The Spine of the World
Page 1
TRANSITIONS
The Ore King
The Pirate King
October 2008
The Ghost King
October 2009
THE LEGEND OF DRIZZT
Homeland
Exile
Sojourn
The Crystal Shard
Streams of Silver
The Halfling’s Gem
The Legacy
Starless Night
Siege of Darkness
Passage to Dawn
The Silent Blade
The Spine of the World
Sea of Swords
THE HUNTER’S BLADES TRILOGY
The Thousand Ores
The Lone Drow
The Two Swords
THE SELLSWORDS
Servant of the Shard
Promise of the Witch-King
Road of the Patriarch
THE CLERIC QUINTET
Canticle
In Sylvan Shadows
Night Masks
The Fallen Fortress
The Chaos Curse
INTRODUCTION
verybody has an imagination.
There’s the construction worker who can close his eyes and imagine a Hawaiian vacation. There’s the corporate executive with visions of that next big promotion. There’s the stay-at-home mother and her perfectly built “cabana boy” who will sweep her off her feet. For a small group of us, we’ve been fortunate enough to be able to use our imaginations to make a living.
For myself, I use pen and ink to draw my visions onto paper. Add a splash of color, and the image is painted for all to view. For R.A. Salvatore, he paints differently His imagination is brought to life with the magic brush of words. He is not only skilled enough to create fantastic worlds littered with dozens upon dozens of magnificent characters, creatures, landscapes, and wonders, but he has been born with the additional talent of being able to take what appears within the fabric of his mind’s eye, and bring it to life with descriptive, colorful, rich, and meaningful verbiage.
Because of this, I can describe R.A. with one simple word: storyteller.
That, for me, is the biggest compliment I can give to another artistic creator. When someone like R.A. can so effortlessly make us believe in the world we are reading, we are again reminded why we enjoy and love books so much. Unlike some of my singular visual images that only give a small portion of a story, R.A., like other great authors, will create, build, guide, and attach us to the various characters he shares in each of his books.
We then become the beneficiaries of that sharing.
R.A. doesn’t just imagine epic adventures and legendary characters. He doesn’t simply dream of new worlds and new world orders. He brings them to life, not only for himself, but for us, his readers, as well. From Drizzt Do’Urden to the death of everybody’s favorite wookie and beyond (and trust me on this one, you may have read a lot from Mr. Salvatore, but you haven’t seen anything yet) he has become one of the most prolific fantasy/sci-fi authors of his generation, as well as one of the best storytellers to grace the printed page with his wonderful worlds.
For that I am grateful, and jealous, as I can only imagine what it would be like to have that kind of particular talent. Then I pause and smile, because he has done it again, and made me use my imagination. Once again he has caught me in his wonderful trap.
—Todd McFarlane
June 2007
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Arumn Gardpeck
The barkeep at the Cutlass,
on Half-Moon Street in Luskan.
Banci
A merchant.
Beornegar
Wulfgar’s father.
Biaste Ganderlay
Sickly mother of Meralda and Tori.
Biggrin
A giant.
Bruenor Battlehammer
The dwarf king of Mithral Hall.
Bungo
A local tough in Luskan.
Camerbunne
The highest-ranking cleric in Luskan.
Captain Deudermont
The pirate-hunting master of Sea Sprite.
Captain Pinnickers
Master of Bowlegged Lady.
Catti-brie
A human woman raised by dwarves.
Creeps Sharky
A one-eyed pirate.
Delenia “Delly” Curtie
A barmaid at the Cutlass in Luskan.
Dohni Ganderlay
A peat farmer, father of Meralda and Tori.
Drizzt Do’Urden
A drow ranger.
Errtu
A mighty balor demon from the hellish Abyss.
Galway
A merchant friend of Feringal’s.
Goodman Dawinkle
A merchant.
Gretchen
An elderly herbalist.
Guenhwyvar
Drizzt’s panther companion.
Gurdy Harkins
A peasant woman from Auckney.
High Watcher Kalorc Risten
A priest from the Temple of Helm in Luskan.
Jaka Sculi
A brooding young man from the Blade Kingdoms.
Jharkheld
Magistrate in Luskan.
Jarlaxle
A drow mercenary from Menzoberranzan.
Jerem Boll
An important personage in Luskan.
Josi Puddles
Former bouncer at the Cutlass.
Kimmuriel Oblodra
A drow psionicist who serves Jarlaxle.
Lady Priscilla Auck
Spinster sister of Lord Feringal.
Liam Woodgate
Gnome carriage driver for Lord Feringal.
Lord Brandeburg of Waterdeep
An alias used by Morik the Rogue.
Lord Feringal Auck
Lord of the fiefdom of Auckney.
Lord Tristan Auck
Late father of Feringal and Priscilla.
Madam Prinkle
A seamstress.
Mam Gardener
A gnome from Auckney.
Meralda Ganderlay
A seventeen-year-old girl from Auckney.
Mickers
A gnoll bandit.
Morik the Rogue
A thief from the city of Luskan.
Petters
A merchant.
Rai-guy
A mysterious dark elf associate of Jarlaxle’s.
