Streams of Silver

8. To the Peril of Low-Flying Birds

 
Book 2.
Allies
8. To the Peril of Low-Flying Birds
The 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. "Although 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 Mithril 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.
He had a few quiet words with the fat mage, then turned to the road. "Greetings," he offered the companions. "Excuse poor Regweld, here - " he patted the fat mage's shoulder " - for he has had an incredible run of bad luck with some experimenting - not that things will not turn out, mind you. They just might take some time.
"Regweld is really a fine wizard," he continued, patting the shoulder again. "And his ideas for crossbreeding a horse and a frog are not without merit; never mind the explosion! Alchemy shops can be replaced!"
The friends sat atop their mounts, biting back their amazement at the rambling discourse. "Why, think of the advantages for crossing rivers!" the robed man cried. "But enough of that. I am Harkle. How might I assist you?"
"Harkle Harpell?" Regis snickered. The man bowed.
"Bruenor of Icewind Dale, I be," Bruenor proclaimed when he had found his voice. "Me friends and meself have come hundreds of miles seeking the words of the wizards of Longsaddle..." He noticed that Harkle, distracted by the drow, wasn't paying any attention to him. Drizzt had let his cowl slip back purposely to judge the reaction of the reputedly learned men of Longsaddle. The Longrider back on the road had been surprised, but not outraged, and Drizzt had to learn if the town in general would be more tolerant of his heritage.
"Fantastic," muttered Harkle. "Simply unbelievable!" Regweld, too, had now noticed the black elf and seemed interested for the first time since the party had arrived.
"Are we to be allowed passage?" Drizzt asked.
"Oh, yes, please do come in," replied Harkle, trying unsuccessfully to mask his excitement for the sake of etiquette.
Striding his horse out in front, Wulfgar started them up the road.
"Not that way," said Harkle. "Not the road; of course, it is not really a road. Or it is, but you cannot get through."
Wulfgar stopped his mount. "Be done with your foolery, wizard!" he demanded angrily, his years of distrust for practitioners of the magic arts boiling over in his frustration. "May we enter, or not?"
"There is no foolery, I assure you," said Harkle, hoping to keep the meeting amiable. But Regweld cut in.
"One of those," the fat mage said accusingly, rising from his stool.
Wulfgar glared at him curiously.
"A barbarian," Regweld explained. "A warrior trained to hate that which he cannot comprehend. Go ahead, warrior, take that big hammer off of your back."
Wulfgar hesitated, seeing his own unreasonable anger, and looked to his friends for support. He didn't want to spoil Bruenor's plans for the sake of his own pettiness.
"Go ahead," Regweld insisted, moving to the center of the road. "Take up your hammer and throw it at me. Satisfy your heartfelt desire to expose the foolery of a wizard! And strike one down in the process! A bargain if ever I heard one!" He pointed to his chin. "Right here," he chided.
"Regweld," sighed Harkle, shaking his head. "Please oblige him, warrior. Bring a smile to his downcast face."
Wulfgar looked once more to his friends, but again they had no answers. Regweld settled it for him.
"Bastard son of a caribou."
Aegis-fang was out and twirling through the air before the fat mage had finished the insult, bearing straight in on its mark. Regweld didn't flinch, and just before Aegis-fang would have crossed over the fence line, it smacked into something invisible, but as tangible as stone. Resounding like a ceremonial gong, the transparent wall shuddered and waves rolled out along it, visible to the astounded onlookers as mere distortions of the images behind the wall. The friends noticed for the first time that the rail fencing was not real, rather a painting on the surface of the transparent wall.
Aegis-fang dropped to the dust, as though all power had been drained from it, taking a long moment to reappear in Wulfgar's grasp.
Regweld's laughter was more of victory than of humor, but Harkle shook his head. "Always at the expense of others," he scolded. "You had no right to do that."
"He's better for the lesson," Regweld retorted. "Humility is also a valuable commodity for a fighter."
