pook quietly took the seat across the small table and waited, amusing himself with the curious distortions of LaValle’s scraggly gray beard through the crystal ball as the wizard moved this way and that.

Finally LaValle looked up. He could clearly see the lines of tension still on Pook’s face, not unexpected after a visit from the wererat. “They have killed her, then?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“I despise him,” said Pook.

LaValle nodded in agreement. “But you cannot dismiss the power that Rassiter has brought you.”

The wizard spoke the truth. In the two years since Pook had allied himself with the wererats, his guild had become the most prominent and powerful in the city. He could live well simply from the tithes that the dockside merchants paid him for protection—from his own guild. Even the captains of many of the visiting merchant ships knew enough not to turn away Pook’s collector when he met them on the docks.

And those who didn’t know better learned quickly.

No, Pook couldn’t argue about the benefits of having Rassiter and his fellows around. But the guildmaster had no love for the wretched lycanthropes, human by day and something beastly, half rat and half man, by night. And he wasn’t fond of the way they handled their business.

“Enough of him,” Pook said, dropping his hands to the velvety black tablecloth. “I am certain that I shall need a dozen hours in the harem to get over our meeting!” His grin showed that the thought did not displease him. “But what did you want?”

A wide smile spread over the wizard’s face. “I have spoken with Oberon in Baldur’s Gate this day,” he said with some pride. “I have learned of something that may make you forget all about your discussion with Rassiter.”

Pook waited curiously, allowing LaValle to play out his dramatics. The wizard was a fine and loyal aide, the closest thing the guildmaster had to a friend.

“Your assassin returns!” LaValle proclaimed suddenly.

It took Pook a few moments to think through the meaning and implications of the wizard’s words. But then it hit him, and he sprang up from the table. “Entreri?” he gasped, barely finding his breath.

LaValle nodded and nearly laughed out loud.

Pook ran his hand through his hair. Three years. Entreri, deadliest of the deadly, was returning to him after three long years. He looked curiously at the wizard.

“He has the halfling,” LaValle answered to his unspoken question. Pook’s face lit up in a broad smile. He leaned forward eagerly, his golden teeth shining in the candlelight.

Truly LaValle was glad to please his guildmaster, to give him the news he had waited so very long to hear. “And the ruby pendant!” the wizard proclaimed, banging a fist on the table.

“Yes!” Pook snarled, exploding into laughter. His gem, his most prized possession. With its hypnotic powers, he could rise to even greater heights of prosperity and power. Not only would he dominate all he met, but he would make them glad for the experience. “Ah, Rassiter,” Pook muttered, suddenly thinking of the upper hand he could gain on his associate. “Our relationship is about to change, my rodent friend.”

“How much will you still need him?” LaValle asked.

Pook shrugged and looked to the side of the room, to a small curtain.

The Taros Hoop.

LaValle blanched at the thought of the thing. The Taros Hoop was a mighty relic capable of displacing its owner, or his enemies, through the very planes of existence. But the power of this item was not without price. Thoroughly evil it was, and every one of the few times LaValle had used it, he had felt a part of himself drain away, as though the Taros Hoop gained its power by stealing his life force. LaValle hated Rassiter, but he hoped that the guildmaster would find a better solution than the Taros Hoop.

The wizard looked back to find Pook staring at him. “Tell me more!” Pook insisted eagerly.

LaValle shrugged helplessly and put his hand on the crystal ball. “I have not been able to glimpse them myself,” he said. “Ever has Artemis Entreri been able to dodge my scrying. But by Oberon’s words, they are not too far. Sailing the waters north of Calimshan, if not already within the borders. And they fly on a swift wind, Master. A week or two, no more.”

“And Regis is with him?” Pook asked.

“He is.”

“Alive?”

“Very much alive,” said the wizard.

“Good!” Pook sneered. How he longed to see the treacherous halfling again! To have his plump hands around Regis’s little neck! The guild had fallen on tough times after Regis had run off with the magical pendant. In truth, the problems had come mostly from Pook’s own insecurity in dealing with people without the gem, so long had he been using it, and from the guildmaster’s obsessive—and expensive—hunt to find the halfling. But to Pook, the blame fell squarely upon Regis. He even blamed the halfling for the alliance with the wererats’ guild, for certainly he wouldn’t have needed Rassiter if he had had his pendant.

But now everything would work out for the best, Pook knew. Possessing the pendant and dominating the wererats, perhaps he could even think of expanding his power outside Calimport, with charmed associates and lyncanthrope allies heading guilds throughout the southland.

LaValle seemed more serious when Pook looked back at him. “How do you believe Entreri will feel about our new associates?” he asked grimly.

“Ah, he does not know,” said Pook, realizing the implications. “He has been gone too long.” He thought for a moment then shrugged. “They are in the same business, after all. Entreri should accept them.”

“Rassiter disturbs everyone he meets,” the wizard reminded him. “Suppose that he crosses Entreri?”

Pook laughed at the thought. “I can assure you that Rassiter will cross Artemis Entreri only once, my friend.”

“And then you shall make arrangements with the new head of the wererats,” LaValle snickered.

Pook clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the door. “Learn what you can,” he instructed the wizard. “If you can find them in your crystal ball, call to me. I cannot wait to glimpse the face of Regis the halfling again. So much I owe to that one.”

“And you shall be?”

“In the harem,” Pook answered with a wink. “Tension, you know.”

LaValle slumped back in his chair when Pook had gone and considered again the return of his principal rival. He had gained much in the years since Entreri had left, even rising to this room on the third level as Pook’s chief assistant.

This room, Entreri’s room.

But the wizard never had any problems with the assassin. They had been comfortable associates, if not friends, and had helped each other many times in the past. LaValle couldn’t count the number of times he had shown Entreri the quickest route to a target.

And there was that nasty situation with Mancas Tiveros, a fellow mage. “Mancas the Mighty,” the other wizards of Calimport had called him, and they had pitied LaValle when he and Mancas fell into dispute concerning the origins of a particular spell. Both had claimed credit for the discovery, and everyone waited for an expected war of magic to erupt. But Mancas suddenly and unexplainedly went away, leaving a note disclaiming his role in the spell’s creation and giving full credit to LaValle. Mancas had never been seen again—in Calimport or anywhere else.

“Ah, well,” LaValle sighed, turning back to his crystal ball. Artemis Entreri had his uses.

The door to the room opened, and Pook stuck his head back in. “Send a messenger to the carpenter’s guild,” he said to LaValle. “Tell them that we shall need several skilled men immediately.”

LaValle tilted his head in disbelief.

“The harem and treasury are to stay,” Pook said emphatically, feigning frustration over his wizard’s inability to see the logic. “And certainly I am not conceding my chamber!”

LaValle frowned as he thought he began to understand.

“Nor am I about to tell Artemis Entreri that he cannot have his own room back,” said Pook. “Not after he has performed his mission so excellently!”

“I understand,” said the wizard glumly, thinking himself relegated once again to the lower levels.

“So a sixth room must be built,” laughed Pook, enjoying his little game. “Between Entreri’s and the harem.” He winked again at his valued assistant. “You may design it yourself, my dear LaValle. And spare no expense!” He shut the door and was gone.

The wizard wiped the moisture from his eyes. Pook always surprised him, but never disappointed him. “You are a generous master, my Pasha Pook,” he whispered to the empty room.

And truly Pasha Pook was a masterful leader as well, for LaValle turned back to his crystal ball, his teeth gritted in determination. He would find Entreri and the halfling. He wouldn’t disappoint his generous master.

9. Fiery Riddles

Now running with the currents of the Chionthar, and with the breeze at enough of an angle from the north for the sails to catch a bit of a push, the Sea Sprite cruised away from Baldur’s Gate at a tremendous rate, spitting a white spray despite the concurrent movement of the water.

“The Sword Coast by midafternoon,” Deudermont said to Drizzt and Wulfgar. “And off the coast, with no land in sight until we make Asavir’s Channel. Then a southern journey around the edge of the world and back east to Calimport.

“Calimport,” he said again, indicating a new pennant making its way up the mast of the Sea Sprite, a golden field crossed by slanted blue lines.

Drizzt looked at Deudermont suspiciously, knowing that this was not an ordinary practice of sailing vessels.

“We run Waterdeep’s flag north of Baldur’s Gate,” the captain explained. “Calimport’s south.”

“An acceptable practice?” Drizzt asked.

“For those who know the price,” chuckled Deudermont. “Waterdeep and Calimport are rivals, and stubborn in their feud. They desire trade with each other—they can only profit from it but do not always allow ships flying the other’s flag to dock in their harbors.”

“A foolish pride,” Wulfgar remarked, painfully reminded of some similar traditions his own clannish people had practiced only a few years before.

“Politics,” Deudermont said with a shrug. “But the lords of both cities secretly desire the trade, and a few dozen ships have made the connections to keep business moving. The Sea Sprite has two ports to call home, and everyone profits from the arrangement.”

“Two markets for Captain Deudermont,” Drizzt remarked slyly. “Practical.”

“And it makes good sailing sense as well,” Deudermont continued, his smile still wide. “Pirates running the waters north of Baldur’s Gate respect the banner of Waterdeep above all others, and those south of here take care not to rouse the anger of Calimport and her massive armada. The pirates along Asavir’s Channel have many merchant ships to pick from in the straights, and they are more likely to raid one that carries a flag of less weight.”

“And you are never bothered?” Wulfgar couldn’t help but ask, his voice tentative and almost sarcastic, as though he hadn’t yet figured out if he approved of the practice.

“Never?” echoed Deudermont. “Not ‘never,’ but rarely. And on those occasions that pirates come at us, we fill our sails and run. Few ships can catch the Sea Sprite when her sails are full of wind.”

“And if they do catch you?” asked Wulfgar.

“That is where you two can earn your passage,” Deadermont laughed. “My guess is that those weapons you carry might soften a looting pirate’s desire to continue the pursuit.”

Wulfgar brought Aegis-fang up in front of him. “I pray that I have learned the movements of a ship well enough for such a battle,” he said. “An errant swing might send me over the rail!”

“Then swim to the side of the pirate ship,” Drizzt mused, “and tip her over!”

From a darkened chamber in his tower in Baldur’s Gate, the wizard Oberon watched the Sea Sprite sail out. He probed deeper into the crystal ball to scry the elf and huge barbarian standing beside the ship’s captain on the deck. They were not from these parts, the wizard knew. By his dress and his coloring, the barbarian was more likely from one of those distant tribes far to the north, beyond even Luskan and around the Spine of the World mountains, in that desolate stretch of land known as Icewind Dale. How far he was from home, and how unusual to see one of his kind sailing the open sea!

“What part could these two play in the return of Pasha Pook’s gem?” Oberon wondered aloud, truly intrigued. Had Entreri gone all the way to that distant strip of tundra in search of the halfling? Were these two pursuing him south?

But it was not the wizard’s affair. Oberon was just glad that Entreri had called in the debt with so easy a favor. The assassin had killed for Oberon—more than once—several years ago, and though Entreri had never mentioned the favors in his many visits to Oberon’s tower, the wizard had always felt as if the assassin held a heavy chain around his neck. But this very night, the long-standing debt would be cleared in the puff of a simple signal.

Oberon’s curiosity kept him tuned to the departing Sea Sprite a bit longer. He focused upon the elf—Drizzt Do’Urden, as Pellman, the harbormaster, had called him. To the wizard’s experienced eye, something seemed amiss about this elf. Not out of place, as the barbarian seemed. Rather something in the way Drizzt carried himself or looked about with those unique, lavender orbs.

Those eyes just did not seem to fit the overall persona of that elf, Drizzt Do’Urden.

An enchantment, perhaps, Oberon guessed. Some magical disguise. The curious wizard wished that he had more information to report to Pasha Pook. He considered the possibilities of whisking himself away to the deck of the ship to investigate further, but he hadn’t the proper spells prepared for such an undertaking. Besides, he reminded himself again, this was not his affair.

And he did not want to cross Artemis Entreri.

That same night, Oberon flew out of his tower and climbed into the night sky, a wand in hand. Hundreds of feet above the city, he loosed the proper sequence of fireballs.

Riding the decks of a Calimport ship named Devil Dancer, two hundred miles to the south, Artemis Entreri watched the display. “By sea,” he muttered, noting the sequence of the bursts. He turned to the halfling standing beside him.

“Your friends pursue us by sea,” he said. “And less than a week behind! They have done well.”

Regis’s eyes did not flicker in hope at the news. The climate change was very evident now, every day and every night. They had left the winter far behind, and the hot winds of the southern Realms had settled uneasily on the halfling’s spirits. The trip to Calimport would not be interrupted by any other stops, and no ship—even one less than a week behind—could hope to catch the speedy Devil Dancer.

Regis wrestled against an inner dilemma, trying to come to terms with the inevitability of his meeting with his old guildmaster.

Pasha Pook was not a forgiving man. Regis had personally witnessed Pook dealing out severe punishments to those thieves who dared to steal from other members of the guild. And Regis had gone even a step further than that; he had stolen from the guildmaster himself. And the item he had plucked, the magical ruby pendant, was Pook’s most treasured possession. Defeated and despairing, Regis put his head down and walked slowly back toward his cabin.

The halfling’s somber mood did nothing to quell the tingle running through Entreri’s spine. Pook would get the gem and the halfling, and Entreri would be paid well for the service. But in the assassin’s mind, Pook’s gold was not the true reward for his efforts.

Entreri wanted Drizzt Do’Urden.

Drizzt and Wulfgar also watched the fireworks over Baldur’s Gate that night. Back in the open sea, but still more than a hundred and fifty miles north of the Devil Dancer, they could only guess at the display’s significance.

“A wizard,” Deudermont remarked, coming over to join the two. “Perhaps he does battle with some great aerial beast,” the captain offered, trying to draw up some entertaining story. “A dragon or some other monster of the sky!” Drizzt squinted to gain a closer look at the fiery bursts. He saw no dark forms weaving around the flares, nor any hint that they were aimed at a particular target. But possibly the Sea Sprite was simply too far away for him to discern such detail.

“Not a fight—a signal,” Wulfgar blurted, recognizing a pattern to the explosions. “Three and one. Three and one.

“It seems a bit of trouble for a simple signal,” Wulfgar added. “Would not a rider carrying a note serve better?”

“Unless it is meant as a signal to a ship,” offered Deudermont.

Drizzt had already entertained that very thought, and he was becoming more than a little suspicious of the display’s source, and of its purpose.

Deudermont studied the display a moment longer. “Perhaps it is a signal,” he conceded, recognizing the accuracy of Wulfgar’s observations of a pattern. “Many ships put in to and out of Baldur’s Gate each day. A wizard greeting some friends or saying farewell in grand fashion.”

“Or relaying information,” Drizzt added, glancing up at Wulfgar. Wulfgar did not miss the drow’s point; Drizzt could tell by the barbarian’s scowl that Wulfgar was entertaining similar suspicions.

“But for us, a show and nothing more,” Deudermont said, bidding them good night with a pat on the shoulder. “An amusement to be enjoyed.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other, seriously doubting Deudermont’s assessment.

“What game does Artemis Entreri play?” Pook asked rhetorically, speaking his thoughts aloud.

Oberon, the wizard in the crystal ball, shrugged. “Never have I pretended to understand the motives of Artemis Entreri.”

Pook nodded his accord and continued to pace behind LaValle’s chair.

“Yet I would guess that these two have little to do with your pendant,” said Oberon.

“Some personal vendetta Entreri acquired along his travels,” agreed Pook.

“Friends of the halfling?” wondered Oberon. “Then why would Entreri lead them in the right direction?”

“Whoever they may be, they can only bring trouble,” said LaValle, seated between his guildmaster and the scrying device.

“Perhaps Entreri plans to lay an ambush for them,” Pook suggested to Oberon. “That would explain his need for your signal.”

“Entreri instructed the harbormaster to tell them that he would meet them in Calimport,” Oberon reminded Pook.

“To throw them off,” said LaValle. “To make them believe that the way would be clear until they arrived in the southern port.”

“That is not the way of Artemis Entreri,” said Oberon, and Pook was thinking the same thing. “I have never known the assassin to use such obvious tricks to gain the upper hand in a contest. It is Entreri’s deepest pleasure to meet and crush challengers face to face.”

The two wizards and the guildmaster who had survived and thrived by his ability to react to such puzzles appropriately all held their thoughts for a moment to consider the possibilities. All that Pook cared about was the return of his precious pendant. With it he could expand his powers ten times, perhaps even gaining the favor of the ruling Pasha of Calimshan himself.

“I do not like this,” Pook said at length. “I want no complications to the return of the halfling, or of my pendant.”

He paused to consider the implications of his decided course, leaning over LaValle’s back to get close to Oberon’s image. “Do you still have contact with Pinochet?” he asked the wizard slyly.

Oberon guessed the guildmaster’s meaning. “The pirate does not forget his friends,” he answered in the same tone, “Pinochet contacts me every time he finds his way to Baldur’s Gate. He inquires of you as well, hoping that all is well with his old friend.”

“And is he now in the isles?”

“The winter trade is rolling down from Waterdeep,” Oberon replied with a chuckle. “Where else would a successful pirate be?”

“Good,” muttered Pook.

“Should I arrange a welcome for Entreri’s pursuers?” Oberon asked eagerly, enjoying the intrigue and the opportunity to serve the guildmaster.

“Three ships—no chances,” said Pook. “Nothing shall interfere with the halfling’s return. He and I have so very much to discuss!”

Oberon considered the task for a moment. “A pity,” he remarked. “The Sea Sprite was a fine vessel.”

Pook echoed a single word for emphasis, making it absolutely clear that he would tolerate no mistakes.

“Was.”

10. The Weight of a Kings Mantle

The halfling hung by his ankles, suspended upside down with chains above a cauldron of boiling liquid. Not water, though, but something darker. A red hue, perhaps.

Blood, perhaps.

The crank creaked, and the halfling dropped an inch closer. His face was contorted, his mouth wide, as if in a scream.

But no screams could be heard. Just the groans of the crank and a sinister laugh from an unseen torturer.

The misty scene shifted, and the crank came into view, worked slowly by a single hand that seemed unattached to anything else.

There was a pause in the descent.

