Sea of Swords pod-4 Page 6

  “Nor would it matter,” E'kressa went on, bending again to study the images, to absorb the feel of the scene as much as the actual display. “It is no wound, save the ravages of time, I fear, and no illness, save the one that fells all if nothing kills him sooner.” E'kressa stood straight again and blew a fluffy eyebrow up from in front of one gray eye.

  “Old age,” the gnome explained. “The Ninth King of Mithral Hall is dying of old age.”

  Le'lorinel nodded, having heard as much. “And Bruenor Battlehammer?” the elf asked.

  “The Ninth King lies on a bed of sorrow,” the gnome said dramatically. “The Tenth King rises with the sun of the morrow!”

  Le'lorinel crossed arms and assumed an irritated posture.

  “Had to be said,” the gnome explained.

  “Better by you, then,” the elf replied. “If it had to be.”

  “It did,” said E'kressa, needing to get in the last word.

  “Bruenor Battlehammer?” the elf asked.

  The gnome spent a long time studying the scene in the crystal ball then, murmuring to himself, even at one point putting his ear flat against the smooth surface to better hear the events transpiring in the distant dwarf kingdom.

  “He is not there,” E'kressa said with some confidence soon after. “Good enough for you, too, for if he had returned, with the dark elf beside him, would you think to penetrate a dwarven stronghold?”

  “I will do as I must,” came the quiet and steady response.

  E'kressa started to chuckle but stopped short when he saw the grim countenance worn by Le'lorinel.

  “Better for you, then,” the gnome said, waving away the images in the scrying ball and enacting another spell of divination. He closed his eyes, not bothering with the ball, as he continued the chant—the call to an otherworldly being for some sign, some guidance.

  A curious image entered his thoughts, burning like glowing metal. Two symbols showed clearly, images that he knew, though he had never seen them thus entwined.

  “Dumathoin and Clangeddin,” he mumbled. “Dumathoin and Moradin.”

  “Three dwarf gods?” Le'lorinel asked, but E'kressa, standing very still, eyes fluttering, didn't seem to hear.

  “But how?” the gnome asked quietly.

  Before Le'lorinel could inquire as to what the seer might be speaking of, E'kressa's gray eyes popped open wide. “To find Drizzt, you must indeed find Bruenor,” the gnome announced.

  “To Mithral Hall, then,” Le'lorinel reasoned.

  “Not so!” shrieked the gnome. “For there is a place more urgent in the eyes of the dwarf, a place as a father and not a king.”

  “Riddles?”

  E'kressa shook his hairy head vehemently. “Find the dwarfs most prized creation of his hands,” the gnome explained, “to find the dwarfs most prized creation of the flesh—well, one of two, but it sounded better that way,” the gnome admitted.

  Le'lorinel's expression could not have been more puzzled.

  “Bruenor Battlehammer made something once, something powerful and magical beyond his abilities as a craftsman,” E'kressa explained. “He crafted it for someone he treasured greatly. That creation of metal will bring the dwarf more certainly than will the void on Mithral Hall's stone throne. And more, that creation will bring the dark elf running.”

  “What is it?” Le'lorinel asked, eagerness now evident. “Where is it?”

  E'kressa bounded to his small desk and pulled forth a piece of parchment. With Le'lorinel rushing to join him, he enacted another spell, this one transforming the image that his previous spell had just burned into his thoughts to the parchment. He held up his handiwork, a perfect representation of the jumbled symbols of the dwarven gods.

  “Find this mark, Le'lorinel, and you will find the end of your long road,” he explained.

  E'kressa went into his spellcasting again, this time bringing forth lines on the opposite side of the parchment.

  “Or this one,” he explained, holding the new image, one that looked very much like the old, up before Le'lorinel.

  The elf took the parchment gently, staring at it wide-eyed.

  “One is the mark of Clangeddin, covered by the mark of Dumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets Under the Mountain. The other is the mark of Moradin, similarly disguised.”

  Le'lorinel nodded, turning the page over gently and reverently, like some sage studying the writings of some long-lost civilization.

