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  Magic, Regis assumed, and he focused on the halfling’s gauntlets.

  “And you are?” Tecumseh asked, turning to Regis after finally breaking the grip with Wulfgar.

  “A traveler.”

  “From Aglarond, yes, I know,” Tecumseh prompted. “I was more interested in your name.”

  “Spider.”

  “Master Spider Paraffin, then, and good,” said Tecumseh. “And you must be Wulfgar of Icewind Dale,” he added, looking up at the big man.

  “You seem to know a lot about us,” Wulfgar replied, “though we cannot say the same of you.”

  “Happy to tell you!” the halfling said. “Oh, more than happy. Would you like a bit of lunch before we travel to Helgabal?” He ended by pulling a large sack from off his pony, one whose contents smelled quite delicious.

  “We just had some,” Wulfgar said, at the same moment Regis insisted, “Of course!”

  And so they sat down for another meal, this one of fine steak and with brilliant red wine to wash it down.

  While the food settled and the belches sang out, Tecumseh went to his pony and from a saddlebag produced a curious glass globe. He settled on the grass between the two companions once more and held up the globe, giving it a good shake.

  It seemed to be snowing inside the glass, and in that little storm, an image appeared, one of a halfling standing in a heroic pose. Regis and Wulfgar peered close. The fellow looked very much like Tecumseh, and wore the same gloves and carried the same sword.

  “Hobart Bracegirdle,” Tecumseh explained. “My great-great-grandfather.” He nodded and smiled, seeming quite satisfied, as if that name should impress them.

  Regis shrugged.

  “Hobart Bracegirdle!” Tecumseh insisted. “Surely you have heard of him!”

  The companions exchanged looks, but shook their heads.

  “Well, all living in Damara know of him to be sure,” Tecumseh said, seeming a bit off-balance. He moved the globe back a bit. “He founded the Kneebreakers …”

  “I know of them!” Regis was happy to report, and Tecumseh smiled.

  “Aye, a fine band of peace-keepers, and well-appreciated by the Great King Gareth Dragonsbane and Queen Christine, and all of the Order of the Golden Cup,” Tecumseh explained. “Why, this magical globe of memory was crafted by Emelyn the Gray himself! And he’d not do that for any ordinary person, now would he?”

  “I’m guessing he would not,” Regis said with proper deference, though of the names Tecumseh had dropped, the only one he had heard before was King Gareth.

  “So you have heard of my band, then?” Tecumseh asked.

  “Your band? You lead the Kneebreakers?”

  “Indeed, and of course. I carry Hobart’s sword and gauntlets, and other … items.”

  “I rode with the Grinning Ponies of the Trade Way,” Regis said, smiling, though the somewhat smug grin didn’t last when no flicker of recognition crossed Tecumseh’s face.

  “A band akin to your Kneebreakers,” Regis explained. “And started, in part, by one of your own, a fine gentlehalfling named Showithal Terdidy.”

  “Terdidy!” Tecumseh exclaimed, certainly recognizing the name. “Terdidy! Ah, a fine lad! He is well, then?”

  “He is.”

  “I was saddened to see him leave. He had such promise.”

  “Then why did he leave?” Wulfgar asked.

  Tecumseh glanced around, then leaned in and whispered, “In Damara, when one gets on the wrong side of King Yarin’s scowl, one is wise to move along. For Terdidy, it was a messy affair involving the child of one of King Yarin’s early queens—the second, I think, or perhaps the third. After parting marital ways with the king, she birthed a child, and that young girl would have been killed, I fear, except that Showithal Terdidy happened to be in town at the time, and so foiled the attack—if it was an attack, and most think it was.”

  “As assassination ordered by the King of Damara?” Wulfgar asked.

  “I would never go so far as to say such a thing,” Tecumseh whispered, waving his hands for Wulfgar to keep his voice down. “But let us agree that whoever was behind the events of that dark night in the small community of Helmsdale, they were not pleased with the heroic actions of your friend. And so, on the advice of many whispers, we sent Showithal Terdidy on a fast boat south.”

  Regis spent a long while digesting that information. Donnola had told him that King Yarin wasn’t to be trusted, but would the man move with such callousness and boldness against the son of his former queen? And then against a member of the Kneebreakers?

