The Companions s-1

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I will explain everything when we are alone,” she said, in a somber tone no girl her age would ever use, and her parents stared at her all the more incredulously and wide-eyed then.

  Niraj grabbed her hard at the elbow. “Ruqiah? What do you know?”

  Catti-brie looked at him with sympathy, fully aware that she was about to shatter his conceptions of the world around him, and worse, those conceptions that he held for his beloved family.

  “Good fortune saved us,” she whispered to Niraj, and motioned behind him, for the chieftain of the Desai was approaching. She repeated more loudly and with great emphasis, “Good fortune.”

  She went back to her mother’s embrace, as Niraj turned to talk to the man. Niraj was truly shaken, but he relayed Ruqiah’s explanation, offered with the weight of a magical suggestion behind it, that good fortune alone had saved his wife and child.

  The chieftain looked around, shaking his head. “Are you well, Kavita?” he asked, and the woman nodded and climbed shakily to her feet.

  “A twice-blessed storm, then,” the chieftain said, and he went outside to join in the scouring of the encampment.

  In the ensuing hours, many came to help Niraj repair and clean the tent. Many more came with salves and herbs to the aid of Kavita, and to Ruqiah, offering calming words and assurances. The storm-magically conjured, though only Ruqiah knew that-had long blown away, and the night had passed its midpoint before the family was at last left alone.

  Niraj and Kavita stared at their little girl.

  “Ruqiah?Oh, aye, again the time wandering of lonely world!

  Catti-brie considered whether she should dispel him of that moniker, but decided against it. Not now. She had her own nagging questions to deal with, after all, concerning the unexpected arrival of these Netherese. The assassins had come looking for her in particular, so it seemed obvious that they had learned at least part of the truth of her. But how? And why would they care?

  “She healed me,” Kavita said. “My wound … it was mortal.”

  “No, you were lucky,” Niraj replied. “The sword did not bite deeply.”

  “It did,” Kavita insisted, and she looked at Ruqiah, directing Niraj to do likewise. “From back to belly, and I felt my spirit departing. The wound was mortal, but then I felt the healing warmth.”

  “The gift of Mielikki,” their child told them.

  “You healed her?” Niraj asked, and Catti-brie nodded.

  “The lightning strike was no accident,” the child admitted.

  Niraj and Kavita sat across from her, staring, unblinking.

  The young girl pulled up her sleeves. “The stars of Mystra, the horn of Mielikki,” she explained. “I am twice-scarred, but this you knew.”

  Niraj swallowed hard, Kavita began to cry. “Who are you?” her father asked, and surely those words, that desperate tone, stabbed at Catti-brie’s heart.

  “I am Ruqiah, your daughter,” she answered.

  “Mielikki?” the tribesman asked, shaking his head helplessly. The Bedine did not worship Mielikki. Their goddess was At’ar the Merciless, the Yellow Goddess of the scorching desert sun. “I do not understand.”

  “I was born on the spring equinox, Mielikki’s most holy day,” the child explained. “The goddess blesses me, and teaches me-”

  “At’ar,” Kavita corrected.

  Catti-brie shook her head. “Come with me,” she bade them, starting for the makeshift tent flap. “I will show you.” Her parents hesitated.

  “There is a place, not too far from the camp-”

  “It is high night,” Niraj replied. “The time of N’asr. The lions are out and hunting.”

  The child laughed. “They will not bother us. Come.”

  When her parents still hesitated, she added, pleaded, “Please, do this for me. I must show you.”

  Niraj and Kavita looked to each other, then rose and followed their little girl out of the tent, out of the encampment, and onto the open plain. Catti-brie led them at a great pace, but they hadn’t gone far before Kavita rushed up and grabbed her child by the arm to stop her.

  “It’s too dangerous,” she said. “We will come back when the sun goddess has returned.”

  “Trust me,” Catti-brie said. Again there was magic behind her words. And on they went.

  They came to the high dune before sunrise, though the sky was beginning to lighten with its approach. Through a narrow entrance between windblown rocks, they came into Catti-brie’s secret garden, only to find one of their tribesmen lying dead beneath the lone tree, I believe.”I the olderon face down in a pool of his own blood.

