Rise of the King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Well met, brothers of Tempus,” Wulfgar said, standing and reaching across with his right fist to thump himself on the left breast. “I am Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, of the tribe of the Elk of Icewind Dale.”

  The pony riders spread out a bit, and one man with long black hair, tied and braided with feathers over each shoulder, eased his pony mount forward.

  “Greetings, Wulfgar,” he said, and similarly thumped his left breast. “I am Keyl, son of Targ Keifer, chieftain of the Griffon.” He gave a slow visual inspection of the other four. “You travel with strange companions.”

  “Your father will know me,” Drizzt interjected. “Though he was but a child when last I visited Griffon’s Nest, no doubt. But then again, perhaps he will not, for I didn’t stay long.”

  A smile creased the pony rider’s face. “You are Drizzt Do’Urden,” he stated.

  “Well met, Keyl, son of Chieftain Targ Keifer,” Drizzt replied. “I am humbled that you recognized me.”

  “Not many dark elves are known to be riding about the surface world on a unicorn,” the barbarian replied, and the tension, what little there was, fell away. Behind and about Keyl, the others laughed and lowered their javelins as Keyl turned back to Wulfgar. “What brings you to Griffon’s Nest, son of the Elk?”

  “We are returning to Mithral Hall,” Wulfgar answered, and he pointed to the east, to the dark sky in particular. “The way seems amiss.”

  Keyl nodded grimly. “Come,” he bade them. “I will grant you an audience with Chieftain Targ Keifer.”

  A short while later, the companions found themselves seated at the side of a long table, with many barbarians flanking them and seated across from them. Children hustled about with plates of food and tankards of mead—good mead, which made Bruenor smile. Keyl’s patrol had gone back out, but he had remained behind, sitting beside Wulfgar and asking about life in Icewind Dale.

  The small talk went on for some time, until at last, the great Targ Keifer entered the room. All the barbarians leaped to their feet and gave the chest-thumping salute, and the companions followed suit. Targ Keifer took his place directly across the table from the companions, a sturdy and handsome middle-aged woman with thick black hair and heavy dark eyebrows taking her seat beside him. As she did, she motioned to the other woman who had entered the room beside the chieftain, to sit to her left. This woman did not appear to be of the Griffon tribe. She was strong and solidly built, but not as big-boned as the Uthgardt people. She was dressed in riding garb and covered in the mud of the road, so that her long and dark brown hair was matted, and her light gray eyes shone even more starkly against the ruddy texture of her round face.

  Targ Keifer waved his son around the table to sit at his right. Keyl slid into his seat and began hurriedly whispering to his parents, explaining and introducing the newcomers.

  “I remember your name, but not you,” Targ Keifer said to Drizzt, apologetically. “But welcome again to Griffon’s Nest. To all of you.”

  “We have not come for trade,” Wulfgar said. “We did not intend to disturb your village at all.”

  “Hardly a disturbance,” the chieftain replied.

  Wulfgar nodded. “We changed course when we crossed the hills, for from the higher ground …”

  “You saw the darkening,” Targ Keifer interrupted. “Clearly. And you are hardly the first bound for the Silver Marches who have turned to inquire at Griffon’s Nest.”

  He leaned forward and looked to his left, motioning for the woman with the light gray eyes to speak.

  She turned her roving gaze over the companions, settling on Drizzt, and didn’t seem overly eager to engage in any discussion.

  “He is Drizzt Do’Urden, friend of Mithral Hall, friend of Silverymoon, friend of Luruar,” the chieftain explained.

  “Friend of Many-Arrows?” the woman asked suspiciously.

  “Bah, filthy orcs,” Bruenor growled. “Knowed it had to be them.”

  “Drizzt Do’Urden is known to Nesmé,” the woman said.

  “Nesmé?” Bruenor huffed. “Yerself’s from Nesmé? Ah, but here we’re goin’ again.”

  “It was Drizzt Do’Urden who brought about the kingdom of Many-Arrows, the scourge of Luruar,” the woman stated. She was breathing in labored gasps, as if her mounting anger threatened to simply overwhelm her, as she continued in a low and seething tone, “And it is House Do’Urden that has darkened the sky above the Silver Marches, that has incited the minions of Warlord Hartusk.”

