The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Regis had gotten through it, had found a way to circumvent its power.

  Regis.

  Wulfgar found his answer.

  He gave a final heave on the Taros Hoop, then released it quickly, sending the portal into a momentary wobble. Wulfgar didn’t hesitate to watch the eerie spectacle. He dove down and snatched the pearl-tipped scepter from Drizzt’s belt, then leaped up straight and slammed the fragile device onto the top of the Taros Hoop, shattering the black pearl into a thousand tiny shards.

  At that same moment, LaValle uttered the last syllable of his spell, releasing a mighty bolt of energy. It ripped past Wulfgar, searing the hairs on his arm, and blasted into the center of the Taros Hoop. The glassy image, cracked into the circular design of a spider’s web by Wulfgar’s cunning strike, broke apart altogether.

  The ensuing explosion rocked the foundations of the guildhouse.

  Thick patches of darkness swirled about the room; the onlookers perceived the whole place to be spinning, and a sudden wind whistled and howled in their ears, as though they had all been caught in the tumult of a rift in the very planes of existence. Black smoke and fumes rushed in upon them. The darkness became total.

  Then, as quickly as it had begun, it passed away and daylight returned to the battered room. Drizzt and Bruenor were the first to their feet, studying the damage and the survivors.

  The Taros Hoop lay twisted and shattered, a bent frame of worthless iron with a sticky, weblike substance clinging stubbornly in torn patches. A winged demodand lay dead on the floor, the severed arm of another creature beside it, and half the body of yet another beside that, still twitching in death, with thick, dark fluids spilling onto the floor.

  A dozen feet back sat Wulfgar, propped up on his elbows and looking perplexed, one arm bright red from LaValle’s energy bolt, his face blackened by the rush of smoke, and his entire frame matted in the gooey webbing. A hundred little dots of blood dotted the barbarian’s body. Apparently the glassy image of the planar portal had been more than just an image.

  Wulfgar looked at his friends distantly, blinked his eyes a few times, and dropped flat on his back.

  LaValle groaned, catching the notice of Drizzt and Bruenor. The wizard started to struggle back to his knees, but realized that he would only be exposing himself to the victorious invaders. He slumped back to the floor and lay very still.

  Drizzt and Bruenor looked at each other, wondering what to do next.

  “Fine to see the light again,” came a soft voice below them. They looked down to meet the gaze of Catti-brie, her deep blue eyes opened once again.

  Bruenor, in tears, dropped to his knees and huddled over her. Drizzt started to follow the dwarf’s lead, but sensed that theirs should be a private moment. He gave a comforting pat on Bruenor’s shoulder and walked away to make sure that Wulfgar was all right.

  A sudden burst of movement interrupted him as he knelt over his barbarian friend. The great throne, torn and scorched against the wall, toppled forward. Drizzt held it away easily, but while he was engaged, he saw Pasha Pook dart out from behind the object and bolt for the room’s main door.

  “Bruenor!” Drizzt called, but he knew even as he said it that the dwarf was too caught up with his daughter to be bothered. Drizzt pushed the great chair away and pulled Taulmaril off his back, stringing it as he started in pursuit.

  Pook rushed through the door, swinging around to slam it behind him. “Rassit—” he started to yell as he turned back toward the stairs, but the word stuck in his throat when he saw Regis, arms crossed, standing before him at the top of the stairway.

  “You!” Pook roared, his face twisting and his hands clenching in rage.

  “No, him,” Regis corrected, pointing a finger above as a sleek black form leaped over him.

  To the stunned Pook, Guenhwyvar appeared as no more than a flying ball of big teeth and claws.

  By the time Drizzt got through the door, Pook’s reign as guildmaster had come to a crashing end.

  “Guenhwyvar!” the drow called, within reach of his treasured companion for the first time in many weeks. The big panther loped over to Drizzt and nuzzled him warmly, every bit as happy with the reunion.

  Other sights and sounds kept the meeting short, however. First there was Regis, reclining comfortably on the decorated banister, his hands locked behind his head and his furry feet crossed. Drizzt was glad to see Regis again, as well, but more disturbing to the drow were the sounds echoing up the stairs: screams of terror and throaty growls.