Regis had bitten his lip for as long as he could. He had known about the invisible wall all along, and now his laughter burst out. Drizzt and Bruenor could not help but follow the halfling's lead, and even Wulfgar, after he had recovered from the shock, smirked at his own "foolery."
Of course, Harkle had no choice but to stop his scolding and join in. "Do come in," he begged the friends. "The third post is real; you can find the gate there. But first, dismount and unsaddle your horses."
Wulfgar's suspicions came back suddenly, his scowl burying the smile. "Explain," he requested of Harkle.
"Do it!" Regis ordered, "or you shall find a bigger surprise than the last one."
Drizzt and Bruenor had already slipped from their saddles, intrigued, but not the least bit fearful of the hospitable Harkle Harpell. Wulfgar threw his arms out helplessly and followed, pulling the gear from the roan and leading the beast, and Regis's pony, after the others.
Regis found the entrance easily and swung it open for his friends. They came in without fear, but were suddenly assailed by blinding flashes of light.
When their eyes cleared again, they found that the horses and ponies had been reduced to the size of cats!
"What?" blurted Bruenor, but Regis was laughing again and Harkle acted as though nothing unusual had happened.
"Pick them up and come along," he instructed. "It is nearly time to sup, and the meal at The Fuzzy Quarterstaff is particularly delicious this night!"
He led them around the side of the weird mansion to a bridge crossing the center of the hillock. Bruenor and Wulfgar felt ridiculous carrying their mounts, but Drizzt accepted it with a smile and Regis thoroughly enjoyed the whole outrageous spectacle, having learned on his first visit that Longsaddle was a place to be taken lightly, appreciating the idiosyncrasies and unique ways of the Harpells purely for the sake of amusement.
The high-arcing bridge before them, Regis knew, would serve as yet another example. Though its span across the small stream was not great, it was apparently unsupported, and its narrow planks were completely unadorned, even without handrails.
Another robed Harpell, this one incredibly old, sat on a stool, his chin in his hand, mumbling to himself and seemingly taking no notice of the strangers whatsoever.
When Wulfgar, in the front beside Harkle, neared the bank of the stream, he jumped back, gasping and stuttering. Regis snickered, knowing what the big man had seen, and Drizzt and Bruenor soon understood.
The stream flowed UP the side of the hill, then vanished just before the top, though the companions could hear that water was indeed rushing along before them. Then the stream reappeared over the hill's crest, flowing down the other side.
The old man sprang up suddenly and rushed over to Wulfgar. "What can it mean?" he cried desperately. "How can it be?" He banged on the barbarian's massive chest in frustration.
Wulfgar looked around for an escape, not wanting to even grab the old man in restraint for fear of breaking his frail form. Just as abruptly as he had come, the old man dashed back to the stool and resumed his silent pose.
"Alas, poor Chardin," Harkle said somberly. "He was mighty in his day. It was he who turned the stream up the hill. But near a score of years now he has been obsessed with finding the secret of the invisibility under the bridge."
"Why is the stream so different from the wall?" wondered Drizzt. "Certainly this dweomer is not unknown among the wizard community."
"Ah, but there is a difference," Harkle was quick to reply, excited at finding someone outside the Ivy Mansion apparently interested in their works. "An invisible object is not so rare, but a field of invisibility ..." He swept his hand to the stream. "Anything that enters the river there takes on the property," he explained. "But only for as long as it remains in the field. And to a person in the enchanted area - I know because I have done this test myself - everything beyond the field is unseen, though the water and fish within appear normal. It defies our knowledge of the properties of invisibility and may actually reflect a tear into the fabric of a wholly unknown plane of existence!" He saw that his excitement had gone beyond the comprehension or interest of the drow's companions some time ago, so he calmed himself and politely changed the subject.
"The housing for your horses is in that building," he said, pointing to one of the low, wooden structures. "The underbridge will get you there. I must attend to another matter now. Perhaps we can meet later in the tavern."
Wulfgar, not completely understanding Harkle's directions, stepped lightly onto the first wooden planks of the bridge, and was promptly thrown backward by some unseen force.