  Many barbarians about the table slammed their hands down at that, and Chieftain Targ Keifer and his wife and son all turned suspicious stares upon the drow.

  “There is no House Do’Urden,” Drizzt said calmly.

  “The orcs speak of Matron Mother Darthiir Do’Urden,” the rider from Nesmé accused. “I have heard it myself. Do you call me a liar?”

  Drizzt wore a helpless and perplexed expression. He looked to his friends and shook his head, having no idea what any of this might be about. His House, his family, had been wiped out more than a century before!

  “What do you know of this?” Chieftain Targ Keifer demanded.

  Before Drizzt could answer, Bruenor slammed his palms down on the table and drove himself to his feet. “Enough, I tell ye!” the dwarf bellowed. “I ain’t for hearing another word down this line o’ applesauce. I ain’t for knowing what ye’re babbling about, girl, and I ain’t for caring.”

  “And who are you?” the chieftain’s wife asked.

  “Of the royal line o’ Mithral Hall,” Bruenor answered.

  “A son of King Connerad?” the rider from Nesmé demanded, and the way she spat the name of Mithral Hall’s king showed her to be none too pleased with Connerad and the boys of Mithral Hall, either.

  Bruenor snorted at her, but didn’t bother answering. “Th’orcs’re out o’ their hole, are they?” he asked the chieftain. “I expected as much. Aye, but we’ll be leaving now.”

  He started to stand, but all the barbarians about the table leaped to their feet, as if to stop him.

  “Ye wantin’ to play this game?” Bruenor asked.

  “Where will you go,” Chieftain Targ Keifer, who had not stood up, asked calmly.

  “Trouble’s that way,” Bruenor said, pointing to the east. “So that’s where I be headin’. And if ye’re thinking o’ stopping me …”

  The chieftain patted his hands in the air to calm Bruenor and his own tribesmen. He looked left and right, patting more emphatically to get his minions to sit back down.

  “What is House Do’Urden?” he asked Drizzt.

  “I was born unto House Do’Urden,” the drow admitted. “But that was two centuries ago. There is no House Do’Urden.”

  The chieftain looked to the rider from Nesmé.

  “I only know what the orc raiders we captured claimed,” she explained. “Would they concoct such a name without cause or prompting?”

  “Even if there is such a House as you state, then it is not connected to this dark elf you see before you,” Catti-brie interjected. “Would we have come in here, were that the case?”

  “If you did not know that I would be here,” the woman said.

  Before anyone could respond, Regis gave a little laugh, then stood up and walked over to Drizzt. He whispered into his friend’s ear and placed his blue beret upon Drizzt’s head.

  A moment later, Drizzt’s skin lightened and his white hair became a lustrous golden hue, more so than that of the young woman, even. In mere moments, he looked like a surface elf.

  “I give you an emissary of the Moonwood,” Regis explained.

  Drizzt pulled the beret off and handed it back, immediately reverting to his drow appearance.

  “So you see? It would have been no trial at all to disguise our companion,” Regis explained. “But why would we? The name of Drizzt Do’Urden is well known in these reaches, and throughout Luruar, he is welcomed. As are we all.”

  Chieftain Targ Keifer looked to the rider from Nesmé. She started t
o protest, but he hushed her immediately.

  “Is the darkened sky spreading?” Catti-brie asked.

  “It did to its present state,” Targ Keifer replied. “But it has not widened in several tendays.”

  “It is a pall over all of Luruar!” the woman from Nesmé added.

  “Then to Luruar we must go,” said Drizzt, “with all speed.”

  “Shadowing us,” Regis whispered to Drizzt, walking his pony up beside the majestic Andahar.

  Drizzt nodded.

  “The woman from Nesmé?” Catti-brie asked, and the drow nodded again.

  “She would not be much of a scout if she did not, I suppose,” said Drizzt.

  “Go and tie your pony to the wagon,” Catti-brie said with a clever smile a few moments later. “Past time for you to take a nap, I believe.”

  Drizzt looked at her curiously, then turned to Regis, who was smiling widely and already turning his fat-bellied pony about.