Then the evil voice laughed one final time. The hand jerked quickly, sending the crank spinning.

A scream resounded, piercing and cutting, a cry of agony—a cry of death.

Sweat stung Bruenor’s eyes even before he had fully opened them. He wiped the wetness from his face and rolled his head, trying to shake away the terrible images and adjust his thoughts to his surroundings.

He was in the Ivy Mansion, in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room. The fresh candles that he had set out burned low. They hadn’t helped; this night had been like the others: another nightmare.

Bruenor rolled over and sat up on the side of his bed. Everything was as it should be. The mithril armor and golden shield lay across a chair beside the room’s single dresser. The axe that he had used to cut his way out of the duergar lair rested easily against the wall beside Drizzt’s scimitar, and two helmets sat atop the dresser, the battered, one-horned helm that had carried the dwarf through the adventures of the last two centuries, and the crown of the king of Mithril Hall, ringed by a thousand glittering gemstones.

But to Bruenor’s eyes, all was not as it should be. He looked to the window and the darkness of the night beyond. Alas, all he could see was the reflection of the candlelit room, the crown and armor of the king of Mithril Hall.

It had been a tough week for Bruenor. All the days had been filled with the excitement of the times, of talk of the armies coming from Citadel Adbar and Icewind Dale to reclaim Mithril Hall. The dwarf’s shoulders ached from being patted so many times by Harpells and other visitors to the mansion, all anxious to congratulate him in advance for the impending return of his throne.

But Bruenor had wandered through the last few days absently, playing a role thrust upon him before he could truly appreciate it. It was time to prepare for the adventure Bruenor had fantasized about since his exile nearly two centuries before. His father’s father had been king of Mithril Hall, his father before him, and back to the beginnings of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor’s birthright demanded that he lead the armies and retake Mithril Hall, that he sit in the throne he had been born to possess.

But it was in the very chambers of the ancient dwarven homeland that Bruenor Battlehammer had realized the truth of what was important to him. Over the course of the last decade, four very special companions had come into his life, not one of them a dwarf. The friendship the five had forged was bigger than a dwarven kingdom and more precious to Bruenor than all the mithril in the world. The realization of his fantasy conquest seemed empty to him.

The moments of the night now held Bruenor’s heart and his concentration. The dreams, never the same but always with the same terrible conclusion, did not fade with the light of day.

“Another one?” came a soft call from the door. Bruenor looked over his shoulder to see Catti-brie peeking in on him. Bruenor knew that he didn’t have to answer. He put his head down in one hand and rubbed his eyes.

“About Regis again?” asked Catti-brie, moving closer. Bruenor heard the door softly close.

“Rumblebelly,” Bruenor softly corrected, using the nickname he had tagged on the halfling who had been his closest friend for nearly a decade.

Bruenor swung his legs back up on the bed. “I should be with him,” he said gruffly, “or at least with the drow and Wulfgar, lookin’ for him!”

“Yer kingdom awaits,” Catti-brie reminded him, more to dispel his guilt than to soften his belief in where he truly belonged—a belief that the young woman wholeheartedly shared. “Yer kin from Icewind Dale’ll be here in a month, the army from Adbar in two.”

“Aye, but we can’t be going to the halls till the winter’s past.”

Catti-brie looked around for some way to deflect the sinking conversation. “Ye’ll wear it well,” she said cheerfully, indicating the bejeweled crown.

“Which?” Bruenor retorted, a sharp edge to his tongue.

Catti-brie looked at the dented helm, pitiful beside the glorious one, and nearly snorted aloud. But she turned to Bruenor before she commented, and the stern look stamped upon the dwarf’s face as he studied the old helmet told her that Bruenor had not asked in jest. At that moment, Catti-brie realized, Bruenor saw the one-horned helmet as infinitely more precious than the crown he was destined to wear.

“They’re halfway to Calimport,” Catti-brie remarked, sympathizing with the dwarf’s desires. “Maybe more.”

“Aye, and few boats’ll be leaving Waterdeep with the winter coming on,” Bruenor muttered grimly, echoing the same arguments Catti-brie had leveled on him during his second morning in the Ivy Mansion, when he had first mentioned his desire to go after his friends.

“We’ve a million preparations before us,” said Catti-brie, stubbornly holding her cheerful tone. “Suren the winter’ll pass quickly, and we’ll get the halls in time for Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis’s return.”

Bruenor’s visage did not soften. His eyes locked on the broken helmet, but his mind wandered beyond the vision, back to the fateful scene at Garumn’s Gorge. He had at least made peace with Regis before they were separated…

Bruenor’s recollections blew away from him suddenly. He snapped a wry glance upon Catti-brie. “Ye think they might be back in time for the fighting?”

Catti-brie shrugged. “If they put right back out,” she replied, curious at the question, for she knew that Bruenor had more in mind than fighting beside Drizzt and Wulfgar in the battle for Mithril Hall. “They can be coverin’ many miles over the southland—even in the winter.”

Bruenor bounced off the bed and rushed for the door, scooping up the one-horned helmet and fitting it to his head as he went.

“Middle o’ the night?” Catti-brie gawked after him. She jumped up and followed him into the hall.

Bruenor never slowed. He marched straight to Harkle Harpell’s door and banged on it loudly enough to wake everyone in that wing of the house. “Harkle!” he roared.

Catti-brie knew better than to even try to calm him. She just shrugged apologetically to each curious head that popped into the hall to take a look.

Finally, Harkle, clad only in a nightshirt and ball-tipped cap, and holding a candle, opened his door.

Bruenor shoved himself into the room, Catti-brie in tow. “Can ye make me a chariot?” the dwarf demanded.

“A what?” Harkle yawned, trying futilely to brush his sleep away. “A chariot?”

“A chariot!” Bruenor growled. “Of fire. Like the Lady Alustriel bringed me here in! A chariot of fire!”

“Well,” Harkle stammered. “I have never—”

“Can ye do it?” Bruenor roared, having no patience now for unfocused blabbering.

“Yes,…uh, maybe,” Harkle proclaimed as confidently as he could. “Actually, that spell is Alustriel’s specialty. No one here has ever…” He stopped, feeling Bruenor’s frustrated glare boring into him. The dwarf stood straight-legged, one bare heel grinding into the floor, and his gnarled arms crossed over his chest, the stubby fingers of one hand tapping an impatient rhythm on his knotted biceps.

“I shall speak to the lady in the morning,” Harkle assured him. “I am certain—”

“Alustriel’s still here?” Bruenor interrupted.

“Why, yes,” Harkle replied. “She stayed on a few extra—”

“Where is she?” Bruenor demanded.

“Down the hall.”

“Which room?”

“I shall take you to her in the morn—” Harkle began.

Bruenor grabbed the front of the wizard’s nightshirt and brought him down to a dwarf’s eye level. Bruenor proved the stronger even with his nose, for the long, pointy thing pressed Harkle’s nose flat against one of his cheeks. Bruenor’s eyes did not blink, and he spoke each word of his question slowly and distinctly, just the way he wanted the answer. “Which room?”

“Green door, beside the bannister.” Harkle gulped.

Bruenor gave the wizard a goodhearted wink and let him go. The dwarf turned right past Catti-brie, returning her amused smile with a determined shake of his head, and burst into the hall.

“Oh, he should not disturb the Lady Alustriel at this late hour!” Harkle protested.

Catti-brie could not help but laugh. “So stop him yerself!”

Harkle listened to the dwarf’s heavy footsteps resounding down the hall; Bruenor’s bare feet thudded on the wooden floor like bouncing stones. “No,” Harkle answered her offer, his smile widening to match her own. “I think not.”

Abruptly awakened in the night, the Lady Alustriel appeared no less beautiful, her silvery mane somehow mystically connected to the soft glow of the evening. Bruenor composed himself when he saw the lady, remembering her station and his manners.

“Uh, begging the lady’s pardon,” he stammered, suddenly very embarrassed by his actions.

“It is late, good King Bruenor,” Alustriel said politely, an amused smile on her face as she viewed the dwarf, dressed only in his nightshirt and broken helmet. “What might have brought you to my door at this hour?”

“What with all that’s going on about, I did not even know ye were still in Longsaddle,” Bruenor explained.

“I would have come to see you before I left,” Alustriel replied, her tone still cordial. “No need to disturb your sleep or mine.”

“Me thoughts weren’t for good-byes,” Bruenor said. “I be needing a favor.”

“Urgently?”

Bruenor nodded emphatically. “A favor I should’ve asked afore we e’er got here.”

Alustriel led him into her room and closed the door behind them, realizing the seriousness of the dwarf’s business.

“I need another one of them chariots,” said Bruenor. “To take me to the south.”

“You mean to catch your friends and aid in the search for the halfling,” Alustriel reasoned.

“Aye, I know me place.”

“But I cannot accompany you,” Alustriel said. “I have a realm to rule; it is not my place to journey unannounced to other kingdoms.”

“I wouldn’t be askin’ ye to go,” replied Bruenor.

“Then who will drive the team? You have no experience with such magic.”

Bruenor thought for just a moment. “Harkle’ll take me!” he blurted.

Alustriel couldn’t hide a smirk as she thought of the possibilities for disaster. Harkle, like so many of his Harpell kin, usually hurt himself when spellcasting. The lady knew that she would not sway the dwarf, but she felt it her duty to point out all of the weaknesses of his plan.

“Calimport is a long way indeed,” she told him. “The trip there on the chariot will be speedy, but the return could take many months. Will not the true king of Mithril Hall lead the gathering armies in the fight for his throne?”

“He will,” Bruenor replied, “if it be possible. But me place’s with me friends. I owe them at least that!”

“You risk much.”

“No more than they’ve risked for me—many the times.”

Alustriel opened the door. “Very well,” she said, “and my respect on your decision. You will prove a noble king, Bruenor Battlehammer.”

The dwarf, for one of the few times in his life, blushed.

“Now go and rest,” said Alustriel. “I will see what I might learn this night. Meet me on the south slope of Harpell Hill before the break of dawn.”

Bruenor nodded eagerly and found his way back to his room. For the first time since he had come to Longsaddle, he slept peacefully.

Under the lightening sky of predawn, Bruenor and Harkle met Alustriel at the appointed spot. Harkle had eagerly agreed to the journey; he had always wanted a crack at driving one of Lady Alustriel’s famed chariots. He seemed out of place next to the battle-charged dwarf, though, wearing his wizard’s robe—tucked into leather hip boots—and an oddly shaped silver helmet with fluffy white fur wings and a visor that kept flopping down over his eyes.

Alustriel had not slept the rest of that night. She had been busy staring into the crystal ball the Harpells had provided her, probing distant planes in search of clues to the whereabouts of Bruenor’s friends. She had learned much in that short time and had even made a connection to the dead mage Morkai in the spirit world to garner further information.

And what she had learned disturbed her more than a little.

She stood now, components in hand and awaiting the break of dawn, quietly facing the east. As the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, she swept them into her grasp and executed the spell. Minutes later, a flaming chariot and two fiery horses appeared on the hillside, magically suspended an inch from the ground. The licks of their flames sent tiny streams of smoke rising from the bedewed grass.

“To Calimport!” Harkle proclaimed, rushing over to the enchanted carriage.

“Nay,” Alustriel corrected. Bruenor turned a confused glance on her.

“Your friends are not yet in the Empire of the Sands,” the lady explained. “They are at sea and will find grave danger this day. Set your course to the southwest, to the sea, then true south with the coast in sight.” She tossed a heartshaped locket to Bruenor. The dwarf fumbled it open and found a picture of Drizzt Do’Urden inside.

“The locket will warm when you approach the ship that carries your friends,” Alustriel said. “I created it many weeks ago, that I might have known if your group approached Silverymoon on your return from Mithril Hall.” She avoided Bruenor’s probing gaze, knowing the myriad of questions that must have been going through the dwarf’s mind. Quietly, almost as if embarrassed, she added, “I should like it returned.”

Bruenor kept his sly remarks to himself. He knew of the growing connection between Lady Alustriel and Drizzt. It became clearer and clearer every day. “Ye’ll get it back,” he assured her. He scooped the locket up in his fist and moved to join Harkle.

“Tarry not,” Alustriel told them. “Their need is pressing this day!”

“Wait!” came a call from the hill. All three turned to see Catti-brie, fully outfitted for the road, with Taulmaril, the magical bow of Anariel that she had recovered from the ruins of Mithril Hall, slung easily over her shoulder. She ran down to the back of the chariot. “Ye weren’t meaning to leave me so?” she asked Bruenor.

Bruenor couldn’t look her in the eye. He had indeed meant to leave without so much as a good-bye to his daughter. “Bah!” he snorted. “Ye’d have only tried to stop me going!”

“Never I would!” Catti-brie growled right back at him. “Me thinkin’s that yer doing right. But ye’d do righter if ye’d move over and make room for me!”

Bruenor shook his head emphatically.

“I’ve as much the right as yerself!” Catti-brie protested.

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted again. “Drizzt and Rumblebelly are me truest friends!”

“And mine!”

“And Wulfgar’s been akin to a son to me!” Bruenor shot back, thinking he had won the round.

“And a might bit more than that to me,” Catti-brie retorted, “if he gets back from the South!” Catti-brie didn’t even need to remind Bruenor that she had been the one who introduced him to Drizzt. She had defeated all of the dwarf’s arguments. “Move aside, Bruenor Battlehammer, and make room! I’ve as much at stake as yerself, and I’m meaning to come along!”

“Who’ll be seeing to the armies?” Bruenor asked.

“The Harpells’ll put them up. They won’t be marching to the halls until we’re back, or until the spring, at least.”

“But if both of you go and do not return,” Harkle interjected, letting the thought hang over them for a moment. “You are the only ones who know the way.”

Bruenor saw Catti-brie’s crestfallen look and realized how deeply she desired to join him on his quest. And he knew she was right in coming, for she had as much at stake in the chase across the southland as he. He thought for a moment, suddenly shifting to Catti-brie’s side in the debate. “The lady knows the way,” he said, indicating Alustriel.

Alustriel nodded. “I do,” she replied. “And I would gladly show the armies to the halls. But the chariot will carry only two riders.”

Bruenor’s sigh was as loud as Catti-brie’s. He shrugged helplessly at his daughter. “Better that ye stay,” he said softly. “I’ll bring ‘em back for ye.”

Catti-brie wouldn’t let it go so easily. “When the fighting starts,” she said, “and suren it will, would ye rather ye had Harkle and his spells beside ye, or me and me bow?”

Bruenor glanced casually at Harkle and immediately saw the young woman’s logic. The wizard stood at the reins of the chariot, trying to find some way to keep the visor of his helmet up on his brow. Finally Harkle gave up and just tilted his head back far enough so he could see under the visor.

“Here, ye dropped a piece of it,” Bruenor said to him. “That’s why it won’t stay up!”

Harkle turned and saw Bruenor pointing to the ground off the back of the chariot. He shuffled around beside Bruenor and bent over, trying to see what the dwarf was pointing at.

As Harkle bent to look, the weight of his silver helmet—which actually belonged to a cousin much large than he—toppled him over and left him sprawled face down on the lawn. In the same moment, Bruenor swept Catti-brie into the chariot beside him.

“Oh, drats!” Harkle whined. “I would have so loved to go!”

“The lady’ll make ye another one to fly,” Bruenor said to comfort him. Harkle looked to Alustriel.

“Tomorrow morning,” Alustriel agreed, quite amused by the whole scene. Then to Bruenor she asked, “Can you guide the chariot?”

“As well as he, by me guess!” the dwarf proclaimed, grabbing up the fiery reins. “Hold on, girl. We’ve half a world to cross!” He snapped the reins, and the chariot lifted into the morning sky, cutting a fiery streak across the blue-gray haze of dawn.

The wind rushed past them as they shot into the west, the chariot rocking wildly from side to side, up and down. Bruenor fought frantically to hold his course; Catti-brie fought frantically just to hold on. The sides wobbled, the back dipped and climbed, and once they even spun in a complete vertical circle, though it happened so fast—luckily—that neither of the riders had time to fall out!

A few minutes later, a single thundercloud loomed ahead of them. Bruenor saw it, and Catti-brie yelled a warning, but the dwarf hadn’t mastered the subtleties of driving the chariot well enough to do anything about their course. They blew through the darkness, leaving a hissing steam tail in their wake, and rocketed out above the cloud.

And then Bruenor, his face glistening with wetness, found the measure of the reins. He leveled off the chariot’s course and put the rising sun behind his right shoulder. Catti-brie, too, found her footing, though she still clung tightly to the chariot’s rail with one hand, and to the dwarf’s heavy cloak with the other.

The silver dragon rolled over onto its back lazily, riding the morning winds with its legs—all four—crossed over it and its sleepy eyes half closed. The good dragon loved its morning glide, leaving the bustle of the world far below and catching the sun’s untainted rays above the cloud level.

But the dragon’s marvelous orbs popped open wide when it saw the fiery streak rushing at it from the east. Thinking the flames to be the forerunning fires of an evil red dragon, the silver swooped around into a high cloud and poised to ambush the thing. But the fury left the dragon’s eyes when it recognized the strange craft, a fiery chariot, with just the helm of the driver, a one-horned contraption, sticking above the front of the carriage and a young human woman standing behind, her auburn locks flying back over her shoulders.

Its huge mouth agape, the silver dragon watched as the chariot sped past. Few things piqued the curiosity of this ancient creature, who had lived so very many years, but it seriously considered following this unlikely scene.

A cool breeze wafted in then and washed all other thoughts from the silver dragon’s mind. “Peoples,” it muttered, rolling again onto its back and shaking its head in disbelief.

Catti-brie and Bruenor never even saw the dragon. Their eyes were fixed squarely ahead, where the wide sea was already in sight on the western horizon, blanketed by a heavy morning mist. A half-hour later, they saw the high towers of Waterdeep to the north and moved out from the Sword Coast and over the water. Bruenor, getting a better feel of the reins, swung the chariot to the south and dropped it low.

Too low.

Diving into the gray shroud of mist, they heard the lapping of the waves below them and the hiss of steam as the spray hit their fiery craft.

“Bring her up!” Catti-brie yelled. “Ye’re too low!”

