R. A. Salvatore - Legacy of the Drow 4 - Passage To Dawn

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PROLOGUE
She was beautiful, shapely, and pale-skinned with thick, lustrous hair cascading halfway down her naked
back. Her charms were offered openly, brazenly, conveyed to him at the end of a gentle touch. So gentle.
Little brushing fingers of energy tickled his chin, his jawbone, his neck.
Every muscle of his body tensed and he fought for control, battled the seductress with every bit of willpower
remaining in him after so many years.
He didn't even know why he resisted anymore, didn't consciously remember what offerings of the other world,
the real world, might be fueling his stubbornness. What were "right" and "wrong" in this place? What might be
the price of pleasure? What more did he have to give?
The gentle touch continued, soothing his trembling muscles, raising goose bumps across his skin wherever
those fingers brushed. Calling to him. Bidding him to surrender. Surrender.
He felt his willpower draining away, argued against his stubbornness. There was no reason to resist. He
could have soft
sheets and a comfortable mattress; the smell-the awful reek so terrible that even years had not allowed him
to get used to itbe taken away. She could do that with her magic. She had promised him.
Falling fast, he half-closed his eyes and felt the touch continuing, felt it more keenly than before.
He heard her snarl, a feral, bestial sound.
Now he looked past her. They were on the lip of a ridge, one of countless ridges across the broken,
heaving ground that trembled as if it were a living thing, breathing, laughing at him, mocking him. They were
up high. He knew that. The ravine beyond the ridge was wide, and yet he could not see more than a couple of
feet beyond the edge. The landscape was lost in the perpetual swirling grayness, the smoky pall.
The Abyss.
Now it was his turn to growl, a sound that was not feral, not primal, but one of rationale, of morality, of that
tiny spark that remained in him of who he had been. He grabbed her hand and forced it away, turning it,
twisting it. Her strength in resisting confirmed his memories, for it was supernatural, far beyond what her
frame should have allowed.
Still, he was the stronger and he forced the hand away, turned it about, then set his stare upon her.
Her thick hair had shifted a bit, and one of her tiny white horns had poked through.
"Do not, my lover," she purred. The weight of her plea nearly broke him. Like her physical strength, her
voice carried more than was natural. Her voice was a conduit of charms, of deceit, of the ultimate lie that was
all this place.
A scream erupted from his lips and he heaved her backward with all his strength, hurled her from the ridge.
Huge batlike wings unfolded behind her and the succubus hovered, laughing at him, her open mouth
revealing horrid fangs that would have punctured his neck. She laughed and he knew that although he had
resisted, he had not won, could never win. She had almost broken him this time, came closer to it than the
last, and would be closer still the next. And so she laughed at him, mocked him. Always mocking him!
He realized that it had been a test, always a test. He knew who had arranged it and was not surprised
when the whip tore
into his back, laying him low. He tried to take cover, felt the intense heat building all around him, but knew
that there was no escape.
A second snapping had him crawling for the ledge. Then came a third lash, and he grabbed on to the lip of
the ridge, screamed, and pulled himself over, wanting to pitch into the ravine, to splatter his corporeal form
against the rocks. Desperate to die.
Errtu, the great balor, twelve feet of smoking deep red scales and corded muscles, casually walked to the
edge and peered over. With eyes that had seen through the mists of the Abyss since the dawn of time, Errtu
sought out the falling form, then reached out to him.
He was falling slower. Then he was not falling at all. He was rising, caught in a telekinetic web, reeled in by
the master. The whip was waiting and the next lash sent him spiraling, mercifully, into unconsciousness.
Errtu did not retract the whip's cords. The balor used the same telekinetic energy to wrap them about the
victim, binding him fast. Errtu looked back to the hysterical succubus and nodded. She had done well this
day.
Drool slipped over her bottom lip at the sight of the unconscious form. She wanted to feast. In her eyes, the
table was set and waiting. A flap of her wings brought her back to the ledge and she approached cautiously,
seeking some way through the balor's defenses.
Errtu let her get close, so close, then gave a slight tug on the whip. His victim flopped away weirdly,
jumping past the balor's perpetual flames. Errtu shifted a step to the side, putting his bulk between the victim
and the succubus.
"I must," she whined, daring to move a bit closer, half-walking and half-flying. Her deceivingly delicate
hands reached out and grasped at the smoky air. She trembled and panted.
Errtu stepped aside. She inched closer.
The balor was teasing her, she knew, but she could not turn away, not with the sight of this helpless one.
She whined, knowing she was going to be punished, but she could not stop.
Taking a slightly roundabout route, she walked past the balor. She whined again, her feet digging a firm
hold that she might rush to the prone victim and taste of him at least once before Errtu denied her.
Out shot Errtu's arm, holding a sword that was wrought of lightning. He lifted it high and uttered a command
and the ground jolted with the strength of a thunderstroke.
The succubus waited and leaped away, running for the ledge and then flying off of it, shrieking all the while.
Errtu's lightning hit her in the back and sent her spinning, and she was far below the edge of the ridge before
she regained control.
Back on the ledge, Errtu gave her not another thought. The balor was thinking of his prisoner, always of his
prisoner. He enjoyed tormenting the wretch, but had to continually sublimate his bestial urges. He could not
destroy this one, could not break him too far, else the victim would hold no value for the balor. This was but
one being, and measured against the promise of freedom to walk again on the Prime Material Plane, that did
not seem so much.
Only Drizzt Do'Urden, the renegade dark elf, the one who had banished Errtu to a hundred years in the
Abyss, could grant that freedom. The drow would do that, Errtu believed, in exchange for the wretch.
Errtu turned his horned, apelike head to look over one massive shoulder. The fires that surrounded the
balor burned low now, simmering as was Errtu's rage. Patience, the balor reminded himself. The wretch was
valuable and had to be preserved.
The time was coming, Errtu knew. He would speak with Drizzt Do'Urden before another year had passed
on the Material Plane. Errtu had made contact with the witch, and she would deliver his message.
Then the balor, one of the true tanar'ri, among the greatest denizens of the lower planes, would be free.
