When the trials begin,
in soul-torn solitude despairing,
the hunter waits alone.
The companions emerge
from fast-bound ties of fate
uniting against a common foe.
When the shadows descend,
in Hell-sworn covenant unswerving
the blighted brothers hunt,
and the godborn appears,
in rose-blessed abbey reared,
arising to loose the godly spark.
When the harvest time comes,
in hate-fueled mission grim unbending,
the shadowed reapers search.
The adversary vies
with fiend-wrought enemies,
opposing the twisting schemes of Hell.
When the tempest is born,
as storm-tossed waters rise uncaring,
the promised hope still shines.
And the reaver beholds
the dawn-born chosen’s gaze,
transforming the darkness into light.
When the battle is lost,
through quake-tossed battlefields unwitting
the seasoned legions march,
but the sentinel flees
with once-proud royalty,
protecting devotion’s fragile heart.
When the ending draws near,
with ice-locked stars unmoving,
the threefold threats await,
and the herald proclaims,
in war-wrecked misery,
announcing the dying of an age.
—As written by Elliandreth of Orishaar, c. –17,600 DR
FORGOTTEN REALMS®
THE COMPANIONS
R.A. Salvatore
THE GODBORN
Paul S. Kemp
October 2013
THE ADVERSARY
Erin M. Evans
December 2013
THE REAVER
Richard Lee Byers
February 2014
THE SENTINEL
Troy Denning
April 2014
THE HERALD
Ed Greenwood
June 2014
THE COMPANIONS
©2013 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
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All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Wizards of the Coast characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Prophecy by: James Wyatt
Cartography by: Mike Schley
Cover art by: Tyler Jacobson
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6435-2
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v3.1
This book is dedicated to anyone who believes that the hero isn’t the one with the biggest sword,
but the one with the biggest heart,
Who believes that doing the right thing is its own reward, simply because it’s the right thing to do,
Who believes in karma, or divine justice, or simply that the greatest reward of all is being able to go to sleep with a clear conscience.
This book is for Drizzt Do’Urden.
Contents
Cover
Epigraph
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One: The Reborn Hero
Chapter 1: The Circle of Life
Chapter 2: The Reborn Hero
Chapter 3: Mielikki’s Iruladoon
Chapter 4: Son O’ the Line
Chapter 5: Planetouched
Chapter 6: The Chosen
Part Two: The Childhood Purpose
Chapter 7: Arr Arr’s Boy
Chapter 8: Spider
Chapter 9: Zibrija
Chapter 10: Patron
Chapter 11: Mentor
Chapter 12: Mistress
Part Three: Unintended Bonds
Chapter 13: A Chip Off the Old … Axe
Chapter 14: Cultured Society
Chapter 15: Not Without a Cost
Chapter 16: Dismayed Glory
Chapter 17: Complications
Chapter 18: The Charming Net
Chapter 19: Godly Insight
Chapter 20: A Taste of Ebonsoul
Chapter 21: The Ruse
Part Four: The Road to Kelvin’s Cairn
Chapter 22: Cairn for a King
Chapter 23: The Grinning Halfling Hero
Chapter 24: Weaving
Chapter 25: Fidelity
Chapter 26: Fancy Spider
Chapter 27: A Confluence of Events
Chapter 28: Home Again, Home Again
Chapter 29: Bruenor’s Climb
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
The Year of the Awakened Sleepers (1484 DR) Kelvin’s Cairn
THE STARS REACHED DOWN TO HIM, LIKE SO MANY TIMES BEFORE IN THIS enchanted place.
He was on Bruenor’s Climb, though he didn’t know how he had arrived there. Guenhwyvar was beside him, leaning against him, supporting his shattered leg, but he didn’t remember calling to her.
Of all the places Drizzt had ever traveled, none had felt more comforting than here. Perhaps it had been the company he had so often found up here, but even without Bruenor beside him, this place, this lone peak rising above the flat, dark tundra, had ever brought a spiritual sustenance to Drizzt Do’Urden. Up here, he felt small and mortal, but at the same time, confident that he was part of something much larger, of something eternal.
On Bruenor’s Climb, the stars reached down to him, or he lifted up among them, floating free of his physical restraints, his spirit rising and soaring among the celestial spheres. He could hear the sound of the great clockwork up here, could feel the celestial winds in his face and could melt into the ether.
It was a place of the deepest meditation for Drizzt, a place where he understood the great cycle of life and death.
A place that seemed fitting now, as the blood continued to flow from the wound in his forehead.
