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  The Halfling’s Gem

  ( Forgotten Realms: Icewind Dale - 3 )

  Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Akar Kessel, a weak-willed apprentice mage sets in motion events leading to the rediscovery of the magical device, the crystal shard. But is it merely an inanimate device… or is it capable of directing the defeat of Ten-Towns?

  Or have the barbarians already arranged for that themselves? Their brutal attack on the villages of Ten-Towns seals their fate, and that of the youn barbarian Wulfgar. Left for dead, Wulfgar is rescued by the dwarf, Bruenor, in exchange for five years of service… and friendship. With the help of the dark elf, Drizzt, Bruenor reshapes Wulfgar into a warrior with both brawn and brains.

  But is Wulfgar strong enough to reunite the barbarian tribes? Can an unorthodox dwarf and renegade dark elf persuade the people of Ten-Towns to put aside their petty differences in time to stave off the forces of the crystal shard?

  R.A. Salvatore

  The Halfling’s Gem

  “He left this,” Pellman continued, handing the tiny pouch to Wulfgar. “And bade me to tell you that he will await your arrival in Calimport.”

  Wulfgar held the pouch tentatively, as if expecting it to explode in his face.

  “Our thanks,” Drizzt told Pellman. “We will tell our associate that you performed the task admirably.”

  Pellman nodded and bowed, turning away as he did so, to return to his duties.

  Drizzt led Wulfgar off to the side, out of plain view. Seeing the barbarian’s paling look, he took the tiny pouch and gingerly loosened the draw string, holding it as far away as possible. With a shrug to Wulfgar, who had moved a cautious step away, Drizzt brought the pouch down to his belt level and peeked in.

  Wulfgar moved closer, curious and concerned when he saw Drizzt’s shoulders droop. The drow looked to him in helpless resignation and inverted the pouch, revealing its contents.

  A halfling’s finger.

  To my sister Susan,

  who’ll never know how

  much her support has meant

  to me over the last few years.

  Prelude

  The wizard looked down upon the young woman with uncertainty. Her back was to him; he could see the thick mane of her auburn locks flowing around her shoulders, rich and vibrant. But the wizard knew, too, the sadness that was in her eyes. So young she was, barely more than a child, and so beautifully innocent.

  Yet this beautiful child had put a sword through the heart of his beloved Sydney.

  Harkle Harpell brushed away the unwanted memories of his dead love and started down the hill. “A fine day,” he said cheerily when he reached the young woman.

  “Do ye think they’ve made the tower?” Catti-brie asked him, her gaze never leaving the southern horizon.

  Harkle shrugged. “Soon, if not yet.” He studied Catti-brie and could find no anger against her for her actions. She had killed Sydney, it was true, but Harkle knew just by looking at her that necessity, not malice, had guided her sword arm. And now he could only pity her.

  “How are you?” Harkle stammered, amazed at the courage she had shown in light of the terrible events that had befallen her and her friends.

  Catti-brie nodded and turned to the wizard. Surely there was sorrow edging her deep blue eyes, but mostly they burned with a stubborn resolve that chased away any hints of weakness. She had lost Bruenor, the dwarf who had adopted her and had reared her as his own since the earliest days of her childhood. And Catti-brie’s other friends even now were caught in the middle of a desperate chase with an assassin across the southland.

  “How quickly things have changed,” Harkle whispered under his breath, feeling sympathy for the young woman. He remembered a time, just a few weeks earlier, when Bruenor Battlehammer and his small company had come through Longsaddle in their quest to find Mithril Hall, the dwarf’s lost homeland. That had been a jovial meeting of tales exchanged and promises of future friendships with the Harpell clan. None of them could have known that a second party, led by an evil assassin, and by Harkle’s own Sydney, held Catti-brie hostage and was gathering to pursue the company. Bruenor had found Mithril Hall, and had fallen there.

  And Sydney, the female mage that Harkle had so dearly loved, had played a part in the dwarf’s death.