  “Jhinjab,” Niraj said, turning the dead man over.

  Catti-brie kneeled beside Niraj.

  “No, child,” Kavita said. “This is not a sight for young girl.”

  But Catti-brie was not a young girl, nor was she listening. She had already fallen into spellcasting, blue tendrils of magic beginning to creep from her right sleeve as she called upon the power of Mielikki. She put her head close to Jhinjab’s chest and whispered something her parents could not hear, then nodded as if receiving an answer.

  Niraj stepped back, and Kavita took his arm, standing very close to him, both watching their little daughter with confusion and more than a little bit of horror.

  A few moments later, Catti-brie stood up and turned to face them. “Jhinjab betrayed me to the Netherese,” she explained. “They came for me.”

  “No!” Kavita cried.

  “How? Why?” Niraj said at the same time, both moving forward to embrace their daughter, who managed to stay away from them.

  “They learned that I am different, spellscarred, perhaps, but certainly … unusual,” she explained. “Jhinjab told them this. He just admitted as much to me, though the words of the dead are ever cryptic and not easily deciphered.”

  “This is madness,” Niraj wailed.

  “You spoke with the dead?” Kavita asked at the same time.

  “I am a disciple of Mielikki,” Catti-brie explained. “I am blessed with powers divine and arcane-not unlike either of you in the latter, though my spells date to a time long lost and to a goddess who is no more, I fear.”

  Both of her parents were shaking their heads in confusion. They looked to each other helplessly.

  “I am your daughter,” Catti-brie said to try to calm them. “I am Ruqiah, but I am more than that. I am not cursed-quite the opposite!”

  “The way you speak …,” Kavita said, shaking her head.

  “I am a child in body only,” Catti-brie replied. She considered going further with her explanation, but changed her mind, thinking that she would be bringing pain to these two, who certainly did not deserve it. Nor did she wish to endanger them, and it seemed obvious that knowledge could bring great peril.

  As could simple association she realized. She didn’t know why the Netherese were after her, of course, but they were, as the assassin had claimed and as the spirit of Jhinjab had just confirmed. Perhaps it was simply a matter of their ban on the Bedine using magic, and Jhinjab had betrayed her in that regard alone. But even then, attention to her would bring attention of Niraj and Kavita.

  Unwanted attention.

  Dangerous attention.

  Catti-brie wanted to go to her altar and pray to Mielikki. She look

  PART TWO

  THE CHILDHOOD PURPOSE

  The world moves along outside the purview or influence of my personal experience. To return to Icewind Dale is to learn that the place has continued, with new people replacing those who are gone, through immigration and emigration, birth and death. Some are descendants of those who lived here before, but in this transient place of those who flee the boundaries of polite society, many, many more are those who have come here anew from other lands.

  Similarly, new buildings have arisen, while others have fallen. New boats replace those which have been surrendered to the three great lakes of the area.

  There is a reason and logic to the place and a wondrous
harmony. In Icewind Dale, it all makes sense. The population of Ten-Towns grows and shrinks, but mostly remains stable to that which the region can support.

  This is an important concept in the valuation of the self, for far too many people seem oblivious to the implications of this most basic truth: The world continues outside of their personal experience. Oh, perhaps they do not consciously express such a doubt of this obvious truth, but I have met more than one who has postulated that this existence is a dream-his dream-and the rest of us, therefore, are mere components within the reality of his creation. Indeed, I have met many who act that way, whether they have thought it out to that level of detail or not.

  I speak, of course, of empathy, or in the cases stat a disciple of Mielikki,

  god or gods, but for most, I would hope, it is a realization of the basic truth that the community, the society, is a needed component in the preservation of the self, both materially and spiritually.

