The Pirate King t-2

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  “She gets to escape another Mithral Hall winter,” Regis said. “Have you room for a short but stout companion?”

  “Only if she turns you into a toad,” Drizzt answered and led Catti-brie away.

  Later that same day, Regis walked outside of Mithral Hall to the banks of the River Surbrin. His remark about winter had reminded him that the unfriendly season was not so far away, and indeed, though the day was glorious, the wind swept down from the north, blustery and cold, and the leaves on the many trees across the river were beginning to show the colors of autumn.

  Something in the air that day, the wind or the smell of the changing season, reminded Regis of his old home in Icewind Dale. He had more to call his own in Mithral Hall, and security—for where could be safer than inside the dwarven hall? — but the things he’d gained did little to alleviate the halfling’s sense of loss for what had been. He had known a good life in Icewind Dale. He’d spent his days fishing for knucklehead trout from the banks of Maer Dualdon. The lake had given him all he needed and more, with water and food—he knew a hundred good recipes for cooking the delicious fish. And few could carve their skulls more wonderfully than Regis. His trinkets, statues, and paperweights had earned him a fine reputation among the local merchants.

  Best of all, of course, was the fact that his “work” consisted mostly of lying on the banks of the lake, a fishing line tied to his toe.

  With that in mind, Regis spent a long time walking along the riverbank, north of the bridge, in search of the perfect spot. He finally settled on a small patch of grass, somewhat sheltered from the north wind by a rounded gray stone, but one not high enough to shade him at all. He took great care in getting his line out to just the right spot, a quieter pool around the edge of a stony jut in the dark water. He used a heavy weight, but even that wouldn’t hold if he put the line into the main flow of the river; the strong currents would wash it far downstream.

  He waited a few moments, and confident that his location would hold steady, he removed a shoe, looped the line around his big toe, and dropped his pack to use as a pillow. He had barely settled down and closed his eyes when a noise from the north startled him.

  He recognized the source before he even sat up to look beyond the rounded stone.

  Orcs.

  Several young ones had gathered at the water’s edge. They argued noisily—why were orcs always so boisterous? — about fishing lines and fishing nets and where to cast and how to cast.

  Regis almost laughed aloud at himself for his bubbling annoyance, for he understood his anger even as he felt it. They were orcs, and so he was angry. They were orcs, and so he was impatient. They were orcs, and so his first reaction had to be negative.

  Old feelings died hard.

  Regis thought back to another time and another place, recalling when a group of boys and girls had begun a noisy splash fight not far from where he had cast his line in Maer Dualdon. Regis had scolded them that day, but only briefly.

  As he thought of it, he couldn’t help grin, remembering how he had then spent a wonderful afternoon showing those youngsters how to fish, how to play a hooked knucklehead, and how to skin a catch. Indeed, that long-ago night, the group of youngsters had arrived at Regis’s front door, at his invitation, to see some of his carvings and to enjoy a meal of trout prepared only as Regis knew how.

  Among so many uneventful days on the banks of Maer Dualdon, that one stood out in Regis’s memory.

  He considered the noisy orc youngsters again, and laughed as he watched them try to throw a net—and wind up netting one young orc girl instead.

  He almost got up, thinking to go and offer lessons as he had on that long ago day in Icewind Dale. But he stopped when he noticed the boundary marker between his spot and the orcs. Where the mountain spilled down to the Surbrin marked the end of Mithral Hall and the beginning of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, and across that line, Regis could not go.

  The orcs noticed him, then, just as he scowled. He lifted a hand to wave, and they did likewise, though more than a little tentatively.

  Regis settled back behind the stone, not wanting to upset the group. One day, he thought, he might be able to go up there and show them how to throw a net or cast a line. One day soon, perhaps, given the relative peace of the past four years and the recent cooperative ambush that had destroyed a potential threat to the Silver Marches.

  Or maybe he would one day wage war against those very orc youngsters, kill one with his mace or be taken in the gut by another’s spear. He could picture Drizzt dancing through that group then and there, his scimitars striking with brilliant precision, leaving the lot of them squirming and bleeding on the rocks.

