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return of the halfling, or of my pendant."
He paused to consider the implications of his decided course, leaning over
LaValle's back to get close to Oberon's image. "Do you still. have contact with
Pinochet?" he asked the wizard slyly.
Oberon guessed the guildmaster's meaning. "The pirate does not forget his
friends," he answered in the same tone, "Pinochet contacts me every time he
finds his way to Baldur's Gate. He inquires of you as well, hoping that all is
well with his old friend."
"And is he now in the isles?"
"The winter trade is rolling down from Waterdeep," Oberon replied with a
chuckle. "Where else would a successful pirate be?"
"Good," muttered Pook.
"Should I arrange a welcome for Entreri's pursuers?" Oberon asked eagerly,
enjoying the intrigue and the opportunity to serve the guildmaster.
"Three ships - no chances," said Pook. "Nothing shall interfere with the
halfling's return. He and I have so very much to discuss!"
Oberon considered the task for a moment. "A pity," he remarked. "The Sea
Sprite was a fine vessel."
Pook echoed a single word for emphasis, making it absolutely clear that he
would tolerate no mistakes.
"Was."
10
The Weight of a Kings Mantle
The halfling hung by his ankles, suspended upside down with chains above a
cauldron of boiling liquid. Not water, though, but something darker. A red hue,
perhaps.
Blood, perhaps.
The crank creaked, and the halfling dropped an inch closer. His face was
contorted, his mouth wide, as if in a scream.
But no screams could be heard. Just the groans of the crank and a sinister
laugh from an unseen torturer.
The misty scene shifted, and the crank came into view, worked slowly by a
single hand that seemed unattached to anything else.
There was a pause in the descent.
Then the evil voice laughed one final time. The hand jerked quickly, sending
the crank spinning.
A scream resounded, piercing and cutting, a cry of agony - a cry of death.
* * *
Sweat stung Bruenor's eyes even before he had fully opened them. He wiped
the wetness from his face and rolled his head, trying to shake away the terrible
images and adjust his thoughts to his surroundings.
He was in the Ivy Mansion, in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room. The
fresh candles that he had set out burned low. They hadn't helped; this night had
been like the others: another nightmare.
Bruenor rolled over and sat up on the side of his bed. Everything was as it
should be. The mithril armor and golden shield lay across a chair beside the
room's single dresser. The axe that he had used to cut his way out of the
duergar lair rested easily against the wall beside Drizzt's scimitar, and two
helmets sat atop the dresser, the battered, one-horned helm that had carried the
dwarf through the adventures of the last two centuries, and the crown of the
king of Mithril Hall, ringed by a thousand glittering gemstones.
But to Bruenor's eyes, all was not as it should be. He looked to the window
and the darkness of the night beyond. Alas, all he could see was the reflection
of the candlelit room, the crown and armor of the king of Mithril Hall.
It had been a tough week for Bruenor. All the days had been filled with the
excitement of the times, of talk of the armies coming from Citadel Adbar and
Icewind Dale to reclaim Mithril Hall. The dwarf's shoulders ached from being
patted so many times by Harpells and other visitors to the mansion, all anxious
to congratulate him in advance for the impending return of his throne.
But Bruenor had wandered through the last few days absently, playing a role
thrust upon him before he could truly appreciate it. It was time to prepare for
the adventure Bruenor had fantasized about since his exile nearly two centuries
before. His father's father had been king of Mithril Hall, his father before
him, and back to the beginnings of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor's birthright
demanded that he lead the armies and retake Mithril Hall, that he sit in the
throne he had been born to possess.
But it was in the very chambers of the ancient dwarven homeland that Bruenor
Battlehammer had realized the truth of what was important to him. Over the
course of the last decade, four very special companions had come into his life,
not one of them a dwarf. The friendship the five had forged was bigger than a
dwarven kingdom and more precious to Bruenor than all the mithril in the world.
The realization of his fantasy conquest seemed empty to him.
The moments of the night now held Bruenor's heart and his concentration. The
dreams, never the same but always with the same terrible conclusion, did not
fade with the light of day.
"Another one?" came a soft call from the door. Bruenor looked over his
shoulder to see Catti-brie peeking in on him. Bruenor knew that he didn't have
to answer. He put his head down in one hand and rubbed his eyes.
"About Regis again?" asked Catti-brie, moving closer. Bruenor heard the door
softly close.
"Rumblebelly," Bruenor softly corrected, using the nickname he had tagged on
the halfling who had been his closest friend for nearly a decade.
Bruenor swung his legs back up on the bed. "I should be with him," he said
gruffly, "or at least with the drow and Wulfgar, lookin' for him!"
"Yer kingdom awaits," Catti-brie reminded him, more to dispel his guilt than
to soften his belief in where he truly belonged - a belief that the young woman
wholeheartedly shared. "Yer kin from Icewind Dale'll be here in a month, the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]