  “You do not have King Yarin’s ear, I take it,” Regis asked.

  Tecumseh snorted as if the whole notion was preposterous, and that made it clearer to Regis why someone like this, representing a band notoriously vigilant and law-abiding, would now be doing business with Morada Topolino!

  “I do not have his ear,” Tecumseh admitted. “Indeed, the Kneebreakers do not have his graces. We are informal now, a scattering of glories lost and whispered hopes of a brighter future. King Yarin burned our charter before my very eyes! No need for us, he explained, since he had many of his own organizations. What he meant, of course, was that we would not put our code beneath his desires, and so perhaps he thought us a threat.”

  “You are that strong in number and influence?” Wulfgar asked.

  “A dozen!” Tecumseh insisted. “Or, we were a dozen until Brouha retired to her farm, and Calumny Trailwalker got a saddle rash that still has him standing for dinner …”

  “Ten?” Wulfgar said. “King Yarin feared ten halflings?”

  Tecumseh straightened, taking exception, but Wulfgar quickly added, “Your reputation must greatly outstrip both your size and numbers!”

  That brought a smile, and a toast of red wine.

  “King Yarin’s spy networks are everywhere, I warn you,” Tecumseh said more solemnly a moment later. “And he’ll suffer no rivals. His heart is ice and his fist is iron, and mercy is not a humor that runs abundant in his blood.”

  “Yet you dare to come and speak with us,” Regis remarked. “Do you know why we have come to Damara?”

  Tecumseh recoiled and held up his hands to silence Regis. He clearly didn’t want to hear any more. “I do not have King Yarin’s ear,” he said again. “But I was asked to provide his ear for you, and that I can and will do, because Dono … your benefactors have been friends to the Kneebreakers in these dark times and have assured me that your cause here is just and good.”

  He reached into a pocket under his chainmail and produced a folded and sealed parchment. He tapped it against his fine hat, then handed it to Regis. “You now represent a consortium in Delthuntle and southern Aglarond that is interested in proffering libations to the Court of Helgabal, so says your Imprimatur Regal.” He indicated the note.

  “You will get the king’s ear, surely,” Tecumseh went on. “And he will listen keenly, I tell you, if you also express interest in buying. He has become quite proud of his garden in recent years, and that includes tangles of grapes far too sweet and juicy for the Damaran clime. The cellars of King Yarin should not be able to produce such wine. It is impossible in the cold and dark land of Damara, but yet, I must admit, it is a worthy vintage.”

  Regis nodded and pocketed the note.

  “Now, let us be on our way before we lose the sun,” Tecumseh suggested, and he hopped to his feet, seeming very sprightly for one his age. “I will explain where you should lodge and how to contact me as we walk. I will do what I can to help, of course, whatever your cause—so long as it is just and good—but only from afar, you understand.”

  “You have already been a great boon to us, good sir Kneebreaker,” Regis assured him. “The great Hobart Bracegirdle is smiling from the Blessed Fields of Elysium, I am sure!”

  Tecumseh couldn’t contain his smile, and he bowed deeply.

  “AND SO WE meet again,” a voice from the shadows said to Jarlaxle a tenday later, catching him quite by surprise. “Have y
ou come to name a new King of Vaasa?”

  Kane, the Grandmaster of Flowers, walked out of the dimly lit room in the grand house, the manse of Ilnezhara and Tazmikella, located in a secret valley just outside of Helgabal. The dragon sisters weren’t there at the moment, leaving Jarlaxle feeling vulnerable indeed before this very dangerous man.

  “You have seen him?” Jarlaxle asked. “Drizzt, I mean, and no new king.”

  Kane smiled and moved to stand in front of Jarlaxle, who sat in front of the hearth. It wasn’t a cold day, but Jarlaxle had stoked the fire, that he could stare into the flames and ponder.

  Jarlaxle motioned to the other chair, but Kane eschewed the invitation and instead simply squatted down low in front of it.

  “Drizzt is in the care of Perrywinkle Shin, Master of Summer, whom you met when you visited my home.”

  “I had hoped he would be with you.”

  “In time,” Grandmaster Kane replied, “perhaps.”

