Streams of Silver

by R. A. Salvatore

  Wulfgar’s amusement was short-lived, for other ruffians were quickly upon him. He dug his heels in where he was, determined to keep his footing, and lashed out with his great fists, swatting his enemies aside, one by one, and sending them sprawling into the far corners of the room.

  Fighting erupted all around the tavern. Men who could not have been spurred to action if a murder had been committed at their feet sprang upon each other with unbridled rage at the horrifying sight of spilled booze and a broken bar.

  Few of the fat man’s supporters were deterred by the general row, though. They rolled in on Wulfgar, wave after wave. He held his ground well, for none could delay him long enough for their reinforcements to get in. Still, the barbarian was being hit as often as he was connecting with his own blows. He took the punches stoically, blocking out the pain through sheer pride and his fighting tenacity that simply would not allow him to lose.

  From his new seat under the table, Regis watched the action and sipped his drink. Even the barmaids were into it now, riding around on some unfortunate combatants’ backs, using their nails to etch intricate designs into the men’s faces. In fact, Regis soon discerned that the only other person in the tavern who wasn’t in the fight, other than those who were already unconscious, was Jierdan. The soldier sat quietly in his chair, unconcerned with the brawling beside him and interested only, it seemed, in watching and measuring Wulfgar’s prowess.

  This, too, disturbed the halfling, but once again he found that he didn’t have time to contemplate the soldier’s unusual actions. Regis had known from the start that he would have to pull his giant friend out of this, and now his alert eyes had caught the expected flash of steel. A rogue in the line directly behind Wulfgar’s latest opponents had drawn a blade.

  “Damn!” Regis muttered, setting down his drink and pulling his mace from a fold in his cloak. Such business always left a foul taste in his mouth.

  Wulfgar threw his two opponents aside, opening a path for the man with the knife. He charged forward, his eyes up and staring into those of the tall barbarian. He didn’t even notice Regis dart out from between Wulfgar’s long legs, the little mace poised to strike. It slammed into the man’s knee, shattering the kneecap, and sent him sprawling forward, blade exposed, toward Wulfgar.

  Wulfgar side-stepped the lunge at the last moment and clasped his hand over the hand of his assailant. Rolling with the momentum, the barbarian knocked aside the table and slammed into the wall. One squeeze crushed the assailant’s fingers on the knife hilt, while at the same time Wulfgar engulfed the man’s face with his free hand and hoisted him from the ground. Crying out to Tempus, the god of battle, the barbarian, enraged at the appearance of a weapon, slammed the man’s head through the wooden planks of the wall and left him dangling, his feet fully a foot from the floor.

  An impressive move, but it cost Wulfgar time. When he turned back toward the bar, he was buried under a flurry of fists and kicks from several attackers.

  “Here she comes,” Bruenor whispered to Drizzt when he saw Whisper returning, though the drow’s heightened senses had told him of her coming long before the dwarf was aware of it. Whisper had only been gone a half-hour or so, but it seemed much longer to the two friends in the alley, dangerously open to the sights of the crossbowmen and other thugs they knew were nearby.

  Whisper sauntered confidently up to them. “Here is the map you desire,” she said to Bruenor, holding up a rolled parchment.

  “A look, then,” the dwarf demanded, starting forward.

  The woman recoiled and dropped the parchment to her side. “The price is higher,” she stated flatly. “Ten times what you have already offered.”

  Bruenor’s dangerous glare did not deter her. “No choice is left to you,” she hissed. “You shall find no other who can deliver this unto you. Pay the price and be done with it!”

  “A moment,” Bruenor said with sudden calm. “Me friend has a say in this.” He and Drizzt moved a step away.

  “She has discovered who we are,” the drow explained, though Bruenor had already come to the same conclusion. “And how much we can pay.”

  “Be it the map?” Bruenor asked.

  Drizzt nodded. “She would have no reason to believe that she is in any danger, not down here. Have you the coin?”

