The Companions: The Sundering, Book I

by R. A. Salvatore

  Regis didn’t see it, for he was fast at work against the second murderer, and this one was no novice with the blade, the halfling quickly realized. He noted the pinpoint of blood on the man’s chest, just below the collar of his shirt. Regis had scored a solid hit indeed with the hand crossbow, but as he had feared, the drow poison had apparently lost most of its efficacy in the months since he had left Delthuntle. This one’s movements showed no sign of sluggishness, Regis recognized to his horror, his rapier working frantically to deflect the flurry of saber strikes.

  He could hardly keep up. Even when he got his feet properly aligned, front foot pointing, trailing left foot perpendicular, he could barely match the tall man’s movements, and certainly couldn’t match his opponent’s reach.

  He mentally called to his ring again, looking for a bit of magic, but it wasn’t ready for another maneuver quite yet, he could sense.

  He batted the thrusting saber to the left and rolled his rapier over it, thinking to stab for the tall man’s hand. But his opponent was ready, and disengaged almost as soon as Regis’s blade struck the flat of the saber. The riposte came hard, right for the halfling’s face.

  Regis yelped and threw his left hand up and across, catching the saber between its main blade and the one catch prod.

  The one catch prod?

  Regis didn’t understand as he noted the dirk, with only one of its jade snake catch blades showing. As he turned the saber out, he noticed the second jade serpent, and thought for a moment that it had magically curled down around his hand to secure his grip.

  He yelped again, though, and much louder and with more fear, when he realized that the second snake was detached altogether! Detached and alive on his hand!

  The tall man bulled forward, throwing the halfling backward, and out of sheer desperation, Regis stabbed his dirk hand forward and flung the small snake free. The halfling tumbled backward to the floor as the serpent flew, and he and his opponent both cried out when it landed on the tall man’s blouse. Hardly slowing, the snake slithered up fast, ahead of the man’s slapping hands and up to his neck.

  And there the tiny thing—no longer than Regis’s forearm—wrapped around the tall man’s throat front to back, and when the ruffian reached to grab at it, he was tugged backward suddenly, arched over as if someone were behind him, choking him with a garrote.

  A cold sensation flooded through Regis then, a profound and deathly chill.

  And he saw a face leering at him from over the tall man’s shoulder, a withered face, a dead man’s face, the face of a ghost or a lich—Ebonsoul! Wide-eyed, the halfling cracked his boots against the floor and backstepped furiously. Regis couldn’t breathe, and neither, of course, could the tall man, who dropped his blade and grabbed at the snake with both hands, struggling mightily, his eyes bulging.

  And the leering dead face seemed to be laughing, puffs of cold steam coming out of its mouth.

  Then, with a burst of rolling gray smoke, the specter was gone.

  The tall man fell over, quite dead, the snake lying limply now across his throat.

  “Collect yourself,” Regis whispered through gasps. “Compose.” He pulled himself to a kneeling position, then glanced at his dirk. The one catch blade remained, and across the hilt to where the other had been, he saw the bud of a snake’s head, just beginning to sprout.

  It would grow anew, he understood, much as the prism ring on his hand would recharge its magic. It was the magic of the blade that had slain the bad pirate, not Ebonsoul, though likely this had been the lich’s own dagger, Regis figured as he came to understand its value and power.

  He went to his two enemies to ensure that they were dead, and relieved them of their coins, gems, and jewelry in the process. He prodded the serpent with his dirk, even rolled it over, but there was no life left in it.

  He looked at the weapon once more, and it seemed to him as if the second blade had already grown a tiny bit more.

  “It’s a magic item, not a curse,” he told himself. He recalled Wigglefingers’s claim that the dirk had other powers, and more importantly, that it had no sentience or ego, as so many powerfully enchanted weapons were known to possess. He thought of the leering specter and was glad of that.

  The halfling took a deep breath and steadied himself. He had fancied himself a hero, had determined that he would be one this time around, that he would be a valuable member of the Companions of the Hall and not a tag-along to be protected. He nodded, looked to his weapons, and looked at his handiwork.

