R. Salvatore - The Companions

Regis knew it was a trap, of course, and again his instincts told him to just walk away. But again he reminded himself that he wasn’t that halfling anymore, shying from trouble, or in this case, from a likely fight. He thought of his many lessons with Donnola, and of the years he had spent training his body for a situation just such as this.

He wouldn’t be any good to Catti-brie and Drizzt if he was killed, he reminded himself, and he wavered.

So I won’t be killed, Spider Pericolo Topolino stubbornly determined. “The copper, you say? And pray tell how many coppers you might be looking for, good Mister …?”

“Tinderkeg,” the greasy dwarf replied. “Mister Tinderkeg at yer service, Mister …?”

“Topolino. Spider Pericolo Topolino.”

“Aye, but that’s a mouthful o’ i’s an’ o’s, haha!”

“How many?”

“What?”

“How many coppers for a bed, Mister Tinderkeg?”

“Oh, yeah, that.” The one-eyed dwarf paused and seemed at a loss for a bit, as if he was only then calculating an answer-yet another clear hint to Regis that it was more than coincidence that had brought him together with this particular dwarf, at this particular time.

“Just a few, then,” Tinderkeg stuttered. “Whatever good Mister Perico … Perica … er, yerself, can spare.”

Regis reached into his pouch and pulled out a few coins, silver and copper, and handed them over. He looked to the west, where the sun was very low now, long shadows darkening the kiosks as the merchants began to close up their wares for the night.

“Show me to my bed, then,” he bade the dwarf. “It has been a long and dirty road.”

“Dirty, eh? Well, I can draw ye a bath for a few copper more,” said the dwarf. “And I’ll get the water from the east side of the bridge, eh!”

That last reference almost slipped by Regis, who hadn’t yet looked into the river Winding Water, but he recalled some tales of this place that he had heard soon after the Time of Troubles. According to some bards who had performed in Mithral Hall, the water upstream of the Boareskyr Bridge was clear, but downstream, below the bridge, the flow was foul indeed, the result of a battle between gods, it was said. Regis didn’t recall the full fable of it, but whatever magic had soiled the Winding Water beyond Boareskyr h of the DesaiIdweonad brought about an oft-heard curse in these parts of, “Go drink from the west side of the bridge!”

The halfling almost declined the dwarf’s offer, but quickly changed his mind, seeing an opportunity to turn the tables on his would-be assailants. No dwarf, certainly not this smelly fellow, would volunteer to draw a bath for anyone, and especially not for such a pittance, considering the labor involved. But what better way to get a victim away from his weapons and armor than to catch him by surprise in a tub of water?

“Yes, a bath would well suit me,” Regis said, handing over some more coin. “And do throw some hot stones about the tub, good fellow, that I might ease the ache from my road-weary bones. I think I’ll take a last quick look at some of the wares about, and will return in short order to retire.”

And with that, he went off into the marketplace, resisting the urge to assume yet another identity with his hat, hard though it was.

“So ye come to pay visits and a beer for a tale!” Regis sang, and he splashed his hand around the water in the tub beside him. “Well we’ll take yer wishes, a song for an ale! And if ye’ve a burner that’s epic indeed, we’ll toss out the hops and give ye a mead!”

He couldn’t remember any more of the words, so he hummed instead, occasionally throwing out a syllable or two that sounded rather Dwarvish in inflection. And he kept splashing his hand around, trying to make it sound to anyone outside the curtain as if he were actually in the tub.

Sure enough, the curtain flew aside suddenly and a tall man with a thin mustache and long black hair rushed in, saber raised for a strike.

Regis lifted his hand crossbow and shot him in the chest. “Yobad pirate,” he said as the man fell away. In behind the stumbling fellow came Tinderkeg, leaping forward with a mighty swing of his heavy hammer.

Regis dropped his hand crossbow, drew forth his rapier, and jumped back in the same movement. He came forward almost immediately and stabbed behind the blow, scoring a hit on the dwarf’s arm. His rapier tip didn’t fully penetrate, though, for this one was heavily armored, but the dwarf did indeed yelp and fall back.

Regis drew out his dirk, though he didn’t know how much good it would do him here; certainly he wouldn’t try to block or catch that huge hammer with it!

On came Tinderkeg furiously, driving the halfling back with another wild swing. Again the dwarf came in short of his mark, but this time smashed the weapon into the side of the tub, smashing the wood, and the water rushed out.

Tinderkeg tore the hammer free, splintering more of the planks, and whipped it across again, then back the way it had come, left-to-right before the halfling.

Seeing the tall man rising behind the dwarf, Regis knew that he had to move fast. He reversed his grip on the three-bladed dirk and quick-stepped to Tinderkeg’s left-and how he quick-stepped! The prism on his ring lit up as he started the movement and he felt its magic within him suddenly, along with an imparted thought: “warp step.” Indeed, it seemed to Regis as if time or distance or perhaps both had warped to his favor in that instant, the dwarf turning far too slowly to keep up with his movement as he bolted behind Tinderkeg’s left shoulder.

Not sure of what was happening, but line-height: Idweoncertainly not about to surrender such an opportunity, Regis drove his dagger out behind him, hard into the dwarf’s back. It bit in through a seam in the armor and dived deep into the dwarf’s flesh, and Regis turned as Tinderkeg turned, the dwarf lurching and reaching behind himself in pain.

All of those hours standing in a door jamb, reading his alchemy books while practicing with his rapier, brought on the halfling’s next movement without him even thinking about it, his right arm snapping forward, the tip of his thin blade perfectly aimed.

“Ah, ye blinded me!” Tinderkeg screamed, leaping back and dropping his hammer, both his hands slapping over his one eye. He dropped his hands almost at once, blood and ichor streaming from the stabbed eye, and shook his head weirdly, as if only then understanding his understatement.

“Ye killed me,” he corrected, and he fell over dead, face first to the floor.

Regis didn’t see it, for he was fast at work against the second murderer, and this one was no novice with the blade, the halfling quickly realized. He noted the pinpoint of blood on the man’s chest, just below the collar of his shirt. Regis had scored a solid hit indeed with the hand crossbow, but as he had feared, the drow poison had apparently lost most of its efficacy in the months since he had left Delthuntle. This one’s movements showed no sign of sluggishness, Regis recognized to his horror, his rapier working frantically to deflect the flurry of saber strikes.

He could hardly keep up. Even when he got his feet properly aligned, front foot pointing, trailing left foot perpendicular, he could barely match the tall man’s movements, and certainly couldn’t match his opponent’s reach.

He mentally called to his ring again, looking for a bit of magic, but it wasn’t ready for another maneuver quite yet, he could sense.

He batted the thrusting saber to the left and rolled his rapier over it, thinking to stab for the tall man’s hand. But his opponent was ready, and disengaged almost as soon as Regis’s blade struck the flat of the saber. The riposte came hard, right for the halfling’s face.