Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
The assassin had nearly been caught off his guard with the sheer ferocity, balance, and coordination of the attack.
This was a Baenre noble, he reminded himself, and he knew well what that likely meant.
Entreri would be at his best here, or he would surely be dead!
He matched Tiago’s assault with a fast riposte, then drove forward with three sudden thrusts, each forcing the drow farther from Afafrenfere and more to the middle of the lane.
“Monk!” Entreri called, and he winced as dark elves began to arrive, coming from the windows and door, and floating down from the higher windows of the burning building. “Run!”
In response, Afafrenfere took a step, nearly tumbling as his weight came upon his broken leg. He grimaced and fought through it, though, stumbling along for another few steps.
A globe of darkness engulfed him.
A hail of javelins swarmed into the globe. There came a grunt and the thud of the man falling to the ground, and Entreri noted his hand protruding from the edge of the darkness, fingers trembling and moving, as if they were trying to grasp at life itself.
Then stillness.
So it was over, Entreri realized, his gallant idiocy sure to leave them both dead on the street. He managed a glance behind him, down the lane toward the lower city, and caught sight of Dahlia in crow form touching down beside Effron, and Amber battling a horrid drider off to the side, and a spinning web of lightning descending right behind Dahlia.
The flashes and reverberations of that lightning net shook the ground all around this section of Port Llast; people were running, scrambling, tumbling as the ground moved under their feet.
Entreri held his balance, and even used the tremor to go at Tiago once more, hoping to at least take this miserable drow noble down before the other dark elves overwhelmed him.
But Tiago, with equal balance, was ready for the charge, and Entreri’s slashing sword met a spiraling, widening shield—a magical shield expanding right before Entreri’s eyes! Tiago dared to roll around, even putting his back to Entreri for a brief instant.
His back! Entreri saw the opening. His opponent had underestimated him.
He went for the target, or tried to, but found to his horror that his sword was stuck fast to Tiago’s shield, as surely as if he had slashed it into the side of a thick spiderweb.
Tiago came around turning that shield, tugging hard and nearly taking the sword from Entreri’s hand. Only the assassin’s great speed and balance allowed him to twist and turn enough to hold on desperately as the drow’s sword stabbed for him. Only a last-instant parry by his jeweled dagger turned that blade from his face, and only enough so that blade still nicked his ear as it passed.
Entreri felt the sting of that hit, and the added sting of drow poison.
And then the ground rolled under him suddenly, like an ocean wave, and he and Tiago were lifted into the air, deafened by a thunder stroke, and blinded by a flash so brilliant that it stole the night.
CHAPTER 10
EVERY DAY, EVERY EXPERIENCE, EVERY THRILL
CA-RU-DELLY!” PENELOPE HARPELL SAID WITH GREAT ENTHUSIASM AND a loud clap of her hands when the five companions, led by Catti-brie, were escorted into her audience chamber.
“Eh?” Bruenor asked.
But Catti-brie was simply smiling in response at the affectionate nickname—one Catti-brie had earned in her initial meeting with Penelope a couple of years earlier. When asked her name in that first meeting, Catti-brie had nearly blurted the truth, then tried to change it with the name she had been given by her Bedine parents, and finally had settled on her alias, that of poor Delly Curtie. She moved swiftly across the room, catching Penelope, her mentor, in a great hug.
“I told you I would return,” she said.
“To tell me the truth of your tale, so you promised,” Penelope replied as they broke the embrace. The older woman looked past Catti-brie to her companions, and her expression turned to one of curiosity when her gaze settled on the dark elf.
“Drizzt Do’Urden?” she asked. “Truly?”
The drow bowed. “Well met, Lady Penelope,” he said.
“Truly, indeed,” said an old man as he came in the door. He walked around Drizzt, nodded and smiled to Catti-brie, then clapped the drow on the shoulder.
“Kipper Harpell,” Drizzt said, nodding. He didn’t really remember the man all that well, but the name was fresh in his thoughts, given Catti-brie’s tutelage of the current state of the Ivy Mansion as the group had neared the place.