“Need to be low!” Bruenor gasped, fighting the reins. He tried to mask his incompetence, but he fully realized that they were indeed too close to the water. Struggling with all his might, he managed to bring the chariot up a few more feet and level it off. “There,” he boasted. “Got it straight, and got it low.”

He looked over his shoulder at Catti-brie. “Need to be low,” he said again into her doubting expression. “We have to see the durn ship to find it!”

Catti-brie only shook her head.

But then they did see a ship. Not the ship, but a ship nonetheless, looming up in the mist barely thirty yards ahead.

Catti-brie screamed—Bruenor did, too—and the dwarf fell back with the reins, forcing the chariot upward at as steep an angle as possible. The ship’s deck rolled out below them.

And the masts still towered above them!

If all the ghosts of every sailor who had ever died on the sea had risen from their watery graves and sought vengeance on this particular vessel, the lookout’s face would not have held a truer expression of terror. Possibly he leaped from his perch—more likely he toppled in fright—but either way, he missed the deck and dropped safely into the water at the very last second before the chariot streaked past his crow’s nest and nipped the top of the mainmast.

Catti-brie and Bruenor composed themselves and looked back to see the tip of the ship’s mast burning like a single candle in the gray mist.

“Ye’re too low,” Catti-brie reiterated.

11. Hot Winds

The Sea Sprite cruised easily under clear blue skies and the lazy warmth of the southern Realms. A strong trade wind kept its sails filled, and only six days after their departure from Baldur’s Gate, the western tip of the Tethyr Peninsula was already in sight—a journey that normally took more than a week.

But a wizard’s call traveled faster still.

Captain Deudermont took the Sea Sprite down the center of Asavir’s Channel, trying to keep a safe distance from the peninsula’s sheltered bays—bays that often held pirates poised for passing merchant vessels—and also cautious to keep a healthy gap of water between his ship and the islands on his west: the Nelanther, the infamous Pirate Isles. The captain felt safe enough in the crowded sea lane, with the banner of Calimport flying above his craft and the sails of several other merchant ships dotting the horizon every so often both in front of and behind the Sea Sprite.

Using a common merchant’s trick, Deudermont closed in on a vessel and shadowed its course, keeping the Sea Sprite in its wake. Less maneuverable and slower than the Sea Sprite and flying the flag of Murann, a lesser city on the Sword Coast, this second ship would provide a much easier target to any pirates in the area.

Eighty feet above the water, taking a turn in the crow’s nest, Wulfgar had the clearest view of the deck of the ship ahead. With his strength and agility, the barbarian was fast becoming quite a sailor, eagerly taking his turn at every job alongside the rest of the crew. His favorite duty was the crow’s nest, though it was a tight fit for a man of his size. He was at peace in the warm breeze and solitude. He rested against the mast, using one hand to block out the daytime glare, and studied the crew’s activities on the ship ahead.

He heard the front ship’s lookout call something down, though he couldn’t make out the words, then saw the crew rushing about frantically, most heading for the prow to watch the horizon. Wulfgar jolted upright and leaned over the nest, straining his eyes to the south.

“How do they feel, having us in tow?” Drizzt, standing beside Deudermont on the bridge, asked the captain. While Wulfgar had been building a rapport working beside the crew, Drizzt had struck a solid friendship with the captain. And realizing the value of the elf’s opinions, Deudermont gladly shared his knowledge of his station, and of the sea, with Drizzt. “Do they understand their role as fodder?”

“They know our purpose in shadowing them, and their captain—if he is an experienced sailor—would do the same if our positions were reversed,” Deudermont replied. “Yet we bring them an extra measure of safety as well. Just having a ship from Calimport in sight will deter many of the pirates.”

“And perhaps they feel that we would come to their aid in the face of such an attack?” Drizzt was quick to ask.

Deudermont knew that Drizzt was interested in discovering if the Sea Sprite would indeed go to the other ship’s aid. Drizzt had a strong streak of honor in him, Deudermont understood, and the captain, of similar morals, admired him for it. But Deudermont’s responsibilities as the captain of a vessel were too involved for such a hypothetical situation. “Perhaps,” he replied.

Drizzt let the line of questioning end, satisfied that Deudermont kept the scales of duty and morality in proper balance.

“Sails to the south!” came Wulfgar’s call from above, bringing many of the Sea Sprite’s crew to the forward rail.

Deudermont’s eyes went to the horizon, then to Wulfgar. “How many?”

“Two ships!” Wulfgar called back. “Running north and even, and wide apart!”

“Port and starboard?” Deudermont asked.

Wulfgar took a close measure of the intercepting course then affirmed the captain’s suspicions. “We will pass between them!”

“Pirates?” Drizzt asked, knowing the answer.

“So it would seem,” the captain replied. The distant sails came into view to the men on the deck.

“I see no flag,” one of the sailors near the bridge called to the captain.

Drizzt pointed to the merchant ship ahead. “Are they the target?”

Deudermont nodded grimly. “So it would seem,” he said again.

“Then let us close up with them,” the drow said. “Two against two seems a fairer fight.”

Deudermont stared into Drizzt’s lavender eyes and was almost stunned by their sudden gleam. How could the captain hope to make this honorable warrior understand their place in the scenario? The Sea Sprite flew Calimport’s flag, the other ship, Murann’s. The two were hardly allies.

“The encounter may not come to blows,” he told Drizzt. “The Murann vessel would be wise to surrender peacefully.”

Drizzt began to see the reasoning. “So flying Calimport’s flag holds responsibilities as well as benefits?”

Deudermont shrugged helplessly. “Think of the thieves’ guilds in the cities you have known,” he explained. “Pirates are much the same an unavoidable nuisance. If we sail in to fight, we would dispel any self-restraint the pirates hold upon themselves, most probably bringing more trouble than need be.”

“And we would mark every ship under Calimport’s flag sailing the Channel,” Drizzt added, no longer looking at the captain, but watching the spectacle unfold before him. The light dropped from his eyes.

Deudermont, inspired by Drizzt’s grasp of principles—a grip that would not allow such acceptance of rogues—put a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “If the encounter comes to blows,” the captain said, drawing Drizzt’s gaze back to his own, “the Sea Sprite will join the battle.”

Drizzt turned back to the horizon and clapped Deudermont’s hand with his own. The eager fire returned to his eyes as Deudermont ordered the crew to stand ready.

The captain really didn’t expect a fight. He had seen dozens of engagements such as this, and normally when the pirates outnumbered their intended victim, the looting was accomplished without bloodshed. But Deudermont, with so many years of experience on the sea, soon realized that something was strange this time. The pirate ships kept their course wide, passing too far abreast of the Murann ship to board it. At first, Deudermont thought the pirates meant to launch a distance strike—one of the pirate vessels had a catapult mounted to its afterdeck—to cripple their victim, though the act seemed unnecessary.

Then the captain understood the truth. The pirates had no interest in the Murann ship. The Sea Sprite was their target.

From his high perch, Wulfgar, too, realized that the pirates were sailing right by the lead ship. “Take up arms!” he cried to the crew. “They aim for us!”

“You may indeed get your fight,” Deudermont said to Drizzt. “It seems that Calimport’s flag will not protect us this time.”

To Drizzt’s night-attuned eyes, the distant ships appeared as no more than tiny black dots in the glare of the shining water, but the drow could make out what was happening well enough. He couldn’t understand the logic of the pirates’ choice, though, and he had a strange feeling that he and Wulfgar might be somehow connected to the unfolding events. “Why us?” he asked Deudermont.

The captain shrugged. “Perhaps they have heard a rumor that one of Calimport’s ships will be laden with a valuable cargo.”

The image of the fireballs exploding in the night sky over Baldur’s Gate flashed in Drizzt’s mind. A signal? he wondered again. He couldn’t yet put all of the pieces together, but his suspicions led him invariably to the theory that he and Wulfgar were somehow involved in the pirates’ choice of ships.

“Do we fight?” he started to ask Deudermont, but he saw that the captain was already laying the plans.

“Starboard!” Deudermont told the helmsman. “Put us west to the Pirate Isles. Let us see if these dogs have a belly for the reefs!” He motioned another man to the crow’s nest, wanting Wulfgar’s strength for the more important duties on the deck.

The Sea Sprite bit into the waves and bowed low in a sharp right turn. The pirate vessel on the east, now the farthest away, cut its angle to pursue directly while the other, the bulkier of the two, kept its course straight, each second bringing the Sea Sprite closer for a shot of its catapult.

Deudermont pointed to the largest of the few islands visible in the west. “Skim her close,” he told the helmsman, “but ware the single reef. Tide’s low, and she should be visible.”

Wulfgar dropped to the deck beside the captain.

“On that line,” Deudermont ordered him. “You’ve the mainmast. If I bid you to pull, then heave for all your strength! We shan’t get a second chance.”

Wulfgar took up the heavy rope with a grunt of determination, wrapping it tightly around his wrists and hands.

“Fire in the sky!” one of the crewmen yelled, pointing back to the south, toward the bulky pirate ship. A ball of flaming pitch soared through the air, splashing harmlessly into the ocean with a hiss of protest, many yards short of the Sea Sprite.

“A tracing shot,” Deudermont explained, “to give them our range.”

Deudermont estimated the distance and figured how much closer the pirates would get before the Sea Sprite put the island between them.

“We’ll slip them if we make the channel between the reef and the island,” he told Drizzt, nodding to indicate that he thought the prospects promising.

But even as the drow and the captain began to comfort themselves with thoughts of escape, the masts of a third vessel loomed before them in the west, slipping out of the very channel that Deudermont had hoped to enter. This ship had its sails furled and was prepared for boarding.

Deudermont’s jaw dropped open. “They were lying for us,” he said to Drizzt. He turned to the elf helplessly. “They were lying for us.

“But we’ve no cargo of particular value,” the captain continued, trying to reason through the unusual turn of events. “Why would pirates run three vessels in a strike against a single ship?”

Drizzt knew the answer.

The ride was easier for Bruenor and Catti-brie now. The dwarf had settled comfortably at the reins of the fiery chariot, and the morning haze had burned away. They cruised down the Sword Coast, amused by the ships they passed over and the astonished expressions of every sailor who turned his eyes heavenward.

Soon after, they crossed the entrance to the River Chionthar, the gateway to Baldur’s Gate. Bruenor paused a moment to consider a sudden impulse, then veered the chariot away from the coast.

“The lady bid us to stay to the coast,” said Catti-brie as soon as she realized the shift in course.

Bruenor grabbed Alustriel’s magical locket, which he had strung around his neck, and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s tellin’ me different,” he replied.

A second load of burning pitch hit the water, this time dangerously close to the Sea Sprite.

“We can run by her,” Drizzt said to Deudermont, for the third ship still had not raised its sails.

The experienced captain recognized the flaw in the reasoning. The primary purpose of the ship coming out from the island was to block the channel’s entrance. The Sea Sprite could indeed sail past that ship, but Deudermont would have to take his ship outside the dangerous reef and back into open water. And by then, they would be well within the catapult’s range.

Deudermont looked over his shoulder. The remaining pirate ship, the one farthest to the east, had its sails full of wind and was cutting the water even more swiftly than the Sea Sprite. If a ball of pitch came in on the mark and the Sea Sprite took any damage at all to its sails, it would be quickly overtaken.

And then a second problem dramatically grabbed the captain’s attention. A bolt of lightning blasted across the Sea Sprite’s deck, severing some lines and splintering off pieces of the mainmast. The structure leaned and groaned against the strain of the full sails. Wulfgar found a foothold and tugged against the pull with all his strength.

“Hold her!” Deudermont cheered him. “Keep us straight and strong!”

“They’ve a wizard,” Drizzt remarked, realizing that the blast had come from the ship ahead of them.

“I feared as much,” Deudermont replied grimly.

The seething fire in Drizzt’s eyes told Deudermont that the elf had already decided upon his first task in the fight. Even in their obvious disadvantage, the captain felt a tug of pity for the wizard.

A sly expression came over Deudermont’s face as the sight of Drizzt inspired a desperate plan of action. “Take us right up on her port,” he told the helmsman. “Close enough to spit on them!”

“But, Captain,” the sailor protested, “that’d put us in line for the reef!”

“Just what the dogs had hoped,” Deudermont came back. “Let them think that we do not know these waters; let them think that the rocks will do their business for them!”

Drizzt felt comfortable with the security in the captain’s tone. The wily old sailor had something in mind.

“Steady?” Deudermont called to Wulfgar.

The barbarian nodded.

“When I call for you, pull, man, as if your life depends on it!” Deudermont told him.

Next to the captain, Drizzt made a quiet observation. “It does.”

From the bridge of his flagship, the fast-flying vessel on the east, Pinochet the pirate watched the maneuvering of the Sea Sprite with concern. He knew Deudermont’s reputation well enough to know that the captain would not be so foolish as to put his ship onto a reef under a bright midday sun at low tide. Deudermont meant to fight.

Pinochet looked to the bulky ship and measured the angle to the Sea Sprite. The catapult would get two more shots, maybe three, before their target ran alongside the blocking ship in the channel. Pinochet’s own ship was still many minutes behind the action, and the pirate captain wondered how much damage Deudermont would inflict before he could aid his allies.

But Pinochet quickly put thoughts of the cost of this mission out of his mind. He was doing a personal favor for the guildmaster of the largest gang of thieves in all of Calimport. Whatever the price, Pasha Pook’s payment would surely outweigh it!

Catti-brie watched eagerly as each new ship came into view, but Bruenor, confident that the magical locket was leading him to the drow, paid them no heed. The dwarf snapped the reins, trying to urge the flaming horses on faster. Somehow—perhaps it was another property of the locket—Bruenor felt that Drizzt was in trouble and that speed was essential.

The dwarf then snapped a stubby finger in front of him. “There!” he cried as soon as the Sea Sprite came into view.

Catti-brie did not question his observation. She quickly surveyed the dramatic situation unfolding below her.

Another ball of pitch soared though the air, slapping into the tail of the Sea Sprite at water level but catching too little of the ship to do any real damage.

Catti-brie and Bruenor watched the catapult being pulled back for another shot; they watched the brutish crew of the ship in the channel, their swords in hand, awaiting the approach of the Sea Sprite; and they watched the third pirate ship, rushing in from behind to close the trap.

Bruenor veered the chariot to the south, toward the bulkiest of the ships. “First for the catapult!” the dwarf cried in rage.

Pinochet, as well as most of the crewmen on the back two pirate ships, watched the fiery craft cutting a streak down from the northern sky, but the captain and crew of the Sea Sprite and the other ship were too enmeshed in the desperation of their own situation to worry about events behind them. Drizzt did give the chariot a second look, though, noticing a glistening reflection that might have been a single horn of a broken helmet peeking above the flames, and a form in back of that with flowing hair that seemed more than vaguely familiar.

But perhaps it was just a trick of the light and Drizzt’s own undying hopes. The chariot moved away into a fiery blur and Drizzt let it go, having no time now to give it further thought.

The Sea Sprite’s crew lined the foredeck, firing crossbows at the pirate ship, hoping, more than anything else, to keep the wizard too engaged to hit them again.

A second lightning bolt did roar in, but the Sea Sprite was rocking wildly in the breakers rolling off the reef, and the wizard’s blast cut only a minor hole in the mainsail.

Deudermont looked hopefully to Wulfgar, tensed and ready for the command.

And then they were crossing beside the pirates, barely fifteen yards from the other ship, and apparently heading on a deadly course into the reef.

“Pull!” Deudermont cried, and Wulfgar heaved, every muscle in his huge body reddening with a sudden influx of blood and adrenaline.

The mainmast groaned in protest, beams creaked and cracked, and the wind-filled sails fought back as Wulfgar looped the rope over his shoulder and drove himself forward. The Sea Sprite verily pivoted in the water, its front end lifting over the roll of a wave and lurching at the pirate vessel. Deudermont’s crew, though they had witnessed Wulfgar’s power in the River Chionthar, grabbed desperately at the rail and held on, awestruck.

And the stunned pirates, never suspecting that a ship under full sail could possibly cut so tight a turn, reacted not at all. They watched in blank amazement as the prow of the Sea Sprite smashed into their port flank, entangling the two ships in a deadly embrace.

“Take it to them!” Deudermont cried. Grapples soared through the air, further securing the Sea Sprite’s hold, and boarding planks were thrown down and fastened into place.

Wulfgar scrambled to his feet and pulled Aegis-fang off his back. Drizzt drew his scimitars but made no immediate move, instead scanning the deck of the enemy ship. He quickly focused on one man, not dressed like a wizard, but unarmed as far as Drizzt could tell.

The man went through some motions, as if in spellcasting, and the telltale magical sprinkles dusted the air around him.

But Drizzt was quicker. Calling on the innate abilities of his heritage, the drow limned the wizard’s form in harmless purplish flames. The wizard’s corporeal body faded from sight as his invisibility spell took effect.

But the purple outline remained.

“Wizard, Wulfgar!” Drizzt called.

The barbarian rushed to the rail and surveyed the pirate ship, easily spotting the magical outline.

The wizard, realizing his predicament, dove behind some casks.

Wulfgar didn’t hesitate. He sent Aegis-fang hurtling end over end. The mighty war hammer drove through the casks, sending wood and water exploding into the air, and then found its mark on the other side.

The hammer blasted the wizard’s broken body—still visible only by the outline of the drow’s faerie fire—into the air and over the far rail of the pirate ship.

Drizzt and Wulfgar nodded to each other, grimly satisfied.

Deudermont slapped a hand across his unbelieving eyes.

Perhaps they did have a chance.

The pirates on the two back ships paused in their duties to consider the flying chariot. As Bruenor swung around the back of the bulky catapult ship and came in from behind, Catti-brie pulled the Taulmaril’s bowstring tight.

“Think o’ yer friends,” Bruenor comforted her, seeing her hesitation. Only a few weeks earlier, Catti-brie had killed a human out of necessity, and the act had not set well with her. Now, as they closed on the ship from above, she could rain death among the exposed sailors.

She huffed a deep breath to steady herself and took a bead on a sailor, standing mouth agape, not even realizing that he was about to die.

There was another way.