  “You would have him confront the woman?” Drizzt asked his wife when he finally caught on.

  “He’s the least intimidating,” Catti-brie said. “If no longer the least formidable.”

  Drizzt nodded, then his eyes widened as he digested the second part of her statement. With a grin of his own, he turned back to regard Regis, who was already in the back of the wagon, tying up his pony.

  “Down there,” Catti-brie said, drawing his attention back to her, then following her gaze to a copse of trees just ahead along the winding road. “Under that cover, so our shadow doesn’t see.”

  As they neared the cluster of trees, Catti-brie eased her spectral mount’s pace and slipped off to the side of the trail. She nodded to Bruenor and Wulfgar as the wagon rumbled past her.

  “So what’re ye about, girl?” Bruenor asked. “And if ye’re heading back there, then rouse the lazy little one.”

  “Not lazy,” Catti-brie assured him with a wink. She walked her mount right up behind the wagon and quietly cast a spell, cloaking the waiting Regis with magical invisibility. As soon as she was finished, she trotted her spectral mount back out and around to rejoin Drizzt at the front of the procession, whispering the plan to Bruenor and Wulfgar as she passed them by.

  The companions came out of the trees in that order, the drow and his wife leading on their magical unicorns, the dwarf and the giant barbarian laughing and swapping tales as they drove the wagon, and the halfling’s pony tied behind it, with the little one apparently asleep inside.

  Except, Regis wasn’t asleep or inside any longer.

  “I’m thinkin’ we turn north and stay far from the Trollmoors and the town o’ Nesmé, elf.” Bruenor called as they cleared the trees, and he was making no secret of it. “Bah, but I’m thinking Nesmé’s worse than the durned Trollmoors. Sure that they ne’er went out o’ their way to greet a Battlehammer or a drow, eh? Bwahaha!”

  “North,” Drizzt agreed, again, turning back to regard the drivers. “It will be good to see the walls of Mithral Hall once more.”

  “Huzzah and heigh-ho!’ Bruenor cried. “And good king Connerad’s only to be good if he’s got a flagon o’ ale waiting for me thirsty lips.”

  He gave a great laugh and spurred the team on.

  “Damned to have a drow nearing my town,” Giselle Malcomb muttered as she guided her horse into the copse of trees, having watched the companions ride out the other side, eastbound.

  “He’s not so bad a fellow,” came a voice from above and the woman from Nesmé stopped her mount with a slight pull on the reigns. She froze, not daring to reach for her sword or the bow she had settled across her saddle. Only her eyes moved, scanning up into the boughs to spot the stylish halfling, in his fine shirt and breeches, black traveling cloak, and that blue-flecked, remarkable beret. He sat comfortably on a thick branch, his feet crossed at the ankles and dangling free, fine black boots catching the speckles of sunlight coming through the trees from the west.

  “Indeed, many would call him a hero, particularly those who know him best,” the halfling went on.

  “I have heard his name,” Giselle admitted. “It is not spoken with fondness in Nesmé.”

  “True, but that is only because the folk of Nesmé won’t look beyond their own noses for heroes.”

  The woman straightened and glared at him.

  “I am Spider Parrafin of Aglarond,” Regis said.

  “You were introduced at Targ Keifer’s court as Regis of Icewind Dale,” Giselle retorted, and she smiled knowingly as the halfling winced. “Ah, of course, but you were not present when the Griffon guard came to us in our private audience and announced your arrival, so you would not know that.”

  “It is another name I carry,” the halfling stuttered. “A complicated tale …”

  “One I care nothing about,” the rider replied, and now she did move, easily lifting her bow. “My experience tells me that fools who carry more than one name are always thieves or worse.”

  She blinked then, just as she went for an arrow, thinking to arrest this one and interrogate him more forcefully, for from nowhere, it seemed, the little one had drawn a curious weapon, a crossbow, only much, much smaller than any such weapon Giselle had ever seen.

  He extended it with one hand and pulled the trigger, and the woman jolted as a small dart stabbed her in the left shoulder. Almost immediately, she felt the burn of poison.

