The Halfling’s Gem (10 page)

Bungo thrust his belly forward, inches from Wulfgar’s face, to display a wide belt notched in a hundred places. “Fer every man I beat,” he boasted. “Give me somethin’ to do on my night in jail.” He pointed at a large cut to the side of the buckle. “Killed that one there. Squashed ’is head real good. Cost me five nights.”

Wulfgar eased his grip, not impressed, but wary now of the potential consequences of his actions. He had a ship to catch.

“Perhaps it was Bungo I came to see,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“Get ’im, then?” growled one of the ruffians.

Bungo eyed Wulfgar wickedly.” Come lookin’ fer a fight?”

“Nay, I think not,” Wulfgar retorted. “A fight? Nay, I am but a boy out to see the wide world!”

Bungo could not hide his confusion. He looked around to his friends, who could only shrug in response.

“Sit,” Wulfgar offered. Bungo made no move.

The ruffian behind Wulfgar poked him hard in the shoulder and growled, “What’re ye fer?”

Wulfgar had to consciously catch his own hand before it shot across and squashed the ruffian’s filthy fingers together. But he
had control now. He leaned closer to the huge leader. “Not to fight; to watch,” he said quietly. “One day, perhaps, I might deem myself worthy to challenge the likes of Bungo, and on that day I will return, for I have no doubt that you will still be the champion of this tavern. But that day is many years away, I fear. I have so much to learn.”

“Then why’ve ye come?” Bungo demanded, his confidence brimming over. He leaned over Wulfgar, threateningly close.

“I have come to learn,” Wulfgar replied. “To learn by watching the toughest fighter in Waterdeep. To see how Bungo presents himself and goes about his affairs.”

Bungo straightened and looked around at his anxious friends, who were leaning nearly to the point of falling over the table. Bungo flashed his toothless grin, customary before he clobbered a challenger, and the ruffians tensed. But then their champion surprised them, slapping Wulfgar hard on the shoulder—the clap of a friend.

Audible groans issued throughout the tavern as Bungo pulled up a chair to share a drink with the impressive stranger.

“Get ye gone!” the slob roared at his companions. Their faces twisted in disappointment and confusion, but they did not dare disobey. The one behind Wulfgar poked him again for good measure, then followed the others back to the bar.

“A wise move,” Deudermont remarked to Drizzt.

“For both of them,” the drow replied, relaxing against the rail.

“You have other business in the city?” the captain asked.

Drizzt shook his head. “No. Get us to the ship,” he said. “I fear that Waterdeep can bring only trouble.”

A million stars filled the sky that cloudless night. They reached down from the velvety canopy to join with the distant lights of Waterdeep, setting the northern horizon aglow. Wulfgar found Drizzt above decks, sitting quietly in the rolling serenity offered by the sea.

“I should like to return,” Wulfgar said, following his friend’s gaze to the now distant city.

“To settle a score with a drunken ruffian and his wretched friends,” Drizzt concluded.

Wulfgar laughed but stopped abruptly when Drizzt wheeled on him.

“To what end?” Drizzt asked. “Would you then replace him as the champion of the Mermaid’s Arms?”

“That is a life I do not envy,” Wulfgar replied, chuckling again, though this time uncomfortably.

“Then leave it to Bungo,” Drizzt said, turning back to the glow of the city.

Again Wulfgar’s smile faded.

Seconds, minutes perhaps, slipped by, the only sound the slapping of the waves against the prow of the
Sea Sprite
. On an impulse, Drizzt slid Twinkle from its sheath. The crafted scimitar came to life in his hand, the blade glowing in the starlight that had given Twinkle its name and its enchantment.

“The weapon fits you well,” Wulfgar remarked.

“A fine companion,” Drizzt acknowledged, examining the intricate designs etched along the curving blade. He remembered another magical scimitar he had once possessed, a blade he had found in the lair of a dragon that he and Wulfgar had slain. That blade, too, had been a fine companion. Wrought of ice magic, the scimitar was forged as a bane to creatures of fire,
impervious, along with its wielder, to their flames. It had served Drizzt well, even saving him from the certain and painful death of a demon’s fire.

