R. Salvatore - The Companions

Bruenor stared at him, not sure how to respond.

“Ye hear me, then?” Muttonchops repeated emphatically. “Do ye, Little Arr Arr?”

“Reginald,” Bruenor corrected. Yes, it was time to make a stand.

“Eh?”

“Reginald is me name. Reginald Roundshield.”

“Little Arr Arr …”

“Reginald,” Bruenor insisted.

“Yer Da was Arr Arr …,” Muttonchops started to say, but Bruenor interrupted him.

“Me Da’s dead and cold under the stones.”

That stole Muttonchops’s voice, and the old dwarf stood staring blankly at the impudent whelp.

“But meself’s here, and don’t ye ne’er think again that I ain’t to do him proud. Me name’s Reginald. Reginald Roundshield, o’ the Felbarr Roundshields. Ye wanted me to own it-that’s why ye jumped me in the dark-and so I’ll be ownin’ it, but on me own terms and with me own name!”

“Ye little rat,” Muttonchops replied, but he seemed more surprised-and pleased-than angered.

“So ye send ’em at me next tenday,” Bruenor insisted. “Start with Bryunn Argut and send ’em all, one after another, or two together if that’s yer choice, or three, or all together! And when I put ’em all down, one after another, then know that yer class ain’t teaching the son o’ Arr Arr nothing. Then ye move me along to the next class.”

Muttonchops paused for a long while, staring at him, trying to gain a measure of him. “Young dwarf warriors, next class, and not dwarflings,” he warned.

Bruenor didn’t blink, and matched Muttonchops’s stare with equal intensity and more. He was surprised by his own anger, deep and profound, and his discomfort and anger were about more than the boredom of basic martial training, or the indignity of being attacked in the dark by this old codger. On one level, Bruenor felt foolish for the path he had just taken, and yet he had no thought of turning back. Not in the least.

“Ye got nothin’ to teach me with them dwarflings,” he said.

Muttonchops assumed a less aggressive posture. “So ye think ye can put ’em all down, eh?”

“All o’ them together, if that’s yer choice,” Bruenor replied.

“Might be.”

Bruenor didn’t flinch. Indeed, he merely shrugged, already growing bored with this conversation.

“Ye best put a priest in the room,” he said in all sincerity. “Know that them others’re sure to need a bit of Dumathoin’s dweomers o’ healing.”

Muttonchops started to respond, but instead reached up and touched his bleeding ear once more, and then with a grunt that was half growl and half snort, he turned and walked out of the lane.

Bruenor Battlehammer stood there alone in the dim light for a long, long while, considering the encounter, and the one sure to come. Most who could not,

The Year of the Third Circle (1472 DR) Delthuntle

"Where’d he go?” the teenager yelled asked, skidding to a stop,and Catti-Brie nodded. Iruladoones the forest no less. He had come around the corner of the building in close pursuit, expecting to snare the child thief in a couple of strides. But the sneaky halfling had simply vanished.

“Get him!” cried the teenager’s friend as he hustled past.

Across the street, a group sitting at a table in front of a fishmonger’s mercantile laughed at the two, and at the others who came bobbing up behind them … and laughed all the louder at the other group of teens that came around the other side of the building, apparently to head off the little halfling.

The first teenager, the leader of the gang, scowled at the group of diners, which only made them laugh all the louder, of course. One of them pointed upward. The leader of the teens leaped away from the building and looked up, and sure enough, there went his prey, moving easily and swiftly from ledge to ledge, already nearing the roof.

“You rat!” the teenager yelled. He leaped to grab the ledge atop a window and began to hoist himself up.

But this was no easy climb, and indeed, within a few heartbeats, he had reached an apparent dead end, as had his companion who was similarly trying to scale the wall.

“How?” asked a third of the group, for the fleeing halfling was easily going over the roof’s edge, while the two older, taller, and stronger human boys-and even an elf girl at the other end-couldn’t begin to scale the tall building.

The leader of the gang dropped back down to the ground and shouted up “You rat!” at the disappearing form.

“More like a spider,” one of the men across the street called, and that group laughed all the harder at the foiled teenagers’ expense.

“Spider,” agreed the lithe and pretty elf lass, who had also surrendered the seemingly impossible climb and moved back toward her friends. “That little one can climb anything.”

“He’ll be climbing through the mud trying to get out from under my boot when I catch him,” the gang leader promised.

“Ah, but let it be gone from your mind,” said the elf girl. She looked up toward the roof line, admiration clear on her face. “He’s just a child. Cannot be more than eight or nine years alive, and he’s a clever one.” She ended with a giggle.

The boy stared at her, his lips moving this way and that, but no words coming forth.

“I like him,” the elf stated flatly. “He makes it fun. And all he took was your whistle.”

“The whistle my Da gave me!” the gang leader protested.

On cue, that whistle sounded from up above, and all eyes turned that way just in time to see the stolen item fly over the edge of the roof, back down to the teenager’s waiting hands.

“He only did it to prove he could, and only because you were mean to him,” said the elf girl, and she giggled again and walked off with her friends, pausing only to say again, “Let it be gone from your mind. You’ll not lessen your embarrassment by beating up a halfling child.”

“Spider,” said the man at the table across the street. “An apt name for that one, I think.”

“Aye, don a long while to realize become inadvertentlyon’t think I’ve seen anyone climb the face of a building as capably,” another replied.

“Or near as fast,” said another. “Course, he was running for his little life!”

That brought some laughter and the conversation continued about this mysterious little Spider character. Delthuntle was a fair-sized city, though, and none knew the identity of the halfling, or where he might have come from or where he might be going. Throughout their talk, the four discussing the matter kept glancing toward the fifth of the group, one who had not spoken at all since the shouts had begun from the distant lane and the little halfling, Spider, had bounded into view.

This fifth, unlike the other four at the table, was also a halfling. Dressed in the finest silks, with a fashionable golden sash belt and a fancy blue beret, its front edge tacked down with a large golden pin, Pericolo Topolino rested back in his seat with the easy confidence of competence and experience, and the wisdom of age.

That confidence, of course, was boosted more than a little by a well-earned reputation, for few in Delthuntle would deign to cross Pericolo Topolino.

He feigned indifference, but in truth keenly registered every word spoken by his companions. He never returned their looks, however, focusing instead across the street to the teenage ruffians.

“Who is that one?” he asked at length, and the other four fell to abrupt silence, eagerly following his gesture to indicate the leader of the teenage gang.

“Bregnan Prus,” two answered in unison, the other two quickly agreeing.

“Aye, and his Ma serves at a lord’s palace as a handmaid and he lives on the grounds,” one added.