“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! Tough 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 tenday.
“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 tenday, 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 …”
Bruenor 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.”
Regis tucked his thumbs into his jeweled belt. “I owed you that, at the least!”
; “Bah!” snorted Bruenor, an adventurous gleam in his eye. “Ten times more, Rumblebelly, ten times more!”
Drizzt looked out of his room’s single window at the dark streets of Calimport. They seemed quieter this night, hushed in suspicion and intrigue, anticipating the power struggle that would inevitably follow the downfall of a guildmaster as powerful as Pasha Pook.
Drizzt knew that there were other eyes out there, looking back at him, at the guildhouse, waiting for word of the drow elf—waiting for a second chance to battle Drizzt Do’Urden.
The night passed lazily, and Drizzt, unmoving from his window, watched it drift into dawn. Again, Bruenor was the first to his room.
“Ye ready, elf?” the eager dwarf asked, closing the door behind him as he entered.
“Patience, good dwarf,” Drizzt replied. “We cannot leave until the tide is right, and Captain Deudermont assured me that we had the bulk of the morning to wait.”
Bruenor plopped down on the bed. “Better,” he said at length. “Gives me more time to speak with the little one.” “You fear for Regis,” observed Drizzt.
“Ayuh,” Bruenor admitted. “The little one’s done well by me.” He pointed to the onyx statuette on the dressing table. “And by yerself. Rumblebelly said it himself: There’s wealth to be taken here. Pook’s gone, and it’s to be grab-as-grab-can. And that Entreri’s about—that’s not to me likin’. And more of them ratmen, not to doubt, looking to pay the little one back for their pain. And that wizard! Rumblebelly says he’s got him by the gemstones, if ye get me meaning, but it seems off to me that a wizard’s caught by such a charm.”
“To me, as well,” Drizzt agreed.
“I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him!” Bruenor declared. “Rumblebelly’s got him standing right by his side.”
“Perhaps you and I should pay LaValle a visit this morning,” Drizzt offered, “that we might judge where he stands.”
Bruenor’s knocking technique shifted subtly when they arrived at the wizard’s door, from the gentle tapping he had laid on Drizzt’s door, to a battering-ram crescendo of heavy slugs. LaValle jumped from his bed and rushed to see what was the matter, and who was beating upon his brand new door.
“Morning, wizard,” Bruenor grumbled, pushing into the room as soon as the door cracked open.
“So I guessed,” muttered LaValle, looking to the hearth and beside it to the pile of kindling that was once his old door.
“Greetings, good dwarf,” he said as politely as he could muster. “And Master Do’Urden,” he added quickly when he noticed Drizzt slipping in behind. “Were you not to be gone by this late hour?”
“We have time,” said Drizzt.
“And we’re not for leaving till we’ve seen to the safety of Rumblebelly,” Bruenor explained.
“Rumblebelly?” echoed LaValle.
“The halfling!” roared Bruenor. “Yer master.”
“Ah, yes, Master Regis,” said LaValle wistfully, his hands going together over his chest and his eyes taking on a distant, glossy look.
Drizzt shut the door and glared, suspicious, at him.
LaValle’s faraway trance faded back to normal when he considered the unblinking drow. He scratched his chin, looking for somewhere to run. He couldn’t fool the drow, he realized. The dwarf, perhaps, the halfling, certainly, but not this one. Those lavender eyes burned holes right through his facade. “You do not believe that your little friend has cast his enchantment over me,” he said.
“Wizards avoid wizards’ traps,” Drizzt replied.
“Fair enough,” said LaValle, slipping into a chair.
“Bah! Then ye’re a liar, too!” growled Bruenor, his hand going to the axe on his belt. Drizzt stopped him.
“If you doubt the enchantment,” said LaValle, “do not doubt my loyalty. I am a practical man who has served many masters in my long life. Pook was the greatest of these, but Pook is gone. LaValle lives on to serve again.”
“Or mighten be that he sees a chance to make the top,” Bruenor remarked, expecting an angry response from LaValle.
Instead, the wizard laughed heartily. “I have my craft,” he said. “It is all that I care for. I live in comfort and am free to go as I please. I need not the challenges and dangers of a guildmaster.” He looked to Drizzt as the more reasonable of the two. “I will serve the halfling, and if Regis is thrown down, I will serve he that takes the halfling’s place.”
The logic satisfied Drizzt, and convinced him of the wizard’s loyalty beyond any enchantment the ruby could have induced. “Let us take our leave,” he said to Bruenor, and he started out the door.
Bruenor could trust Drizzt’s judgment, but he couldn’t resist one final threat. “Ye crossed me, wizard,” he growled from the doorway. “Ye nearen killed me girl. If me friend comes to a bad end, ye’ll pay with yer head.”
