The Halfling’s Gem frid-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  If Wulfgar’s point had made an impression, it was driven home a second later when the clawed hand of a demodand reached through the portal and latched onto Wulfgar’s shoulder.

  * * *

  Drizzt moved as if swimming in his descent through the gloom, the pumping actions gaining him ground on Catti-brie. He was vulnerable, though, and he knew it.

  So did a winged demodand watching him fall by.

  The wretched creature hopped off its perch as soon as Drizzt had passed, flapping its wings at an awkward angle to gain momentum in its dive. Soon it was overtaking the drow, and it reached out its razor-sharp claws to tear at him as it passed.

  Drizzt noticed the beast at the last moment. He twisted over wildly and spun about, trying to get out of the diving thing’s path and struggling to ready his scimitars.

  He should have had no chance. It was the demodand’s environment, and it was a winged creature, more at home in flight than on the ground.

  But Drizzt Do’Urden never played the odds.

  The demodand strafed past, its wicked talons ripping yet another tear in Drizzt’s fine cloak. Twinkle, as steady as ever even in midfall, lopped off one of the creature’s wings. The demodand fluttered helplessly to the side and continued down in a tumble. It had no heart left for battle against the drow elf, and no wing left to catch him anyway.

  Drizzt paid it no heed. His goal was in reach.

  He caught Catti-brie in his arms, locking her tightly against his chest. She was cold, he noted grimly, but he knew that he had too far to go to even think about that. He wasn’t certain if the planar gate was still open, and he had no idea of how he could stop his eternal fall.

  A solution came to him in the form of another winged demodand, one that cut an intercepting path at him and Catti-brie. The creature did not mean to attack yet, Drizzt could see; its route seemed more of a flyby, where it would pass under them to better inspect its foe.

  Drizzt didn’t let the chance go. As the creature passed under, the dark elf snapped himself downward, extending to his limit with one blade-wielding hand. Not aimed to kill, the scimitar found its mark, digging into the creature’s backside. The demodand shrieked and dove away, pulling free of the blade.

  Its momentum, though, had tugged Drizzt and Catti-brie along, angling their descent enough to line them up with one of the intersecting smoky bridges.

  Drizzt twisted and turned to keep them in line, holding out his cloak with his free arm to catch a draft, or tucking it in tightly to lessen the drag. At the last moment, he spun himself under Catti-brie to shield her from the impact. With a heavy thud and a whoosh of smoke, they landed.

  Drizzt crawled out and forced himself to his knees, trying to find his breath.

  Catti-brie lay below him, pale and torn, a dozen wounds visible, most vividly the gash from the wererat’s quarrel. Blood soaked much of her clothing and matted her hair, but Drizzt’s heart did not drop at the gruesome sight, for he had noted one other event when they had plopped down.

  Catti-brie had groaned.

  * * *

  LaValle scrambled behind his little table. “Keep you back, dwarf,” he warned. “I am a wizard of great powers.”

  Bruenor’s terror was not apparent. He drove his axe through the table, and a blinding explosion of smoke and sparks filled the room.

  When LaValle recovered his sight a moment later, he found himself facing Bruenor, the dwarf’s hands and beard trailing wisps of gray smoke, the little table broken flat, and his crystal ball severed clean in half.

  “That the best ye got?” Bruenor asked.

  LaValle couldn’t get any words past the lump in his throat.

  Bruenor wanted to cut him down, to drive his axe right between the man’s bushy eyebrows, but it was Catti-brie, his beautiful daughter, who truly abhorred killing with all of her heart, who he meant to avenge. Bruenor would not dishonor her memory.

  “Drats!” he groaned, slamming his forehead into LaValle’s face. The wizard thumped up against the wall and stayed there, dazed and motionless, until Bruenor closed a hand on his chest, tearing out a few hairs for good measure, and threw him facedown on the floor. “Me friends might be needin’ yer help, wizard,” the dwarf growled, “so crawl! And know in yer heart that if ye make one turn I don’t be liking, me axe’ll cleave yer head down the middle!”

