Streams of Silver

by R. A. Salvatore

  He had a few quiet words with the fat mage, then turned to the road. “Greetings,” he offered the companions. “Excuse poor Regweld, here—” he patted the fat mage’s shoulder—”for he has had an incredible run of bad luck with some experimenting—not that things will not turn out, mind you. They just might take some time.”

  “Regweld is really a fine wizard,” he continued, patting the shoulder again. “And his ideas for crossbreeding a horse and a frog are not without merit; never mind the explosion! Alchemy shops can be replaced!”

  The friends sat atop their mounts, biting back their amazement at the rambling discourse. “Why, think of the advantages for crossing rivers!” the robed man cried. “But enough of that. I am Harkle. How might I assist you?”

  “Harkle Harpell?” Regis snickered. The man bowed.

  “Bruenor of Icewind Dale, I be,” Bruenor proclaimed when he had found his voice. “Me friends and meself have come hundreds of miles seeking the words of the wizards of Longsaddle….”

  He noticed that Harkle, distracted by the drow, wasn’t paying any attention to him. Drizzt had let his cowl slip back purposely to judge the reaction of the reputedly learned men of Longsaddle. The Longrider back on the road had been surprised, but not outraged, and Drizzt had to learn if the town in general would be more tolerant of his heritage.

  “Fantastic,” muttered Harkle. “Simply unbelievable!” Regweld, too, had now noticed the black elf and seemed interested for the first time since the party had arrived.

  “Are we to be allowed passage?” Drizzt asked.

  “Oh, yes, please do come in,” replied Harkle, trying unsuccessfully to mask his excitement for the sake of etiquette.

  Striding his horse out in front, Wulfgar started them up the road.

  “Not that way,” said Harkle. “Not the road; of course, it is not really a road. Or it is, but you cannot get through.”

  Wulfgar stopped his mount. “Be done with your foolery, wizard!” he demanded angrily, his years of distrust for practitioners of the magic arts boiling over in his frustration. “May we enter, or not?”

  “There is no foolery, I assure you,” said Harkle, hoping to keep the meeting amiable. But Regweld cut in.

  “One of those,” the fat mage said accusingly, rising from his stool.

  Wulfgar glared at him curiously.

  “A barbarian,” Regweld explained. “A warrior trained to hate that which he cannot comprehend. Go ahead, warrior, take that big hammer off of your back.”

  Wulfgar hesitated, seeing his own unreasonable anger, and looked to his friends for support. He didn’t want to spoil Bruenor’s plans for the sake of his own pettiness.

  “Go ahead,” Regweld insisted, moving to the center of the road. “Take up your hammer and throw it at me. Satisfy your heartfelt desire to expose the foolery of a wizard! And strike one down in the process! A bargain if ever I heard one!” He pointed to his chin. “Right here,” he chided.

  “Regweld,” sighed Harkle, shaking his head. “Please oblige him, warrior. Bring a smile to his downcast face.”

  Wulfgar looked once more to his friends, but again they had no answers. Regweld settled it for him.

  “Bastard son of a caribou.”

  Aegis-fang was out and twirling through the air before the fat mage had finished the insult, bearing straight in on its mark. Regweld didn’t flinch, and just before Aegis-fang would have crossed over the fence line, it smacked into something invisible, but as tangible as stone. Resounding like a ceremonial gong, the transparent wall shuddered and waves rolled out along it, visible to the astounded onlookers as mere distortions of the images behind the wall. The friends noticed for the first time that the rail fencing was not real, rather a painting on the surface of the transparent wall.

  Aegis-fang dropped to the dust, as though all power had been drained from it, taking a long moment to reappear in Wulfgar’s grasp.

  Regweld’s laughter was more of victory than of humor, but Harkle shook his head. “Always at the expense of others,” he scolded. “You had no right to do that.”

  “He’s better for the lesson,” Regweld retorted. “Humility is also a valuable commodity for a fighter.”

