wizard wished that he had more information to report to Pasha Pook. He
considered the possibilities of whisking himself away to the deck of the ship to
investigate further, but he hadn't the proper spells prepared for such an
undertaking. Besides, he reminded himself again, this was not his affair.
And he did not want to cross Artemis Entreri.
* * *
That same night, Oberon flew out of his tower and climbed into the night
sky, a wand in hand. Hundreds of feet above the city, he loosed the proper
sequence of fireballs.
* * *
Riding the decks of a Calimport ship named Devil Dancer, two hundred miles
to the south, Artemis Entreri watched the display. "By sea," he muttered, noting
the sequence of the bursts. He turned to the halfling standing beside him.
"Your friends pursue us by sea," he said. "And less than a week behind! They
have done well."
Regis's eyes did not flicker in hope at the news. The climate change was
very evident now, every day and every night. They had left the winter far
behind, and the hot winds of the southern Realms had settled uneasily on the
halfling's spirits. The trip to Calimport would not be interrupted by any other
stops, and no ship - even one less than a week behind - could hope to catch the
speedy Devil Dancer.
Regis wrestled against an inner dilemma, trying to come to terms with the
inevitability of his meeting with his old guildmaster.
Pasha Pook was not a forgiving man. Regis had personally witnessed Pook
dealing out severe punishments to those thieves who dared to steal from other
members of the guild. And Regis had gone even a step further than that; he had
stolen from the guildmaster himself. And the item he had plucked, the magical
ruby pendant, was Pook's most treasured possession. Defeated and despairing,
Regis put his head down and walked slowly back toward his cabin.
The halfling's somber mood did nothing to quell the tingle running through
Entreri's spine. Pook would get the gem and the halfling, and Entreri would be
paid well for the service. But in the assassin's mind, Pook's gold was not the
true reward for his efforts.
Entreri wanted Drizzt Do'Urden.
* * *
Drizzt and Wulfgar also watched the fireworks over Baldur's Gate that night.
Back in the open sea, but still more than a hundred and fifty miles north of the
Devil Dancer, they could only guess at the display's significance.
"A wizard," Deudermont remarked, coming over to join the two. "Perhaps he
does battle with some great aerial beast," the captain offered, trying to draw
up some entertaining story. "A dragon or some other monster of the sky!" Drizzt
squinted to gain a closer look at the fiery bursts. He saw no dark forms weaving
around the flares, nor any hint that they were aimed at a particular target. But
possibly the Sea Sprite was simply too far away for him to discern such detail.
"Not a fight - a signal," Wulfgar blurted, recognizing a pattern to the
explosions. "Three and one. Three and one.
"It seems a bit of trouble for a simple signal," Wulfgar added. "Would not a
rider carrying a note serve better?"
"Unless it is meant as a signal to a ship," offered Deudermont.
Drizzt had already entertained that very thought, and he was becoming more
than a little suspicious of the display's source, and of its purpose.
Deudermont studied the display a moment longer. "Perhaps it is a signal," he
conceded, recognizing the accuracy of Wulfgar's observations of a pattern. "Many
ships put in to and out of Baldur's Gate each day. A wizard greeting some
friends or saying farewell in grand fashion."
"Or relaying information," Drizzt added, glancing up at Wulfgar. Wulfgar did
not miss the drow's point; Drizzt could tell by the barbarian's scowl that
Wulfgar was entertaining similar suspicions.
"But for us, a show and nothing more," Deudermont said, bidding them good
night with a pat on the shoulder. "An amusement to be enjoyed."
Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other, seriously doubting Deudermont's
assessment.
* * *
"What game does Artemis Entreri play?" Pook asked rhetorically, speaking his
thoughts aloud.
Oberon, the wizard in the crystal ball, shrugged. "Never have I pretended to
understand the motives of Artemis Entreri."
Pook nodded his accord and continued to pace behind LaValle's chair.
"Yet I would guess that these two have little to do with your pendant," said
Oberon.
"Some personal vendetta Entreri acquired along his travels," agreed Pook.
"Friends of the halfling?" wondered Oberon. "Then why would Entreri lead
them in the right direction?"
"Whoever they may be, they can only bring trouble," said LaValle, seated
between his guildmaster and the scrying device.
"Perhaps Entreri plans to lay an ambush for them," Pook suggested to Oberon.
"That would explain his need for your signal."
"Entreri instructed the harbormaster to tell them that he would meet them in
Calimport," Oberon reminded Pook.
"To throw them off," said LaValle. "To make them believe that the way would
be clear until they arrived in the southern port."
"That is not the way of Artemis Entreri," said Oberon, and Pook was thinking
the same thing. "I have never known the assassin to use such obvious tricks to
gain the upper hand in a contest. It is Entreri's deepest pleasure to meet and
crush challengers face to face."
The two wizards and the guildmaster who had survived and thrived by his
ability to react to such puzzles appropriately all held their thoughts for a
moment to consider the possibilities. All that Pook cared about was the return
of his precious pendant. With it he could expand his powers ten times, perhaps
even gaining the favor of the ruling Pasha of Calimshan himself.
"I do not like this," Pook said at length. "I want no complications to the
return of the halfling, or of my pendant."
He paused to consider the implications of his decided course, leaning over
LaValle's back to get close to Oberon's image. "Do you still. have contact with
Pinochet?" he asked the wizard slyly.
Oberon guessed the guildmaster's meaning. "The pirate does not forget his
friends," he answered in the same tone, "Pinochet contacts me every time he
finds his way to Baldur's Gate. He inquires of you as well, hoping that all is
well with his old friend."
"And is he now in the isles?"
"The winter trade is rolling down from Waterdeep," Oberon replied with a
chuckle. "Where else would a successful pirate be?"