  In his semiconscious state, LaValle hardly heard the words, but he fathomed the dwarf’s meaning well enough and forced himself to his hands and knees.

  * * *

  Wulfgar braced his feet against the iron stand of the Taros Hoop and locked his own iron grip onto the demodand’s elbow, matching the creature’s mighty pull. In his other hand the barbarian held Aegis-fang ready, not wanting to swing through the planar portal but hoping for something more vulnerable than an arm to come through to his world.

  The demodand’s claws cut deep wounds in his shoulder, filthy wounds that would be long in healing, but Wulfgar shrugged away the pain. Drizzt had told him to hold the gate if ever he had loved Catti-brie.

  He would hold the gate.

  Another second passed and Wulfgar saw his hand slipping dangerously close to the portal. He could match the demodand’s strength, but the demodand’s power was magical, not physical, and Wulfgar would grow weary long before his foe.

  Another inch, and his hand would cross through to Tarterus, where other hungry demodands no doubt waited.

  A memory flashed in Wulfgar’s mind, the final image of Catti-brie, torn and falling. “No!” he growled, and he forced his hand back, pulling savagely until he and the demodand were back to where they had started. Then Wulfgar dropped his shoulder suddenly, tugging the demodand down instead of out.

  The gamble worked. The demodand lost its momentum altogether and stumbled down, its head poking through the Taros Hoop and into the Prime Material Plane for just a second, long enough for Aegis-fang to shatter its skull.

  Wulfgar jumped back a step and slapped his war hammer into both hands. Another demodand started through, but the barbarian blasted it back into Tarterus with a powerful swipe.

  Pook watched it all from behind his throne, his crossbow still aimed to kill. Even the guildmaster found himself mesmerized by the sheer strength of the giant man, and when one of his eunuchs recovered and stood up, Pook waved it away from Wulfgar, not wanting to disturb the spectacle before him.

  A shuffle off to the side forced him to look away, though, as LaValle came crawling out of his room, the axe-wielding dwarf walking right behind.

  Bruenor saw at once the perilous predicament that Wulfgar faced, and knew that the wizard would only complicate things. He grabbed LaValle by the hair and pulled him up to his knees, walking around to face the man.

  “Good day for sleepin’,” the dwarf commented, and he slammed his forehead again into the wizard’s, knocking LaValle into blackness. He heard a click behind him as the wizard slumped, and he reflexively swung his shield between himself and the noise, just in time to catch Pook’s crossbow quarrel. The wicked dart drove a hole through the foaming mug standard and barely missed Bruenor’s arm as it poked through the other side.

  Bruenor peeked over the rim of his treasured shield, stared at the bolt, and then looked dangerously at Pook. “Ye shouldn’t be hurtin’ me shield!” he growled, and he started forward.

  The hill giant was quick to intercept.

  Wulfgar caught the action out of the corner of his eye, and would have loved to join in—especially with Pook busy reloading his heavy crossbow—but the barbarian had troubles of his own. A winged demodand swooped through the gate in a sudden rush and flashed by Wulfgar.

  Fine-tuned reflexes saved the barbarian, for he snapped a hand out and caught the demodand by a leg. The monster’s momentum staggered Wulfgar backward, but he managed to hold on. He slammed the demodand down beside him and drove it into the floor with a single chop of his war hammer.

  Several arms reached through the Taros Hoop, shoulders and heads poked through, and Wul
fgar, swinging Aegis-fang furiously, had all he could handle simply keeping the wretched things at bay.

  * * *

  Drizzt ran along the smoky bridge, Catti-brie draped limply over one shoulder. He met no further resistance for many minutes and understood why when he at last reached the planar gate.

  Huddled around it, and blocking his passage, was a score of demodands.

  The drow, dismayed, dropped to one knee and laid Catti-brie gently beside him. He considered putting Taulmaril to use, but realized that if he missed, if an arrow somehow found its way through the horde, it would pass through the gate and into the room where Wulfgar stood. He couldn’t take that chance.