Out of the corner of her eye, Catti-brie spotted a better target. She swung the bow toward the back of the ship and sent a silver arrow streaking down. It blasted into the arm of the catapult, cracking the wood, the arrow’s magical energy scorching a black hole as the silver shaft ripped through.

“Taste me flames!” Bruenor cried, steering the chariot downward. The wild dwarf drove his flaming horses straight through the mainsail, leaving a tattered rag in his wake.

And Catti-brie’s aim was perfect; again and again the silver arrows whistled into the catapult. As the chariot rushed past a second time, the ships gunners tried to respond with a ball of burning pitch, but the catapult’s wooden arm had taken too much damage to retain any strength, and the ball of pitch lobbed weakly, a few feet up and a few feet out.

And dropped onto the deck of its own ship!

“One more pass!” Bruenor growled, looking back over his shoulder at the fires now roaring on the mast and the deck.

But Catti-brie’s eyes were forward, to where the Sea Sprite had just crashed onto one vessel, and where the second pirate ship would soon join the fray. “No time!” she yelled. “They be needin’ us up ahead!”

Steel rang against steel as the crew of the Sea Sprite locked against the pirates. One rogue, seeing Wulfgar launch the war hammer, crossed over to the Sea Sprite and made for the unarmed barbarian, thinking him easy prey. He rushed in, thrusting his sword ahead.

Wulfgar easily sidestepped the blow, caught the pirate by the wrist, and slapped his other hand into the man’s crotch. Changing the pirate’s direction slightly but not breaking his momentum, Wulfgar hoisted him into the air and heaved him over the back rail of the Sea Sprite. Two other pirates, having the same initial response to the unarmed barbarian as their unfortunate comrade, stopped in their tracks and sought out better armed, but less dangerous, opponents.

Then Aegis-fang magically returned to Wulfgar’s waiting grasp, and it was his turn to charge.

Three of Deudermont’s crew, trying to cross over, were cut down on the central boarding plank, and now the pirates came rushing back across the opening to flood the Sea Sprite’s deck.

Drizzt Do’Urden stemmed the tide. Scimitars in hand—Twinkle glowing an angry blue light—the elf sprang lightly onto the wide boarding plank.

The group of pirates, seeing only a single, slender enemy barring the way, expected to bowl right through.

Their momentum slowed considerably when the first rank of three stumbled down in a whirring blur of blades, grasping at slit throats and bellies.

Deudermont and the helmsman, rushing to support Drizzt, slowed and watched the display. Twinkle and its companion scimitar rose and dipped with blinding speed and deadly accuracy. Another pirate went down, and yet another had his sword struck from his hand, so he dove into the water to escape the terrible elven warrior.

The remaining five pirates froze as if paralyzed, their mouths hanging open in silent screams of terror.

Deudermont and the helmsman also jumped back in surprise and confusion, for with Drizzt absorbed in the concentration of battle, the magical mask had played a trick of its own. It had slipped from the drow’s face, revealing his dark heritage to all around.

“Even if ye flame the sails, the ship’ll get in,” Catti-brie observed, noting the short distance between the remaining pirate ship and the tangled ships at the entrance to the channel.

“The sails?” Bruenor laughed. “Suren I mean to get more than that!”

Catti-brie stood back from the dwarf, digesting his meaning. “Ye’re daft!” She gawked as Bruenor brought the chariot down to deck level.

“Bah! I’ll stop the dogs! Hang on, girl!”

“The demons, I will!” Catti-brie shouted back. She patted Bruenor on the head and went with an alternate plan, dropping from the back of the chariot and into the water.

“Smart girl,” Bruenor chuckled, watching her splash safely. Then his eyes went back to the pirates. The crew at the rear of the ship had seen him coming and were diving every which way to get clear.

Pinochet, at the front of the ship, looked back at the unexpected commotion just as Bruenor crashed in.

“Moradin!”

The dwarf’s war cry resounded to the decks of the Sea Sprite and the third pirate vessel, above all the din of battle. Pirates and sailors alike on the embattled ships glanced back at the explosion on Pinochet’s flagship, and Pinochet’s crew answered Bruenor’s cry with one of terror.

Wulfgar paused at the plea to the dwarven god, remembering a dear friend who used to shout such names at his enemies.

Drizzt only smiled.

As the chariot crashed to the deck, Bruenor rolled off the back and Alustriel’s dweomer came apart, transforming the chariot into a rolling ball of destruction. Flames swept across the deck, licked at the masts, and caught the bottoms of the sails.

Bruenor regained his feet, his mithril axe poised in one hand and shining golden shield strapped across his other. But no one cared to challenge him at that moment. Those pirates who had escaped the initial devastation were concerned only with escape.

Bruenor spat at them and shrugged. And then, to the amazement of those few who saw him, the crazy dwarf walked straight into the flames, heading forward to see if any of the pirates up front wanted to play.

Pinochet knew at once that his ship was lost. Not the first time, and probably not the last, he consoled himself as he calmly motioned his closest officer to help him loose a small rowboat. Two of his other crewmen had the same idea and were already untying the little boat when Pinochet got there.

But in this disaster, it was every man for himself, and Pinochet stabbed one of them in the back and chased the other away.

Bruenor emerged, unbothered by the flames, to find the front of the ship nearly deserted. He grinned happily when he saw the little boat, and the pirate captain, touch down in the water. The other pirate was bent over the rail, untying the last of the lines.

And as the pirate hoisted one leg over the rail, Bruenor helped him along, putting a booted foot into his rear and launching him clear of the rail, and of the little rowboat.

“Turn yer back, will ye?” Bruenor grunted at the pirate captain as the dwarf dropped heavily into the rowboat. “I’ve a girl to pick out of the water!”

Pinochet gingerly slid his sword out of its sheath and peeked back over his shoulder.

“Will ye?” Bruenor asked again.

Pinochet swung about, chopping down viciously at the dwarf.

“Ye could’ve just said no,” Bruenor taunted, blocking the blow with his shield and launching a counter at the man’s knees.

Of all the disasters that had befallen the pirates that day, none horrified them more than when Wulfgar went on the attack. He had no need for a boarding plank; the mighty barbarian leaped the gap between the ships. He drove into the pirate ranks, scattering rogues with powerful sweeps of his war hammer.

From the central plank, Drizzt watched the spectacle. The drow had not noticed that his mask had slipped, and he wouldn’t have had time to do anything about it anyway. Meaning to join his friend, he rushed the five remaining pirates on the plank. They parted willingly, preferring the water below to the killing blades of a drow elf.

Then the two heroes, the two friends, were together, cutting a swath of destruction across the deck of the pirate ship. Deudermont and his crew, trained fighters themselves, soon cleared the Sea Sprite of pirates and had won over every boarding plank. Now knowing victory to be at hand, they waited at the rail of the pirate ship, escorting the growing wave of willing prisoners back to the Sea Sprite’s hold while Drizzt and Wulfgar finished their task.

“You will die, bearded dog!” Pinochet roared, slashing with his sword.

Bruenor, trying to settle his feet on the rocking boat, let the man keep the offensive, holding his own strikes for the best moments.

One came unexpectedly as the pirate Bruenor had booted from the burning ship caught up to the drifting rowboat. Bruenor watched his approach out of the corner of his eye.

The man grabbed the side of the little boat and hoisted himself up—only to be met with a blow to the top of the head by Bruenor’s mithril axe.

The pirate dropped back down beside the rowboat, turning the water crimson.

“Friend o’ yers?” Bruenor taunted.

Pinochet came on even more furiously, as Bruenor had hoped. The man missed a wild swing, overbalancing to Bruenor’s right. The dwarf helped Pinochet along, shifting his weight to heighten the list of the boat and slamming his shield into the pirate captain’s back.

“On yer life,” Bruenor called as Pinochet bobbed back above the water a few feet away, “lose the sword!” The dwarf recognized the importance of the man, and he preferred to let someone else row.

With no options open to him, Pinochet complied and swam back to the little boat. Bruenor dragged him over the side and plopped him down between the oars. “Turn ‘er back!” the dwarf roared. “And be pullin’ hard!”

“The mask is down,” Wulfgar whispered to Drizzt when their business was finished. The drow slipped behind a mast and replaced the magical disguise.

“Do you think they saw?” Drizzt asked when he returned to Wulfgar’s side. Even as he spoke, he noticed the Sea Sprite’s crew lining the deck of the pirate ship and eyeing him suspiciously, their weapons in hand.

“They saw,” Wulfgar remarked. “Come,” he bade Drizzt, heading back toward the boarding plank. “They will accept this!”

Drizzt wasn’t so certain. He remembered other times when he had rescued men, only to have them turn on him when they saw under the cowl of his cloak and learned the true color of his skin.

But this was the price of his choice to forsake his own people and come to the surface world.

Drizzt grabbed Wulfgar by the shoulder and stepped by him, resolutely leading the way back to the Sea Sprite. Looking back at his young friend, he winked and pulled the mask off his face. He sheathed his scimitars and turned to confront the crew.

“Let them know Drizzt Do’Urden,” Wulfgar growled softly behind him, lending Drizzt all the strength he would ever need.

12. Comrades

Bruenor found Catti-brie treading water beyond the carnage of Pinochet’s ship. Pinochet paid the young woman no attention, though. Far in the distance, the crew on his remaining ship, the bulky artillery vessel, had brought the fires under control, but had turned tail and sailed away with all the speed it could muster.

“I thought ye had forgot me,” Catti-brie said as the rowboat approached.

“Ye should’ve stayed by me side,” the dwarf laughed at her.

“I’ve not the kinship with fire as yerself,” Catti-brie retorted with a bit of suspicion.

Bruenor shrugged. “Been that way since the halls,” he replied. “Mighten be me father’s father’s armor.”

Catti-brie grabbed the side of the low-riding boat and started up, then paused in a sudden realization as she noticed the scimitar strapped across Bruenor’s back. “Ye’ve got the drow’s blade!” she said, remembering the story Drizzt had told her of his battle with a fiery demon. The magic of the ice-forged scimitar had saved Drizzt from the fire that day. “Suren that’s yer salvation!”

“Good blade,” Bruenor muttered, looking at its hilt over his shoulder. “The elf should find it a name!”

“The boat will not hold the weight of three,” Pinochet interrupted.

Bruenor turned an angry glare on him and snapped, “Then swim!”

Pinochet’s face contorted, and he started to rise threateningly.

Bruenor recognized that he had taunted the proud pirate too far. Before the man could straighten, the dwarf slammed his forehead into Pinochet’s chest, butting him over the back of the rowboat. Without missing a beat, the dwarf grabbed Catti-brie’s wrist and hoisted her up by his side. “Put yer bow on him, girl,” he said loudly enough for Pinochet, once again bobbing in the water, to hear. He threw the pirate the end of a rope. “If he don’t keep up, kill ‘im!”

Catti-brie set a silver-shafted arrow to Taulmaril’s string and took a bead on Pinochet, playing through the threat, though she had no intention of finishing off the helpless man. “They call me bow the Heartseeker,” she warned “Suren ye’d be wise to swim.”

The proud pirate pulled the rope around him and paddled.

“No drow’s coming back to this ship!” one of Deudermont’s crewmen growled at Drizzt.

The man took a slap on the back of the head for his words, and then sheepishly moved aside as Deudermont stepped up to the boarding plank. The captain studied the expressions of his crewmen as they surveyed the drow who had been their companion for weeks.

“What’ll ye do with him?” one sailor dared to ask.

“We’ve men in the water,” the captain replied, deflecting the pointed question. “Get them out and dry, and throw the pirates in chains.” He waited a moment for his crewmen to disperse, but they held their positions, entranced by the drama of the dark elf.

“And get these ships untangled!” Deudermont roared.

He turned to face Drizzt and Wulfgar, now only a few feet from the plank. “Let us retire to my cabin,” he said calmly. “We should talk.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar did not answer. They went with the captain silently, absorbing the curious, fearful, and outraged stares that followed them.

Deudermont stopped halfway across the deck, joining a group of his crew as they looked to the south, past Pinochet’s burning ship, to a small rowboat pulling hard in their direction.

“The driver of the fiery chariot that rushed across the sky,” one of the crewman explained.

“He took down that ship!” another exclaimed, pointing to the wreckage of Pinochet’s flagship, now listing badly and soon to sink. “And sent the third one running!”

“Then a friend of ours, he is indeed!” the captain replied.

“And of ours,” Drizzt added, turning all eyes back upon him. Even Wulfgar looked curiously at his companion. He had heard the cry to Moradin, but had not dared to hope that it was indeed Bruenor Battlehammer rushing to their aid.

“A red-bearded dwarf, if my guess is correct,” Drizzt continued. “And with him, a young woman.”

Wulfgar’s jaw dropped open. “Bruenor?” he managed to whisper. “Catti-brie?”

Drizzt shrugged. “That is my guess.”

“We shall know soon enough,” Deudermont assured them. He instructed his crewmen to bring the passengers of the rowboat to his cabin as soon as they came aboard, then he led Drizzt and Wulfgar away, knowing that on the deck the drow would prove a distraction to his crew. And at this time, with the ships fouled, they had important work to complete.

“What do you mean to do with us?” Wulfgar demanded when Deudermont shut the cabin door. “We fought for—”

Deudermont stopped the growing tirade with a calming smile. “You certainly did,” he acknowledged. “I only wish that I had such mighty sailors on every voyage south. Surely then the pirates would flee whenever the Sea Sprite broke the horizon!”

Wulfgar eased back from his defensive posture.

“My deception was not intended to bring harm,” Drizzt said somberly. “And only my appearance was a lie. I require passage to the south to rescue a friend—that much remains true.”

Deudermont nodded, but before he could answer, a knock came on the door and a sailor peeked in. “Beggin’ yer pardon,” he began.

“What is it?” asked Deudermont.

“We follow yer every step, Captain, ye know that,” the sailor stammered. “But we thought we should let ye know our feeling’s on the elf.”

Deudermont considered the sailor, and then Drizzt, for a moment. He had always been proud of his crew; most of the men had been together for many years, but he seriously wondered how they would come through this dilemma.

“Go on,” he prompted, stubbornly holding his trust in his men.

“Well, we know he’s a drow,” the sailor began, “and we know what that means.” He paused, weighing his next words carefully. Drizzt held his breath in anticipation; he had been down this route before.

“But them two, they pulled us through a bad jam there,” the sailor blurted all of a sudden. “We wouldn’t a gotten through without ‘em!”

“So you want them to remain aboard?” Deudermont asked, a smile growing across his face. His crew had come through once again.

“Aye!” the sailor replied heartily. “To a man! And we’re proud to have ‘em!”

Another sailor, the one who had challenged Drizzt at the plank just a few minutes before, poked his head in. “I was scared, that’s all,” he apologized to Drizzt.

Overwhelmed, Drizzt hadn’t found his breath yet. He nodded his acceptance of the apology.

“See ye on deck, then,” said the second sailor, and he disappeared out the door.

“We just thought ye should know,” the first sailor told Deudermont, and then he, too, was gone.

“They are a fine crew,” Deudermont said to Drizzt and Wulfgar when the door had closed.

“And what are your thoughts?” Wulfgar had to ask.

“I judge a man—elf—by his character, not his appearance,” Deudermont declared. “And on that subject, keep the mask off, Drizzt Do’Urden. You are a far handsomer sort without it!”

“Not many would share that observation,” Drizzt replied.

“On the Sea Sprite, they would!” roared the captain. “Now, the battle is won, but there is much to be done. I suspect that your strength would be appreciated at the prow, mighty barbarian. We have to get these ships unfouled and moving before that third pirate comes back with more of his friends!

“And you,” he said to Drizzt with a sneaky smile. “I would think that no one could keep a shipload of prisoners in line better than you.”

Drizzt pulled the mask off his head and tucked it in his pack. “There are advantages to the color of my skin,” he agreed, shaking the gnarls out of his white locks. He turned with Wulfgar to leave, but the door burst in before them.

“Nice blade, elf!” said Bruenor Battlehammer, standing in a puddle of seawater. He tossed the magical scimitar to Drizzt. “Find a name for it, will ye? Blade like that be needing’ a name. Good for a cook at a pig roastin’!”

“Or a dwarf hunting dragons,” Drizzt remarked. He held the scimitar reverently, remembering again the first time he had seen it, lying in the dead dragon’s horde. Then he gave it a new home in the scabbard that had held his normal blade, thinking his old one a fitting companion for Twinkle.

Bruenor walked up to his drow friend and clasped his wrist firmly. “When I saw yer eyes lookin’ out at me from the gorge,” the dwarf began softly, fighting back a choke that threatened to break his voice apart, “suren then I knew that me other friends would be safe.”

“But they are not,” Drizzt replied. “Regis is in dire peril.”

Bruenor winked. “We’ll get him back, elf! No stinkin’ assassin’s going to put an end to Rumblebelly!” He clenched the drow’s arm tightly one final time and turned to Wulfgar, the lad he had ushered into manhood.

Wulfgar wanted to speak but could find no path for the words beyond the lump in his throat. Unlike Drizzt, the barbarian had no idea that Bruenor might still be alive, and seeing his dear mentor, the dwarf who had become as a father to him, back from the grave and standing before him was simply too much for him to digest. He grabbed Bruenor by the shoulders just as the dwarf was about to say something, and hoisted him up, locking him in a great bear hug.

It took Bruenor a few seconds of wiggling to get loose enough to draw breath. “If ye’d squeezed the dragon like that,” the dwarf coughed, “I wouldn’t’ve had to ride it down the gorge!”

Catti-brie walked through the door, soaking wet, with her auburn hair matted to her neck and shoulders. Behind her came Pinochet, drenched and humbled.

Her eyes first found the gaze of Drizzt, locking the drow in a silent moment of emotion that went deeper than simple friendship. “Well met,” she whispered. “Good it is to look upon Drizzt Do’Urden again. Me heart’s been with ye all along.”

Drizzt cast her a casual smile and turned his lavender eyes away. “Somehow I knew that you would join our quest before it was through,” he said. “Well met, then, and welcome along.”

Catti-brie’s gaze drifted past the drow to Wulfgar. Twice she had been separated from the man, and both times when they again had met, Catti-brie was reminded how much she had come to love him.