Then Errtu could destroy the wretch, could destroy Drizzt Do'Urden, and could destroy every being that loved
the renegade drow.
Patience.
Part 1
WIND AND SPRAY
Six years. Not so long in the life span of a drow, and yet, in counting the months, the weeks, the days, the
hours, it seemed to me as if I had been away from Mithril Hall a hundred times that number. The place was
removed, another lifetime, another way of life, a mere stepping stone to ...
To what? To where?
My most vivid memory of Mithril Hall is of riding away from the place with Catti-brie at my side, is the view
in looking back over the plumes of smoke rising from Settlestone to the mountain called Fourthpeak. Mithril
Hall was Bruenor's kingdom, Bruenor's home, and Bruenor was among the most dear of friends to me. But it
was not my home, had never been so.
I couldn't explain it then, and still cannot. All should have been well there after the defeat of the invading
drow army. Mithril Hall shared prosperity and friendship with all of the neighboring communities, was part of
an assortment of kingdoms with the power to protect their borders and feed their poor.
All, of that, but still Mithril Hall was not home. Not for me, and not for Catti-brie. Thus had we taken to the
road, riding west to the coast, to Waterdeep.
I never argued with Catti-brie-though she had certainly expected me to-concerning her decision to leave
Mithril Hall. We were of like minds. We had never really set down our hearts in the place; we had been too
busy, in defeating the enemies who ruled there, in reopening the dwarven mines, in traveling to
Menzoberranzan and in battling the dark elves who had come to Mithril Hall. All that completed, it seemed
time to settle, to rest, to tell and to lengthen tales of our adventures. If Mithril Hall had been our home before
the battles, we would have remained. After the battles, after the losses . . . for both Catti-brie and Drizzt
Do'Urden, it was too late. Mithril Hall was Bruenor's place, not ours. It was the war-scarred place where I had
to again face the legacy of my dark heritage. It was the beginning of the road that had led me back to
Menzoberranzan.
It was the place where Wulfgar had died.
Catti-brie and I vowed that we would return there one day, and so we would, for Bruenor was there, and
Regis. But Catti-brie had seen the truth. You can never get the smell of blood out of the stones. If you were
there when that blood was spilled, the continuing aroma evokes images too painful to live beside.
Six years, and I have missed Bruenor and Regis, Stumpet Rakingclaw, and even Berkthgar the Bold, who
rules Settlestone. I have missed my journeys to wondrous Silverymoon, and watching the dawn from one of
Fourthpeak's many rocky perches. I ride the waves along the Sword Coast now, the wind and spray in my
face. My ceiling is the rush of clouds and the canopy of stars; my floor is the creaking boards of a swift, well-
weathered ship, and beyond that, the azure blanket, flat and still, heaving and rolling, hissing in the rain and
exploding under the fall of a breaching whale.
Is this my home? I know not. Another stepping stone, I would guess, but whether there really is a road that
would lead me to a place called home, I do not know.
Nor do I think about it often, because I've come to realize that I do not care. If this road, this series of
stepping stones, leads nowhere, then so be it. I walk the road with friends, and so I have my home.
-Drizzt Do'Urden
Chapter 1
THE SEA SPRITE
Drizzt Do'Urden stood on the very edge of the beam, as far forward as he could go, one hand grasping tight
the guide rope of the flying jib. This ship was a smooth runner, perfect in balance and ballast and with the
best of crews, but the sea was rough this day and the Sea Sprite cut and bounced through the rolls at full sail,
throwing a heavy spray.
Drizzt didn't mind. He loved the feel of the spray and the wind, the smell of the brine. This was freedom,
flying, skimming the water, skipping the waves. Drizzt's thick white hair flipped in the breeze, billowing like his
green cape behind him, drying almost as fast as the water wetted it. Splotches of white caked salt could not
lessen the luster of his ebony skin, which glistened with wetness. His violet eyes sparkled with joy as he
squinted at the horizon and caught a fleeting glimpse of the sails of the ship they pursued.
Pursued and would catch, Drizzt knew, for there was no ship north of Baldur's Gate that could outrun
Captain Deudermont's Sea Sprite. She was a three-masted schooner, new in design, light
and sleek and full of sail. The square-rigged caravel they were chasing could put up a fair run in a straight
line, but anytime the bulkier vessel altered its course even the slightest bit, the Sea Sprite could angle inside
it, gaining ground. Always gaining ground.
That was what she was meant to do. Built by the finest engineers and wizards of Waterdeep, funded by the
lords of that city, the schooner was a pirate chaser. How thrilled Drizzt had been to discover the good fortunes
of his old friend, Deudermont, with whom he had sailed all the way from Waterdeep to Calimshan in pursuit of
Artemis Entreri when the assassin had captured Regis the halfling. That journey, particularly the fight in
Asavir's Channel when Captain Deudermont had won-with no small help from Drizzt and his companions-
against three pirate ships, including the flagship of the notorious Pinochet, had caught the attention of sailors
and merchants all along the Sword Coast. When the Lords of Waterdeep had completed this schooner, they
had offered it to Deudermont. He loved his little two-master, the original Sea Sprite, but no seaman could
resist this new beauty. Deudermont had accepted a commission in their service and, they had granted him
the right to name the vessel and allowed him to handpick his crew.
Drizzt and Catti-brie had arrived in Waterdeep sometime after that. When the Sea Sprite next put in to the
grand harbor of the seaport, and Deudermont found his old friends, he promptly made room for them among
his crew of forty. That was six years and twenty-seven voyages ago. Among those who monitored the
shipping lanes of the Sword Coast, particularly among the pirates themselves, the schooner had become a
scourge. Thirty-seven victories, and still she sailed.
Now number thirty-eight was in sight.
The caravel had noticed them, from too far away to see the flag of Waterdeep. That hardly mattered, for no
other ship in the region carried the distinctive design of the Sea Sprite, the three masts of billowing triangular,
lateen sails. Up came the caravel's square rigs, and so the chase was on in full.
