Seeing the huge barbarian unarmed, another rider went after him. Wulfgar saw the man coming and poised himself for a desperate strike. As the horse charged in, the barbarian feinted to his right, away from the rider’s sword arm and as the rider had expected. Then Wulfgar reversed direction, throwing himself squarely in the horse’s path.

Wulfgar accepted the stunning impact and locked his arms about the horse’s neck and his legs onto the beast’s front legs, rolling backward with the momentum and causing the horse to stumble. Then the mighty barbarian yanked with all his might, bringing horse and rider right over him.

The shocked bandit could not react, though he did manage to scream as the horse drove him into the ground. When the horse finally rolled away, the bandit remained, buried upside-down to the waist in the sand, his legs lolling grotesquely to one side.

His boots and beard filled with sand, Bruenor eagerly looked for someone to fight. Among the tall mounts, the short dwarf had been overlooked by all but a handful of the bandits. Now, most of them were already dead!

Bruenor rushed away from the protection of the riderless camels, banging his axe on his shield to draw attention to himself. He saw one rider turning to flee from the disastrous scene.

“Hey!” Bruenor barked at him. “Yer mother’s an orc-kissin’ harlot!”

Thinking he had every advantage over the standing dwarf, the bandit couldn’t pass up the opportunity to answer the insult. He rushed over to Bruenor and chopped down with his sword.

Bruenor brought his golden shield up to block the blow, then stepped around the front of the horse. The rider swung about to meet the dwarf on the other side, but Bruenor used his shortness to his advantage. Barely bending, he slipped under the horse’s belly, back to the original side, and thrust his axe up over his head, catching the confused man on the hip. As the bandit lurched over in pain, Bruenor brought his shield arm up, caught turban and hair in his gnarled fingers, and tore the man from his seat. With a satisfied grunt, the dwarf chopped into the bandit’s neck.

“Too easy!” the dwarf grumbled, dropping the body to the ground. He looked for another victim, but the battle was over. No more bandits remained in the bowl, and Wulfgar, Aegis-fang back in his hands, and Drizzt were standing easily.

“Where’s me girl?” Bruenor cried.

Drizzt calmed him with a look and a pointing finger.

On the top of a dune to the side, Catti-brie sat atop the horse she had commandeered, Taulmaril taut in her hands as she looked out over the desert.

Several riders galloped across the sand in full flight and another lay dead on the other side of the dune. Catti-brie put one of them in her sights, then realized that the fighting had ended behind her.

“Enough,” she whispered, moving the bow an inch to the side and sending the arrow over the fleeing bandit’s shoulder.

There has been enough killing this day, she thought.

Catti-brie looked at the carnage of the battle scene and at the hungry buzzards circling patiently overhead. She dropped Taulmaril to her side. The firm set of her grim visage melted away.

15. The Guide

“See the pleasure it promises,” the guildmaster teased, scraping his hand over the barbed tip of a single spike sticking out of a block of wood on the center of the room’s little table.

Regis purposely curled his lips into a stupid smile, pretending to see the obvious logic of Pook’s words.

“Just drop your palm onto it,” Pook coaxed, “then you will know the joy and will again be part of our family.”

Regis searched for a way out of the trap. Once before he had used the ruse, the lie within a lie, pretending to be caught under the magical charm’s influence. He had worked his act to perfection then, convincing an evil wizard of his loyalty, then turning on the man at a critical moment to aid his friends.

This time, though, Regis had even surprised himself, escaping the ruby pendant’s insistent, hypnotizing pull. Now, though, he was caught: A person truly duped by the gem would gladly impale his hand on the barbed spike.

Regis brought his hand above his head and closed his eyes, trying to keep his visage blank enough to carry out the dupe. He swung his arm down, meaning to follow through on Pook’s suggestion.

At the last moment, his hand swerved away and banged harmlessly on the table.

Pook roared in rage, suspecting all along that Regis had somehow escaped the pendant’s influence. He grabbed the halfling by the wrist and smashed his little hand onto the spike, wiggling it as the spike went through. Regis’s scream multiplied tenfold when Pook tore his hand back up the barbed instrument.

Then Pook let him go and slapped him across the face as Regis clutched his wounded hand to his chest.

“Deceiving dog!” the guildmaster shouted, more angry with the pendant’s failure than with Regis’s facade. He lined up for another slap but calmed himself and decided to twist the halfling’s stubborn will back on Regis.

“A pity,” he teased, “for if the pendant had brought you back under control, I might have found a place for you in the guild. Surely you deserve to die, little thief, but I have not forgotten your value to me in the past. You were the finest thief in Calimport, a position I might have offered you once again.”

“Then no pity for the failure of the gem,” Regis dared to retort, guessing the teasing game that Pook was playing, “for no pain outweighs the disgust I would feel at playing lackey to Pasha Pook!”

Pook’s response was a heavy slug that knocked Regis off his chair and onto the floor. The halfling lay curled up, trying to stem the blood from both his hand and his nose.

Pook rested back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He looked at the pendant, resting on the table in front of him. Only once before had it failed him, when he had tried it on a will that would not be captured. Luckily, Artemis Entreri had not realized the attempt that day, and Pook had been wise enough not to try the pendant on the assassin again.

Pook shifted his gaze to Regis, now passed out from the pain. He had to give the little halfling credit. Even if Regis’s familiarity with the pendant had given him an edge in his battle, only an iron will could resist the tempting pull.

“But it will not help you,” Pook whispered at the unconscious form. He sat back in his chair again and closed his eyes, trying to envision still another torture for Regis.

The tan-robed arm slipped in through the tent’s flap and held the limp body of the red-bearded dwarf upside-down by the ankle. Sali Dalib’s fingers started their customary twiddle, and he flashed the gold-and-ivory smile so wide that it seemed as if it would take in his ears. His little goblin assistant jumped up and down at his side, squealing, “Magic, magic, magic!”

Bruenor opened one eye and lifted an arm to push his long beard out of his face. “Ye be likin’ what ye’re seeing?” the dwarf asked slyly.

Sali Dalib’s smile disappeared, and his fingers got all tangled together.

Bruenor’s bearer—Wulfgar, wearing the robe of one of the bandits walked into the tent. Catti-brie came in behind him.

“So ‘twas yerself that set the bandits upon us,” the young woman growled.

Sali Dalib’s exclamation of shock came out as so much gibberish, and the wily merchant spun away to flee…only to find a neat hole sliced into the back of his tent and Drizzt Do’Urden standing within it, leaning on one scimitar while the other rested easily on his shoulder. Just to heighten the merchant’s terror, Drizzt had again taken off the magical mask.

“Uh…um, de bestest road?” the merchant stammered.