  Bruenor heard them, too, and he came out of the room to investigate. “Rumblebelly!” he hailed Regis, following Drizzt to the halfling’s side.

  They looked down the great stairway at the battles below. Every now and then, a wererat crossed by, pursued by a panther. One group of ratmen formed a defensive circle, their blades flashing about to deter Guenhwyvar’s feline friends, right below the friends, but a wave of black fur and gleaming teeth buried them where they stood.

  “Cats?” Bruenor gawked at Regis. “Ye brought cats?”

  Regis smiled and shifted his head in his hands. “You know a better way to get rid of mice?”

  Bruenor shook his head and couldn’t hide his own smile. He looked back at the body of the man who had fled the room. “Dead, too,” he remarked grimly.

  “That was Pook,” Regis told them, though they had already guessed the guildmaster’s identity. “Now he is gone, and so, I believe, will his wererats associates be.”

  Regis looked at Drizzt, knowing an explanation to be necessary. “Guenhwyvar’s friends are only hunting the ratmen,” he said. “And him, of course.” He pointed to Pook. “The regular thieves are hiding in their rooms—if they’re smart—but the panthers wouldn’t hurt them anyway.”

  Drizzt nodded his approval at the discretion Regis and Guenhwyvar had chosen. Guenhwyvar was not a vigilante.

  “We all came through the statue,” Regis continued. “I kept it with me when I went out of Tarterus with Guenhwyvar. The cats can go back through it to their own plane when their work is done.” He tossed the figurine back to its rightful owner.

  A curious look came over the halfling’s face. He snapped his fingers and hopped down from the banister, as if his last action had given him an idea. He ran to Pook, rolled the former guildmaster’s head to the side—trying to ignore the very conspicuous wound in Pook’s neck—and lifted off the ruby pendant that had started the whole adventure. Satisfied, Regis turned to the very curious stares of his two friends.

  “Time to make some allies,” the halfling explained, and he darted off down the stairs.

  Bruenor and Drizzt looked at each other in disbelief.

  “He’ll own the guild,” Bruenor assured the drow.

  Drizzt didn’t argue the point.

  * * *

  From an alley on Rogues Circle, Rassiter, again in his human form, heard the dying screams of his fellow ratmen. He had been smart enough to understand that the guild was overmatched by the heroes from the North, and when Pook sent him down to rally the fight, he had slipped instead back into the protection of the sewers.

  Now he could only listen to the cries and wonder how many of his lycanthrope kin would survive the dark day. “I will build a new guild,” he vowed to himself, though he fully understood the enormity of the task, especially now that he had achieved such notoriety in Calimport. Perhaps he could travel to another city—Memnon or Baldur’s Gate—farther up the coast.

  His ponderings came to an abrupt end as the flat of a curving blade came to rest on his shoulder, the razor edge cutting a tiny line across the side of his neck.

  Rassiter held up a jeweled dagger. “This is yours, I believe,” he said, trying to sound calm. The saber slipped away and Rassiter turned to face Artemis Entreri.

  Entreri reached out with a bandaged arm to pull the dagger away, at the same time slipping the saber back into its scabbard.

  “I knew you had been beaten,” Rassiter said boldly. “I feared you dead.”


  “Feared?” Entreri grinned. “Or hoped?”

  “It is true that you and I started as rivals,” Rassiter began.

  Entreri laughed again. He had never figured the ratman worthy enough to be considered a rival.

  Rassiter took the insult in stride. “But we then served the same master.” He looked to the guildhouse, where the screaming had finally begun to fade. “I think Pook is dead, or at least thrown from power.”

  “If he faced the drow, he is dead,” Entreri spat, the mere thought of Drizzt Do’Urden filling his throat with bile.

  “Then the streets are open,” Rassiter reasoned. He gave Entreri a sly wink. “For the taking.”

  “You and I?” Entreri mused.

  Rassiter shrugged. “Few in Calimport would oppose you,” the wererat said, “and with my infectious bite, I can breed a host of loyal followers in mere weeks. Certainly none would dare stand against us in the night.”

  Entreri moved beside him, joining him in his scan of the guildhouse. “Yes, my ravenous friend,” he said quietly, “but there remain two problems.”

  “Two?”

  “Two,” Entreri reiterated. “First, I work alone.”