Drizzt was at the point, one foot on the lion-headed ram, loving every second. He felt the sheer power of
the sea bucking beneath him, felt the spray and the wind. He heard the music, loud and strong, for several of
the Sea Sprite's crewmen were
minstrels and whenever the chase was on, they took up their instruments and played rousing songs.
"Two thousand!" Catti-brie yelled down from the crow's nest. It was a measure of the distance yet to gain.
When her estimate got down to five hundred, the crew would move to their battle posts, three going to the
large ballista mounted on a pivot atop the flying deck in the Sea Sprite's stern, two going to the smaller,
swiveling crossbows mounted to the forward corners of the bridge. Drizzt would join Deudermont at the helm,
coordinating the close combat. The drow's free hand slipped to the hilt of one of his scimitars at the thought.
The Sea Sprite was a vicious foe from a distance. It had crack archers, a skilled ballista team, a particularly
nasty wizard, an evoker full of fireballs and lightning bolts, and of course, Catti-brie with her deadly bow,
Taulmaril the Heartseeker. But it was in close, when Drizzt and his panther companion-Guenhwyvar-and the
other skilled warriors could get across, that the Sea Sprite was truly deadly.
"Eighteen hundred!" came Catti-brie's next call. Drizzt nodded at the confirmation of their speed, though the
gain was truly startling. The Sea Sprite was running faster than ever. Drizzt had to wonder if her keel was
even getting wet!
The drow dropped a hand into his pouch, feeling for the magical figurine that he used to summon the
panther from the Astral Plane, wondering if he should even call to Guenhwyvar this time. The panther had
been aboard for much of the last week, hunting the hundreds of rats that threatened the ship's food stores,
and was likely exhausted.
"Only if I need you, my friend," Drizzt whispered. The Sea Sprite cut hard to starboard and Drizzt had to
take up the guide rope in both hands. He steadied himself and remained silent, his gaze to the horizon, to the
square-rigged ship growing larger by the minute. Drizzt felt deep within himself, mentally preparing for the
coming battle. He immersed himself in the hiss and splash of the water below him, in the rousing music
cutting the wind, and in Catti-brie's calls.
Fifteen hundred, a thousand.
"Black cutlass, lined in red!" the young woman shouted down when, thanks to her spyglass, she was able
to discern the design on the snapping flag of the caravel.
Drizzt didn't know the insignia, didn't care about it. The caravel was a pirate ship, one of the many who had
overstepped their bounds near Waterdeep's harbors. As in any waters with trading routes, there had always
been pirates on the Sword Coast. Until the last few years, though, the pirates had been somewhat civil,
following specific codes of conduct. When Deudermont had defeated Pinochet in Asavir's Channel, he had
subsequently let the pirate go free. That was the way, the unspoken agreement.
No longer was that the case. The pirates of the north had become bolder and more vicious. Ships were no
longer simply looted, but the crews, particularly if any females were aboard, were tortured and murdered.
Many ruined hulks had been found adrift in the waters near Waterdeep. The pirates had crossed the line.
Drizzt, Deudermont, and all the Sea Sprite's crew, were being paid handsomely for their work, but down to
every last man and woman (with the possible exception of the wizard, Robillard) they weren't chasing pirates
for the gold.
They were fighting for the victims.
"Five hundred!" Catti-brie called down.
Drizzt shook himself from his trance and looked to the caravel. He could see the men on her decks now,
scrambling, preparing for the fight, an army of ants. The Sea Sprite's crew was outnumbered, possibly two to
one, Drizzt realized, and the caravel was heavily armed. She carried a fair-sized catapult on her stern deck,
and probably a ballista beneath that, ready to shoot out from the open windows.
The drow nodded and turned back to the deck. The crossbows fixed on the bridge and the ballista were
manned; many of the crew lined the rail, testing the pull of their longbows. The minstrels played on as they
would right up until the boarding began. High above the deck, Drizzt spotted Catti-brie, Taulmaril in one hand,
her spyglass in the other. He whistled to her and she gave a quick wave in response, her excitement obvious.
How could it be otherwise? The chase, the wind, the music, and the knowledge that they were doing good
work here. Smiling widely, the drow skittered back along the beam and then the rail, joining Deudermont at
the wheel. He noticed Robillard the wizard, looking bored as usual, sitting on the edge of the poop deck.
Every so often he waved one hand in the direction of the mainmast. Robillard wore a huge ring on that hand,
a silver band set with a diamond, and its sparkle now came from more than a reflection of the light. With every
gesture from the wizard, the ring loosed its magic, sending a strong gust of wind into the already straining
sails. Drizzt heard the creak of protest from the mainmast and understood their uncanny speed.
"Carrackus," Captain Deudermont remarked as soon as the drow was beside him. "Black cutlass outlined in
red."
Drizzt looked at him curiously, not knowing the name.
"Used to sail with Pinochet," Deudermont explained. "First mate on the pirate's flagship. He was among
those we battled in Asavir's Channel."
"Captured?" Drizzt asked.
Deudermont shook his head. "Carrackus is a scrag, a sea troll."
"I do not remember him."
"He has a penchant for staying out of the way," Deudermont replied. "Likely he dove overboard, taking to
the depths as soon as Wulfgar turned us about to ram his ship."
Drizzt remembered the incident, the incredible pull of his strong friend that nearly turned the original Sea
Sprite on its stern, right into the faces of so many surprised pirates.
"Carrackus was there, though," Deudermont continued. "By all reports, it was he who rescued Pinochet's
wounded ship when I set him adrift outside of Memnon."
"And is the scrag allied with Pinochet still?" Drizzt asked.
Deudermont nodded grimly. The implications were obvious. Pinochet couldn't come after the troublesome
Sea Sprite personally because in return for his freedom he had sworn off vengeance against Deudermont.
The pirate had other ways of repaying enemies. He had many allies like Carrackus who were not bound by
his personal oath.
Drizzt knew at that moment that Guenhwyvar would be needed and he took the intricate figurine from his
pouch. He studied Deudermont carefully. The man stood tall and straight, slender but well-muscled, his gray
hair and beard neatly trimmed. He was a refined captain, his dress impeccable, as at home in a grand ball as
on the open sea. Now his eyes, so light in hue that they seemed to reflect the colors about them rather than
to possess any color of their own, revealed his tension. Rumors had followed the Sea Sprite for many months
that the pirates were organizing against the vessel. With confirmation that this caravel was allied with
Pinochet, Deudermont believed that this might be more than a chance crossing.