“I was a young man when last you came through Longsaddle,” Kipper said.
“Aye, was half a century ago when last we seen ye,” answered Bruenor, moving up beside Drizzt and offering his hand to Kipper.
The old man looked at him curiously.
“Half a century?” he asked, staring doubtfully at the young dwarf, who could not be half that age.
“I was older then,” Bruenor said with a laugh.
“I was older still,” Wulfgar said. “In human years.”
Regis snorted and waved his hand dismissively at the other two. “I was dead!” he exclaimed.
Kipper turned to Penelope, but she wore a perplexed expression to match that of the old mage.
“I told you I had a tale to tell,” Catti-brie said to her.
The older woman considered her former student, then turned to regard Drizzt and the others, her gaze settling on Bruenor. “Older then, but wearing the same crown?” she asked, and when the dwarf smiled, she added, “The one-horned helm of King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall?”
“Aye, she’s gettin’ it!” said the dwarf.
Penelope turned to the beautiful young woman with auburn hair standing beside her and said, “Catti-brie.”
Catti-brie nodded.
“Was she your mother, then?” Kipper asked Catti-brie. “Or your great-great-great grandmother at the least.”
Penelope grabbed Catti-brie’s arm and lifted it, pulling back the sleeve of her white gown to reveal the spellscar. She looked at Kipper and shook her head. “Catti-brie,” she reiterated.
“The Companions of the Hall,” Drizzt put in. “All of us. Once great friends to the Harpells of Longsaddle, who came to our aid in Mithral Hall in the Time of Troubles, when the drow returned.”
“I am too old for riddles,” Kipper complained.
“But are you too old for a fine tale?” Catti-brie asked.
Penelope’s husband Dowell entered the room then, his smile going wide when he noted the return of the woman called Delly Curtie. He looked around, happily at first, but his smile vanished when he regarded old Kipper, who stood with his arms crossed, a frown on his face, and tapping one shoe impatiently against the wooden floor.
“It seems that I have missed something,” Dowell said.
The door closed and all turned to see the foppish halfling leaning up against it. With a wide grin, Regis led the looks to the side of the room, where Wulfgar was already setting out an array of glasses, and inspecting the bottles of Penelope and Dowell’s private stock as he went.
Apparently noticing the dumbfounded stares upon him, Wulfgar turned and met them with a beaming smile. “What is a fine tale without an appropriate toasting beverage?” he asked, looking at Regis as he did.
“Ye’re gonna get me boy in trouble,” Bruenor whispered to the halfling.
“Count on it,” the halfling replied.
With a laugh, Penelope agreed, and she moved fast to clear enough of her desk for the large barbarian to bring over sufficient glasses and bottles. She settled back into her chair, Dowell and Kipper taking seats to flank her, and bade Catti-brie to spin her tale.
Even as the woman moved before the desk to begin, though, Penelope held up her hand to stop her. The Harpell leader then closed her eyes and whispered a spell—indeed, a spell referred to as the magical whisper. Soon after, there came a knock on the door. On Penelope’s signal, Regis opened it, and in came a line of younger Harpells, all bearing co
“Do begin,” Penelope bade Catti-brie when the students were gone and the door closed once more.
A long while later, Penelope magically whispered once more, and soon after that, a grand dinner was brought in.
Through the meal, Catti-brie and the others continued their tale.
Long into the night, Drizzt finished. “And so we are here, with a dark road before us, and needing the friendship of the great Harpells of Longsaddle once more.
“For the sake o’ me Pwent,” Bruenor added.
Penelope looked to Dowell, and both deferred to Kipper.
“Already working on it,” replied the old mage, who had appeared asleep until the weight of the gazes had stirred him.
“He will have to be resurrected,” Kipper told Catti-brie around mid-morning of the next day. “I see no other way.”
The woman frowned and looked to the third person in the room, Penelope Harpell.
“There is no cure for vampirism,” Penelope said with a shrug. “None that I know of, at least.”