  Jarlaxle cocked an eyebrow warily at that equivocation.

  “He has much to prove,” Kane explained. “To himself as well as to his benefactors at the monastery. Master Afafrenfere speaks highly of him.”

  “Master,” Jarlaxle echoed. “It would seem as if my friend Afafrenfere has risen quickly through your ranks.”

  “Very quickly,” Kane confirmed. “More so than any I have ever known.”

  “Because of you, I expect.”

  “In no small way,” Kane agreed.

  Jarlaxle eyed him closely, trying to sense some measure of pride in that remark. But there was none. Kane was simply speaking the truth, and not hiding behind some false measure of humility.

  “Afafrenfere’s journey with me allowed him to reach for his potential quite efficiently,” the grandmaster explained. “Soon he will do battle with Mistress Savahn, it seems, to see if he can elevate himself to her level.”

  “And you have given him an advantage.”

  “Hardly!” Kane replied. “I have helped accelerate him toward the truth of his journey, but if he is not the stronger, Savahn will defeat him.”

  “And if he wins?”

  “Then he will become the Master of the East Wind, and she will revert to Mistress of the South Wind.”

  “And she will be resentful?”

  Kane laughed at that absurd notion. “If that were a remote possibility, then Savahn would never have attained her present rank. We are not a drow House. Our competition lies within ourselves.”

  “And so you fight each other?”

  “It is a test, not a fight, and for both combatants. The titles are given to a select few at each level.”

  “Even your own?”

  Kane smiled, and Jarlaxle got the distinct impression that this particular character was unique.

  “Enough of this talk about my order, for it does not concern you,” the grandmaster said.

  “It concerns my friend.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Now, I bid you, tell me everything you know about Drizzt Do’Urden, and about this malady that so afflicts him.”

  “It will be a long tale.”

  “Good!” said Kane. “Perhaps our dragon friends will join us before you are through.”

  Jarlaxle didn’t quite know how to respond to that, though he didn’t doubt that Grandmaster Kane considered the copper dragons as “friends,” at least somewhat. Kane had ridden Ilnezhara, after all, though in the body of Afafrenfere, in the battle over Mithral Hall.

  Still, it seemed strange. Grandmaster Kane had gained his reputation in the company of King Gareth, whose last name was well-earned by reputation. And the dragon sisters had not wanted to approach the monastery specifically because of this very man.

  “Ah, Drizzt,” the mercenary said. “I have known him for almost all of his life, and knew his father before him, perhaps better than any drow in Menzoberranzan. Much like Drizzt was Zaknafein, and I am sure that he is looking upon his son from whatever just reward he found in the afterlife, and is very, very pleased.”

  “And very, very concerned, I would guess,” the monk said.

  Jarlaxle nodded, and grimaced. At that moment, Drizzt’s travails crystallized for him, and he came to appreciate how great a tragedy this insanity was, particularly in this time of supreme triumph for all that Drizzt had ever wanted.

  And so Jarlaxle began his tale, from the earliest days, when a twist of good fate—and of a dagger—had spared Drizzt from a premature end at the hands of his own mother.

  The dragon sisters did return soon after, and though they seemed a bit off-balance at first to find Grandmaster Kane in their house, once Jarlaxle continued his tale, they, too, became attentive and interested in the remarkable story of the rogue drow.

  CHAPTER 14

  Damara’s Fiend

  FROM A SECLUDED KNOLL SOME DISTANCE FROM THE NORTHERN gate of Helgabal, First Priestess Charri Hunzrin of House Hunzrin of Menzoberranzan watched the approach of the dirty spriggan band.

  “When will we know?” asked Shak’kral, a young and eager noblewoman of that same House, one known as a powerful trafficker for trading beyond the drow city’s borders, indeed, even here on the uninviting surface.

  “Malcanthet is a queen of the lower planes,” Charri scolded. “We will know when she wants us to know, or if she wants us to know.”

  “It seems a tragedy to invoke such chaos and not witness it,” the young drow woman replied. “We have brought the consort of Demogorgon to this unwitting fool king. Surely there will be great pleasure in observing!”

  Charri wanted to scold the other, particularly when the few other drow in the merchant party began nodding and smiling in agreement. But she, too, hoped they would have some view of the coming catastrophe. Malcanthet, Queen of the Succubi, was hidden in that necklace, ready to come forth in all her terrible splendor.

