The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  “Oh, do help the wretch,” Morik sighed, grabbing Wulfgar by the arm and forcing that vacant gaze to focus. “For me. I would hate to start a night with a death on our hands.”

  With a sigh of his own, Wulfgar reached out his mighty hands. The thug on his knees suddenly found himself rising from the decking, one hand holding the back of his breeches, another clamped around his collar. Wulfgar took three running strides and hurled the man long and high. The flying thug cleared his splashing companion, landing nearby with a tremendous belly smack.

  Wulfgar didn’t see him land. Having lost all interest in the scene, he turned around and, after mentally recalling Aegis-fang to his grasp, stormed past Morik, who bowed in deference to his dangerous and powerful friend.

  Morik caught up to Wulfgar as the barbarian exited the wharf. “They are still scrambling in the water,” the rogue remarked. “The fat one, he keeps foolishly grabbing his friend, pulling them both underwater. Perhaps they will both drown.”

  Wulfgar didn’t seem to care, and that was an honest reflection of his heart, Morik knew. The rogue gave one last look back at the harbor, then merely shrugged. The two thugs had brought it on themselves, after all.

  Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, was not one to be toyed with.

  So Morik, too, put them out of his mind—not that he was ever really concerned—and focused instead on his companion. His surprising companion, who had learned to fight at the training of a drow elf, of all things!

  Morik winced, though, of course, Wulfgar was too distracted to catch it. The rogue thought of another drow, a visitor who had come unexpectedly to him not so long ago, bidding him to keep a watchful eye on Wulfgar and paying him in advance for his services—and not-so-subtly explaining that if Morik failed in the “requested” task, the dark elf’s master would not be pleased. Morik hadn’t heard from the dark elves again, to his relief, but still he kept to his end of the agreement to watch over Wulfgar.

  No, that wasn’t it, the rogue had to admit, at least to himself. He had started his relationship with Wulfgar for purely personal gain, partly out of fear of the drow, partly out of fear of Wulfgar and a desire to learn more about this man who had so obviously become his rival on the street. That had been in the beginning. He no longer feared Wulfgar, though he did sometimes fear for the deeply troubled, haunted man. Morik hardly ever thought about the drow elves, who had not come around in tendays and tendays. Surprisingly, Morik had come to like Wulfgar, had come to enjoy the man’s company despite the many times when surliness dominated the barbarian’s demeanor.

  He almost told Wulfgar about the visit from the drow elves then, out of some basic desire to warn this man who had become his friend. Almost…. but the practical side of Morik, the cautious pragmatism that allowed him to stay alive in such a hostile environment as Luskan’s streets, reminded him that to do so would do no one good. If the dark elves came for Wulfgar, whether Wulfgar expected them or not, the barbarian would be defeated. These were drow elves, after all, wielders of mighty magic and the finest of blades, elves who could walk uninvited into Morik’s bedroom and rouse him from his slumber. Even Wulfgar had to sleep. If those dark elves, after they were finished with poor Wulfgar, ever learned that Morik had betrayed them …

  A shudder coursed along Morik’s spine, and he forcefully shook the unsettling thoughts away, turning his attention back to his large friend. Oddly, Morik saw a kindred spirit here, a man who could be—and indeed had been—a noble and mighty warrior, a leader among men, but who, for one reason or another, had fallen from grace.

  Such was the way Morik viewed his own situation, though in truth, he had been on a course to his present position since his early childhood. Still, if only his mother hadn’t died in childbirth, if only his father hadn’t abandoned him to the streets …

  Looking at Wulfgar now, Morik couldn’t help but think of the man he himself might have become, of the man Wulfgar had been. Circumstance had damned them both, to Morik’s thinking, and so he held no illusions about their relationship now. The truth of his bond to Wulfgar, the real reason he stayed so close to him despite all his sensibilities—the barbarian was being watched by dark elves, after all! —was that he regarded the barbarian as he might a younger brother.

  That, and the fact that Wulfgar’s friendship brought him more respect among the rabble. For Morik, there always had to be a practical reason.

  The day neared its end, the night its beginning, the time of Morik and Wulfgar, the time of Luskan’s street life.

