The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  That concept, community, is one that I hold dear, and surely, the individuals within any such grouping must sacrifice and accept certain displeasures in the name of the common good to make any community thrive. How much stronger might that community be if those sacrifices came from the heart of each citizen and not from the edicts of the elders, matron mothers, kings, or queens?

  Freedom is the key to it all. The freedom to stay or to leave, to work in harmony with others or to choose a more individual course. The freedom to help in the larger issues or to abstain. The freedom to build a good life or to live in squalor. The freedom to try anything, or merely to do nothing.

  Few would dispute the desire for freedom. Everyone I have ever met desires free will, or thinks he does. How curious then, that so many refuse to accept the inverse cost of freedom: responsibility.

  An ideal community would work well because the individual members would accept their responsibility toward the welfare of each other and to the community as a whole, not because they are commanded to do so, but because they understand and accept the benefits to such choices. For there are, indeed, consequences to every choice we make, to everything we do or choose not to do. Those consequences are not so obvious, I fear. The selfish man might think himself gaining, but in times when that person most needs his friends, they likely will not be there, and in the end, in the legacy the selfish person leaves behind, he will not be remembered fondly if at all. The selfish person’s greed might bring material luxuries, but cannot bring the true joys, the intangible pleasures of love.

  So it is with the hateful person, the slothful person, the envious person, the thief and the thug, the drunkard and the gossip. Freedom allows each the right to choose the life before him, but freedom demands that the person accept the responsibility for those choices, good and bad.

  I have often heard tales of those who believed they were about to die replaying the events of their lives, even long past occurrences buried deep within their memories. In the end, I believe, in those last moments of this existence, before the mysteries of what may come next, we are given the blessing, or curse, to review our choices, to see them bared before our consciousness, without the confusion of the trappings of day-to-day living, without blurring justifications or the potential for empty promises to make amends.

  How many priests, I wonder, would include this most naked moment in their descriptions of heaven and hell?

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  he big man was only a stride away. Josi Puddles saw him coming too late. Squeamish Josi hunched against the wall, trying to cover up, but Wulfgar had him in an instant, lifting him with one hand, batting away his feeble attempts to slap with the other.

  Then, slam, Josi went hard against the wall.

  “I want it back,” the barbarian said calmly. To poor Josi, the measure of serenity in Wulfgar’s voice and his expression was perhaps the most frightening thing of all.

  “Wh-what’re ye lookin’ t-to find?” the little man stuttered in reply.

  Still with just one arm, Wulfgar pulled Josi out from the wall and slammed him back against it. “You know what I mean,” he said, “and I know you took it.”

  Josi shrugged and shook his head, and that bought him another slam against the wall.

  “You took Aegis-fang,” Wulfgar clarified, now bringing his scowl right up to Josi’s face, “and if you do not return it to me, I will break you apart and assemble your bones to make my next weapon.”

  “I … I … I borrowed it …” Josi started to say, his rambling interrupted by yet another slam. “I thought ye’d kill Arumn!” the little man cried. “I thought ye’d kill us all.”

  Wulfgar calmed a bit at those curious words. “Kill Arumn?” he echoed incredulously.

  “When he kicked ye out,” Josi explained. “I knew he was kickin’ ye out. He told me as much while ye slept. I thought ye’d kill him in yer rage.”

  “So you took my warhammer?”

  “I did,” Josi admitted, “but I meant to get it back. I tried to get it back.”

  “Where is it?” Wulfgar demanded.

  “I gave it to a friend,” Josi replied. “He gave it to a sailor woman to hold, to keep it out of the reach of yer call. I tried to get it back, but the sailor woman won’t give it up. She tried to squish me head, she did!”

  “Who?” Wulfgar asked.

  “Sheila Kree of Leapin Lady,” Josi blurted. “She got it, and she’s meanin’ to keep it.”

  Wulfgar paused for a long moment, digesting the information, measuring its truth. He looked up at Josi again, and his scowl returned tenfold. “I am not fond of thieves,” he said. He jostled Josi about, and when the little man tried to resist, even slapping Wulfgar, the barbarian brought him out from the wall and slammed him hard, once, then again.

