Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
After a long pause, he admitted, “Perhaps I fear death, after all.”
“A strange admission from one who has existed on the other side of life.”
“What is to be found in Warrior’s Rest?” he asked.
“Family, friends, comfort? Is that not what you expect?”
“Eternally.”
The way he said it tipped her off. “Eternal boredom, you mean.”
“I cannot say, but it matters not. If it is eternal, then it will wait, yes? And now I was presented with a grand adventure, another life of memories to make and a worthy band of friends to make them beside. Why would I not return?”
“You seem quite the opposite of Drizzt,” Penelope replied. “He could not let go of Catti-brie and his former life, and you seem eager to do so.”
Wulfgar pondered her words for a few moments, then slowly began shaking his head. “Nay, not that, but merely to expand that experience,” he explained. “More battles to fight, more women to love, more food to eat, and more spirits to drink.”
“So it is a grand game to you, then? Is there nothing more?”
“I know not,” Wulfgar admitted.
“So the aim of living is pleasure?”
“A fine goal!” Wulfgar said lightheartedly, but Penelope would not let it go so easily.
“There is a religion to support your theory,” she said, and Wulfgar’s expression immediately soured. “More a philosophy,” she quickly corrected. “But it presupposes the absence of just reward. It calls the gods false, relegating them to superior mortal beings posing as deities for the sake of their own enjoyment, and at the expense of the lesser rational beings who inhabit the world, and also, that they might control us.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
It was Penelope’s turn to laugh, “I have been called unconventional. I think it a badge of honor.”
Wulfgar stared at her intently. “You miss the open road and the thrill of adventure,” he stated.
“I am too old …” she started to reply, but his laughter cut her short.
“I have lived a century and a quarter!”
“You have the body of a young man.”
“I have the lust of a young man, but only because I have lived through the dullness of being an old man,” Wulfgar corrected. “I have passed through pain and grief—”
“And love?”
He didn’t deny it. He lifted Aegis-fang from over his shoulder and swung it easily at the end of one huge arm. “Every day, every experience,” he said with a nod. “Every thrill.”
“Like talking to an old lady in a sunlit garden?”
Wulfgar’s smile was wide and genuine, and his crystal blue eyes sparkled. “Not so old,” he said mischievously. “Perhaps one day, you and I will go kill some giants.”
Now Penelope was smiling, too, and that was her answer, and it was a sincere hope that such an event might come to pass.
“Truly, you remind me of a caged animal,” Regis said to Bruenor on the front deck of the Ivy Mansion one bright morning a few days later. Spring was in full bloom, the air light, the wind warm, and the road beckoned—and beckoned none more than the grumbling dwarf.
He paced back and forth, back and forth, thumping his heavy boots against the wooden porch. He paused for just a moment, to snort at the halfling, then went along again.
Just down the path from the pair stood Drizzt and Wulfgar, working their weapons slowly and methodically in mock battle, with Wulfgar asking questions of his old mentor every few twists. Regis thought he should go down there and further his own training—who better for him to learn from than Drizzt, after all?
“Long road ahead,” Bruenor remarked, passing the halfling by on one of his pacing lanes.
Regis nodded.
“Gauntlgrym—ah, wait till ye see it,” Bruenor went on. “We’ll catch us a Pwent and be on our way. Silverymoon, I say! Aye, we’ll find us a priest there to do the deed, and then we’ll set to chasing Obould and his dogs back into their holes!”
He continued on, muttering to himself as much as anything, for the notion of a “long road ahead” had sent Regis into some of his own ruminating. Yes, he’d travel to Gauntlgrym, but might that be the end of the journey for him? Should he choose to go south from there instead of east to the Silver Marches, he was fairly confident that he could find Doregardo and the Grinning Ponies early in the summer—with enough time to go back to Delthuntle and the waiting arms of his lovely Donnola.
The door to the mansion opened then, and Catti-brie came out, Penelope and Kipper beside her.
“If he fights off the first try, you might consider just killing him then and there,” Kipper was saying.