  I have considered this many times before and professed my belief in community. Indeed, it was just that belief that stood me up again when I was beaten down with grief, when I led my newfound companions out of Neverwinter to serve the greater good of a worthy place called Port Llast. This, to me, is not a difficult choice; to serve the community is to serve the self. Even Artemis Entreri, that most cynical of creatures, could hardly disguise the sense of satisfaction he felt when we pushed the sea devils back under the surf for the good of the goodly folk of Port Llast.

  As I consider my own roots and the various cultures through which I have passed, however, there is a more complicated question: What is the role of the community to the self? And what of the smaller communities within the larger? What are their roles or their responsibilities?

  Surely common defense is paramount to the whole, but the very idea of community needs to go deeper than that. What farming community would survive if the children were not taught the ways of the fields and cattle? What dwarf homeland would thrive through the centuries if the dwarflings were not tutored in the ways of stone and metal? What band of elves could dance in the forest for centuries untold if not for the training given the children, the ways of the stars and the winds?

  And there remain many tasks too large for any one man, or woman, or family, critical to the prosperity and security of any town or city. No one man could build the wall around Luskan, or the docks of Baldur’s Gate, or the great archways and wide boulevards of Waterdeep, or the soaring cathedrals of Silverymoon. No one church, either, and so these smaller groupings within the larger societies need to contribute, for the good of all, whether citizens of their particular flock or group, or not.

  But what then of the concentration of power that might accompany the improvements and the hierarchical regimentation that may result within any given community? In societies such as a dwarf clan, this is settled through the bloodlines and proper heirs, but in a great city of mixed heritage and various cultures, the allocation of power is certainly less definitive. I have witnessed lords willing to allow their peasants to starve, while food rots in their own larders, piled deep and far too plentiful for one house to possibly consume. I have seen, as with Prisoner’s Carnival in Luskan, magistrates who use the law as a weapon for their own ends. And even in Waterdeep, whose lords are considered among the most beneficent in all the world, lavish palaces look down upon hovels and shanties, or orphaned children shivering in the street.

  Once again, and to my surprise, I look to Ten-Towns as my example, for in this place, where the population remains fairly steady, if the individuals constantly change, there is logical and reasoned continuity.

  CHAPTER 7

  ARR ARR’S BOY

  The Year of the Third Circle (1472 DR) Citadel Felbarr

  "Murgatroid “ "Muttonchops” Stonehammer sighed and pulled at his thick black beard, tugging hard enough to flex the muscles in his large arm. He gritted his teeth and pulled his beard back the other way.

  It was not an uncommon gesture from the old fighter, who was indeed very old, the oldest dwarf in Citadel Felbarr as far as anyone could tell. Muttonchops had lived an adventurous life, had fought with King Emerus against Obould and the orcs, and had even been in Mithral Hall when King Bruenor had made his legendary return to the battlefield to meet the charge of Obould’s thousands in the valley known as Keeper’s Dale, beyond the complex’s western gate. For all his battles, though, the Stonehammer patriarch had never truly distinguished himself, and his greatest accomplishment, so it now seemed, was his longevity.

  Certainly he was respected among the denizens of Citadel Felbarr, as none would dispute, but this new job he had been given …

  Muttonchops served as a trainer now, typically considered a position of high respect sure what to makece Fes,to and regard, except that his trainees included dwarflings, the oldest of this particular group being twelve. These elders in his charge invariably ended up the worst fighters of that age group.

  “Arr Arr’s boy’s not showin’ much,” remarked Rocky Warcrown, third cousin to the king, twice-removed.

  The old Stonehammer wanted to argue the point, but he could only sigh and tug his beard again, for across the room, little Arr Arr, who was just past his ninth birthday, engaged in battle with a lad from the Argut clan, a promising and powerful ten-year-old.

  Bryunn Argut swept his shield out far before him and off to the left, driving young Arr Arr back a step. Without missing a step, without the slightest hesitation, Bryunn leaped forward as he twisted around, sweeping his weapon, a wooden axe, across ferociously.

  Arr Arr ducked-just barely! — and stumbled backward a few steps. Bryunn Argut pursued with a series of chops and swipes that kept the younger dwarfling off-balance all the way.