  “We stone thieves in my homeland,” Wulfgar growled as he smashed Josi so hard against the wall the building shook.

  “And in Luskan we shackle ruffians,” came a voice to the side. Wulfgar and Josi turned their heads to see Arumn Gardpeck exit the establishment, along with several other men. Those others hung far back, though, obviously wanting nothing to do with Wulfgar, while Arumn, club in hand, approached cautiously. “Put him down,” the tavernkeeper said.

  Wulfgar slammed Josi one more time, then brought him down to his feet, but shook him roughly and did not let go. “He stole my warhammer, and I mean to get it back,” the barbarian said determinedly.

  Arumn glared at Josi.

  “I tried,” Josi wailed, “but Sheila Kree—yeah, that’s her. She got it and won’t give it over.”

  Wulfgar gave him another shake, rattling the teeth in his mouth. “She has it because you gave it to her,” he reminded Josi.

  “But he tried to retrieve it,” Arumn said. “He’s done all he can. Now, are ye meanin’ to bust him up for that? Is that to make ye feel better, Wulfgar the brute? For suren it won’t help to get yer hammer back.”

  Wulfgar glared at Arumn, then let the look fall over poor Josi. “It would, indeed, make me feel better,” he admitted, and Josi seemed to shrink down, trembling visibly.

  “Then ye’ll have to beat me, as well,” Arumn said. “Josi’s me friend, as I thought yerself to be, and I’ll be fighting for him.”

  Wulfgar scoffed at the notion. With a mere flick of his powerful arm, he sent Josi sprawling at Arumn’s feet.

  “He telled ye where to find yer hammer,” Arumn said.

  Wulfgar took the cue and started away, but he glanced back to see Arumn helping Josi from the ground, then putting his arm around the trembling man’s shoulders, leading him into the Cutlass.

  That last image, a scene of true friendship, bothered the barbarian profoundly. He had known friendship like that, had once been blessed with friends who would come to his aid even when the odds seemed impossible. Images of Drizzt and Bruenor, of Regis and Guenhwyvar, and mostly of Catti-brie flitted across his thoughts.

  But it was all a lie, a darker part of Wulfgar’s deepest thoughts reminded him. The barbarian closed his eyes and swayed, near to falling over. There were places where no friends could follow, horrors that no amount of friendship could alleviate. It was all a lie, friendship, all a facade concocted by that so very human and ultimately childish need for security, to wrap oneself in false hopes. He knew it, because he had seen the futility, had seen the truth, and it was a dark truth indeed.

  Hardly conscious of the action, Wulfgar ran to the door of the Cutlass and shoved it open so forcefully that the slam drew the attention of every one in the place. A single stride brought the barbarian up to Arumn and Josi, where he casually swatted aside Arumn’s club, then slapped Josi across the face, launching him several feet to land sprawling on the floor.

  Arumn came right back at him, swinging the club, but Wulfgar caught it in one hand, yanked it away from the tavernkeeper, then pushed Arumn back. He brought the club out in front of him, one hand on either end, and with a growl and a great flex of his huge neck and shoulders, h
e snapped the hard wood in half.

  “Why’re ye doin’ this?” Arumn asked him.

  Wulfgar had no answers, didn’t even bother to look for them. In his swirling thoughts he had scored a victory here, a minor one, over Errtu and the demons. Here he had denied the lie of friendship, and by doing so, had denied Errtu one weapon, that most poignant weapon, to use against him. He tossed the splintered wood to the floor and stalked out of the Cutlass, knowing that none of his tormentors would dare follow.

  He was still growling, still muttering curses, at Errtu, at Arumn, at Josi Puddles, when he arrived at the docks. He stalked up and down the long pier, his heavy boots clunking against the wood.

  “Ere, what’re you about?” one old woman asked him.

  “The Leaping Lady?” Wulfgar asked. “Where is it?”