Drizzt and Wulfgar moved back to join them.
“ ’Ere now, what’s that?” Bruenor asked.
Catti-brie showed him a ring on her hand, golden and set with a black gemstone. “Stored within this ring is the spell we need to trap Pwent’s soul.” She rolled her hand, revealing a huge gemstone, red as blood.
“Ruby?” Drizzt asked.
“Sapphire,” Regis corrected, staring at the gem and licking his lips. “Phylactery,” Catti-brie corrected, and she tucked it away. “Ye said if it don’t work,” Bruenor said to Kipper. “Ye thinkin’ it might not, then?”
Old Kipper sucked in his breath. “It is a difficult spell—”
“Me girl can cast it!”
“Oh, indeed,” said Penelope. “The ring Kipper has loaned her holds the spell intact. But still, it is a difficult conjuration, and one an unwilling target can fight, sometimes successfully.”
“An unwilling dwarf,” Kipper added, “is never an easy target of any magical spell!”
“Nor an easy friend,” Regis quipped, drawing a glare from Bruenor.
“Kipper has shown me the spell—I have practiced,” Catti-brie said. “If the ring fails, I have this.” She reached under the fold of her white gown and produced a silver scroll tube.
But Kipper couldn’t help but shake his head. “Better to just destroy the vampire if he resists the magic,” he said. “Trap the Soul is difficult to enact—only a mage of great experience can do so without the scroll, and even with it … I fear that you are not ready.”
“Do not underestimate her,” Penelope put in, and put her hand on Catti-brie’s shoulder. “She has the favor of a goddess shining upon her, and is wiser in the ways of the world than her youthful appearance suggests.”
“Yes, yes, I know, I know,” Kipper said. “Well, to you all, then, a farewell and a fair road. I hope you find your lost friend.”
He bowed and went back inside, and the companions took turns bidding Penelope farewell, then started off down the hill for the gate to the Ivy Mansion, the road beyond and the trails beyond that.
“There are rumors of giants roaming the foothills of the Spine of the World,” Penelope called after them. Wulfgar grinned.
“Aye,” Wulfgar answered her. “We might have to see to that!”
“What was that about?” Catti-brie asked when they were on their way again.
“Adventure,” Wulfgar replied. “The same thing it is always about.”
CHAPTER 11
PAWN TO QUEEN FOUR
SPEAK NOT A WORD UNLESS YOU ARE DIRECTLY COMMANDED TO DO SO! TOS’UN Armgo’s fingers flashed to his daughter Doum’wielle, the two standing side-by-side, as ordered, on marks Berellip Xorlarrin had scratched on the ground.
“Do not move,” she had warned them, the gravity in her voice impossible to miss. Something was going on here, Tos’un understood, and it terrified him. Never had the Xorlarrins been friendly to the House of Armgo, of course, but this was even beyond that measure of animosity.
Berellip, a noble daughter and a high priestess, had been scared when she had ordered them to their spots.
“What do you think …?” Doum’wielle started to ask, but her whisper became a shriek as the heads of four venomous snakes bit into her back one after another. The girl swooned unde
“Weakling,” Berellip whispered in her ear. “Iblith! Perhaps I should drag you away and feed you to my driders so that the matron mother will not have to suffer the disgust in looking upon such an abomination as you!”
“She is a noble daughter of House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Tos’un said.
Berellip laughed and roughly shoved Doum’wielle before walking around to stand before the pair once more. “That says so much about the fraudulent Second House of Menzoberranzan, does it not? That they seek the beds of iblith to expand their ignoble family?”
Tos’un’s eyes flashed and Doum’wielle expected him to return a verbal barrage at that, but surprisingly, he stood perfectly quiet and perfectly still, except that his jaw quivered just a bit. Doum’wielle thought that curious and out of character, but then she realized that her father was not looking at Berellip any longer but was staring past her. The younger Armgo sucked in her breath, and despite the continuing burn of the snake bites, forced herself to stand taller.
