Streams Of Silver (16 page)

Whisper’s eyes narrowed in anger. “I choose my fights carefully,” she hissed. “The four are too dangerous for actions of frivolous vengeance. Let them go where they will. I want no business with them again.”

Entreri’s calm visage sagged a bit. He had already been to the Cutlass and heard of Wulfgar’s exploits. And now this. A woman like Whisper was not easily cowed. Perhaps he should indeed reevaluate the strength of his opponents.

“Fearless is the dwarf,” Whisper offered, sensing his dismay and taking pleasure in furthering his discomfort. “And ware the drow, Artemis Entreri,” she hissed pointedly, attempting to relegate him to a similar level of respect for the companions with the grimness of her tone. “He walks in shadows that we cannot see, and strikes from the darkness. He conjures a demon in the form of a great cat and—”

Entreri turned and started away, having no intention of allowing Whisper to gain any more of an advantage.

Reveling in her victory, Whisper couldn’t resist the temptation to throw one final dart. “Men do not come to my room uninvited,” she said again. Entreri passed into an adjoining room and Whisper heard the door to the alley close.

“I choose my fights carefully,” she whispered to the emptiness of the room, regaining a measure of her pride with the threat.

She turned back to a small dressing table and took out the jar of unguent, quite pleased with herself. She examined her wound in the table’s mirror. Not too bad. The salve would erase it as it had erased so many scars from the trials of her profession.

She understood her stupidity when she saw the shadow slip past her reflection in the mirror, and felt the brush of air at her back. Her business allowed no tolerance for errors, and offered no second chance. For the first and last time in her life, Whisper had let her pride rise above her judgment.

A final groan escaped her as the jeweled dagger sunk deeply into her back.

“I, too, choose my fights with care,” Entreri whispered into her ear.

The next morning found Entreri outside a place he did not want to enter: the Hosttower of the Arcane. He knew that he was running out of options. Convinced now that the companions had long since left Luskan, the assassin needed some magical assistance to heat up the trail again. It had taken him nearly two years to sniff out the halfling in Ten-Towns, and his patience was wearing thin.

Catti-brie reluctantly but obediently at his side, he approached the structure, and was promptly escorted to Dendybar’s audience hall, where the mottled wizard and Sydney waited to greet him.

“They have left the city,” Entreri said bluntly, before any exchange of greetings.

Dendybar smiled to show Entreri that he had the upper hand this time. “As long as a tenday ago,” he replied calmly.

“And you know where they are,” Entreri reasoned.

Dendybar nodded, the smile still curling into his hollow cheeks.

The assassin didn’t enjoy the game. He spent a long moment measuring his counterpart, searching for some hint of the wizard’s intentions. Dendybar did likewise, still very much interested in an alliance with the formidable killer—but only on favorable terms.

“The price of the information?” Entreri asked.

“I do not even know your name,” was Dendybar’s reply.

Fair enough, the assassin thought. He bowed low. “Artemis Entreri,” he said, confident enough to speak truthfully.

“And why do you seek the companions, carrying the dwarf’s daughter in tow?” Dendybar pressed, playing his hand out to
give the cocky assassin something to worry about.

“That is my own care,” hissed Entreri, the narrowing of his eyes the only indication that Dendybar’s knowledge had perturbed him.

“It is mine, as well, if we are to be allies in this!” shouted Dendybar, rising to stand tall and ominous and intimidate Entreri.

The assassin, though, cared little for the wizard’s continuing antics, too engrossed in assessing the value of such an alliance. “I ask nothing of your business with them,” Entreri replied at length. “Tell me only which one of the four it concerns.”

It was Dendybar’s turn to ponder. He wanted Entreri in his court, if for no other reason than he feared having the assassin working against him. And he liked the notion that he would not have to disclose anything about the artifact that he sought to this very dangerous man.

“The drow has something of mine, or knowledge of where I can find it,” he said. “I want it back.”

“And the halfling is mine,” Entreri demanded. “Where are they?”

Dendybar motioned to Sydney. “They have passed through Longsaddle,” she said. “And are headed to Silverymoon, more than two tendays, to the east.”