  “That Kree’s boat?” the woman asked, more to herself than to Wulfgar. “Oh, she’s out. Out and running, not to doubt, fearing that one.” As she finished, she pointed to the dark silhouette of a sleek vessel tied on the other side of the long wharf.

  Wulfgar, curious, moved closer, noting the three sails, the last one triangular, a design he had never seen before. When he crossed the boardwalk, he remembered the tales Drizzt and Catti-brie had told to him, and he understood. Sea Sprite.

  Wulfgar stood up very straight, the name sobering him from his jumbled thoughts. His eyes trailed up the planking, from the name to the deck rail, and there stood a sailor, staring back at him.

  “Wulfgar,” Waillan Micanty hailed. “Well met!”

  The barbarian turned on his heel and stomped away.

  “Perhaps he was reaching out to us,” Captain Deudermont reasoned.

  “It seems more likely that he was merely lost,” a skeptical Robillard replied. “By Micanty’s description, the barbarian’s reaction upon seeing Sea Sprite seemed more one of surprise.”

  “We can’t be certain.” Deudermont insisted, starting for the cabin door.

  “We don’t have to be certain,” Robillard retorted, and he grabbed the captain by the arm to stop him. Deudermont did stop and turned to glare at the wizard’s hand, then into the man’s unyielding eyes.

  “He is not your child,” Robillard re-mind-ed the captain. “He’s barely an acquaintance, and you bear him no responsibility.”

  “Drizzt and Catti-brie are my friends,” Deudermont replied. “They’re our friends, and Wulfgar is their friend. Are we to ignore that fact simply for convenience?”

  The frustrated wizard let go of the captain’s arm. “For safety, Captain,” he corrected, “not convenience.”

  “I will go to him.”

  “You already tried and were summarily rejected,” the wizard bluntly reminded him.

  “Yet he came to us last night, perhaps rethinking that rejection.”

  “Or lost on the docks.”

  Deudermont nodded, conceding the possibility. “We’ll never know if I don’t return to Wulfgar and ask,” he reasoned, and started for the door.

  “Send another,” Robillard said suddenly, the thought just popping into his mind. “Send Mister Micanty, perhaps. Or I shall go.”

  “Wulfgar knows neither you nor Micanty.”

  “Certainly there are crewmen aboard who were with Wulfgar on that voyage long ago,” the stubborn wizard persisted. “Men who know him.”

  Deudermont shook his head, his jaw set determinedly. “There is but one man aboard Sea Sprite who can reach out to Wulfgar,” he said. “I’ll go back to him, then again, if necessary, before we put out to sea.”

  Robillard started to respond but finally recognized the futility of it all and threw up his hands in defeat. “The streets of Luskan’s dockside are no haven for your friends, Captain,” he reminded. “Beware that every shadow might hold danger.”

  “I always am and always have been,” Deudermont said with a grin, a grin that widened as Robillard walked up to him and put several enchantments upon him, spells to stop blows or defeat missiles, and even one to diffuse certain magical attacks.

  “Take care of the duration,” the wizard warned.

  Deudermont nodded, thankful for his friend’s precautions, then turned back to the door.

  Robillard slumped into a chair as soon as the man had gone. He considered his crystal ball and the energy it would take for him to operate it. “Unnecessary work,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “For the captain and for me. A useless effort for an undeserving gutter rat.”

  It was going to be a long night.

  “And do you need it so badly?” Morik dared to ask. Given Wulfgar’s foul mood, he knew that he was indeed taking a great risk in even posing the question.

  Wulfgar didn’t bother to answer the absurd question, but the look he gave Morik told the little thief well enough. “It must be a wondrous weapon, then,” Morik said, abruptly shifting the subject to excuse his obviously sacrilegious thinking. Of course Morik had known all along how magnificent a weapon Aegis-fang truly was, how perfect the craftsmanship and how well it fit Wulfgar’s strong hands. In the pragmatic thief’s mind, even that didn’t justify an excursion onto the open sea in pursuit of Sheila Kree’s cutthroat band.