"I said the underbridge," cried Harkle, pointing under the bridge. "You cannot cross the river this way by the overbridge; that is used for the way back! Stops any arguments in crossing." he explained.
Wulfgar had his doubts about a bridge he could not see, but he didn't want to appear cowardly before his friends and the wizard. He moved beside the bridge's ascending arc and gingerly moved his foot out under the wooden structure, feeling for the invisible crossing. There was only the air, and the unseen rush of water just below his foot, and he hesitated.
"Go on," coaxed Harkle.
Wulfgar plunged ahead, setting himself for a fall into the water. But to his absolute surprise, he did not fall down.
He fell up!
"Whoa!" the barbarian cried out as he thunked into the bottom of the bridge, headfirst. He lay there for a long moment, unable to get his bearings, flat on his back against the bottom of the bridge, looking down instead of up.
"You see!" screeched the wizard. "The underbridge!"
Drizzt moved next, leaping into the enchanted area with an easy tumble, and landing lightly on his feet beside his friend.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"The road, my friend," groaned Wulfgar. "I long for the road, and the orcs. It is safer."
Drizzt helped him struggle to his feet, for the barbarian's mind argued every inch of the way against standing upside-down under a bridge, with an invisible stream rushing above his head.
Bruenor, too, had his reservations, but a taunt from the halfling moved him along, and soon the companions rolled back onto the grass of the natural world on the other bank of the stream. Two buildings stood before them, and they moved to the smaller, the one Harkle had indicated.
A blue-robed woman met them at the door. "Four?" she asked rhetorically. "You really should have sent word ahead."
"Harkle sent us," Regis explained. "We are not from these lands. Forgive our ignorance of your customs."
"Very well, then," huffed the woman. "Come along in. We are actually unusually unbusy for this time of the year. I am sure that I have room for your horses." She led them into the structure's main room, a square chamber. All four walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with small cages, just big enough for a cat-sized horse to stretch its legs. Many were occupied, their nameplates indicating that they were reserved for particular members of the Harpell clan, but the woman found four empty ones all together and put the companions' horses inside.
"You may get them whenever you desire," she explained, handing each of them a key to the cage of his particular mount. She paused when she got to Drizzt, studying his handsome features. "Who have we here?" she asked, not losing her calm monotone. "I had not heard of your arrival, but I am sure that many will desire an audience with you before you go! We have never seen one of your kind."
Drizzt nodded and did not reply, growing increasingly uncomfortable with this new type of attention. Somehow it seemed to degrade him even more than the threats of ignorant peasants. He understood the curiosity, though, and figured that he owed the wizards a few hours of conversation, at least.
The Fuzzy Quarterstaff, on the back side of the Ivy Mansion, filled a circular chamber. The bar sat in the middle, like the hub of a wheel, and inside its wide perimeter was another room, an enclosed kitchen area. A hairy man with huge arms and a bald head wiped his rag endlessly along the shiny surface of the bar, more to pass the time than to clean any spills.
Off to the rear, on a raised stage, musical instruments played themselves, guided by the jerking gyrations of a white-haired, wand-wielding wizard in black pants and a black waistcoat. Whenever the instruments hit a crescendo, the wizard pointed his wand and snapped the fingers of his free hand, and a burst of colored sparks erupted from each of the four corners of the stage.
The companions took a table within sight of the entertaining wizard. They had their pick of location, for as far as they could tell, they were the only patrons in the room. The tables, too, were circular, made of fine wood and sporting a many-faceted, huge green gemstone on a silver pedestal as a centerpiece.
"A stranger place I never heared of," grumbled Bruenor, uncomfortable since the underbridge, but resigned to the necessity of speaking with the Harpells.
"Nor I," said the barbarian. "And may we leave it soon."
"You are both stuck in the small chambers of your minds," Regis scolded. "This is a place to enjoy - and you know that no danger lurks here." He winked as his gaze fell upon Wulfgar. "Nothing serious, anyway."