The names were unknown to Catti-brie, but she was glad that her friends had a good lead. She needed time to sort out a plan, though she wondered how effective she could be surrounded by such powerful captors.

“And what do you propose?” Entreri asked.

“An alliance,” replied Dendybar.

“But I have the information I need,” Entreri laughed. “What do I gain in an alliance with you?”

“My powers can get you to them, and can aid in defeating them. They are not a weak force. Consider it of mutual benefit.”

“You and I on the road? You seem more fitted to a book and a desk, wizard.”

Dendybar locked an unblinking glare on the arrogant assassin. “I assure you that I can get wherever I desire more effectively than you ever could imagine,” he growled. He let go of his anger quickly, though, being more interested in completing business. “But I shall remain here. Sydney will go in my stead, and Jierdan, the soldier, will be her escort.”

Entreri did not like the idea of traveling with Jierdan, but he decided not to press the point. It might be interesting, and helpful, in sharing the hunt with the Hosttower of the Arcane. He agreed to the terms.

“And what of her?” Sydney asked, pointing to Catti-brie.

“She goes with me,” Entreri was quick to answer.

“Of course,” agreed Dendybar. “No purpose in wasting such a valuable hostage.”

“We are three against five,” Sydney reasoned. “If things do not work out as easily as the two of you seem to expect, the girl may prove to be our downfall.”

“She goes!” demanded Entreri.

Dendybar had the solution already worked out. He turned a wry smile at Sydney. “Take Bok,” he chuckled.

Sydney’s face drooped at the suggestion, as though Dendybar’s command had stolen her desire for the hunt.

Entreri wasn’t sure if he liked this new development or not.

Sensing the assassin’s discomfort, Dendybar motioned Sydney to a curtained closet at the side of the room. “Bok,” she called softly when she got there, the hint of a tremble in her voice.

It stepped through the curtain. Fully eight feet tall and three wide at the shoulders, the monster strode stiffly to the woman’s side. A huge man, it seemed, and indeed the wizard had used pieces of human bodies for many of its parts. Bok was bigger
and more square than any man living, nearly the size of a giant, and had been magically empowered with strength beyond the measures, of the natural world.

“A golem,” Dendybar proudly explained. “My own creation. Bok could kill us all right now. Even your fell blade would be of little use against it, Artemis Entreri.”

The assassin wasn’t so convinced, but he could not completely mask his intimidation. Dendybar had obviously tipped the scales of their partnership in his own favor, but Entreri knew that if he backed away from the bargain now he would be aligning the mottled wizard and his minions against him, and in direct competition with him for the dwarf’s party. Furthermore, it would take him tendays, perhaps even months, to catch the travelers by normal means and he did not doubt that Dendybar could get there faster.

Catti-brie shared the same uncomfortable thoughts. She had no desire to travel with the gruesome monster, but she wondered what carnage she would find when she finally caught up to Bruenor and the others if Entreri decided to break away from the alliance.

“Fear not,” Dendybar comforted. “Bok is harmless, incapable of any independent thought, for you see, Bok has no mind. The golem answers to my commands, or to Sydney’s, and would walk into a fire to be consumed if we merely asked it to do so!”

“I have business to finish in the city,” Entreri said, not doubting Dendybar’s words and having little desire to hear any more about the golem. “When do we depart?”

“Night would be best,” reasoned Dendybar. “Come back to the green outside the Hosttower when the sun is down. We shall meet there and get you on your way.”

Alone in his chamber, save for Bok, Dendybar stroked the golem’s muscled shoulders with deep affection. Bok was his
hidden trump, his protection against the resistance of the companions, or the treachery of Artemis Entreri. But Dendybar did not part with the monster easily, for it played a powerful role, as well, in protecting him from would-be successors in the Hosttower. Dendybar had subtly but definitely passed along the warning to other wizards that any of them striking against him would have to deal with Bok, even if Dendybar were dead.

But the road ahead might be long, and the Master of the North Spire could not forsake his duties and expect to hold his title. Especially not with the Archmage just looking for any excuse to be rid of him, understanding the dangers of Dendybar’s outspoken aspirations to the central tower.

