The Halfling's Gem

by R. A. Salvatore

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

  “That is where you two can earn your passage,” Deudermont 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 tenday 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 tenday 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 alreadv 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 lengt
h. “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.”

  he 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 mithral 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 Mithral 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 Mithral Hall.

  It had been a tough tenday 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 Mithral 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 Mithral Hall, his father before him, and back to the beginnings of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor’s birthright demanded that he lead the armies and retake Mithral 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 mithral 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 Mithral 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.