"Longsaddle offers us a much needed rest," Drizzt added. "Here, we can lay the course of our next trek in safety and take back to the road refreshed. It was two weeks from the dale to Luskan, and nearly another to here, without reprieve. Weariness draws away the edge and takes the advantage from a skilled warrior." He looked particularly at Wulfgar as he finished the thought. "A tired man will make mistakes. And mistakes in the wild are, more often than not, fatal."
"So let us relax arid enjoy the hospitality of the Harpells," said Regis.
"Agreed," said Bruenor, glancing around, "but just a short rest. And where in the nine hells might the barmaid be, or do ye have to get to it yerself for food and drink?"
"If you want something, then just ask," came a voice from the center of the table. Wulfgar and Bruenor both leaped to their feet, on guard. Drizzt noted the flare of light within the green gem and studied the object, immediately guessing the setup. He looked back over his shoulder at the barkeep, who stood beside a similar gemstone.
"A scrying device," the drow explained to his friends, though they, by now, had come to the same understanding and felt very foolish standing in the middle of an empty tavern with their weapons in their hands.
Regis had his head down, his shoulders rolling with his sobs of laughter.
"Bah! Ye knew all along!" Bruenor growled at him. "Ye've been takin' a bit of fun at our cost, Rumblebelly," the dwarf warned. "For meself, I'm wondering how much longer our road holds room for ye."
Regis looked up at the glare of his dwarven friend, matching it suddenly with a firm stare of his own. "We have walked and ridden more than four hundred miles together!" he retorted. "Through cold winds and orc raids, brawls and battles with ghosts. Allow me my pleasure for a short while, good dwarf. If you and Wulfgar would loosen the straps of your packs and see this place for what it is, you might find an equal share of laughter yourself!"
Wulfgar did smile. Then, all at once, he jerked back his head and roared, throwing away all of his anger and prejudice, so that he might take the halfling's advice and view Longsaddle with an open mind. Even the musical wizard stopped his playing to observe the spectacle of the barbarian's soul-cleansing scream.
And when he had finished, Wulfgar laughed. Not an amused chuckle, but a thunderous roll of laughter that flowed up from his belly and exploded out his widethrown mouth.
"Ale!" Bruenor called into the gemstone. Almost immediately, a floating disk of blue light slipped over the bar, bearing to them enough strong ale to last the night. A few minutes later, all traces of the tensions of the road had flown, and they toasted and quaffed their mugs with enthusiasm.
Only Drizzt kept his reserve, sipping his drink and staying alert to his surroundings. He felt no direct danger here, but he wanted to keep control against the wizards' inevitable probing.
Shortly, the Harpells and their friends began to make a steady stream into The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. The companions were the only newcomers in town this night, and all of the diners pulled their tables close by, trading stories of the road and toasts of lasting friendship over fine meals, and later, beside a warm hearth. Many, led by Harkle, concerned themselves with Drizzt and their interest in the dark cities of his people, and he had few reservations about answering their questions.
Then came the probing about the journey that had brought the companions so far. Bruenor actually initiated it, jumping up onto his table and proclaiming, "Mithril Hall, home of me fathers, ye shall be mine again!"
Drizzt grew concerned. Judging by the inquisitive reaction of the gathering, the name of Bruenor's ancient homeland was known here, at least in legend. The drow didn't fear any malicious actions by the Harpells, but he simply did not want the purpose of the adventure following, and possibly even preceding, him and his friends on the next leg of the journey. Others might well be interested in learning the location of an ancient dwarven stronghold, a place referred to in tales as, "the mines where silver rivers run."
Drizzt took Harkle aside. "The night grows long. Are there rooms available in the village beyond?"
"Nonsense," huffed Harkle. "You are my guests and shall remain here. The rooms have already been prepared."
"And the price for all of this?"
Harkle pushed Drizzt's purse away. "The price in the Ivy Mansion is a good tale or two, and bringing some interest into our existence. You and your friends have paid for a year and more!"