  Rassiter’s body jolted straight as a dagger blade cut into his spine.

  “And second,” Entreri continued, without missing a breath, “you are dead,” He jerked the bloody dagger out and held it vertical, to wipe the blade on Rassiter’s cloak as the wererat fell lifeless to the ground.

  Entreri surveyed his handiwork and the bandages on his wounded elbow. “Stronger already,” he muttered to himself, and he slipped away to find a dark hole. The morning was full and bright now, and the assassin, still with much healing to do, was not ready to face the challenges he might come across on the daytime streets.

  25. A Walk in the Sun

  Bruenor knocked lightly on the door, not expecting a response. As usual, no reply came back.

  This time, though, the stubborn dwarf did not walk away. He turned the latch and entered the darkened room.

  Stripped to the waist and running his slender fingers through his thick mane of white hair, Drizzt sat on his bed with his back to Bruenor. Even in the dimness, Bruenor could clearly see the scab line sliced across the drow’s back. The dwarf shuddered, never imagining in those wild hours of battle that Drizzt had been so viciously wounded by Artemis Entreri.

  “Five days, elf,” Bruenor said quietly. “Do ye mean to live yer life in here?”

  Drizzt turned slowly to face his dwarven friend. “Where else would I go?” he replied.

  Bruenor studied the lavender eyes, twinkling to reflect the light of the hallway beyond the open door. The left one had opened again, the dwarf noted hopefully. Bruenor had feared that the demodand’s blow had forever closed Drizzt’s eye.

  Clearly it was healing, but still those marvelous orbs worried Bruenor. They seemed to him to have lost a good bit of their luster.

  “How is Catti-brie?” Drizzt asked, sincerely concerned about the young woman, but also wanting to change the subject.

  Bruenor smiled. “Not for walkin’ yet,” he replied, “but her fighting’s back and she’s not caring for lyin’ quiet in a bed!” He chuckled, recalling the scene earlier in the day, when one attendant had tried to primp his daughter’s pillow. Catti-brie’s glare alone had drained the blood from the man’s face. “Cuts her servants down with her blade of a tongue when they fuss over her.”

  Drizzt’s smile seemed strained. “And Wulfgar?”

  “The boy’s better,” Bruenor replied. “Took four hours scraping the spider gook off him, and he’ll be wearin’ wrappings on his arm for a month to come, but more’n that’s needed to bring that boy down! Though as a mountain, and nearen as big!”

  They watched each other until the smiles faded and the silence grew uncomfortable. “The halfling’s feast is about to begin,” Bruenor said. “Ye going? With a belly so round, me guess is that Rumblebelly will set a fine table.”

  Drizzt shrugged noncommittally.

  “Bah!” Bruenor snorted. “Ye can’t be living yer life between dark walls!” He paused as a thought suddenly popped into his head. “Or are ye out at night?” he asked slyly.

  “Out?”

  “Hunting,” explained Bruenor. “Are ye out hunting Entreri?”

  Now, Drizzt did laugh—at the notion that Bruenor linked his desire for solitude to some obsession with the assassin.

  “Ye’re burning for him,” Bruenor reasoned, “and he for yerself if he’s still for drawing breath.”

  “Come,” Drizzt said, pulling a loose shirt over his head. He picked up the magical mask as he started around the bed, but stopped to consider the item. He rolled it over in his hands, then dropped it back to the dressing table. “Let us not be late for the feast.”

  Bruenor’s guess about Regis had not missed the mark; the table awaiting the two friends was splendidly adorned with shining silver and porcelain, and the aromas of delicacies had them unconsciously licking their lips as they moved to their appointed seats.

  Regis sat at the long table’s head, the thousand gemstones he had sewn into his tunic catching the candlelight in a glittering burst every time he shifted in his seat. Behind him stood the two hill giant eunuchs who had guarded Pook at the bitter end, their faces bruised and bandaged.

  At the halfling’s right sat LaValle, to Bruenor’s distaste, and at his left, a narrow-eyed halfling and a chubby young man, the chief lieutenants in the new guild.

  Farther down the table sat Wulfgar and Catti-brie, side by side, their hands clasped between them, which, Drizzt guessed—by the pale and weary looks of the two—was as much for mutual support as genuine affection.