“Such a spell as resurrection is far beyond my abilities,” Catti-brie said.
“Far beyond all but a few—and it won’t come cheaply!” Kipper stated. “And I doubt your friend will survive it—you understand that, of course?”
Catti-brie nodded.
“Thibbledorf Pwent was old and in failing health at the time of his infection,” Kipper went on. “So you have told me. And many decades have passed since then. You will likely raise him from undeath only to deliver him to true death.”
“Better that,” Catti-brie said, and the others nodded.
“Likely, yes,” said Penelope, and she dropped a hand gently on Catti-brie’s forearm to comfort her.
“But what is the point?” Catti-brie asked. “If Pwent is doomed in any case, we can simply destroy him as is—”
“You would not wish to offer him the peace of alleviating his curse before he ventures to the netherworld?” Kipper asked.
There came a knock at the door and Penelope went to answer it.
“I see no choice,” Catti-brie answered. “How am I to procure the services of a properly skilled high priest? And one who will venture to Gauntlgrym?”
“Bring the vampire to the priest, when you find one,” Kipper said, and as he spoke, Wulfgar entered the room. “Ah, good,” Kipper said. “Do join us.”
Wulfgar took the seat beside Catti-brie. She looked at him curiously, but he could only shrug in response, clearly as perplexed as she as to why he had been summoned to this meeting.
“You have brought it?” Kipper asked.
Wulfgar seemed confused for a just a moment as Kipper reached his hand out, but then moved quickly to remove his silver horn and hand it over to the old mage.
“A brilliant item!” Kipper said, rolling it over in his hands, then casting a spell to examine it more closely. He focused on the line of small but exquisite gemstones set in the silver.
“From a dragon’s lair, you say,” Penelope prompted, taking the conversation while Kipper continued his examination.
“Icingdeath.”
“The dragon you and Drizzt killed many years ago.”
“A lifetime ago,” Wulfgar said with a grin.
“Have you used it?” Kipper asked.
“Yes—almost immediately after I found it,” Wulfgar answered, “in the dragon’s lair, on a hoard of treasure. Ice trolls had dogged me all the way to the treasure hoard and by then had surrounded me. I thought my new life near its end and blew the horn out of defiance and nothing more—well, perhaps I hoped its notes would bring the ice ceiling crashing down, affording me some chance against the odds, at least.”
“And the trumpet brought in allies,” Kipper said with a laugh. “Oh, how grand!”
“And have you used it since?” Penelope asked.
“Only once, to confirm …” Wulfgar answered sheepishly.
“It troubles you?” Penelope asked.
“He thinks he is disturbing the sleep of the dead, and his culture frowns upon that,” Kipper answered before Wulfgar could. “Is that correct, son?”
Wulfgar started to answer, but chuckled instead. “When I died, I was decades older than you are now, mage,” he said. “But yes, it is not my place to disturb the sleep of the dead.”
“Well, rest assured, friend, that you are doing no such thing,” Kipper said, and he blew the horn, a wheezing and broken note, but enough to enact the magic. Within a few heartbeats, the gems on the side of the silver horn sparkled and a trio of warriors appeared, each armed with either a pair of hand axes or an axe and sword. They danced around the room for a bit, unsure of what was required of them, it seemed, until Kipper cast another spell and dismissed them back to nothingness.
“It is a magic item, a tool,” the old mage assured Wulfgar as he handed back the horn.
“Like Guenhwyvar,” Wulfgar replied.
“Nay, the panther is much more than that,” Penelope said. “This is more akin to the whistle that summons Drizzt’s unicorn.”
“These are not the souls of the dead warriors,” Kipper assured him. “These are the magical manifestations of what the berserkers had been, physically, but rest easy that the souls who inhabited those bodies have long gone to Warrior’s Rest.” He looked at Penelope and nodded, “As I expected.”
“What am I missing here?” Catti-brie asked. “How is the horn relevant?”