  A shudder coursed the halfling’s spine, and he shook away those dark thoughts.

  They were building something there, Regis had to believe. Despite Bruenor’s stubbornness and Obould’s heritage, the uneasy truce had already become an accepted if still uneasy peace, and it was Regis’s greatest hope that every day that passed without incident made the prospect of another dwarf-orc war a bit more remote.

  A tug on the line had him sitting up, and once he had the line in hand, he scrambled to his feet, working the line expertly. Understanding that he had an audience, he took his time landing the fish, a fine, foot-long ice perch.

  When at last he landed it, he held it up to show the young orcs, who applauded and waved enthusiastically.

  “One day I will teach you,” Regis said, though they were too far away—and upwind and with a noisy river bubbling by—and could not hear. “One day.”

  Then he paused and listened to his own words and realized that he was musing about orcs. Orcs. He had killed orcs, and with hardly a care. A moment of uncomfortable regret seized the halfling, followed quickly by a sense of complete confusion. He suppressed all of that, but only momentarily, by going back to work on his line, putting it back out in the calmer waters of the pool.

  Orcs.

  Orcs!

  Orcs?

  “Bruenor wishes to speak with you?” Catti-brie asked Drizzt when he returned to their suite of rooms late one night, only to be met by Bruenor’s page with a quiet request. A tenday had passed since the fight with the devils and the situation had calmed considerably.

  “He is trying to sort through the confusion of our recent adventure.”

  “He wants you to go to Mirabar with Torgar Hammerstriker,” Catti-brie reasoned.

  “It does seem ridiculous,” Drizzt replied, agreeing with Catti-brie’s incredulous tone. “In the best of times, and the most secure, Marchion Elastul would not grant me entrance.”

  “A long way to hike to camp out on the cold ground,” Catti-brie quipped.

  Drizzt moved up to her, grinning wickedly. “Not so unwelcome an event if I bring along the right bedroll,” he said, his hands sliding around the woman’s waist as he moved even closer.

  Catti-brie laughed and responded to his kiss. “I would enjoy that.”

  “But you cannot go,” Drizzt said, moving back. “You have a grand adventure before you, and one you would not wisely avoid.”

  “If you ask me to go with you, I will.”

  Drizzt stepped back, shaking his head. “A fine husband I would be to do so! I have heard hints of some of the wonders Alustriel has planned for you throughout the next few months, I could not deny you that for the sake of my own desires.”

  “Ah, but don’t you understand how alluring it is to know that your desires for me overwhelm that absolute sense of right and wrong that is so deeply engrained into your heart and soul?”

  Drizzt fell back at that and stared at Catti-brie, blinking repeatedly. He tried to respond several times, but nothing decipherable came forth.

  Catti-brie let her laughter flow. “You are insufferable,” she said, and danced across the room from Drizzt. “You spend so much time wondering how you should feel that you rarely ever simply do feel.”

  Knowing he was being mocked, Drizzt crossed his arms over his chest and turne
d his confused stare into a glare.

  “I admire your judgment, all the while being frustrated by it,” Catti-brie said. “I remember when you went into Biggrin’s cave those many years ago, Wulfgar at your side. It was not a wise choice, but you followed your emotions instead of your reason. What has happened to that Drizzt Do’Urden?”

  “He has grown older and wiser.”

  “Wiser? Or more cautious?” she asked with a sly grin.

  “Are they not one and the same?”

  “In battle, perhaps,” Catti-brie replied. “And since that is the only arena in which you have ever been willing to take a chance….”

  Drizzt blew a helpless sigh.

  “A span of a few heartbeats can make for a greater memory than the sum of a mundane year,” Catti-brie continued.

  Drizzt nodded his concession. “There are still risks to be had.” He started for the door, saying, “I will try to be brief, though I suspect your father will wish to talk this through over and over again.” He glanced back as he grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, shaking his head and smiling.

  His expression changed when he considered his wife.

  She had unfastened the top two buttons of her colorful shirt and stood looking at him with a sly and inviting expression. She gave a little grin and shrug, and chewed her bottom lip teasingly.