Behind High Priestess Berellip Xorlarrin came a procession of drow such as she had never seen before, such as she had never imagined before. Male warriors flanked the central figures left and right, marching with precision, in perfect step, arms and armor sparkling with magical power.
Between those ranks, on a floating translucent disk that shined purple and blue, sat a woman bedecked in grand robes, laced and bejeweled with intricate designs of spiders and webs. A five-snake scourge rested across her lap, the serpent heads alive and writhing and clearly aware of the scene before them.
Berellip spun around and fell to her knees, eyes lowered to the floor.
Should she do the same, Doum’wielle wondered? She glanced at her father, who stood perfectly still, his eyes lowered. Her gaze dipped to the floor and she swallowed hard. The sight of her father, so clearly terrified, sweat upon his brow, had further unnerved her.
“Matron Mother Quenthel,” Berellip greeted, but did not look up.
“This is the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo?” Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre asked, stepping off her disc and moving up beside Berellip, waving for the high priestess to stand up as she did.
“Yes, Tsabrak caught him in the tunnels to the east.”
The matron mother turned a curious eye over Doum’wielle, first with intrigue but with her face quickly scrunching up with open disgust.
“What is this?”
“My daughter, Matron Mother,” Tos’un dared interject, and Berellip slapped him across the face.
Quenthel pushed Berellip back, though, and bade Tos’un to look up at her. “Your daughter?” she asked, using the common tongue of the surface.
“Yes.”
“A noble of House Barrison Del’Armgo?”
Tos’un swallowed hard, something Doum’wielle surely did not miss.
“How lovely,” Matron Mother Quenthel said. “Such a thoughtful present you have delivered to me.”
All three—Doum’wielle, Tos’un, and Berellip—looked at the matron mother with puzzlement.
“I wonder how proud your mother will be to know that her line is no longer pure,” Quenthel remarked, her voice like the purr of a contented cat. “Or will it be a secret she will want kept, do you suppose?”
Tos’un swallowed hard and cast a plaintive glance at Doum’wielle, and the young half-drow saw the sudden regret in his eyes. He had erred in bringing her here. They should never have left the Silver Marches.
“Andzrel!” Matron Mother Quenthel called, looking back to her line. A tall warrior rushed forward. “Take her and teach her what it is to be iblith in Menzoberranzan.”
“As I please?” he asked.
“Just keep her alive,” Quenthel instructed. “How much alive, I do not care.”
“No!” Doum’wielle cried, grabbing for her sword, but Quenthel lifted her hand and uttered a single word and the poor girl was sent flying backward.
Khazid’hea, the sentient blade, screamed in her head, telling her to stand down, but the headstrong girl picked herself up from the floor and stubbornly drew out the sword.
“Little Doe, no!” Tos’un cried.
Matron Mother Quenthel laughed wickedly. At her side, Andzrel drew out his two swords and calmly walked toward the poor girl. “Back, I warn!” Doum’wielle said.
The Weapons Master of House Baenre came at her then in a blur of movement, spinning and dodging, his blades flashing brightly as they cut in circles and stabs. Doum’wielle thought herself a fine swordswoman, but never had she seen anything of this tempo and skill. And worse, Khazid’hea would not cooperate, filling her head with doubt and calls for surrender.
Andzrel’s blade slapped hard against her sword, and Khazid’hea sent a charge of discord into her head, dizzying her.
Doum’wielle didn’t know what to make of any of it. She saw her cherished blade go flying out to the side, clanging down on the stone floor. She saw Andzrel stepping in closer, saw the pommel of his weapon rushing to smash her in the face.
Then she saw black spots flitting around her swirling vision. She felt the strong hands of the drow upon her, dragging her back. He was behind her, holding her upright …
Five snake heads danced before her eyes.
Berellip’s whip had hurt her, so she had believed, but compared to the scourge of Matron Mother Quenthel, that strike had been nothing at all.
In moments, Doum’wielle was on the floor, screaming and writhing in agony. Blow after blow descended upon her, viper fangs tearing at her flesh, burning poison streaming into her veins.
