Robert Salvatore: The Halfling’s Gem

“It is the Drow’s,” Regis stammered. “Its name is Guen—” Regis caught the word in his mouth as Entreri’s free hand suddenly snapped out a jeweled dagger, readied for a throw.

“Calling an ally?” Entreri asked wickedly. He dropped the statuette back into his pocket. “I know the beast’s name, halfling. And I assure you, by the time the cat arrived, you would be dead.”

“You fear the cat?” Regis dared to ask.

“I take no chances,” Entreri replied.

“But will you call the panther yourself?” Regis pressed, looking for some way to change the balance of power. “A companion for your lonely roads?”

Entreri’s laugh mocked the very thought. “Companion? Why would I desire a companion, little fool? What gain could I hope to make?”

“With numbers comes strength,” Regis argued.

“Fool,” repeated Entreri. “That is where you err. In the streets, companions bring dependence and doom! Look at yourself, friend of the drow. What strength do you bring to Drizzt Do’Urden now? He rushes blindly to your aid, to fulfill his responsibility as your companion.” He spat the word out with obvious distaste. “To his ultimate demise!”

Regis hung his head and could not answer. Entreri’s words rang true enough. His friends were coming into dangers they could not imagine, and all for his sake, all because of errors he had made before he had ever met them.

Entreri replaced the dagger in its sheath and leaped up in a rush. “Enjoy the night, little thief. Bask in the cold ocean wind; relish all the sensations of this trip as a man staring death in the face, for Calimport surely spells your doom and the doom of your friends!” He swept out of the room, banging the door behind him.

He hadn’t locked it, Regis noted. He never locked the door! But he didn’t have to, Regis admitted in anger. Terror was the assassin’s chain, as tangible as iron shackles. Nowhere to run; nowhere to hide.

Regis dropped his head into his hands. He became aware of the sway of the ship, of the rhythmic, monotonous creaking of old boards, his body irresistibly keeping time.

He felt his insides churning.

Halflings weren’t normally fond of the sea, and Regis was timid even by the measures of his kind. Entreri could not have found a greater torment to Regis than passage south on a ship, on the Sea of Swords.

“Not again,” Regis groaned, dragging himself to the small portal in the cabin. He pulled the window open and stuck his head out into the refreshing chill of the night air.

Entreri walked across the empty deck, his cloak tight about him. Above him, the sails swelled, as they filled with wind; the early winter gales pushed the ship along its southern route. A billion stars dotted the sky, twinkling in the empty darkness to horizons bordered only by the flat line of the sea.

Entreri took out the ruby pendant again and let its magic catch the starlight. He watched it spin and studied its swirl, meaning to know it well before his journey’s end.

Pasha Pook would be thrilled to get the pendant back. It had given him such power! More power, Entreri now realized, than others had assumed. With the pendant, Pook had made friends of enemies and slaves of friends.

“Even me?” Entreri mused, enthralled by the little stars in the red wash of the gem. “Have I been a victim? Or shall I be?” He wouldn’t have believed that he, Artemis Entreri, could ever be caught by a magic charm, but the insistence of the ruby pendant was undeniable.

Entreri laughed aloud. The helmsman, the only other person on the deck, cast him a curious glance but thought no more about it.

“No,” Entreri whispered to the ruby. “You shan’t have me again. I know your tricks, and I’ll learn them better still! I will run the path of your tempting descent and find my way back out again!” Laughing, he fastened the pendant’s golden chain around his neck and tucked the ruby under his leather jerkin.

Then he felt in his pouch, grasped the figurine of the panther, and turned his gaze back to the north. “Are you watching, Drizzt Do’Urden?” he asked into the night.

He knew the answer. Somewhere far behind, in Waterdeep or Longsaddle or somewhere in between, the drow’s lavender eyes were turned southward.

They were destined to meet again; they both knew. They had battled once, in Mithril Hall, but neither could claim victory.

There had to be a winner.

Never before had Entreri encountered anyone with reflexes to match his own or as deadly with a blade as he, and memories of his clash with Drizzt Do’Urden haunted his every thought. They were so akin, their movements cut from the same dance. And yet, the drow, compassionate and caring, possessed a basic humanity that Entreri had long ago discarded. Such emotions, such weaknesses, had no place in the cold void of a pure fighter’s heart, he believed.

Entreri’s hands twitched with eagerness as he thought of the drow. His breath puffed out angrily in the chill air. “Come, Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said through his clenched teeth. “Let us learn who is the stronger!”

His voice reflected deadly determination, with a subtle, almost imperceptive, hint of anxiety. This would be the truest challenge of both their lives, the test of the differing tenets that had guided their every actions. For Entreri, there could be no draw. He had sold his soul for his skill, and if Drizzt Do’Urden defeated him, or even proved his equal, the assassin’s existence would be no more than a wasted lie.

But he didn’t think like that.

Entreri lived to win.

Regis, too, was watching the night sky. The crisp air had settled his stomach, and the stars had sent his thoughts across the long miles to his friends. How often they had sat together on such nights in Icewind Dale, to share tales of adventure or just sit quietly in each others’ company. Icewind Dale was a barren strip of frozen tundra, a land of brutal weather and brutal people, but the friends Regis had made there, Bruenor and Catti-brie, Drizzt and Wulfgar, had warmed the coldest of the winter nights and taken the sting out of the biting north wind.

In context, Icewind Dale had been but a short stopover for Regis on his extensive travels, where he had spent less than ten of his fifty years. But now, heading back to the southern kingdom where he had lived for the bulk of his life, Regis realized that Icewind Dale had truly been his home. And those friends he so often took for granted were the only family he would ever know.

He shook away his lament and forced himself to consider the path before him. Drizzt would come for him; probably Wulfgar and Catti-brie, too.

But not Bruenor.

Any relief that Regis had felt when Drizzt returned unharmed from the bowels of Mithril Hall had flown over Garumn’s Gorge with the valiant dwarf. A dragon had them trapped while a host of evil gray dwarves had closed in from behind. But Bruenor, at the cost of his own life, had cleared the way, crashing down onto the dragon’s back with a keg of burning oil, taking the beast—and himself—down into the deep gorge.

Regis couldn’t bear to recall that terrible scene. For all of his gruffness and teasing, Bruenor Battlehammer had been the halfling’s dearest companion.

A shooting star burned a trail across the night sky. The sway of the ship remained and the salty smell of the ocean sat thick in his nose, but here at the portal, in the sharpness of the clear night, Regis felt no sickness—only a sad serenity as he remembered all of those crazy times with the wild dwarf. Truly Bruenor Battlehammer’s flame had burned like a torch in the wind, leaping and dancing and fighting to the very end.

Regis’s other friends had escaped, though. The halfling was certain of it—as certain as Entreri. And they would come for him. Drizzt would come for him and set things right.