Wulfgar saw her, too. Droplets of seawater sparkled on her face, but they paled next to the shine of her smile. The barbarian, his stare never leaving Catti-brie, eased Bruenor back to the floor.

Only the embarrassment of youthful love kept them apart at that moment, with Drizzt and Bruenor looking on.

“Captain Deudermont,” said Drizzt, “I give you Bruenor Battlehammer and Catti-brie, two dear friends and fine allies.”

“And we brought ye a present,” Bruenor chuckled. “Seeing as we got no money to pay ye for passage.” Bruenor walked over, grabbed Pinochet by the sleeve, and pulled the man front and center. “Captain o’ the ship I burned, by me guess.”

“Welcome to both of you,” Deudermont replied. “And I assure you that you have more than earned your passage.” The captain moved to confront Pinochet, suspecting the man’s importance.

“Do you know who I am?” the pirate said in a huff, thinking that he now had a more reasonable person to deal with than the surly dwarf.

“You are a pirate,” Deudermont replied calmly.

Pinochet cocked his head to study the captain. A sly smile crossed his face. “You have perhaps heard of Pinochet?”

Deudermont had thought, and feared, that he had recognized the man when Pinochet had first entered the cabin. The captain of the Sea Sprite had indeed heard of Pinochet—every merchant along the Sword Coast had heard of Pinochet.

“I demand that you release me and my men!” the pirate blustered.

“In time,” Deudermont replied. Drizzt, Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie, not understanding the extent of the influence of the pirates, all looked at Deudermont in disbelief.

“I warn you that the consequences of your actions will be dire!” Pinochet continued, suddenly gaining the upper hand in the confrontation. “I am not a forgiving man, nor are my allies.”

Drizzt, whose own people commonly bent the tenets of justice to fit rules of station, understood the captain’s dilemma at once. “Let him go,” he said. Both of his magical scimitars came out in his hands, Twinkle glowing dangerously. “Let him go and give him a blade. Neither am I forgiving.”

Seeing the horrified look the pirate gave the drow, Bruenor was quick to join in. “Ayuh, Captain, let the dog free,” the dwarf scowled. “I only kept his head on his shoulders to give ye a livin’ gift. If ye don’t want him, …” Bruenor pulled his axe from his belt and swung it easily at the end of his arm.

Wulfgar didn’t miss the point. “Bare hands and up the mast!” the barbarian roared, flexing his muscles so they seemed they would burst. “The pirate and me! Let the winner know the glory of victory. And let the loser drop to his death!”

Pinochet looked at the three crazed warriors. Then, almost pleading for help, he turned back to Deudermont.

“Ah, ye’re all missing the fun.” Catti-brie grinned, not to be left out. “Where’s the sport in one of ye tearin’ the pirate apart? Give him the little boat and set him off.” Her spritely face turned suddenly grim, and she cast a wicked glare at Pinochet. “Give him a boat,” she reiterated, “and let him dodge me silver arrows!”

“Very well, Captain Pinochet,” Deudermont began, barely hiding a chuckle. “I would not invoke the rage of the pirates. You are a free man and may go when you choose.”

Pinochet snapped around, face to face with Deudermont.

“Or,” continued the captain of the Sea Sprite, “you and your crew can remain in my hold, under my personal protection, until we reach port.”

“You cannot control your crew?” the pirate spat.

“They are not my crew,” Deudermont replied. “And if these four chose to kill you, I daresay that I could do little to deter them.”

“It is not the way of my people to let our enemies live!” Drizzt interjected in a tone so callous that it sent shivers through the spines of even his closest friends. “Yet I need you, Captain Deudermont, and your ship.” He sheathed his blades in a lightning-quick movement. “I will let the pirate live in exchange for the completion of our arrangements.”

“The hold, Captain Pinochet?” Deudermont asked, waving two of his crewmen in to escort the pirate leader.

Pinochet’s eyes were back on Drizzt. “If you ever sail this way again, …” the stubborn pirate began ominously.

Bruenor kicked him in the behind. “Wag yer tongue again dog,” the dwarf roared, “and suren I’ll cut it out!”

Pinochet left quietly with Deudermont’s crewmen.

Later that day, while the crew of the Sea Sprite continued its repairs, the reunited friends retired to Drizzt and Wulfgar’s cabin to hear of Bruenor’s adventures in Mithril Hall. Stars twinkled in the evening sky and still the dwarf went on, talking of the riches he had seen, of the ancient and holy places he had come across in his homeland, of his many skirmishes with duergar patrols, and of his final, daring escape through the great undercity.

Catti-brie sat directly across from Bruenor, watching the dwarf through the swaying flame of the single candle burning on the table. She had heard his story before, but Bruenor could spin a tale as well as any, and she leaned forward in her chair, mesmerized once again. Wulfgar, with his long arms draped comfortably over her shoulders, had pulled his chair up behind her.

Drizzt stood by the window and gazed at the dreamy sky. How like the old times it all seemed, as if they had somehow brought a piece of Icewind Dale along with them. Many were the nights that the friends had gathered to swap tales of their pasts or to just enjoy the quiet of the evening together. Of course, a fifth member had been with the group then and always with an outlandish tale that outdid all the others.

Drizzt looked at his friends and then back to the night sky, thinking—hoping—of a day when the five friends would be rejoined.

A knock on the door made the three at the table jump, so engrossed were they—even Bruenor—in the dwarf’s story. Drizzt opened the door, and Captain Deudermont walked in.

“Greetings,” he said politely. “I would not interrupt, but I have some news.”

“Just getting to the good part,” Bruenor grumbled, “but it’ll get better with a bit o’ waiting!”

“I have spoken with Pinochet once again,” said Deudermont. “He is a very prominent man in this land, and it does not fit well that he set up three ships to stop us. He was after something.”

“Us,” Drizzt reasoned.

“He said nothing directly,” replied Deudermont, “but I believe that to be the case. Please understand that I cannot press him too far.”

“Bah! I’ll get the dog a barkin’!” Bruenor huffed.

“No need,” said Drizzt. “The pirates had to be looking for us.”

“But how would they know?” Deudermont asked.

“Balls of fire over Baldur’s Gate,” Wulfgar reasoned.

Deudermont nodded, remembering the display. “It would seem that you have attracted some powerful foes.”

“The man we seek knew that we would come into Baldur’s Gate,” said Drizzt. “He even left a message for us. It would not have been difficult for the likes of Artemis Entreri to arrange a signal detailing how and when we left.”

“Or to arrange the ambush,” Wulfgar said grimly.

“So it would seem,” said Deudermont.

Drizzt kept quiet, but suspected differently. Why would Entreri lead them all this way, only to have them killed by pirates? Someone else had entered the picture, Drizzt knew, and he could only guess that that person was Pasha Pook himself.

“But there are other matters we must discuss,” said Deudermont. “The Sea Sprite is seaworthy, but we have taken serious damage—as has the pirate ship we have captured.”

“Do you mean to sail both out of here?” Wulfgar asked.

“Aye,” replied the captain. “We shall release Pinochet and his men when we get to port. They will take the vessel from there.”

“Pirates deserve worse,” Bruenor grumbled.

“And will this damage slow our journey?” Drizzt asked, more concerned with their mission.

“It will,” Deudermont replied. “I am hoping to get us to the kingdom of Calimshan, to Memnon, just beyond the Tethyr border. Our flag will aid us in the desert kingdom. There, we may dock and repair.”

“For how long?”

Deudermont shrugged. “A week, perhaps, maybe longer. We’ll not know until we can properly assess the damage. And another week after that to sail around the horn to Calimport.”

The four friends exchanged disheartened and worried glances. How many days did Regis have left to live? Could the halfling afford the delay?

“But there is another option,” Deudermont told them. “The journey from Memnon to Calimport by ship, around the city of Teshburl and into the Shining Sea, is much longer than the straight land route. Caravans depart for Calimport nearly every day, and the journey, though a hard one through the Calim Desert, takes but a few days.”

“We have little gold for passage,” said Catti-brie.

Deudermont waved the problem away. “A minor cost,” he said. “Any caravan heading through the desert would be glad to have you along as guards. And you have earned ample reward from me to get you through.” He jiggled a bag of gold strapped to his belt. “Or, if you choose, you may remain with the Sea Sprite for as long as you wish.”

“How long to Memnon?” Drizzt asked.

“It depends on how much wind our sails can hold,” replied Deudermont. “Five days; perhaps a week.”

“Tell us of this Calim Desert,” said Wulfgar. “What is a desert?”

“A barren land,” replied Deudermont grimly, not wanting to understate the challenge that would be before them if they chose that course. “An empty wasteland of blowing, stinging sands and hot winds. Where monsters rule over men, and many an unfortunate traveler has crawled to his death to be picked clean by vultures.”

The four friends shrugged away the captain’s grim description. Except for the temperature difference, it sounded like home.

13. Paying the Piper

The docks rolled away beyond sight in either direction, the sails of a thousand ships speckled the pale blue waters of the Shining Sea, and it would take them hours to walk the breadth of the city before them, no matter which gate they sought.

Calimport, the largest city in all the Realms, was a sprawling conglomeration of shanties and massive temples, of tall towers springing from plains of low wooden houses. This was the hub of the southern coast, a vast marketplace several times the area of Waterdeep.

Entreri moved Regis off the docks and into the city. The halfling offered no resistance; he was too caught up in the striking emotions that the unique smells, sights, and sounds of the city brought over him. Even his terror at the thought of facing Pasha Pook became buried in the jumble of memories invoked by his return to his former home.

He had spent his entire childhood here as an orphaned waif, sneaking meals on the streets and sleeping curled up beside the trash fires the other bums set in the alleys on chilly nights. But Regis had an advantage over the other vagabonds of Calimport. Even as a young lad, he had undeniable charm and a lucky streak that always seemed to land him on his feet. The grubby bunch he had run with just shook their heads knowingly on the day their halfling comrade was taken in by one of the many brothels of the city.

The “ladies” showed Regis much kindness, letting him do minor cleaning and cooking tasks in exchange for a high lifestyle that his old friends could only watch and envy. Recognizing the charismatic halfling’s potential, the ladies even introduced Regis to the man who would become his mentor and who would mold him into one of the finest thieves the city had ever known: Pasha Pook.

The name came back to Regis like a slap in the face, reminding him of the terrible reality he now faced. He had been Pook’s favorite little cutpurse, the guildmaster’s pride and joy, but that would only make things worse for Regis now. Pook would never forgive him for his treachery.

Then a more vivid recollection took Regis’s legs out from under him as Entreri turned him down Rogues Circle. At the far end, around the cul-de-sac and facing back toward the entrance to the lane, stood a plain-looking wooden building with a single, unremarkable door. But Regis knew the splendors hidden within that unpretentious facade.

And the horrors.

Entreri grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along, never slowing the pace.

“Now, Drizzt, now,” Regis whispered, praying that his friends were about and ready to make a desperate, last-minute rescue. But Regis knew that his prayers would not be answered this time. He had finally gotten himself stuck in the mud too deeply to escape.

Two guards disguised as bums moved in front of the pair as they approached the door. Entreri said nothing but shot them a murderous stare.

Apparently the guards recognized the assassin. One of them stumbled out of the way, tripping over his own feet, while the other rushed to the door and rapped loudly. A peephole opened, and the guard whispered something to the doorman inside. A split second later, the door swung wide.

Looking in on the thieves’ guild proved too much for the halfling. Blackness swirled about him, and he fell limp in the assassin’s iron grasp. Showing neither emotion nor surprise, Entreri scooped Regis up over his shoulder and carried him like a sack into the guildhouse and down the flight of stairs beyond the door.

Two more guards moved in to escort him, but Entreri pushed his way past them. It had been three long years since Pook had sent him on the road after Regis, but the assassin knew the way. He passed through several rooms, down another level, and then started up a long, spiral staircase. Soon he was up to street level again and still climbing to the highest chambers of the structure.

Regis regained consciousness in a dizzy blur. He glanced about desperately as the images came clearer and he remembered where he was. Entreri had him by the ankles, the halfling’s head dangling halfway down the assassin’s back and his hand just inches from the jeweled dagger. But even if he could have gotten to the weapon quickly enough, Regis knew that he had no chance of escape—not with Entreri holding him, two armed guards following, and curious eyes glaring at them from every doorway.

The whispers had traveled through the guild faster than Entreri.

Regis hooked his chin around Entreri’s side and managed to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. They came up onto a landing, where four more guards parted without question, opening the way down a short corridor that ended in an ornate, ironbound door.

Pasha Pook’s door.

The blackness swirled over Regis once again.

When he entered the chamber, Entreri found that he had been expected. Pook sat comfortably on his throne, LaValle, by his side and his favorite leopard at his feet, and none of them flinched at the sudden appearance of the two long-lost associates.

The assassin and the guildmaster stared silently at each other for a long time. Entreri studied the man carefully. He hadn’t expected so formal a meeting.

Something was wrong.

Entreri pulled Regis off his shoulder and held him out—still upside down—at arm’s length, as if presenting a trophy. Convinced that the halfling was oblivious to the world at that moment, Entreri released his hold, letting Regis drop heavily to the floor.

That drew a chuckle from Pook. “It has been a long three years,” the guildmaster said, breaking the tension.

Entreri nodded. “I told you at the outset that this one might take time. The little thief ran to the corners of the world.”

“But not beyond your grasp, eh?” Pook said, somewhat sarcastically. “You have performed your task excellently, as always, Master Entreri. Your reward shall be as promised.” Pook sat back on his throne again and resumed his distant posture, rubbing a finger over his lips and eyeing Entreri suspiciously.

Entreri didn’t have any idea why Pook, after so many difficult years and a successful completion of the mission, would treat him so badly. Regis had eluded the guildmaster’s grip for more than half a decade before Pook finally sent Entreri on the chase. With that record preceding him, Entreri did not think three years such a long time to complete the mission.

And the assassin refused to play such cryptic games. “If there is a problem, speak it,” he said bluntly.

“There was a problem,” Pook replied mysteriously, emphasizing the past tense of his statement.

Entreri rocked back a step, now fully at a loss—one of the very few times in his life.

Regis stirred at that moment and managed to sit up, but the two men, engaged in the important conversation, paid him no notice.

“You were being followed,” Pook explained, knowing better than to play a teasing game for too long with the killer. “Friends of the halfling?”

Regis’s ears perked up.

Entreri took a long moment to consider his response. He guessed what Pook was getting at, and it was easy for him to figure out that Oberon must have informed the guildmaster of more than his return with Regis. He made a mental note to visit the wizard the next time he was in Baldur’s Gate, to explain to Oberon the proper limits of spying and the proper restraints of loyalty. No one ever crossed Artemis Entreri twice.

“It does not matter,” Pook said, seeing no answer forthcoming. “They will bother us no more.”

Regis felt sick. This was the southland, the home of Pasha Pook. If Pook had learned of his friends’ pursuit, he certainly could have eliminated them.

Entreri understood that, too. He fought to maintain his calm while a burning rage reared up inside him. “I tend to my own affairs,” he growled at Pook, his tone confirming to the guildmaster that he had indeed been playing a private game with his pursuers.

“And I to mine!” Pook shot back, straightening in his chair. “I know not what connection this elf and barbarian hold to you, Entreri, but they have nothing to do with my pendant!” He collected himself quickly and sat back, realizing that the confrontation was getting too dangerous to continue. “I could not take the risk.”

The tension eased out of Entreri’s taut muscles. He did not wish a war with Pook and he could not change what was past. “How?” he asked.

“Pirates,” Pook replied. “Pinochet owed me a favor.”

“It is confirmed?”

“Why do you care?” Pook asked. “You are here. The halfling is here. My pen—”

He stopped suddenly, realizing that he hadn’t yet seen the ruby pendant.

Now it was Pook’s turn to sweat and wonder. “It is confirmed?” Entreri asked again, making no move toward the magical pendant that hung, concealed, about his neck.

“Not yet,” Pook stammered, “but three ships were sent after the one. There can be no doubt.”

Entreri hid his smile. He knew the powerful drow and barbarian well enough to consider them alive until their bodies had been paraded before him. “Yes, there can indeed be doubt,” he whispered under his breath as he pulled the ruby pendant over his head and tossed it to the guildmaster.

Pook caught it in trembling hands, knowing immediately from its familiar tingle that it was the true gem. What power he would wield now! With the magical ruby in his hands, Artemis Entreri returned to his side, and Rassiter’s wererats under his command, he would be unstoppable!

LaValle put a steadying hand on the guildmaster’s shoulder. Pook, beaming in anticipation of his growing power, looked up at him.

“Your reward shall be as promised,” Pook said again to Entreri as soon as he had caught his breath. “And more!”

Entreri bowed. “Well met, then, Pasha Pook,” he replied. “It is good to be home.”

“Concerning the elf and barbarian,” Pook said, suddenly entertaining second thoughts about ever mistrusting the assassin.

Entreri stopped him with outstretched palms. “A watery grave serves them as well as Calimport’s sewers,” he said. “Let us not worry about what is behind us.”

Pook’s smile engulfed his round face. “Agreed, and well met, then,” he beamed. “Especially when there is such pleasurable business ahead of us.” He turned an evil eve upon Regis, but the halfling, sitting stooped over on the floor beside Entreri, didn’t notice.

Regis was still trying to digest the news about his friends. At that moment, he didn’t care how their deaths might affect his own future or lack of one. He only cared that they were gone. First Bruenor in Mithril Hall, then Drizzt and Wulfgar, and possibly Catti-brie, as well. Next to that, Pasha Pook’s threats seemed hollow indeed. What could Pook ever do to him that would hurt as much as those losses?

“Many sleepless nights I have spent fretting over the disappointment you have caused me,” Pook said to Regis. “And many more I have spent considering how I would repay you!”

The door swung open, interrupting Pook’s train of thought. The guildmaster did not have to look up to know who had dared to enter without permission. Only one man in the guild would have such nerve.

Rassiter swept into the room and cut an uncomfortably close circle as he inspected the newcomers. “Greetings, Pook,” he said offhandedly, his eyes locking onto the assassin’s stern gaze.

Pook said nothing but dropped his chin into his hand to watch. He had anticipated the meeting for a long time.