  Regis had bitten his lip for as long as he could. He had known about the invisible wall all along, and now his laughter burst out. Drizzt and Bruenor could not help but follow the halfling’s lead, and even Wulfgar, after he had recovered from the shock, smirked at his own “foolery.”

  Of course, Harkle had no choice but to stop his scolding and join in. “Do come in,” he begged the friends. “The third post is real; you can find the gate there. But first, dismount and unsaddle your horses.”

  Wulfgar’s suspicions came back suddenly, his scowl burying the smile. “Explain,” he requested of Harkle.

  “Do it!” Regis ordered, “or you shall find a bigger surprise than the last one.”

  Drizzt and Bruenor had already slipped from their saddles, intrigued, but not the least bit fearful of the hospitable Harkle Harpell. Wulfgar threw his arms out helplessly and followed, pulling the gear from the roan and leading the beast, and Regis’s pony, after the others.

  Regis found the entrance easily and swung it open for his friends. They came in without fear, but were suddenly assailed by blinding flashes of light.

  When their eyes cleared again, they found that the horses and ponies had been reduced to the size of cats!

  “What?” blurted Bruenor, but Regis was laughing again and Harkle acted as though nothing unusual had happened.

  “Pick them up and come along,” he instructed. “It is nearly time to sup, and the meal at The Fuzzy Quarterstaff is particularly delicious this night!”

  He led them around the side of the weird mansion to a bridge crossing the center of the hillock. Bruenor and Wulfgar felt ridiculous carrying their mounts, but Drizzt accepted it with a smile and Regis thoroughly enjoyed the whole outrageous spectacle, having learned on his first visit that Longsaddle was a place to be taken lightly, appreciating the idiosyncrasies and unique ways of the Harpells purely for the sake of amusement.

  The high-arcing bridge before them, Regis knew, would serve as yet another example. Though its span across the small stream was not great, it was apparently unsupported, and its narrow planks were completely unadorned, even without handrails.

  Another robed Harpell, this one incredibly old, sat on a stool, his chin in his hand, mumbling to himself and seemingly taking no notice of the strangers whatsoever.

  When Wulfgar, in the front beside Harkle, neared the bank of the stream, he jumped back, gasping and stuttering. Regis snickered, knowing what the big man had seen, and Drizzt and Bruenor soon understood.

  The stream flowed UP the side of the hill, then vanished just before the top, though the companions could hear that water was indeed rushing along before them. Then the stream reappeared over the hill’s crest, flowing down the other side.

  The old man sprang up suddenly and rushed over to Wulfgar. “What can it mean?” he cried desperately. “How can it be?” He banged on the barbarian’s massive chest in frustration.

  Wulfgar looked around for an escape, not wanting to even grab the old man in restraint for fear of breaking his frail form. Just as abruptly as he had come, the old man dashed back to the stool and resumed his silent pose.

  “Alas, poor Chardin,” Harkle said somberly. “He was mighty in his day. It was he who turned the stream up the hill. But near a score of years now he has been obsessed with finding the secret of the invisibility under the bridge.”

  “Why is the stream so different from the wall?” wondered Drizzt. “Certainly this dweomer is not unknown among the wizard community.”

  “Ah, but there is a difference,” Harkle was quick to reply, excited at finding someone outside the Ivy Mansion apparently interested in their works. “An invisible object is not so rare, but a field of invisibility …” He swept his hand to the stream. “Anything that enters the river there takes on the property,�
� he explained. “But only for as long as it remains in the field. And to a person in the enchanted area—I know because I have done this test myself—everything beyond the field is unseen, though the water and fish within appear normal. It defies our knowledge of the properties of invisibility and may actually reflect a tear into the fabric of a wholly unknown plane of existence!” He saw that his excitement had gone beyond the comprehension or interest of the drow’s companions some time ago, so he calmed himself and politely changed the subject.

  “The housing for your horses is in that building,” he said, pointing to one of the low, wooden structures. “The under-bridge will get you there. I must attend to another matter now. Perhaps we can meet later in the tavern.”

  Wulfgar, not completely understanding Harkle’s directions, stepped lightly onto the first wooden planks of the bridge, and was promptly thrown backward by some unseen force.