  This was what it meant to be a hero. He wouldn’t shy from a fight, and he darned well meant to win them.

  He nodded again, reminding himself that this fight was only half over.

  The finely dressed halfling strode confidently around the wagons and into the light of the blazing campfire. He grinned back at the stupefied expressions of the two men—of course they were shocked, since they had paid to have him murdered, and yet, here he was!

  As he walked past the burly Yoger, Regis pulled his hand crossbow out from under his traveling cloak and shot the man in the face, then dropped the weapon. It jangled down by his legs, for he had tethered it to his belt. With a flick of his wrist, Regis tossed a small serpent at the groaning man. It bounced against his belly and magically caught there, then slithered up fast, before the fool could begin to react.

  Yoger cried out, then began to gasp and choke, but Regis never looked at him. Regis just kept walking toward Kermillon, his rapier and dirk still in his belt. Kermillon grabbed a small log from near the fire and began shouting out, warning the halfling back.

  But Regis kept coming.

  He heard Yoger fall over behind him, thrashing and kicking. He heard others from the nearby wagons calling out, confused, but he kept his focus on Kermillon, who waved the log threateningly.

  Just as he stepped into range, just as the man began to swing, Regis activated his prism ring and warp-stepped past. Regis knew what to expect from it this time, and he leaped and twisted as he moved, spinning around. He landed just behind and to the side of Kermillon, and with his rapier in hand. He promptly stabbed up under the man’s ear, puncturing the skin, but just barely.

  “Kindly drop the log,” he said, and when Kermillon hesitated, he stabbed the rapier in a bit more.

  “Oh, please, Sir Spider!” Kermillon gasped, leaning over away from the pressing rapier tip.

  “Kneel,” Regis ordered, and Kermillon slumped to his knees.

  Regis looked past him then, to Yoger who continued to thrash and kick and squirm for all his life, but to no avail. Others came into the firelight just as Yoger went straight out, his legs twitching in the spasms of death.

  “Here now, what?” another driver called to Regis and Kermillon. Others ran to Yoger.

  “What’s this about then, little one?” another man demanded. “Tell them,” Regis said to Kermillon. The man said nothing.

  “Tell them or I will slide my blade into your head, and explain my actions to them while I am wiping your brains off onto your shirt.”

  Drivers, passengers, and merchants from the marketplace alike began to gather, forming a wall around the small fire and the combatants.

  “You best be talking,” one demanded.

  “Aye, and we best like your explaining!” another added.

  Regis prodded his blade and Kermillon gave a little cry.

  “Speak truthfully and I will lobby for leniency,” Regis said.

  “I don’t know …,” Kermillon started.

  “Two dead across the way!” announced a newcomer, a halfling dressed for the road and for battle it seemed. He walked into the light, a trio of other halflings similarly adorned right behind him. “Stuffings is dead in his tent,” the halfling went on. “Stuffings and the tall one. It would appear as if they tried to take advantage of a guest this night, and would I be right in assuming that we have that guest standing right before us?”

  “Stuffings?” Regis asked.

  “Stuffantle Tinderkeg to
any who cared,” the halfling replied. “Just Stuffings to all the rest.”

  “Aye, he coaxed me into his lair with the promise of a bed and a bath, and on coin from these two.” He prodded a bit and Kermillon yelped and leaned to the side. “Do tell them.”

  “On your life, driver,” the other halfling said and he drew out a gleaming short sword.

  “We did! We did!” Kermillon babbled. “But not to kill him! No, just to rob … and this one!” He fell away as the rapier was withdrawn, and turned back, poking a finger Regis’s way. “This one! All boasts and endless coin! Ah, but he’s a rat, I tell you! Insufferable rat!”

  Regis laughed and snapped his rapier across, taking the man’s poking finger before tucking it away in his belt as Kermillon curled up on the ground, howling in pain.

  “Well, this one’s dead,” said a man over by Yoger.

  “Three less murderers to worry about,” Regis said, and he looked at Kermillon as he added, “And likely, soon to be four.”

  Some of the other drivers came in and grabbed up Kermillon and dragged him away.

