They were close enough now, and Wulfgar released his hold and slumped, exhausted, to the deck. The crew worked furiously to complete the docking, but each stopped at least once to slap the huge barbarian across the shoulder. Wulfgar was too tired to even respond.
“We will be in for two days,” Deudermont told Drizzt. “It was to be a week, but I am aware of your haste. I spoke with the crew last night, and they agreed—to a man—to put right back out again.”
“Our thanks to them, and to you,” Drizzt replied sincerely.
Just then, a wiry, finely dressed man hopped down to the pier. “What ho, Sea Sprite?” he called. “Is Deudermont at your reins?”
“Penman, the harbormaster,” the captain explained to Drizzt. “He is!” he called to the man. “And glad to see Pellman, as well!”
“Well met, Captain,” Pellman called. “And as fine a pull as I’ve ever seen! How long are you in port?”
“Two days,” Deudermont replied. “Then off to the sea and the south.”
The harbormaster paused for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Then he asked, as he had asked to every ship that had put in over the last few days, the question Entreri had planted in his mind. “I seek two adventurers,” he called to Deudermont. “Might you have seen them?”
Deudermont looked to Drizzt, somehow guessing, as had the drow, that this inquiry was more than a coincidence.
“Drizzt Do’Urden and Wulfgar, by name,” Pellman explained. “Though they may be using others. One’s small and mysterious elflike—and the other’s a giant and as strong as any man alive!”
“Trouble?” Deudermont called.
“Not so,” answered Pellman. “A message.”
Wulfgar had moved up to Drizzt and heard the latter part of the conversation. Deudermont looked to Drizzt for instructions. “Your decision.”
Drizzt didn’t figure that Entreri would lay any serious traps for them; he knew that the assassin meant to fight with them, or at least with him, personally. “We will speak with the man,” he answered.
“They are with me,” Deudermont called to Pellman. “‘Twas Wulfgar,” he looked at the barbarian and winked, then echoed Pellman’s own description, “as strong as any man alive, who made the pull!”
Deudermont led them to the rail. “If there is trouble, I shall do what I can to retrieve you,” he said quietly. “And we can wait in port for as long as two weeks if the need arises.”
“Again, our thanks,” Drizzt replied. “Surely Orlpar of Waterdeep set us aright.”
“Leave that dog’s name unspoken,” Deudermont replied. “Rarely have I had such fortunate outcomes to my dealings with him! Farewell, then. You may take sleep on the ship if you desire.”
Drizzt and Wulfgar moved cautiously toward the harbormaster, Wulfgar in the lead. Drizzt searched for any signs of ambush.
“We are the two you seek,” Wulfgar said sternly, towering over the wiry man.
“Greetings,” Pellman said with a disarming smile. He fished in his pocket. “I have met with an associate of yours,” he explained, “a dark man with a halfling lackey.”
Drizzt moved beside Wulfgar, and the two exchanged concerned glances.
“He left this,” Pellman continued, handing the tiny pouch to Wulfgar. “And bade me to tell you that he will await your arrival in Calimport.”
Wulfgar held the pouch tentatively, as if expecting it to explode in his face.
“Our thanks,” Drizzt told Pellman. “We will tell our associate that you performed the task admirably.”
Pellman nodded and bowed, turning away as he did so, to return to his duties. But first, he realized suddenly, he had another mission to complete, a subconscious command that he could not resist. Following Entreri’s orders, the harbormaster moved from the docks and toward the upper level of the city.
Toward the house of Oberon.
Drizzt led Wulfgar off to the side, out of plain view. Seeing the barbarian’s paling look, he took the tiny pouch and gingerly loosened the draw string, holding it as far away as possible. With a shrug to Wulfgar, who had moved a cautious step away, Drizzt brought the pouch down to his belt level and peeked in.
Wulfgar moved closer, curious and concerned when he saw Drizzt’s shoulders droop. The drow looked to him in helpless resignation and inverted the pouch, revealing its contents.
A halfling’s finger.
Book 2.
Allies
7. Stirrings
The first thing he noticed was the absence of the wind. He had lain long hour after hour on his perch at the top of the chimney, and through it all, even in his semiconscious state, there had been the unceasing presence of the wind. It had taken his mind back to Icewind Dale, his home for nearly two centuries. But Bruenor had felt no comfort in the gale’s forlorn moan, a continual reminder of his predicament and the last sound he thought he would ever hear.
But it was no more. Only the crackle of a nearby fire broke the quiet stillness. Bruenor lifted a heavy eyelid and stared absently into the flames, trying to discern his condition and his whereabouts. He was warm and comfortable, with a heavy quilt pulled up tightly around his shoulders. And he was indoors—the flames burned in a hearth, not in the open pit of a campfire.
Bruenor’s eye drifted to the side of the hearth and focused on a neatly stacked pile of equipment.
His equipment!
The one-horned helm, Drizzt’s scimitar, the mithril armor, and his new battle-axe and shining shield. And he was stretched out under the quilt, wearing only a silken nightshirt.
Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, Bruenor pulled himself up to his elbows.
A wave of blackness rolled over him and sent his thoughts reeling in nauseous circles. He dropped heavily to his back.
His vision returned for just a moment, long enough to register the form of a tall and beautiful woman kneeling over him. Her long hair, gleaming silver in the firelight, brushed across his face.
“Spider’s poison,” she said softly. “Would have killed anything but a dwarf.”
Then there was only the blackness.
Bruenor awoke again a few hours later, stronger and more alert. Trying not to stir and bring any attention, he half-opened one eye and surveyed the area, glancing at the pile first. Satisfied that all of his equipment was there, he slowly turned his head over.
He was in a small chamber, apparently a one-roomed structure, for the only door seemed to lead outside. The woman he had seen earlier—though Bruenor wasn’t really sure until now if that image had been a dream—stood beside the door, staring out the room’s single window to the night sky beyond. Her hair was indeed silver. Bruenor could see that its hue was no trick of the firelight. But not silver with the graying of age; this lustrous mane glowed with vibrant life.
“Yer pardon, fair lady,” the dwarf croaked, his voice cracking on every syllable. The woman twirled and looked at him curiously.
“Might I be getting a bit o’ food?” asked Bruenor, never one to mix up his priorities.
The woman floated across the room and helped Bruenor up into a sitting position. Again a wave of blackness swirled over the dwarf, but he managed to shrug it away.
“Only a dwarf!” the woman muttered, astonished that Bruenor had come through his ordeal.
Bruenor cocked his head up at her. “I know ye, lady, though I cannot find yer name in me thoughts.”
“It is not important,” the woman replied. “You have come through much, Bruenor Battlehammer.” Bruenor cocked his head further and leaned away at the mention of his name, but the woman steadied him and continued. “I attended to your wounds as best I could, though I feared that I had come upon you too late to mend the hurts of the spider’s poison.”
Bruenor looked down at his bandaged forearm, reliving those terrible moments when he had first encountered the giant spider. “How long?”
“How long you lay atop the broken grate, I do not know,” the woman answered. “But here you have rested for three days and more—too long for your stomach’s liking! I will prepare some food.” She started to rise, but Bruenor caught her arm.