  Harkle took a deep breath to steady himself. “Bruenor will be avenged,” he said with a grimace.

  Catti-brie kissed him on the cheek and started back up the hill toward the Ivy Mansion. She understood the wizard’s sincere pain, and she truly admired his decision to help her fulfill her vow to return to Mithril Hall and reclaim it for Clan Battlehammer.

  But for Harkle, there had been no other choice. The Sydney that he had loved was a facade, a sugar coating to a power-crazed, unfeeling monster. And he himself had played a part in the disaster, unwittingly revealing to Sydney the whereabouts of Bruenor’s party.

  Harkle watched Catti-brie go, the weight of troubles slowing her stride. He could harbor no resentment toward her—Sydney had brought about the circumstances of her own death, and Catti-brie had no choice but to play them out. The wizard turned his gaze southward. He, too, wondered and worried for the drow elf and the huge barbarian lad. They had slumped back into Longsaddle just three days before, a sorrow-filled and weary band in desperate need of rest.

  There could be no rest, though, not now, for the wicked assassin had escaped with the last of their group, Regis the halfling, in tow.

  So much had happened in those few weeks; Harkle’s entire world had been turned upside down by an odd mixture of heroes from a distant, forlorn land called Icewind Dale, and by a beautiful young woman who could not be blamed.

  And by the lie that was his deepest love.

  Harkle fell back on the grass and watched the puffy clouds of late summer meander across the sky.

  * * *

  Beyond the clouds, where the stars shone eternally, Guenhwyvar, the entity of the panther, paced excitedly. Many days had passed since the cat’s master, the drow elf named Drizzt Do’Urden, had summoned it to the material plane. Guenhwyvar was sensitive to the onyx figurine that served as a link to its master and that other world; the panther could sense the tingle from that far-off place even when its master merely touched the statuette.

  But Guenhwyvar hadn’t felt that link to Drizzt in some time, and the cat was nervous now, somehow understanding in its otherworldly intelligence that the drow no longer possessed the figurine. Guenhwyvar remembered the time before Drizzt, when another drow, an evil drow, had been its master. Though in essence an animal, Guenhwyvar possessed dignity, a quality that its original master had stolen away.

  Guenhwyvar remembered those times when it had been forced to perform cruel, cowardly acts against helpless foes for the sake of its master’s pleasure.

  But things had been very different since Drizzt Do’Urden came to possess the figurine. Here was a being of conscience and integrity, and an honest bond of love had developed between Guenhwyvar and Drizzt.

  The cat slumped against a star-trimmed tree and issued a low growl that observers to this astral spectacle might have taken as a resigned sigh.

  Deeper still would the cat’s sigh have been if it knew that Artemis Entreri, the killer, now possessed the figurine.

  Book 1.

  Halfway to Everywhere

  1. Tower of Twilight

  “A day and more we have lost,” the barbarian grumbled, reining in his horse and looking back over his shoulder. The lower rim of the sun had just dipped below the horizon. “The assassin moves away from us even now!”

  “We do well to trust in Harkle’s advice,” replied Drizzt Do’Urden, the dark elf. “He would not have led us astr
ay.” With the sunshine fading, Drizzt dropped the cowl of his black cloak back onto his shoulders and shook free the locks of his stark white hair.

  Wulfgar pointed to some tall pines. “That must be the grove Harkle Harpell spoke of,” he said, “yet I see no tower, nor signs that any structure was ever built in this forsaken area.”

  His lavender eyes more at home in the deepening gloom, Drizzt peered ahead intently, trying to find some evidence to dispute his young friend. Surely this was the place that Harkle had indicated, for a short distance ahead of them lay the small pond, and beyond that the thick boughs of Neverwinter Wood. “Take heart,” he reminded Wulfgar. “The wizard called patience the greatest aid in finding the home of Malchor. We have been here but an hour.”

  “The road grows ever longer,” the barbarian mumbled, unaware that the drow’s keen ears did not miss a word. There was merit in Wulfgar’s complaints, Drizzt knew, for the tale of a farmer in Longsaddle—that of a dark, cloaked man and a halfling on a single horse—put the assassin fully ten days ahead of them, and moving swiftly.