  Such scenes were not uncommon in the markets around Boareskyr Bridge, and the interest died away quickly, the onlookers moving off, some discussing which would inherit Kermillon’s wagon and goods, while others, merchants, talking about the prime tent that would now be open if the one-eyed dwarf was really deceased.

  The quartet of halflings came over to Regis, though, the leader bowing before him gracefully. “You handle yourself well, Master Topolino,” he said.

  “You know my name,” Regis replied. He locked gazes with the halfling, while quietly lifting the hand crossbow and deftly slipping it away into his magical belt pouch.

  “Knew it before we ever met you, though didn’t know you wore it,” the other replied.

  Regis looked at him curiously.

  “Grandfather Pericolo,” said one of the three behind him. “I have been to Delthuntle on many occasions and know him well.”

  “Ah, but where are my manners?” said the leader. “I know your name, but have not offered my own. I am Doregardo of the Grinning Ponies.” He bowed low.

  “The Grinning Ponies?” Regis asked, trying not to laugh.

  “Named for our mounts and the year,” answered the one who had claimed knowledge of the Grandfather.

  Regis thought about it for a moment, then realized the reference to 1481, the Year of the Grinning Halfling.

  “And I am Showithal Terdidy,” the halfling went on.

  “He rode with the Kneebreakers,” Doregardo explained, and Regis shrugged, not getting the reference.

  “Ah, you’ve not been to the Bloodstone Lands, then,” said Showithal.

  “Impiltur once, but only for a season,” Regis answered.

  “If ever you return, venture to Damara and know that you’ll have friends in the famed Kneebreakers.”

  “Kneebreakers!” the other two cheered, lifting their gloved fists into the air.

  “We claim allegiance to that band, brothers in the cause,” said Doregardo.

  “The cause?”

  Doregardo walked over and draped his hand comfortably on Regis’s shoulder. “You understand the dilemma of our people, of course, always thought of as thieves, or worse, as children. But not the Kneebreakers, who ride the roads of Damara and neighboring Vaasa. When they ride through, highwaymen cower in dark holes and townsfolk take note and cheer!”

  “Doregardo spoke for you here, among the merchants who have come to know and trust the Grinning Ponies well in the few months we have been together,” added Showithal. “And so your side of the story was not doubted.”

  “Because you’re like the Kneebreakers,” Regis reasoned.

  “We ride the Trade Way from Memnon to Waterdeep, and east and back the length of Elturgard,” Doregardo explained.

  Regis looked at the group, one after another. “All four?”

  “Eleven of us,” Doregardo explained. “And we would welcome a twelfth.” He glanced over at Yoger, lying dead by the wagon. “Particularly a twelfth who can handle himself so … effectively.”

  Regis chuckled at the flattering offer. “I can hardly ride a pony,” he said, for his first reaction was to politely decline.

  “Easy to learn,” said Showithal, and his tone sobered Regis and made it quite clear that this was neither a casual offer nor an empty one. They were serious.

  “I have business in the far North,” Regis said. “Do you ride as far as Luskan?”

  “Waterdeep,” Doregardo replied. “But we could go farther, and perhaps help you with this business of which you speak.”

  Regis shook his head, trying to sort it out. He had two and a half years before his appointed rendezvous.

  “I am in need of sleep,” he said. “Might I spend the night in your no-doubt secure camp and give you an answer in the morning?”

  The halfling known as Spider awoke to the smell of cooking bacon and eggs, and with a fine rich coffee aroma drifting around his nostrils. He propped himself up on his elbows and did a quick count of the halflings moving around the encampment, quickly discerning that most of the band was in attendance.

  “Well met, Master Topolino!” Doregardo greeted when he noted Regis sitting up.

  “Spider,” he corrected. “My name is Spider.” He looked around some more, feeling quite at home and comfortable, and adventurous! “Spider of the Grinning Ponies,” he said.

  “Huzzah!” the halflings cheered, gloved fists rising into the air.

  “I suppose I’ll need a pony,” Regis said.

  “Plenty across the bridge,” answered Doregardo.

