R. A. Salvatore - Paths of Darkness 2 - The Spine of the Wor

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PROLOGUE
The smaller man, known by many names in Luskan but most commonly as Morik the Rogue,
held the bottle up in the air and gave it a shake, for it was a dirty thing and he wanted to measure
the dark line of liquid against the orange light of sunset.
"Down to one," he said, and he brought his arm back in as if to take that final swig.
The huge man sitting on the end of the wharf beside him snatched the bottle away, moving
with agility exceptional in a man of his tremendous size. Instinctively, Morik moved to grab the
bottle back, but the large man held his muscular arm up to fend off the grabbing hands and
drained the bottle in a single hearty swig.
"Bah, Wulfgar, but you're always getting the last one of late," Morik complained, giving
Wulfgar a halfhearted swat across the shoulder.
"Earned it," Wulfgar argued.
Morik eyed him skeptically for just a moment, then remembered their last contest wherein
Wulfgar had, indeed, earned the right to the last swig of the next bottle.
"Lucky throw," Morik mumbled. He knew better, though, and had long ago ceased to be
amazed by Wulfgar's warrior prowess.
"One that I'll make again," Wulfgar proclaimed, pulling himself to his feet and hoisting
Aegis-fang, his wondrous warhammer. He staggered as he slapped the weapon across his open
palm, and a sly smile spread across Morik's swarthy face. He, too, climbed to his feet, taking up
the empty bottle, swinging it easily by the neck.
"Will you, now?" the rogue asked.
"You throw it high enough, or take a loss," the blond barbarian explained, lifting his arm and
pointing the end of the warhammer out to the open sea.
"A five-count before it hits the water." Morik eyed his barbarian friend icily as he recited the
terms of the little gambling game they had created many days ago. Morik had won the first few
contests, but by the fourth day Wulfgar had learned to properly lead the descending bottle, his
hammer scattering tiny shards of glass across the bay. Of late, Morik had a chance of winning the
bet only when Wulfgar indulged too much in the bottle.
"Never will it hit," Wulfgar muttered as Morik reached back to throw.
The little man paused, and once again he eyed the big man with some measure of contempt.
Back and forth swayed the arm. Suddenly Morik jerked as if to throw.
"What?" Surprised, Wulfgar realized the feint, realized that Morik had not sailed the bottle
into the air. Even as Wulfgar turned his gaze upon Morik, the little man spun in a complete
circuit and let the bottle fly high and far.
Right into the line of the descending sun.
Wulfgar hadn't followed it from the beginning of its flight, so he could only squint into the
glare, but he caught sight of it at last. With a roar he let fly his mighty warhammer, the magical
and brilliantly crafted weapon spinning out low over the bay.
Morik squealed in glee, thinking he had outfoxed the big man, for the bottle was low in the
sky by the time Wulfgar threw and fully twenty strides out from the wharf. No one could skim a
warhammer so far and so fast as to hit that, Morik believed, especially not a man who had just
drained more than half the contents of the target!
The bottle nearly clipped a wave when Aegis-fang took it, exploding it into a thousand tiny
pieces.
"It touched water!" Morik yelled.
"My win," Wulfgar said firmly, his tone offering no debate.
Morik could only grumble in reply, for he knew that the big man was right; the warhammer
got the bottle in time.
"Seeming a mighty waste of a good hammer fer just a bottle," came a voice behind the duo.
The pair turned as one to see two men, swords drawn, standing but a few feet away.
"Now, Mister Morik the Rogue," remarked one of them, a tall and lean fellow with a kerchief
tied about his head, a patch over one eye, and a rusty, curving blade weaving in the air before
him. "I'm knowin' ye got yerself a good haul from a gem merchant a week back, and I'm thinkin'
that ye'd be wise to share a bit o' the booty with me and me friend."
Morik glanced up at Wulfgar, his wry grin and the twinkle in his dark eyes telling the
barbarian that he didn't mean to share a thing, except perhaps the blade of his fine dagger.