  THE PRESENT

  n my homeland of Menzoberranzan, where demons play and drow revel at the horrible demise of rivals, there remains a state of necessary alertness and wariness. A drow off-guard is a drow murdered in Menzoberranzan, and thus few are the times when dark elves engage in exotic weeds or drinks that dull the senses.

  Few, but there are exceptions. At the final ceremony of Melee-Magthere, the school of fighters that I attended, graduated students engage in an orgy of mind-blurring herbs and sensual pleasures with the females of Arach-Tinilith, a moment of the purest hedonism, a party of the purest pleasures without regard to future implications.

  I rejected that orgy, though I knew not why at the time. It assaulted my sense of morality, I believed—and still do—and it cheapened so many things that I hold precious. Now, in retrospect, I have come to understand another truth about myself that forced rejection of that orgy. Aside from the moral implications, and there were many, the mere notion of the mind blurring herbs frightened and repulsed me. I knew that all along, of course—as soon as I felt the intoxication at that ceremony, I instinctively rebelled against it—but it wasn’t until very recently that I came to understand the truth of that rejection, the real reason why such influences have no place in my life.

  These herbs attack the body in various ways, of course, from slowing reflexes to destroying coordination altogether, but more importantly, they attack the spirit in two different ways. First, they blur the past, erasing memories pleasant and unpleasant, and second, they eliminate any thoughts of the future. Intoxicants lock the imbiber in the present, the here and now, without regard for the future, without consideration of the past. That is the trap, a defeatist perspective that allows for attempted satiation of physical pleasures wantonly, recklessly. An intoxicated person will attempt even foolhardy dares because that inner guidance, even to the point of survival instinct itself, can be so impaired. How many young warriors foolishly throw themselves against greater enemies, only to be slain? How many young women find themselves with child, conceived with lovers they would not even consider as future husbands?

  That is the trap, the defeatist perspective, that I cannot tolerate. I live my life with hope, always hope, that the future will be better than the present, but only as long as I work to make it so. Thus, with that toil, comes the satisfaction in life, the sense of accomplishment we all truly need for real joy. How could I remain honest to that hope if I allowed myself a moment of weakness that could well destroy all I have worked to achieve and all I hope to achieve? How might I have reacted to so many unexpected crises if, at the time of occurrence, I was influenced by a mind-altering substance, one that impaired my judgment or altered my perspective?

  Also, the dangers of where such substances might lead cannot be underestimated. Had I allowed myself to be carried away with the mood of the graduation ceremony of Melee-Magthere, had I allowed myself the sensual pleasures offered by the priestesses, how cheapened might any honest encounter of love have been?

  Greatly, to my way of thinking. Sensual pleasures are, or should be, the culmination of physical desires combined with an intellectual and emotional decision, a giving of oneself, body and spirit, in a bond of trust and respect. In such a manner as that graduation ceremony, no such sharing could have occurred; it would have been a giving of body only, and more so than that, a taking of another’s offered wares. There would have been no higher joining, no spiritual experience, and thus, no true joy.

  I
cannot live in such a hopeless basking as that, for that is what it is: a pitiful basking in the lower, base levels of existence brought on, I believe, by the lack of hope for a higher level of existence.

  And so I reject all but the most moderate use of such intoxicants, and while I’ll not openly judge those who so indulge, I will pity them their empty souls.

  What is it that drives a person to such depths? Pain, I believe, and memories too wretched to be openly faced and handled. Intoxicants can, indeed, blur the pains of the past at the expense of the future. But it is not an even trade.

  With that in mind, I fear for Wulfgar, my lost friend. Where will he find escape from the torments of his enslavement?

  — Drizzt Do’Urden

  do so hate this place,” remarked Robillard, the robed wizard. He was speaking to Captain Deudermont of Sea Sprite as the three-masted schooner rounded a long jetty and came in sight of the harbor of the northern port of Luskan.