  “I’ve the coin to purchase one,” Regis answered.

  Showithal came over, bearing two plates heaped with food, and balancing a steaming mug of coffee on each.

  “A gift for a tale of Delthuntle,” he said, sitting on a keg near Regis’s bedroll. “Tell me of Morada Topolino!”

  The fact that he had referred to the house with that obscure name confirmed to Regis that he had indeed been to Delthuntle, as he had claimed. Regis nodded and took the plate and mug, and between bites told Showithal stories of deep diving and pink pearls. He thought to tell the interested halfling of the Grandfather’s demise, but changed his mind. Not yet.

  “Do you know of the Grandfather’s primary associate?” he asked as Doregardo came over, plate in hand, to join them.

  “The mustached mage?” asked Showithal.

  Regis shook his head.

  “Donnola,” Showithal realized, and said with all the appropriate breathlessness of any male halfling thinking of that one. “Beautiful Donnola! Aye, none who have looked on that one would ever forget her!”

  “Donnola!” another cried from across the camp, lifting his mug, and all joined in the toast.

  “Showithal’s spoken of her,” Doregardo explained.

  “I am sure that his words, no matter how pretty, could not do her justice,” Regis replied, and he meant it, and how it stung his heart to be away from Donnola Topolino! He turned to Showithal. “If ever you return to Delthuntle, find her, I beg, and tell her that you saw me … Spider, and that I am well, and that I will return to her one day.”

  “Spider?” Doregardo said, shaking his head. “Such a curious name.”

  “One earned,” Regis decided. “One given to me by Grandfather Pericolo himself, when I was but a small child.”

  “I have heard of one called Spider,” another of the band said from a short distance to the side. The three turned to face the speaker, and Regis feared that he might have given away too much information. “That’s you?” the other one asked. “The climber, trained in Pericolo’s own home?”

  Regis stared at him, unsure how to proceed.

  “We’ve added a valuable companion here,” that halfling told Showithal and Doregardo.

  “We already figured as much,” the leader replied.

  “And one who owes you a great debt, for taking my word and speaking for me last night,” said
Regis.

  “An easy word to take,” said Doregardo. “I’ve had my run-ins with Stuffings many times, and I don’t regret his passing.” He gave a little laugh. “Did I ever congratulate you on your fine aim with that one?”

  Regis thought back to the fight, to the image of his rapier tip sliding so easily through Stuffings’s one good eye. He shrugged, a bit embarrassed.

  The Grinning Ponies rode out soon after, Regis on a pack mule until they could procure a proper mount on the other side of Winding Water. They passed under the tree where Kermillon was hanging by the neck, and noted the gravediggers cutting four holes in the small clearing behind it.

  CHAPTER 24

  WEAVING

  The Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR) Luruar

  THE EAGLE RODE THE UPDRAFTS OF AN INCOMING FRONT, GLIDING EASILY to the west, and now with the hilly region known as the Crags in sight. Beyond those rolling hills sat Luskan and the Sword Coast, Catti-brie knew, and the mountain pass that would take her home to Icewind Dale.

  Given the limitations of her magic, she expected to pass by Luskan within a few days, and into Icewind Dale to Ten-Towns merely a tenday beyond that.

  She was thinking of her more recent home, of Niraj and Kavita, and hoping that they were all right. Had they heard of her death? Had Lady Avelyere gone to the Desai encampment to interrogate them? Or worse, had Avelyere punished them?

  The thought unsettled Catti-brie and stole from her the peace of this moment of high solitude. Maybe she should have stayed in Netheril to protect her parents, she thought, to fight, and likely die, beside them if Avelyere came calling.

  Certainly die, she nodded. With that slight movement of her head, Catti-brie noticed a strange twinge, a pressure in her limbs akin to what she felt when executing the shapeshifting. Her vision shifted suddenly, too, as if from eagle eyes to human, or something strange in between, and for just a fleeting heartbeat, the sky around her darkened, then seemed backlit, and in the moment between blue daylight and nighttime stars, she saw or imagined a great web of giant strands enwrapping the whole world.