His raspy voice grated on Catti-brie’s nerves, and though she hadn’t eaten since the supper the day before, she had no appetite for this man’s hospitality.
Entreri shoved her forward. “Eat,” he commanded.
She knew that Entreri was testing both her and the wizards. But it was time for her to test Entreri as well. “No,” she answered, looking him straight in the eye.
His backhand knocked her to the floor. Jierdan and Sydney started reflexively, but seeing no help forthcoming from Dendybar, quickly stopped and settled back to watch. Catti-brie moved away from the killer and remained in a defensive crouch.
Dendybar smiled at the assassin. “You have answered some of my questions about the girl,” he said with an amused smile. “What purpose does she serve?”
I have my reasons,” was all that Entreri replied.
“Of course. And might I learn your name?”
Entreri’s expression did not change.
“You seek the four companions from Ten-Towns, I know,” Dendybar continued, having no desire to bandy the issue. “I seek them, as well, but for different reasons, I am sure.”
“You know nothing of my reasons,” Entreri replied.
“Nor do I care,” laughed the wizard. “We can help each other to our separate goals. That is all that interests me.”
“I ask for no help.”
Dendybar laughed again. “They are a mighty force, rider. You underestimate them.”
“Perhaps,” replied Entreri. “But you have asked my purpose, yet have not offered your own. What business does the Hosttower have with travelers from Ten-Towns?”
“Fairly asked,” answered Dendybar. “But I should wait until we have formalized an agreement before rendering an answer.”
“Then I shan’t sleep well for worry,” Entreri spat.
Again the wizard laughed. “You may change your mind before this is finished,” he said. “For now I offer a sign of good faith. The companions are in the city. Dockside. They were to stay in the Cutlass. Do you know it?”
Entreri nodded, now very interested in the, wizard’s words.
“But we have lost them in the alleyways of the western city,” Dendybar explained, shooting a glare at Jierdan that made the soldier shift uneasily.
“And what is the price of this information?” Entreri asked.
“None,” replied the wizard. “Telling you helps my own cause. You will get what you want; what I desire will remain for me.”
Entreri smiled, understanding that Dendybar intended to use him as a hound to sniff out the prey.
“My apprentice will show you out,” Dendybar said, motioning to Sydney.
Entreri turned to leave, pausing to meet the gaze of Jierdan. “Ware my path, soldier,” the assassin warned. “Vultures eat after the cat has feasted!”
“When he has shown me to the drow, I’ll have his head,” Jierdan growled when they had gone.
“You shall keep clear of that one,” Dendybar instructed.
Jierdan looked at him, puzzled. “Surely you want him watched.”
“Surely,” agreed Dendybar. “But by Sydney, not you. Keep your anger,” Dendybar said to him, noting the outraged scowl. “I preserve your life. Your pride is great, indeed, and you have earned the right. But this one is beyond your prowess, my friend. His blade would have you before you ever knew he was there.”
Outside, Entreri led Catti-brie away from the Hosttower without a word, silently replaying and reviewing the meeting, for he knew that he had not seen the last of Dendybar and his cohorts.
Catti-brie was glad of the silence, too, engulfed in her own contemplations. Why would a wizard of the Hosttower be looking for Bruenor and the others? Revenge for Akar Kessell, the mad wizard that her friends had helped defeat before the last winter? She looked back to the treelike structure, and to the killer at her side, amazed arid horrified at the attention her friends had brought upon themselves.
Then she looked into her own heart, reviving her spirit and her courage. Drizzt, Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Regis were going to need her help before this was all over. She must not fail them.
ALLIES
e wants to go home. He wants to find a world he once knew. I know not if it is the promise of riches or of simplicity that now drives Bruenor. He wants to go and find Mithral Hall, to clear it of whatever monsters might now inhabit the place, to reclaim it for Clan Battlehammer.
On the surface that desire seems a reasonable, even noble, thing. We all quest for adventure, and for those whose families have lived in noble tradition, the desire to avenge a wrong and restore family name and position cannot be underestimated.
Our road to Mithral Hall will not likely be an easy one. Many dangerous, uncivilized lands lay between Icewind Dale and the region far to the east of Luskan, and certainly that road promises to become even darker if we do find the entrance to those lost dwarven mines. But I am surrounded by capable and powerful friends, and so I fear no monsters—none that we can fight with sword, at least. No, my one fear concerning this journey we undertake is a fear for Bruenor Battlehammer. He wants to go home, and there are many good reasons why he should. There remains one good reason why he should not, and if that reason, nostalgia, is the source of his desire, then I fear he will be bitterly disappointed.
Nostalgia is possibly the greatest of the lies that we all tell ourselves. It is the glossing of the past to fit the sensibilities of the present. For some, it brings a measure of comfort, a sense of self and of source, but others, I fear, take these altered memories too far, and because of that, paralyze themselves to the realities about them.
How many people long for that “past, simpler, and better world,” I wonder, without ever recognizing the truth that perhaps it was they who were simpler and better, and not the world about them?
