“Not a fight—a signal,” Wulfgar blurted, recognizing a pattern to the explosions. “Three and one. Three and one.

“It seems a bit of trouble for a simple signal,” Wulfgar added. “Would not a rider carrying a note serve better?”

“Unless it is meant as a signal to a ship,” offered Deudermont.

Drizzt had already entertained that very thought, and he was becoming more than a little suspicious of the display’s source, and of its purpose.

Deudermont studied the display a moment longer. “Perhaps it is a signal,” he conceded, recognizing the accuracy of Wulfgar’s observations of a pattern. “Many ships put in to and out of Baldur’s Gate each day. A wizard greeting some friends or saying farewell in grand fashion.”

“Or relaying information,” Drizzt added, glancing up at Wulfgar. Wulfgar did not miss the drow’s point; Drizzt could tell by the barbarian’s scowl that Wulfgar was entertaining similar suspicions.

“But for us, a show and nothing more,” Deudermont said, bidding them good night with a pat on the shoulder. “An amusement to be enjoyed.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other, seriously doubting Deudermont’s assessment.

“What game does Artemis Entreri play?” Pook asked rhetorically, speaking his thoughts aloud.

Oberon, the wizard in the crystal ball, shrugged. “Never have I pretended to understand the motives of Artemis Entreri.”

Pook nodded his accord and continued to pace behind LaValle’s chair.

“Yet I would guess that these two have little to do with your pendant,” said Oberon.

“Some personal vendetta Entreri acquired along his travels,” agreed Pook.

“Friends of the halfling?” wondered Oberon. “Then why would Entreri lead them in the right direction?”

“Whoever they may be, they can only bring trouble,” said LaValle, seated between his guildmaster and the scrying device.

“Perhaps Entreri plans to lay an ambush for them,” Pook suggested to Oberon. “That would explain his need for your signal.”

“Entreri instructed the harbormaster to tell them that he would meet them in Calimport,” Oberon reminded Pook.

“To throw them off,” said LaValle. “To make them believe that the way would be clear until they arrived in the southern port.”

“That is not the way of Artemis Entreri,” said Oberon, and Pook was thinking the same thing. “I have never known the assassin to use such obvious tricks to gain the upper hand in a contest. It is Entreri’s deepest pleasure to meet and crush challengers face to face.”

The two wizards and the guildmaster who had survived and thrived by his ability to react to such puzzles appropriately all held their thoughts for a moment to consider the possibilities. All that Pook cared about was the return of his precious pendant. With it he could expand his powers ten times, perhaps even gaining the favor of the ruling Pasha of Calimshan himself.

“I do not like this,” Pook said at length. “I want no complications to the return of the halfling, or of my pendant.”

He paused to consider the implications of his decided course, leaning over LaValle’s back to get close to Oberon’s image. “Do you still have contact with Pinochet?” he asked the wizard slyly.

Oberon guessed the guildmaster’s meaning. “The pirate does not forget his friends,” he answered in the same tone, “Pinochet contacts me every time he finds his way to Baldur’s Gate. He inquires of you as well, hoping that all is well with his old friend.”

“And is he now in the isles?”

“The winter trade is rolling down from Waterdeep,” Oberon replied with a chuckle. “Where else would a successful pirate be?”

“Good,” muttered Pook.

“Should I arrange a welcome for Entreri’s pursuers?” Oberon asked eagerly, enjoying the intrigue and the opportunity to serve the guildmaster.

“Three ships—no chances,” said Pook. “Nothing shall interfere with the halfling’s return. He and I have so very much to discuss!”

Oberon considered the task for a moment. “A pity,” he remarked. “The Sea Sprite was a fine vessel.”

Pook echoed a single word for emphasis, making it absolutely clear that he would tolerate no mistakes.

“Was.”

The halfling hung by his ankles, suspended upside down with chains above a cauldron of boiling liquid. Not water, though, but something darker. A red hue, perhaps.

Blood, perhaps.

The crank creaked, and the halfling dropped an inch closer. His face was contorted, his mouth wide, as if in a scream.

But no screams could be heard. Just the groans of the crank and a sinister laugh from an unseen torturer.

The misty scene shifted, and the crank came into view, worked slowly by a single hand that seemed unattached to anything else.

There was a pause in the descent.

Then the evil voice laughed one final time. The hand jerked quickly, sending the crank spinning.

A scream resounded, piercing and cutting, a cry of agony—a cry of death.

Sweat stung Bruenor’s eyes even before he had fully opened them. He wiped the wetness from his face and rolled his head, trying to shake away the terrible images and adjust his thoughts to his surroundings.

He was in the Ivy Mansion, in a comfortable bed in a comfortable room. The fresh candles that he had set out burned low. They hadn’t helped; this night had been like the others: another nightmare.

Bruenor rolled over and sat up on the side of his bed. Everything was as it should be. The mithril armor and golden shield lay across a chair beside the room’s single dresser. The axe that he had used to cut his way out of the duergar lair rested easily against the wall beside Drizzt’s scimitar, and two helmets sat atop the dresser, the battered, one-horned helm that had carried the dwarf through the adventures of the last two centuries, and the crown of the king of Mithril Hall, ringed by a thousand glittering gemstones.

But to Bruenor’s eyes, all was not as it should be. He looked to the window and the darkness of the night beyond. Alas, all he could see was the reflection of the candlelit room, the crown and armor of the king of Mithril Hall.

It had been a tough week for Bruenor. All the days had been filled with the excitement of the times, of talk of the armies coming from Citadel Adbar and Icewind Dale to reclaim Mithril Hall. The dwarf’s shoulders ached from being patted so many times by Harpells and other visitors to the mansion, all anxious to congratulate him in advance for the impending return of his throne.

But Bruenor had wandered through the last few days absently, playing a role thrust upon him before he could truly appreciate it. It was time to prepare for the adventure Bruenor had fantasized about since his exile nearly two centuries before. His father’s father had been king of Mithril Hall, his father before him, and back to the beginnings of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor’s birthright demanded that he lead the armies and retake Mithril Hall, that he sit in the throne he had been born to possess.

But it was in the very chambers of the ancient dwarven homeland that Bruenor Battlehammer had realized the truth of what was important to him. Over the course of the last decade, four very special companions had come into his life, not one of them a dwarf. The friendship the five had forged was bigger than a dwarven kingdom and more precious to Bruenor than all the mithril in the world. The realization of his fantasy conquest seemed empty to him.

The moments of the night now held Bruenor’s heart and his concentration. The dreams, never the same but always with the same terrible conclusion, did not fade with the light of day.