The Halfling’s Gem Read Free

he was flesh and blood, not some otherworldly specter, and Wulfgar relaxed his grip. The youth bowed low to them and motioned for them to follow.
    “Malchor?” asked Drizzt.
    The boy did not answer, but he motioned again and started back toward the tower.
    “I would have thought you to be older, if Malchor you be,” Drizzt said, falling into step behind the boy.
    “What of the horses?” Wulfgar asked.
    Still the boy continued silently toward the tower.
    Drizzt looked at Wulfgar and shrugged. “Bring them in, then, and let our mute friend worry about them,” the dark elf said.
    They found one section of the wall—at least—to be an illusion, masking a door that led them into a wide, circular chamber that was the tower’s lowest level. Stalls lining one wall showed that they had done right in bringing the horses, and they tethered the beasts quickly and rushed to catch up to the youth. The boy had not slowed and had entered another doorway.
    “Hold for us,” Drizzt called, stepping through the portal, but he found no guide inside. He had entered a dimly lit corridor that rose gently and arced around as it rose, apparently tracing the circumference of the tower. “Only one way to go,” he told Wulfgar, who came in behind him, and they started off.
    Drizzt figured that they had done one complete circle and were up to the second level—ten feet at least—when they found the boy waiting for them beside a darkened side passage that fell back toward the center of the structure. The lad ignored this passage, though, and started off higher into the tower along the main arcing corridor.
    Wulfgar had run out of patience for such cryptic games. His only concern was that Entreri and Regis were running farther away every second. He stepped by Drizzt and grabbed the boy’s shoulder, spinning him about. “Are you Malchor?” he demanded bluntly.
    The boy blanched at the giant man’s gruff tone but did not reply.
    “Leave him,” Drizzt said. “He is not Malchor. I am sure. Wewill find the master of the tower soon enough.” He looked to the frightened boy. “True?”
    The boy gave a quick nod and started off again.
    “Soon,” Drizzt reiterated to quiet Wulfgar’s growl. He prudently stepped by the barbarian, putting himself between Wulfgar and the guide.
    “Harpell,” Wulfgar groaned at his back.
    The incline grew steeper and the circles tighter, and both friends knew that they were nearing the top. Finally the boy stopped at a door, pushed it open, and motioned for them to enter.
    Drizzt moved quickly to be the first inside the room, fearing that the angry barbarian might make less than a pleasant first impression with their wizard host.
    Across the room, sitting atop a desk and apparently waiting for them, rested a tall and sturdy man with neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair. His arms were crossed on his chest. Drizzt began to utter a cordial greeting, but Wulfgar nearly bowled him over, bursting in from behind and striding right up to the desk.
    The barbarian, with one hand on his hip and one holding Aegis-fang in a prominent display before him, eyed the man for a moment. “Are you the wizard named Malchor Harpell?” he demanded, his voice hinting at explosive anger. “And if not, where in the Nine Hells are we to find him?”
    The man’s laugh erupted straight from his belly. “Of course,” he answered, and he sprang from the desk and clapped Wulfgar hard on the shoulder. “I prefer a guest who does not cover his feelings with rosy words!” he cried. He walked past the stunned barbarian toward the door—and the boy.
    “Did you speak to them?” he demanded of the lad.
    The boy blanched even more than before and shook his head emphatically.
    “Not a single word?” Malchor yelled.
    The boy trembled visibly and shook his head again.
    “He said not a—” Drizzt began, but Malchor cut him off with an outstretched hand.
    “If I find that you uttered even a single syllable …” he threatened. He