Reef
Former bouncer at the Cutlass.
Regis
A halfling from Icewind Dale.
Rempini Sculi
Jaka’s uncle.
Robillard
Sea Sprite’s wizard.
Sheila Kree
Notorious pirate, captain of Leaping Lady.
Tee-a-nicknick
A half-human, half-qullan pirate.
Temigast
Steward for the lord of Auckney.
Togo
A half-orc bandit.
Tori Ganderlay
Younger of the two Ganderlay sisters.
Tree Block Breaker
The toughest man in Luskan, until he was killed by Wulfgar.
Vohltin
A prelate in Luskan.
Waillan Micanty
A loyal crewman aboard Sea Sprite.
Watcher Beribold
A priest of Helm.
Wulfgar, son of Beornegar
A barbarian from the Tribe of the Elk.
PROLOGUE
he smaller man, known by many names in Luskan but most commonly as Morik the Rogue, held the bottle up in the air and gave it a shake, for it was a dirty thing and he wanted to measure the dark line of liquid against the orange light of sunset.
The huge man sitting on the end of the wharf beside him snatched the bottle away, moving with agility exceptional in a man of his tremendous size. Instinctively, Morik moved to grab the bottle back, but the large man held his muscular arm up to fend off the grabbing hands and drained the bottle in a single hearty swig.
“Bah, Wulfgar, but you’re always getting the last one of late,” Morik complained, giving Wulfgar a halfhearted swat across the shoulder. “Earned it,” Wulfgar argued.
Morik eyed him skeptically for just a moment, then remembered their last contest wherein Wulfgar had, indeed, earned the right to the last swig of the next bottle.
“Lucky throw,” Morik mumbled. He knew better, though, and had long ago ceased to be amazed by Wulfgar’s warrior prowess.
“One that I’ll make again,” Wulfgar proclaimed, pulling himself to his feet and hoisting Aegis-fang, his wondrous warhammer. He staggered as he slapped the weapon across his open palm, and a sly smile spread across Morik’s swarthy face. He, too, climbed to his feet, taking up the empty bottle, swinging it easily by the neck.
“Will you, now?” the rogue asked.
“You throw it high enough, or take a loss,” the blond barbarian explained, lifting his arm and pointing the end of the warhammer out to the open sea.
“A five-count before it hits the water.” Morik eyed his barbarian friend icily as he recited the terms of the little gambling game they had created many days ago. Morik had won the first few contests, but by the fourth day Wulfgar had learned to properly lead the descending bottle, his hammer scattering tiny shards of glass across the bay. Of late, Morik had a chance of winning the bet only when Wulfgar indulged too much in the bottle.
“Never will it hit,” Wulfgar muttered as Morik reached back to throw.
The little man paused, and once again he eyed the big man with some measure of contempt. Back and forth swayed the arm. Suddenly Morik jerked as if to throw.
“What?” Surprised, Wulfgar realized the feint, realized that Morik had not sailed the bottle into the air. Even as Wulfgar turned his gaze upon Morik, the little man spun in a complete circuit and let the bottle fly high and far.
Right into the line of the descending sun.
Wulfgar hadn’t followed it from the beginning of its flight, so he could only squint into the glare, but he caught sight of it at last. With a roar he let fly his mighty warhammer, the magical and brilliantly crafted weapon spinning out low over the bay.
Morik squealed in glee, thinking he had outfoxed the big man, for the bottle was low in the sky by the time Wulfgar threw and fully twenty strides out from the wharf. No one could skim a warhammer so far and so fast as to hit that, Morik believed, especially not a man who had just drained more than half the contents of the target!
The bottle nearly clipped a wave when Aegis-fang took it, exploding it into a thousand tiny pieces.
“It touched water!” Morik yelled.
“My win,” Wulfgar said firmly, his tone offering no debate.
Morik could only grumble in reply, for he knew that the big man was right. The warhammer got the bottle in time.
“Seeming a mighty waste of a good hammer fer just a bottle,” came a voice behind the duo. The pair turned as one to see two men, swords drawn, standing but a few feet away.
“Now, Mister Morik the Rogue,” remarked one of them, a tall and lean fellow with a kerchief tied around his head, a patch over one eye, and a rusty, curving blade weaving in the air before him. “I’m knowin’ ye got yerself a good haul from a gem merchant a tenday back, and I’m thinkin’ that ye’d be wise to share a bit o’ the booty with me and me friend.”
Morik glanced up at Wulfgar, his wry grin and the twinkle in his dark eyes telling the barbarian that he didn’t mean to share a thing, except perhaps the blade of his fine dagger.
“And if ye still had yer hammer, ye might be arguin’ the point,” laughed the other thug, as tall as his friend, but much wider and far dirtier. He prodded his sword toward Wulfgar. The barbarian staggered backward, nearly falling off the end of the wharf—or at least, pretending to.
“I’m thinking that you should have found the gem merchant before me,” Morik replied calmly. “Assuming there was a gem merchant, my friend, because I assure you that I have no idea what you are talking about.”