Rassiter stood nearly a foot taller than Entreri, a fact that only added to the wererat’s already cocky attitude. Like so many simpleton bullies, Rassiter often confused size with strength, and looking down at this man who was a legend on the streets of Calimport—and thus his rival—made him think that he had already gained the upper hand. “So, you are the great Artemis Entreri,” he said, contempt evident in his voice.

Entreri didn’t blink. Murder was in his eyes as his gaze followed Rassiter, who still circled. Even Regis was dumbfounded at the stranger’s boldness. No one ever moved so casually around Entreri.

“Greetings,” Rassiter said at length, satisfied with his scan. He bowed low. “I am Rassiter, Pasha Pook’s closest advisor and controller of the docks.”

Still Entreri did not respond. He looked over to Pook for an explanation.

The guildmaster returned Entreri’s curious gaze with a smirk and lifted his palms in a helpless gesture.

Rassiter carried his familiarity even further. “You and I,” he half-whispered to Entreri, “we can do great things together.” He started to place a hand on the assassin’s shoulder, but Entreri turned him back with an icy glare, a look so deadly that even cocky Rassiter began to understand the peril of his course.

“You may find that I have much to offer you,” Rassiter said, taking a cautious step back. Seeing no response forthcoming, he turned to Pook. “Would you like me to take care of the little thief?” he asked, grinning his yellow smile.

“That one is mine, Rassiter,” Pook replied firmly. “You and yours keep your furry hands off him!”

Entreri did not miss the reference.

“Of course,” Rassiter replied. “I have business, then. I will be going.” He bowed quickly and spun to leave, meeting Entreri’s eyes one final time. He could not hold that icy stare—could not match the sheer intensity of the assassin’s gaze—with his own.

Rassiter shook his head in disbelief as he passed, convinced that Entreri still had not blinked.

“You were gone. My pendant was gone,” Pook explained when the door closed again. “Rassiter has helped me retain, even expand, the strength of the guild.”

“He is a wererat,” Entreri remarked, as if that fact alone ended any argument.

“Head of their guild,” Pook replied, “but they are loyal enough and easy to control.” He held up the ruby pendant. “Easier now.”

Entreri had trouble coming to terms with that, even in light of Pook’s futile attempt at an explanation. He wanted time to consider the new development, to figure out just how much things had changed around the guildhouse. “My room?” he asked.

LaValle shifted uncomfortably and glanced down at Pook. “I have been using it,” the wizard stammered, “but quarters are being built for me.” He looked to the door newly cut into the wall between the harem and Entreri’s old room. “They should be completed any day. I can be out of your room in minutes.”

“No need,” Entreri replied, thinking the arrangements better as they were. He wanted some space from Pook for a while, anyway, to better assess the situation before him and plan his next moves. “I will find a room below, where I might better understand the new ways of the guild.”

LaValle relaxed with an audible sigh.

Entreri picked Regis up by the collar. “What am I to do with this one?”

Pook crossed his arms over his chest and cocked his head. “I have thought of a million tortures befitting your crime,” he said to Regis. “Too many, I see, for, truly, I have no idea of how to properly repay you for what you have done to me.” He looked back to Entreri. “No matter,” he chuckled. “It will come to me. Put him in the Cells of Nine.”

Regis went limp again at the mention of the imfamous dungeon. Pook’s favorite holding cell, it was a horror chamber normally reserved for thieves who killed other members of the guild. Entreri smiled to see the halfling so terrified at the mere mention of the place. He easily lifted Regis off the floor and carried him out of the room.

“That did not go well,” LaValle said when Entreri had left.

“It went splendidly!” Pook disagreed. “I have never seen Rassiter so unnerved, and the sight of it proved infinitely more pleasurable than I ever imagined!”

“Entreri will kill him if he is not careful,” LaValle observed grimly.

Pook seemed amused by the thought. “Then we should learn who is likely to succeed Rassiter.” He looked up at LaValle. “Fear not, my friend. Rassiter is a survivor. He has called the street his home for his entire life and knows when to scurry into the safety of shadows. He will learn his place around Entreri, and he will show the assassin proper respect.”

But LaValle wasn’t thinking of Rassiter’s safety—he had often entertained thoughts of disposing of the wretched wererat himself. What concerned the wizard was the possibility of a deeper rift in the guild. “What if Rassiter turns the power of his allies against Entreri?” he asked in a tone even more grim. “The street war that would ensue would split the guild in half.”

Pook dismissed the possibility with a wave of his hand. “Even Rassiter is not that stupid,” he answered, fingering the ruby pendant, an insurance policy he might just need.

LaValle relaxed, satisfied with his master’s assurances and with Pook’s ability to handle the delicate situation. As usual, Pook was right, LaValle realized. Entreri had unnerved the wererat with a simple stare, to the possible benefit of all involved. Perhaps now, Rassiter would act more appropriately for his rank in the guild. And with Entreri soon to be quartered on this very level, perhaps the intrusions of the filthy wererat would come less often.

Yes, it was good to have Entreri back.

The Cells of Nine were so named because of the nine cells cut into the center of a chamber’s floor, three abreast and three long. Only the center cell was ever unoccupied; the other eight held Pasha Pook’s most treasured collection: great hunting cats from every corner of the Realms.

Entreri handed Regis over to the jailor, a masked giant of a man, then stood back to watch the show. Around the halfling the jailor tied one end of a heavy rope, which made its way over a pulley in the ceiling above the center cell then back to a crank off to the side.

“Untie it when you are in,” the jailor grunted at Regis. He pushed Regis forward. “Pick your path.”

Regis walked gingerly along the border of the outer cells. They all were roughly ten feet square with caves cut into the walls, where the cats could go to rest. But none of the beasts rested now, and all seemed equally hungry.

They were always hungry.

Regis chose the plank between a white lion and a heavy tiger, thinking those two giants the least likely to scale the twenty-foot wall and claw his ankle out from under him as he crossed. He slipped one foot onto the wall—which was barely four inches wide—separating the cells and then hesitated, terrified.

The jailor gave a prompting tug on the rope that nearly toppled Regis in with the lion.

Reluctantly he started out, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other and trying to ignore the growls and claws below. He had nearly made the center cell when the tiger launched its full weight against the wall, shaking it violently. Regis overbalanced and tumbled in with a shriek.

The jailor pulled the crank and caught him in midfall, hoisting him just out of the leaping tiger’s reach. Regis swung into the far wall, bruising his ribs but not even feeling the injury at that desperate moment. He scrambled over the wall and swung free, eventually stopping over the middle of the center cell, where the jailor let him down.

He put his feet to the floor tentatively and clutched the rope as his only possible salvation, refusing to believe that he must stay in the nightmarish place.

“Untie it!” the jailor demanded, and Regis knew by the man’s tone that to disobey was to suffer unspeakable pain. He slipped the rope free.

“Sleep well,” the jailor laughed, pulling the rope high out of the halfling’s reach. The hooded man left with Entreri, extinguishing all the room’s torches and slamming the iron door behind him, leaving Regis alone in the dark with the eight hungry cats.

The walls separating the cats’ cells were solid, preventing the animals from harming each other, but the center cell was lined with wide bars—wide enough for a cat to put its paws through. And this torture chamber was circular, providing easy and equal access from all eight of the other cells.

Regis did not dare to move. The rope had placed him in the exact center of the cell, the only spot that kept him out of reach of all eight cats. He glanced around at the feline eyes, gleaming wickedly in the dim light. He heard the scraping of lunging claws and even felt a swish of air whenever one of them managed to squeeze enough leg through the bars to get a close swipe.

And each time a huge paw slammed into the floor beside him, Regis had to remind himself not to jump back—where another cat waited.

Five minutes seemed like an hour, and Regis shuddered to think of how many days Pook would keep him there. Maybe it would be better just to get it over with, Regis thought, a notion that many shared when placed in the chamber.

Looking at the cats, though, the halfling dismissed that possibility. Even if he could convince himself that a quick death in a tiger’s jaws would be better than the fate he no doubt faced, he would never have found the courage to carry it through. He was a survivor—had always been—and he couldn’t deny that stubborn side of his character that refused to yield no matter how bleak his future seemed.

He stood now, as still as a statue, and consciously worked to fill his mind with thoughts of his recent past, of the ten years he had spent outside Calimport. Many adventures he had seen on his travels, many perils he had come through. Regis replayed those battles and escapes over and over in his mind, trying to recapture the sheer excitement he had experienced—active thoughts that would help to keep him awake.

For if weariness overtook him and he fell to the floor, some part of him might get too close to one of the cats.

More than one prisoner had been clawed in the foot and dragged to the side to be ripped apart.

And even those who survived the Cells of Nine would never forget the ravenous stares of those sixteen gleaming eyes.

14. Dancing Snakes

Luck was with the damaged Sea Sprite and the captured pirate vessel, for the sea held calm and the wind blew steadily but gently. Still, the journey around the Tethyr Peninsula proved tedious and all too slow for the four anxious friends, for every time the two ships seemed to be making headway, one or the other would develop a new problem.

South of the peninsula, Deudermont took his ships through a wide stretch of water called the Race, so named for the common spectacle there of merchant vessels running from pirate pursuit. No other pirates bothered Deudermont or his crew, however. Even Pinochet’s third ship never again showed its sails.

“Our journey nears its end,” Deudermont told the four friends when the high coastline of the Purple Hills came into view early on the third morning. “Where the hills end, Calimshan begins.”

Drizzt leaned over the forward rail and looked into the pale blue waters of the southern seas. He wondered again if they would get to Regis in time.

“There is a colony of your people farther inland,” Deudermont said to him, drawing him out of his private thoughts, “in a dark wood called Mir.” An involuntary shudder shook the captain. “The drow are not liked in this region; I would advise you to don your mask.”

Without thinking, Drizzt drew the magical mask over his face, instantly assuming the features of a surface elf. The act bothered the drow less than it shook his three friends, who looked on in resigned disdain. Drizzt was only doing what he had to do, they reminded themselves, carrying on with the same uncomplaining stoicism that had guided his life since the day he had forsaken his people.

The drow’s new identity did not fit in the eyes of Wulfgar and Catti-brie. Bruenor spat into the water, disgusted at a world too blinded by a cover to read the book inside.

By early afternoon, a hundred sails dotted the southern horizon and a vast line of docks appeared along the coast, with a sprawling city of low clay shacks and brightly colored tents rolling out behind them. But as vast as Memnon’s docks were, the number of fishing and merchant vessels and warships of the growing Calimshan navy was greater still. The Sea Sprite and its captured ship were forced to drop anchor offshore and wait for appropriate landings to open—a wait, the harbormaster soon informed Deudermont, of possibly a week.

“We shall next be visited by Calimshan’s navy,” Deudermont explained as the harbormaster’s launch headed away, “coming to inspect the pirate ship and interrogate Pinochet.”

“They’ll take care o’ the dog?” Bruenor asked.

Deudermont shook his head. “Not likely. Pinochet and his men are my prisoners and my trouble. Calimshan desires an end to the pirate activities and is making bold strides toward that goal, but I doubt that it would yet dare to become entangled with one as powerful as Pinochet.”

“What’s for him, then?” Bruenor grumbled, trying to find some measure of backbone in all the political double talk.

“He will sail away to trouble another ship on another day,” Deudermont replied.

“And to warn that rat, Entreri, that we’ve slipped the noose,” Bruenor snapped back.

Understanding Deudermont’s sensitive position, Drizzt put in a reasonable request. “How long can you give us?”

“Pinochet cannot get his ship in for a week, and,” the captain added with a sly wink, “I have already seen to it that it is no longer seaworthy. I should be able to stretch that week out to two. By the time the pirate finds the wheel of his ship again, you will have told this Entreri of your escape personally.”

Wulfgar still did not understand. “What have you gained?” he asked Deudermont. “You have defeated the pirates, but they are to sail free, tasting vengeance on their lips. They will strike at the Sea Sprite on your next passage. Will they show as much mercy if they win the next encounter?”

“It is a strange game we play,” Deudermont agreed with a helpless smile. “But, in truth, I have strengthened my position on the waters by sparing Pinochet and his men. In exchange for his freedom, the pirate captain will swear off vengeance. None of Pinochet’s associates shall ever bother the Sea Sprite again, and that group includes most of the pirates sailing Asavir’s Channel!”

“And ye’re to trust that dog’s word?” Bruenor balked.

“They are honorable enough,” replied Deudermont, “in their own way. The codes have been drawn and are held to by the pirates; to break them would be to invite open warfare with the southern kingdoms.”

Bruenor spat into the water again. It was the same in every city and kingdom and even on the open water: organizations of thieves tolerated within limits of behavior. Bruenor was of a different mind. Back in Mithril Hall, his clan had custom-built a closet with shelving especially designed to hold severed hands that had been caught in pockets where they didn’t belong.

“It is settled, then,” Drizzt remarked, seeing it time to change the subject. “Our journey by sea is at an end.” Deudermont, expecting the announcement, tossed him the pouch of gold. “A wise choice,” the captain said. “You will make Calimport a full week and more more before the Sea Sprite finds her docks. But come to us when you have completed your business. We shall put back for Waterdeep before the last of the winter’s snows have melted in the North. By all of my reckoning, you have earned your passage.”

“We’re for leaving long afore that,” replied Bruenor, “but thanks for yer offer!”

Wulfgar stepped forward and clasped the captain’s wrist. “It was good to serve and fight beside you,” he said. “I look forward to the day when next we will meet.”

“As do we all,” Drizzt added. He held the pouch high. “And this shall be repaid.”

Deudermont waved the notion away and mumbled, “A pittance.” Knowing the friends’ desire for haste, he motioned for two of his crewmen to drop a rowboat.

“Farewell!” he called as the friends pulled away from the Sea Sprite. “Look for me in Calimport!”

Of all the places the companions had visited, of all the lands they had walked through and fought through, none had seemed as foreign to them as Memnon in the kingdom of Calimshan. Even Drizzt, who had come from the strange world of the drow elves, stared in amazement as he made his way through the city’s open lanes and marketplaces. Strange music, shrill and mournful—as often resembling wails of pain as harmony—surrounded them and carried them on.

People flocked everywhere. Most wore sand-colored robes, but others were brightly dressed, and all had some sort of head covering: a turban or a veiled hat. The friends could not guess at the population of the city, which seemed to go on forever, and doubted that anyone had ever bothered to count. But Drizzt and his companions could envision that if all the people of the cities along the northern stretches of the Sword Coast, Waterdeep included, gathered in one vast refugee camp, it would resemble Memnon.

A strange combination of odors wafted through Memnon’s hot air: that of a sewer that ran through a perfume market, mixed with the pungent sweat and malodorous breath of the ever-pressing crowd. Shacks were thrown up randomly, it seemed, giving Memnon no apparent design or structure. Streets were any way that was not blocked by homes, though the four friends had all come to the conclusion that the streets themselves served as homes for many people.

At the center of all the bustle were the merchants. They lined every lane, selling weapons, foodstuffs, exotic pipe weeds—even slaves shamelessly displaying their goods in whatever manner would attract a crowd. On one corner, potential buyers test-fired a large crossbow by shooting down a boxed-in range, complete with live slave targets. On another, a woman showing more skin than clothing—and that being no more than translucent veils—twisted and writhed in a synchronous dance with a gigantic snake, wrapping herself within the huge reptilian coils and then slipping teasingly back out again.

Wide-eyed and with his mouth hanging open, Wulfgar stopped, mesmerized by the strange and seductive dance, drawing a slap across the back of his head from Catti-brie and amused chuckles from his other two companions.

“Never have I so longed for home,” the huge barbarian sighed, truly overwhelmed.

“It is another adventure, nothing more,” Drizzt reminded him. “Nowhere might you learn more than in a land unlike your own.”

“True enough,” said Catti-brie. “But by me eyes, these folk be making decadence into society.”

“They live by different rules,” Drizzt replied. “They would, perhaps, be equally offended by the ways of the North.”

The others had no response to that, and Bruenor, never surprised but always amazed by eccentric human ways, just wagged his red beard.

Outfitted for adventure, the friends were far from a novelty in the trading city. But, being foreigners, they attracted a crowd, mostly naked, black-tanned children begging for tokens and coins. The merchants eyed the adventurers, too—foreigners usually brought in wealth—and one particularly lascivious set of eyes settled onto them firmly.

“Well, well?” the weaseling merchant asked his hunchbacked companion.

“Magic, magic everywhere, my master,” the broken little goblin lisped hungrily, absorbing the sensations his magical wand imparted to him. He replaced the wand on his belt. “Strongest on the weapons—elf’s swords, both, dwarf’s axe, girl’s bow, and especially the big one’s hammer!” He thought of mentioning the odd sensations his wand had imparted about the elf’s face, but decided not to make his excitable master any more nervous than was necessary.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” cackled the merchant, waggling his fingers. He slipped out to intercept the strangers.

Bruenor, leading the troupe, stopped short at the sight of the wiry man dressed in yellow-and-red striped robes and a flaming pink turban with a huge diamond set in its front.

“Ha ha ha ha ha. Greetings!” the man spouted at them, his fingers drumming on his own chest and his ear-to-ear smile showing every other tooth to be golden and those in between to be ivory. “I be Sali Dalib, I do be, I do be! You buy, I sell. Good deal, good deal!” His words came out too fast to be immediately sorted, and the friends looked at each other, shrugged, and started away.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” the merchant pressed, wiggling back in their path. “What you need, Sali Dalib got. In plenty, too, many. Tookie, nookie, bookie.”

“Smoke weed, women, and tomes in every language known to the world,” the lisping little goblin translated. “My master is a merchant of anything and everything!”

“Bestest o’ de bestest!” Sali Dalib asserted. “What you need—”

“Sali Dalib got,” Bruenor finished for him. The dwarf looked to Drizzt, confident that they were thinking the same thing: The sooner they were out of Memnon, the better. One weird merchant would serve as well as another.

“Horses,” the dwarf told the merchant.

“We wish to get to Calimport,” Drizzt explained.

“Horses, horses? Ha ha ha ha ha,” replied Sali Dalib without missing a beat. “Not for long ride, no. Too hot, too dry. Camels de thing!”