  “It wouldn’t be a wise choice to keep the king waiting,” she said in a voice far too innocent.

  Drizzt nodded, paused, and slammed and locked the door. “I’m his son by marriage now,” he explained, gliding across the room, his sword belt falling to the floor as he went. “The king will forgive me.”

  “Not if he knew what you were doing to his daughter,” Catti-brie said as Drizzt wrapped her in a hug and tumbled down to the bed with her.

  “If Marchion Elastul will not grant me entrance, I will walk past his gates and along my road,” Drizzt was saying when Catti-brie entered Bruenor’s chambers later on that night.

  Regis was there as well, along with Torgar Hammerstriker and his Mirabarran companion, Shingles McRuff.

  “He’s a stubborn one,” Shingles agreed with Drizzt after giving a nod to Catti-brie. “But ye’ve a longer road by far.”

  “Oh?” Catti-brie asked.

  “He’s for Icewind Dale,” Bruenor explained. “Him and Rumblebelly.”

  Catti-brie stepped back at the surprising news and looked to Drizzt for an explanation.

  “Me own decision,” Bruenor said. “We’re hearing that Wulfgar’s settled back there, so I’m thinking that Drizzt and Rumblebelly might be looking in on him.”

  Catti-brie considered it for a few moments then nodded her agreement. She and Drizzt had discussed a journey to Icewind Dale to see their old friend. Word had come to Mithral Hall not long after the signing of the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge that Wulfgar was well and back in Icewind Dale, and Catti-brie and Drizzt had immediately begun plotting how they might go to him.

  But they had delayed, for Wulfgar’s sake. He didn’t need to see them together. He had left Mithral Hall to start anew, and it wouldn’t be fair for them to remind him of the life he could have had with Catti-brie.

  “I will be back in Mithral Hall before your return,” Drizzt promised her.

  “Maybe,” Catti-brie replied, but with an accepting smile.

  “Both of our roads are fraught with adventure,” Drizzt said.

  “And neither of us would have it any other way,” Catti-brie agreed. “I expect that’s why we’re in love.”

  “Ye’re knowing that other people are in the room, I’m guessin’,” Bruenor said rather gruffly, and the two looked at the dwarf to see him shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE GREATER OF TWO EVILS

  W ith a sigh, Bellany Tundash rolled over to the side, away from her lover. You ask too many questions, and always at the wrong moments,” she complained.

  The small man, Morik by name, scrambled over to sit beside her on the edge of the bed. They looked like two cut of the same cloth, petite and dark-haired, only Bellany’s eyes shone with a mischievousness and luster that had been lacking from Morik’s dark orbs of late. “I take an interest in your life,” he explained. “I find the Hosttower of the Arcane…fascinating.”

  “You’re looking for a way to rob it, you mean.”

  Morik laughed, paused and considered the possibility, then shook his head at the absurdity of the thought and remembered why he was there. “I can undo any trap ever made,” he boasted. “Except those of trickster wizards. Those traps, I leave alone.”

  “Well, every door has one,” Bellany teased, and she poked Morik hard in the chest. “Ones that would freeze you, ones that would melt you…”

  “Ah, so if I just open two doors simultaneously….”

  “Ones that would jolt you so forcefully you would bite out that feisty tongue!” Bellany was quick to add.

  In response, Morik leaned over, nibbled her ear and gave her a little lick, drawing a soft moan.

  “Then do tell me all the knowledge that I need to keep it,” he whispered.

  Bellany laughed and pulled away. “This is not about you at all,” she replied. “This is about that smelly dwarf. Everything seems to be about him of late.”

  Morik rested back on his elbows. “He is insistent,” he admitted.

  “Then kill him.”

  Morik’s laugh was one of incredulity.

  “Then I will kill him—or get one of the overwizards to do it. Valindra…Yes, she hates ugly things and hates dwarves most of all. She will kill the little fellow.”

  Morik’s expression grew deadly serious, so much so that Bellany didn’t chuckle at her own clever remark and instead quieted and looked back at him in all seriousness.