  “He’s a head taller than Little Arr Arr,” Muttonchops remarked, but Rocky’s snort made his excuse seem quite ridiculous.

  “A year older, too, then,” said Rocky. “Ye think that’s for makin’ any difference?”

  The concern in his tone struck Muttonchops profoundly, for many eyes were upon this dwarfling known to everyone in Felbarr as Little Arr Arr. For as long as anyone could remember, the Roundshields had served as captains of Citadel Felbarr’s garrison, a proud tradition of fearsome warriors and grand and loyal subjects to the Warcrowns. Reginald Roundshield, Arr Arr’s father, had been among the most popular and respected dwarves in all of Felbarr until his death at the hands of rogue orcs when Little Arr Arr was but a toddler.

  Everyone in Felbarr wanted Little Arr Arr to succeed, to step up in the tradition of his father and those grandfathers before him. This was the security of the clan, after all, the solid dependability of generational continuity, the son of a son of a son of a son of a captain.

  But Little Arr Arr wasn’t showing that kind of promise, and even King Emerus himself had noted as much on his last visit to Muttonchops’s training grounds.

  Rocky Warcrown sucked in his breath as a last-heartbeat twist brought Little Arr Arr’s shield up just in time to deflect an axe swipe that would surely have knocked the child silly.

  Muttonchops, too, winced, but he came out of it more quickly, his veteran eyes noting something here that he hadn’t before, and with a hunch in his gut speaking a different story to him than what his eyes were telling him.

  Young Reginald fought the urge to jab the tip of his own wooden axe into the exposed armpit of Bryunn Argut.

  How would a nine-year-old dwarfling respond? Bruenor kept asking himself, kept reminding himself. The awkwardness of the attacks-and not just those of Bryunn, who was quite formidable compared to most of the others in this class-constantly caught the old dwarf king in a young body off his guard.

  But they were only at the training grounds once a tenday, after all, and this was but rudimentary training. Muttonchops Stonehammer’s job was merely to acquaint the dwarflings with the sensation of giving and taking a hit, and to allow them their first opportunities of the rolling spin and slash, or the shield asked, and Catti-brie nodded.igh the olderon rush
, or any of the other building blocks of straightforward, basic dwarf fighting.

  For Bruenor, though, as many times as he might remind himself of this, the whole experience proved mind-numbingly simple. He was well-acquainted with this new body he had been given, and had been for years.

  Bryunn Argut came forward with a powerful downward chop, but one that could only fall short, Bruenor recognized, and as he did, he knew the movement to be quite obviously a diversion for the coming shield rush.

  He was moving at the same time as Bryunn, cleverly disguising his dodge as a slip and stumble. As Bryunn came charging forward, Little Arr Arr “fell” forward and to the side, tucking his head under his lifting shield and rolling behind the approaching opponent.

  He resisted the urge to kick out Bryunn’s trailing foot and send the lad sprawling to the floor. He liked Bryunn, after all, thought him a promising dwarfling fighter, and didn’t want to embarrass him!

  “Bah, but good thing he tripped o’er his own feet, eh?” Rocky Warcrown remarked. “Or to be sure that th’Argut kid would’ve flap-jacked him!” Rocky laughed, obviously picturing the event, for the term “flap-jack” referred to pancakes, and a flap-jacked fighter was one laid out flat, sprawled under the crush of a shield rush, truly among the most comical outcomes to be found on the training grounds.

  “Aye,” Muttonchops replied, but without conviction, and he was nodding as he spoke, though surely not in agreement with his companion’s assessment.

  “Ah, but Uween’s to be heartbroken to learn that her one son, the heir to the Roundshield legacy, is just a flat-footed oaf,” Rocky said. “Poor old Arr Arr’s turnin’ in his grave, don’t ye doubt.”

  But the wily old veteran Muttonchops did doubt.

  “He’s bored,” he muttered.

  “Eh?” asked Rocky Warcrown, and he followed Muttonchops’s stare across the grounds just in time to see Bryunn Argut launch an endgame assault, what Muttonchops had taught the dwarflings to think of as “the killing frenzy.”