  “I said the underbridge,” cried Harkle, pointing under the bridge. “You cannot cross the river this way by the overbridge; that is used for the way back! Stops any arguments in crossing,” he explained.

  Wulfgar had his doubts about a bridge he could not see, but he didn’t want to appear cowardly before his friends and the wizard. He moved beside the bridge’s ascending arc and gingerly moved his foot out under the wooden structure, feeling for the invisible crossing. There was only the air, and the unseen rush of water just below his foot, and he hesitated.

  “Go on,” coaxed Harkle.

  Wulfgar plunged ahead, setting himself for a fall into the water. But to his absolute surprise, he did not fall down.

  He fell up!

  “Whoa!” the barbarian cried out as he thunked into the bottom of the bridge, headfirst. He lay there for a long moment, unable to get his bearings, flat on his back against the bottom of the bridge, looking down instead of up.

  “You see!” screeched the wizard. “The underbridge!”

  Drizzt moved next, leaping, into the enchanted area with an easy tumble, and landing lightly on his feet beside his friend.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “The road, my friend,” groaned Wulfgar. “I long for the road, and the orcs. It is safer.”

  Drizzt helped him struggle to his feet, for the barbarian’s mind argued every inch of the way against standing upside-down under a bridge, with an invisible stream rushing above his head.

  Bruenor, too, had his reservations, but a taunt from the halfling moved him along, and soon the companions rolled back onto the grass of the natural world on the other bank of the stream. Two buildings stood before them, and they moved to the smaller, the one Harkle had indicated.

  A blue-robed woman met them at the door. “Four?” she asked rhetorically. “You really should have sent word ahead.”

  “Harkle sent us,” Regis explained. “We are not from these lands. Forgive our ignorance of your customs.”

  “Very well, then,” huffed the woman. “Come along in. We are actually unusually unbusy for this time of the year. I am sure that I have room for your horses.” She led them into the structure’s main room, a square chamber. All four walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with small cages, just big enough for a cat-sized horse to stretch its legs. Many were occupied, their nameplates indicating that they were reserved for particular members of the Harpell clan, but the woman found four empty ones all together and put the companions’ horses inside.

  “You may get them whenever you desire,” she explained, handing each of them a key to the cage of his particular mount. She paused when she got to Drizzt, studying his handsome features. “Who have we here?” she asked, not losing her calm monotone. “I had not heard of your arrival, but I am sure that many will desire an audience with you before you go! We have never seen one of your kind.”

  Drizzt nodded and did not reply, growing increasingly uncomfortable with this new type of attention. Somehow it seemed to degrade him even more than the threats of ignorant peasants. He understood the curiosity, though, and figured that he owed the wizards a few hours of conversation, at least.

  The Fuzzy Quarterstaff, on the back side of the Ivy Mansion, filled a circular chamber. The bar sat in the middle, like the hub of a wheel, and inside its wide perimeter was another room, an enclosed kitchen area. A hairy man with huge arms and a bald head wiped his rag endlessly along the shiny surface of the bar, more to pass the time than to clean any spills.

  Off to the rear, on a raised stage, musical instruments played themselves, guided by the jerking gyrations of a white-haired, wand-wielding wizard in black pants and a black waistcoat. Whenever the instruments hit a crescendo, the wizard pointed his wand and snapped the fingers of his free hand, and a burst of colored sparks erupted from each of the four corners of the stage.

  The companions took a table within sight of the entertaining wizard. They had their pick of location, for as far as they could tell, they were the only patrons in the room. The tables, too, were circular, made of fine wood and sporting a many-faceted, huge green gemstone on a silver pedestal as a centerpiece.

  “A stranger place I never heared of,” grumbled Bruenor, uncomfortable since the underbridge, but resigned to the necessity of speaking with the Harpells.

  “Nor I,” said the barbarian. “And may we leave it soon.”