  But Drizzt had faced Entreri before and understood the enormity of the challenge before him. He wanted as much assistance as he could get in rescuing Regis from the deadly man’s clutches. By the farmer’s words, Regis was still alive, and Drizzt was certain that Entreri did not mean to harm the halfling before getting to Calimport.

  Harkle Harpell would not have sent them to this place without good reason.

  “Do we put up for the night?” asked Wulfgar. “By my word, we’d ride back to the road and to the south. Entreri’s horse carries two and may have tired by now. We can gain on him if we ride through the night.”

  Drizzt smiled at his friend. “They have passed through the city of Waterdeep by now,” he explained. “Entreri has acquired new horses, at the least.” Drizzt let the issue drop at that, keeping his deeper fears, that the assassin had taken to the sea, to himself.

  “Then to wait is even more folly!” Wulfgar was quick to argue.

  But as the barbarian spoke, his horse, a horse raised by Harpells, snorted and moved to the small pond, pawing the air above the water as though searching for a place to step. A moment later, the last of the sun dipped under the western horizon and the daylight faded away. And in the magical dimness of twilight, an enchanted tower phased into view before them on the little island in the pond, its every point twinkling like starlight, and its many twisting spires reaching up into the evening sky. Emerald green it was, and mystically inviting, as if sprites and faeries had lent a hand to its creation.

  And across the water, right below the hoof of Wulfgar’s horse, appeared a shining bridge of green light.

  Drizzt slipped from his mount. “The Tower of Twilight,” he said to Wulfgar, as though he had seen the obvious logic from the start. He swept his arm out toward the structure, inviting his friend to lead them in.

  But Wulfgar was stunned at the appearance of the tower. He clutched the reins of his horse even tighter, causing the beast to rear up and flatten its ears against its head.

  “I thought you had overcome your suspicions of magic,” said Drizzt sarcastically. Truly Wulfgar, like all the barbarians of Icewind Dale, had been raised with the belief that wizards were weakling tricksters and not to be trusted. His people, proud warriors of the tundra, regarded strength of arm, not skill in the black arts of wizardry, as the measure of a true man. But in their many weeks on the road, Drizzt had seen Wulfgar overcome his upbringing and develop a tolerance, even a curiosity, for the practices of wizardry.

  With a flex of his massive muscles, Wulfgar brought his horse under control. “I have,” he answered through gritted teeth. He slid from his seat. “It is Harpells that worry me!”

  Drizzt’s smirk widened across his face as he suddenly came to understand his friend’s trepidations. He himself, who had been raised amidst many of the most powerful and frightening sorcerers in all the Realms, had shaken his head in disbelief many times when they were guests of the eccentric family in Longsaddle. The Harpells had a unique—and often disastrous—way of viewing the world, though no evil festered in their hearts, and they wove their magic in accord with their own perspectives—usually against the presumed logic of rational men.

  “Malchor is unlike his kin,” Drizzt assured Wulfgar. “He does not reside in the Ivy Mansion and has played advisor to kings of the northland.”

  “He is a Harpell,” Wulfgar stated with a finality that Drizzt could not dispute. With another shake of his head and a deep breath to steady himself, Wulfgar grabbed his horse’s bridle and started out across the bridge. Drizzt, still smiling, was quick to follow.

  “Harpell,” Wulfgar muttered again after they had crossed to the island and made a complete circuit of the structure.

  The tower had no door.

  “Patience,” Drizzt reminded him.

  They did not have to wait long, though, for a few seconds later they heard a bolt being thrown, and then the creak of a door opening. A moment later, a boy barely into his teens walked right through the green stone of the wall, like some translucent specter, and moved toward them.

  Wulfgar grunted and brought Aegis-fang, his mighty war hammer, down off his shoulder. Drizzt grasped the barbarian’s arm to stay him, fearing that his weary friend might strike in sheer frustration before they could determine the lad’s intentions.