As a drow elf, I expect to live several centuries, but those first few decades of life for a drow, and for a surface elf, are not so different in terms of emotional development from those of a human, or a halfling or a dwarf. I, too, remember that idealism and energy of my more youthful days, when the world seemed an uncomplicated place, when right and wrong were plainly written on the path before my every stride. Perhaps, in a strange sort of way, because of the fact that my early years were so full of terrible experiences, were so full of an environment and an experience that I simply could not tolerate, I am better off now. For unlike so many of those I have met on the surface, my existence has steadily improved.
Has that contributed to my optimism, for my own existence and for all the world around me?
So many people, particularly humans who have passed the middle of their expected lives, continue to look back for their paradise, continue to claim that the world was a far better place when they were young.
I cannot believe that. There may be specific instances where that is true—a tyrant king replaces a compassionate ruler, an era of health engulfs the land after a plague—but I believe, I must believe, that the people of the world are an improving lot, that the natural evolution of civilizations, though not necessarily a straight-line progression, moves toward the betterment of the world. For every time a better way is found, the people will naturally gravitate in that direction while failed experiments will be abandoned. I have listened to Wulfgar’s renderings of the history of his people, the barbarian tribes of Icewind Dale, for example, and I am amazed and horrified by the brutality of their past, the constant fighting of tribe against tribe, the wholesale rape of captured women and the torture of captured men. The tribesmen of Icewind Dale are still a brutal lot, no doubt, but not, if the oral traditions are to be believed, on a par with their predecessors. And that makes perfect sense to me, and thus, I have hopes that the trend will continue. Perhaps one day, a great barbarian leader will emerge who truly finds love with a woman, who finds a wife who forces from him a measure of respect practically unknown among the barbarians. Will that leader somewhat elevate the status of women among the tribes?
If that happen
s, the barbarians tribes of Icewind Dale will find a strength that they simply do not understand within half of their population. If that happens, if the barbarian women find an elevation of status, then the tribesmen will never, ever, force them back into their current roles that can only be described as slavery.
And all of them, man and woman, will be better for the change.
Because for change to be lasting among reasoning creatures, that change must be for the better. And so civilizations, peoples, evolve to a better understanding and a better place.
For the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan, as with many generations of tyrant families, as with many rich landowners, change can be seen as a definite threat to their power base, and so their resistance to it seems logical, even expected. How, then, can we find explanation in the fact that so many, many people, even people who live in squalor, as did their parents and their parents’ parents, and back for generation after generation, view any change with an equal fear and revulsion? Why would not the lowliest peasant desire evolution of civilization if that evolution might lead to a better life for his children?
That would seem logical, but I have seen that it is not the case, for many if not most of the short-lived humans who have passed their strongest and healthiest years, who have put their own better days behind them, accepting any change seems no easy thing. No, so many of them clutch at the past, when the world was “simpler and better.” They rue change on a personal level, as if any improvements those coming behind them might make will shine a bright and revealing light on their own failings.
Perhaps that is it. Perhaps it is one of our most basic fears, and one wrought of foolish pride, that our children will know better than we do. At the same time that so many people tout the virtues of their children, is there some deep fear within them that those children will see the errors of their parents?
I have no answers to this seeming paradox, but for Bruenor’s sake, I pray that he seeks Mithral Hall for the right reasons, for the adventure and the challenge, for the sake of his heritage and the restoration of his family name, and not for any desire he might have to make the world as it once was.
Nostalgia is a necessary thing, I believe, and a way for all of us to find peace in that which we have accomplished, or even failed to accomplish. At the same time, if nostalgia precipitates actions to return to that fabled, rosy-painted time, particularly in one who believes his life to be a failure, then it is an empty thing, doomed to produce nothing but frustration and an even greater sense of failure.
Even worse, if nostalgia throws barriers in the path toward evolution, then it is a limiting thing indeed.
—Drizzt Do’Urden
he companions broke out of the twists and dips of the crags later in the afternoon, to their absolute relief. It had taken them some time to round up their mounts after the encounter with the Pegasus, particularly the halfling’s pony, which had bolted early in the fight when Regis had gone down. In truth, the pony would not be ridden again, anyway; it was too skittish and Regis was in no condition to ride. But Drizzt had insisted that both horses and both ponies be found, reminding his companions of their responsibility to the farmers, especially considering the way they had appropriated the beasts.
Regis now sat before Wulfgar on the barbarian’s stallion, leading the way with his pony tied behind and Drizzt and Bruenor a short distance back, guarding the rear. Wulfgar kept his great arms close around the halfling, his protective hold secure enough to allow Regis some much-needed sleep.
“Keep the setting sun at our backs,” Drizzt instructed the barbarian.
Wulfgar called out his acknowledgement and looked back to confirm his bearings.
“Rumblebelly couldn’t find a safer place in all the Realms,” Bruenor remarked to the drow.
Drizzt smiled. “Wulfgar has done well.”
“Aye,” the dwarf agreed, obviously pleased. “Though I be wondering how much longer I can keep to callin’ him a boy! Ye should have seen the Cutlass, elf,” the dwarf chuckled, “A boatload of pirates who’d been seeing naught but the sea for a year and a day couldn’t’ve done more wrecking!”