"And if ye still had yer hammer, ye might be arguin' the point," laughed the other thug, as tall
as his friend, but much wider and far dirtier. He prodded his sword toward Wulfgar. The
barbarian staggered backward, nearly falling off the end of the wharf-or at least, pretending to.
"I'm thinking that you should have found the gem merchant before me," Morik replied
calmly. "Assuming there was a gem merchant, my friend, because I assure you that I have no idea
what you are talking about."
The slender thug growled and thrust his sword ahead. "Now, Morik!" he started to yell, but
before the words even left his mouth, Morik had leaped ahead, spinning inside the angle of the
curving sword blade, rolling about, putting his back against the man's forearm and pushing out.
He ducked right under the startled man's arm, lifting it high with his right hand, while his left
hand flashed, a silver sparkle in the last light of day, Morik's dagger stabbing into the stunned
man's armpit.
Meanwhile, the other thug, thinking he had an easy, unarmed target, waded in. His bloodshot
eyes widened when Wulfgar brought his right arm from behind his hip, revealing that the mighty
warhammer had magically returned to his grip. The thug skidded to a stop and glanced in panic at
his companion. But by now Morik had the newly unarmed man turned about and in full flight
with Morik running right behind him, taunting him and laughing hysterically as he repeatedly
stabbed the man in the buttocks.
"Whoa!" the remaining thug cried, trying to turn.
"I can hit a falling bottle," Wulfgar reminded him. The man stopped abruptly and turned back
slowly to face the huge barbarian.
"We don't want no trouble," the thug explained, slowly laying his sword down on the
boarding of the wharf. "No trouble at all, good sir," he said, bowing repeatedly.
Wulfgar dropped Aegis-fang to the decking, and the thug stopped bobbing, staring hard at the
weapon.
"Pick up your sword, if you choose," the barbarian offered.
The thug looked up at him incredulously. Then, seeing the barbarian without a weapon-
except, of course, for those formidable fists-the man scooped up his sword.
Wulfgar had him before his first swing. The powerful warrior snapped out his hand to catch
the man's sword arm at the wrist. With a sudden and ferocious jerk, Wulfgar brought that arm
straight up, then hit the thug in the chest with a stunning right cross that blasted away his breath
and his strength. The sword fell to the wharf.
Wulfgar jerked the arm again, lifting the man right from his feet and popping his shoulder out
of joint. The barbarian let go, allowing the thug to fall heavily back to his feet, then hit him with a
vicious left hook across the jaw. The only thing that stopped the man from flipping headlong over
the side of the wharf was Wulfgar's right hand, catching him by the front of his shirt. With
frightening strength, Wulfgar easily lifted the thug from the deck, holding him fully a foot off the
planking.
The man tried to grab at Wulfgar and break the hold, but Wulfgar shook him so violently that
he nearly bit off his tongue, and every limb on the man seemed made of rubber.
"This one's not got much of a purse," Morik called. Wulfgar looked past his victim to see that
his companion had gone right around the fleeing thug, herding him back toward the end of the
dock. The thug was limping badly now and whining for mercy, which only made Morik stick him
again in the buttocks, drawing more yelps.
"Please, friend," stammered the man Wulfgar held aloft.
"Shut up!" the barbarian roared, bringing his arm down forcefully, bending his head and
snapping his powerful neck muscles so that his forehead collided hard with the thug's face.
A primal rage boiled within the barbarian, an anger that went beyond this incident, beyond
the attempted mugging. No longer was he standing on a dock in Luskan. Now he was back in the
Abyss, in Errtu's lair, a tormented prisoner of the wicked demon. Now this man was one of the
great demon's minions, the pincer-armed Glabrezu, or worse, the tempting succubus. Wulfgar
was back there fully, seeing the gray smoke, smelling the foul stench, feeling the sting of whips
and fires, the pincers on his throat, the cold kiss of the demoness.