  “Aye,” said the dwarf, “but our road is long yet, and I fear we’ll be needing what I’ve got and more.”

  “It is settled then,” Drizzt replied. Bruenor recognized the fiery gleam that flared up in the drow’s lavender eyes. “When first we met this woman, we struck a fair deal,” he went on. “A deal we shall honor.”

  Bruenor understood and approved. He felt the tingle of anticipation start in his blood. He turned back on the woman and noticed at once that she now held a dagger at her side instead of the parchment. Apparently she understood the nature of the two adventurers she was dealing with.

  Drizzt, also noticing the metallic glint, stepped back from Bruenor, trying to appear unmenacing to Whisper, though in reality, he wanted to get a better angle on some suspicious cracks that he had noticed in the wall—cracks that might be the edgings of a secret door.

  Bruenor approached the woman with his empty arms outstretched. “If that be the price,” he grumbled, “then we have no choice but to pay. But I’ll be seein’ the map first!”

  Confident that she could put her dagger into the dwarf’s eye before either of his hands could get back to his belt for a weapon, Whisper relaxed and moved her empty hand to the parchment under her cloak.

  But she underestimated her opponent.

  Bruenor’s stubby legs twitched, launching him up high enough to slam his helmet into the woman’s face, splattering her nose and knocking her head into the wall. He went for the map, dropping the original purse of gems onto Whisper’s limp form and muttering, “As we agreed.”

  Drizzt, too, had sprung into motion. As soon as the dwarf flinched, he had called upon the innate magic of his heritage to conjure a globe of darkness in front of the window harboring the crossbowmen. No bolts came through, but the angered shouts of the two archers echoed throughout the alley.

  Then the cracks in the wall split open, as Drizzt had anticipated, and Whisper’s second line of defense came rushing through. The drow was prepared, scimitars already in his hands. The blades flashed, blunt sides only, but with enough precision to disarm the burly rogue that stepped out. Then they came in again, slapping the man’s face, and in the same fluidity of motion, Drizzt reversed the angle, slamming one pommel, and then the other, into the man’s temples. By the time Bruenor had turned around with the map, the way was clear before them.

  Bruenor examined the drow’s handiwork with true admiration.

  Then a crossbow quarrel ticked into the wall just an inch from his head.

  “Time to go,” Drizzt observed.

  “The end’ll be blocked, or I’m a bearded gnome,” Bruenor said as they neared the exit to the alley. A growling roar in the building beside them, followed by terrified screams, brought them some comfort.

  “Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt stated as two cloaked men burst out into the street before them and fled without looking back.

  “Sure that I’d forgotten all about that cat!” cried Bruenor.

  “Be glad that Guenhwyvar’s memory is greater than your own,” laughed Drizzt, and Bruenor, despite his feelings for the cat, laughed with him. They halted at the end of the alley and scouted the street. There were no signs of any trouble, though the heavy fog provided good cover for a possible ambush.

  “Take it slow,” Bruenor offered. “We’ll draw less attention.”

  Drizzt would have agreed, but then a second quarrel, launched from somewhere down the alley, knocked into a wooden beam between them.

  “Time to go!” Drizzt stated more decisively, though Bruenor needed no further encouragement, his little legs already pumping wildly as he sped off into the fog.

  They made their way through the twists and turns of Luskan’s rat maze,
Drizzt gracefully gliding over any rubble barriers and Bruenor simply crashing through them. Presently, they grew confident that there was no pursuit, and they changed their pace to an easy glide.

  The white of a smile showed through the dwarf’s red beard as he kept a satisfied eye cocked over his shoulder. But when he turned back to view the road before him, he suddenly dived down to the side, scrambling to find his axe.

  He had come face up with the magical cat.

  Drizzt couldn’t contain his laughter.

  “Put the thing away!” Bruenor demanded.

  “Manners, good dwarf,” the drow shot back. “Remember that Guenhwyvar cleared our escape trail.”

  “Put her away!” Bruenor declared again, his axe swinging at the ready.