  When the boy reached them, they could see clearly that he was flesh and blood, not some otherworldly specter, and Wulfgar relaxed his grip. The youth bowed low to them and motioned for them to follow.

  “Malchor?” asked Drizzt.

  The boy did not answer, but he motioned again and started back toward the tower.

  “I would have thought you to be older, if Malchor you be,” Drizzt said, falling into step behind the boy.

  “What of the horses?” Wulfgar asked.

  Still the boy continued silently toward the tower.

  Drizzt looked at Wulfgar and shrugged. “Bring them in, then, and let our mute friend worry about them!” the dark elf said.

  They found one section of the wall—at least—to be an illusion, masking a door that led them into a wide, circular chamber that was the tower’s lowest level. Stalls lining one wall showed that they had done right in bringing the horses, and they tethered the beasts quickly and rushed to catch up to the youth. The boy had not slowed and had entered another doorway.

  “Hold for us,” Drizzt called, stepping through the portal, but he found no guide inside. He had entered a dimly lit corridor that rose gently and arced around as it rose, apparently tracing the circumference of the tower. “Only one way to go,” he told Wulfgar, who came in behind him, and they started off.

  Drizzt figured that they had done one complete circle and were up to the second level—ten feet at least—when they found the boy waiting for them beside a darkened sidepassage that fell back toward the center of the structure. The lad ignored this passage, though, and started off higher into the tower along the main arcing corridor.

  Wulfgar had run out of patience for such cryptic games. His only concern was that Entreri and Regis were running farther away every second. He stepped by Drizzt and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, spinning him about. “Are you Malchor?” he demanded bluntly.

  The boy blanched at the giant man’s gruff tone but did not reply.

  “Leave him,” Drizzt said. “He is not Malchor. I am sure. We will find the master of the tower soon enough.” He looked to the frightened boy. “True?”

  The boy gave a quick nod and started off again.

  “Soon,” Drizzt reiterated to quiet Wulfgar’s growl. He prudently stepped by the barbarian, putting himself between Wulfgar and the guide.

  “Harpell,” Wulfgar groaned at his back.

  The incline grew steeper and the circles tighter, and both friends knew that they were nearing the top. Finally the boy stopped at a door, pushed it open, and motioned for them to enter.

  Drizzt moved quickly to be the first inside
the room, fearing that the angry barbarian might make less than a pleasant first impression with their wizard host.

  Across the room, sitting atop a desk and apparently waiting for them, rested a tall and sturdy man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. His arms were crossed on his chest. Drizzt began to utter a cordial greeting, but Wulfgar nearly bowled him over, bursting in from behind and striding right up to the desk.

  The barbarian, with one hand on his hip and one holding Aegis-fang in a prominent display before him, eyed the man for a moment. “Are you the wizard named Malchor Harpell?” he demanded, his voice hinting at explosive anger. “And if not, where in the Nine Hells are we to find him?”

  The man’s laugh erupted straight from his belly. “Of course,” he answered, and he sprang from the desk and clapped Wulfgar hard on the shoulder. “I prefer a guest who does not cover his feelings with rosy words!” he cried. He walked past the stunned barbarian toward the door—and the boy.

  “Did you speak to them?” he demanded of the lad.

  The boy blanched even more than before and shook his head emphatically.

  “Not a single word?” Malchor yelled.

  The boy trembled visibly and shook his head again.

  “He said not a—” Drizzt began, but Malchor cut him off with an outstretched hand.

  “If I find that you uttered even a single syllable, ….” he threatened. He turned back to the room and took a step away. Just when he figured that the boy might have relaxed a bit, he spun back on him, nearly causing him to jump from his shoes.

  “Why are you still here?” Malchor demanded. “Be gone!”

  The door slammed even before the wizard had finished the command. Malchor laughed again, and the tension eased from his muscles as he moved back to his desk. Drizzt came up beside Wulfgar, the two looking at each other in amazement.