  Deudermont, a tall and stately man, mannered as a lord and with a calm, pensive demeanor, merely nodded at his wizard’s proclamation. He had heard it all before, and many times. He looked to the city skyline and noted the distinctive structure of the Hosttower of the Arcane, the famed wizards’ guild of Luskan. That, Deudermont knew, was the source of Robillard’s sneering attitude concerning this port, though the wizard had been sketchy in his explanations, making a few offhand remarks about the “idiots” running the Hosttower and their inability to discern a true wizardly master from a conniving trickster. Deudermont suspected that Robillard had once been denied admission to the guild.

  “Why Luskan?” the ship’s wizard complained. “Would not Waterdeep have better suited our needs? No harbor along the entire Sword Coast can compare with Waterdeep’s repair facilities.”

  “Luskan was closer,” Deudermont reminded him.

  “A couple of days, no more,” Robillard retorted.

  “If a storm found us in those couple of days, the damaged hull might have split apart, and all our bodies would have been food for the crabs and the fishes,” said the captain. “It seemed a foolish gamble for the sake of one man’s pride.”

  Robillard started to respond but caught the meaning of the captain’s last statement before he could embarrass himself further. A great frown shadowed his face. “The pirates would have had us had I not timed the blast perfectly,” the wizard muttered after he took a few moments to calm down.

  Deudermont conceded the point. Indeed, Robillard’s work in the last pirate hunt had been nothing short of spectacular. Several years before, Sea Sprite—the new, bigger, faster, and stronger Sea Sprite—had been commissioned by the lords of Waterdeep as a pirate hunter. No vessel had ever been as successful at the task, so much so that when the lookout spotted a pair of pirate cogs sailing the northern waters off the Sword Coast, so near to Luskan, where Sea Sprite often prowled, Deudermont could hardly believe it. The schooner’s reputation alone had kept those waters clear for many months.

  These pirates had come looking for vengeance, not easy merchant ship prey, and they were well prepared for the fight, each of them armed with a small catapult, a fair contingent of archers, and a pair of wizards. Even so, they found themselves outmaneuvered by the skilled Deudermont and his experienced crew, and out-enchanted by the mighty Robillard, who had been wielding his powerful dweomers in vessel-to-vessel warfare for well over a decade. One of Robillard’s illusions had given the appearance that Sea Sprite was dead in the water, her mainmast down across her deck, with dozens of dead men at the rails. Like hungry wolves, the pirates had circled, closer and closer, then had come in, one to port and one to starboard, to finish off the wounded ship.

  In truth, Sea Sprite hadn’t been badly damaged at all, with Robillard countering the offensive magic of the enemy wizards. The small pirate catapults had little effect against the proud schooner’s armored sides.

  Deudermont’s archers, brilliant bowmen all, had struck hard at the closing vessels, and the schooner went from battle sail to full sail with precision and efficiency, the prow of the ship verily leaping from the water as she scooted out between the surprised pirates.

  Robillard dropped a veil of silence upon the pirate ships, preventing their wizards from casting any defensive spells, then plopped three fireballs— Boom! Boom! Boom!—in rapid succession, one atop each ship and one in between. Then came the conventional barrage from ballista and catapult, Sea Sprite’s gunners soaring lengths of chain to further destroy sails and rigging, and balls of pitch to heighten the flames.

  De-masted and drifting, fully ablaze, the two pirates soon went down. So great was the conflagration that Deudermont and his crew managed to pluck only a few survivors from the cold ocean waters.

  Sea Sprite hadn’t escaped unscathed, though. She was under the power of but one full sail now. Even more dangerous, she had a fair-sized crack just above the waterline. Deudermont had to keep nearly a third of his crew at work bailing, which was why he had steered for the nearest port—Luskan.

  Deudermont considered it a fine choice, indeed. He preferred Luskan to the much larger port of Waterdeep, for while his financing had come from the southern city and he could find dinner at the house of any lord in town, Luskan was more hospitable to his common crew members, men without the standing, the manners, or the pretensions to dine at the table of nobility. Luskan, like Waterdeep, had its defined classes, but the bottom rungs on Luskan’s social ladder were still a few above the bottom of Waterdeep’s.