  Drizzt stroked the powerful cat’s muscled neck. “Do not heed his words, friend,” he said to the cat. “He is a dwarf, and cannot appreciate the finer magics!”

  “Bah!” Bruenor snarled, though he breathed a bit easier as Drizzt dismissed the cat and replaced the onyx statue in his pouch.

  The two came upon Half-Moon Street a short while later, stopping in a final alley to look for any signs of ambush. They knew at once that there had been trouble, for several injured men stumbled, or were carried, past the alley’s entrance.

  Then they saw the Cutlass, and two familiar forms sitting on the street out in front.

  “What’re ye doin’ out here?” Bruenor asked as they approached.

  “Seems our big friend answers insults with punches,” said Regis, who hadn’t been touched in the fray. Wulfgar’s face, though, was puffy and bruised, and he could barely open one eye. Dried blood, some of it his own, caked his fists and clothes.

  Drizzt and Bruenor looked at each other, not too surprised.

  “And our rooms?” Bruenor grumbled.

  Regis shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “And my coins?”

  Again the halfling shook his bead.

  “Bah!” snorted Bruenor, and he stamped off toward the door of the Cutlass.

  “I wouldn’t …” Regis started, but then he shrugged and decided to let Bruenor find out for himself.

  Bruenor’s shock was complete when he opened the tavern door. Tables, glass, and unconscious patrons lay broken all about the floor. The innkeeper slumped over one part of the shattered bar, a barmaid wrapping his bloodied head in bandages. The man Wulfgar had implanted into the wall still hung limply by the back of his head, groaning softly, and Bruenor couldn’t help but chuckle at the handiwork of the mighty barbarian. Every now and then, one of the barmaids, passing by the man as she cleaned, gave him a little push, taking amusement at his swaying.

  “Good coins wasted,” Bruenor surmised, and he walked back out the door before the innkeeper noticed him and set the barmaids upon him.

  “Hell of a row!” he told Drizzt when he returned to his companions. “Everyone in on it?”

  “All but one,” Regis answered. “A soldier.”

  “A soldier of Luskan, down here?” asked Drizzt, surprised by the obvious inconsistency.

  Regis nodded. “And even more curious,” he continued, “it was the same guard, Jierdan, that let us into the city.”

  Drizzt and Bruenor exchanged concerned looks.

  “We’ve killers at our backs, a busted inn before us, and a soldier paying us more mind than he should,” said Bruenor.

  “Time to go,” Drizzt responded for the third time. Wulfgar looked at him incredulously. “How many men did you down tonight?” Drizzt asked him, putting the logical assumption of danger right out before him. “And how many of them would drool at the opportunity to put a blade in your back?”

  “Besides,” added Regis before Wulfgar could answer, “I’ve no desire to share a bed in an alley with a host of rats!”

  “Then to the gate,” said Bruenor.

  Drizzt shook his head. “Not with a guard so interested in us. Over the wall, and let none know of our passing.”

  An hour later, they were trotting easily across the open grass, feeling the wind again beyond the break of Luskan’s wall.

  Regis summed up their thoughts, saying, “Our first night in our first city, and we’ve betrayed killers, fought down a host of ruffians, and caught the attention of the city guard. An auspicious beginning to our journey!”

  “Aye, but we’ve got this!” cried Bruenor, fairly bursting with anticipation of finding his homeland now that the first obstacle, the map, had been overcome.

  Little did he or his friends know, however, that the map he clutched so clearly detailed several deadly regions, one in particular that would test the four friends to their limits—and beyond.

  landmark of wonder marked the very center of the City of Sails, a strange building that emanated a powerful aura of magic. Unlike any other structure in all Faerûn, the Hosttower of the Arcane seemed literally a tree of stone, boasting five tall spires, the largest being the central, and the other four, equally high, growing out of the main trunk with the graceful curving arc of an oak. Nowhere could any sign of the mason be seen; it was obvious to any knowledgeable viewer that magic, not physical labor, had produced this artwork.

