R.A.Salvatore
The Silent Blade
(Forgotten Realms novell. Path of Darkness. Book I)
PROLOGUE
Wulfgar lay back in his bed, pondering, trying to come to
terms with the abrupt changes that I had come over his life.
Rescued from the demon Errtu and his hellish prison in the
Abyss, the proud barbarian found himself once again among
friends and allies. Bruenor, his adopted dwarven father, was
here, and so was Drizzt, his dark elven mentor and dearest
friend. Wulfgar could tell from the snoring that Regis, the
chubby halfling, was sleeping contentedly in the next room.
And Catti-brie, dear Catti-brie, the woman Wulfgar had
come to love those years before, the woman whom he had
planned to marry seven years previously in Mithral Hall. They
were all here at their home in Icewind Dale, reunited and
presumably at peace, through the heroic efforts of these
wonderful friends.
Wulfgar did not know what that meant.
Wulfgar, who had been through such a terrible ordeal over
six years of torture at the clawed hands of the demon Errtu,
did not understand.
The huge man crossed his arms over his chest. Sheer
exhaustion put him here in bed, forced him down, for he would
not willingly choose sleep. Errtu found him in his dreams.
And so it was this night. Wulfgar, though deep in thought
and deep in turmoil, succumbed to his exhaustion and fell
into a peaceful blackness that soon turned again into the
images of the swirling gray mists that were the Abyss. There
sat the gigantic, bat-winged Errtu, perched upon his carved
mushroom throne, laughing. Always laughing that hideous
croaking chuckle. That laugh was borne not out of joy, but
was rather a mocking thing, an insult to those the demon
chose to torture. Now the beast aimed that unending
wickedness at Wulfgar, as was aimed the huge pincer of
Bizmatec, another demon, minion of Errtu. With strength
beyond the bounds of almost any other human, Wulfgar
ferociously wrestled Bizmatec. The barbarian batted aside the
huge humanlike arms and the two other upper-body appendages,
the pincer arms, for a long while, slapping and punching
desperately.
But too many flailing limbs came at him. Bizmatec was too
large and too strong, and the mighty barbarian eventually
began to tire.
It ended-always it ended-with one of Bizmatec's pincers
around Wulfgar's throat, the demon's other pincer arm and its
two humanlike arms holding the defeated human steady. Expert
in this, his favorite torturing technique, Bizmatec pressed
oh so subtly on Wulfgar's throat, took away the air, then
gave it back, over and over, leaving the man weak in the
legs, gasping and gasping as minutes, then hours, slipped
past.
Wulfgar sat up straight in his bed, clutching at his
throat, clawing a scratch down one side of it before he
realized that the demon was not there, that he was safe in
his bed in the land he called home, surrounded by his
friends.
Friends . . .
What did that word mean? What could they know of his
torment? How could they help him chase away the enduring
nightmare that was Errtu?
The haunted man did not sleep the rest of the night, and
when Drizzt came to rouse him, well before the dawn, the dark
elf found Wulfgar already dressed for the road. They were to
leave this day, all five, bearing the artifact Crenshinibon
far, far to the south and west. They were bound for Caradoon
on the banks of Impresk Lake, and then into the Snowflake
Mountains to a great monastery called Spirit Soaring where a
priest named Cadderly would destroy the wicked relic.
Crenshinibon. Drizzt had it with him when he came to get
Wulfgar that morning. The drow didn't wear it openly, but
Wulfgar knew it was there. He could sense it, could feel its
vile presence. For Crenshinibon remained linked to its last
master, the demon Errtu. It tingled with the energy of the
demon, and because Drizzt had it on him and was standing so
close, Errtu, too, remained close to Wulfgar.
"A fine day for the road," the drow remarked light-
heartedly, but his tone was strained, condescending, Wulfgar
noted. With more than a little difficulty, Wulfgar resisted
the urge to punch Drizzt in the face.
Instead, he grunted in reply and strode past the
deceptively small dark elf. Drizzt was but a few inches over
five feet, while Wulfgar towered closer to seven feet than to
six, and carried fully twice the weight of the drow. The
barbarian's thigh was thicker than Drizzt's waist, and yet,
if it came to blows between them, wise bettors would favor
the drow.
"I have not yet wakened Catti-brie," Drizzt explained.
Wulfgar turned fast at the mention of the name. He stared
hard into the drow's lavender eyes, his own blue orbs
matching the intensity that always seemed to be there.
"But Regis is already awake and at his morning meal-he is
hoping to get two or three breakfasts in before we leave, no
doubt," Drizzt added with a chuckle, one that Wulfgar did not
share. "And Bruenor will meet us on the field beyond Bryn
Shander's eastern gate. He is with his own folk, preparing
the priestess Stumpet to lead the clan in his absence."
Wulfgar only half heard the words. They meant nothing to
him. All the world meant nothing to him.
"Shall we rouse Catti-brie?" the drow asked.