The Year of the First Circle (1468 DR) Netheril
A dusty sunset filled the western sky with stripes of pink and orange hanging above the endless plain, a reminder that this region was once, not long ago, the vast magical desert known as Anauroch. The advent of Shadow, then the trauma of the great Spellplague, had transformed this region of Toril somewhat, but the stubborn nature of Anauroch’s enchantment of barrenness had not allowed all that had been to be so easily washed away. There was more rain here now, perhaps, and more vegetation, and the drifting white sands had settled to a dirtier hue of earthen brown, as renewed flora grasped and held.
The dusty sunset, however common, served as a warning to the newco
mers to the region, particularly the Netherese of Shade Enclave, that what once was might some day be again. To the nomadic Bedine, such sights rekindled their ancestral tales, a reminder of the life their predecessors had known before the transformation of their ancient homeland.
The two Shadovar agents making their way west across the plain hardly gave the sunset a thought, though, and certainly didn’t dwell on any deeper implications as to the sky’s coloring, for their months of intensive investigation seemed at last to be coming to fruition, and so their eyes were firmly rooted on the road ahead.
“Why would anyone live out here?” asked Untaris, the larger of the pair, the brawn to Alpirs’s brain, so it was said. “Grass and wind, sandstorms, phaerimm and asabi, and other such monsters.” The muscular shade warrior shook his head and spat down from his pinto horse to the ground.
Alpirs De’Noutess laughed at the remark, but wasn’t about to disagree. “The Bedine are ever blinded by their pride in their traditions.”
“They do not understand that the world has changed,” Untaris said.
“Oh, but they do, my friend,” Alpirs replied. “What they do not understand is that there is nothing they can do about it. To serve Netheril is their only course, but some, like the Desai who camp before us, think that if they just remain far enough out from the civilized cities of Netheril, among the lions and the phaerimm, we will not bother too greatly with them.” He gave a little laugh at his own words. “Usually, they are right.”
“But no more,” Untaris declared.
“Not for the Desai,” Alpirs agreed. “Not if what we have come to believe about the child is true.”
As he finished, Alpirs nodded to the south, where a lone tent shuddered against the unrelenting wind. He kicked his chestnut mare into a trot and made a straight line for it, Untaris close behind. A solitary figure clad in an ankle-length robe of white cotton emerged from the tent at the sound of their approach. The collar of the Bedine man’s garment was round in design and set with a large button and tassel, signifying the Desai tribe, and like most of the Bedine in this region, the man wore a sleeveless coat, called an aba, striped in brown and red.
“Long have I waited,” the man said as the two riders approached, his leathery, windblown and sun-drenched face peeking out at them from inside the frame of his white kufiya head scarf. “Pay well, you will!”
“Sounds angry, as usual, the Bedine dog,” Untaris whispered, but Alpirs had a remedy already in hand.
“Well enough?” Alpirs asked the Bedine informant and he reached out with his hand, holding a crown of camel hair and woven gold, an igal fit for a chieftain. Despite the legendary bargaining prowess of the Bedine, the older man’s eyes betrayed him, sparkling at the sight.
Alpirs dismounted, Untaris close behind, and walked his horse over to the robed figure.
“Well met, Jhinjab,” he said with a bow, presenting the precious igal—which he pulled back immediately as the Bedine reached for it.
“You approve of the payment, I take it?” Alpirs said with a wry grin.
In response, Jhinjab reached up and touched his own igal, which secured the kufiya upon his head. It was a weathered, black affair, once woven with precious metals, but now little more than fraying camel hair. To the Bedine, the igal spoke of stature, of pride.
“De girl is in de camp,” he said in his heavy Bedine accent. Every word was spoken crisply, distinctly, and efficiently—to keep the blowing sand out of their mouths, Alpirs had once explained to Untaris. “De camp is over de ridge in de east,” Jhinjab explained. “My work be done.” He reached for the igal once more, but Alpirs kept it just out of his grasp.
“And how old is this girl?”
“She is de little thing,” Jhinjab replied, holding his hand out just below waist level.
“How old?”
The Bedine stared at him hard. “Four? Five?”
“Think, my friend, it is important,” said Alpirs.
Jhinjab closed his eyes, his lips moving, and a few words, a reference to an event or a hot summer, occasionally slipped forth. “Five, den,” he said. “Just five, in de spring.”
Alpirs couldn’t contain his grin, and he looked to the similarly smiling Untaris.
“Sixty-three,” Untaris said, counting back the years.
The two Shadovar nodded and exchanged smiles.
“My igal,” Jhinjab said, reaching for the item. But again, Alpirs pulled it back from him.
“You are certain of this?”
“Five, yes, five,” the Bedine informant replied.
“No,” Alpirs clarified. “Of all of it. You are certain that this child is … special?”
“She is de one,” the Bedine replied. “She singing, all de time singing. Singing words dat make no words, you know?”
“Sounds like any other child,” Untaris said skeptically. “Making up words and singing nonsensically.”