So clear it came to him! So vivid! The waking nightmare returned, holding him in a grip of
the sheerest rage, stifling his mercy or compassion, throwing him into the pits of torment,
emotional and physical torture. He felt the itching and burning of those little centipedes that Errtu
used, burrowing under his skin and crawling inside him, their venomous pincers lighting a
thousand fires within. They were on him and in him, all over him, their little legs tickling and
exciting his nerves so that he would feel the exquisite agony of their burning venom all the more.
Tormented again, indeed, but suddenly and unexpectedly, Wulfgar found that he was no
longer helpless.
Up into the air went the thug, Wulfgar effortlessly hoisting him overhead, though the man
weighed well over two hundred pounds. With a primal roar, a scream torn from his churning gut,
the barbarian spun him about toward the open sea.
"I cannot swim!" the man shrieked. Arms and legs flailing pitifully, he hit the water fully
fifteen feet from the wharf, where he splashed and bobbed, crying out for help. Wulfgar turned
away. If he heard the man at all, he showed no indication.
Morik eyed the barbarian with some surprise. "He can't swim," Morik remarked as Wulfgar
approached.
"Good time to learn, then," the barbarian muttered coldly, his thoughts still whirling down the
smoky corridors of Errtu's vast dungeon. He kept brushing his hands along his arms and legs as
he spoke, slapping away the imagined centipedes.
Morik shrugged. He looked down to the man who was squirming and crying on the planks at
his feet. "Can you swim?"
The thug glanced up timidly at the little rogue and gave a slight, hopeful nod.
"Then go to your friend," Morik instructed. The man started to slowly crawl away.
"I fear his friend will be dead before he gets to his side," Morik remarked to Wulfgar. The
barbarian didn't seem to hear him.
"Oh, do help the wretch," Morik sighed, grabbing Wulfgar by the arm and forcing that vacant
gaze to focus. "For me. I would hate to start a night with a death on our hands."
With a sigh of his own, Wulfgar reached out his mighty hands. The thug on his knees
suddenly found himself rising from the decking, one hand holding the back of his breeches,
another clamped about his collar. Wulfgar took three running strides and hurled the man long and
high. The flying thug cleared his splashing companion, landing nearby with a tremendous belly
smack.
Wulfgar didn't see him land. Having lost all interest in the scene, he turned about and, after
mentally recalling Aegis-fang to his grasp, stormed past Morik, who bowed in deference to his
dangerous and powerful friend.
Morik caught up to Wulfgar as the barbarian exited the wharf. "They are still scrambling in
the water," the rogue remarked. "The fat one, he keeps foolishly grabbing his friend, pulling them
both underwater. Perhaps they will both drown."
Wulfgar didn't seem to care, and that was an honest reflection of his heart, Morik knew. The
rogue gave one last look back at the harbor, then merely shrugged. The two thugs had brought it
on themselves, after all.
Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, was not one to be toyed with.
So Morik, too, put them out of his mind-not that he was ever really concerned-and focused
instead on his companion. His surprising companion, who had learned to fight at the training of a
drow elf, of all things!
Morik winced, though, of course, Wulfgar was too distracted to catch it. The rogue thought of
another drow, a visitor who had come unexpectedly to him not so long ago, bidding him to keep a
watchful eye on Wulfgar and paying him in advance for his is services (and not-so-subtly
explaining that if Morik failed in the "requested" task, the dark elf's master would not be
pleased). Morik hadn't heard from the dark elves again, to his relief, but still he kept to his end of
the agreement to watch over Wulfgar.
No, that wasn't it, the rogue had to admit, at least to himself. He had started his relationship
with Wulfgar for purely personal gain, partly out of fear of the drow, partly out of fear of
Wulfgar and a desire to learn more about this man who had so obviously become his rival on the
street. That had been in the beginning. He no longer feared Wulfgar, though he did sometimes
fear for the deeply troubled, haunted man. Morik hardly ever thought about the drow elves, who
had not come around in weeks and weeks. Surprisingly, Morik had come to like Wulfgar, had
come to enjoy the man's company despite the many times when surliness dominated the
barbarian's demeanor.
