The Halfling's Gem

by R. A. Salvatore

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

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

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

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

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

  Right into Agatha’s treasure room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Face first into a tree.

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

  Behind them, Agatha wailed helplessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “When?” Khelben asked.

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

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

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

  “Too long,” Khelben reiterated calmly.

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

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

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

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

  “Horses?” balked Orlpar.

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

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

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

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

  “You handled him with ease,” Drizzt remarked.

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

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

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

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

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

  Khelben smiled but did not answer.

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

  “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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