  “Far to the west, I believe,” the gnome explained before Le’lorinel could ask the question. “Waterdeep? Luskan? Somewhere in between? I can not be sure.”

  “But you believe this to be the region?” the elf asked. “Did your divination tell you this, or is it a logical hunch, considering that Icewind Dale is immediately north of these places?”

  E'kressa considered the words for a while, then merely shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  Le'lorinel stared at him hard.

  “Have you a better course to follow?” the gnome asked.

  “I paid you well,” the elf reminded.

  “And there, in your hands, you have the goods returned, tenfold,” the gnome asserted, so obviously pleased by his performance this day.

  Le'lorinel looked down at the parchment, the lines of the intertwining symbols burned indelibly into the brown paper.

  “I know not the immediate connection,” the gnome admitted. “I know not how this symbol, or the item holding it, will bring you to your obsession. But there lies the end of your road, so my spells have shown me. More than that, I do not know.”

  “And will this end of the road prove fruitful to Le'lorinel?” the elf asked, despite the earlier discounting of such prophecy.

  “This I have not seen,” the gnome replied smugly. “Shall I wager a guess?”

  Le'lorinel, only then realizing the betrayal of emotions presented by merely asking the question, assumed a defensive posture. “Spare me,” the elf said.

  “I could do it in rhyme,” the gnome offered with a superior smirk.

  Le'lorinel thought to mention that a rhyme might be offered in return, a song actually, sung with eagerness as a delicate elven dagger removed a tongue from the mouth of a gloating gnome.

  The elf said nothing, though, and the thought dissipated as the image on the parchment obscured all other notions.

  Here it was, in Le'lorinel's hands, the destination of a lifetime's quest.

  Given that, the elf had no anger left to offer.

  Given that, the elf had too many questions to ponder, too many preparations to make, too many fears to overcome, and too many fantasies to entertain of seeing Drizzt Do'Urden, the imitation hero, revealed for the imposter he truly was.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Chogurugga lay back on five enormous pillows, stuffing great heaps of mutton into her fang-filled mouth. At eight and a half feet, the ogress wasn't very tall, but with legs the girth of ancient oaks and a round waist, she packed more than seven hundred pounds into her ample frame.

  Many male attendants rushed about the central cavern, the largest in Golden Cove, keeping her fed and happy. Always they had been attentive of Chogurugga because of her unusual and exotic appearance. Her skin was light violet in color, not the normal yellow of her clan, perfectly complimenting her long and greasy bluish-black hair. Her eyes were caught somewhere between the skin and hair in hue, seeming deep purple or just a shade off true blue, depending on the lighting about her.

  Chogurugga was indeed used to the twenty males of Clan Thump fawning over her, but since her new allegiance with the human pirates, an allegiance that had elevated the females of the clan to even higher stature, the males practically tripped over one another rushing to offer her food and fineries.

  Except for Bloog, of course, the stern taskmaster of Golden Cove, the largest, meanest, ugliest ogre ever to walk these stretches of the Spine of the World. Many whispered that Bloog wasn't even a true ogre, that he had a bit of mountain giant blood in him, and since he stood closer to fifteen feet
than to ten, with thick arms the size of Chogurugga's legs, it was a rumor not easily discounted.

  Chogurugga, with the help of Sheila Kree, had become the brains of the ogre side of Golden Cove, but Bloog was the brawn, and, whenever he desired it to be so, the true boss. And he had become even meaner since Sheila Kree had come into their lives and had given to him a gift of tremendous power, a crafted warhammer that allowed Bloog to expand caverns with a single, mighty blow.

  “Back again?” the ogress said when Sheila and Bellany strode into the cavern. “And what goodzies did yez bring fer Chogurugga this time?”

  “A broken ship,” the pirate leader replied sarcastically. “Think ye might be eating that?”

  Bloog's chuckle from the side of the room rumbled like distant thunder.

  Chogurugga cast a glower his way. “Me got Bathunk now,” the female reminded. “Me no need Bloog.”

