Finding strength in the narrow vision of a goal, Regis glanced about the cabin, looking for some clue. Again and again, he found his eyes drawn to the candle.

“The flame,” he muttered to himself, a smile beginning to spread across his face. He moved to the table and plucked the candle from its holder. A small pool of liquid wax glittered at the base of the wick, promising pain.

But Regis didn’t hesitate.

He hitched up one sleeve and dripped a series of wax droplets along the length of his arm, grimacing away the hot sting.

He had to slow Entreri down.

Regis made one of his rare appearances on the deck the next morning. Dawn had come bright and clear, and the halfling wanted to finish his business before the sun got too high in the sky and created that unpleasant mixture of hot rays in the cool spray. He stood at the rail, rehearsing his lines and mustering the courage to defy the unspoken threats of Entreri.

And then Entreri was beside him! Regis clutched the rail tightly, fearing that the assassin had somehow guessed his plan.

“The shoreline,” Entreri said to him.

Regis followed Entreri’s gaze to the horizon and a distant line of land.

“Back in sight,” Entreri continued, “and not too far.” He glanced down at Regis and displayed his wicked smile once again for his prisoner’s benefit.

Regis shrugged. “Too far.”

“Perhaps,” answered the assassin, “but you might make it, though your half-sized breed is not spoken of as the swimming sort. Have you weighed the odds?”

“I do not swim,” Regis said flatly.

“A pity,” laughed Entreri. “But if you do decide to try for the land, tell me first.”

Regis stepped back, confused.

“I would allow you to make the attempt,” Entreri assured him. “I would enjoy the show!”

The halfling’s expression turned to anger. He knew that he was being mocked, but he couldn’t figure the assassin’s purpose.

“They have a strange fish in these waters,” said Entreri, looking back to the water. “Smart fish. It follows the boats, waiting for someone to go over.” He looked back to Regis to weigh the effect of his chiding.

“A pointed fin marks it,” he continued, seeing that he had the halfling’s full attention. “Cutting through the water like the prow of a ship. If you watch from the rail long enough, you will surely spy one.”

“Why would I want to?”

“Sharks, these fish are called,” Entreri went on, ignoring the question. He drew his dagger, putting its point against one of his fingers hard enough to draw a speck of blood. “Marvelous fish. Rows of teeth as long as daggers, sharp and ridged, and a mouth that could bite a man in half.” He looked Regis in the eye. “Or take a halfling whole.”

“I do not swim!” Regis growled, not appreciating Entreri’s macabre, but undeniably effective, methods.

“A pity,” chuckled the assassin. “But do tell me if you change your mind.” He swept away, his black cloak flowing behind him.

“Bastard,” Regis mumbled under his breath. He started back toward the rail, but changed his mind as soon as he saw the deep water looming before him; he turned on his heel and sought the security of the middle of the deck.

Again the color left his face as the vast ocean seemed to close in over him and the interminable, nauseating sway of the ship…

“Ye seem ripe fer de rail, little one,” came a cheery voice. Regis turned to see a short, bowlegged sailor with few teeth and eyes scrunched in a permanent squint. “Ain’t to findin’ yer sea legs yet?”

Regis shuddered through his dizziness and remembered his mission. “It is the other thing,” he replied.

The sailor missed the subtlety of his statement. Still grinning through the dark tan and darker stubble of his dirty face, he started away.

“But thank you for your concern,” Regis said emphatically. “And for all of your courage in taking us to Calimport.”

The sailor stopped, perplexed. “Many a time, we’s to taking ones to the south,” he said, not understanding the reference to “courage.”

“Yes, but considering the danger—though I am sure it is not great!” Regis added quickly, giving the impression that he was trying not to emphasize this unknown peril. “It is not important. Calimport will bring our cure.” Then under his breath but still loud enough for the sailor to hear, he said, “If we get there alive.”

“‘Ere now, what do ye mean?” the sailor demanded, moving back over to Regis. The smile was gone.

Regis squeaked and grabbed his forearm suddenly as if in pain. He grimaced and pretended to battle against the agony, while deftly scratching the dried patch of wax, and the scab beneath it, away. A small trickle of blood rolled out from under his sleeve.

The sailor grabbed him on cue, pulling the sleeve up over Regis’s elbow. He looked at the wound curiously. “Burn?”

“Do not touch it!” Regis cried in a harsh whisper. “That is how it spreads—I think.”

The sailor pulled his hand away in terror, noticing several other scars. “I seen no fire! How’d ye git a burn?”

Regis shrugged helplessly. “They just happen. From the inside.” Now it was the sailor’s turn to pale. “But I will make it to Calimport,” he stated unconvincingly. “It takes a few months to eat you away. And most of my wounds are recent.” Regis looked down, then presented his scarred arm. “See?”

But when he looked back, the sailor was gone, rushing off toward the captain’s quarters.

“Take that, Artemis Entreri,” Regis whispered.

3. Conyberry’s Pride

“Those are the farms that Malchor spoke of,” Wulfgar said as he and Drizzt came around a spur of trees on the great forest’s border. In the distance to the south, a dozen or so houses sat in a cluster on the eastern edge of the forest, surrounded on the other three sides by wide, rolling fields.

Wulfgar started his horse forward, but Drizzt abruptly stopped him.

“These are a simple folk,” the drow explained. “Farmers living in the webs of countless superstitions. They would not welcome a dark elf. Let us enter at night.”

“Perhaps we can find the path without their aid,” Wulfgar offered, not wanting to waste the remainder of yet another day.

“More likely we would get lost in the wood,” Drizzt replied, dismounting. “Rest, my friend. This night promises adventure.”

“Her time, the night,” Wulfgar remarked, remembering Malchor’s words about the banshee.

Drizzt’s smile widened across his face. “Not this night,” he whispered.

Wulfgar saw the familiar gleam in the drow’s lavender eyes and obediently dropped from his saddle. Drizzt was already preparing himself for the imminent battle; already the drow’s finely toned muscles twitched with excitement. But as confident as Wulfgar was in his companion’s prowess, he could not stop the shudder running through his spine when he considered the undead monster that lay before them.

In the night.

They passed the day in peaceful slumber, enjoying the calls and dances of the birds and squirrels, already preparing for winter, and the wholesome atmosphere of the forest. But when dusk crept over the land, Neverwinter Wood took on a very different aura. Gloom settled all too comfortably under the wood’s thick boughs, and a sudden hush descended on the trees, the uneasy quiet of poised danger.

Drizzt roused Wulfgar and led him off to the south at once, not even pausing for a short meal. A few minutes later, they walked their horses to the nearest farmhouse. Luckily the night was moonless, and only a close inspection would reveal Drizzt’s dark heritage.

“State yer business or be gone!” demanded a threatening voice from the low rooftops before they got close enough to knock on the house’s door.