The Ghost King by R.A. Salvatore Page A

a scrapper.”
    “Then why? What? Have ye anything to offer me, Stuttgard o’ the Stone Hills?” Bruenor said, clearly agitated.
    “A name, and one I think ye’re knowin’,” said Athrogate. “Human name o’ Cadderly.”
    Bruenor and Drizzt exchanged glances, then both stared hard at the visitor.
    “His place’s not too far from me home,” Athrogate explained. “I went right through it on me way here, o’ course. Oh, but he’s got a hunnerd wizards and priests in there now, all trying to get what’s what, if ye get me meaning.”
    “What about him?” Bruenor asked, obviously trying to remain calm but unable to keep the urgency out of his tone—or out of his posture, as he leaned forward in his throne.
    “He and his been workin’ on the problems,” Athrogate explained. “I thinked ye should know that more’n a few that been brain-touched by the Weave’ve gone in there, and most’ve come out whole.”
    Bruenor leaped up from his seat. “Cadderly is curing those rendered foolish by the troubles?”
    Athrogate shrugged. “I thinked ye’d want to be knowin’.”
    Bruenor turned fast to Drizzt.
    “A month and more of hard travel,” the drow warned.
    “Magical items’re working,” Bruenor replied. “We got the wagon me boys’re building for Silverymoon journeys. We got the zephyr shoes …”
    Drizzt’s eyes lit up at the reference, for indeed the dwarves of Clan Battlehammer had been working on a solution to their isolation, even before the onset of magical afflictions. Without the magical teleportation of their neighboring cities, or creations of magic like Lady Alustriel’s flying chariots of fire, the dwarves had taken to a more mundane solution, constructing a wagon strong enough to handle the bumps and stones of treacherous terrain. They had sought out magical assistance for teams that might be pulling the vehicle.
    The drow was already starting off the dais before Bruenor could finish his sentence. “On my way,” Drizzt said.
    “Can I wish ye all me best, King Bruenor?” Athrogate asked.
    “Stuttgard o’ the Stone Hills,” Bruenor repeated, and he turned to the court scribe. “Write it down!”
    “Aye, me king!”
    “And know that if me girl finds peace in Spirit Soaring, that I’ll be visiting yer clan, good friend,” Bruenor said, looking back to Athrogate. “And know that ye’re fore’er a friend o’ Mithral Hall. Ye stay as long as ye’re wantin’, and all costs fall to meself! But beggin’ yer pardon, the time’s for me to be goin’.”
    He bowed fast and was running out of the room before Athrogate could even offer his thanks in reply.
    * * * * *
    Full of energy and enthusiasm for the first time in a few long days, the hope-filled Drizzt and Bruenor charged down the hall toward Catti-brie’s door. They slowed abruptly as they neared, seeing the sizzling purple and blue streaks of energy slipping through the cracks in the door.
    “Bah, not again!” Bruenor groaned. He beat Drizzt to the door and shoved it open.
    There was Catti-brie, standing in mid air above the bed, her arms out to her sides, her eyes rolled to white, trembling, trembling….
    “Me girl …” Bruenor started to say, but he bit back the words when he noted Regis against the far wall, curled up on the floor, his arms over his head.
    “Elf!” Bruenor cried, but Drizzt was already running to Catti-brie, grabbing her and pulling her down to the bed. Bruenor grumbled and cursed and rushed over to Regis.
    Catti-brie’s stiffness melted as the fit ended, and she fell limp into Drizzt’s arms. He eased her down to a sitting position and hugged her close, and only then did he notice the desperate Regis.
    The halfling flailed wildly at Bruenor, slapping the dwarf repeatedly and squirming away from Bruenor’s reaching hands. Clearly terrified, he seemed to be looking not at the dwarf, but at some great monster.
    “Rumblebelly, what’re ye about?” Bruenor asked.
    Regis screamed into the