  Bloog furrowed his brow, which made it stick out far beyond his deep-set eyes, a scowl that would have been comical had it not been coming from a beast that was a ton of muscle. Bathunk, Chogurugga and Bloog's vicious son, was becoming quite an issue between the couple of late. Normally in ogre society, when the son of a chieftain was growing as strong and as mean as the father, and that father was still young, the elder brute would beat the child down, and repeatedly, to secure his own place in the tribe. If that didn't work, the son would be killed, or put out at least. But this was no ordinary group of ogres, Clan Thump was a matriarchy instead of the more customary patriarchy, and Chogurugga would tolerate none of that behavior from Bloog— not with Bathunk, anyway.

  “We barely hit open water when a familiar sight appeared on our horizon,” explained an obviously disgusted Bellany, who had no intention of witnessing another of Chogurugga and Bloog's legendary “Bathunk” battles.

  “Chogurugga guesses three sails?” the ogress asked, taking the bait to change the subject and holding up four fingers.

  Sheila Kree cast a disapproving glance Bellany's way—she didn't need to have the ogres' respect for her diminished in any way—then turned the same expression over Chogurugga. “He's a persistent one,” she admitted. “One day, he’ll even follow us to Golden Cove.”

  Bloog chuckled again, and so did Chogurugga, both of them reveling in the thought of some fresh man-flesh.

  Sheila Kree, though she surely wasn't in a smiling mood, joined in, but soon after motioned for Bellany to follow and headed out the exit on the opposite side of the room, to the tunnels leading to their quarters higher up in the mountain.

  Sheila's room was not nearly as large as the chamber shared by the ogre leaders, but it was almost hedonistic in its furnishings, with ornate lamps throwing soft light into every nook along the uneven walls, and fine carpets piled so high that the women practically bounced along as they crossed the place.

  “I grow weary o' that Deudermont,” Sheila said to the sorceress.

  “He is likely hoping for that very thing,” Bellany replied. “Perhaps we'll grow weary enough to stop running, weary of the run enough to confront Sea Sprite on the open waters.”

  Sheila looked at her most trusted companion, gave an agreeing smile, and nodded. Bellany was, in many ways, her better half, the crusty pirate knew. Always thinking, always looking ahead to the consequences, the wise and brilliant sorceress had been the greatest addition to Bloody Keel's crew in decades. Sheila trusted her implicitly—Bellany had been the very first to wear the brand once Sheila had decided to use the intricate design on the side of Aegis-fang's mithral head in that manner. Sheila even loved Bellany as her own sister, and, despite her overblown sense of pride, and the fact that she was always a bit too merciful and gentle-hearted toward their captives for Sheila's vicious tastes, Sheila knew better than to discount anything Bellany might say.

  Three times in the last couple of months, Deudermont's ship had chased Bloody Keel off the high seas, though Sheila wasn't even certain Sea Sprite had seen them the first time and doubted that there had been any definite identification the other two. But perhaps Bellany was right. Perhaps that was Deudermont's way of catching elusive pirates. He'd chase them until they tired of running, and when they at last turned to fight. .

  A shudder coursed Sheila Kree's spine as she thought of doing battle with Sea Sprite on the open waters.

  “Not any bait we're soon to be taking,” Sheila said, and the answering expression from Bellany, who had no desire to ever tangle with Sea Sprite's devastating and legendary Robillard, was surely one of relief.

  “Not out there,” Sheila Kree went on, moving to the side of the chamber, to one of the few openings in the dark caverns of Golden Cove, a natural window overlooking the small bay and the reefs beyond. “But he's chasin' us from profits, and we've got to make him pay.”

  “Well, perhaps one day he'll be foolish enough to chase us into Golden Cove. We'll let Chogurugga's clan rain heavy stones down on his deck,” Bellany replied.

  But Sheila Kree, staring out at the cold waters, at the waves where she and Bloody Keel should now be sailing in pursuit of greater riches and fame, wasn't so certain she could maintain that kind of patience.

  There were other ways to win such a personal war.

  Chapter 4 THE BRAND

  Now, this was the kind of council meeting Regis of Lonelywood most enjoyed. The halfling sat back in his cushioned chair, hands folded behind his head, his cherubic face a mask of contentment, as the prisoners taken from the road south of Bremen were paraded before the councilors. Two were missing, one recovering (perhaps) from a newly placed crease in his chest, and the other—the woman whom the friends had believed to be the leader of the rogue band—held in another room to be brought in separately.