  “Ah, murderer!” she cried, and though her arm grew heavy and her shoulder throbbed, the veteran warrior kept her wits enough to grab for that arrow.

  But again the clever halfling moved first, this time thrusting his hand out to Giselle, throwing something small. Instinctively, she got her hand up to deflect, but the item—at first she thought it a length of cord no longer than her forearm—hooked about her thumb.

  Only then did she realize that it wasn’t a cord at all, but a living snake. With a yelp, she tried to brush it away, but the thing moved with uncanny speed and agility, sweeping over her shaking hand and rushing the length of her arm, and as she turned, dropping her bow back across her lap so she could slap at the creature, it darted under her slap, or perhaps she had struck it, but not hard enough to dislodge it, and rushed up and about her neck.

  Both hands went in to grasp at the living noose, but even as Giselle grabbed at the coil at the front of her neck, something yanked at it from behind, and with supernatural strength, throwing her backward, pulling her from the saddle. She crashed down to the ground hard and awkwardly, one foot still caught in the stirrup, and thrashed about helpless, too concerned with being unable to draw breath to even realize how much her twisted leg pained her.

  She grasped and slapped at the living garrote, flailing futilely.

  Her vision tightened, darkness creeping into the edges of sight.

  She felt herself falling, falling, far from the world of the living.

  “Welcome back,” came a woman’s voice, calm and steady.

  Giselle Malcomb felt the bump and roll of a bouncy road, the jolting along with the call gradually easing her back to her senses. She opened her eyes, then reached up to rub them, and as she found her focus, she saw the woman, Catti-brie, above her, kneeling beside her.

  Immediately, Giselle tried to rise up on her elbows, but a wave of pain laid her low.

  “Be at ease, rider of Nesmé,” Catti-brie said. “You took a tumble and badly twisted your knee. I’ve given you some healing magic, but it will take just a bit of time to get you up on your horse again.”

  “My horse!” Giselle exclaimed, and stubbornly, she forced herself up to her elbows. She was in the back of their open wagon, she realized, and she noted the halfling ambusher—Regis, or Spider, or whatever his name might be—sitting easily in the back corner of the wagon bed, feeding carrots to his pony and her horse.

  “A fine animal,” the halfling said.

  “Careful,” Catti-brie remarked to Giselle, “or Regis there will make your fine mount as fat as his pony. He bribes with food, does that little one, so typical for a halfling.�
��

  “Regis? Or Spider?” Giselle managed to ask, her tone accusatory, her eyes narrowed on the halfling.

  “Both,” Catti-brie answered. “But always Regis to us.”

  “I didn’t want to shoot you,” Regis added.

  “Or to throw some demonic serpent upon me?” the woman asked.

  “Or that,” Regis replied. “But I just wanted to stop you—your arrow would have skewered me front to back and more.”

  “How can there be more?” Catti-brie asked, and from the other way, up above her head, Giselle heard the laughter of a dwarf.

  “Or are there really two of you, then?” Catti-brie went on. “One Regis and one Spider, one ever invisible and both taking turns to confuse folk?”

  “Bwahaha!” the dwarf howled.

  The halfling walked over and knelt beside the woman of Nesmé. “Pray forgive me,” he whispered to Giselle. “I had no choice.”

  “You could have just remained with your friends instead of ambushing me on the road,” Giselle retorted, and now another voice came from above her, and the huge golden-haired barbarian twisted about and leaned back so that she could see his face above her.

  “That you might set the Riders of Nesmé upon us?” he asked. “Or do something stupid yourself, and then we would have had to kill you? We left the halfling behind to speak with you, to learn your intent, to insist that we are not your enemies, but like so many of your kin—aye, we’ve met them before, in another time, another age even—you are too full of pride to hear any such suggestion. So you are here, our guest, and you will be fully healed soon enough, and returned to your horse with all of your belongings.”

  “I do not …” Giselle began to protest, but the barbarian cut her short.

  “And if you come against us in any way, then know that you’ll not feel the bite of the halfling’s hand crossbow,” he insisted. He held forth his huge warhammer for her to see it up close, and indeed, it seemed an impressive and powerful weapon. “But instead, the weight of my throw. And after that strike no magic will awaken you.”