"Good," muttered Pook.
"Should I arrange a welcome for Entreri's pursuers?" Oberon asked eagerly,
enjoying the intrigue and the opportunity to serve the guildmaster.
"Three ships - no chances," said Pook. "Nothing shall interfere with the
halfling's return. He and I have so very much to discuss!"
Oberon considered the task for a moment. "A pity," he remarked. "The Sea
Sprite was a fine vessel."
Pook echoed a single word for emphasis, making it absolutely clear that he
would tolerate no mistakes.
"Was."
10
The Weight of a Kings Mantle
The halfling hung by his ankles, suspended upside down with chains above a
cauldron of boiling liquid. Not water, though, but something darker. A red hue,
perhaps.
Blood, perhaps.
The crank creaked, and the halfling dropped an inch closer. His face was
contorted, his mouth wide, as if in a scream.
But no screams could be heard. Just the groans of the crank and a sinister
laugh from an unseen torturer.
The misty scene shifted, and the crank came into view, worked slowly by a
single hand that seemed unattached to anything else.
There was a pause in the descent.
Then the evil voice laughed one final time. The hand jerked quickly, sending
the crank spinning.
A scream resounded, piercing and cutting, a cry of agony - a cry of death.
* * *
Sweat stung Bruenor's eyes even before he had fully opened them. He wiped
the wetness from his face and rolled his head, trying to shake away the terrible
images and adjust his thoughts to his surroundings.
He was in the Ivy Mansion, in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room. The
fresh candles that he had set out burned low. They hadn't helped; this night had
been like the others: another nightmare.
Bruenor rolled over and sat up on the side of his bed. Everything was as it
should be. The mithril armor and golden shield lay across a chair beside the
room's single dresser. The axe that he had used to cut his way out of the
duergar lair rested easily against the wall beside Drizzt's scimitar, and two
helmets sat atop the dresser, the battered, one-horned helm that had carried the
dwarf through the adventures of the last two centuries, and the crown of the
king of Mithril Hall, ringed by a thousand glittering gemstones.
But to Bruenor's eyes, all was not as it should be. He looked to the window
and the darkness of the night beyond. Alas, all he could see was the reflection
of the candlelit room, the crown and armor of the king of Mithril Hall.
It had been a tough week for Bruenor. All the days had been filled with the
excitement of the times, of talk of the armies coming from Citadel Adbar and
Icewind Dale to reclaim Mithril Hall. The dwarf's shoulders ached from being
patted so many times by Harpells and other visitors to the mansion, all anxious
to congratulate him in advance for the impending return of his throne.
But Bruenor had wandered through the last few days absently, playing a role
thrust upon him before he could truly appreciate it. It was time to prepare for
the adventure Bruenor had fantasized about since his exile nearly two centuries
before. His father's father had been king of Mithril Hall, his father before
him, and back to the beginnings of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor's birthright
demanded that he lead the armies and retake Mithril Hall, that he sit in the
throne he had been born to possess.
But it was in the very chambers of the ancient dwarven homeland that Bruenor
Battlehammer had realized the truth of what was important to him. Over the
course of the last decade, four very special companions had come into his life,
not one of them a dwarf. The friendship the five had forged was bigger than a
dwarven kingdom and more precious to Bruenor than all the mithril in the world.
The realization of his fantasy conquest seemed empty to him.
The moments of the night now held Bruenor's heart and his concentration. The
dreams, never the same but always with the same terrible conclusion, did not
fade with the light of day.
"Another one?" came a soft call from the door. Bruenor looked over his
shoulder to see Catti-brie peeking in on him. Bruenor knew that he didn't have
to answer. He put his head down in one hand and rubbed his eyes.
"About Regis again?" asked Catti-brie, moving closer. Bruenor heard the door
softly close.
"Rumblebelly," Bruenor softly corrected, using the nickname he had tagged on
the halfling who had been his closest friend for nearly a decade.
Bruenor swung his legs back up on the bed. "I should be with him," he said
gruffly, "or at least with the drow and Wulfgar, lookin' for him!"
"Yer kingdom awaits," Catti-brie reminded him, more to dispel his guilt than
to soften his belief in where he truly belonged - a belief that the young woman
wholeheartedly shared. "Yer kin from Icewind Dale'll be here in a month, the
army from Adbar in two."
"Aye, but we can't be going to the halls till the winter's past."
Catti-brie looked around for some way to deflect the sinking conversation.
"Ye'll wear it well," she said cheerfully, indicating the bejeweled crown.
"Which?" Bruenor retorted, a sharp edge to his tongue.
Catti-brie looked at the dented helm, pitiful beside the glorious one, and
nearly snorted aloud. But she turned to Bruenor before she commented, and the
stern look stamped upon the dwarf's face as he studied the old helmet told her
that Bruenor had not asked in jest. At that moment, Catti-brie realized, Bruenor
saw the one-horned helmet as infinitely more precious than the crown he was
destined to wear.
"They're halfway to Calimport," Catti-brie remarked, sympathizing with the
dwarf's desires. "Maybe more."
"Aye, and few boats'll be leaving Waterdeep with the winter coming on,"
Bruenor muttered grimly, echoing the same arguments Catti-brie had leveled on
him during his second morning in the Ivy Mansion, when he had first mentioned
his desire to go after his friends.
"We've a million preparations before us," said Catti-brie, stubbornly
holding her cheerful tone. "Suren the winter'll pass quickly, and we'll get the
halls in time for Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis's return."
Bruenor's visage did not soften. His eyes locked on the broken helmet, but
his mind wandered beyond the vision, back to the fateful scene at Garumn's
Gorge. He had at least made peace with Regis before they were separated ....