  “So close,” he whispered helplessly, looking down to Catti-brie. He held her tightly in his arms and brushed a slender hand across her face. How cool she seemed. Drizzt leaned low over her, meaning only to discern the rhythm of her breathing, but he found himself too close to her, and before he even realized his actions, his lips were to hers in a tender kiss. Catti-brie stirred but did not open her eyes.

  Her movement brought new courage to Drizzt. “Too close,” he muttered grimly, “and you’ll not die in this foul place!” He scooped Catti-brie up over his shoulder, wrapping his cloak tightly around her to secure her to him. Then he took up his scimitars in tight grips, rubbing his sensitive fingers across the intricate craftings of their hilts, becoming one with his weapons, making them the killing extensions of his black arms. He took a deep breath and set his visage.

  He charged, as silently as only a drow elf could be, at the back of the wretched horde.

  * * *

  Regis rose uncomfortably as the black silhouettes of hunting cats darted in and out of the starlight surrounding him. They did not seem to threaten him—not yet—but they were gathering. He knew beyond doubt that he was their focal point.

  Then Guenhwyvar bounded up and stood before him, the great cat’s head level with his own.

  “You know something,” Regis said, reading the excitement in the panther’s dark eyes. Regis held up the statuette and examined it, noting the cat’s tenseness at the sight of the figurine.

  “We can get back with this,” the halfling said in sudden revelation. “This is the key to the journey, and with it, we can go wherever we desire!” He glanced around and considered some very interesting possibilities. “All of us?”

  If cats could smile, Guenhwyvar did.

  24. Interplanar Goo

  “Outa me way, ye overstuffed bag o’ blubber!” Bruenor roared.

  The giant eunuch planted its legs wide apart and reached down at the dwarf with a huge hand—which Bruenor promptly bit.

  “They never listen,” he grumbled. He stooped low and dashed between the giant’s legs, then straightened quickly, the single horn on his helmet putting the poor eunuch up on its toes. For the second time that day, its eyes crossed and it tumbled, this time its hands low to hold its newest wound.

  A killing rage evident in his gray eyes, Bruenor turned back to Pook. The guildmaster, though, seemed unconcerned, and in truth, the dwarf hardly noticed the man. He concentrated instead on the crossbow again, which was loaded and leveled at him.

  * * *

  Drizzt’s single emotion as he came in was anger, anger at the pain the wretched creatures of Tarterus had caused to Catti-brie.

  His goal, too, was singular: the little patch of light in the gloom, the planar gate back to his own world.

  His scimitars led the way, and Drizzt grinned at the thought of tearing through the demodand flesh, but the drow slowed as he came in, his anger tempered by the sight of his goal. He could whirl in on the demodand horde in an attacking frenzy and probably manage to slip through the gate, but could Catti-brie take the punishment the mighty creatures would surely inflict before Drizzt got her through?

  The drow saw another way. As he inched in on the back of the demodand line, he reached out wide to either side with his blades, tapping the back two demodands on their outside shoulders. As the creatures reflexively turned to look back over their shoulders, Drizzt darted between them.

  The drow’s blades became a whirring prow, nicking away the hands of any other demodands that tried to catch him. He felt a tug on Catti-brie and whirled quickly, his rage doubled. He couldn’t see his target, but he knew that he had connected on something when he brought Twinkle down and heard a demodand shriek.

  A heavy arm clubbed him on the side of the head, a blow that should have felled him, but Drizzt spun back again and saw the light of the gate only a few feet ahead—and the silhouette of a single demodand, standing to block his passage.

  The dark tunnel of demodand flesh began to close about him. Another large arm wheeled in, but Drizzt was able to duck beneath its arc.

  If the demodand delayed him a single second, he would be caught and slaughtered.

  Again it was instinct, faster than thought, that carried Drizzt through. He slapped the demodand’s arms wide apart with his scimitars and ducked his head, slamming into the demodand’s chest, his momentum forcing the creature backward through the gate.

  * * *

  The dark head and shoulders came through into Wulfgar’s sights, and he hammered Aegis-fang home. The mighty blow snapped the demodand’s backbone and jolted Drizzt, who pushed from the other side.

  The demodand fell dead, half in and half out of the Taros Hoop, and the stunned drow rolled limply to the side and out, tumbling into Pook’s room, beneath Catti-brie.

