R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“Already working on it,” replied the old mage, who had appeared asleep until the weight of the gazes had stirred him.

“He will have to be resurrected,” Kipper told Catti-brie around mid-morning of the next day. “I see no other way.”

The woman frowned and looked to the third person in the room, Penelope Harpell.

“There is no cure for vampirism,” Penelope said with a shrug. “None that I know of, at least.”

“Such a spell as resurrection is far beyond my abilities,” Catti-brie said.

“Far beyond all but a few-and it won’t come cheaply!” Kipper stated. “And I doubt your friend will survive it-you understand that, of course?”

Catti-brie nodded.

“Thibbledorf Pwent was old and in failing health at the time of his infection,” Kipper went on. “So you have told me. And many decades have passed since then. You will likely raise him from undeath only to deliver him to true death.”

“Better that,” Catti-brie said, and the others nodded.

“Likely, yes,” said Penelope, and she dropped a hand gently on Catti-brie’s forearm to comfort her.

“But what is the point?” Catti-brie asked. “If Pwent is doomed in any case, we can simply destroy him as is-”

“You would not wish to offer him the peace of alleviating his curse before he ventures to the netherworld?” Kipper asked.

There came a knock at the door and Penelope went to answer it.

“I see no choice,” Catti-brie answered. “How am I to procure the services of a properly skilled high priest? And one who will venture to Gauntlgrym?”

“Bring the vampire to the priest, when you find one,” Kipper said, and as he spoke, Wulfgar entered the room. “Ah, good,” Kipper said. “Do join us.”

Wulfgar took the seat beside Catti-brie. She looked at him curiously, but he could only shrug in response, clearly as perplexed as she as to why he had been summoned to this meeting.

“You have brought it?” Kipper asked.

Wulfgar seemed confused for a just a moment as Kipper reached his hand out, but then moved quickly to remove his silver horn and hand it over to the old mage.

“A brilliant item!” Kipper said, rolling it over in his hands, then casting a spell to examine it more closely. He focused on the line of small but exquisite gemstones set in the silver.

“From a dragon’s lair, you say,” Penelope prompted, taking the conversation while Kipper continued his examination.

“Icingdeath.”

“The dragon you and Drizzt killed many years ago.”

“A lifetime ago,” Wulfgar said with a grin.

“Have you used it?” Kipper asked.

“Yes-almost immediately after I found it,” Wulfgar answered, “in the dragon’s lair, on a hoard of treasure. Ice trolls had dogged me all the way to the treasure hoard and by then had surrounded me. I thought my new life near its end and blew the horn out of defiance and nothing more-well, perhaps I hoped its notes would bring the ice ceiling crashing down, affording me some chance against the odds, at least.”

“And the trumpet brought in allies,” Kipper said with a laugh. “Oh, how grand!”

“And have you used it since?” Penelope asked.

“Only once, to confirm …” Wulfgar answered sheepishly.

“It troubles you?” Penelope asked.

“He thinks he is disturbing the sleep of the dead, and his culture frowns upon that,” Kipper answered before Wulfgar could. “Is that correct, son?”

Wulfgar started to answer, but chuckled instead. “When I died, I was decades older than you are now, mage,” he said. “But yes, it is not my place to disturb the sleep of the dead.”

“Well, rest assured, friend, that you are doing no such thing,” Kipper said, and he blew the horn, a wheezing and broken note, but enough to enact the magic. Within a few heartbeats, the gems on the side of the silver horn sparkled and a trio of warriors appeared, each armed with either a pair of hand axes or an axe and sword. They danced around the room for a bit, unsure of what was required of them, it seemed, until Kipper cast another spell and dismissed them back to nothingness.

“It is a magic item, a tool,” the old mage assured Wulfgar as he handed back the horn.

“Like Guenhwyvar,” Wulfgar replied.

“Nay, the panther is much more than that,” Penelope said. “This is more akin to the whistle that summons Drizzt’s unicorn.”

“These are not the souls of the dead warriors,” Kipper assured him. “These are the magical manifestations of what the berserkers had been, physically, but rest easy that the souls who inhabited those bodies have long gone to Warrior’s Rest.” He looked at Penelope and nodded, “As I expected.”

“What am I missing here?” Catti-brie asked. “How is the horn relevant?”

“The magic of the horn is-or was-a spell meant to trap the soul,” Kipper answered. “Part of it, at least. There is much more imbued there that I do not understand, for it is a very ancient item, one long, long pre-dating the Spellplague or even the Time of Troubles, likely. But the victims of that magic, the warriors who have since passed on, were caught there through the spell I mentioned, and such a spell might well aid you in catching your vampire friend.”

“Trap his soul in a gemstone and bring the stone to a powerful high priest to finish the grim task,” Penelope offered.

“I do not know this spell,” said Catti-brie.

“No, and it is a powerful one,” Kipper said. “Perhaps beyond you, but I do not think so-with the help of a scroll, at least, and a gemstone worthy of containing such a treasure as a soul.”

“And you have such items,” Wulfgar assumed.

“We prepared many things for the Bidderdoos, just in case,” Penelope answered.

“Werewolves,” Catti-brie explained to her large friend.

“I remember him,” Wulfgar agreed with a nod.

“He left a legacy. In the forest.”

Penelope Harpell rose and offered Wulfgar her hand. “Come,” she bade him. “Let us leave Catti-brie and Kipper to their work. She has much to learn.”

When they had left the room, Catti-brie turned to the old mage with a smile. “I knew you would help.”

“The world is a dark place,” Kipper replied. “But when friends join hands, it lightens.”

Catti-brie nodded as she considered the generosity, and she wondered how much more the Harpells might offer when the Companions of the Hall finished their business in Gauntlgrym and turned their warrior eyes once more to the Silver Marches.

“Do you feel better about your … toy?” Penelope asked as she led Wulfgar away. He walked with her down many halls and through a few rooms, and finally, out into the grand garden in back of the Ivy Mansion.

“I do,” Wulfgar admitted. “I feared disturbing the sleep of the dead. It is not my place-”

“But you didn’t destroy the horn,” Penelope noted. “Or put it away.”

Wulfgar smiled at her, conceding the point. “It saved my life once,” he admitted.

“Yes, in a dragon’s lair, so you and your halfling friend before that, have told me,” said Penelope. “I would love to hear more about the fight.”

Wulfgar paused and looked down at her. “Were you once an adventurer? Have you known the thrill of battle?”

“Or of theft?” Penelope asked, and reached up to tug the silver horn.

“Proper pillaging!” Wulfgar corrected with a laugh.

“When I was younger, I found adventure,” the woman admitted. “In fact, it was on the wild road, in a steading full of hill giants, where I met Dowell and fell in love. In the midst of battle, no less.”

“He saved you?” Wulfgar asked slyly.

“Quite the opposite,” the woman replied, and she walked on down the garden path, moving between tall rows of high flowers and coming out into the full sunshine on the far end. “Dowell is quite skilled at his craft, but he was never much of an evoker, and giants are not the most receptive creatures to charm spells.”