He almost told Wulfgar about the visit from the drow elves then, out of some basic desire to
warn this man who had become his friend. Almost. . . . but the practical side of Morik, the
cautious pragmatism that allowed him to stay alive in such a hostile environment as Luskan's
streets, reminded him that to do so would do no one good. If the dark elves came for Wulfgar,
whether Wulfgar expected them or not, the barbarian would be defeated. These were drow elves,
after all, wielders of mighty magic and the finest of blades, elves who could walk uninvited into
Morik's bedroom and rouse him from his slumber. Even Wulfgar had to sleep. If those dark elves,
after they were finished with poor Wulfgar, ever learned that Morik had betrayed them . . .
A shudder coursed along Morik's spine, and he forcefully shook the unsettling thoughts away,
turning his attention back to his large friend. Oddly, Morik saw a kindred spirit here, a man who
could be (and indeed had been) a noble and mighty warrior, a leader among men, but who, for
one reason or another, had fallen from grace.
Such was the way Morik viewed his own situation, though in truth, he had been on a course
to his present position since his early childhood. Still, if only his mother hadn't died in childbirth,
if only his father hadn't abandoned him to the streets . . .
Looking at Wulfgar now, Morik couldn't help but think of the man he himself might have
become, of the man Wulfgar had been. Circumstance had damned them both, to Morik's thinking,
and so he held no illusions about their relationship now. The truth of his bond to Wulfgar-the real
reason he stayed so close to him-despite all his sensibilities (the barbarian was being watched by
dark elves, after all!), was that he regarded the barbarian as he might a younger brother.
That, and the fact that Wulfgar's friendship brought him more respect among the rabble. For
Morik, there always had to be a practical reason.
The day neared its end, the night its beginning, the time of Morik and Wulfgar, the time of
Luskan's street life.
Part 1
THE PRESENT
In my homeland of Menzoberranzan, where demons play and drow revel at the horrible
demise of rivals, there remains a state of necessary alertness and wariness. A drow off-guard is a
drow murdered in Menzoberranzan, and thus few are the times when dark elves engage in exotic
weeds or drinks that dull the senses.
Few, but there are exceptions. At the final ceremony of Melee-Magthere, the school of
fighters that I attended, graduated students engage in an orgy of mind-blurring herbs and
sensual pleasures with the females of Arach-Tinilith, a moment of the purest hedonism, a party of
the purest pleasures without regard to future implications.
I rejected that orgy, though I knew not why at the time. It assaulted my sense of morality, I
believed (and still do), and cheapened so many things that I hold precious. Now, in retrospect, I
have come to understand another truth about myself that forced rejection of that orgy. Aside from
the moral implications, and there were many, the mere notion of the mind-blurring herbs
frightened and repulsed me. I knew that all along, of course as soon as I felt the intoxication at
that ceremony, I instinctively rebelled against it but it wasn't until very recently that I came to
understand the truth of that rejection, the real reason why such influences have no place in my
life.
These herbs attack the body in various ways, of course, from slowing reflexes to destroying
coordination altogether, but more importantly, they attack the spirit in two different ways. First,
they blur the past, erasing memories pleasant and unpleasant, and second, they eliminate any
thoughts of the future. Intoxicants lock the imbiber in the present, the here and now, without
regard for the future, without consideration of the past. That is the trap, a defeatist perspective
that allows for attempted satiation of physical pleasures wantonly, recklessly. An intoxicated
person will attempt even foolhardy dares because that inner guidance, even to the point of
survival instinct itself, can be so impaired. How many young warriors foolishly throw themselves
against greater enemies, only to be slain? How many young women find themselves with child,
conceived with lovers they would not even consider as future husbands?
That is the trap, the defeatist perspective, that I cannot tolerate. I live my life with hope,
always hope, that the future will be better than the present, but only as long as I work to make it
so. Thus, with that toil, comes the satisfaction in life, the sense of accomplishment we all truly
need for real joy. How could I remain honest to that hope if I allowed myself a moment of
weakness that could well destroy all I have worked to achieve and all I hope to achieve? How
might I have reacted to so many unexpected crises if, at the time of occurrence, I was influenced
by a mind-altering substance, one that impaired my judgment or altered my perspective?