  “You are both stuck in the small chambers of your minds,” Regis scolded. “This is a place to enjoy—and you know that no danger lurks here.” He winked as his gaze fell upon Wulfgar. “Nothing serious, anyway.”

  “Longsaddle offers us a much needed rest,” Drizzt added. “Here, we can lay the course of our next trek in safety and take back to the road refreshed. It was two tendays from the dale to Luskan, and nearly another to here, without reprieve. Weariness draws away the edge and takes the advantage from a skilled warrior.” He looked particularly at Wulfgar as he finished the thought. “A tired man will make mistakes. And mistakes in the wild are, more often than not, fatal.”

  “So let us relax and enjoy the hospitality of the Harpells,” said Regis.

  “Agreed,” said Bruenor, glancing around, “but just a short rest. And where in the nine hells might the barmaid be, or do ye have to get to it yerself for food and drink?”

  “If you want something, then just ask,” came a voice from the center of the table. Wulfgar and Bruenor both leaped to their feet, on guard. Drizzt noted the flare of light within the green gem and studied the object, immediately guessing the setup. He looked back over his shoulder at the barkeep, who stood beside a similar gemstone.

  “A scrying device,” the drow explained to his friends, though they, by now, had come to the same understanding and felt very foolish standing in the middle of an empty tavern with their weapons in their hands.

  Regis had his head down, his shoulders rolling with his sobs of laughter.

  “Bah! Ye knew all along!” Bruenor growled at him. “Ye’ve been takin’ a bit of fun at our cost, Rumblebelly,” the dwarf warned. “For meself, I’m wondering how much longer our road holds room for ye.”

  Regis looked up at the glare of his dwarven friend, matching it suddenly with a firm stare of his own. “We have walked and ridden more than four hundred miles together!” he retorted. “Through cold winds and orc raids, brawls and battles with ghosts. Allow me my pleasure for a short while, good dwarf. If you and Wulfgar would loosen the straps of your packs and see this place for what it is, you might find an equal share of laughter yourself!”

  Wulfgar did smile. Then, all at once, he jerked back his head and roared, throwing away all of his anger and prejudice, so that he might take the halfling’s advice and view Longsaddle with an open mind. Even the musical wizard stopped his playing to observe the spectacle of the barbarian’s soul-cleansing scream.

  And when he had finished, Wulfgar laughed. Not an amused chuckle, but a thunderous roll of laughter that flowed up from his belly and exploded out his wide-thrown mouth.

  “Ale!” Bruenor called into the gemstone. Almost immediately, a floatin
g disk of blue light slipped over the bar, bearing to them enough strong ale to last the night. A few minutes later, all traces of the tensions of the road had flown, and they toasted and quaffed their mugs with enthusiasm.

  Only Drizzt kept his reserve, sipping his drink and staying alert to his surroundings. He felt no direct danger here, but he wanted to keep control against the wizards’ inevitable probing.

  Shortly, the Harpells and their friends began to make a steady stream into The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. The companions were the only newcomers in town this night, and all of the diners pulled their tables close by, trading stories of the road and toasts of lasting friendship over fine meals, and later, beside a warm hearth. Many, led by Harkle, concerned themselves with Drizzt and their interest in the dark cities of his people, and he had few reservations about answering their questions.

  Then came the probing about the journey that had brought the companions so far. Bruenor actually initiated it, jumping up onto his table and proclaiming, “Mithral Hall, home of me fathers, ye shall be mine again!”

  Drizzt grew concerned. Judging by the inquisitive reaction of the gathering, the name of Bruenor’s ancient homeland was known here, at least in legend. The drow didn’t fear any malicious actions by the Harpells, but he simply did not want the purpose of the adventure following, and possibly even preceding, him and his friends on the next leg of the journey. Others might well be interested in learning the location of an ancient dwarven stronghold, a place referred to in tales as, “the mines where silver rivers run.”

  Drizzt took Harkle aside. “The night grows long. Are there rooms available in the village beyond?”

  “Nonsense,” huffed Harkle. “You are my guests and shall remain here. The rooms have already been prepared.”

  “And the price for all of this?”