  Perhaps the emotions went deeper, Morik wondered. Perhaps Wulfgar held a sentimental attachment to the warhammer. His adoptive father had crafted it for him, after all. Perhaps Aegis-fang was the one remaining piece of his former life, the one reminder of who he had been. It was a question Morik didn’t dare ask aloud, for even if Wulfgar agreed with him the proud barbarian would never admit it, though he might launch Morik through the air for even asking.

  “Can you make the arrangements?” an impatient Wulfgar asked again. He wanted Morik to charter a ship fast enough and with a captain knowledgeable enough to catch Sheila Kree, to shadow her into another harbor perhaps, or merely to get close enough so that Wulfgar could take a small boat in the dark of night and quietly board the privateer. He didn’t expect any help in retrieving the warhammer once delivered to Kree. He didn’t think he’d need any.

  “What of your captain friend?” Morik replied.

  Wulfgar looked at him incredulously.

  “Deudermont’s Sea Sprite is the most reputable pirate chaser on the Sword Coast,” Morik stated bluntly. “If there is a boat in Luskan that can catch Sheila Kree, it’s Sea Sprite, and from the way Captain Deudermont greeted you, I’ll wager he would take on the task.”

  Wulfgar had no direct answer to Morik’s claims other than to say, “Arrange for a different boat.”

  Morik eyed him for a long while, then nodded. “I will try,” he promised.

  “Now,” Wulfgar instructed. “Before the Leaping Lady gets too far out.”

  “We have a job,” Morik reminded him. Running a bit low on funds, the pair had agreed to help an innkeeper unload a ship’s hold of slaughtered cattle that night.

  “I’ll unload the meat,” Wulfgar offered, and those words sounded like music to Morik, who never really liked honest work. The little thief had no idea where to begin chartering a boat that could catch Sheila Kree, but he much preferred searching for that answer, and perhaps finding a few pockets to pick along the way, to getting soggy and smelly under tons of salted meat.

  Robillard stared into the crystal ball, watching Deudermont as the captain made his way along one wide and well-lit boulevard, heavily patrolled by city guards. Most of them stopped to greet the captain and offer praise. Robillard understood their intent though he couldn’t hear their words through the crystal ball, which granted images only and no sound.

  A knock on the door broke the wizard’s concentration and sent the image in his crystal ball into a swirl of foggy grayness. He could have retrieved the scene immediately but figured that Deudermont was in no danger at that time, especially with the multitude of defensive spells the wizard had cast over the man. Still, always preferring his privacy, he called out a gruff, “Be gone!” then moved to pour himself a strong drink.

  Another knock sounded, this one more insistent. “Ye
must see this, Master Robillard,” came a call, a voice Robillard recognized. With a grunt of protest and drink in hand, Robillard opened the door to find a crewman standing there, glancing back over his shoulder to the rail by the boarding plank.

  Waillan Micanty and another seaman stood there, looking down at the docks, apparently speaking to someone.

  “We’ve a guest,” the crewman at Robillard’s door remarked, and the wizard immediately thought it must be Wulfgar. Not sure if that was a good thing or bad, Robillard started across the deck, pausing only to turn back and shut his door in the face of the overly curious crewman.

  “You’re not to come up until Master Robillard says so,” Micanty called down, and there came a plea for quiet from below in response.

  Robillard moved to Micanty’s side. The wizard looked down to see a pitiful figure huddled under a blanket, a tell-tale sign, for the night surely wasn’t cold.

  “Wants to speak to Captain Deudermont,” Waillan Micanty explained.

  “Indeed,” Robillard replied. To the man on the wharf he said, “Are we to let every vagabond who wanders in come aboard to speak with Captain Deudermont?”

  “Ye don’t understand,” the man below answered, lowering his voice and glancing nervously around as if expecting a murderer to descend upon him at any moment. “I got news ye’re needin’ to hear. But not here,” he went on, glancing around yet again. “Not where any can hear.”

  “Let him up,” Robillard instructed Micanty. When the crewman looked at him skeptically, the wizard returned the stare with an expression that reminded Micanty of who he was. It also demonstrated that Robillard thought it absurd to worry that this pitiful little man might cause mischief in the face of Robillard’s wizardly power.