Also, the dangers of where such substances might lead cannot be underestimated. Had I
allowed myself to be carried away with the mood of the graduation ceremony of Melee-Magthere,
had I allowed myself the sensual pleasures offered by the priestesses, how cheapened might any
honest encounter of love have been?
Greatly, to my way of thinking. Sensual pleasures are, or should be, the culmination of
physical desires combined with an intellectual and emotional decision, a giving of oneself, body
and spirit, in a bond of trust and respect. In such a manner as that graduation ceremony, no such
sharing could have occurred; it would have been a giving of body only, and more so than that, a
taking of another's offered wares. There would have been no higher joining, no spiritual
experience, and thus, no true joy.
I cannot live in such a hopeless basking as that, for that is what it is: a pitiful basking in the
lower, base levels of existence brought on, I believe, by the lack of hope for a higher level of
existence.
And so I reject all but the most moderate use of such intoxicants, and while I'll not openly
judge those who so indulge, I will pity them their empty souls.
What is it that drives a person to such depths? Pain, I believe, and memories too wretched to
be openly faced and handled. Intoxicants can, indeed, blur the pains of the past at the expense of
the future. But it is not an even trade.
With that in mind, I fear for Wulfgar, my lost friend. Where will he find escape from the
torments of his enslavement?
-Drizzt Do'Urden
Chapter 1
INTO PORT
"I do so hate this place," remarked Robillard, the robed wizard. He was speaking to Captain
Deudermont of Sea Sprite as the three-masted schooner rounded a long jettie and came in sight of
the harbor of the northern port of Luskan.
Deudermont, a tall and stately man, mannered as a lord and with a calm, pensive demeanor,
merely nodded at his wizard's proclamation. He had heard it all before, and many times. He
looked to the city skyline and noted the distinctive structure of the Hosttower of the Arcane, the
famed wizards' guild of Luskan. That, Deudermont knew, was the source of Robillard's sneering
attitude concerning this port, though the wizard had been sketchy in his explanations, making a
few offhand remarks about the "idiots" running the Hosttower and their inability to discern a true
wizardly master from a conniving trickster. Deudermont suspected that Robillard had once been
denied admission to the guild.
"Why Luskan?" the ship's wizard complained. "Would not Waterdeep have better suited our
needs? No harbor along the entire Sword Coast can compare with Waterdeep's repair facilities."
"Luskan was closer," Deudermont reminded him.
"A couple of days, no more," Robillard retorted.
"If a storm found us in those couple of days, the damaged hull might have split apart, and all
our bodies would have been food for the crabs and the fishes," said the captain. "It seemed a
foolish gamble for the sake of one man's pride."
Robillard started to respond but caught the meaning of the captain's last statement before he
could embarrass himself further. A great frown shadowed his face. "The pirates would have had
us had I not timed the blast perfectly," the wizard muttered after he took a few moments to calm
down.
Deudermont conceded the point. Indeed, Robillard's work in the last pirate hunt had been
nothing short of spectacular. Several years before, Sea Sprite-the new, bigger, faster, and stronger
Sea Sprite-had been commissioned by the lords of Waterdeep as a pirate hunter. No vessel had
ever been as successful at the task, so much so that when the lookout spotted a pair of pirateers
sailing the northern waters off the Sword Coast, so near to Luskan, where Sea Sprite often
prowled, Deudermont could hardly believe it. The schooner's reputation alone had kept those
waters clear for many months.
These pirates had come looking for vengeance, not easy merchant ship prey, and they were
well prepared for the fight, each of them armed with a small catapult, a fair contingent of archers,
and a pair of wizards. Even so, they found themselves outmaneuvered by the skilled Deudermont
and his experienced crew, and out-magicked by the mighty Robillard, who had been wielding his
powerful dweomers in vessel-to-vessel warfare for well over a decade. One of Robillard's
illusions had given the appearance that Sea Sprite was dead in the water, her mainmast down
across her deck, with dozens of dead men at the rails. Like hungry wolves, the pirates had circled,
closer and closer, then had come in, one to port and one to starboard, to finish off the wounded
ship.