"I will," Wulfgar answered gruffly. "You see to Regis. If
he gets a belly full of food, he will surely slow us down,
and I mean to be quick to your friend Cadderly, that we might
be rid of Crenshinibon."
Drizzt started to answer, but Wulfgar turned away, moving
down the hall to Catti-brie's door. He gave a single,
thunderous knock, then pushed right through. Drizzt moved a
step in that direction to scold the barbarian for his rude
behavior-the woman had not even acknowledged his knock, after
all-but he let it go. Of all the humans the drow had ever
met, Catti-brie ranked as the most capable at defending
herself from insult or violence.
Besides, Drizzt knew that his desire to go and scold
Wulfgar was wrought more than a bit by his jealousy of the
man who once was, and perhaps was soon again, to be Catti-
brie's husband.
The drow stroked a hand over his handsome face and turned
to find Regis.
* * * * *
Wearing only a slight undergarment and with her pants
half pulled up, the startled Catti-brie turned a surprised
look on Wulfgar as he strode into her room. "Ye might've
waited for an answer," she said dryly, brushing away her
embarrassment and pulling her pants up, then going to
retrieve her tunic.
Wulfgar nodded and held up his hands-only half an
apology, perhaps, but a half more than Catti-brie had
expected. She saw the pain in the man's sky blue eyes and the
emptiness of his occasional strained smiles. She had talked
with Drizzt about it at length, and with Bruenor and Regis,
and they had all decided to be patient. Time alone could heal
Wulfgar's wounds.
"The drow has prepared a morning meal for us all,"
Wulfgar explained. "We should eat well before we start on the
long road."
" 'The drow'? " Catti-brie echoed. She hadn't meant to
speak it aloud, but so dumbfounded was she by Wulfgar's
distant reference to Drizzt that the words just slipped out.
Would Wulfgar call Bruenor "the dwarf"? And how long would it
be before she became simply "the girl"? Catti-brie blew a
deep sigh and pulled her tunic over her shoulders, reminding
herself pointedly that Wulfgar had been through hell-
literally. She looked at him now, studying those eyes, and
saw a hint of embarrassment there, as though her echo of his
callous reference to Drizzt had indeed struck him in the
heart. That was a good sign.
He turned to leave her room, but she moved to him,
reaching up to gently stroke the side of his face, her hand
running down his smooth cheek to the scratchy beard that he
had either decided to grow or simply hadn't been motivated
enough to shave.
Wulfgar looked down at her, at the tenderness in her
eyes, and for the first time since the fight on the ice floe
when he and his friends had dispatched wicked Errtu, there
came a measure of honesty in his slight smile.
Regis did get his three meals, and he grumbled about it
all that morning as the five friends started out from Bryn
Shander, the largest of the villages in the region called Ten
Towns in forlorn Icewind Dale. Their course was north at
first, moving to easier ground, and then turning due west. To
the north, far in the distance, they saw the high structures
of Targos, second city of the region, and beyond the city's
roofs could be seen shining waters of Maer Dualdon.
By mid-afternoon, with more than a dozen miles behind
them, they came to the banks of the Shaengarne, the great
river swollen and running fast with the spring melt. They
followed it north, back to Maer Dualdon, to the town of
Bremen and a waiting boat Regis had arranged.
Gently refusing the many offers from townsfolk to remain
in the village for supper and a warm bed, and over the many
protests of Regis, who claimed that he was famished and ready
to lay down and die, the friends were soon west of the river,
running on again, leaving the towns, their home, behind.
Drizzt could hardly believe that they had set out so
soon. Wulfgar had only recently been returned to them. All of
them were together once more in the land they called their
home, at peace, and yet, here they were, heeding again the
call of duty and running down the road to adventure. The drow
had the cowl of his traveling cloak pulled low about his
face, shielding his sensitive eyes from the stinging sun.
Thus his friends could not see his wide smile.
Part 1
APATHY
Often I sit and ponder the turmoil I feel when my blades
are at rest, when all the world around me seems at peace.
This is the supposed ideal for which I strive, the calm that
we all hope will eventually return to us when we are at war,
and yet, in these peaceful times-and they have been rare
occurrences indeed in the more than seven decades of my life-
I do not feel as if I have found perfection, but, rather, as
if something is missing from my life.
It seems such an incongruous notion, and yet I have come
to know that I am a warrior, a creature of action. In those
times when there is no pressing need for action, I am not at
ease. Not at all.
When the road is not filled with adventure, when there
are no monsters to battle and no mountains to climb, boredom
finds me. I have come to accept this truth of my life, this
truth about who I am, and so, on those rare, empty occasions
I can find a way to defeat the boredom. I can find a mountain
peak higher than the last I climbed.