Drizzt glanced back at Robillard, who was up on one knee now, arms outstretched and eyes closed, deep
in meditation. Now the drow understood the reason Deudermont had put them at such a reckless speed.
A moment later, a wall of mist rose around the Sea Sprite, dimming the view of the caravel, which was now
barely a hundred yards away. A loud splash to the side told them that the catapult had begun firing. A
moment later, a burst of fire erupted in the air before them, dissipating into a cloud of hissing steam as they
and their defensive mist wall streamed through it.
"They've a wizard," Drizzt remarked.
"Not surprising," Deudermont was quick to reply. He looked back to Robillard. "Keep your measures
defensive," he ordered. "We can take them with ballista and bow!"
"All the fun for you," Robillard called back dryly.
Deudermont managed a smile, despite his obvious tension.
"Bolt!" came a cry, several cries, from forward. Deudermont instinctively spun the wheel. The Sea Sprite
leaned into the leeward turn so deeply that Drizzt feared they would capsize.
At the same moment, Drizzt heard a rush of wind to his right as a huge ballista bolt ripped past, snapping a
line, skipping off the edge of the poop deck right beside a surprised Robillard and rebounding to tear a small
hole in the crossjack-the sail on the mizzenmast.
"Secure that line," Deudermont instructed coolly.
Drizzt was already going that way, his feet moving impossibly fast. He got the snapping line in hand and
quickly tied it off, then got to the rail as the Sea Sprite straightened. He looked to the caravel, now barely fifty
yards ahead and to starboard. The water between the two ships rolled wildly. Whitecaps spit water that was
blown into mist, caught in a tremendous wind.
The crew of the caravel didn't understand, and so they put their bows in line and began firing, but even the
heaviest of their crossbow quarrels was turned harmlessly aside as it tried to cut through the wall of wind that
Robillard had put between the ships.
The archers of the Sea Sprite, accustomed to such tactics, held their shots. Catti-brie was above the wind
wall as was the archer poised in the crow's nest of the other ship-an ugly seven-foot-tall gnoll with a face that
seemed more canine than human.
The monstrous creature loosed its heavy arrow first, a fine shot that sank the bolt deep into the mainmast,
inches below Catti-brie's perch. The gnoll ducked below the wooden wall of its own crow's nest, readying
another arrow.
No doubt the dumb creature thought itself safe, for it didn't understand Taulmaril.
Catti-brie took her time, steadied her hand as the Sea Sprite closed.
Thirty yards.
Her arrow went off like a streak of lightning, trailing silver sparks and blasting through the feeble protection
of the caravel's crow's nest as though it were no stronger than a sheet of old parchment. Splinters and the
unfortunate lookout were thrown high into the air. The doomed gnoll gave a shriek, bounced off the
crossbeam of the caravel's mainmast, and spun head over heels to splash into the sea, quickly left behind by
the speeding ships.
Catti-brie fired again, angling down, concentrating on the catapult crew. She hit one man, a half-orcish
brute by the looks of him, but the catapult launched its load of burning pitch.
The caravel's gunners hadn't properly compensated for the sheer speed of the Sea Sprite and the
schooner crossed under the pitch and was long gone by the time it hit the water, hissing in protest.
Deudermont brought the schooner alongside the caravel, barely twenty yards of water between them.
Suddenly the water in that narrow channel stopped its wind-whipped turmoil and the archers of the Sea Sprite
let fly many of their arrows that sported small gobs of flaming pitch.
Catti-brie let fly for the catapult itself this time, her enchanted arrow blasting a deep crack along the
machine's throwing beam. Sea Sprite's deadly ballista drove a heavy bolt right into the caravel's hull at sea
level.
Deudermont spun the wheel to port, angling away, satisfied with the pass. More missiles, many flaming,
soared between the ships before Robillard created a wall of blocking mist behind the Sea Sprite's stern.
The caravel's wizard put a lightning bolt right into the mist. Though the energy was dispersed somewhat, it
crackled all about the edges of the Sea Sprite, knocking several men to the deck.
Drizzt, leaning far over the rail and straining to watch the caravel's deck with his hair flying wildly from the
energy of the lightning bolt, spotted the wizard, amidships, near the mainmast. Before the Sea Sprite, now
running perpendicular to the pirate ship, was too far away, the drow called upon his innate powers,
summoned a globe of impenetrable darkness and dropped it over the man.
He clenched his fist when he saw the globe moving along the caravel's deck, for he had hit the mark and
the globe's magic had caught the wizard. It would follow and blind him, until he found some way to counter
the magic. Even more than that, the ten-foot ball of blackness marked the dangerous wizard clearly.
"Catti-brie!" Drizzt cried.
"I have him!" she replied, and Taulmaril sang out, once and then again, sending two streaks into that ball of
blackness.
Still it continued its run. Catti-brie hadn't dropped the wizard, but surely she and Drizzt had given the man
something to think about!
A second ballista bolt soared out from the Sea Sprite, cutting across the bow of the caravel, and then a
fireball from Robillard exploded high in the air before the rushing ship. The caravel, not agile and no longer
equipped with an able wizard, rushed right into the explosions. As the fireball disappeared, both masts of the
square-rigger were tipped in flames, giant candles on the open sea.
The caravel tried to respond with its catapult, but Catti-brie's arrows had done their work and the throwing
beam split apart as soon as the crew cranked too much tension on it.
Drizzt rushed back to the wheel. "One more pass?" he asked Deudermont.
The Captain shook his head. "Time for only one," he explained. "And no time to stop and board."
"Two thousand yards! Two ships!" Catti-brie called out.
Drizzt looked at Deudermont with sincere admiration. "More of Pinochet's allies?" he asked, already
knowing the answer.
"That caravel alone could not defeat us," the seasoned captain coolly added. "Carrackus knows that and so
would Pinochet. She was to lead us in."