In truth, Sea Sprite hadn't been badly damaged at all, with Robillard countering the offensive
magic of the enemy wizards. The small pirate catapults had little effect against the proud
schooner's armored sides.
Deudermont's archers, brilliant bowmen all, had struck hard at the closing vessels, and the
schooner went from battle sail to full sail with precision and efficiency, the prow of the ship
verily leaping from the water as she scooted out between the surprised pirateers.
Robillard dropped a veil of silence upon the pirate ships, preventing their wizards from
casting any defensive spells, then plopped three fireballs-Boom! Boom! Boom!-in rapid
succession, one atop each ship and one in between. Then came the conventional barrage from
ballista and catapult, Sea Sprite's gunners soaring lengths of chain to further destroy sails and
rigging and balls of pitch to heighten the flames.
De-masted and drifting, fully ablaze, the two pirateers soon went down. So great was the
conflagration that Deudermont and his crew managed to pluck only a few survivors from the cold
ocean waters.
Sea Sprite hadn't escaped unscathed, though. She was under the power of but one full sail
now. Even more dangerous, she had a fair-sized crack just above the waterline. Deudermont had
to keep nearly a third of his crew at work bailing, which was why he had steered for the nearest
port-Luskan.
Deudermont considered it a fine choice, indeed. He preferred Luskan to the much larger port
of Waterdeep, for while his financing had come from the southern city and he could find dinner
at the house of any lord in town, Luskan was more hospitable to his common crew members, men
without the standing, the manners, or the pretensions to dine at the table of nobility. Luskan, like
Waterdeep, had its defined classes, but the bottom rungs on Luskan's social ladder were still a
few above the bottom of Waterdeep's.
Calls of greeting came to them from every wharf as they neared the city, for Sea Sprite was
well known here and well respected. The honest fishermen and merchant sailors of Luskan, of all
the northern reaches of the Sword Coast, had long ago come to appreciate the work of Captain
Deudermont and his swift schooner.
"A fine choice, I'd say," the captain remarked.
"Better food, better women, and better entertainment in Waterdeep," Robillard replied. "But
no finer wizards," Deudermont couldn't resist saying. "Surely the Hosttower is among the most
respected of mage guilds in all the Realms."
Robillard groaned and muttered a few curses, pointedly walking away.
Deudermont didn't turn to watch him go, but he couldn't miss the distinctive stomping of the
wizard's hard-soled boots.
*****
"Just a short ride, then," the woman cooed, twirling her dirty blonde hair in one hand and
striking a pouting posture. "A quick one to take me jitters off before a night at the tables."
The huge barbarian ran his tongue across his teeth, for his mouth felt as if it were full of
fabric, and dirty cloth at that. After a night's work in the tavern of the Cutlass, he had returned to
the wharves with Morik for a night of harder drinking. As usual, the pair had stayed there until
after dawn, then Wulfgar had crawled back to the Cutlass, his home and place of employment,
and straight to his bed.
But this woman, Delly Curtie, a barmaid in the tavern and Wulfgar's lover for the past few
months, had come looking for him. Once, he had viewed her as a pleasurable distraction, the
icing on his whisky cake, and even as a caring friend. Delly had nurtured Wulfgar through his
first difficult days in Luskan. She had seen to his needs, emotional and physical, without
question, without judgment, without asking anything in return. But of late the relationship had
begun to shift, and not even subtly. Now that he had settled more comfortably into his new life, a
life devoted almost entirely to fending the remembered pain of his years with Errtu, Wulfgar had
come to see a different picture of Delly Curtie.
Emotionally, she was a child, a needful little girl. Wulfgar, who was well into his twenties,
was several years older than she. Now, suddenly, he had become the adult in their relationship,
and Delly's needs had begun to overshadow his own.
"Oh, but ye've got ten minutes for me, me Wulfgar," she said, moving closer and rubbing her
hand across his cheek.
