Stone of tymora, p.1
Stone of Tymora, page 1
TIE LEGEND OF DRIZZT®
Homeland
Exile
Sojourn
The Crystal Shard
Streams of Silver
The Halfling’s Gem
The Legacy
Starless Night
Siege of Darkness
Passage to Dawn
The Silent Blade
The Spine of the World
Sea of Swords
A READER’S GUIDE TO R.A. SALVATORE’S THE LEGEND OF DRIZZT
THE HUNTER’S BLADES
The Thousand Orcs
The Lone Drow
The Two Swords
TRANSITIONS
The Orc King
The Pirate King
The Ghost King
THE SELLSWORDS
Servant of the Shard
Promise of the Witch-King
Road of the Patriarch
THE NEVERWINTER SAGA
Gauntlgrym
Neverwinter
Charon’s Claw
The Last Threshold
(March 2013)
STONE OF TYMORA
©2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe. Stockley Park. UB11 1AZ. UK.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, D&D, THE LEGEND OF DRIZZT, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. All other trademarks are the property of their respective owners.
All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Tyler Jacobson
Map by Robert Lazzaretti
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6138-2
62098403000001 EN
Originally published in hardcover in three volumes: The Stowaway (2008), The Shadowmask (2009), and The Sentinels (2010)
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress
For customer service, contact:
U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice
U.K., Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: +08457 12 55 99, Email: wizards@hasbro.co.uk
Europe: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel: +32.70.233.277, Email: wizards@hasbro.be
Visit our websites at www.wizards.com
www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1
To Diane, always. And this one’s for Julian, for reminding me of the “why” of it all.
—R.A.S.
For all the teachers who helped shape my life. And for Mom and Dad.
—G.S.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part II
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part III
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Part IV
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part V
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Part VI
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Part VII
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Part VIII
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Part IX
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Epilogue
About the Authors
PART I
The approaching footsteps echoed off the many uneven surfaces of the small cave I lay in. I struggled to sit up, my shoulder sore where I had fallen on it, my wrists raw from the coarse rope tied around them. Flickering light appeared in the wide gap between the warped old wooden door and the stone floor. It was the first light I had seen in several hours.
The door creaked open.
A man stood in the portal, illuminated by the torch he held in his left hand. The light cast shifting shadows across his face, particularly under the brim of his broad black hat. Beneath the hat, a black bandana covered his right eye.
He entered, limping, favoring his left side. I quickly saw the reason: his right leg ended just below the knee, replaced with a weathered wooden peg.
After closing the door behind him, he pulled another torch from a loop on his belt, lit it, then placed the torches in sconces set on either side of the door. The light was still not much, and the shadows danced around the room. But at least I could see.
The old pirate turned toward me, lit ominously from behind, a silhouette, a shadow himself. His hand moved to the cutlass sheathed at his side, and I shuddered.
“Ye’re a sailor, aintcha boy?” he said. “Yer skin’s known the sea breeze, felt the sun. But it ain’t yet leather like mine.” He pulled at his many wrinkles, the sea-worn skin stretching in his hand. “But ye’re on yer way. So be telling me, sailor-boy, how long ye been on the seas?”
I resisted the urge to answer him. It was the look in his eye. I knew he would kill me. I had been told often that pirates were merciless, bloodthirsty criminals—murderers and thieves—and that to be captured by one was death if there was no one to pay your ransom. I had seen it firsthand.
The pirate gave his cutlass a menacing shake and looked right into my eyes. “Ye thought I’d be coming in with me sword drawn and just cut ye down, didn’t ye, boy?” he said. “But we could’ve done that when we took yer ship. Wouldn’t have been much use for us to take ye all the way here and cut ye down, would it?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t expect you to simply kill me. I expected—I still expect—you to question me first.” I swallowed, attempting to still my trembling voice. “But you’ll get nothing useful from me.”
The pirate slowly drew his sword. “Well then, boy, shouldn’t I just be killing ye now? I mean, if ye ain’t gonna be giving me nothing useful.” He burst into a laugh, the sort of laugh heard among friends sitting around a fire, sharing a drink. He slid the sword back into its scabbard. “Now, what be yer name, boy?”
