“I do not like this,” Pook said at length. “I want no complications to the return of the halfling, or of my pendant.”
He paused to consider the implications of his decided course, leaning over LaValle’s back to get close to Oberon’s image. “Do you still have contact with Pinochet?” he asked the wizard slyly.
Oberon guessed the guildmaster’s meaning. “The pirate does not forget his friends,” he answered in the same tone, “Pinochet contacts me every time he finds his way to Baldur’s Gate. He inquires of you as well, hoping that all is well with his old friend.”
“And is he now in the isles?”
“The winter trade is rolling down from Waterdeep,” Oberon replied with a chuckle. “Where else would a successful pirate be?”
“Good,” muttered Pook.
“Should I arrange a welcome for Entreri’s pursuers?” Oberon asked eagerly, enjoying the intrigue and the opportunity to serve the guildmaster.
“Three ships—no chances,” said Pook. “Nothing shall interfere with the halfling’s return. He and I have so very much to discuss!”
Oberon considered the task for a moment. “A pity,” he remarked. “The Sea Sprite was a fine vessel.”
Pook echoed a single word for emphasis, making it absolutely clear that he would tolerate no mistakes.
“Was.”
10. The Weight of a Kings Mantle
The halfling hung by his ankles, suspended upside down with chains above a cauldron of boiling liquid. Not water, though, but something darker. A red hue, perhaps.
Blood, perhaps.
The crank creaked, and the halfling dropped an inch closer. His face was contorted, his mouth wide, as if in a scream.
But no screams could be heard. Just the groans of the crank and a sinister laugh from an unseen torturer.
The misty scene shifted, and the crank came into view, worked slowly by a single hand that seemed unattached to anything else.
There was a pause in the descent.
Then the evil voice laughed one final time. The hand jerked quickly, sending the crank spinning.
A scream resounded, piercing and cutting, a cry of agony—a cry of death.
Sweat stung Bruenor’s eyes even before he had fully opened them. He wiped the wetness from his face and rolled his head, trying to shake away the terrible images and adjust his thoughts to his surroundings.
He was in the Ivy Mansion, in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room. The fresh candles that he had set out burned low. They hadn’t helped; this night had been like the others: another nightmare.
Bruenor rolled over and sat up on the side of his bed. Everything was as it should be. The mithril armor and golden shield lay across a chair beside the room’s single dresser. The axe that he had used to cut his way out of the duergar lair rested easily against the wall beside Drizzt’s scimitar, and two helmets sat atop the dresser, the battered, one-horned helm that had carried the dwarf through the adventures of the last two centuries, and the crown of the king of Mithril Hall, ringed by a thousand glittering gemstones.
But to Bruenor’s eyes, all was not as it should be. He looked to the window and the darkness of the night beyond. Alas, all he could see was the reflection of the candlelit room, the crown and armor of the king of Mithril Hall.
It had been a tough week for Bruenor. All the days had been filled with the excitement of the times, of talk of the armies coming from Citadel Adbar and Icewind Dale to reclaim Mithril Hall. The dwarf’s shoulders ached from being patted so many times by Harpells and other visitors to the mansion, all anxious to congratulate him in advance for the impending return of his throne.
But Bruenor had wandered through the last few days absently, playing a role thrust upon him before he could truly appreciate it. It was time to prepare for the adventure Bruenor had fantasized about since his exile nearly two centuries before. His father’s father had been king of Mithril Hall, his father before him, and back to the beginnings of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor’s birthright demanded that he lead the armies and retake Mithril Hall, that he sit in the throne he had been born to possess.
But it was in the very chambers of the ancient dwarven homeland that Bruenor Battlehammer had realized the truth of what was important to him. Over the course of the last decade, four very special companions had come into his life, not one of them a dwarf. The friendship the five had forged was bigger than a dwarven kingdom and more precious to Bruenor than all the mithril in the world. The realization of his fantasy conquest seemed empty to him.
The moments of the night now held Bruenor’s heart and his concentration. The dreams, never the same but always with the same terrible conclusion, did not fade with the light of day.
“Another one?” came a soft call from the door. Bruenor looked over his shoulder to see Catti-brie peeking in on him. Bruenor knew that he didn’t have to answer. He put his head down in one hand and rubbed his eyes.
“About Regis again?” asked Catti-brie, moving closer. Bruenor heard the door softly close.
“Rumblebelly,” Bruenor softly corrected, using the nickname he had tagged on the halfling who had been his closest friend for nearly a decade.
Bruenor swung his legs back up on the bed. “I should be with him,” he said gruffly, “or at least with the drow and Wulfgar, lookin’ for him!”
“Yer kingdom awaits,” Catti-brie reminded him, more to dispel his guilt than to soften his belief in where he truly belonged—a belief that the young woman wholeheartedly shared. “Yer kin from Icewind Dale’ll be here in a month, the army from Adbar in two.”
“Aye, but we can’t be going to the halls till the winter’s past.”
Catti-brie looked around for some way to deflect the sinking conversation. “Ye’ll wear it well,” she said cheerfully, indicating the bejeweled crown.
“Which?” Bruenor retorted, a sharp edge to his tongue.
Catti-brie looked at the dented helm, pitiful beside the glorious one, and nearly snorted aloud. But she turned to Bruenor before she commented, and the stern look stamped upon the dwarf’s face as he studied the old helmet told her that Bruenor had not asked in jest. At that moment, Catti-brie realized, Bruenor saw the one-horned helmet as infinitely more precious than the crown he was destined to wear.
“They’re halfway to Calimport,” Catti-brie remarked, sympathizing with the dwarf’s desires. “Maybe more.”
“Aye, and few boats’ll be leaving Waterdeep with the winter coming on,” Bruenor muttered grimly, echoing the same arguments Catti-brie had leveled on him during his second morning in the Ivy Mansion, when he had first mentioned his desire to go after his friends.
“We’ve a million preparations before us,” said Catti-brie, stubbornly holding her cheerful tone. “Suren the winter’ll pass quickly, and we’ll get the halls in time for Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis’s return.”
Bruenor’s visage did not soften. His eyes locked on the broken helmet, but his mind wandered beyond the vision, back to the fateful scene at Garumn’s Gorge. He had at least made peace with Regis before they were separated…
Bruenor’s recollections blew away from him suddenly. He snapped a wry glance upon Catti-brie. “Ye think they might be back in time for the fighting?”
Catti-brie shrugged. “If they put right back out,” she replied, curious at the question, for she knew that Bruenor had more in mind than fighting beside Drizzt and Wulfgar in the battle for Mithril Hall. “They can be coverin’ many miles over the southland—even in the winter.”
Bruenor bounced off the bed and rushed for the door, scooping up the one-horned helmet and fitting it to his head as he went.
“Middle o’ the night?” Catti-brie gawked after him. She jumped up and followed him into the hall.