The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  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 length. “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.”

  10. The Weight of a Kings Mantle

  The 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 mithril 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 Mithril 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 Mithril Hall.

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

  Catti-brie could not help but laugh. “So stop him yerself!”

  Harkle listened to the dwarf’s heavy footsteps resounding down the hall; Bruenor’s bare feet thudded on the wooden floor like bouncing stones. “No,” Harkle answered her offer, his smile widening to match her own. “I think not.”

  Abruptly awakened in the night, the Lady Alustriel appeared no less beautiful, her silvery mane somehow mystically connected to the soft glow of the evening. Bruenor composed himself when he saw the lady, remembering her station and his manners.

  “Uh, begging the lady’s pardon,” he stammered, suddenly very embarrassed by his actions.

  “It is late, good King Bruenor,” Alustriel said politely, an amused smile on her face as she viewed the dwarf, dressed only in his nightshirt and broken helmet. “What might have brought you to my door at this hour?”

  “What with all that’s going on about, I did not even know ye were still in Longsaddle,” Bruenor explained.

  “I would have come to see you before I left,” Alustriel replied, her tone still cordial. “No need to disturb your sleep or mine.”

  “Me thoughts weren’t for good-byes,” Bruenor said. “I be needing a favor.”

  “Urgently?”

  Bruenor nodded emphatically. “A favor I should’ve asked afore we e’er got here.”

  Alustriel led him into her room and closed the door behind them, realizing the seriousness of the dwarf’s business.

  “I need another one of them chariots,” said Bruenor. “To take me to the south.”

  “You mean to catch your friends and aid in the search for the halfling,” Alustriel reasoned.

  “Aye, I know me place.”

  “But I cannot accompany you,” Alustriel said. “I have a realm to rule; it is not my place to journey unannounced to other kingdoms.”

  “I wouldn’t be askin’ ye to go,” replied Bruenor.

  “Then who will drive the team? You have no experience with such magic.”

  Bruenor thought for just a moment. “Harkle’ll take me!” he blurted.

  Alustriel couldn’t hide a smirk as she thought of the possibilities for disaster. Harkle, like so many of his Harpell kin, usually hurt himself when spellcasting. The lady knew that she would not sway the dwarf, but she felt it her duty to point out all of the weaknesses of his plan.

  “Calimport is a long way indeed,” she told him. “The trip there on the chariot will be speedy, but the return could take many months. Will not the true king of Mithril Hall lead the gathering armies in the fight for his throne?”

  “He will,” Bruenor replied, “if it be possible. But me place’s with me friends. I owe them at least that!”

  “You risk much.”

  “No more than they’ve risked for me—many the times.”

  Alustriel opened the door. “Very well,” she said, “and my respect on your decision. You will prove a noble king, Bruenor Battlehammer.”

  The dwarf, for one of the few times in his life, blushed.

  “Now go and rest,” said Alustriel. “I will see what I might learn this night. Meet me on the south slope of Harpell Hill before the break of dawn.”

  Bruenor nodded eagerly and found his way back to his room. For the first time since he had come to Longsaddle, he slept peacefully.

  * * *

  Under the lightening sky of predawn, Bruenor and Harkle met Alustriel at the appointed spot. Harkle had eagerly agreed to the journey; he had always wanted a crack at driving one of Lady Alustriel’s famed chariots. He seemed out of place next to the battle-charged dwarf, though, wearing his wizard’s robe—tucked into leather hip boots—and an oddly shaped silver helmet with fluffy white fur wings and a visor that kept flopping down over his eyes.

  Alustriel had not slept the rest of that night. She had been busy staring into the crystal ball the Harpells had provided her, probing distant planes in search of clues to the whereabouts of Bruenor’s friends. She had learned much in that short time and had even made a connection to the dead mage Morkai in the spirit world to garner further information.

  And what she had learned disturbed her more than a little.

  She stood now, components in hand and awaiting the break of dawn, quietly facing the east. As the first rays of the sun peeked over the horizon, she swept them into her grasp and executed the spell. Minutes later, a flaming chariot and two fiery horses appeared on the hillside, magically suspended an inch from the ground. The licks of their flames sent tiny streams of smoke rising from the bedewed grass.

  “To Calimport!” Harkle proclaimed, rushing over to the enchanted carriage.

  “Nay,” Alustriel corrected. Bruenor turned a confused glance on her.

  “Your friends are not yet in the Empire of the Sands,” the lady explained. “They are at sea and will find grave danger this day. Set your course to the southwest, to the sea, then true south with the coast in sight.” She tossed a heartshaped locket to Bruenor. The dwarf fumbled it open and found a picture of Drizzt Do’Urden inside.

  “The locket will warm when you approach the ship that carries your friends,” Alustriel said. “I created it many weeks ago, that I might have known if your group approached Silverymoon on your return from Mithril Hall.” She avoided Bruenor’s probing gaze, knowing the myriad of questions that must have been going through the dwarf’s mind. Quietly, almost as if embarrassed, she added, “I should like it returned.”

  Bruenor kept his sly remarks
to himself. He knew of the growing connection between Lady Alustriel and Drizzt. It became clearer and clearer every day. “Ye’ll get it back,” he assured her. He scooped the locket up in his fist and moved to join Harkle.

  “Tarry not,” Alustriel told them. “Their need is pressing this day!”

  “Wait!” came a call from the hill. All three turned to see Catti-brie, fully outfitted for the road, with Taulmaril, the magical bow of Anariel that she had recovered from the ruins of Mithril Hall, slung easily over her shoulder. She ran down to the back of the chariot. “Ye weren’t meaning to leave me so?” she asked Bruenor.

  Bruenor couldn’t look her in the eye. He had indeed meant to leave without so much as a good-bye to his daughter. “Bah!” he snorted. “Ye’d have only tried to stop me going!”

  “Never I would!” Catti-brie growled right back at him. “Me thinkin’s that yer doing right. But ye’d do righter if ye’d move over and make room for me!”

  Bruenor shook his head emphatically.

  “I’ve as much the right as yerself!” Catti-brie protested.

  “Bah!” Bruenor snorted again. “Drizzt and Rumblebelly are me truest friends!”

  “And mine!”

  “And Wulfgar’s been akin to a son to me!” Bruenor shot back, thinking he had won the round.

  “And a might bit more than that to me,” Catti-brie retorted, “if he gets back from the South!” Catti-brie didn’t even need to remind Bruenor that she had been the one who introduced him to Drizzt. She had defeated all of the dwarf’s arguments. “Move aside, Bruenor Battlehammer, and make room! I’ve as much at stake as yerself, and I’m meaning to come along!”

  “Who’ll be seeing to the armies?” Bruenor asked.

  “The Harpells’ll put them up. They won’t be marching to the halls until we’re back, or until the spring, at least.”

  “But if both of you go and do not return,” Harkle interjected, letting the thought hang over them for a moment. “You are the only ones who know the way.”