R. Salvatore: The Companions

The Year of the Tasked Weasel (1483 DR) Icewind Dale

"The facial hair is quite becoming,” Catti-Brie said to Regis as they sat in his small house by the lake.

Regis couldn’t contain his smile, beaming wide and framed by his neatly trimmed mustache and the small goatee. He could hardly believe that he was looking at her again, at his dear friend Catti-brie, his companion through his previous life and in the days of his “death.”

“But I look the same, yes?” he asked.

“Different decorations, but you are surely Regis, yes,” Catti-brie teased, tugging at his long locks.

“I recognized you as soon as I heard your voice,” he replied. “And seeing you now … it puts me right back to the slopes of Kelvin’s Cairn when we were both much younger.” As he spoke, he found that he was quite glad that they had come back to look like their previous incarnations. How strange it would have been to see Catti-brie in the body of another woman. But no, this was her, with her auburn hair, long and thick, and those unmistakable blue eyes.

She paced before him to put another log on the fire. “Winter fast approaches,” she remarked.

“The gown,” Regis said{font-size: 0.75rem;Iesbla no less suddenly, and Catti-brie turned to regard him curiously.

“The gown you wear,” he explained. “Isn’t that the same one you wore in Iruladoon? How could that …?”

“Similar,” she admitted, twirling around and showing off the layered white dress. “I commissioned it from a dressmaker in Shade Enclave with that one from the forest in mind.”

“Shade Enclave?” Regis asked. “The heart of the Empire of Netheril?”

Catti-brie nodded.

“It would seem that we both have tales to tell!” Regis said with a laugh.

Catti-brie smiled in reply and gave a little twirl, holding the gown out wide at one hip. “When we were in Iruladoon, I was dressed by the goddess, was I not?”

“It is reasonable,” Regis agreed, “and beautiful.”

“Ever charming,” Catti-brie replied, and she did blush a bit, Regis noted. “You have done well, it would seem. The gems of your rapier, the design of your hand crossbow, the hat you wear-there is a tale to tell for each, I expect.”

“Winter descends. I will have time to tell you many stories, and listen to yours, of course. And yes, my life was … exciting.” And will be again, he thought, but did not say.

“Your dagger, though,” Catti-brie said haltingly. She had witnessed its dark magic, after all.

“It is an item, a tool and nothing more,” Regis assured her.

Catti-brie looked at him doubtfully, warily.

“It is not Khazid’hea,” he assured her. “It has no sentience. It is a tool.”

“A gruesome one, it would seem.”

“And my fine rapier pokes holes in hearts, and your spells burn the flesh from enemies.”

The woman smiled and seemed satisfied with that. Regis could understand her hesitance, of course, for he still hadn’t quite dismissed his own consternations regarding the dagger. Every time he used the garroting snakes and saw that cruel, undead specter, he found himself keenly reminded of the dirtiness of his actions, necessary or not.

He thought of the lich Ebonsoul then, and wondered if he should tell Catti-brie that perhaps he was being pursued by a powerful enemy, but he quickly dismissed the notion. It had been years since his departure from Delthuntle, and while it was possible that Ebonsoul continued to search for him, it seemed unlikely that the lich would ever actually find him. The trail was long dead, or so he hoped.

A commotion outside caught their attention, and they noted some men going past the house, the four Rethnor thugs in tow, and in chains. None had died, and Catti-brie had healed them all-even the one Regis had stabbed in the back was walking again.

“Will they hang the thieves?” he asked.

“They will put them to work, likely,” Catti-brie replied. “Hands are always needed up here, you remember.”

Regis nodded. In Luskan, back in the days of old, these thieves would have been brought to Prisoner’s Carnival, publicly tortured and, quite likely, heinously executed. At the very least, they would have spent years in a dungeon cell, and with their hands severed. But upline-height: IBruenor didon here in Ten-Towns, serious crimes were most often punished by hard labor.

Regis smiled at the thought-in so many ways, this frontier region on the edge of the wilds seemed so much more civilized than the supposedly great cities of Faerun. The hardships of pressing danger created a cleaner relationship between the folk here, where coin mattered less than assistance, gold less than food, and a helping hand more than a magistrate’s whip.

It was good to be home.

Bruenor leaned on the wagon, gazing anxiously to the mountains just north of his position, at the low clouds that covered their tops. It was the last caravan of the year destined for Icewind Dale, now sitting idle on the road just outside of Luskan. The dwarf had signed on as a guard, but the lead driver had offered him no coin.

“Not sure we’re even to get through,” the driver had explained.

Now, looking at the gray clouds obscuring the mountain tops, those words echoed keenly in Bruenor’s mind. He knew what those clouds meant. He felt the bite in the air. Elient, the ninth month, had given way to Marpenoth, and while that tenth month was also named “Leaffall” in much of the Realms, in Icewind Dale, the leaves of the few trees were surely long fallen and long dead, and soon to be, if not already, buried under the first snows of winter.

“A rider!” he heard, drawing him back to the present scene. He moved out from the wagon and looked up the northern road to witness the approach of the scout the caravan’s lead driver had sent ahead.

The man rode to the lead wagon and quietly conferred with a small group up there. One removed his hat and slapped it in anger against the wagon, and Bruenor knew then that he had missed his chance.

The lead driver climbed up on the wagon and called for all to gather near. Bruenor went along, but he already knew what was coming, for he understood the ways of Icewind Dale as well as any man alive, understood the season and recognized those clouds.

The window of time had been small for this last caravan. The window had closed.

“Break them down!” the lead driver ordered.

Amidst the groans and complaints, the workers went about their tasks, re-ordering the goods for the return to the stocks in Luskan, sorting the wagons of each High Captain affiliate and such. Through the din, Bruenor made his way to the lead driver, who was still conversing with the returned scout.

“Ain’t no way through?” the dwarf asked.

“Snow’s already waist deep to an ogre, and falling fast,” said the scout.

“The pass is closed,” the lead driver agreed.

“I got to get me to Ten-Towns,” said Bruenor.

The two men just looked at him and shrugged.

“You might find a wizard in Luskan to send you,” said the scout. “No mount, except one that’s flying, will carry you through.”

The dwarf did well to hide his frustration-it wasn’t the fault of these two, after all, and the lead driver had been quite generous in allowing Bruenor to sign on after he had fully complemented the caravan guard.

But what was Bruenor to do? He had no coin, and wizards certainly would not come cheap.line-height: IBruenor didon

“I got nowhere to go,” he muttered.

“Most’ll put up at One-Eyed Jax,” said the scout. “What’s your captain affiliation?”

“Me what?”

“What Ship are you with?”

“He’s not of Luskan,” the lead driver explained.