as they desired. But though all three of them would have welcomed the
opportunity to relax and recover from their trials, other roads summoned
them.
Drizzt arid Wulfgar stood at the exit of Longsaddle the very next
morning, with fresh horses provided by the Harpells. Catti-brie walked down
to them slowly, Harkle holding back a few steps behind her.
"Will you come?" Drizzt asked, but guessed by her expression that she
would not.
"Would that I could," Catti-brie replied. "Ye'll get to the halfling, I
don't fear. I've another vow to fulfill."
"When?" Wulfgar asked.
"In the spring, by me guess," said Catti-brie. "The magic of the
Harpells has set the thing to going; already they've called out to the clan
in the dale, and to Harbromm in Citadel Adbar. Bruenor's kin'll be marchin'
out afore the week's end, with many allies from Ten-Towns. Harbromm
promises eight thousand, and some of the Harpells have pledged their help."
Drizzt thought of the undercity he had viewed in his passage of the
lower levels, and of the bustle of thousands of gray dwarves, all outfitted
in shining mithril. Even with all of Clan Battlehammer and their friends
from the dale, eight thousand battle-seasoned dwarves from Adbar, and the
magical powers of the Harpells, the victory would be hard won if won at
all.
Wulfgar also understood the enormity of the task that Catti-brie would
face, and doubt came to him about his decision to set out with Drizzt.
Regis needed him, but he could not turn away from Catti-brie in her need.
Catti-brie sensed his torment. She walked up to him and kissed him
suddenly, passionately, then jumped back. "Get yer business done and over,
Wulfgar, son of Beornegar," she said. "And get ye back to me!"
"I, too, was Bruenor's friend," Wulfgar argued. "I, too, shared in his
vision of Mithril Hall. I should be beside you when you go to honor him."
"Ye've a friend alive that needs ye now," Catti-brie snapped at him. "I
can set the plans to going. Ye get yerself after Regis! Pay Entreri all
he's got coming, and be quick. Mighten be that ye'll get back in time to
march to the halls."
She turned to Drizzt, a most-trusted hero. "Keep him safe for me," she
pleaded. "Show him a straight road, and show him the way back!"
On Drizzt's nod, she spun and ran back up to Harkle and toward the Ivy
Mansion. Wulfgar did not follow. He trusted in Catti-brie.
"For the halfling and the cat," he said to Drizzt, clasping Aegis-fang
and surveying the road before them.
Sudden fires glowed in the drow's lavender eyes, and Wulfgar took an
involuntary step back. "And for other reasons," Drizzt said grimly, looking
out over the wide southland that held the monster he might have become. It
was his destiny to meet Entreri in battle again, he knew, the test of his
own worth to defeat the killer.
"For other reasons."
Dendybar's breath came hard to him as he viewed the scene Sydney's
corpse stuffed into a corner of a dark room.
The specter, Morkai, waved his arm and the image was replaced by a view
of the bottom of Garumn's Gorge.
"No!" Dendybar screamed when he saw the remains of the golem, headless
and lying among the rubble. The mottled wizard shook visibly. "Where is the
drow?" he demanded of the specter.
Morkai waved the image away and stood silent, pleased at Dendybar's
distress.
"Where is the drow?" Dendybar repeated, more loudly.
Morkai laughed at him. "Find your own answers, foolish wage. My service
to you is ended!" The apparition puffed into fire and was gone.
Dendybar leaped wildly from his magic circle and kicked the burning
brazier over. "I shall torment you a thousand times for your insolence!" he
yelled into the emptiness of the room. His mind spun with the
possibilities. Sydney dead. Bok dead. Entreri? The drow and his friends?
Dendybar needed answers. He could not forsake his search for the Crystal
Shard, could not be denied the power he sought.
Deep breaths steadied him as he concentrated on the beginnings of a
spell. He saw the bottom of the gorge again, brought the image into sharp
focus within his mind. As he chanted through the ritual, the scene became
more real, more tangible. Dendybar experienced it fully; the darkness, the
hollow emptiness of the shadowy walls and the almost imperceptible swish of
air running through the ravine, the jagged hardness of the broken stone
under his feet.
He stepped out of his thoughts and into Garumn's Gorge.
"Bok," he whispered as he stared down at the twisted and broken form of
his creation, his greatest achievement.
The thing stirred. A rock rolled away from it as it shifted and
struggled to rise before its creator. Dendybar watched in disbelief, amazed
that the magical strength he had imbued upon the golem was so resilient as
to survive such a drop, and such mutilation.
Bok stood in front of him, waiting.
Dendybar studied the thing for a long moment, pondering how he might
begin to restore it. "Bok!" he greeted it emphatically, a hopeful grin
coming to him. "Come, my pet. I shall take you back home and mend your
wounds."
Bok took a step forward, crowding Dendybar against the wall. The
wizard, still not understanding, started to order the golem away.
But Bok's remaining arm shot up and grasped Dendybar by the throat,
lifting him into the air and choking off any further commands. Dendybar
grabbed and flailed at the arm, helpless and confused.
A familiar laugh came to his ears. A ball of fire appeared above the
torn stump of the golem's neck, transforming into a familiar face.
Morkai.
Dendybar's eyes bulged in terror. He realized that he had overstepped
his limits, had summoned the specter too many times. He had never truly
dismissed Morkai from this last encounter, and suspected rightly that he
probably wouldn't have been strong enough to push the specter from the
material plane even if he had tried. Now, outside of his magic circle of
protection, he was at the mercy of his nemesis.
"Come, Dendybar," Morkai grinned, his dominating will twisting the
golem's arm. "Join me in the realm of death where we might discuss your
treachery!"
A snap of bone echoed across the stones, the ball of fire puffed away,
and wizard and golem tumbled down, lifeless.
Farther down the gorge, half buried in a pile of debris, the fires of
the burning dragon had died to a smoky smolder.
Another rock shifted and rolled away.
The Author
Born in Massachusetts in 1959, Bob Salvatore lives there still with his
wife, Diane, and their three children. His love affair with fantasy, and
with literature in general, began during his sophomore year of college when
he was given a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings as a
Christmas gift. He promptly changed his major from computer science to
journalism and was awarded a bachelor of science degree in
Communications/Media from Fitchburg State College in 1981. He has continued
his studies part-time since and is nearing completion of his bachelor of
arts degree in English.
During the day, he works as a financial specialist for a manufacturer
of automatic test equipment. He spends his evenings at his word processor,
after the kids are tucked away in bed.
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