  Truly, it would be grand …

  “Beware your wishes,” said Denderida, one of the more seasoned of House Hunzrin’s surface traders. It was she who had arranged this rendezvous with the spriggans of Smeltergard. Denderida was not a noble of House Hunzrin, but Charri offered her great deference and respect in this matter. She had centuries of experience and knew the World Above as well as any drow from Menzoberranzan, with the possible exception of Jarlaxle.

  “You would not wish to witness the glory?” Shak’kral asked.

  “You speak truly of Malcanthet,” Denderida replied. “But Demogorgon was destroyed—banished from this plane of existence, at least.”

  “All the better, then!” Shak’kral argued, but Denderida was shaking her head at the clearly expected response.

  “Malcanthet has made no shortage of enemies in the Abyss, and with Demogorgon removed …”

  “There are rumors that Graz’zt has appeared in the Underdark,” Charri warned. The war between Dark Prince Graz’zt and Malcanthet was no secret to the drow.

  “We served Malcanthet in bringing her to this place,” Denderida added. “Would you wish to explain that to the Dark Prince of the Abyss?”

  Shak’kral shrank back from the older woman, shaking her head.

  “We will watch from afar,” Charri promised.

  “Our filthy couriers are held up at the gate,” Denderida remarked then, turning all eyes back to the distant city. “Do the victims suspect?”

  Charri shook her head, for it seemed unlikely. She had no definitive answers, though, and so she said no more, and along with her sisters, simply watched.

  “ ’ERE BUT we don’t wike waitin’!” the dirty fellow named Toofless complained when Ivan Bouldershoulder finally arrived at the gate to greet them.

  “None do, but look like ye’re comin’ unannounced to see the king, aye, and so his guards were telled to fetch me if ye did,” Ivan countered, trying to be polite but having a very hard time of it. The smell of this crew offended even his tough dwarf sensibilities. There was something simply not right about this “Clan Bigger,” though Ivan couldn’t put his fat finger on it.

  “S
o ye’re comin’ to see me king?” he asked when none of the visitors moved to reply.

  “Aye, and with pretties,” said Toofless.

  “We wouldn’t be comin’ in without proper tribute, what!” another added.

  “And who ye be?” Ivan asked.

  “Komtoddy,” the more muscular fellow answered. “Champion o’ Smeltergard.”

  “Champion?”

  “Aye, Komtoddy’s a fighter, and a good one,” Toofless Tonguelasher explained. “He be givin’ yerself a good beatin’ if ye’re wanting it!”

  Ivan wanted nothing more than to take the dirty fellow up on that challenge, but he swallowed his pride and remembered his place. “Me King Yarin sent me out to bring ye in proper, with proper announcin’ and all,” he explained. “It’s a compliment to ye, for the king’s wantin’ ye to be properly recognized by all observers as decent citizens of the realm.”

  “Decent?” Toofless asked with clear skepticism.

  “Bah, but who ye callin’ decent?” another of the troupe shouted, and he sounded properly insulted.

  Ivan started to reply, but bit it back then huffed and shook his head, and focused on Toofless, who seemed the leader. “Are ye wantin’ to see the king or ain’t ye, and are ye Damarans now or ain’t ye?” he asked bluntly. “If ye are to both, then ye come with me, and ye listen to me all the way, and I’ll be tellin’ ye how to do it proper. And if it ain’t done proper, it ain’t done at all, don’t ye doubt.”

  “He’s threatening us!” said the same loudmouth from the back.

  “He ain’t thweatening!” Toofless lashed back, and he reached behind and slapped Komtoddy, who slapped the next in line, and all the way back until the loudmouth got a backhand across the face.

  Ivan sighed. He felt as if he were watching the worst stereotypical insults hurled at dwarves come to life before his eyes.

  “Take me to yer weader,” Toofless said with a wide and gummy grin.

  “Aye, that’s why I’m here to meet ye,” Ivan replied. “And I’ll tell ye how to behave when ye get there, too, and if ye’re smart and lookin’ to e’er get afore King Yarin again, ye’ll hear me words and hold to them.”