"But we were too fast for that tactic," Drizzt reasoned.
"Are you ready for a fight?" Deudermont asked slyly.
Before the drow could even answer, Deudermont pulled hard and the Sea Sprite leaned into a starboard
turn until it came about to face the slowed caravel. The square-sailed ship's topmasts were burning and half
her was crew busy trying to repair the rigging, to at least keep her under half-sail. Deudermont angled his
ship to intercept, to cut across the prow, in what the archers called a "bow rake."
And the wounded caravel couldn't maneuver out of harm's way. Her wizard, though blinded, had kept the
presence of mind to put up a wall of thick mist, the standard and effective defensive seaboard tactic.
Deudermont measured his angle carefully, wanting to turn the Sea Sprite right against the edge of that mist
and the whipping water, to get as close to the caravel as he could. This was their last pass, and it had to be
devastating or else the caravel would be able to limp into the fight with its sister ships, which were closing
fast.
There came a flash on the square-rigged ship's deck, a spark of light that countered Drizzt's darkness spell.
From her high perch above the defensive magic, Catti-brie saw it. She was already training on the
darkness when the wizard emerged. The robed man went immediately into a chant, meaning to hurl a
devastating spell in the path of the Sea Sprite before she could cross the caravel's bow, but only a couple of
words had escaped his lips when he felt a tremendous thump against his chest and heard the planks of the
ship's deck splinter behind him. He looked down at the blood beginning to pour onto the decking and realized
that he was sitting, then lying, and all the world grew dark.
The wall of mist the wizard had put up fell away.
Robillard saw it, recognized it, and clapped his hands and sent twin bolts of lightning slashing across the
caravel's deck, slamming the masts and killing many pirates. The Sea Sprite crossed in front of the caravel,
and the archers let fly. So, too, did the ballista crew, but they did not hurl a long spear this time. They used a
shortened and unbalanced bolt, trailing a chain lined with many-pronged grapnels. The contraption twirled as
it flew, entangling many lines, fouling up the caravel's rigging.
Another missile, a living missile, six hundred pounds of sleek and muscled panther, soared from the Sea
Sprite as she crossed by and caught the caravel's beam.
"Are you ready, drow?" Robillard called, seeming excited for the first time this fight.
Drizzt nodded and motioned to his fighting companions, the score of veterans who comprised the Sea
Sprite's crack boarding crew. They scrambled toward the wizard from all sections of the ship, dropping their
bows and drawing out weapons for close melee. By the time Drizzt, leading the rush, got near to Robillard,
the wizard already had a shimmering field-a magical door-on the deck beside him. Drizzt didn't hesitate,
charging right through, scimitars in hand. One of them, Twinkle, glowed a fierce blue.
Out the other end of Robillard's magical tunnel he came, arriving in the midst of many surprised pirates
aboard the caravel. Drizzt slashed left and right, clearing a hole in their ranks, and he darted through, his feet
a blur. He turned sharply, fell to the side and rolled as one archer shot harmlessly above him. He came back
to his feet, darted straight for the bowman and cut him down.
More of the Sea Sprite's warriors poured through the gate and the middle of the caravel erupted in wild
battle.
The confusion on the caravel's bow was no less as Guenhwyvar, all teeth and claws she seemed, slashed
and tore through the mass of men who wanted nothing more than to be away from this mighty beast. Many
were pulled down under those powerful claws, and several others simply turned to the side and leaped
overboard, ready to take their chances with the sharks.
Again the Sea Sprite bent low in the water, Deudermont pulling her hard to port, angling away from the
caravel and turning to meet the charge of the coming duo head-on. The tall captain smiled as he heard the
fighting on the ship behind him, confident in his boarding party, though they were still likely outnumbered two
to one.
The dark elf and his panther tended to even such odds.
From her high perch, Catti-brie picked several more shots, each one taking down a strategically-placed
pirate archer, and one driving through a man to kill the pirate goblin sitting next to him!
Then the young woman turned her attention away from the caravel, looking forward in order to direct the
Sea Sprite's movements.
Drizzt ran and rolled, leaped in confusing spins and always came down with his scimitars angled for an
enemy's most vital areas. Under his boots, he wore bands of gleaming mithril rings secured around black
material, enchanted for speed. Drizzt had taken these from Dantrag Baenre, a famed drow weaponmaster.
Dantrag had used them as bracers to speed his hands, but Drizzt understood the truth of the items. On his
ankles, they allowed the drow to run and dart like a wild hare.
He used them now, along with his amazing agility, to confuse the pirates, to keep them unsure of where he
was, or where they could next expect him to be. Whenever one of them guessed wrong and was caught off
guard, Drizzt seized the opportunity and came in hard, scimitars slashing away. He made his way generally
forward, seeking to join up with Guenhwyvar, the fighting companion who knew him best and complimented
his every move.
He didn't quite get there. The rout on the caravel was nearly complete, many pirates dead, others throwing
down their weapons, or throwing themselves overboard in sheer desperation. One of the crew, the most
seasoned and most fearsome, a personal friend of Pinochet, wasn't so quick to surrender.
He emerged from his cabin under the forward bridge, his body bent over because the low construction of
the ship would not accommodate his ten-foot height. He wore only a sleeveless red vest and short breeches,
which barely covered his scaly green skin. Limp hair the color of seaweed hung below his broad shoulders.
He carried no weapon fashioned on a smithy's anvil but, his dirty claws and abundant teeth seemed deadly
enough.
"So the rumors were true, dark elf," he said in a wet, bubbly voice. "You have returned to the sea."
"I do not know you," Drizzt said, skidding to a stop a cautious distance from the scrag. He guessed the
pirate to be Carrackus, the sea troll Deudermont had spoken of, but could not be sure.
"I know you!" the scrag growled. He charged, his clawed hands slashing for Drizzt's head.
Three quick steps brought Drizzt out of the monster's path. The drow dropped to one knee and spun about,
both scimitars slashing across, blades barely an inch apart.
More agile than Drizzt expected, the opponent turned the opposite way and twirled, pulling in his trailing
leg. The drow's scimitars barely nicked the monster as they passed.