“Nothing can stop you, my pet,” Dendybar told the monster. In truth, he was simply reaffirming his own fears about his choice to send the inexperienced mage in his stead. He didn’t doubt her loyalty, nor Jierdan’s, but Entreri and the heroes from Icewind Dale were not to be taken lightly.

“I have given you the hunting power,” Dendybar explained, as he tossed the scroll tube and the now useless parchment to the floor. “The drow is your purpose and you can now sense his presence from any distance. Find him! Do not return to me without Drizzt Do’Urden!”

A guttural roar issued from Bok’s blue lips, the only sound the unthinking instrument was capable of uttering.

Entreri and Catti-brie found the wizard’s party already assembled when they arrived at the Hosttower later that night.

Jierdan stood alone, off to the side, apparently none too thrilled about partaking in the adventure, but having little choice. The soldier feared the golem, and had no love, or trust, for Entreri. He feared Dendybar more, though, and his uneasiness about the potential dangers on the road did not measure up against the certain dangers he would face at the hands of the mottled wizard if he refused to go.

Sydney broke away from Bok and Dendybar and walked across the way to meet her companions. “Greetings,” she offered, more interested in appeasement now than competition with her formidable partner. “Dendybar prepares our mounts. The ride to Silverymoon shall be swift indeed!”

Entreri and Catti-brie looked to the mottled wizard. Bok stood beside him, holding an unrolled parchment out in view while Dendybar poured a smoky liquid from a beaker over a white feather and chanted the runes of the spell.

A mist grew at the wizard’s feet, swirling and thickening into something with a definite shape. Dendybar left it to its transformation and moved to repeat the ritual a short way off. By the time the first magical horse had appeared, the wizard was creating the fourth and final one.

Entreri raised his brow. “Four?” he asked Sydney. “We are now five.”

“Bok could not ride,” she replied, amused at the notion. “It will run.” She turned and headed back toward Dendybar, leaving Entreri with the thought.

“Of course,” Entreri muttered to himself, somehow less thrilled than ever about the presence of the unnatural thing.

But Catti-brie had begun to view things a bit differently. Dendybar had obviously sent Bok along more to gain an advantage over Entreri than to ensure victory over her friends. Entreri must have known it, too.

Without realizing it, the wizard had set up just the type of nervous environment that Catti-brie hoped for, a tense situation that she might find a way to exploit.

he sun beamed brightly on the morning of the first day out from Longsaddle. The companions, refreshed by their visit with the Harpells, rode at a strong pace, but still managed to enjoy the clear weather and the clear road. The land was flat and unmarked, not a tree or hill anywhere near.

“Three days to Nesmé, maybe four,” Regis told them.

“More to three if the weather holds,” said Wulfgar.

Drizzt shifted under his cowl. However pleasant the morning might seem to them, he knew they were still in the wilds. Three days could prove to be a long ride indeed.

“What do ye know of this place, Nesmé?” Bruenor asked Regis.

“Just what Harkle told us,” Regis replied. “A fair-sized city, trading folk. But a careful place. I have never been there, but tales of the brave people living on the edge of the Evermoors reach far across the northland.”

“I am intrigued by the Evermoors,” said Wulfgar. “Harkle would say little of the place, just shake his head and shiver whenever I asked of it.”

“Not to doubt, a place with a name beyond truth,” Bruenor said, laughing, unimpressed by reputations. “Could it be worse than the dale?”

Regis shrugged, not fully convinced by the dwarf’s argument. “The tales of the Trollmoors, for that is the name given to those lands, may be exaggerated, but they are always foreboding. Every city in the north salutes the bravery of the people of Nesmé for keeping the trading route along the Surbrin open in the face of such trials.”

Bruenor laughed again. “Might it be that the tales be coming from Nesmé, to paint them stronger than what they are?”

Regis did not argue.

By the time they broke for lunch, a high haze veiled the sunshine. Away to the north, a black line of clouds had appeared, rushing their way. Drizzt had expected as much. In the wild, even the weather proved an enemy.