“When we left the dale, I worried if Wulfgar was ready for the many societies of this wide world,” replied Drizzt. “Now I worry that the world may not be ready for him. You should be proud.”
“Ye’ve had as much a hand in him as meself,” said Bruenor. “He’s me boy, elf, surer’n if I’d sired him meself. Not a thought to his own fears on the field back there. Ne’er have I viewed such courage in a human as when ye’d gone to the other plane. He waited—he hoped, I tell ye!—for the wretched beast to come back so he could get a good swing in to avenge the hurt to meself and the halfling.”
Drizzt enjoyed this rare moment of vulnerability from the dwarf. A few times before, he had seen Bruenor drop his callous facade, back on the climb in Icewind Dale when the dwarf thought of Mithral Hall and the wondrous memories of his childhood.
“Aye, I’m proud,” Bruenor continued. “And I’m finding meself willing to follow his lead and trust in his choices.”
Drizzt could only agree, having come to the same conclusions many months before, when Wulfgar had united the peoples of Icewind Dale, barbarian and Ten-Towner alike, in a common defense against the harsh tundra winter. He still worried about bringing the young warrior into situations like the dockside of Luskan, for he knew that many of the finest persons in the Realms had paid dearly for their first encounters with the guilds and underground power structures of a city, and that Wulfgar’s deep compassion and unwavering code of honor could be manipulated against him.
But on the road, in the wild, Drizzt knew that he would never find a more valuable companion.
They encountered no further problems that day or night, and the next morning came upon the main road, the trading route from Waterdeep to Mirabar and passing Longsaddle on the way. No landmarks stood out to guide them, as Drizzt had anticipated, but because of his plan in keeping more to the east than the straight line southeast, their direction from here was clearly south.
Regis seemed much better this day and was anxious to see Longsaddle. He alone of the group had been to the home of the magic-using Harpell family and he looked forward to viewing the strange, and often outrageous, place again.
His excited chatting only heightened Wulfgar’s trepidations, though, for the barbarian’s distrust of the dark arts ran deep. Among Wulfgar’s people, wizards were viewed as cowards and evil tricksters.
“How long must we remain in this place?” he asked Bruenor and Drizzt, who, with the crags safely behind them, had come up to ride beside him on the wide road.
“Until we get some answers,” Bruenor answered. “Or until we figure a better place to go.” Wulfgar had to be satisfied with the answer.
Soon they passed some of the outlying farms, drawing curious stares from the men in the fields who leaned on their hoes and rakes to study the party. Shortly after the first of these encounters, they were met on the road by five armed men called Longriders, representing the outer watch of the town.
“Greetings, travelers,” said one politely. “Might we ask your intentions in these parts?”
“Ye might …” started Bruenor, but Drizzt stopped his sarcastic remark with an outstretched hand.
“We have come to see the Harpells,” Regis replied. “Our business does not concern your town, though we seek the wise counsel of the family in the mansion.”
“Well met, then,” answered the Longrider. “The hill of the Ivy Mansion is just a few miles farther down the road, before Longsaddle proper.” He stopped suddenly, noticing the drow. “We could escort you if you desire,” he offered, clearing his throat in an effort to politely hide his gawking at the black elf.
“It is not necessary,” said Drizzt. “I assure you that we can find the way, and that we mean no ill toward any of the people of Longsaddle.”
“Very well.” The Longrider stepped his mount aside and the companions continued on.
“Keep to the road, though,” he called after them. “Some of the farmers get anxious about people near the boundaries of their land.”
“They are kindly folk,” Regis explained to his companions as they moved down the road, “and they trust in their wizards.”
“Kindly, but wary,” Drizzt retorted, motioning to a distant field where the silhouette of a mounted man was barely visible on the far tree line. “We are being watched.”
“But not bothered,” said Bruenor. “And that’s more than we can say about anywhere we’ve been yet!”
The hill of the Ivy Mansion comprised a small hillock sporting three buildings, two that resembled the low, wooden design of farmhouses. The third, though, was unlike anything the four companions had ever seen. Its walls turned at sharp angles every few feet, creating niches within niches, and dozens and dozens of spires sprouted from its many-angled roof, no two alike. A thousand windows were visible from this direction alone, some huge, others no bigger than an arrow slit.
No one design, no overall architectural plan or style, could be found here. The Harpells’ mansion was a collage of independent ideas and experiments in magical creation. But there was truly a beauty within the chaos, a sense of freedom that defied the term “structure” and carried with it a feeling of welcome.
A rail fence surrounded the hillock and the four friends approached curiously, if not excitedly. There was no gate, just an opening and the road continuing through. Seated on a stool inside the fence, staring blankly at the sky, was a fat, bearded man in a carmine robe.
He noticed their arrival with a start. “Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded bluntly, angered at the interruption of his meditation.
“Weary travelers,” replied Regis, “come to seek the wisdom of the reknowned Harpells.”
The man seemed unimpressed. “And?” he prompted.
Regis turned helplessly to Drizzt and Bruenor, but they could only answer him with shrugs of their own, not understanding what more was required of them. Bruenor started to move his pony out in front to reiterate the group’s intentions when another robed man came shuffling out of the mansion to join the first.