The inside of the Mermaid’s Arms offered no surprises. The air hung thick with the smoke of exotic weeds and the stench of stale ale. A few drunken sailors lay facedown on tables or sat propped against walls while others stumbled about, spilling their drinks—often on more sober patrons, who responded by shoving the offenders to the floor. Wulfgar wondered how many of these men had missed the sailing of their ships. Would they stagger about in here until their money ran out, only then to be dropped into the street to face the coming winter penniless and without shelter? “Twice I have seen the bowels of a city,” Wulfgar whispered to Drizzt. “And both times I have been reminded of the pleasures of the open road!”
“The goblins and the dragons?” Drizzt retorted lightheartedly, leading Wulfgar to an empty table near the bar.
“A far lot better than this,” Wulfgar remarked.
A serving wench was upon them before they had even sat down. “What’s yer pleasure?” she asked absently, having long ago lost interest in the patrons she served.
“Water,” Wulfgar answered gruffly.
“And wine,” Drizzt quickly added, handing over a gold piece to dispel the woman’s sudden scowl.
“That must be Deudermont,” Wulfgar said, deflecting any forthcoming scolding concerning his treatment of the wench. He pointed to a tall man leaning over the bar rail.
Drizzt rose at once, thinking it prudent to be done with their business and out of the tavern as quickly as possible. “Hold the table,” he told Wulfgar.
Captain Deudermont was not the average patron of the Mermaid’s Arms. Tall and straight, he was a refined man accustomed to dining with lords and ladies. But as with all of the ship captains who put into Waterdeep Harbor, especially on the day of their departures, Deudermont spent most of his time ashore, keeping a watchful eye on his valued crew and trying to prevent them from winding up in Waterdeep’s overfilled jails.
Drizzt squeezed in next to the captain, brushing away the inquiring look of the barkeep. “We have a common friend,” Drizzt said softly to Deudermont.
“I would hardly number Orlpar among my friends,” the captain replied casually. “But I see that he did not exaggerate about the size and strength of your young friend.”
Deudermont was not the only one who had noticed Wulfgar. As did every other tavern in this section of Waterdeep—and most bars across the Realms—the Mermaid’s Arms had a champion. A bit farther down the bar rail, a massive, hulking slob named Bungo had eyed Wulfgar from the minute the young barbarian had walked through the door. Bungo didn’t like the looks of this one, not in the least. Even more than the corded arms, Wulfgar’s graceful stride and the easy way he carried his huge war hammer revealed a measure of experience beyond his age.
Bungo’s supporters crowded around him in anticipation of the coming brawl, their twisted smiles and beer-reeking breath spurring their champion to action. Normally confident, Bungo had to work to keep his anxiety under control. He had taken many hits in his seven-year reign at the tavern. His frame was bent now, and dozens of bones had been cracked and muscles torn. Looking at the awesome spectacle of Wulfgar, Bungo honestly wondered if he could have won this match even in his healthier youth.
But the regulars of the Mermaid’s Arms looked up to him. This was their domain, and he their champion. They provided his free meals and drinks—Bungo could not let them down.
He quaffed his full mug in a single gulp and pushed himself off the rail. With a final growl to reassure his supporters, and callously tossing aside anyone in his way, Bungo made his way toward Wulfgar.
Wulfgar had seen the group coming before it had ever started moving. This scene was all too familiar to the young barbarian, and he fully expected that he would once again, as had happened at the Cutlass in Luskan, be singled out because of his size.
“What’re ye fer?” Bungo said with a hiss as he towered, hands on hips, over the seated man. The other ruffians spread out around the table, putting Wulfgar squarely within their ring.
Wulfgar’s instincts told him to stand and drop the pretentious slob where he stood. He had no fears about Bungo’s eight friends. He considered them cowards who needed their leader to spur them on. If a single blow put Bungo down—and Wulfgar knew it would—the others would hesitate before striking, a delay that would cost them dearly against the likes of Wulfgar.
But over the last few months, Wulfgar had learned to temper his anger, and he had learned a broader definition of honor. He shrugged, making no move that resembled a threat. “A place to sit and a drink,” he replied calmly. “And who might you be?”
