R.A. Salvatore - The Icewind Dale Trilogy - 3 - 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.

THE ICEWIND DALE TRILOGY

Book One: The Crystal Shard

Book Two: Streams of Silver

Book Three: The Halfling's Gem

To my sister Susan,

who'll never know how

much her support has meant

to me over the last few years.

Prelude

Maps

Book 1: Halfway to Everywhere

Chapter 1 Tower of Twilight

Chapter 2 A Thousand Thousand Little Candles

Chapter 3 Conyberry's Pride

Chapter 4 The City of Splendors

Chapter 5 Ashes

Chapter 6 Baldur's Gate

Epilogue

Book 2: Allies

Chapter 7 Stirrings

Chapter 8 A Plain Brown Wrapper

Chapter 9 Fiery Riddles

Chapter 10 The Weight of a Kings Mantle

Chapter 11 Hot Winds

Chapter 12 Comrades

Chapter 13 Paying the Piper

Chapter 14 Dancing Snakes

Chapter 15 The Guide

Epilogue

Book 3: Desert Empires

Chapter 16 Never a Fouler Place

Chapter 17 Impossible Loyalties

Chapter 18 Double Talker

Chapter 19 Tricks and Traps

Chapter 20 Black and White

Chapter 21 Where No Sun Shines

Chapter 22 The Rift

Chapter 23 If Ever You Loved Catti-brie

Chapter 24 Interplanar Goo

Chapter 25 A Walk in the Sun

Epilogue

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 astray." 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.

"Let us be gone from this place," Wulfgar said to Drizzt, and the drow could see that his

friend was fighting a desire to spring over the desk and throttle the arrogant wizard on the

spot.

To a lesser degree, Drizzt shared those feelings, but he knew the tower and its occupants

would be explained in time. "Our greetings, Malchor Harpell," he said, his lavender eyes

boring into the man. "Your actions, though, do not fit the description your cousin Harkle

mantled upon you."

"I assure you that I am as Harkle described," Malchor replied calmly. "And my welcome

to you, Drizzt Do'Urden, and to you, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. Rarely have I entertained

such fine guests in my humble tower." He bowed low to them to complete his gracious and

diplomatic - if not entirely accurate - greeting.

"The boy did nothing wrong," Wulfgar snarled at him.

"No, he has performed admirably," Malchor agreed. "Ah, you fear for him?" The wizard

took his measure of the huge barbarian, Wulfgar's muscles still knotted in rage. "I assure

you, the boy is treated well."

"Not by my eyes," retorted Wulfgar.

"He aspires to be a wizard," Malchor explained, not ruffled by the barbarian's scowl. "His

father is a powerful landowner and has employed me to guide the lad. The boy shows

potential, a sharp mind, and a love for the arts. But understand, Wulfgar, that wizardry is not

so very different from your own trade."

Wulfgar's smirk showed a difference of opinion.

"Discipline," Malchor continued, undaunted. "For whatever we do in our lives, discipline

and control over our own actions ultimately measure the level of our success. The boy has

high aspirations and hints of power he cannot yet begin to understand. But if he cannot keep

his thoughts silent for a single month, then I shan't waste years of my time on him. Your

companion understands."

Wulfgar looked to Drizzt, standing relaxed by his side.

"I do understand," Drizzt said to Wulfgar. "Malchor has put the youth on trial, a test of his

abilities to follow commands and a revelation to the depth of his desires."

"I am forgiven?" the wizard asked them.

"It is not important," Wulfgar grunted. "We have not come to fight the battles of a boy."

"Of course," said Malchor. "Your business presses; Harkle has told me. Go back down to

the stables and wash. The boy is setting supper. He shall come for you when it is time to

eat."

"Does he have a name?" Wulfgar said with obvious sarcasm.

"None that he has yet earned," Malchor replied curtly.

* * *

Though he was anxious to be back on the road, Wulfgar could not deny the splendor of the

table of Malchor Harpell. He and Drizzt feasted well, knowing this to be, most probably,

their last fine meal for many days.

"You shall spend the night," Malchor said to them after they had finished eating. "A soft

bed would do you well," he argued against Wulfgar's disgruntled look. "And an early start, I

promise."

"We will stay, and thank you," Drizzt replied. "Surely this tower will do us better than the

hard ground outside."

"Excellent," said Malchor. "Come along, then. I have some items which should aid your

quest." He led them out of the room and back down the decline of the corridor to the lower

levels of the structure. As they walked, Malchor told his guests of the tower's formation and

features. Finally they turned down one of the darkened side-passages and passed through a

heavy door.

Drizzt and Wulfgar had to pause at the entrance for a long moment to digest the wondrous

sight before them, for they had come to Malchor's museum, a collection of the finest items,

magical and otherwise, that the mage had found during the many years of his travels. Here

were swords and full suits of polished armor, a shining mithril shield, and the crown of a

long dead king. Ancient tapestries lined the walls, and a glass case of priceless gems and

jewels glittered in the flicker of the room's torches.