Drizzt cast his gaze back to Wulfgar. “I was thinking of our first dragon,” he explained to the barbarian’s questioning look. “You and I alone in the ice cave against the likes of Icingdeath, an able foe.”

“He would have had us,” Wulfgar added, “had it not been for the luck of that huge icicle hanging above the dragon’s back.”

“Luck?” Drizzt replied. “Perhaps. But more often, I dare to say, luck is simply the advantage a true warrior gains in executing the correct course of action.”

Wulfgar took the compliment in stride; he had been the one to dislodge the pointed icicle, killing the dragon.

“A pity I do not have the scimitar I plundered from Icingdeath’s lair to serve as a companion for Twinkle,” Drizzt remarked.

“True enough,” replied Wulfgar, smiling as he remembered his early adventures beside the drow. “But, alas, that one went over Garumn’s Gorge with Bruenor.”

Drizzt paused and blinked as if cold water had been thrown in his face. A sudden image flooded through his mind, its implications both hopeful and frightening. The image of Bruenor Battlehammer drifting slowly down into the depths of the gorge on the back of a burning dragon.

A burning dragon!

It was the first time Wulfgar had ever noted a tremble in the voice of his normally composed friend, when Drizzt rasped out, “Bruenor had my blade?”

he room was empty, the fire burning low. The figure knew that there were gray dwarves, duergar, in the side chamber, through the partly opened door, but he had to chance it. This section of the complex was too full of the scum for him to continue along the tunnels without his disguise.

He slipped in from the main corridor and tiptoed past the side door to get to the hearth. He knelt before it and laid his fine mithral axe at his side The glow of the embers made him flinch instinctively, though he felt no pain as he dipped his finger into the ash.

He heard the side door swing open a few seconds later and rubbed a final handful of the ash over his face, hoping that he had properly covered his telltale red beard and the pale flesh of his long nose ail the length to its tip.

“What ye be doin’?” came a croak behind him.

The ash-covered dwarf blew into the embers, and a small
flame came to life. “Bit o’ chill,” he answered. “Be needin’ rest” He rose and turned, lifting the mithral axe beside him.

Two gray dwarves walked across the room to stand before him, their weapons securely sheathed. “Who ye be?” one asked. “Not o’ Clan McUduck, an’ not belongin’ in these tunnels!”

“Tooktook o’ Clan Trilk,” the dwarf lied, using the name of a gray dwarf he had chopped down just the morning before. “Been patrollin’, and been lost! Glad I be to find a room with a hearth!”

The two gray dwarves looked at each other, and then back to the stranger suspiciously. They had heard the reports over the last few tendays—since Shimmergloom, the shadow dragon that had been their god-figure, had fallen—tales of slaughtered duergar, often beheaded, found in the outer tunnels. And why was this one alone? Where was the rest of his patrol? Surely Clan Trilk knew enough to keep out of the tunnels of Clan McUduck.

And, why, one of them noticed, was there a patch of red on this one’s beard?

The dwarf realized their suspicion immediately and knew that he could not keep this charade going for long. “Lost two o’ me kin,” he said. “To a drow.” He smiled when he saw the duergar’s eyes go wide. The mere mention of a drow elf always sent gray dwarves rocking back on their heels—and bought the dwarf a few extra seconds. “But worth it, it were!” he proclaimed, holding the mithral axe up beside his head. “Found me a wicked blade! See?”

Even as one of the duergar leaned forward, awed by the shining weapon, the red-bearded dwarf gave him a closer look, putting the cruel blade deep into his face. The other duergar just managed to get a hand to his sword hilt when he got hit with a backhand blow that drove the butt of the axe handle into his eye
He stumbled back, reeling, but knew through the blur of pain that he was finished a full second before the mithral axe sliced the side of his neck.

Two more duergar burst in from the anteroom, their weapons drawn. “Get help!” one of them screamed, leaping into the fight. The other bolted for the door.

Again, luck was with the red-bearded dwarf. He kicked hard at an object on the floor, launching it toward the fleeing duergar, while parrying the first blow of his newest opponent with his golden shield.

The fleeing duergar was only a couple of strides from the corridor when something rolled between his feet, tripping him up and sending him sprawling to the floor, He got back to his knees quickly but hesitated, fighting back a gush of bile, when he saw what he had stumbled over.