The Halfling’s Gem (6 page)

Regis made one of his rare appearances on the deck the next morning. Dawn had come bright and clear, and the halfling wanted to finish his business before the sun got too high in the sky and created that unpleasant mixture of hot rays in the cool spray. He stood at the rail, rehearsing his lines and mustering the courage to defy the unspoken threats of Entreri.

And then Entreri was beside him! Regis clutched the rail
tightly, fearing that the assassin had somehow guessed his plan. “The shoreline,” Entreri said to him.

Regis followed Entreri’s gaze to the horizon and a distant line of land.

“Back in sight,” Entreri continued, “and not too far.” He glanced down at Regis and displayed his wicked smile once again for his prisoner’s benefit.

Regis shrugged. “Too far.”

“Perhaps,” answered the assassin, “but you might make it, though your half-sized breed is not spoken of as the swimming sort. Have you weighed the odds?”

“I do not swim,” Regis said flatly.

“A pity,” laughed Entreri. “But if you do decide to try for the land, tell me first.”

Regis stepped back, confused.

“I would allow you to make the attempt,” Entreri assured him. “I would enjoy the show!”

The halfling’s expression turned to anger. He knew that he was being mocked, but he couldn’t figure the assassin’s purpose.

“They have a strange fish in these waters,” said Entreri, looking back to the water. “Smart fish. It follows the boats, waiting for someone to go over.” He looked back to Regis to weigh the effect of his chiding.

“A pointed fin marks it,” he continued, seeing that he had the halfling’s full attention. “Cutting through the water like the prow of a ship. If you watch from the rail long enough, you will surely spy one.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Sharks, these fish are called,” Entreri went on, ignoring the question. He drew his dagger, putting its point against one of his fingers hard enough to draw a speck of blood. “Marvelous fish.
Rows of teeth as long as daggers, sharp and ridged, and a mouth that could
bite
a man in half.” He looked Regis in the eye. “Or take a halfling whole.”

“I do not swim!” Regis growled, not appreciating Entreri’s macabre, but undeniably effective, methods.

“A pity,” chuckled the assassin. “But do tell me if you change your mind.” He swept away, his black cloak flowing behind him.

“Bastard,” Regis mumbled under his breath. He started back toward the rail, but changed his mind as soon as he saw the deep water looming before him; he turned on his heel and sought the security of the middle of the deck.

Again the color left his face as the vast ocean seerned to close in over him and the interminable, nauseating sway of the ship …

“Ye seem ripe fer de rail, little one,” came a cheery voice. Regis turned to see a short, bowlegged sailor with few teeth and eyes scrunched in a permanent squint. “Ain’t to findin’ yer sea legs yet?”

Regis shuddered through his dizziness and remembered his mission. “It is the other thing,” he replied.

The sailor missed the subtlety of his statement. Still grinning through the dark tan and darker stubble of his dirty face, he started away.

“But thank you for your concern,” Regis said emphatically. “And for all of your courage in taking us to Calimport.”

The sailor stopped, perplexed. “Many a time, we’s to taking ones to the south,” he said, not understanding the reference to “courage.”

“Yes, but considering the danger—though I am sure it is not great!” Regis added quickly, giving the impression that he was trying not to emphasize this unknown peril. “It is not important.
Calimport will bring our cure.” Then under his breath but still loud enough for the sailor to hear, he said, “If we get there alive.”

“’Ere now, what do ye mean?” the sailor demanded, moving back over to Regis. The smile was gone.

Regis squeaked and grabbed his forearm suddenly as if in pain. He grimaced and pretended to battle against the agony, while deftly scratching the dried patch of wax, and the scab beneath it, away. A small trickle of blood rolled out from under his sleeve.

The sailor grabbed him on cue, pulling the sleeve up over Regis’s elbow. He looked at the wound curiously. “Burn?”

“Do not touch it!” Regis cried in a harsh whisper. “That is how it spreads—I think.”

The sailor pulled his hand away in terror, noticing several other scars. “I seen no fire! How’d ye git a burn?”

Regis shrugged helplessly. “They just happen. From the inside.” Now it was the sailor’s turn to pale. “But I will make it to Calimport,” he stated unconvincingly. “It takes a few months to eat you away. And most of my wounds are recent.” Regis looked down, then presented his scarred arm. “See?”

But when he looked back, the sailor was gone, rushing off toward the captain’s quarters.

“Take that, Artemis Entreri,” Regis whispered.

hose are the farms that Malchor spoke of,” Wulfgar said as he and Drizzt came around a spur of trees on the great forest’s border. In the distance to the south, a dozen or so houses sat in a cluster on the eastern edge of the forest, surrounded on the other three sides by wide, rolling fields.

Wulfgar started his horse forward, but Drizzt abruptly stopped him.

“These are a simple folk,” the drow explained. “Farmers living in the webs of countless superstitions. They would not welcome a dark elf. Let us enter at night.”

“Perhaps we can find the path without their aid,” Wulfgar offered, not wanting to waste the remainder of yet another day.

“More likely we would get lost in the wood,” Drizzt replied, dismounting. “Rest, my friend. This night promises adventure.”