“My name?” I had been prepared for an interrogation. But not for this. I pushed my back against the cave wall and sat up taller. I knew what I had to do.
“Yer name, boy. It ain’t a hard question.” The pirate smiled a crooked smile, showing as many teeth missing as remaining, several of them glinting with gold.
“My name does not stand alone,” I said, the tremble gone from my voice. “It comes with a story. The tale of an artifact—tied to my soul through no fault or courage or heroism or hard work of my own. An artifact that has led me from one adventure to another, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.”
I stared at the dirty pirate a long while, forcing my mind down old roads I had tried to forget.
I DO NOT KNOW WHAT NAME MY MOTHER GAVE ME.
I do not know, because every person who knew my name died—killed by a dark creature, a demon called Asbeel—mere days after I first entered the world.
Until I met Perrault, I was an orphan. And ten days after my twelfth birthday, I was alone once again.
Perrault lay unmoving on a bed in an inn. I had gone looking for help, but no help was to be found.
There was only Asbeel.
“Where are you, boy?”
“.… boy … boy … boy … boy?” His voice echoed off every wall, shaking the timbers of houses all along the streets in that section of the city, shaking the ground beneath my feet. I looked around at the crowded marketplace, expecting to see panic, for how could the people of Baldur’s Gate not react to that clamor?
But … nothing. Was the voice just for me? Was some demonic magic guiding it to my ears alone?
“… boy … boy … boy … boy?”
I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.
I darted frantically back and forth, looking for some clue, for some place to hide. A man leaning against a tavern door eyed me, thinking me out of my mind, no doubt. And perhaps I was.
The echoes grew louder. “… boy … boy … boy … boy!”
I raced down the alley beside the tavern and looked toward the sky. In that instant, all the sound came crashing together and nearly knocked me from my feet.
Asbeel stood a hundred strides away and thirty feet up, and I could see the fires in his eyes and the gleam of his teeth.
I knew—a sensation as heavy as drowning in cold water—that Asbeel had seen me.
I tried to run, but I could not, as if the cobblestones had reached up and grabbed my feet.
Asbeel jumped off the roof, landing in the alleyway with such strength that he hardly bent his legs to absorb the weight of the fall. The buildings shook and the ground trembled, and even the man at the tavern gave a shout, so I knew I was not imagining it.
But how could it be? Asbeel was no larger than an elf, a lithe and sinewy creature who seemed to weigh little more than I did. It made no sense, but nothing did.
The shock of the demon’s jump seemed to break away the confining cobblestones, or free me from my own bindings. I knew not which and didn’t care. I just turned and ran for all my life.
Not four steps out of the alleyway, I tripped and fell, skinning both my knees and jarring my wrists. But before I could begin to curse at my clumsiness, a huge crate soared over my head and smashed to pieces in the street in front of me.
I looked back just in time to see Asbeel kick another crate as if it weighed no more than a child’s rag-ball. He laughed as it soared out for me, and I could only yelp and fall aside as it shattered precisely where I had been kneeling.
“Hey, now!” the man at the tavern cried, and another came out the door to see what was happening.
My mouth went dry, my heart sank. I wanted to call out to them to run away, to go back inside, but I could not. I hadn’t the strength or the courage.
I just ran.
The ground trembled behind me as the beast gave chase. Then the shaking stopped, replaced by screams.
I covered my ears, but could not block out the cries. Not knowing where I was going, I turned every corner I came to, only wanting to be out of Asbeel’s sight.
The ground trembled again and I knew he paced me. I ran into one of the main streets and the trembling grew more violent. I could hear his scaly feet slapping the cobblestones. He would grab me at any moment and tear me apart!
I should pull out Perrault’s stiletto, I told myself, use its magic to make it a sword, and stab the beast through the heart.
I should … I should, I thought, but I could not.
Asbeel’s face burned behind my eyes, evil and hideous and hungry, and the thought of it made my legs weak and my heart faint.
As I neared an intersection, a wagon driven by a team of four huge horses veered toward me. I couldn’t stop. The driver screamed and tugged the reins with all his might.
The horses, neighing in complaint, barreled past me. I threw myself down and flattened myself between the wheels then managed to get out between the back two just as the driver stopped the cart.