  The Archmage, undisputed Master of the Hosttower, resided in the central tower, while the other four housed the wizards closest in the line of succession. Each of these lesser towers, representing the four compass directions, dominated a different side of the trunk, and its respective wizard held responsibility for watching over and influencing the events in the direction he overlooked. Thus, the wizard west of the trunk spent his days looking out to sea, and to the merchant ships and pirates riding out on Luskan’s harbor.

  A conversation in the north spire would have interested the companions from Ten-Towns this day.

  “You have done well, Jierdan,” said Sydney, a younger, and lesser, mage in the Hosttower, though displaying enough potential to have gained an apprenticeship with one of the mightiest wizards in the guild. Not a pretty woman, Sydney cared little for physical appearances, instead devoting her energies to her unrelenting pursuit of power. She had spent most of her twenty-five years working toward one goal—the title of Wizard—and her determination and poise gave most around her little doubt about her ability to attain it.

  Jierdan accepted the praise with a knowing nod, understanding the condescending manner in which it was offered. “I only performed as I was instructed,” he replied under a facade of humility, tossing a glance to the frail-looking man in brown mottled robes who stood staring out of the room’s sole window.

  “Why would they come here?” the wizard whispered to himself. He turned to the others, and they recoiled instinctively from his gaze. He was Dendybar the Mottled, Master of the North Spire, and though he appeared weak from a distance, closer scrutiny revealed a power in the man mightier than bulging muscles. And his well-earned reputation for valuing life far less than the pursuit of knowledge intimidated most who came before him. “Did the travelers give any reason for coming here?”

  “None that I would believe,” Jierdan replied quietly. “The halfling spoke of scouting out the marketplace, but I—”

  “Not likely,” interrupted Dendybar, speaking more to himself than to the others. “Those four weigh more into their actions than simply a merchant expedition.”

  Sydney pressed Jierdan, seeking to keep her high favor with the Master of the North Spire. “Where are they now?” she demanded.

  Jierdan didn’t dare fight back against her in front of Dendybar. “On the docks … somewhere,” he said, then shrugged.

  “You do not know?” hissed the young mage.

  “They were to stay at the Cutlass,” Jierdan retorted. “But the fight put them out on the street.”

  “And you should have followed them!” Sydney scolded, dogging the soldier relentlessly.

  “Even a soldier of the city would be a fool to travel alone about the piers at night,” Jierdan shot back. “It does not matter where they are right now. I have the gates and the pie
rs watched. They cannot leave Luskan without my knowledge!”

  “I want them found!” Sydney ordered, but then Dendybar silenced her.

  “Leave the watch as it is,” he told Jierdan. “They must not depart without my knowledge. You are dismissed. Come before me again when you have something to report.”

  Jierdan snapped to attention and turned to leave, casting one final glare at his competitor for the mottled wizard’s favor as he passed. He was only a soldier, not a budding mage like Sydney, but in Luskan, where the Hosttower of the Arcane was the true, secretive force behind all of the power structures in the city, a soldier did well to find the favor of a wizard. Captains of the guard only attained their positions and privileges with the prior consent of the Hosttower.

  “We cannot allow them to roam freely,” argued Sydney when the door had closed behind the departing soldier.

  “They shall bring no harm for now,” replied Dendybar. “Even if the drow carries the artifact with him, it will take him years to understand its potential. Patience, my friend, I have ways of learning what we need to know. The pieces of this puzzle will fit together nicely before much longer.”

  “It pains me to think that such power is so close to our grasp,” sighed the eager young mage. “And in the possession of a novice!”

  “Patience,” repeated the Master of the North Spire.

  Sydney finished lighting the ring of candles that marked the perimeter of the special chamber and moved slowly toward the solitary brazier that stood on its iron tripod just outside the magic circle inscribed upon the floor. It disappointed her to know that once the brazier was also burning, she would be instructed to depart. Savoring every moment in this rarely opened room, considered by many to be the finest conjuring chamber in all the northland, Sydney had many times begged to remain in attendance.