“Name’s Bungo,” said the slob, spittle spraying with every word. He thrust his chest out proudly, as if his name should mean something to Wulfgar.
Again Wulfgar, wiping Bungo’s spray from his face, had to resist his fighting instincts. He and Drizzt had more important business, he reminded himself.
“Who said ye could come to my bar?” Bungo growled, thinking, hoping—that he had put Wulfgar on the defensive. He looked around at his friends, who leaned closer over Wulfgar, heightening the intimidation.
Surely Drizzt would understand the necessity to put this one down, Wulfgar reasoned, his fists tightening at his sides. “One shot,” he muttered silently, looking around at the wretched group, a group that would look better sprawled out unconscious in the corners of the floor.
Wulfgar summoned an image of Regis to ward off his welling rage, but he could not ignore the fact that his hands were now clenched on the rim of the table so tightly that his knuckles had whitened for lack of blood.
* * *
“The arrangements?” Drizzt asked.
“Secured,” replied Deudermont. “I’ve room on the Sea Sprite for you, and I welcome the added hands—and blades—especially of such veteran adventurers. But I’ve a suspicion that you might be missing our sailing.” He grasped Drizzt’s shoulder to turn him toward the trouble brewing at Wulfgar’s table.
“Tavern champion and his cronies,” Deudermont explained, “though my bet would be with your friend.”
“Money well placed,” Drizzt replied, “but we have no time…”
Deudermont guided Drizzt’s gaze across to a shadowy corner of the tavern and to four men sitting calmly watching the growing tumult with interest. “The Watch,” Deudermont said. “A fight will cost your friend a night in the dungeons. I cannot hold port.”
Drizzt searched the tavern, looking for some out. All eyes seemed to be closing in on Wulfgar and the ruffians, eagerly anticipating the fight. The drow realized that if he went to the table now, he would probably ignite the whole thing.
* * *
Bungo thrust his belly forward, inches from Wulfgar’s face, to display a wide belt notched in a hundred places. “Fer every man I beat,” he boasted. “Give me somethin’ to do on my night in jail.” He pointed at a large cut to the side of the buckle. “Killed that one there. Squashed ‘is head real good. Cost me five nights.”
Wulfgar eased his grip, not impressed, but wary now of the potential consequences of his actions. He had a ship to catch.
“Perhaps it was Bungo I came to see,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.
“Get ‘im, then!” growled one of the ruffians.
Bungo eyed Wulfgar wickedly. “Come lookin’ fer a fight?”
“Nay, I think not,” Wulfgar retorted. “A fight? Nay, I am but a boy out to see the wide world.”
Bungo could not hide his confusion. He looked around to his friends, who could only shrug in response.
“Sit,” Wulfgar offered. Bungo made no move.
The ruffian behind Wulfgar poked him hard in the shoulder and growled, “What’re ye fer?”
Wulfgar had to consciously catch his own hand before it shot across and squashed the ruffian’s filthy fingers together. But he had control now. He leaned closer to the huge leader. “Not to fight; to watch,” he said quietly. “One day, perhaps, I might deem myself worthy to challenge the likes of Bungo, and on that day I w
ill return, for I have no doubt that you will still be the champion of this tavern. But that day is many years away, I fear. I have so much to learn.”
“Then why’ve ye come?” Bungo demanded, his confidence brimming over. He leaned over Wulfgar, threateningly close.
“I have come to learn,” Wulfgar replied. “To learn by watching the toughest fighter in Waterdeep. To see how Bungo presents himself and goes about his affairs.”
Bungo straightened and looked around at his anxious friends, who were leaning nearly to the point of falling over the table. Bungo flashed his toothless grin, customary before he clobbered a challenger, and the ruffians tensed. But then their champion surprised them, slapping Wulfgar hard on the shoulder—the clap of a friend.
Audible groans issued throughout the tavern as Bungo pulled up a chair to share a drink with the impressive stranger.
“Get ye gone!” the slob roared at his companions. Their faces twisted in disappointment and confusion, but they did not dare disobey. The one behind Wulfgar poked him again for good measure, then followed the others back to the bar.