“Her time, the night,” Wulfgar remarked, remembering Malchor’s words about the banshee.

Drizzt’s smile widened across his face. “Not this night,” he whispered.

Wulfgar saw the familiar gleam in the drow’s lavender eyes and obediently dropped from his saddle. Drizzt was already preparing himself for the imminent battle; already the drow’s finely toned muscles twitched with excitement. But as confident as Wulfgar was in his companion’s prowess, he could not stop the shudder running through his spine when he considered the undead monster that lay before them.

In the night.

They passed the day in peaceful slumber, enjoying the calls and dances of the birds and squirrels, already preparing for winter, and the wholesome atmosphere of the forest. But when dusk crept over the land, Neverwinter Wood took on a very different aura. Gloom settled all too comfortably under the wood’s thick boughs, and a sudden hush descended on the trees, the uneasy quiet of poised danger.

Drizzt roused Walfgar and led him off to the south at once, not even pausing for a short meal. A few minutes later, they walked their horses to the nearest farmhouse. Luckily the night was moonless, and only a close inspection would reveal Drizzt’s dark heritage.

“State yer business or be gone!” demanded a threatening voice from the low rooftops before they got close enough to knock on the house’s door.

Drizzt had expected as much. “We have come to settle a score,” he said without any hesitation.

“What enemies might the likes of yerselves have in Conyberry?” asked the voice.

“In your fair town?” Drizzt balked. “Nay, our fight is with a foe common to you.”

Some shuffling came from above, and then two men, bows in hand, appeared at the corner of the farmhouse. Both Drizzt and Wulfgar knew that still more sets of eyes—and no doubt more bows—were trained upon them from the roof, and possibly from their flanks. For simple farmers, these folk were apparently well organized for defense.

“A common foe?” one of the men at the corner—the same who had spoken earlier from the roof—asked Drizzt. “Surely we’ve seen none of yer likes before, elf, nor of yer giant friend!”

Wulfgar brought Aegis-fang down from his shoulder, drawing some uneasy shuffling from the roof. “Never have we come through your fair town,” he replied sternly, not thrilled with being called a giant.

Drizzt quickly interjected. “A friend of ours was slain near here, down a dark path in the wood. We were told that you could guide us.”

Suddenly the door of the farmhouse burst open and a wrinkled old woman popped her head out. “Hey, then, what do ye want with the ghost in the wood?” she snapped angrily. “Not fer to both’ring those that leaves her to peace!”

Drizzt and Wulfgar glanced at each other, perplexed by the old woman’s unexpected attitude. But the man at the corner apparently felt the same way.

“Yeah, leave Agatha be,” he said.

“Go away!” added an unseen man from the roof.

Wulfgar, fearing that these people might be under some evil enchantment, gripped his warhammer more tightly, but Drizzt sensed something else in their voices.

“I had been told that the ghost, this Agatha, was an evil
spirit,” Drizzt told them calmly. “Might I have heard wrong? For goodly folk defend her.”

“Bah, evil! What be evil?” snapped the old woman, thrusting her wrinkled face and shell of a body closer to Wulfgar. The barbarian took a prudent step back, though the woman’s bent frame barely reached his navel.

“The ghost defends her home,” added the man at the corner. “And woe to those who go there!”

“Woe!” screamed the old woman, pushing closer still and poking a bony finger into Wulfgar’s huge chest.

Wulfgar had heard enough. “Back!” he roared mightily at the woman. He slapped Aegis-fang across his free hand, a sudden rush of blood swelling his bulging arms and shoulders. The woman screamed and vanished into the house, slamming the door in terror.

“A pity,” Drizzt whispered, fully understanding what Wulfgar had set into motion. The drow dived headlong to the side, turning into a roll, as an arrow from the roof cracked into the ground where he had been standing.

Wulfgar, too, started into motion, expecting an arrow. Instead, he saw the dark form of a man leaping down at him from the rooftop. With a single hand the mighty barbarian caught the would-be assailant in midair and held him at bay, his boots fully three feet off the ground.

At that same instant, Drizzt came out of his roll and into position in front of the two men at the corner, a scimitar poised at each of their throats. They hadn’t even had time to draw their bowstrings back. To their further horror, they now recognized Drizzt for what he was, but even if his skin had been as pale as that of his surface cousins, the fire in his eyes would have taken their strength from them.

A few long seconds passed, the only movement being the
visible shaking of the three trapped farmers.

“An unfortunate misunderstanding,” Drizzt said to the men. He stepped back and sheathed his scimitars. “Let him down,” he said to Wulfgar. “Gently!” the dark elf added quickly.

Wulfgar eased the man to the ground, but the terrified farmer fell to the dirt anyway, looking up at the huge barbarian in awe and fear.

Wulfgar kept the grimace on his face—just to keep the farmer cowed.

The farmhouse door sprang open again, and the little old woman appeared, this time sheepishly. “Ye won’t be killing poor Agatha, will ye?” she pleaded.

“Sure that she’s no harm beyond her own door,” added the man at the corner, his voice quaking with each syllable.