"Our thanks," replied Drizzt. "I think that it is time for my companions to rest. We have had a long ride, with much more before us."
"Concerning the road before you," said Harkle. "I have arranged for a meeting with DelRoy, the eldest of the Harpells now in Longsaddle. He, more than any of us, might be able to help steer your way."
"Very good," said Regis, leaning over to hear the conversation.
"This meeting holds a small price," Harkle told Drizzt. "DelRoy desires a private audience with you. He has sought knowledge of the drow for many years, but little is available to us."
"Agreed," replied Drizzt. "Now, it is time for us to find our beds."
"I shall show you the way."
"What time are we to meet with DelRoy?" asked Regis.
"Morning," replied Harkle.
Regis laughed, then leaned over to the other side of the table where Bruenor sat holding a mug motionless in his gnarled hands, his eyes unblinking. Regis gave the dwarf a little shove and Bruenor toppled, thudding into the floor without even a groan of protest. "Evening would be better," the halfling remarked, pointing across the room to another table.
Wulfgar was underneath it.
Harkle looked at Drizzt. "Evening," he agreed. "I shall speak to DelRoy."
The four friends spent the next day recuperating and enjoying the endless marvels of the Ivy Mansion. Drizzt was called away early for a meeting with DelRoy, while the others were guided by Harkle on a tour through the great house, passing through a dozen alchemy shops, scrying rooms, meditation chambers, and several secured rooms specifically designed for conjuring otherworldly beings. A statue of one Matherly Harpell was of particular interest, since the statue was actually the wizard himself. An unsuccessful mix of potions had left him stoned, literally.
Then there was Bidderdoo, the family dog, who had once been Harkle's second cousin - again, a bad potion mix.
Harkle kept no secrets from his guests, recounting the history of his clan, its achievements, and its often disastrous failures. And he told them of the lands around Longsaddle, of the Uthgardt barbarians, the Sky Ponies, they had encountered, and of other tribes they might yet meet along their way.
Bruenor was glad that their relaxation carried a measure of valuable information. His goal pressed in on him every minute of every day, and when he spent any time without making any gains toward Mithril Hall, even if he simply needed to rest, he felt pangs of guilt. "Ye have to want it with all yer heart," he often scolded himself.
But Harkle had provided him with an important orientation to this land that would no doubt aid his cause in the days ahead, and he was satisfied when he sat down for supper at The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. Drizzt rejoined them there, sullen and quiet, and he wouldn't say much when questioned about his discussion with DelRoy.
"Think to the meeting ahead," was the drow's answer to Bruenor's probing. "DelRoy is very old and learned. He may prove to be our best hope of ever finding the road to Mithril Hall."
Bruenor was indeed thinking to the meeting ahead.
And Drizzt sat back quietly throughout the meal, considering the tales and the images of his homeland that he had imparted to DelRoy, remembering the unique beauty of Menzoberranzan.
And the malicious hearts that had despoiled it.
A short time later, Harkle took Drizzt, Bruenor, and Wulfgar to see the old mage - Regis had begged out of the meeting in lieu of another party at the tavern. They met DelRoy in a small, torchlit, and shadowy chamber, the flickerings of light heightening the mystery in the aged wizard's face. Bruenor and Wulfgar came at once to agree with Drizzt's observations of DelRoy, for decades of experience and untold adventures were etched visibly into the features of his leathery brown skin. His body was failing him now, they could see, but the sheen of his pale eyes told of inner life and left little doubt about the sharp edge of his mind.
Bruenor spread his map out on the room's circular table, beside the books and scrolls that DelRoy had brought. The old mage studied it carefully for a few seconds, tracing the line that had brought the companions to Longsaddle. "What do you recall of the ancient halls, dwarf?" he asked. "Landmarks or neighboring peoples?"
Bruenor shook his head. "The pictures in me head show the deep halls and workplaces, the ringing sound of iron on the anvil. The flight of me clan started in mountains; that's all I know."