Wulfgar grabbed her wrist and gently but firmly moved her hand away. "A long night," he
replied. "And I had hoped for more rest before beginning my duties for Arumn."
"But I've got a tingling-"
"More rest," Wulfgar repeated, emphasizing each word.
Delly pulled away from him, her seductive pouting pose becoming suddenly cold and
indifferent. "Good enough for ye, then," she said coarsely. "Ye think ye're the only man wanting
to share me bed?"
Wulfgar didn't justify the rant with an answer. The only answer he could have given was to
tell her he really didn't care, that all of this-his drinking, his fighting-was a manner of hiding and
nothing more. In truth, Wulfgar did like and respect Delly and considered her a friend-or would
have if he honestly believed that he could be a friend. He didn't mean to hurt her.
Delly stood in Wulfgar's room, trembling and unsure. Suddenly, feeling very naked in her
slight shift, she gathered her arms in front of her and ran out into the hall and to her own room,
slamming the door hard.
Wulfgar closed his eyes and shook his head. He chuckled helplessly and sadly when he heard
Delly's door open again, followed by running footsteps heading down the hall toward the outside
door. That one, too, slammed, and Wulfgar understood that all the ruckus had been for his benefit
Delly wanted him to hear that she was, indeed, going out to find comfort in another's arms.
She was a complicated one, the barbarian understood, carrying more emotional turmoil than
even he, if that were possible. He wondered how it had ever gone this far between them. Their
relationship had been so simple at the start, so straightforward: two people in need of each other.
Recently, though, it had become more complex, the needs having grown into emotional crutches.
Delly needed Wulfgar to take care of her, to shelter her, to tell her she was beautiful, but Wulfgar
knew he couldn't even take care of himself, let alone another. Delly needed Wulfgar to love her,
and yet the barbarian had no love to give. For Wulfgar there was only pain and hatred, only
memories of the demon Errtu and the prison of the Abyss, wherein he had been tortured for six
long years.
Wulfgar sighed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then reached for a bottle, only to find it
empty. With a frustrated snarl, he threw it across the room, where it shattered against a wall. He
envisioned, for just a moment, that it had smashed against Delly Curtie's face. The image startled
Wulfgar, but it didn't surprise him. He vaguely wondered if Delly hadn't brought him to this point
on purpose; perhaps this woman was no innocent child, but a conniving huntress. When she had
first come to him, offering comfort, had she intended to take advantage of his emotional
weakness to pull him into a trap? To get him to marry her, perhaps? To rescue him that he might
one day rescue her from the miserable existence she had carved out for herself as a tavern wench?
Wulfgar realized that his knuckles had gone white from clenching his hands so very hard, and
he pointedly opened them and took several deep, steadying breaths. Another sigh, another rub of
his tongue over dirty teeth, and the man stood and stretched his huge, nearly seven-foot, frame.
He discovered, as he did nearly every afternoon when he went through this ritual, that he had
even more aches in his huge muscles and bones this day. Wulfgar glanced over at his large arms,
and though they were still thicker and more muscular than that of nearly any man alive, he
couldn't help but notice a slackness in those muscles, as if his skin was starting to hang a bit too
loosely on his massive frame.
How different his life was now than it had been those mornings years ago in Icewind Dale,
when he had worked the long day with Bruenor, his adoptive dwarven father, hammering and
lifting huge stones, or when he had gone out hunting for game or giants with Drizzt, his warrior
friend, running all the day, fighting all the day. The hours had been even more strenuous then,
more filled with physical burden, but that burden had been just physical and not emotional. In
that time and in that place, he felt no aches.
The blackness in his heart, the sorest ache, was the source of it all.
He tried to think back to those lost years, working and fighting beside Bruenor and Drizzt, or
when he had spent the day running along the wind-blown slopes of Kelvin's Cairn, the lone
mountain in Icewind Dale, chasing Catti-brie. . . .
The mere thought of the woman stopped him cold and left him empty and in that void, images
of Errtu and the demon's minions inevitably filtered in. Once, one of those minions, the horrid
succubus, had assumed the form of Catti-brie, a perfect image, and Errtu had convinced Wulfgar
that he had managed to snare the woman, that she had been taken to suffer the same eternal
torment as Wulfgar, because of Wulfgar.