* * *
“A wise move,” Deudermont remarked to Drizzt.
“For both of them,” the drow replied, relaxing against the rail.
“You have other business in the city?” the captain asked.
Drizzt shook his head. “No. Get us to the ship,” he said. “I fear that Waterdeep can bring only trouble.”
A million stars filled the sky that cloudless night. They reached down from the velvety canopy to join with the distant lights of Waterdeep, setting the northern horizon aglow. Wulfgar found Drizzt above decks, sitting quietly in the rolling serenity offered by the sea.
“I should like to return,” Wulfgar said, following his friend’s gaze to the now distant city.
“To settle a score with a drunken ruffian and his wretched friends,” Drizzt concluded.
Wulfgar laughed but stopped abruptly when Drizzt wheeled on him.
“To what end?” Drizzt asked. “Would you then replace him as the champion of the Mermaid’s Arms?”
“That is a life I do not envy,” Wulfgar replied, chuckling again, though this time uncomfortably.
“Then leave it to Bungo,” Drizzt said, turning back to the glow of the city.
Again Wulfgar’s smile faded.
Seconds, minutes perhaps, slipped by, the only sound the slapping of the waves against the prow of the Sea Sprite. On an impulse, Drizzt slid Twinkle from its sheath. The crafted scimitar came to life in his hand, the blade glowing in the starlight that had given Twinkle its name and its enchantment.
“The weapon fits you well,” Wulfgar remarked.
“A fine companion,” Drizzt acknowledged, examining the intricate designs etched along the curving blade. He remembered another magical scimitar he had once possessed, a blade he had found in the lair of a dragon that he and Wulfgar had slain. That blade, too, had been a fine companion. Wrought of ice magic, the scimitar was forged as a bane to creatures of fire, impervious, along with its wielder, to their flames. It had served Drizzt well, even saving him from the certain and painful death of a demon’s fire.
Drizzt cast his gaze back to Wulfgar. “I was thinking of our first dragon,” he explained to the barbarian’s questioning look. “You and I alone in the ice cave against the likes of Icingdeath, an able foe.”
“He would have had us,” Wulfgar added, “had it not been for the luck of that huge icicle hanging above the dragon’s back.”
“Luck?” Drizzt replied. “Perhaps. But more often, I dare to say, luck is simply the advantage a true warrior gains in executing the correct course of action.”
Wulfgar took the compliment in stride; he had been the one to dislodge the pointed icicle, killing the dragon.
“A pity I do not have the scimitar I plundered from Icingdeath’s lair to serve as a companion for Twinkle,” Drizzt remarked.
“True enough,” replied Wulfgar, smiling as he remembered his early adventures beside the drow. “But, alas, that one went over Garumn’s Gorge with Bruenor.”
Drizzt paused and blinked as if cold water had been thrown in his face. A sudden image flooded through his mind, its implications both hopeful and frightening. The image of Bruenor Battlehammer drifting slowly down into the depths of the gorge on the back of a burning dragon.
A burning dragon!
It was the first time Wulfgar had ever noted a tremble in the voice of his normally composed friend, when Drizzt rasped out, “Bruenor had my blade?”
5. Ashes
The room was empty, the fire burning low. The figure knew that there were gray dwarves, duergar, in the side chamber, through the partly opened door, but he had to chance it. This section of the complex was too full of the scum for him to continue along the tunnels without his disguise.
He slipped in from the main corridor and tiptoed past the side door to get to the hearth. He knelt before it and laid his fine mithril axe at his side. The glow of the embers made him flinch instinctively, though he felt no pain as he dipped his finger into the ash.
He heard the side door swing open a few seconds later and rubbed a final handful of the ash over his face, hoping that he had properly covered his telltale red beard and the pale flesh of his long nose all the length to its tip.
“What ye be doin’?” came a croak behind him.
The ash-covered dwarf blew into the embers, and a small flame came to life. “Bit o’ chill,” he answered. “Be needin’ rest.” He rose and turned, lifting the mithril axe beside him.