"The northland is a wide country," Harkle remarked. "Many long ranges could harbor such a stronghold."
"That is why Mithril Hall, for all of its reputed wealth, has never been found," replied DelRoy.
"And thus our dilemma," said Drizzt. "Deciding where to even begin to look."
"Ah, but you have already begun," answered DelRoy. "You have chosen well to come inland; most of the legends of Mithril Hall stem from the lands east of here, even farther from the coast. It seems likely that your goal lies between Longsaddle and the great desert, though north or south, I cannot guess. You have done well."
Drizzt nodded and broke off the conversation as the old mage fell back into his silent examination of Bruenor's map, marking strategic points and referring often to the stack of books he had piled beside the table. Bruenor hovered beside DelRoy, anxious for any advice or revelations that might be forthcoming. Dwarves were patient folk, though, a trait that allowed their crafting to outshine the work of the other races, and Bruenor kept his calm as best he could, not wanting to press the wizard.
Some time later, when DelRoy was satisfied that his sorting of all the pertinent information was complete, he spoke again. "Where would you go next," he asked Bruenor, "if no advice were offered here?"
The dwarf looked back to his map, Drizzt peering over his shoulder, and traced a line east with his stubby finger. He looked to Drizzt for consent when he had reached a certain point that they had discussed earlier on the road. The drow nodded. "Citadel Adbar," Bruenor declared, tapping his finger on the map.
"The dwarven stronghold," said DelRoy, not too surprised. "A fine choice. King Harbromm and his dwarves may be able to aid you greatly. They have been there, in the Mithril Mountains, for centuries uncounted. Certainly Adbar was old even in the days when the hammers of Mithril Hall rang out in dwarven song."
"Is Citadel Adbar your advice to us, then?" Drizzt asked.
"It is your own choice, but as good a destination as I can offer," replied DelRoy. "But the way is long, five weeks at the least if all goes well. And on the east road beyond Sundabar, that is unlikely. Still, you may get there before the first colds of winter, though I doubt that you would be able to take Harbromm's information and resume your journey before the next spring."
"Then the choice seems clear," declared Bruenor. "To Adbar!"
"There is more you should know," said DelRoy. "And this is the true advice that I shall give to you: Do not be blinded to the possibilities along the road by the hopeful vision at the road's end. Your course so far has followed straight runs, first from Icewind Dale to Luskan, then from Luskan to here. There is little, other than monsters, along either of those roads to give a rider cause to turn aside. But on the journey to Adbar, you shall pass Silverymoon, city of wisdom and legacy, and the Lady Alustriel, and the Vault of Sages, as fine a library as exists in all the northland. Many in that fair city may be able to offer more aid to your quest than I, or even than King Harbromm. And beyond Silverymoon you shall find Sundabar, itself an ancient dwarven stronghold, where Helm, reknowned dwarf-friend, rules. His ties to your race run deep, Bruenor, tracing back many generations. Ties, perhaps, even to your own people."
"Possibilities!" beamed Harkle.
"We shall heed your wise advice, DelRoy," said Drizzt.
"Aye," agreed the dwarf, his spirits high. "When we left the dale, I had no idea beyond Luskan. Me hopes were to follow a road of guesses, expectin' half and more to be nothing of value. The halfling was wise in guiding us to this spot, for we've found a trail of clues! And clues to lead to more clues!" He looked around at the excited group, Drizzt, Harkle, and DelRoy, and then noticed Wulfgar, still sitting quietly in his chair, his huge arms crossed on his chest, watching without any apparent emotion. "What of yerself, boy?" Bruenor demanded. "Have ye a notion to share?"
Wulfgar leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Neither my quest, nor my land," he explained. "I follow you, confident in any path you choose.
"And I am glad of your mirth and excitement," he added quietly.
Bruenor took the explanation as complete, and turned back to DelRoy and Harkle for some specific information on the road ahead. Drizzt, though, unconvinced of the sincerity of Wulfgar's last statement, let his gaze linger on the young barbarian, noting the expression in his eyes as he watched Bruenor.