“Camels…desert horses,” the goblin explained, seeing the dumbfounded expressions. He pointed to a large dromedary being led down the street by its tan-robed master. “Much better for ride across the desert.”

“Camels, then,” snorted Bruenor, eyeing the massive beast tentatively. “Or whatever’ll do!”

Sali Dalib rubbed his hands together eagerly. “What you need—”

Bruenor threw his hand out to stop the excited merchant. “We know, we know.”

Sali Dalib sent his assistant away with some private instructions and led the friends through the maze of Memnon at great speed, though he never seemed to lift his feet from the ground as he shuffled along. All the while, the merchant held his hands out in front of him, his fingers twiddling and tap-tapping. But he seemed harmless enough, and the friends were more amused than worried.

Sali Dalib pulled up short before a large tent on the western end of the city, a poorer section even by Memnon’s paupers’ standards. Around the back, the merchant found what he was looking for. “Camels!” he proclaimed proudly.

“How much for four?” Bruenor huffed, anxious to get the dealings over with and get back on the road. Sali Dalib seemed not to understand.

“The price?” the dwarf asked.

“De price?”

“He wants an offer,” Catti-brie observed.

Drizzt understood as well. Back in Menzoberranzan, the city of drow, merchants used the same technique. By getting the buyer especially a buyer not familiar with the goods for sale—to make the first mention of price, they often received many times the value of their goods. And if the bid came in too low, the merchant could always hold out for the proper market value.

“Five hundred gold pieces for the four,” Drizzt offered, guessing the beasts to be at least twice that value.

Sali Dalib’s fingers began their tap dance again, and a sparkle came into his pale gray eyes. Drizzt expected a tirade and then an outlandish counter, but Sali Dalib suddenly calmed and flashed his gold-and-ivory smile.

“Agreed!” he replied.

Drizzt caught his tongue before his planned retort left his mouth in a meaningless gurgle. He cast a curious look at the merchant, then turned to count out the gold from the sack Deudermont had given him.

“Fifty more for ye if ye can get us hooked with a caravan for Calimport,” Bruenor offered.

Sali Dalib assumed a contemplative stance, tapping his fingers against the dark bristles on his chin. “But there is one out dis very now,” he replied. “You can catch it with little trouble. But you should. Last one to Calimport for de week.”

“To the south!” the dwarf cried happily to his companions.

“De south? Ha ha ha ha ha!” Sali Dalib blurted. “Not de south! De south is for thief bait!”

“Calimport is south,” Bruenor retorted suspiciously. “And so’s the road, by me guessing.”

“De road to Calimport is south,” Sali Dalib agreed, “but those who be smart start to de west, on de bestest road.”

Drizzt handed a pouch of gold to the merchant. “How do we catch the caravan?”

“De west,” Sali Dalib replied, dropping the pouch into a deep pocket without even inspecting the contents. “Only out one hour. Easy catch, dis. Follow de signposts on de horizon. No problem.”

“We’ll need supplies,” Catti-brie remarked.

“Caravan is well-stocked,” answered Sali Dalib. “Bestest place to buy. Now be going. Catch dem before dey turn south to de Trade Way!” He moved to help them select their mounts: a large dromedary for Wulfgar, a two-bumper for Drizzt, and smaller ones for Catti-brie and Bruenor.

“Remember, good friends,” the merchant said to them when they were perched upon their mounts. “What you need—”

“Sali Dalib got!” they all answered in unison. With one final flash of his gold-and-ivory smile, the merchant shuffled into the tent.

“He was more to bargaining, by me guess,” Catti-brie remarked as they headed tentatively on the stiff-legged camels toward the first signpost. “He could’ve gotten more for the beasts.”

“Stolen, o’ course!” Bruenor laughed, stating what he considered the obvious.

But Drizzt wasn’t so certain. “A merchant such as he would have sought the best price even for stolen goods,” he replied, “and by all my knowledge of the rules of bargaining, he most certainly should have counted the gold.”

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted, fighting to keep his mount moving straight. “Ye probably gave him more than the things are worth!”

“What, then?” Catti-brie asked Drizzt, agreeing more with his reasoning.

“Where?” Wulfgar answered and asked all at once. “He sent his goblin sneak away with a message.”

“Ambush,” said Catti-brie.

Drizzt and Wulfgar nodded. “It would seem,” said the barbarian.

Bruenor considered the possibility. “Bah!” He snorted at the notion. “He didn’t have enough wits in his head to pull it off.”

“That observation might only make him more dangerous,” Drizzt remarked, looking back a final time toward Memnon.

“Turn back?” the dwarf asked, not so quick to dismiss the drow’s apparently serious concerns.

“If our suspicions prove wrong and we miss the caravan, …” Wulfgar reminded them ominously.

“Can Regis wait?” asked Catti-brie.

Bruenor and Drizzt looked to each other.

“Onward,” Drizzt said at length. “Let us learn what we may.”

“Nowhere might you learn more than in a land unlike your own,” Wulfgar remarked, echoing Drizzt’s thoughts of that morning.

When they had passed the first signpost, their suspicions did not diminish. A large board nailed to the post named their route in twenty languages, all reading the same way: “De bestest road.” Once again, the friends considered their options, and once again they found themselves trapped by the lack of time. They would continue on, they decided, for one hour. If they had found no signs of the caravan by then, they would return to Memnon and “discuss” the matter with Sali Dalib.

The next signpost read the same way, as did the one after that. By the time they passed the fifth, sweat drenched their clothes and stung their eyes, and the city was no longer in sight, lost somewhere in the dusty heat of the rising dunes. Their mounts didn’t make the journey any better. Camels were nasty beasts, and nastier still when driven by an inexperienced rider. Wulfgar’s, in particular, had a bad opinion of its rider, for camels preferred to pick their own route, and the barbarian, with his powerful legs and arms, kept forcing his mount through the motions he chose. Twice, the camel had arched its head back and launched a slobbery wad of spittle at Wulfgar’s face.

Wulfgar took it all in stride, but he spent more than a passing moment fantasizing of flattening the camel’s hump with his hammer.

“Hold!” Drizzt commanded as they moved down into a bowl between dunes. The drow extended his arm, leading the surprised glances skyward, where several buzzards had taken up a lazy, circular flight.

“There’s carrion about,” Bruenor noted.

“Or there is soon to be,” Drizzt replied grimly.

Even as he spoke, the lines of the dunes encircling them transformed suddenly from the hazy flat brown of hot sands to the ominous silhouettes of horsemen, curved swords raised and gleaming in the bright sunlight.

“Ambush,” Wulfgar stated flatly.

Not too surprised, Bruenor glanced around to take a quick measure of the odds. “Five to one,” he whispered to Drizzt.

“It always seems to be,” Drizzt answered. He slowly slid his bow from his shoulder and strung it.

The horsemen held their position for a long while, surveying their intended prey.

“Ye think they be wantin’ to talk?” Bruenor asked, trying to find some humor in the bleak situation.

“Nah,” the dwarf answered himself when none of the other three cracked a smile.

The leader of the horsemen barked a command, and the thunderous charge was on.

“Blast and bebother the whole damned world,” Catti-brie grumbled, pulling Taulmaril from her shoulder as she slid from her mount. “Everyone wants a fight.

“Come on, then!” she shouted at the horsemen. “But let’s get the fight a bit fairer!” She set the magical bow into action, sending one silver arrow after another streaking up the dunes into the horde, blasting rider after rider out of his saddle.

Bruenor gawked at his daughter, suddenly so grim-faced and savage. “The girl’s got it right!” he proclaimed, sliding down from his camel. “Can’t be fightin’ up on one of them things!” As soon as he hit the ground, the dwarf grabbed at his pack and pulled out two flasks of oil.

Wulfgar followed his mentor’s lead, using the side of his camel as a barricade. But the barbarian found his mount to be his first foe, for the ill-tempered beast turned back on him and clamped its flat teeth onto his forearm.

Drizzt’s bow joined in on Taulmaril’s deadly song, but as the horsemen closed in, the drow decided upon a different course of action. Playing on the terror of the reputation of his people, Drizzt tore off his mask and pulled back the cowl of his cloak, leaping to his feet atop the camel and straddling the beast with one foot on each hump. Those riders closing in on Drizzt pulled up short at the unnerving appearance of a drow elf.

The other three flanks collapsed quickly, though, as the horsemen closed in, still outnumbering the friends.

Wulfgar stared at his camel in disbelief, then slammed his huge fist between the wretched beast’s eyes. The dazed camel promptly let go of its hold and turned its woozy head away.

Wulfgar wasn’t finished with the treacherous beast. He noticed three riders bearing down on him, so he decided to pit one enemy against another. He stepped under the camel and lifted it clear off the ground, his muscles rippling as he heaved the thing into the charging pack. He just managed to dodge the tumbling mass of horses, riders, camels, and sand.

Then he had Aegis-fang in his hands, and he leaped into the jumble, crushing the bandits before they ever realized what had hit them.

Two riders found a channel through the riderless camels to get at Bruenor, but it was Drizzt, standing alone, who got in the first strike. Summoning his magical ability, the drow conjured a globe of darkness in front of the charging bandits. They tried to pull up short, but plunged in headlong.

That gave Bruenor all the time he needed. He struck a spark off his tinderbox onto the rags he had stuffed into the oil flasks, then tossed the flaming grenades into the ball of darkness.

Even the fiery lights of the ensuing explosions could not be seen within the globe of Drizzt’s spell, but from the screams that erupted inside, Bruenor knew he had hit the mark.

“Me thanks, elf!” the dwarf cried. “Glad to be with ye again!”

“Behind you!” was Drizzt’s reply, for even as Bruenor spoke, a third rider cut around the globe and galloped at the dwarf. Bruenor instinctively dropped into a ball, throwing his golden shield above him.

The horse trampled right over Bruenor and stumbled into the soft sand, throwing its rider.

The tough dwarf sprang to his feet and shook the sand out of his ears. That stomping would surely hurt when the adrenaline of battle died away, but, right now, all Bruenor felt was rage. He charged the rider—now also rising to his feet—with his mithril axe raised above his head.

Just as Bruenor got there and started his overhead chop, a line of silver flashed by his shoulder, dropping the bandit dead. Unable to stop his momentum, the dwarf went headlong over the suddenly prostrate body and flopped facedown onto the ground.

“Next time, tell me, girl!” Bruenor roared at Catti-brie and spitting sand with every word.

Catti-brie had her own troubles. She had dropped low, hearing a horse thundering up behind her as she loosed the arrow. A curved sword swooshed past the side of her head, nicking her ear, and the rider went past.

Catti-brie meant to send out another arrow to follow the man, but while she was stooped, she saw yet another bandit bearing down on her from behind, this one with a poised spear and heavy shield leading the way.

Catti-brie and Taulmaril proved the swifter. In an instant, another arrow was on the magical bow’s string and sent away. It exploded into the bandit’s heavy shield and tore through, tossing the helpless man off the back of his mount and into the realm of death.

The riderless horse broke stride. Catti-brie caught its reins as it trotted by and swung up into the saddle to pursue the bandit who had cut her.

Drizzt still stood atop his camel, towering above his foes and deftly dancing away from the strikes of riders rushing by, all the while weaving his two magical scimitars into a dance of mesmerizing death. Again and again, bandits thought they had an easy shot at the standing elf, only to find their swords or spears catching nothing but air, and then to suddenly discover Twinkle or the other magical scimitar slicing a clean line across their throats as they started to gallop away.

Then two came in together, broadside to the camel and behind Drizzt. The agile drow leaped about, still comfortably holding his perch. Within mere seconds, he had both of his foes on the defensive.

Wulfgar finished the last of the three he had dropped, then sprang away from the mess, only to find his stubborn camel rising in front of him again. He slammed the nasty thing again, this time with Aegis-fang, and it dropped to the ground beside the bandits.

With that battle at an undeniable end, the first thing the barbarian noticed was Drizzt. He marveled at the magnificent dance of the drow’s blades, snapping down to deflect a curved sword or to keep one of the drow’s two opponents off balance. Drizzt would dispose of both of them in a matter of seconds.

Then Wulfgar looked past the drow, to where another rider quietly trotted in, his spearhead angled to catch Drizzt in the back.

“Drizzt!” the barbarian screamed as he heaved Aegis-fang at his friend.

At the sound of the shout, Drizzt thought Wulfgar was in trouble, but when he looked and saw the war hammer spinning toward his knees, he understood immediately. Without hesitation, he leaped out and over his foes in a twisting somersault.

The charging spearman didn’t even have time to lament his victim’s escape, for the mighty war hammer spun in over the camel’s humps and smashed his face flat.

Drizzt’s dive proved beneficial in his fight up front as well, for he had caught both swordsmen by surprise. In the split second of their hesitation, the drow, though he was upside down in midair, struck hard, thrusting his blades downward.

Twinkle dug deeply into a chest. The other bandit managed to dodge the second scimitar, but it came close enough for Drizzt to lock its hilt under the man’s arm. Both riders came tumbling down with the drow, and only Drizzt landed on his feet. His blades crossed twice and dove again, this time ending the struggle.

Seeing the huge barbarian unarmed, another rider went after him. Wulfgar saw the man coming and poised himself for a desperate strike. As the horse charged in, the barbarian feinted to his right, away from the rider’s sword arm and as the rider had expected. Then Wulfgar reversed direction, throwing himself squarely in the horse’s path.

Wulfgar accepted the stunning impact and locked his arms about the horse’s neck and his legs onto the beast’s front legs, rolling backward with the momentum and causing the horse to stumble. Then the mighty barbarian yanked with all his might, bringing horse and rider right over him.

The shocked bandit could not react, though he did manage to scream as the horse drove him into the ground. When the horse finally rolled away, the bandit remained, buried upside-down to the waist in the sand, his legs lolling grotesquely to one side.

His boots and beard filled with sand, Bruenor eagerly looked for someone to fight. Among the tall mounts, the short dwarf had been overlooked by all but a handful of the bandits. Now, most of them were already dead!

Bruenor rushed away from the protection of the riderless camels, banging his axe on his shield to draw attention to himself. He saw one rider turning to flee from the disastrous scene.

“Hey!” Bruenor barked at him. “Yer mother’s an orc-kissin’ harlot!”

Thinking he had every advantage over the standing dwarf, the bandit couldn’t pass up the opportunity to answer the insult. He rushed over to Bruenor and chopped down with his sword.

Bruenor brought his golden shield up to block the blow, then stepped around the front of the horse. The rider swung about to meet the dwarf on the other side, but Bruenor used his shortness to his advantage. Barely bending, he slipped under the horse’s belly, back to the original side, and thrust his axe up over his head, catching the confused man on the hip. As the bandit lurched over in pain, Bruenor brought his shield arm up, caught turban and hair in his gnarled fingers, and tore the man from his seat. With a satisfied grunt, the dwarf chopped into the bandit’s neck.

“Too easy!” the dwarf grumbled, dropping the body to the ground. He looked for another victim, but the battle was over. No more bandits remained in the bowl, and Wulfgar, Aegis-fang back in his hands, and Drizzt were standing easily.

“Where’s me girl?” Bruenor cried.

Drizzt calmed him with a look and a pointing finger.

On the top of a dune to the side, Catti-brie sat atop the horse she had commandeered, Taulmaril taut in her hands as she looked out over the desert.

Several riders galloped across the sand in full flight and another lay dead on the other side of the dune. Catti-brie put one of them in her sights, then realized that the fighting had ended behind her.

“Enough,” she whispered, moving the bow an inch to the side and sending the arrow over the fleeing bandit’s shoulder.

There has been enough killing this day, she thought.

Catti-brie looked at the carnage of the battle scene and at the hungry buzzards circling patiently overhead. She dropped Taulmaril to her side. The firm set of her grim visage melted away.

15. The Guide

“See the pleasure it promises,” the guildmaster teased, scraping his hand over the barbed tip of a single spike sticking out of a block of wood on the center of the room’s little table.

Regis purposely curled his lips into a stupid smile, pretending to see the obvious logic of Pook’s words.

“Just drop your palm onto it,” Pook coaxed, “then you will know the joy and will again be part of our family.”

Regis searched for a way out of the trap. Once before he had used the ruse, the lie within a lie, pretending to be caught under the magical charm’s influence. He had worked his act to perfection then, convincing an evil wizard of his loyalty, then turning on the man at a critical moment to aid his friends.

This time, though, Regis had even surprised himself, escaping the ruby pendant’s insistent, hypnotizing pull. Now, though, he was caught: A person truly duped by the gem would gladly impale his hand on the barbed spike.

Regis brought his hand above his head and closed his eyes, trying to keep his visage blank enough to carry out the dupe. He swung his arm down, meaning to follow through on Pook’s suggestion.

At the last moment, his hand swerved away and banged harmlessly on the table.

Pook roared in rage, suspecting all along that Regis had somehow escaped the pendant’s influence. He grabbed the halfling by the wrist and smashed his little hand onto the spike, wiggling it as the spike went through. Regis’s scream multiplied tenfold when Pook tore his hand back up the barbed instrument.

Then Pook let him go and slapped him across the face as Regis clutched his wounded hand to his chest.

“Deceiving dog!” the guildmaster shouted, more angry with the pendant’s failure than with Regis’s facade. He lined up for another slap but calmed himself and decided to twist the halfling’s stubborn will back on Regis.

“A pity,” he teased, “for if the pendant had brought you back under control, I might have found a place for you in the guild. Surely you deserve to die, little thief, but I have not forgotten your value to me in the past. You were the finest thief in Calimport, a position I might have offered you once again.”

“Then no pity for the failure of the gem,” Regis dared to retort, guessing the teasing game that Pook was playing, “for no pain outweighs the disgust I would feel at playing lackey to Pasha Pook!”

Pook’s response was a heavy slug that knocked Regis off his chair and onto the floor. The halfling lay curled up, trying to stem the blood from both his hand and his nose.

Pook rested back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He looked at the pendant, resting on the table in front of him. Only once before had it failed him, when he had tried it on a will that would not be captured. Luckily, Artemis Entreri had not realized the attempt that day, and Pook had been wise enough not to try the pendant on the assassin again.

Pook shifted his gaze to Regis, now passed out from the pain. He had to give the little halfling credit. Even if Regis’s familiarity with the pendant had given him an edge in his battle, only an iron will could resist the tempting pull.