That afternoon the squall line rolled over them, carrying sheets of rain and hailstones that clinked off of Bruenor’s dented helm. Sudden cuts of lightning sliced the darkened sky and the thunder nearly knocked them from their mounts. But they plodded on through the deepening mud.

“This is the true test of the road!” Drizzt yelled to them through the howling wind. “Many more travelers are defeated by storms than by orcs, because they do not anticipate the dangers when they begin their journey!”

“Bah! A summer rain is all!” Bruenor snorted defiantly.

As if in prideful reply, a lightning bolt exploded just a few yards to the side of the riders. The horses jumped and kicked. Bruenor’s pony went down, stumbling split-legged into the mud and nearly crushing the stunned dwarf in its scramble.

His own mount out of control, Regis managed to dive from the saddle and roll away.

Bruenor got to his knees and wiped the mud from his eyes, cursing all the while. “Damn!” he spat, studying the pony’s movements. “The thing’s lame!”

Wulfgar steadied his own horse and tried to start after Regis’s bolting pony, but the hailstones, driven by the wind, pelted him, blinded him, and stung his horse, and again he found himself fighting to hold his seat.

Another lightning bolt thundered in. And another.

Drizzt, whispering softly and covering his horse’s head with his cloak to calm it, moved slowly beside the dwarf.

“Lame!” Bruenor shouted again, though Drizzt could barely hear him.

Drizzt only shook his head helplessly and pointed to Bruenor’s axe.

More lightning came, and another blast of wind. Drizzt rolled to the side of his mount to shield himself, aware that he could not keep the beast calm much longer.

The hailstones began to come larger, striking with the force of slung bullets.

Drizzt’s terrified horse jerked him to the ground and bucked away, trying to flee beyond the reach of the punishing storm.

Drizzt was up quickly beside Bruenor, but any emergency plans the two might have had were immediately deterred, for then Wulfgar stumbled back toward them.

He was walking—barely—leaning against the wind’s push, using it to hold him upright. His eyes seemed droopy, his jaw twitched, and blood mixed with the rain on his cheek. He looked at his friends blankly, as if he had no comprehension of what had happened to him.

Then he fell, face down, into the mud at their feet.

A shrill whistle cut through the blunt wall of wind, a singular
point of hope against the storm’s mounting power. Drizzt’s keen ears caught it as he and Bruenor hoisted their young friend’s face from the muck. So far away the whistle seemed, but Drizzt understood how storms could distort one’s perceptions.

“What?” Bruenor asked of the noise, noticing the drow’s sudden reaction, for Bruenor had not heard the call.

“Regis!” Drizzt answered. He started dragging Wulfgar in the direction of the whistle, Bruenor following his lead. They didn’t have time to discern if the young man was even alive.

The quick-thinking halfling saved them that day. Fully aware of the killing potential of squalls rolling down from the Spine of the World, Regis had crawled around in search of some shelter in the empty land. He stumbled across a hole in the side of a small ridge, an old wolf den perhaps, empty now.

Following the beacon of his whistles, Drizzt and Bruenor soon found him.

“It’ll fill with the rain and we’ll be drowned!” Bruenor yelled, but he helped Drizzt drag Wulfgar inside and prop him up against the rear wall of the cave, then took his place beside his friends as they worked to build a barrier of dirt and their remaining packs against the feared flood.

A groan from Wulfgar sent Regis scurrying to his side. “He’s alive!” the halfling proclaimed. “And his wounds don’t seem too bad!”

“Tougher’n a badger in a corner,” Bruenor remarked.

Soon they had their den tolerable, if not comfortable, and even Bruenor stopped his complaining.

“The true test of the road,” Drizzt said again to Regis, trying to cheer up his thoroughly miserable friend as they sat in the mud and rode out the night, the incessant booming of the thunder and pounding of the hail a constant reminder of the small margin of safety.

In reply, Regis poured a stream of water out of his boot.

“How many miles do ye reckon we made?” Bruenor grumbled at Drizzt.

“Ten, perhaps,” the drow answered.

“Two tendays to Nesmé, at this rate!” Bruenor muttered, folding his arms across his chest.

“The storm will pass,” Drizzt offered hopefully, but the dwarf was no longer listening.