  Wulfgar paled at the sight and hesitated, but Drizzt, realizing that more creatures would soon rush through, managed to lift his weary head from the floor. “Close the gate,” he gasped.

  Wulfgar had already discerned that he could not shatter the glassy image within the hoop—striking at it only sent his war hammer’s head into Tarterus. Wulfgar started to drop Aegis-fang to his side.

  Then he noticed the action across the room.

  * * *

  “Are you quick enough with that shield?” Pook teased, wiggling the crossbow.

  Intent on the weapon, Bruenor hadn’t even noticed Drizzt and Catti-brie’s grand entrance. “So ye’ve one shot to kill me, dog,” he spat back, unafraid of death, “and one alone.” He took a determined step forward.

  Pook shrugged. He was an expert marksman, and his crossbow was as enchanted as any weapon in the Realms. One shot would be enough.

  But he never got it off.

  A twirling war hammer exploded into the throne, knocking the huge chair over into the guildmaster and sending him sprawling heavily into the wall.

  Bruenor turned with a grim smile to thank his barbarian friend, but his smile washed away and the words died in his throat when he saw Drizzt—and Catti-brie!—lying beside the Taros Hoop.

  The dwarf stood as if turned to stone, his eyes not blinking, his lungs not drawing breath. The strength went out of his legs, and he fell to his knees. He dropped his axe and shield and scrambled, on all fours, to his daughter’s side.

  Wulfgar clasped the iron edges of the Taros Hoop in his hands and tried to force them together. His entire upper body flushed red, and the veins and sinewy muscles stood out like iron cords in his huge arms. But if there was any movement in the gate, it was slight.

  A demodand arm reached through the portal to prevent the closing, but the sight of it only spurred Wulfgar on. He roared to Tempus and pushed with all his strength, driving his hands together, bending the edges of hoop in to meet each other.

  The glassy image bowed with the planar shift, and the demodand’s arm dropped to the floor, cleanly severed. Likewise, the demodand that lay dead at Wulfgar’s feet, with half its body still inside the gate, twitched and turned.

  Wulfgar averted his eyes at the horrid spectacle of a winged demodand caught within the warping planar tunnel, bent and bowed until its skin began to rip apart.

  The magic of the Taros Hoop was strong, and Wulfgar, for all of his strength, could not hope to bend the thing far enough to complete the job. He had the gate warped
and blocked, but for how long? When he tired, and the Taros Hoop returned to its normal shape, the portal would open once again. Stubbornly the barbarian roared and drove on, turning his head to the side in anticipation of the shattering of the glassy surface.

  * * *

  How pale she seemed, her lips almost blue and her skin dry and chill. Her wounds were vicious, Bruenor saw, but the dwarf sensed that the most telling injury was neither cut nor bruise. Rather, his precious girl seemed to have lost her spirit, as though she’d given up her desire for life when she had fallen into the darkness.

  She now lay limp, cold, and pale in his arms. On the floor. Drizzt instinctively recognized the dangers. He lolled over to the side, pulling his cloak out wide, shielding Bruenor, who was quite oblivious to his surroundings, and Catti-brie with his own body.

  Across the room, LaValle stirred, shaking the grogginess out of his head. He rose to his knees and surveyed the room, immediately recognizing Wulfgar’s attempt to close the gate.

  “Kill them,” Pook whispered to the wizard but not daring to crawl out from under the overturned chair.

  LaValle wasn’t listening; he had already begun a spell.

  * * *

  For the first time in his life, Wulfgar found his strength inadequate. “I cannot!” he grunted in dismay, looking to Drizzt—as he always looked to Drizzt—for an answer.

  The wounded drow was barely coherent.

  Wulfgar wanted to surrender. His arm burned from the gashes of the hydra bite; his legs seemed barely able to hold him; his friends were helpless on the floor.

  And his strength was not enough!

  He shot his gaze to and fro, searching for some alternate method. The hoop, however powerful, had to have a weakness. Or, at least, to hold out any hope, Wulfgar had to believe that it did.