Salvatore, R A - Paths of Darkness 02 - The Spine of the World

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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 remem-

bered 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 him-

self to his feet and hoisting Aegis-fang, his wondrous warham-

mer. 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 barbar-

ian 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 barbar-

ian 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 prop-

erly lead the descending bottle, his hammer scattering tiny

shards of glass across the bay. Of late, Morik had a chance of win-

ning 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 bar-

barian.

"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 war-

rior 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 burn-

ing 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 indica-

tion.

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 squirm-

ing 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 reflec-

tion 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 per-

sonal 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 some-

times 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 slum-

ber. 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 child-

birth, 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 think-

ing, 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 stu-

dents 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 retro-

spect, I have come to understand another truth about myself

that forced rejection of that orgy. Aside from the moral implica-

tions, 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 cere-

mony, 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

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

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Salvatore, R A - Paths of Darkness 02 - The Spine of the World

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