“But it will not help you,” Pook whispered at the unconscious form. He sat back in his chair again and closed his eyes, trying to envision still another torture for Regis.

The tan-robed arm slipped in through the tent’s flap and held the limp body of the red-bearded dwarf upside-down by the ankle. Sali Dalib’s fingers started their customary twiddle, and he flashed the gold-and-ivory smile so wide that it seemed as if it would take in his ears. His little goblin assistant jumped up and down at his side, squealing, “Magic, magic, magic!”

Bruenor opened one eye and lifted an arm to push his long beard out of his face. “Ye be likin’ what ye’re seeing?” the dwarf asked slyly.

Sali Dalib’s smile disappeared, and his fingers got all tangled together.

Bruenor’s bearer—Wulfgar, wearing the robe of one of the bandits walked into the tent. Catti-brie came in behind him.

“So ‘twas yerself that set the bandits upon us,” the young woman growled.

Sali Dalib’s exclamation of shock came out as so much gibberish, and the wily merchant spun away to flee…only to find a neat hole sliced into the back of his tent and Drizzt Do’Urden standing within it, leaning on one scimitar while the other rested easily on his shoulder. Just to heighten the merchant’s terror, Drizzt had again taken off the magical mask.

“Uh…um, de bestest road?” the merchant stammered.

“Bestest for yerself and yer friends!” Bruenor growled.

“So they thought,” Catti-brie was quick to put in.

Sali Dalib curled his smile sheepishly, but he had been in tight spots a hundred times before and had always weaseled his way out. He lifted his palms, as if to say, “You caught me,” but then jerked into a dizzying maneuver, pulling several small ceramic globes out of one of his robe’s many pockets. He slammed them to the floor at his feet. Explosions of multicolored light left a thick, blinding smoke in their wake, and the merchant dashed for the side of the tent.

Instinctively Wulfgar dropped Bruenor and jumped ahead, catching an armful of emptiness. The dwarf plopped onto the floor headfirst and rolled to a sitting position, his one-horned helm tilted to the side of his head. As the smoke thinned, the embarrassed barbarian looked back to the dwarf, who just shook his head in disbelief and mumbled, “Suren to be a long adventure.”

Only Drizzt, ever alert, had not been caught unawares. The drow had shielded his eyes from the bursts, then watched the smoky silhouette of the merchant darting to the left. Drizzt would have had him before he got out of the hidden flap in the tent, but Sali Dalib’s assistant stumbled into the drow’s way. Barely slowing, Drizzt slammed Twinkle’s hilt into the little goblin’s forehead, dropping the creature into unconsciousness, then slipped the mask back on his face and jumped out to the streets of Memnon.

Catti-brie rushed by to follow Drizzt, and Bruenor leaped to his feet. “After ‘im, boy!” the dwarf shouted at Wulfgar. The chase was on.

Drizzt caught sight of the merchant slipping into the throng of the streets. Even Sali Dalib’s loud robe would blend well in the city’s myriad of colors, so Drizzt added a touch of his own. As he had done to the invisible mage on the deck of the pirate ship, the drow sent a purplish glowing outline of dancing flames over the merchant.

Drizzt sped off in pursuit, weaving in and out of the crowd with amazing ease and watching for the bobbing line of purple ahead.

Bruenor was less graceful. The dwarf cut ahead of Catti-brie and plunged headlong into the throng, stomping toes and using his shield to bounce bodies out of his way. Wulfgar, right behind, cut an even wider swath, and Catti-brie had an easy time following in their wake.

They passed a dozen lanes and crashed through an open market, Wulfgar accidentally overturning a cart of huge yellow melons. Shouts of protest erupted behind them as they passed, but they kept their eyes ahead, each watching the person in front and trying not to get lost in the overwhelming bustle.

Sali Dalib knew at once that he was too conspicuous with the fiery outline to ever escape in the open streets. To add to his disadvantage, the eyes and pointing fingers of a hundred curious onlookers greeted him at every turn, signposts for his pursuers. Grabbing at the single chance before him, the merchant cut down one lane and scrambled through the doors of a large stone building.

Drizzt turned to make certain that his friends were still behind, then rushed through the doors, skidding to a stop on the steam-slicked marble floor of a public bathhouse.

Two huge eunuchs moved to block the clothed elf, but as with the merchant who had come in just before, the agile Drizzt regained his momentum too quickly to be hindered. He skated through the short entry corridor and into the main room, a large open bath, thick with steam and smelling of sweat and perfumed soaps. Naked bodies crossed his path at every step, and Drizzt had to be careful where he placed his hands as he slipped through.

Bruenor nearly fell as he entered the slippery chamber, and the eunuchs, already out of their positions, got in front of him.

“No clothes!” one of them demanded, but Bruenor had no time for idle discussions. He stamped a heavy boot onto one of the giant’s bare feet, then crunched the other foot for good measure. Wulfgar came in then and heaved the remaining eunuch aside.

The barbarian, leaning forward to gain speed, had no chance to stop or turn on the slippery floor, and as Bruenor turned to make his way along the perimeter of the bath, Wulfgar slammed into him, knocking them both to the floor and into a slide they could not brake.

They bounced over the rim of the bath and plunged into the water, Wulfgar coming up, waist deep, between two voluptuous and naked, giggling women.

The barbarian stammered an apology, finding his tongue twisted within the confines of his mouth. A slap across the back of his head shook him back to his senses.

“Ye’re looking for the merchant, ye remember?” Catti-brie reminded him.

“I am looking!” Wulfgar assured her.

“Then be lookin’ for the one lined in purple!” Catti-brie shot back.

Wulfgar, his eyes freed with the expectation of another smack, noticed the single horn of a helmet poking out of the water at his side. Frantically he plunged his hand under, catching Bruenor by the scruff of the neck and hoisting him out of the bath. The not-too-happy dwarf came up with his arms crossed over his chest and shaking his head in disbelief once again.

Drizzt got out the back door of the bathhouse and found himself in an empty alley, the only unpopulated stretch he had seen since entering Memnon. Seeking a better vantage, the drow scaled the side of the bathhouse and jogged along the roof.

Sali Dalib slowed his pace, thinking he had slipped the pursuit. The drow’s purple fire died away, further adding to the merchant’s sense of security. He wound his way through the back-alley maze. Not even the usual drunks leaned against the walls to inform his pursuers. He moved a hundred twisting yards, then two, and finally down an alley that he knew would turn onto the largest marketplace in Memnon, where anyone could become invisible in the blink of an eye.

As Sali Dalib approached the end of the alley, however, an elven form dropped in front of him and two scimitars flashed out of their sheaths, crossing before the stunned merchant, coming to rest on his collarbones, then drawing lines on either side of his neck.

When the four friends returned to the merchant’s tent with their prisoner, they found, to their relief, the little goblin lying where Drizzt had bopped him. Bruenor none too gently pulled the unfortunate creature up behind Sali Dalib and tied the two back to back. Wulfgar moved to help and wound up hooking a loop of the rope over Bruenor’s forearm. The dwarf wiggled free and pushed the barbarian away.

“Should’ve stayed in Mithril Hall,” Bruenor grumbled. “Safer with the gray ones than beside yerself and the girl!”

Wulfgar and Catti-brie looked to Drizzt for support, but the drow just smiled and moved to the side of the tent.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” Sali Dalib giggled nervously. “No problem here. We deal? Many riches, I have. What you need—”

“Shut yer mouth!” Bruenor snapped at him. The dwarf winked at Drizzt, indicating that he meant to play the bad guy role in the encounter.

“I don’t be lookin’ for riches from one what’s tricked me,” Bruenor growled. “Me heart’s for revenge!” He looked around at his friends. “Ye all saw his face when he thought me dead. Suren was him that put the riding bandits on us.”

“Sali Dalib never—” the merchant stammered.

“I said, ‘shut yer mouth!’“ Bruenor shouted in his face, cowing him. The dwarf brought his axe up and ready on his shoulder.

The merchant looked to Drizzt, confused, for the drow had replaced the mask and now appeared as a surface elf once again. Sali Dalib guessed the truth of Drizzt’s identity, figuring the black skin to be more fitting on the deadly elf, and he did not even think of begging for mercy from Drizzt.

“Wait on it, then,” Catti-brie said suddenly, grabbing the handle of Bruenor’s weapon. “May that there be a way for this dog to save his neck.”

“Bah! What would we want o’ him?” Bruenor shot back, winking at Catti-brie for playing her part to perfection.

“He’ll get us to Calimport,” Catti-brie replied. She cast a steely gaze at Sali Dalib, warning him that her mercy was not easily gotten. “Suren this time he’ll take us down the true bestest road.”

“Yes, yes, ha ha ha ha ha,” Sali Dalib blurted. “Sali Dalib show you de way!”

“Show?” balked Wulfgar, not to be left out. “You will lead us all the way to Calimport.”

“Very long way,” grumbled the merchant. “Five days or more. Sali Dalib cannot—”

Bruenor raised his axe.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the merchant erupted. “Sali Dalib take you there. Take you right to de gate…through de gate,” he corrected quickly. “Sali Dalib even get de water. We must catch de caravan.”

“No caravan,” Drizzt interrupted, surprising even his friends. “We will travel alone.”

“Dangerous,” Sali Dalib replied. “Very, very. De Calim Desert be very full of monsters. Dragons and bandits.”

“No caravan,” Drizzt said again in a tone that none of them dared question. “Untie them, and let them get things ready.”

Bruenor nodded, then put his face barely an inch from Sali Dalib’s. “And I mean to be watchin’ them meself,” he said to Drizzt, though he sent the message more pointedly to Sali Dalib and the little goblin. “One trick and I’ll cut ‘em in half!” Less than an hour later, five camels moved out of southern Memnon and into the Calim Desert with ceramic water jugs clunking on their sides. Drizzt and Bruenor led the way, following the signposts of the Trade Way. The drow wore his mask, but kept the cowl of his cloak as low as he could, for the sizzling sunlight on the white sands burned at his eyes, which had once been accustomed to the absolute blackness of the underworld.

Sali Dalib, his assistant sitting on the camel in front of him, came in the middle, with Wulfgar and Catti-brie bringing up the rear. Catti-brie kept Taulmaril across her lap, a silver arrow notched as a continual reminder to the sneaky merchant.

The day grew hotter than anything the friends had ever experienced, except for Drizzt, who had lived in the very bowels of the world. Not a cloud hindered the sun’s brutal rays, and not a wisp of a breeze came to offer any relief. Sali Dalib, more used to the heat, knew the lack of wind to be a blessing, for wind in the desert meant blowing and blinding sand, the most dangerous killer of the Calim.

The night was better, with the temperature dropping comfortably and a full moon turning the endless line of dunes into a silvery dreamscape, like the rolling waves of the ocean. The friends set a camp for a few hours, taking turns watching over their reluctant guides.

Catti-brie awoke sometime after midnight. She sat and stretched, figuring it to be her turn on watch. She saw Drizzt, standing on the edge of the firelight, staring into the starry heavens.

Hadn’t Drizzt taken the first watch? she wondered.

Catti-brie studied the moon’s position to make certain of the hour. There could be no doubt; the night grew long.

“Trouble?” she asked softly, going to Drizzt’s side. A loud snore from Bruenor answered the question for Drizzt.

“Might I spell ye, then?” she asked. “Even a drow elf needs to sleep.”

“I can find my rest under the cowl of my cloak,” Drizzt replied, turning to meet her concerned gaze with his lavender eyes, “when the sun is high.”

“Might I join ye, then?” Catti-brie asked. “Suren a wondrous night.”

Drizzt smiled and turned his gaze back to the heavens, to the allure of the evening sky with a mystical longing in his heart as profound as any surface elf had ever experienced.

Catti-brie slipped her slender fingers around his and stood quietly by his side, not wanting to disturb his enchantment further, sharing more than mere words with her dearest of friends.

The heat was worse the next day, and even worse the following, but the camels plodded on effortlessly, and the four friends, who had come through so many hardships, accepted the brutal trek as just one more obstacle on the journey they had to complete.

They saw no other signs of life and considered that a blessing, for anything living in that desolate region could only be hostile. The heat was enemy enough, and they felt as if their skin would simply shrivel and crack away.

Whenever one of them felt like quitting, like the relentless sun and burning sand and heat were simply too much to bear, he or she just thought of Regis.

What terrible tortures was the halfling now enduring at the hands of his former master?

Epilogue

From the shadows of a doorway, Entreri watched Pasha Pook make his way up the staircase to the exit of the guildhouse. It had been less than an hour since Pook had regained his ruby pendant and already he was off to put it to use. Entreri had to give the guildmaster credit; he was never late for the dinner bell.

The assassin waited for Pook to clear the house altogether, then made his way stealthily back to the top level. The guards outside the final door made no move to stop him, though Entreri did not remember them from his earlier days in the guild. Pook must have prudently put out the word of Entreri’s station in the guild, according him all the privileges he used to enjoy.

Never late for the dinner bell.

Entreri moved to the door to his old room, where LaValle now resided, and knocked softly.

“Come in, come in,” the wizard greeted him, hardly surprised that the assassin had returned.

“It is good to be back,” Entreri said.

“And good to have you back,” replied the wizard sincerely. “Things have not been the same since you left us, and they have only become worse in recent months.”

Entreri understood the wizard’s point. “Rassiter?”

LaValle grimaced. “Keep your back to the wall when that one is about,” A shudder shook through him, but he composed himself quickly. “But with you back at Pook’s side, Rassiter will learn his place.”

“Perhaps,” replied Entreri, “though I am not so certain that. Pook was as glad to see me.”

“You understand Pook,” LaValle chuckled. “Ever thinking as a guildmaster! He desired to set the rules for your meeting with him to assert his authority. But that incident is far behind us already.”

Entreri’s look gave the wizard the impression that he was not so certain.

“Pook will forget it,” LaValle assured him.

“Those who pursued me should not so easily be forgotten,” Entreri replied.

“Pook called upon Pinochet to complete the task,” said LaValle. “The pirate has never failed.”

“The pirate has never faced such foes,” Entreri answered. He looked to the table and LaValle’s crystal ball. “We should be certain.”

LaValle thought for a moment, then nodded his accord. He had intended to do some scrying anyway. “Watch the ball,” he instructed Entreri. “I shall see if I can summon the image of Pinochet.”

The crystal ball remained dark for a few moments, then filled with smoke. LaValle had not dealt often with Pinochet, but he knew enough of the pirate for a simple scrying. A few seconds later, the image of a docked ship came into view—not a pirate vessel, but a merchant ship. Immediately Entreri suspected something amiss.

Then the crystal probed deeper, beyond the hull of the ship, and the assassin’s guess was confirmed, for in a sectioned corner of the hold sat the proud pirate captain, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, shackled to the wall.

LaValle, stunned, looked to Entreri, but the assassin was too intent on the image to offer any explanations. A rare smile had found its way onto Entreri’s face.

LaValle cast an enhancing spell at the crystal ball. “Pinochet,” he called softly.

The pirate lifted his head and looked around.

“Where are you?” LaValle asked.

“Oberon?” Pinochet asked. “Is that you, wizard?”

“Nay, I am LaValle, Pook’s sorcerer in Calimport. Where are you?”

“Memnon,” the pirate answered. “Can you get me out?”

“What of the elf and the barbarian?” Entreri asked LaValle, but Pinochet heard the question directly.

“I had them!” the pirate hissed. “Trapped in a channel with no escape. But then a dwarf appeared, driving the reins of a flying chariot of fire, and with him a woman archer—a deadly archer.” He paused, fighting off his distaste as he remembered the encounter.

“To what outcome?” LaValle prompted, amazed at the development.

“One ship went running, one ship—my ship—sank, and the third was captured,” groaned Pinochet. He locked his face into a grimace and asked again, more emphatically, “Can you get me out?”

LaValle looked helplessly to Entreri, who now stood tall over the crystal ball, absorbing every word. “Where are they?” the assassin growled, his patience worn away.

“Gone,” answered Pinochet. “Gone with the girl and the dwarf into Memnon.”

“How long?”

“Three days.”

Entreri signaled to LaValle that he had heard enough.

“I will have Pasha Pook send word to Memnon immediately,” LaValle assured the pirate. “You shall be released.”

Pinochet sank into his original, despondent position. Of course he would be released; that had already been arranged. He had hoped that LaValle could somehow magically get him out of the Sea Sprite’s hold, thereby releasing him from any pledges he would be forced to make to Deudermont when the captain set him free.

“Three days,” LaValle said to Entreri as the crystal darkened. “They could be halfway here by now.”

Entreri seemed amused at the notion. “Pasha Pook is to know nothing of this,” he said suddenly.

LaValle sank back in his chair. “He must be told.”

“No!” Entreri snapped. “This is none of his affair.”

“The guild may be in danger,” LaValle replied.

“You do not trust that I am capable of handling this?” Entreri asked in a low, grim tone. LaValle felt the assassin’s callous eyes looking through him, as though he had suddenly become just another barrier to be overcome.

But Entreri softened his glare and grinned. “You know of Pasha Pook’s weakness for hunting cats,” he said, reaching into his pouch. “Give him this. Tell him you made it for him.”

He tossed a small black object across the table to the wizard. LaValle caught it, his eyes widening as soon as he realized what it was.

Guenhwyvar.

On a distant plane, the great cat stirred at the wizard’s touch upon the statuette and wondered if its master meant to summon it, finally, to his side.

But, after a moment, the sensation faded, and the cat put its head down to rest.

So much time had gone by.

“It holds an entity,” the wizard gasped, sensing the strength in the onyx statuette.

“A powerful entity,” Entreri assured him. “When you learn to control it, you will have brought a new ally to the guild.”

“How can I thank—” LaValle began, but he stopped as he realized that he had already been told the price of the panther. “Why trouble Pook with details that do not concern him?” The wizard laughed, tossing a cloth over his crystal ball.

Entreri clapped LaValle on the shoulder as he passed toward the door. Three years had done nothing to diminish the understanding the two men had shared.

But with Drizzt and his friends approaching, Entreri had more pressing business. He had to go to the Cells of Nine and pay a visit to Regis.

The assassin needed another gift.