The scrag charged, meaning to bury Drizzt where he knelt, but again the drow was too quick for such a
straightforward tactic. He came up to his feet and started left, then, as the scrag took the bait and began to
turn, Drizzt came back fast to the right, underneath the monster's swinging arm.
Twinkle stabbed a hip and Drizzt's other blade followed with a deep cut along the scrag's side.
Drizzt accepted the backhand his opponent launched his way, knowing that the off-balance scrag couldn't
put much of its formidable strength and weight behind it. The long and skinny arm thudded off the drow's
shoulder and then off his parrying blades as he spun to face the lurching brute.
Now it was Drizzt's turn to charge, lightning fast and straight ahead. He slid Twinkle under the elbow of the
outstretched scrag arm, drawing a deep gash and then hooked the fine-edged and curving blade underneath
the hanging flap of skin. His other scimitar poked for the scrag's chest, slipped past the frantic block of the
other arm.
There was only one way for the off-balance monster to move. Drizzt knew that, anticipated the scrag's
retreat perfectly. The drow secured his grip on Twinkle, even braced his shoulder against the weapon's hilt to
hold it firm. The scrag roared in agony and dove back and to the side, directly opposite the angle of Twinkle's
nasty bite. The sickly flesh peeled from the scrag's arm, all the way from its biceps to its wrist. The torn lump
fell to the deck with a sickening thud.
His black eyes filled with outrage and hatred. The scrag looked down to the exposed bone, to the writhing
lump of troll flesh on the deck. And finally, to Drizzt, who stood casually, scimitars crossed down low in front of
him.
"Damn you, Drizzt," the monstrous pirate growled.
"Strike your colors," Drizzt ordered.
"You think you have won?"
In response, Drizzt looked down to the slab of meat.
"It will heal, foolish dark elf!" the pirate insisted.
Drizzt knew that the scrag spoke truly. Scrags were close relatives of trolls, horrid creatures renowned for
their regenerative powers. A dead dismembered troll could come back together.
Unless ...
Drizzt called upon his innate abilities once more, that small part of magic inherent in the dark elf race. A
moment later, purplish flames climbed the towering scrag's form, licking at green scales. This was only faerie
fire, harmless light the dark elves could use to outline their opponents. It had no power to burn, nor could it
prevent the regenerative process of a troll.
Drizzt knew that; he was betting that the monster did not.
The scrag's gruesome features twisted in an expression of sheer horror. He flailed his good arm, beat it
against his leg and hip. The stubborn purple flames would not relent.
"Strike your colors and I will release you of the flames that your wounds might heal," Drizzt offered.
The scrag snapped a look of pure hatred at the drow. He took a step forward, but up came Drizzt's
scimitars. He decided he didn't want to feel their bite again, especially if the flames prevented him from
healing!
"We will meet again!" the scrag promised. The creature wheeled about to see dozens of faces-
Deudermont's crew and captured pirates-staring at him in disbelief. He howled and charged across the deck,
scattering those in the way of the furious rush. The pirate leaped from the rail, back to the sea, back to his
true home where he might heal.
So quick was Drizzt that he got across the deck and managed yet another hit on him before the scrag got
off the rail. The drow had to stop there, unable to pursue and fully aware that the sea troll would indeed
regenerate to complete health.
He hadn't even gotten a curse of frustration out of his mouth when he saw a fast movement to his side, a
rush of black. Guenhwyvar leaped past Drizzt, flew out from the rail, and splashed into the sea right behind
the troll.
The panther disappeared under the azure blanket and the rough and choppy waves quickly covered any
indication that the scrag and the cat had gone in.
Several of the Sea Sprite's boarding party peered intently over the rail, worried for the panther who had
become such a friend to them.
"Guenhwyvar is in no danger," Drizzt reminded them, producing the figurine and holding it high so that all
could see. The worst the scrag could do was send the panther back to the Astral Plane, where the cat would
heal any wounds and be ready to return to Drizzt's next call. Still, the drow's expression was not bright as he
considered the spot where Guenhwyvar had gone in, as he considered that the panther might be in pain.
The deck of the captured caravel went perfectly quiet, save the creaking of the old vessel's timbers.
An explosion to the south turned all heads, all eyes strained to perceive tiny sails, still far away. One of the
pirate ships had turned away; the other caravel was burning while the Sea Sprite literally sailed circles about
her. Flash after flash of silver streaking arrows came from the Sea Sprite's crow's nest, battering the hull and
masts of the damaged, seemingly helpless ship.
Even from this great distance, the people on the captured caravel could see the pirate flag go down the
mainmast, colors struck in surrender.
That brought a cheer from the Sea Sprite's boarding party, a rousing yell that was halted abruptly by
churning waters just off the side of the caravel. They saw green scales and black fur tumbling in the turmoil. A
scrag arm floated out from the mass, and Drizzt was able to sort the confusing scene out enough to realize
that Guenhwyvar had gotten onto the scrag's back. Her forelegs were tight about the monster's shoulders, her
back legs were kicking, raking wildly, and the panther's powerful jaws were clamped tight onto the back of the
scrag's neck.
Dark blood stained the sea, mixing with torn pieces of the pirate's flesh and bone. Soon enough,
Guenhwyvar sat still, teeth and claws securely in place on the back of the dead, floating scrag.
"Better fish the thing out," one of the Sea Sprite's boarding party remarked, "or we'll be growing a whole
crew o' stinking trolls!"
Men arrived at the rail with long gaff hooks and began the gruesome task of hauling in the carcass.
Guenhwyvar got back to the caravel easily enough, clambering over the rail and then giving a good shake,
spraying water on all those nearby.
"Scrags don't heal if they're out o' the sea," a man remarked to Drizzt. "We'll haul this one up the yardarm
to dry, then burn the damned thing."
Drizzt nodded. The boarding party knew their duty well enough. They would organize and supervise the
captured pirates,
freeing the rigging and getting the caravel as seaworthy as possible for the trip back to Waterdeep.
Drizzt looked to the southern horizon and saw the Sea Sprite returning. The damaged pirate ship limped
alongside.