LaValle nodded but said nothing.
“Keep him well,” the dwarf finished with a wink, and he slammed the door with a bang.
“He hates my door,” the wizard lamented.
The troupe gathered inside the guildhouse’s main entrance an hour later, Drizzt, Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie outfitted again in their adventuring gear, and Drizzt with the magical mask hanging loose around his neck.
Regis, with attendants in tow, joined them. He would make the trip to the Sea Sprite beside his formidable friends. Let his enemies see his allies in all their splendor, the sly new guild-master figured, particularly a drow elf.
“A final offer before we go,” Regis proclaimed.
“We’re not for staying,” Bruenor retorted.
“Not to you,” Regis said. He turned squarely to Drizzt. “To you.”
Drizzt waited patiently for the pitch as the halfling rubbed his eager hands together.
“Fifty thousand gold pieces,” Regis said at length, “for your cat.”
Drizzt’s eyes widened to double their size.
“Guenhwyvar will be well cared for, I assure—”
Catti-brie slapped Regis on the back of the head. “Find yer shame,” she scolded. “Ye know the drow better than that!”
Drizzt calmed her with a smile. “A treasure for a treasure?” he said to Regis. “You know I must decline. Guenhwyvar cannot be bought, however good your intentions may be.”
“Fifty thousand,” Bruenor huffed. “If we wanted it, we’d take it afore we left!”
Regis then realized the absurdity of the offer, and he blushed in embarrassment.
“Are you so certain that we came across the world to your aid?” Wulfgar asked him. Regis looked at the barbarian, confused.
“Perhaps ’twas the cat we came after,” Wulfgar continued seriously.
The stunned look on Regis’s face proved more than any of them could bear, and a burst of laughter like none of them had enjoyed in many months erupted, infecting even Regis.
“Here,” Drizzt offered when things had quieted once again. “Take this instead.” He pulled the magical mask off his head and tossed it to the halfling.
“Should ye keep it until we get to the boat?” Bruenor asked.
Drizzt looked to Catti-brie for an answer, and her smile of approval and admiration cast away any remaining doubts he might have had.
“No,” he said. “Let the Calishites judge me for what they will.” He swung open the doors, allowing the morning sun to sparkle in his lavender eyes.
“Let the wide world judge me for what it will,” he said, his look one of genuine contentment as he dropped his gaze alternately into the eyes of each of his four friends.
“You know who I am.”
he Sea Sprite cut a difficult course northward up the Sword Coast, into the wintry winds, but Captain Deudermont and his grateful crew were determined to see the four friends safely and swiftly back to Waterdeep.
Stunned expressions from every face on the docks greeted the resilient vessel as it put into Waterdeep Harbor, dodging the breakers and the ice floes as it went. Mustering all the skill he had gaine
d through years of experience, Deudermont docked the Sea Sprite safely.
The four friends had recovered much of their health, and their humor, during those two months at sea, despite the rough voyage. All had turned out well in the end—even Catti-brie’s wounds appeared as if they would fully heal.
But if the sea voyage back to the North was difficult, the trek across the frozen lands was even worse. Winter was on the wane but still thick in the land, and the friends could not afford to wait for the snows to melt. They said their goodbyes to Deudermont and the men of the Sea Sprite, tightened heavy cloaks and boots, and trudged off through Waterdeep’s gate along the Trade Way on the northeastern course to Longsaddle.
Blizzards and wolves reared up to stop them. The path of the road, its plentiful markings buried under a year’s worth of snow, became no more than the guess of a drow elf reading the stars and the sun.
Somehow they made it, though, and they stormed into Longsaddle, ready to retake Mithral Hall. Bruenor’s kin from Icewind Dale were there to greet them, along with five hundred of Wulfgar’s people. Less than two tendays later, General Dagnabit of Citadel Adbar led his eight thousand dwarven troops to Bruenor’s side.
Battle plans were drawn and redrawn. Drizzt and Bruenor put their memories of the undercity and mine caverns together to create models of the place and estimate the number of duergar the army would face.
Then, with spring defeating the last blows of winter, and only a few days before the army was to set out to the mountains, two more groups of allies came in, quite unexpectedly: contingents of archers from Silverymoon and Nesme. Bruenor at first wanted to turn the warriors from Nesme away, remembering the treatment he and his friends had received at the hands of a Nesme patrol on their initial journey to Mithral Hall, and also because the dwarf wondered how much of the show of allegiance was motivated in the hopes of friendship, and how much in the hopes of profit!
But, as usual, Bruenor’s friends kept him on a wise course. The dwarves would have to deal extensively with Nesme, the closest settlement to Mithral Hall, once the mines were reopened, and a smart leader would patch the bad feelings there and then.
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