Drizzt Do’Urden and Wulfgar embark on a perilous mission to rescue their halfling friend in this action-packed finale of the Icewind Dale Trilogy. Artemis Entreri has taken Regis back to his former master, Pasha Pook--but Drizzt Do’Urden and Wulfgar are fast on the assassin’s heels. Armed with the scimitar Twinkle, Drizzt defeats a banshee and acquires an enchanted artifact that masks its wearer’s true identity. With Drizzt now disguised as a normal elf, the duo continues their journey, traveling from Waterdeep to Baldur’s Gate and beyond in search of their friend.; Meanwhile, Entreri is always one step ahead, aided by the magical gem Regis once stole from Pasha Pook. Together, Regis’s captors thwart Drizzt and Wulfgar’s mission at every turn, cornering them into battles with pirates, treks through the Calimshan deserts, and encounters with otherworldly monsters. But will it be enough to stop them from rescuing Regis? The Halfling’s Gem is the third book in the Icewind Dale Trilogy and the sixth book in the Legend of Drizzt series.<

Autorentext

R.A. Salvatore

Leseprobe
Tower of Twilight
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“A day and more we have lost,” the barbarian grumbled, reining in his horse and looking back over his shoulder. The lower rim of the sun had just dipped below the horizon. “The assassin moves away from us even now!”

“We do well to trust in Harkle’s advice,” replied Drizzt Do’Urden, the dark elf. “He would not have led us astray.” With the sunshine fading, Drizzt dropped the cowl of his black cloak back onto his shoulders and shook free the locks of his stark white hair.

Wulf­gar pointed to some tall pines. “That must be the grove Harkle Harpell spoke of,” he said, “yet I see no tower, nor signs that any structure was ever built in this forsaken area.”

His lavender eyes more at home in the deepening gloom, Drizzt peered ahead intently, trying to find some evidence to dispute his young friend. Surely this was the place that Harkle had indicated, for a short distance ahead of them lay the small pond, and beyond that the thick boughs of Neverwinter Wood. “Take heart,” he reminded Wulf­gar. “The wizard called patience the greatest aid in finding the home of Malchor. We have been here but an hour.”

“The road grows ever longer,” the barbarian mumbled, unaware that the drow’s keen ears did not miss a word. There was merit in Wulf­gar’s complaints, Drizzt knew, for the tale of a farmer in Longsaddle—­that of a dark, cloaked man and a half­ling on a single horse—­put the assassin fully ten days ahead of them, and moving swiftly.

But Drizzt had faced Entreri before and understood the enormity of the challenge before him. He wanted as much assistance as he could get in rescuing Regis from the deadly man’s clutches. By the farmer’s words, Regis was still alive, and Drizzt was certain that Entreri did not mean to harm the half­ling before getting to Calimport.

Harkle Harpell would not have sent them to this place without good reason.

“Do we put up for the night?” asked Wulf­gar. “By my word, we’d ride back to the road and to the south. Entreri’s horse carries two and may have tired by now. We can gain on him if we ride through the night.”

Drizzt smiled at his friend. “They have passed through the city of Waterdeep by now,” he explained. “Entreri has acquired new horses, at the least.” Drizzt let the issue drop at that, keeping his deeper fears, that the assassin had taken to the sea, to himself.

“Then to wait is even more folly!” Wulf­gar was quick to argue.

But as the barbarian spoke, his horse, a horse raised by Harpells, snorted and moved to the small pond, pawing the air above the water as though searching for a place to step. A moment later, the last of the sun dipped under the western horizon and the daylight faded away. And in the magical dimness of twilight, an enchanted tower phased into view before them on the little island in the pond, its every point twinkling like starlight, and its many twisting spires reaching up into the evening sky. Emerald green it was, and mystically inviting, as if sprites and faeries had lent a hand to its creation.

And across the water, right below the hoof of Wulf­gar’s horse, appeared a shining bridge of green light.

Drizzt slipped from his mount. “The Tower of Twilight,” he said to Wulf­gar, as though he had seen the obvious logic from the start. He swept his arm out ­toward the structure, inviting his friend to lead them in.

But Wulf­gar was stunned at the appearance of the tower. He clutched the reins of his horse even tighter, causing the beast to rear up and flatten its ears against its head.

“I thought you had overcome your suspicions of magic,” said Drizzt sarcastically. Truly Wulf­gar, like all the barbarians of Icewind Dale, had been raised with the belief that wizards were weakling tricksters and not to be trusted. His people, proud warriors of the tundra, regarded strength of arm, not skill in the black arts of wizardry, as the measure of a true man. But in their many tendays on the road, Drizzt had seen Wulf­gar overcome his upbringing and develop a tolerance, even a curiosity, for the practices of wizardry.

With a flex of his massive muscles, Wulf­gar brought his horse under control. “I have,” he answered through gritted teeth. He slid from his seat. “It is Harpells that worry me!”

Drizzt’s smirk widened across his face as he suddenly came to understand his friend’s trepidations. He himself, who had been raised amidst many of the most powerful and frightening sorcerers in all the Realms, had shaken his head in disbelief many times when they were guests of the eccentric family in Longsaddle. The Harpells had a unique—­and often disastrous—­way of viewing the world, though no evil festered in their hearts, and they wove their magic in accord with their own perspectives—­usually against the presumed logic of rational men.

“Malchor is unlike his kin,” Drizzt assured Wulf­gar. “He does not reside in the Ivy Mansion and has played advisor to kings of the northland.”

“He is a Harpell,” Wulf­gar stated with a finality that Drizzt could not dispute. With another shake of his head and a deep breath to steady himself, Wulf­gar grabbed his horse’s bridle and started out across the bridge. Drizzt, still smiling, was quick to follow.

“Harpell,” Wulf­gar muttered again after they had crossed to the island and made a complete circuit of the structure.

The tower had no door.

“Patience,” Drizzt reminded him.

They did not have to wait long, though, for a few seconds later they heard a bolt being thrown, and then the creak of a door opening. A moment later, a boy barely into his teens walked right through the green stone of the wall, like some translucent specter, and moved ­toward them.

Wulf­gar grunted and brought Aegis-­fang, his mighty warhammer, down off his shoulder. Drizzt grasped the barbarian’s arm to stay him, fearing that his weary friend might strike in sheer frustration before they could determine the lad’s intentions.

When the boy reached them, they could see clearly that 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 sta…