  “It must be wonderful having such mighty friends,” Councilor Tamaroot of Easthaven, never a fan of the Lonelywood representative, said cynically and quietly in Regis's ear.

  “Those two,” the halfling replied more loudly, so that the other three councilors on his side of the room certainly heard him. The halfling paused just long enough to ensure that he had the attention of all four, and of a couple of the five from across the way, as well as the attention of Elderman Cassius, then pointed to the two thugs he'd battled—or that he'd forced to battle each other. “I took them both, without aid,” the halfling finished.

  Tamaroot bristled and sat back in his seat.

  Regis smoothed his curly brown locks and put his hands behind his head again. He could not contain his smile.

  After the introductions, and with no disputes from any of the others, Cassius imposed the expected sentence, “As you killed no one on the road—none that we know of, at least—so your own lives are not forfeit,” he said.

  “Unless the wound Bruenor's axe carved into the missing one puts him down,” the councilor from Caer-Konig, the youngest and often crudest of the group, piped in. Despite the poor taste of the remark, a bit of muffled chortling did sound about the decorated room.

  Cassius cleared his throat, a call for some solemnity. “But neither are your crimes dismissed,” the elderman went on. “Thus you are indentured, for a period of ten years, to a boat of Councilor Kemp's choosing, to serve on the waters of Maer Dualdon. All of your catch shall be forfeited to the common fund of Ten-Towns, less Kemp's expenses for the boat and the guards, of course, and less only enough to see that you live in a measure of meager sustenance. That is the judgment of this council. Do you accept it?”

  “And what choice are we given?” said one of the thugs, the large man Catti-brie had overwhelmed.

  “More than you deserve,” Kemp interjected before Cassius could reply. “Had you been captured by the Luskan authorities, you would have been paraded before Prisoner's Carnival and tortured to death in front of a screaming crowd of gleeful onlookers. We can arrange something similar, if that is your preference.”

  He looked to Cassius as he finished, and the elderman nodded his grim approval of the Targos councilor's imposing speech.

  “So which shall it
be?” Cassius asked the group.

  The answer was rather predictable, and the grumbling group of men was paraded out of the room and out of Brynn Shander, on the way to Targos where their prison ship waited.

  As soon as they had gone, Cassius called for the cheers of the council, a salute to Regis and the others for a job well done.

  The halfling soaked it in.

  “And I fear we may need the group, the Companions of the Hall, yet again, and soon enough,” Cassius explained a moment later, and he motioned to the chamber's door sentries. One exited and returned with Jule Pepper, who cut a regal figure indeed, despite her capture and imprisonment.

  Regis looked at her with a fair amount of respect. The tall woman's black hair shone, but no more than did her intelligent eyes. She stood straight, unbroken, as if this entire episode were no more than a nuisance, as if these pitiful creatures who had captured her could not really do anything long-lasting or devastating to her.

  The functional tunic and leggings she had worn on the road were gone now, replaced by a simple gray dress, sleeveless and, since it was too short for a woman of Jule's stature, worn low off the shoulder. It was a simple piece really, nearly formless, and yet, somehow, the woman beneath it managed to give it quite an alluring shape, bringing it down just enough to hint at her shapely and fairly large breasts. The dress was even torn on one side—Regis suspected that Jule had done that, and purposely— and through that slot, the woman did well to show one smooth and curvaceous leg.

  “Jule Pepper,” Cassius said curiously, and with a hint of sarcasm. “Of the Pepper family of…?”

  “Was I to be imprisoned in the name my parents chose for me?” the woman answered, her voice deep and resonant, and with a stiff eastern accent that seemed to shorten every word into a crisp, accentuated sound. “Am I not allowed to choose for myself the title I shall wear?”

  “That would be the custom,” Cassius said dryly.

  “The custom of unremarkable people,” Jule confidently replied. “The jewel sparkles, the pepper spices.” She ended with a devastating grin, one that had several of the councilors—ten males, including the elderman, and only one woman—shifting uneasily in their seats.