“No, no, no, not like dat,” Jhinjab replied, frantically waving his skinny arms around from out of his triangular sleeves. “Singing de spells.”
“A wizard, you claim,” said Alpirs.
“She make de garden grow.”
“Her garden. Her shrine?”
Jhinjab nodded enthusiastically.
“So you have told us,” said Untaris, “and yet, we have not seen this shrine.”
The old Bedine informant squinted and looked around, shading his eyes and obviously trying to get his bearings. He pointed to the southeast, to a high sand dune with a white alabaster pillar showing among the blowing sand. “Beyond dat dune, to de south, hidden among de rocks where de wind has blown de sand away.”
“How far to the south?” Alpirs asked, holding up his hand to prevent Untaris from speaking.
Jhinjab shrugged. “Long walk, short ride.”
“Across the open, hot sands?” Alpirs asked, not hiding his own skepticism now.
Jhinjab nodded.
“You said the camp was to the west,” Untaris said before Alpirs could stop him.
Again, the Bedine informant offered a nod.
“A new camp, then,” said Alpirs.
“No,” said Jhinjab. “Been dere since de spring.”
“But the girl’s shrine is the other way, a long walk.”
“We are to believe that a child crosses the desert alone? A long walk, you said, and across dangerous ground,” Untaris reasoned.
Jhinjab shrugged, letting his answers stand.
Alpirs hooked the igal over a loop on his belt, and held up his hand when Jhinjab started to protest.
“We will go and see this shrine,” he explained. “And then we will return to you.”
“It is hidden,” Jhinjab protested.
“Of course it is.” Untaris snorted, and he climbed up on his pinto. “Could it be any other way?”
“No, unacceptable!” Jhinjab protested. “I have done as you asked, and will be paid. De girl is in de camp!”
“You will remain here, and perhaps you will be paid,” Alpirs replied.
“Oh, there will be some reward, indeed,” Untaris added ominously.
Jhinjab swallowed hard.
“If you are confident in your information, you will remain here.”
“You will pay!” the Bedine insisted.
“Or?” asked Alpirs.
“Or he will go and tell the Desai,” Untaris added, and when both Shadovar turned to regard the old Bedine threateningly, the blood drained from Jhinjab’s face.
“No,” he started to protest, but the word was cut short as a long dagger appeared in Alpirs’s hand, its tip coming to rest against the poor Bedine’s throat in the blink of an eye.
“Ride with my friend,” Alpirs instructed, and Untaris reached a hand down to Jhinjab.
“I cannot go …,” the Bedine stammered. “I am … de Desai do not know I am out … dey will miss Jhinjab. Dey will look for …”
Alpirs retracted the knife and kicked the old Bedine hard in the groin. He bent low as Jhinjab doub
led over, and whispered into the man’s ear, “The Desai can do nothing to you that I won’t do if you don’t get up on that horse right now.”
Without even waiting for an answer, Alpirs moved to his own horse and mounted, and indeed, Jhinjab took Untaris’s hand and settled in as the two mounts charged off toward the high dune in the southeast.
Five-year-old Ruqiah scrambled around the side of the tent and crouched low against the fabric, trying to control her breathing.
“Over here!” she heard Tahnood call out, but fortunately, her tormentor was moving in the wrong direction, between a different pair of tents.
Ruqiah dropped to her belly and crept forward, smiling as the gaggle of older children followed Tahnood further astray. She had avoided them, for now, but it was only a temporary reprieve, she knew from long experience, for Tahnood was a relentless adversary and took great pleasure in showing his dominance.
The girl sat back and considered her next move. The sun sank low into the western sky, but the tribe had found a new wellspring and the celebration would continue long after dark, she knew. The children would not be told to go to sleep, and the mud fight would continue, encouraged by the adults.
The mud pit caused by the wellspring symbolized that there was enough water to waste, after all, and for the desert-dwelling, nomadic Bedine, that was surely cause for celebration.
Ruqiah just wished that the joyous games didn’t hurt so much.
“Sitting alone, always alone,” came a voice, her father’s voice, and he grabbed her by the ear and ushered her to her feet.
Ruqiah turned to regard the brilliant smile of Niraj, a smile full of life and mirth and love. He was short by Bedine standards, but stout and strong and quite respected. He rarely wore his kufiya, letting his bald brown head shine gloriously in the desert sun.
“Where are the other children?” he asked his precious daughter.
“Looking for me,” Ruqiah admitted. “To make me darker.”
“Ah,” Niraj replied. Ruqiah was lighter-skinned than most Bedine, lighter even than her mother, Kavita. Ruqiah’s thick wavy hair, too, was a lighter hue, with many red highlights showing among her light brown locks, instead of the normal Bedine darker brown or even raven black.
The Companions: The Sundering, Book I Page 1