Malchor had moved to a cabinet across the room, and by the time Wulfgar and Drizzt

looked back to him, he was sitting atop the thing, casually juggling three horseshoes. He

added a fourth as they watched, effortlessly guiding them through the rise and fall of the

dance.

"I have placed an enchantment upon these that will make your steeds run swifter than any

beasts in the land," he explained. "For a short time only, but long enough to get you to

Waterdeep. That alone should be worth your delay in coming here."

"Two shoes to a horse?" Wulfgar asked, ever doubting.

"That would not do," Malchor came back at him, tolerant of the weary young barbarian.

"Unless you wish your horse to rear up and run as a man!" He laughed, but the scowl did not

leave Wulfgar's face.

"Not to fear," Malchor said, clearing his throat at the failed joke. "I have another set." He

eyed Drizzt. "I have heard it spoken that few are as agile as the drow elves. And I have

heard, as well, by those who have seen Drizzt Do'Urden at fight and at play, that he is

brilliant even considering the standards of his dark kin." Without interrupting the rhythm of

his juggling, he flipped one of the horseshoes to Drizzt.

Drizzt caught it easily and in the same motion put it into the air above him. Then came the

second and third shoes, and Drizzt, without ever taking his eyes off Malchor, put them into

motion with easy movements.

The fourth shoe came in low, causing Drizzt to bend to the ground to catch it. But Drizzt

was up to the task, and he never missed a catch or a throw as he included the shoe in his

juggling.

Wulfgar watched curiously and wondered at the motives of the wizard in testing the drow.

Malchor reached down into the cabinet and pulled out the other set of shoes. "A fifth," he

warned, launching one at Drizzt. The drow remained unconcerned, catching the shoe deftly

and tossing it in line.

"Discipline!" said Malchor emphatically, aiming his remark at Wulfgar. "Show me,

drow!" he demanded, firing the sixth, seventh, and eighth at Drizzt in rapid succession.

Drizzt grimaced as they came at him, determined to meet the challenge. His hands moving

in a blur, he quickly had all eight horseshoes spinning and dropping harmoniously. And as

he settled into an easy rhythm, Drizzt began to understand the wizard's ploy.

Malchor walked over to Wulfgar and clapped him again on the shoulder. "Discipline," he

said again. "Look at him, young warrior, for your dark-skinned friend is truly a master of his

movements and, thus, a master of his craft. You do not yet understand, but we two are not so

different." He caught Wulfgar's eyes squarely with his own. "We three are not so different.

Different methods, I agree. But to the same ends!"

Tiring of his game, Drizzt caught the shoes one by one as they fell and hooked them over

his forearm, all the while eyeing Malchor With approval. Seeing his young friend slump

back in thought, the drow wasn't sure which was the greater gift, the enchanted shoes or the

lesson.

"But enough of this," Malchor said suddenly, bursting into motion. He crossed to a section

of the wall that held dozens of swords and other weapons.

"I see that one of your scabbards is empty," he said to Drizzt. Malchor pulled a beautifully

crafted scimitar from its mount. "Perhaps this will fill it properly."

Drizzt sensed the power of the weapon as he took it from the wizard, felt the care of its

crafting and the perfection of its balance. A single, star-cut blue sapphire glittered in its

pommel.

"Its name is Twvinkle," Malchor said. "Forged by the elves of a past age."

"Twinkle," echoed Drizzt. Instantly a bluish light limned the weapon's blade. Drizzt felt a

sudden surge within it, and somehow sensed a finer edge to its cut. He swung it a few times,

trailing blue light with each motion. How easily it arced through the air; how easily it would

cut down a foe! Drizzt slid it reverently into his empty scabbard.

"It was forged in the magic of the powers that all the surface elves hold dear," said

Malchor. "Of the stars and the moon and the mysteries of their souls. You deserve it, Drizzt

Do'Urden, and it will serve you well."

Drizzt could not answer the tribute, but Wulfgar, touched by the honor Malchor had paid

to his oft-maligned friend, spoke for him. "Our thanks to you, Malchor Harpell," he said,

biting back the cynicism that had dominated his actions of late. He bowed low.

"Keep to your heart, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar," Malchor answered him. "Pride can be a

useful tool, or it can close your eyes to the truths about you. Go now and take your sleep. I

shall awaken you early and set you back along your road."

* * *

Drizzt sat up in his bed and watched his friend after Wulfgar had settled into sleep. Drizzt

was concerned for Wulfgar, so far from the empty tundra that had ever been his home. In

their quest for Mithril Hall, they had trudged halfway across the northland, fighting every

mile of the way. And in finding their goal, their trials had only begun, for they had then

battled their way through the ancient dwarven complex. Wulfgar had lost his mentor there,

R.A. Salvatore - The Icewind Dale Trilogy - 3 - The Halfling's Gem

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