Errtu had taken the succubus, Catti-brie, right before Wulfgar's horrified eyes and had torn
the woman apart limb from limb, devouring her in an orgy of blood and gore.
Gasping for his breath, Wulfgar fought back to his thoughts of Catti-brie, of the real Catti-
brie. He had loved her. She was, perhaps, the only woman he had ever loved, but she was lost to
him now forever, he believed. Though he might travel to Ten-Towns in Icewind Dale and find
her again, the bond between them had been severed, cut by the sharp scars of Errtu and by
Wulfgar's own reactions to those scars.
The long shadows coming in through the window told him that the day neared its end and that
his work as Arumn Gardpeck's bouncer would soon begin. The weary man hadn't lied to Delly
when he had declared that he needed more rest, though, and so he collapsed back onto his bed
and fell into a deep sleep.
Night had settled thickly about Luskan by the time Wulfgar staggered into the crowded
common room of the Cutlass.
"Late again, as if we're to be surprised by that," a thin, beady-eyed man named Josi Puddles, a
regular at the tavern and a good friend of Arumn Gardpeck, remarked to the barkeep when they
both noticed Wulfgar's entrance. "That one's workin' less and drinkin' ye dry."
Arumn Gardpeck, a kind but stern and always practical man, wanted to give his typical
response, that Josi should just shut his mouth, but he couldn't refute Josi's claim. It pained Arumn
to watch Wulfgar's descent. He had befriended the barbarian those months before, when Wulfgar
had first come to Luskan. Initially, Arumn had shown interest in the man only because of
Wulfgar's obvious physical prowess-a mighty warrior like Wulfgar could indeed be a boon to
business for a tavern in the tough dock section of the feisty city. After his very first conversation
with the man, Arumn had understood that his feelings for Wulfgar went deeper than any business
opportunity. He truly liked the man.
Always, Josi was there to remind Arumn of the potential pitfalls, to remind Arumn that,
sooner or later, mighty bouncers made meals for rats in gutters.
"Ye thinkin' the sun just dropped in the water?" Josi asked Wulfgar as the big man shuffled
by, yawning.
Wulfgar stopped, and turned slowly and deliberately to glare at the little man.
"Half the night's gone," Josi said, his tone changing abruptly from accusational to
conversational, "but I was watchin' the place for ye. Thought I might have to break up a couple o'
fights, too."
Wulfgar eyed the little man skeptically. "You couldn't break up a pane of thin glass with a
heavy cudgel," he remarked, ending with another profound yawn.
Josi, ever the coward, took the insult with a bobbing head and a self-deprecating grin.
"We do have an agreement about yer time o' work," Arumn said seriously.
"And an understanding of your true needs," Wulfgar reminded the man. "By your own words,
my real responsibility comes later in the night, for trouble rarely begins early. You named
sundown as my time of duty but explained that I'd not truly be needed until much later."
"Fair enough," Arumn replied with a nod that brought a groan from Josi. He was anxious to
see the big man-the big man whom he believed had replaced him as Arumn's closest friend-
severely disciplined.
"The situation's changed," Arumn went on. "Ye've made a reputation and more than a few
enemies. Every night, ye wander in late, and yer . . . our enemies take note. I fear that one night
soon ye'll stagger in here past the crest o' night to find us all murdered."
Wulfgar put an incredulous expression on his face and turned away with a dismissive wave of
his hand.
"Wulfgar," Arumn called after him forcefully.
The barbarian turned about, scowling.
摘要：

PROLOGUEThesmallerman,knownbymanynamesinLuskanbutmostcommonlyasMoriktheRogue,heldthebottleupintheairandgaveitashake,foritwasadirtythingandhewantedtomeasurethedarklineofliquidagainsttheorangelightofsunset."Downtoone,"hesaid,andhebroughthisarmbackinasiftotakethatfinalswig.Thehugemansittingontheendofth...

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