Sorrow?
They spent two more restful days in the Ivy Mansion, though Drizzt was hounded constantly by curious Harpells who wanted more information about his rarely seen race. He took the questions politely, understanding their good intentions, and answered as best he could. When Harkle came to escort them out on the fifth morning, they were refreshed and ready to get on with their business. Harkle promised to arrange for the return of the horses to their rightful owners, saying that it was the least he could do for the strangers who had brought so much interest to the town.
But in truth, the friends had benefited more for the stay. DelRoy and Harkle had given them valuable information and, perhaps even more importantly, had restored their hope in the quest. Bruenor was up and about before dawn that last morning, his adrenaline pumping at the thought of returning to the road now that he had somewhere to go.
They moved out from the mansion throwing many good-byes and lamenting looks over their shoulders, even from Wulfgar, who had come in so steadfast in his antipathy toward wizards.
They crossed the overbridge, saying farewell to Chardin, who was too lost in his meditations of the stream to even notice, and soon discovered that the structure beside the miniature stable was an experimental farm. "It will change the face of the world!" Harkle assured them as he veered them toward the building for a closer look. Drizzt guessed his meaning even before they entered, as soon as he heard the high-pitched bleating and cricketlike chirping. Like the stable, the farm was one room, though part of it had no roof and was actually a field within walls. Cat-sized cows and sheep mulled about, while chickens the size of field mice dodged around the animals' tiny feet.
"Of course, this is the first season and we have not seen results yet," explained Harkle, "but we expect a high yield considering the small amount of resources involved."
"Efficiency," laughed Regis. "Less feed, less space, and you can blow them back up when you want to eat them!"
"Precisely!" said Harkle.
They next went to the stable, where Harkle picked out fine mounts for them, two horses and two ponies. These were gifts, Harkle explained, only to be returned at the companions' leisure. "It's the least we could do to aid such a noble quest," Harkle said with a low bow to stop any protests from Bruenor and Drizzt.
The road meandered, continuing on down the back of the hill. Harkle stood for a moment scratching his chin, a puzzled expression on his face. "The sixth post," he told himself, "but to the left or the right?"
A man working on a ladder (another amusing curiosity - to see a ladder rise up above the phony rails of the fence and come to rest in mid-air against the top of the invisible wall) came to their aid. "Forgot again?" he chuckled at Harkle. "He pointed to the railing off to one side. "Sixth post to your left!"
Harkle shrugged away his embarrassment and moved on.
The companions watched the workman curiously as they passed from the hill, their mounts still tucked under their arms. He had a bucket and some rags and was rubbing several reddish-brown spots from the invisible wall.
"Low-flying birds," Harkle explained apologetically. "But have no fear, Regweld is working on the problem even as we speak.
"Now we have come to the end of our meeting, though many years shall pass before you are forgotten in the Ivy Mansion! The road takes you right through the village of Longsaddle. You can restock your supplies there - it has all been arranged."
"Me deepest regards to yerself and yer kin," said Bruenor, bowing low. "Suren Longsaddle has been a bright spot on a bleary road!" The others were quick to agree.
"Farewell then, Companions of the Hall," sighed Harkle. "The Harpells expect to see a small token when you at last find Mithril Hall and start the ancient forges burning again!"
"A king's treasure!" Bruenor assured him as they moved away.
They were back on the road beyond Longsaddle's borders before noon, their mounts trotting along easily with fully stuffed packs.
"Well, which do ye prefer, elf," Bruenor asked later that day, "the jabs of a mad soldier's spear, or the pokings of a wonderin' wizard's nose?"
Drizzt chuckled defensively as he thought about the question. Longsaddle had been so different from anywhere he had ever been, and yet, so much the same. In either case, his color singled him out as an oddity, and it wasn't so much the hostility of his usual treatment that bothered him, as the embarrassing reminders that he would ever be different.
Only Wulfgar, riding beside him, caught his mumbled reply.
"The road."