“What, boy? Are ye dead, then?” the driver cried out.
I managed to scream, “No!” as I ran off.
Barely ten strides away, I heard the explosion as Asbeel slammed into the cart. I could picture the wagon shattering, its load of fruits flying wildly. I heard the driver yelp in surprise. I heard the horses whinny in terror and pain.
I peeled around the corner and looked back, just in time to see one of those horses kick Asbeel in the chest, sending him flying backward. He slammed against a wall and stumbled, but did not fall.
I yelled and ran. The demon refocused his anger—I heard more screams.
I turned down another cobbled street, and at last I knew where I was.
I had reached the heart of the temple district of Baldur’s Gate. Massive structures all around dwarfed me, churches dedicated to each of the myriad gods of Faerûn, gargoyles and statues gazing down at me, leering or smiling with equal irony and equal uselessness.
The demon’s voice rang out again, but it was farther away and full of even greater rage—an echo that would not die.
“You cannot hide, boy,” the voice said. “Fall down and let yourself be taken.”
But beneath his voice rang another, a woman’s, perfect and clear as a clarion in the fog. It was but a whisper, but I could hear it distinctly.
Run now, and take heart.
Despite the clutch in my chest and the pain in my knees, the woman’s voice compelled me.
I sprinted toward the sun that descended over the cityscape. The voices in my head grew fainter, and I felt less of the fear that had nearly crippled me. I felt myself coming under my own control again, aware of my surroundings. I slowed my pace.
As I tried to catch my breath, the leather bandolier I hid beneath my shirt dug into my shoulder, as if it were made of thick chains and not leather. In a pouch on that leather bandolier was a stone, dark as night and heavier than its small size suggested.
It had been in my possession for only ten days—a gift from Perrault—and already it had brought more grief than I had known possible. It had brought ruin to everyone I knew. And if I could not find a way to escape Asbeel, it would bring about my ruin too.
I glanced up and down the crooked street. The shadows grew longer; soon darkness would fall. I didn’t want to be out alone, at night. And I didn’t want to face Asbeel, alone, in the dark.
But where could I go? I thought of returning to the Empty Flagon, the inn where I had left Perrault only a few hours ago. By then the tavern would surely be full of patrons. The proprietor, a crazy old dwarf named Alviss, would be floating behind the bar and around the room on one of his flying blue discs. Flagons of mead would drift of their own accord out to thirsty customers then return, emptied, and with the coin paid.
And in the room at the back of the tavern, I would find Perrault, lying in bed. For a moment, I imagined I could race back to the inn, speak the password, enter the place, and have Perrault tell me what I should do. But Asbeel would surely come to look for me at the Empty Flagon. And I did not know the city well enough to find another place to hide. I had no other choice. I had to leave Baldur’s Gate without him. The only question was how.
From the high hill of the temple district where I stood, I saw the whole sweeping descent of the bustling port and the long wharf at its end. The last of the day’s vessels were just sailing up toward the city. I watched as one cut down the river, the small flag atop its mainmast fluttering in the wind. The weight lifted from my chest.
And a plan formed in my head.
I SNUCK THROUGH THE INNER CITY AND MADE MY WAY TO THE RIVER WHERE I WAITED for morning to come. Nestled in a pile of crates at the end of the city’s long wharf, I stayed awake all through the night. My heart raced at every sound, certain Asbeel had discovered me.
At last the sun rose and I felt safe enough to creep out of my hiding place. Many of the ships I had seen at anchor the previous evening were gone, having sailed out at first light. Those that remained had a steady stream of crew returning. I would have to play a waiting game.
The wind was strong and blew directly out to sea from the east, where the sun was rising. The air was warm despite the wind, and it felt good across my face.
I was sure no ships would be coming in against such a headwind, so to execute my plan, I had to pick one already docked. It would be a good day for departures, and I was sure most of the ships would be putting out before the breeze turned. All I needed to do was decide which one to hide aboard.
I moved along the wharf toward the city, and something caught my eye. Sure enough, a ship sailed upriver against the current and the blowing wind, tacking mightily and smoothly, cutting from side to side as if a ship were meant to sail like that, always like that, only like that.