The slender thug growled and thrust his sword ahead. “Now, Morik!” he started to yell, but before the words even left his mouth, Morik had leaped ahead, spinning inside the angle of the curving sword blade, rolling around, putting his back against the man’s forearm and pushing out. He ducked right under the startled man’s arm, lifting it high with his right hand, while his left hand flashed, a silver sparkle in the last light of day, Morik’s dagger stabbing into the stunned man’s armpit.
Meanwhile, the other thug, thinking he had an easy, unarmed target, waded in. His bloodshot eyes widened when Wulfgar brought his right arm from behind his hip, revealing that the mighty warhammer had magically returned to his grip. The thug skidded to a stop and glanced in panic at his companion. But by now Morik had the newly unarmed man turned around and in full flight with Morik running right behind him, taunting him and laughing hysterically as he repeatedly stabbed the man in the buttocks.
“Whoa!” the remaining thug cried, trying to turn.
“I can hit a falling bottle,” Wulfgar reminded him. The man stopped abruptly and turned back slowly to face the huge barbarian.
“We don’t want no trouble,” the thug explained, slowly laying his sword down on the boarding of the wharf. “No trouble at all, good sir,” he said, bowing repeatedly.
Wulfgar dropped Aegis-fang to the decking, and the thug stopped bobbing, staring hard at the weapon.
“Pick up your sword, if you choose,” the barbarian offered.
The thug looked up at him incredulously. Then, seeing the barbarian without a weapon—except, of course, for those formidable fists—the man scooped up his sword.
Wulfgar had him before his first swing. The powerful warrior snapped out his hand to catch the man’s sword arm at the wrist. With a sudden and ferocious jerk, Wulfgar brought that arm straight up, then hit the thug in the chest with a stunning right cross that blasted away his breath and his strength. The sword fell to the wharf.
Wulfgar jerked the arm again, lifting the man right from his feet and popping his shoulder out of joint. The barbarian let go, allowing the thug to fall heavily back to his feet, then hit him with a vicious left hook across the jaw. The only thing that stopped the man from flipping headlong over the side of the wharf was Wulfgar’s right hand, catching him by the front of his shirt. With frightening strength, Wulfgar easily lifted the thug from the deck, holding him fully a foot off the planking.
The man tried to grab at Wulfgar and break the hold, but Wulfgar shook him so violently that he nearly bit off his tongue, and every limb on the man seemed made of rubber.
“This one’s not got much of a purse,” Morik called. Wulfgar looked past his victim to see that his companion had gone right around the fleeing thug, herding him back toward the end of the dock. The thug was limping badly now and whining for mercy, which only made Morik stick him again in the buttocks, drawing more yelps.
“Please, friend,” stammered the man Wulfgar held aloft.
“Shut up!” the barbarian roared, bringing his arm down forcefully, bending his head and snapping his powerful neck muscles so that his forehead collided hard with the thug’s face.
A primal rage boiled within the barbarian, an anger that went beyond this incident, beyond the attempted mugging. No longer was he standing on a dock in Luskan. Now he was back in the Abyss, in Errtu’s lair, a tormented prisoner of the wicked demon. Now this man was one of the great demon’s minions, the pincer-armed Glabrezu, or worse, the tempting succubus. Wulfgar was back there fully, seeing the gray smoke, smelling the foul stench, feeling the sting of whips and fi
res, the pincers on his throat, and the cold kiss of the demoness.
So clear it came to him! So vivid! The waking nightmare returned, holding him in a grip of the sheerest rage, stifling his mercy or compassion, throwing him into the pits of torment, emotional and physical torture. He felt the itching and burning of those little centipedes that Errtu used, burrowing under his skin and crawling inside him, their venomous pincers lighting a thousand fires within. They were on him and in him, all over him, their little legs tickling and exciting his nerves so that he would feel the exquisite agony of their burning venom all the more.
Tormented again, indeed, but suddenly and unexpectedly, Wulfgar found that he was no longer helpless.
Up into the air went the thug, Wulfgar effortlessly hoisting him overhead, though the man weighed well over two hundred pounds. With a primal roar, a scream torn from his churning gut, the barbarian spun him around toward the open sea.
“I cannot swim!” the man shrieked. Arms and legs flailing pitifully, he hit the water fully fifteen feet from the wharf, where he splashed and bobbed, crying out for help. Wulfgar turned away. If he heard the man at all, he showed no indication.
Morik eyed the barbarian with some surprise. “He can’t swim,” Morik remarked as Wulfgar approached.
“Good time to learn, then,” the barbarian muttered coldly, his thoughts still whirling down the smoky corridors of Errtu’s vast dungeon. He kept brushing his hands along his arms and legs as he spoke, slapping away the imagined centipedes.
Morik shrugged. He looked down to the man who was squirming and crying on the planks at his feet. “Can you swim?”
The thug glanced up timidly at the little rogue and gave a slight, hopeful nod.
“Then go to your friend,” Morik instructed. The man started to slowly crawl away.
“I fear his friend will be dead before he gets to his side,” Morik remarked to Wulfgar. The barbarian didn’t seem to hear him.