“The magic of the horn is—or was—a spell meant to trap the soul,” Kipper answered. “Part of it, at least. There is much more imbued there that I do not understand, for it is a very ancient item, one long, long pre-dating the Spellplague or even the Time of Troubles, likely. But the victims of that magic, the warriors who have since passed on, were caught there through the spell I mentioned, and such a spell might well aid you in catching your vampire friend.”
“Trap his soul in a gemstone and bring the stone to a powerful high priest to finish the grim task,” Penelope offered.
“I do not know this spell,” said Catti-brie.
“No, and it is a powerful one,” Kipper said. “Perhaps beyond you, but I do not think so—with the help of a scroll, at least, and a gemstone worthy of containing such a treasure as a soul.”
“And you have such items,” Wulfgar assumed.
“We prepared many things for the Bidderdoos, just in case,” Penelope answered.
“Werewolves,” Catti-brie explained to her large friend.
“I remember him,” Wulfgar agreed with a nod.
“He left a legacy. In the forest.”
Penelope Harpell rose and offered Wulfgar her hand. “Come,” she bade him. “Let us leave Catti-brie and Kipper to their work. She has much to learn.”
When they had left the room, Catti-brie turned to the old mage with a smile. “I knew you would help.”
“The world is a dark place,” Kipper replied. “But when friends join hands, it lightens.”
Catti-brie nodded as she considered the generosity, and she wondered how much more the Harpells might offer when the Companions of the Hall finished their business in Gauntlgrym and turned their warrior eyes once more to the Silver Marches.
“Do you feel better about your … toy?” Penelope asked as she led Wulfgar away. He walked with her down many halls and through a few rooms, and finally, out into the grand garden in back of the Ivy Mansion.
“I do,” Wulfgar admitted. “I feared disturbing the sleep of the dead. It is not my place—”
“But you didn’t destroy the horn,” Penelope noted. “Or put it away.”
Wulfgar smiled at her, conceding the point. “It saved my life once,” he admitted.
“Yes, in a dragon’s lair, so you and your halfling friend before that, have told me,” said Penelope. “I would love to hear more about the fight.”
Wulfgar paused and looked down at her. “Were you once an adventurer? Have you known the thrill of battle?”
“Or of theft?” Penel
“Proper pillaging!” Wulfgar corrected with a laugh.
“When I was younger, I found adventure,” the woman admitted. “In fact, it was on the wild road, in a steading full of hill giants, where I met Dowell and fell in love. In the midst of battle, no less.”
“He saved you?” Wulfgar asked slyly.
“Quite the opposite,” the woman replied, and she walked on down the garden path, moving between tall rows of high flowers and coming out into the full sunshine on the far end. “Dowell is quite skilled at his craft, but he was never much of an evoker, and giants are not the most receptive creatures to charm spells.”
“Ah, but Penelope was, apparently.”
The woman laughed. “He didn’t need them against my resolve!”
“His powers of persuasion must be great indeed to convince you to join this family,” Wulfgar remarked, and Penelope looked at him with a puzzled expression, as if she did not understand.
“I convinced him,” she corrected when she had sorted it out. “I am Penelope Harpell by birth, not marriage.”
It was Wulfgar’s turn to wear the puzzled expression.
“Dowell joined my clan and took my name,” she explained. “It was the least he could do after I pulled him from the grasp of the hill giant king—a hungry hill giant king, no less!”
Wulfgar laughed.
“I find your return to Toril the most curious tale among those of your group,” Penelope went on. “Catti-brie was bound by her goddess, Bruenor by his sense of friendship, the halfling by a need to prove his worth—be wary for him, for I suspect that his demands of his own courage will land him in dire straits in short order. But what of Wulfgar? You admitted that you did not immediately choose this path, yet here you are.”
“Bound by friendship, as with Bruenor, and including my friendship and debt to Bruenor as much as to Drizzt,” Wulfgar answered.
“You owed nothing, and that friendship was long past, by your own admission.” She stopped and looked up at Wulfgar intently, forcing him to look her in the eye.