  Calls of greeting came to them from every wharf as they neared the city, for Sea Sprite was well known here and well respected. The honest fishermen and merchant sailors of Luskan, of all the northern reaches of the Sword Coast, had long ago come to appreciate the work of Captain Deudermont and his swift schooner.

  “A fine choice, I’d say,” the captain remarked.

  “Better food, better women, and better entertainment in Waterdeep,” Robillard replied.

  “But no finer wizards,” Deudermont couldn’t resist saying. “Surely the Hosttower is among the most respected of mage guilds in all the Realms.”

  Robillard groaned and muttered a few curses, pointedly walking away.

  Deudermont didn’t turn to watch him go, but he couldn’t miss the distinctive stomping of the wizard’s hard-soled boots.

  “Just a short ride, then,” the woman cooed, twirling her dirty blonde hair in one hand and striking a pouting posture. “A quick one to take me jitters off before a night at the tables.”

  The huge barbarian ran his tongue across his teeth, for his mouth felt as if it were full of fabric, and dirty cloth at that. After a night’s work in the tavern of the Cutlass, he had returned to the wharves with Morik for a night of harder drinking. As usual, the pair had stayed there until after dawn, then Wulfgar had crawled back to the Cutlass, his home and place of employment, and straight to his bed.

  But this woman, Delly Curtie, a barmaid in the tavern and Wulfgar’s lover for the past few months, had come looking for him. Once, he had viewed her as a pleasurable distraction, the icing on his whisky cake, and even as a caring friend. Delly had nurtured Wulfgar through his first difficult days in Luskan. She had seen to his needs, emotional and physical, without question, without judgment, without asking anything in return. But of late the relationship had begun to shift, and not even subtly. Now that he had settled more comfortably into his new life, a life devoted almost entirely to fending the remembered pain of his years with Errtu, Wulfgar had come to see a different picture of Delly Curtie.

  Emotionally, she was a child, a needful little girl. Wulfgar, who was well into his twenties, was several years older than she. Now, suddenly, he had become the adult in their relationship, and Delly’s needs had begun to overshadow his own.

  “Oh, but ye’ve got a few moments for me, me Wulfgar,” she said, moving closer and rubbing her hand across his cheek.

  Wulfgar grabbed her wrist and gently but firmly moved her hand away. “A long night,” he replied. “And I ha
d hoped for more rest before beginning my duties for Arumn.”

  “But I’ve got a tingling—”

  “More rest,” Wulfgar repeated, emphasizing each word.

  Delly pulled away from him, her seductive pouting pose becoming suddenly cold and indifferent. “Good enough for ye, then,” she said coarsely. “Ye think ye’re the only man wanting to share me bed?”

  Wulfgar didn’t justify the rant with an answer. The only answer he could have given was to tell her he really didn’t care, that all of this—his drinking, his fighting—was a manner of hiding and nothing more. In truth, Wulfgar did like and respect Delly and considered her a friend—or would have if he honestly believed that he could be a friend. He didn’t mean to hurt her.

  Delly stood in Wulfgar’s room, trembling and unsure. Suddenly, feeling very naked in her slight shift, she gathered her arms in front of her and ran out into the hall and to her own room, slamming the door hard.

  Wulfgar closed his eyes and shook his head. He chuckled helplessly and sadly when he heard Delly’s door open again, followed by running footsteps heading down the hall toward the outside door. That one, too, slammed, and Wulfgar understood that all the ruckus had been for his benefit Delly wanted him to hear that she was, indeed, going out to find comfort in another’s arms.

  She was a complicated one, the barbarian understood, carrying more emotional turmoil than even he, if that were possible. He wondered how it had ever gone this far between them. Their relationship had been so simple at the start, so straightforward: two people in need of each other. Recently, though, it had become more complex, the needs having grown into emotional crutches. Delly needed Wulfgar to take care of her, to shelter her, to tell her she was beautiful, but Wulfgar knew he couldn’t even take care of himself, let alone another. Delly needed Wulfgar to love her, and yet the barbarian had no love to give. For Wulfgar there was only pain and hatred, only memories of the demon Errtu and the prison of the Abyss, wherein he had been tortured for six long years.