"Thirty-eight and thirty-nine," the drow muttered.
Guenhwyvar gave a low growl in reply and shook vigorously again, soaking her dark elf companion.
Chapter 2
THE FIRST MESSENGER
Captain Deudermont seemed out of place indeed as he strolled down Dock Street, the infamous, rough and
tumble avenue that lined Waterdeep Harbor. His clothes were fine and perfectly tailored to his tall and thin
frame, his posture was perfect, and his hair and goatee meticulously groomed. All about him, the scurvy sea
dogs who had put in for their weeks ashore staggered out of taverns, reeking of ale, or fell down unconscious
in the dust. The only thing protecting them from the many robbers lurking in the area was the fact that they
had no money or valuables to steal.
Deudermont ignored the sights, and didn't fancy himself any better than those sea dogs. In fact, there was
an aspect of their way of life that intrigued the gentlemanly captain, an honesty that mocked the pretentious
courts of nobles.
Deudermont pulled his layered cloak tighter about his neck, warding off the chill night breeze that blew in
off the harbor. Normally one would not walk alone down Dock Street, not even in the light of noonday, but
Deudermont felt secure. He carried his decorated cutlass at his side, and knew how to use it well. Even more
than that, the word had been passed through every tavern and every pier in Waterdeep that the Sea Sprite's
captain had been afforded the personal protection of the Lords of Waterdeep, including some very powerful
wizards who would seek out and destroy anyone bothering the captain or his crew while they were in port.
Waterdeep was the Sea Sprite's haven, and so Deudermont thought nothing of walking alone down Dock
Street. He was more curious than fearful when a wrinkled old man, bone skinny and barely five feet tall, called
to him from the edge of an alleyway.
Deudermont stopped and looked about. Dock Street was quiet, except for the overspill of sound from the
many taverns and the groan of old wood against the incessant sea breeze.
"Ye's is Doo-dor-mont-ee, asin't yer?" the old seabones called softly, a whistle accompanying each syllable.
He smiled widely, almost lewdly, showing but a couple of crooked teeth set in black gums.
Deudermont stopped and eyed the man patiently, silently. He felt no compulsion to answer the question.
"If ye be," the man wheezed, "then oi've got a bit o' news for yer. A warnin' from a man yer's is rightly
fearin'."
The captain stood tall and impassive. His face showed none of the questions that raced about in his mind.
Who would he be afraid of? Was the old dog talking of Pinochet? That seemed likely, especially considering
the two caravels the Sea Sprite had escorted into Waterdeep Harbor earlier that week. But few in Waterdeep
had any contact with the pirate, whose domain was much farther to the south, south of Baldur's Gate even, in
the straights near the Moonshae Isles.
But who else might the man be talking about?
Smiling still, the sea dog motioned for Deudermont to come to the alley. The captain didn't move as the old
man turned and took a step in.
"Well, be yer fearin' old Scaramundi?" the sea dog whistled.
Deudermont realized it could be a disguise. Many of the greatest assassins in the Realms could look as
helpless as this one, only to put a poisoned dagger into their victim's chest.
The sea dog came back to the entrance to the alley, then walked right out into the middle of the street
toward Deudermont.
No disguise, the captain told himself, for it was too complete, too perfect. Besides, he recollected that he
had seen this same old man before, usually sitting right near to this very same alleyway, which probably
served as his home.
What then? Might there be an ambush set down that alley?
"Have it yer own way then," the old man wheezed as he threw up one hand. He leaned heavily on his
walking stick and started back to the alley, grumbling. "Just a messenger, I be, and not fer carin' if yer hears
the news or not!"
Deudermont cautiously looked all around again. Seeing nobody nearby, and no likely hiding spots for an
ambush party, he moved to the mouth of the alleyway. The old sea dog was ten short paces in, at the edge of
the slanting shadows cast by the building to the right, and barely visible in the dimness. He laughed and
coughed and moved in yet another step.
One hand on the hilt of his cutlass, Deudermont cautiously approached, scanning carefully before each
step. The alleyway seemed empty enough.
"Far enough!" Deudermont said suddenly, stopping the sea dog in his tracks. "If you have news for me,
then speak it, and speak it now."
"Some things shouldn't be said too loudly," the old man replied.
"Now," Deudermont insisted.
The salty sea dog smiled widely and coughed, perhaps laughing. He ambled back a few steps, stopping
barely three feet from Deudermont.
The smell of the man nearly overwhelmed the captain, who was accustomed to powerful body odors. There
wasn't much opportunity to bathe on a ship at sea and the Sea Sprite was often out for weeks, even months,
at a time. Still, the combination of cheap wine and old sweat gave this one a particularly nasty flavor that
made Deudermont scrunch up his face, even put a hand over his nose to try to intercept some of the fumes.
The sea dog, of course, laughed hysterically at that.
"Now!" the captain insisted.
Even as the word left Deudermont's lips, the sea dog reached out and caught him by the wrist.
Deudermont, not afraid, turned his arm, but the old man held on stubbornly.
"I want you to tell me of the dark one," the sea dog said, and it took Deudermont a moment to realize that
the man's dockside accent was gone.
"Who are you?" Deudermont insisted, and he tugged fiercely, to no avail. Only then did Deudermont realize
the truth of the superhuman grip; he might as well have been pulling against one of the great fog giants that
lived on the reef surrounding Delmarin Island, far to the south.
"The dark one," the old man repeated. With hardly any effort, he yanked Deudermont deeper into the
alleyway.
The captain went for his cutlass, and though the old man held Deudermont's right hand fast, he could fight
fairly well with his left. It was somewhat awkward extracting the curving blade from its sheath with that hand,
and before the cutlass came fully free, the old man's free hand shot forward, open-palmed, to slam
Deudermont in the face. He flew backward, crashing against the wall. Keeping his wits about him, he drew
out the blade, transferred it to his now-free right hand, and slashed hard at the ribs of the approaching sea
dog.