  “The dwarf is not the problem,” Morik explained, “though I’ve heard he’s devastating in battle.”

  “More boast than display, I wager,” said Bellany. “Has he even fought anyone since his arrival in Luskan?”

  Again Morik stopped her with a serious frown. “I know who it is he serves,” he said. “And know that he wouldn’t serve them if his exploits and proficiency were anything less than his reputation. I warn you because I care for you. The dwarf and his masters are not to be taken lightly, not to be threatened, and not to be ignored.”

  “It sounds as if I should indeed inform Valindra,” said Bellany.

  “If you do, I will be dead in short order. And so will you.”

  “And so will Valindra, I suppose, if you’re correct in your terror-filled assessment. Do you really believe the high captains, any or all together, are of more than a pittance of concern to the Hosttower?”

  “This has nothing to do with the high captains,” Morik assured her.

  “The dwarf has been seen with the son of Rethnor.”

  Morik shook his head.

  “Then who?” she demanded. “Who are these mysterious ringleaders who seek information about the Hosttower? And if they are a threat, then why should I answer any of your questions?”

  “Enemies of some within the tower, I would guess,” Morik calmly answered. “Though not necessarily enemies of the tower, if you can see the distinction.”

  “Enemies of mine, perhaps.”

  “No,” Morik answered. “Be glad you have my ear, and I yours.” As he said it, Morik leaned in and bit Bellany on the ear softly. “I will warn you if anything is to come of this.”

  “Enemies of my friends,” the woman said, pulling away forcefully, and for the first time, there seemed no playfulness in her tone.

  “You have few friends in the Hosttower,” Morik reminded her. “That’s why you come down here so often.”

  “Perhaps down here, I simply feel superior.”

  “To me?” Morik asked with feigned pain. “Am I just an object of lust for you?”

  “In your prayers.”

  Morik nodded and smiled lewdly.

  “But you still haven’t given me any reason to
help you,” Bellany replied. “Other than to forestall your own impending death, I mean.”

  “You wound me with every word.”

  “It’s a talent. Now answer.”

  “Because the Hosttower does not recruit from outside the Hosttower, other than acolytes,” said Morik. “Think about it. You have spent the better part of a decade in the Hosttower, and yet you are very low in the hierarchy.”

  “Wizards tend to stay for many, many years. We’re a patient lot, else we would not be wizards.”

  “True, and those who come in with some heritage of power behind their name—Dornegal of Baldur’s Gate, Raurym of Mirabar—tend to fill all the vacancies that arise higher up the chain of power. But were the Hosttower to suffer many losses all at once….”

  Bellany smirked at him, but her sour expression couldn’t hide the sparkle of intrigue in her dark eyes.

  “Besides, you’ll help me because I know the truth of Montague Gale, who didn’t die in an accident of alchemy.”

  Bellany narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps I should have eliminated the only witness,” she said, but there was no real threat in her voice. She and Morik competed on many levels—in their lovemaking most of all—but try as either might to deny the truth of their relationship, they both knew they were more than lovers; they were in love.

  “And in so doing eliminate the finest lover you’ve ever known?” Morik asked. “I think not.”

  Bellany had no immediate answer, but after a pause, she said in all seriousness, “I don’t like that dwarf.”

  “You would like his masters even less, I assure you.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I care too much about you to tell you. Just get what I need and get far out of the way when I tell you to.”

  After another pause, Bellany nodded.

  They called him “the general” because among all the mid-level battle-mages at the Hosttower, Dondom Maealik was considered the finest. His repertoire was dominated by evocations, of course, and he could throw lightning bolts and fireballs more intense than any but the overwizards and the Archmage Arcane Arklem Greeth himself. And Dondom sprinkled in just enough defensive spells—transmutations that could blink him away to safety, an abjuration to make his skin like stone, various protection auras and misdirection dweomers—so that on a battlefield, he always seemed one step ahead of any adversary. Some of his maneuvers were the stuff of growing legend at the Hosttower, like the time he executed a dimensional retreat at the last second to escape a mob of orc warriors, who were left swinging at empty air before Dondom engulfed them in a conflagration that melted them to a one.