  As weary as they were, though, their faces lit with smiles, as did Regis’s, when they saw Drizzt enter the room, the first time any of them had seen the drow in nearly a week.

  “Welcome, welcome!” Regis said happily. “It would have been a shallow feast if you could not join us!”

  Drizzt slid into the chair beside LaValle, drawing a concerned look from the timid wizard. The guild’s lieutenants, too, shifted uneasily at the thought of dining with a drow elf.

  Drizzt smiled away the weight of their discomfort; it was their problem, not his. “I have been busy,” he told Regis.

  “Brooding,” Bruenor wanted to say as he sat next to Drizzt, but he tactfully held his tongue.

  Wulfgar and Catti-brie stared at their black friend from across the table.

  “You swore to kill me,” the drow said calmly to Wulfgar, causing the big man to sag back in his chair.

  Wulfgar flushed a deep red and tightened his grip on Catti-brie’s hand.

  “Only the strength of Wulfgar could have held that gate,” Drizzt explained. The edges of his mouth turned up in a wistful smile.

  “But, I—” Wulfgar began, but Catti-brie cut him short.

  “Enough said about it, then,” the young woman insisted, banging her fist into Wulfgar’s thigh. “Let us not be talking about troubles we’ve past. Too much remains before us!”

  “Me girl’s right,” spouted Bruenor. “The days walk by us as we sit and heal! Another week, and we might be missing a war.”

  “I am ready to go,” declared Wulfgar.

  “Ye’re not,” retorted Catti-brie. “Nor am I. The desert’d stop us afore we ever got on the long road beyond.”

  “Ahem,” Regis began, drawing their attention. “About your departure, …” He stopped to consider their stares, nervous about presenting his offer in just the right way. “I…uh…thought that…I mean…”

  “Spit it,” demanded Bruenor, guessing what his little friend had in mind.

  “Well, I have built a place for myself here,” Regis continued.

  “And ye’re to stay,” reasoned Catti-brie. “We’ll not blame ye, though we’re sure to be missing ye!”

  “Yes,” said Regis, “and no. There is room here, and wealth. With the four of you by my side…”

  Bruen
or halted him with an upraised hand. “A fine offer,” he said, “but me home’s in the North.”

  “We’ve armies waiting on our return,” added Catti-brie.

  Regis realized the finality of Bruenor’s refusal, and he knew that Wulfgar would certainly follow Catti-brie—back to Tarterus if she so chose. So the halfling turned his sights on Drizzt, who had become an unreadable puzzle to them all in the last few days.

  Drizzt sat back and considered the proposition, his hesitancy to deny the offer drawing concerned stares from Bruenor, Wulfgar, and, particularly, Catti-brie. Perhaps life in Calimport would not be so bad, and certainly the drow had the tools to thrive in the shadowy realm Regis planned to operate within. He looked Regis square in the eye.

  “No,” he said. He turned at the audible sigh from Catti-brie across the table, and their eyes locked. “I have walked through too many shadows already,” he explained. “A noble quest stands before me, and a noble throne awaits its rightful king.”

  Regis relaxed back in his chair and shrugged. He had expected as much. “If you are all so determined to go back to a war, then I would be a sorry friend if I did not aid your quest.”

  The others eyed him curiously, never amazed at the surprises the little one could pull.

  “To that end,” Regis continued, “one of my agents reported the arrival of an important person—from the tales Bruenor has told me of your journey south—in Calimport this morning.” He snapped his fingers, and a young attendant entered from a side curtain, leading Captain Deudermont.

  The captain bowed low to Regis, and lower still to the dear friends he had made on the perilous journey from Waterdeep. “The wind was at our backs,” he explained, “and the Sea Sprite runs swifter than ever. We can depart on the morrow’s dawn; surely the gentle rock of a boat is a fine place to mend weary bones!”

  “But the trade,” said Drizzt. “The market is here in Calimport. And the season. You did not plan to leave before spring!”

  “I may not be able to get you all the way to Waterdeep,” said Deudermont. “The winds and ice will tell. But you surely will find yourself closer to your goal when you take to land once again.” He looked over at Regis, then back to Drizzt. “For my losses in trade, accommodations have been made.”