The fine cutlass gashed deep into the sea dog's side, but he didn't even flinch. Deudermont tried to block
the next slap, and the next after that, but his defenses simply were not strong enough. He tried to get his
cutlass in line to parry, but the old man slapped it away, sent it spinning from his hand, then resumed the
battering. Open palms came in with the speed of a striking snake, heavy blows that knocked Deudermont's
head tilting, and he would have fallen, except that the old man grabbed him by the shoulder and held him fast.
Through bleary eyes, Deudermont peered at his foe. Confusion crossed his stern features as his enemy's
face began to melt away and then to reform.
"The dark one?" he, it, asked again, and Deudermont hardly heard the voice, his voice, so dumbfounded
was he at the spectacle of his own face leering back at him.
* * * * *
"He should be here by now," Catti-brie remarked, leaning on the bar.
She was growing impatient, Drizzt realized, and not because Deudermont was late-the captain was often
detained at one function or another in Waterdeep-but because the sailor on the other side of her, a short and
stocky man with a thick beard and curly hair, both the color of a raven's wing, kept bumping into her. He
apologized each time, looking over his shoulder to regard the beautiful woman, often winking and always
smiling.
Drizzt turned so that his back was against the waist-high bar. The Mermaid's Arms was nearly empty this
night. The weather had been fine and most of the fishing and merchant fleets were out. Still, the place was
loud and rowdy, full of sailors relieving months of boredom with drink, companionship, much bluster and even
fisticuffs.
"Robillard," Drizzt whispered, and Catti-brie turned and followed the drow's gaze to see the wizard slipping
through the crowd, moving to join them at the bar.
"Good evening," the wizard said without much enthusiasm. He didn't look at the companions as he spoke,
and didn't wait for the bartender to come near, merely waggled his fingers and a bottle and a glass magically
came to his place. The bartender started to protest, but a pile of copper pieces appeared in his hand. The
bartender shook his head with disdain, never caring much for the Sea Sprite's wizard and his arrogant antics,
and moved away.
"Where is Deudermont?" Robillard asked. "Squandering my pay, no doubt."
Drizzt and Catti-brie exchanged smiles wrought of continued disbelief. Robillard was among the most
distant and caustic men either of them had ever known, more grumpy even than General Dagna, the surly
dwarf who served as Bruenor's garrison commander at Mithril Hall.
"No doubt," Drizzt replied.
Robillard turned to regard him with an accusing, angry glare.
"Of course, Deudermont's one to steal from us all the time," Catti-brie added. "Takes a fancy to the finest o'
ladies and the finest o' wine, and is free with what's not his to be free with."
A growl escaped Robillard's thin lips and he pushed off the bar and walked away.
"I'd like to know that one's tale," Catti-brie remarked.
Drizzt nodded his accord, his eyes never leaving the departing wizard's back. Indeed, Robillard was a
strange one, and the drow figured that something terrible must have happened to him somewhere in his past.
Perhaps he had unintentionally killed someone, or had been rejected by a true love. Perhaps he had seen too
much of wizardry, had looked into places where a man's eyes were not meant to go.
Catti-brie's simple spoken thought had sparked a sudden interest within Drizzt Do'Urden. Who was this
Robillard, and what precipitated his perpetual boredom and anger?
"Where is Deudermont?" came a question from the side, breaking Drizzt's trance. He turned to see Waillan
Micanty, a lad of barely twenty winters, with sandy-colored hair, cinnamon eyes and huge dimples that always
showed because Waillan never seemed to stop smiling. He was the youngest of the Sea Sprite's crew,
younger even than Catti-brie, but with an uncanny eye on the ballista. Waillan's shots were fast becoming
legend, and if the young man lived long enough, he would no doubt assemble quite a reputation along the
Sword Coast. Waillan Micanty had put one ballista bolt through the window of a pirate captain's quarters at
four hundred yards and had skewered the pirate captain as the man was buckling on his cutlass. The
momentum of the heavy spear had hurled the pirate right through his closed cabin door and out onto the
deck. The pirate ship struck her colors immediately, the capture ended before the fighting had really even
begun.
"We are expecting the man," Drizzt answered, his mood brightening simply at the sight of the beaming
young man. Drizzt couldn't help but notice the contrast between this youngster and Robillard, who was
probably the oldest of the crew, except for Drizzt.
Waillan nodded. "Should be here by now," he remarked under his breath, but the drow's keen ears caught
every word.
"You are expecting him?" Drizzt was quick to ask.
"I need to speak with him," Waillan admitted, "about a possible advance on earnings." The young man
blushed deep red and moved close to Drizzt so that Catti-brie could not hear. "A lady friend," he explained.
Drizzt found his smile widening even more. "The captain is overdue," he said. "I'm sure he will not be much
longer."
"He was less than a dozen doors down when I last saw him," Waillan said. "Near to the Foggy Haven and
heading this way. I thought he'd beat me here."
For the first time, Drizzt grew a bit concerned. "How long ago was that?"
Waillan shrugged. "I been here since the fight before," he said.
Drizzt turned and leaned back against the bar. He and Catti-brie exchanged concerned looks this time, for
many minutes had passed since the previous two fights. There wasn't much to interest the captain between
the Mermaid's Arms and the place Waillan spoke of, certainly nothing that should have detained Deudermont
for this long.
Drizzt sighed and took a long swallow of the water he was drinking. He looked to Robillard, now sitting by
himself, though a table not far from the man held open chairs beside the four that were occupied by members
of the Sea Sprite's crew. Drizzt wasn't too concerned. Perhaps Deudermont had forgotten some business, or
had simply changed his mind about coming to the Mermaid's Arms this night. But still, Dock Street in
Waterdeep was a dangerous place, and the drow ranger's sixth sense, that warrior instinct, told him to be
wary.
*****
摘要：

PROLOGUEShewasbeautiful,shapely,andpale-skinnedwiththick,lustroushaircascadinghalfwaydownhernakedback.Hercharmswereofferedopenly,brazenly,conveyedtohimattheendofagentletouch.Sogentle.Littlebrushingfingersofenergytickledhischin,hisjawbone,hisneck.Everymuscleofhisbodytensedandhefoughtforcontrol,battle...

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