I see many of the same symptoms now in Wulfgar, returned
to us from the grave, from the swirling darkness that was
Errtu's corner of the Abyss. But I fear that Wulfgar's state
has transcended simple boredom, spilling into the realm of
apathy. Wulfgar, too, was a creature of action, but that
doesn't seem to be the cure for his lethargy or his apathy.
His own people now call out to him, begging action. They have
asked him to assume leadership of the tribes. Even stubborn
Berkthgar, who would have to give up that coveted position of
rulership, supports Wulfgar. He and all the rest of them
know, at this tenuous time, that above all others Wulfgar,
son of Beornegar, could bring great gains to the nomadic
barbarians of Icewind Dale.
Wulfgar will not heed that call. It is neither humility
nor weariness stopping him, I recognize, nor any fears that
he cannot handle the position or live up to the expectations
of those begging him. Any of those problems could be
overcome, could be reasoned through or supported by Wulfgar's
friends, myself included. But, no, it is none of those
rectifiable things.
It is simply that he does not care.
Could it be that his own agonies at the clawed hands of
Errtu were so great and so enduring that he has lost his
ability to empathize with the pain of others? Has he seen too
much horror, too much agony, to hear their cries?
I fear this above all else, for it is a loss that knows
no precise cure. And yet, to be honest, I see it clearly
etched in Wulfgar's features, a state of self-absorption
where too many memories of his own recent horrors cloud his
vision. Perhaps he does not even recognize someone else's
pain. Or perhaps, if he does see it, he dismisses it as
trivial next to the monumental trials he suffered for those
six years as Errtu's prisoner. Loss of empathy might well be
the most enduring and deep-cutting scar of all, the silent
blade of an unseen enemy, tearing at our hearts and stealing
more than our strength. Stealing our will, for what are we
without empathy? What manner of joy might we find in our
lives if we cannot understand the joys and pains of those
around us, if we cannot share in a greater community? I
remember my years in the Underdark after I ran out of
Menzoberranzan. Alone, save the occasional visits from
Guenhwyvar, I survived those long years through my own
imagination.
I am not certain that Wulfgar even has that capacity left
to him, for imagination requires introspection, a reaching
within one's thoughts, and I fear that every time my friend
so looks inward, all he sees are the minions of Errtu, the
sludge and horrors of the Abyss.
He is surrounded by friends, who love him and will try
with all their hearts to support him and help him climb out
of Errtu's emotional dungeon. Perhaps Catti-brie, the woman
he once loved (and perhaps still does love) so deeply, will
prove pivotal to his recovery. It pains me to watch them
together, I admit. She treats Wulfgar with such tenderness
and compassion, but I know that he feels not her gentle
touch. Better that she slap his face, eye him sternly, and
show him the truth of his lethargy. I know this and yet I
cannot tell her to do so, for their relationship is much more
complicated than that. I have nothing but Wulfgar's best
interests in my mind and my heart now, and yet, if I showed
Catti-brie a way that seemed less than compassionate, it
could be, and would be-by Wulfgar at least, in his present
state of mind- construed as the interference of a jealous
suitor.
Not true. For though I do not know Catti-brie's honest
feelings toward this man who once was to be her husband-for
she has become quite guarded with her feelings of late-I do
recognize that Wulfgar is not capable of love at this time.
Not capable of love ... are there any sadder words to
describe a man? I think not, and wish that I could now assess
Wulfgar's state of mind differently. But love, honest love,
requires empathy. It is a sharing-of joy, of pain, of
laughter, of tears. Honest love makes one's soul a reflection
of the partner's moods. And as a room seems larger when it is
lined with mirrors, so do the joys become amplified. And as
the individual items within the mirrored room seem less
acute, so does pain diminish and fade, stretched thin by the
sharing.
That is the beauty of love, whether in passion or
friendship. A sharing that multiplies the joys and thins the
pains. Wulfgar is surrounded now by friends, all willing to
engage in such sharing, as it once was between us. Yet he
cannot so engage us, cannot let loose those guards that he
necessarily put in place when surrounded by the likes of
Errtu.
He has lost his empathy. I can only pray that he will
find it again, that time will allow him to open his heart and
soul to those deserving, for without empathy he will find no
purpose. Without purpose, he will find no satisfaction.
Without satisfaction, he will find no contentment, and
without contentment, he will find no joy.
And we, all of us, will have no way to help him.
-Drizzt Do'Urden
Chapter 1
A STRANGER AT HOME
Artemis Entreri stood on a rocky hill overlooking the
vast, dusty city, trying to sort through the myriad feelings
that swirled within him. He reached up to wipe the blowing
dust and sand from his lips and from the hairs of his newly
grown goatee. Only as he wiped it did he realize that he
hadn't shaved the rest of his face in several days, for now
the small beard, instead of standing distinct upon his face,
fell to ragged edges across his cheeks. Entreri didn't care.
The wind pulled many strands of his long hair from the
tie at the back of his head, the wayward lengths slapping
across his face, stinging his dark eyes. Entreri didn't care.
...
Xethaar