Two gray dwarves walked across the room to stand before him, their weapons securely sheathed. “Who ye be?” one asked. “Not o’ Clan McUduck, an’ not belongin’ in these tunnels!”
“Tooktook o’ Clan Trilk,” the dwarf lied, using the name of a gray dwarf he had chopped down just the morning before. “Been patrollin’, and been lost! Glad I be to find a room with a hearth!”
The two gray dwarves looked at each other, and then back to the stranger suspiciously. They had heard the reports over the last few weeks—since Shimmergloom, the shadow dragon that had been their god-figure, had fallen—tales of slaughtered duergar, often beheaded, found in the outer tunnels. And why was this one alone? Where was the rest of his patrol? Surely Clan Trilk knew enough to keep out of the tunnels of Clan McUduck.
And, why, one of them noticed, was there a patch of red on this one’s beard?
The dwarf realized their suspicion immediately and knew that he could not keep this charade going for long. “Lost two o’ me kin,” he said. “To a drow.” He smiled when he saw the duergar’s eyes go wide. The mere mention of a drow elf always sent gray dwarves rocking back on their heels—and bought the dwarf a few extra seconds. “But worth it, it were!” he proclaimed, holding the mithril axe up beside his head. “Found me a wicked blade! See?”
Even as one of the duergar leaned forward, awed by the shining weapon, the red-bearded dwarf gave him a closer look, putting the cruel blade deep into his face. The other duergar just managed to get a hand to his sword hilt when he got hit with a backhand blow that drove the butt of the axe handle into his eye. He stumbled back, reeling, but knew through the blur of pain that he was finished a full second before the mithril axe sliced the side of his neck.
Two more duergar burst in from the anteroom, their weapons drawn. “Get help!” one of them screamed, leaping into the fight. The other bolted for the door.
Again, luck was with the red-bearded dwarf. He kicked hard at an object on the floor, launching it toward the fleeing duergar, while parrying the first blow of his newest opponent with his golden shield.
The fleeing duergar was only a couple of strides from the corridor when something rolled between his feet, tripping him up and sending him sprawling to the floor. He got back to his knees quickly but hesitated, fighting back a gush of bile, when he saw what he had stumbled over.
The head of his kin.
The red-bearded dwarf danced away from another strik
e, rushing across the room to shield-slam the now-kneeling duergar, smashing the unfortunate creature into the stone wall.
But the dwarf, overbalanced in the fury of his rush, was down on one knee when the remaining duergar caught up to him. The intruder swung his shield back above him to block a downward thrust of the duergar’s sword, and countered with a low sweep of his axe, aiming for the knees.
The duergar sprang back just in time, taking a nick on one leg, and before he could fully recover and come back with a counter, the red-bearded dwarf was up and at the ready.
“Yer bones are for carrion-eaters!” the dwarf growled.
“Who ye be?” the duergar demanded. “Not o’ me kin, fer sure!”
A white smile spread across the dwarf’s ash-covered face. “Battlehammer’s me name,” he growled, displaying the standard emblazoned upon his shield—the foaming mug emblem of Clan Battlehammer. “Bruenor Battlehammer, rightful king of Mithril Hall!”
Bruenor chuckled softly to see the gray dwarf’s face blanch to white. The duergar stumbled back toward the door of the anteroom, understanding now that he was no match for this mighty foe. In desperation, he spun and fled, trying to slam the door shut behind him.
But Bruenor guessed what the duergar had in mind, and he got his heavy boot through the door before it could close. The mighty dwarf slammed his shoulder into the hard wood, sending the duergar flying back into the small room and knocking aside a table and chair.
Bruenor strode in confidently, never fearing even odds.
With no escape, the gray dwarf rushed back at him wildly, his shield leading and his sword above his head. Bruenor easily blocked the downward thrust, then smashed his axe into the duergar’s shield. It, too, was of mithril, and the axe could not cut into it. But so great was Bruenor’s blow that the leather strappings snapped apart and the duergar’s arm went numb and drooped helplessly. The duergar screamed in terror and brought his short sword across his chest to protect his opened flank.
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