“Matron Mother, I beg of you!” Tos’un cried.
The matron mother turned an angry glare upon him. “You have lived on the surface,” she said. “How long?”
Tos’un hesitated, and Doum’wielle paid for his slip with another beating.
“Since the attack on Mithral Hall!” the son of House Barrison Del’Armgo blurted.
Quenthel stared at him incredulously. “I did not return to Menzoberranzan,” he explained. “I was lost and wandering …”
“And you went to live with elves?”
“Yes … no! I found others, drow of Ched Nasad, of House Suun Wett and Khareese …”
“Where are they?”
“Dead. Long dead.”
“And you stayed?”
“I had nowhere to turn, nowhere to go,” Tos’un explained.
“Until now.”
“It was time to find my way home, with Doum’wielle, my daughter, who is drow in heart and soul. She killed her brother, who was not akin to our weal, who could not follow the Spider Queen, and I, too, struck down her mother.”
“Dead?”
“Dead,” he said. “I have left the surface behind and only wish to return home.”
The matron mother mulled it over for a few moments, then looked down at the battered girl. “Perhaps …” she said, but then shook her head. “Take her away,” she instructed Andzrel.
“And teach her?” he asked with a smile.
“Gently,” Quenthel Baenre said.
Andzrel motioned for another of the Baenre soldiers to retrieve the fallen sword. Noting the commoner drow’s movement, Tos’un cried out again, “Take care! The blade is sentient, malicious and powerful!”
That drew curious looks from both Baenre nobles. The matron mother nodded to the weapons master and he went over and personally retrieved the sword, gingerly picking it up. His eyes widened with shock immediately and he held the blade aloft, clearly involved in a mental struggle for dominance with it.
And then Andzrel threw Khazid’hea to the ground once more and stared at his matron mother with a look of shock.
“The iblith child wielded it!” Matron Mother Quenthel scolded.
“With mu
“Dantrag!” Andzrel cried, and he rushed back and scooped up the sword once more, now wearing a determined expression and squeezing the blood from his knuckles as he gripped the hilt.
“Dantrag?” Quenthel Baenre echoed, for Dantrag, her brother, was long dead, a century or more. Andzrel had known him, but what …?
Quenthel’s eyes went wide with the shock of recognition as she stared at the sword Andzrel held.
“Khazid’hea,” she whispered. She snapped her angry glare over Tos’un.
“My sword?” he asked innocently.
“The sword of Dantrag Baenre!” the matron mother corrected, and it was Tos’un’s turn to gasp in surprise.
“It cannot be,” he mouthed.
“How did you get this?” Matron Mother Quenthel asked sharply, her threat clear in her tone.
“It … it found me,” Tos’un stammered, and he sounded very much like he knew he was about to die horribly. “In a rocky canyon, in the World Above.”
“A sword of such power?” Quenthel snapped back incredulously.
“It had abandoned its wielder, I expected, or the wielder was slain. I do not know!”
“Liar!”
“The sword agrees!” Andzrel said through chattering teeth, and when the matron mother and Tos’un turned to him, the weapons master threw the sword down once again. He stood there gawking and gasping for his breath. “It is a blade of considerable power!”
“Dantrag mastered it,” Quenthel reminded him spitefully. She turned back on Tos’un angrily. “Where did you get it?”
“As I told you, Matron Mother,” he said desperately. “I believe that one of the companions of Drizzt Do’Urden carried it, or perhaps the rogue himself.” He dared look up as he spoke that cursed name, and was relieved to see that it had the desired effect, for the matron mother visibly backed down, considering his words. She was weighing the region, no doubt, the Silver Marches, where Drizzt was known to roam, where Drizzt’s friend had once been the dwarven King of Mithral Hall.
Matron Mother Quenthel walked over and casually picked up Khazid’hea. “A Baenre blade,” she said quietly, as if talking to herself, or perhaps to the sword. “Ah, my brother, a pity you were lost to us.”