The next day began without rain, though thick gray clouds hung low in the sky. Wulfgar was fine by morning, but he still did not understand what had happened to him. Bruenor insisted that they start out at once, though Regis would have preferred that they remain in their hole until they were certain the storm had passed.

“Most of the provisions are lost,” Drizzt reminded the halfling. “You might not find another meal beyond a pittance of dried bread until we reach Nesmé.”

Regis was the first one out of the hole.

Unbearable humidity and muddy ground kept the pace slow, and the friends soon found their knees aching from the constant twisting and sloshing. Their sodden clothes clung to them uncomfortably and weighed on their every step.

They came upon Wulfgar’s horse, a burned and smoking form half-buried in the mud. “Lightning,” Regis observed.

The three looked at their barbarian friend, amazed that he could have survived such a hit. Wulfgar, too, stared in shock, realizing what had dropped him from his mount in the night.

“Tougher’n a badger!” Bruenor hailed again to Drizzt.

Sunshine teasingly found a crack in the overcast now and then. The sunlight was nothing substantial, though, and by
noon, the day had actually grown darker. Distant thunder foretold a dismal afternoon.

The storm had already spent its killing might, but that night they found no shelter beyond their wet clothes, and whenever the crackle of lightning lit up the sky, four hunched forms could be seen sitting in the mud, their heads downcast as they accepted their fate in helpless resignation.

For two more days they lumbered on through the rain and wind, having little choice and nowhere to go but forward. Wulfgar proved to be the savior of the party’s morale at this low time. He scooped Regis up from the sodden ground, tossing the halfling easily onto his back, and explaining that he needed the extra weight for balance. By sparing the halfling’s pride this way, the barbarian even managed to convince the surly dwarf to ride for a short time. And always, Wulfgar was indomitable. “A blessing, I tell you,” he kept crying at the gray heavens. “The storm keeps the insects—and the orcs—out of our faces! And how many months shall it be before we want for water?”

He worked hard to keep their spirits high. At one point, he watched the lightning closely, timing the delay between the flash and the ensuing thunder. As they neared the blackened skeleton of a long-dead tree, the lightning flashed and Wulfgar pulled his trick. Yelling “Tempus!” he heaved his warhammer so that it smashed into, and leveled, the trunk at precisely the moment the thunder exploded around them. His amused friends looked back to him only to find him standing proud, arms and eyes uplifted to the gods as though they had personally answered his call.

Drizzt, accepting this whole ordeal with his customary stoicism, silently applauded his young friend and knew again, even more than before, that they had made a wise decision in bringing him along. The drow understood that his own duty in these rough times was to continue his role as sentry, keeping his
diligent guard despite the barbarian’s proclamation of safety.

Finally, the storm was blown away by the same brisk wind that had ushered it in. The bright sunshine and clear blue skies of the subsequent dawn lightened the companions’ mood immeasurably and allowed them to think again of what lay ahead,

Especially Bruenor. The dwarf leaned forward in his pressing march, just as he had when they had first begun their journey back in Icewind Dale.

Red beard wagging with the intensity of his pumping stride, Bruenor found his narrow focus once again. He fell back into the dreams of his homeland, seeing the flickering shadows of the torchlight against the silver-streamed walls and the wondrous artifacts of his people’s meticulous labors. His heightened concentration on Mithral Hall over the last few months had sparked clearer, and new, memories in him, and on the road now he remembered, for the first time in more than a century, the Hall of Dumathoin.

The dwarves of Mithral Hall had made a fine living in the trade of their crafted items, but they always kept their very finest pieces, and the most precious gifts bestowed upon them from outsiders, to themselves. In a large and decorated chamber that opened wide the eyes of every visitor, the legacy of Bruenor’s ancestors sat in open display, serving as inspiration for the clan’s future artists.

Bruenor chuckled softly at the memory of the wondrous hall and the marvelous pieces, mostly weapons and armor. He looked at Wulfgar striding beside him, and at the mighty warhammer he had crafted the year before. Aegis-fang might have hung in the Hall of Dumathoin if Bruenor’s clan still ruled Mithral Hall, sealing Bruenor’s immortality in the legacy of his people.