Read Online The Halfling’s Gem by R. A. Salvatore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. A. Salvatore
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Waterdeep’s overfilled jails.
Drizzt squeezed in next to the captain, brushing away the inquiring look of the barkeep. “We have a common friend,” Drizzt said softly to Deudermont.
“I would hardly number Orlpar among my friends,” the captain replied casually. “But I see that he did not exaggerate about the size and strength of your young friend.”
Deudermont was not the only one who had noticed Wulfgar. As did every other tavern in this section of Waterdeep—and most bars across the Realms—the Mermaid’s Arms had a champion. A bit farther down the bar rail, a massive, hulking slob named Bungo had eyed Wulfgar from the minute the young barbarian had walked through the door. Bungo didn’t like the looks of this one, not in the least. Even more than the corded arms, Wulfgar’s graceful stride and the easy way he carried his huge warhammer revealed a measure of experience beyond his age.
Bungo’s supporters crowded around him in anticipation ofthe coming brawl, their twisted smiles and beer-reeking breath spurring their champion to action. Normally confident, Bungo had to work to keep his anxiety under control. He had taken many hits in his seven-year reign at the tavern. His frame was bent now, and dozens of bones had been cracked and muscles torn. Looking at the awesome spectacle of Wulfgar, Bungo honestly wondered if he could have won this match even in his healthier youth.
But the regulars of the Mermaid’s Arms looked up to him. This was their domain, and he their champion. They provided his free meals and drinks—Bungo could not let them down.
He quaffed his full mug in a single gulp and pushed himself off the rail. With a final growl to reassure his supporters, and callously tossing aside anyone in his way, Bungo made his way toward Wulfgar.
Wulfgar had seen the group coming before it had ever started moving. This scene was all too familiar to the young barbarian, and he fully expected that he would once again, as had happened at the Cutlass in Luskan, be singled out because of his size.
“What’re ye fer?” Bungo said with a hiss as he towered, hands on hips, over the seated man. The other ruffians spread out around the table, putting Wulfgar squarely within their ring.
Wulfgar’s instincts told him to stand and drop the pretentious slob where he stood. He had no fears about Bungo’s eight friends. He considered them cowards who needed their leader to spur them on. If a single blow put Bungo down—and Wulfgar knew it would—the others would hesitate before striking, a delay that would cost them dearly against the likes of Wulfgar.
But over the last few months, Wulfgar had learned to temper his anger, and he had learned a broader definition of honor. He shrugged, making no move that resembled a threat. “A place tosit and a drink,” he replied calmly. “And who might you be?”
“Name’s Bungo,” said the slob, spittle spraying with every word. He thrust his chest out proudly, as if his name should mean something to Wulfgar.
Again Wulfgar, wiping Bungo’s spray from his face, had to resist his fighting instincts. He and Drizzt had more important business, he reminded himself.
“Who said ye could come to my bar?” Bungo growled, thinking—hoping—that he had put Wijlfgar on the defensive. He looked around at his friends, who leaned closer over Wulfgar, heightening the intimidation.
Surely Drizzt would understand the necessity to put this one down, Wulfgar reasoned, his fists tightening at his sides. “One shot,” he muttered silently, looking around at the wretched group—a group that would look better sprawled out unconscious in the corners of the floor.
Wulfgar summoned an image of Regis to ward off his welling rage, but he could not ignore the fact that his hands were now clenched on the rim of the table so tightly that his knuckles had whitened for lack of blood.
“The arrangements?” Drizzt asked.
“Secured,” replied Deudermont. “I’ve room on the
Sea
Drizzt squeezed in next to the captain, brushing away the inquiring look of the barkeep. “We have a common friend,” Drizzt said softly to Deudermont.
“I would hardly number Orlpar among my friends,” the captain replied casually. “But I see that he did not exaggerate about the size and strength of your young friend.”
Deudermont was not the only one who had noticed Wulfgar. As did every other tavern in this section of Waterdeep—and most bars across the Realms—the Mermaid’s Arms had a champion. A bit farther down the bar rail, a massive, hulking slob named Bungo had eyed Wulfgar from the minute the young barbarian had walked through the door. Bungo didn’t like the looks of this one, not in the least. Even more than the corded arms, Wulfgar’s graceful stride and the easy way he carried his huge warhammer revealed a measure of experience beyond his age.
Bungo’s supporters crowded around him in anticipation ofthe coming brawl, their twisted smiles and beer-reeking breath spurring their champion to action. Normally confident, Bungo had to work to keep his anxiety under control. He had taken many hits in his seven-year reign at the tavern. His frame was bent now, and dozens of bones had been cracked and muscles torn. Looking at the awesome spectacle of Wulfgar, Bungo honestly wondered if he could have won this match even in his healthier youth.
But the regulars of the Mermaid’s Arms looked up to him. This was their domain, and he their champion. They provided his free meals and drinks—Bungo could not let them down.
He quaffed his full mug in a single gulp and pushed himself off the rail. With a final growl to reassure his supporters, and callously tossing aside anyone in his way, Bungo made his way toward Wulfgar.
Wulfgar had seen the group coming before it had ever started moving. This scene was all too familiar to the young barbarian, and he fully expected that he would once again, as had happened at the Cutlass in Luskan, be singled out because of his size.
“What’re ye fer?” Bungo said with a hiss as he towered, hands on hips, over the seated man. The other ruffians spread out around the table, putting Wulfgar squarely within their ring.
Wulfgar’s instincts told him to stand and drop the pretentious slob where he stood. He had no fears about Bungo’s eight friends. He considered them cowards who needed their leader to spur them on. If a single blow put Bungo down—and Wulfgar knew it would—the others would hesitate before striking, a delay that would cost them dearly against the likes of Wulfgar.
But over the last few months, Wulfgar had learned to temper his anger, and he had learned a broader definition of honor. He shrugged, making no move that resembled a threat. “A place tosit and a drink,” he replied calmly. “And who might you be?”
“Name’s Bungo,” said the slob, spittle spraying with every word. He thrust his chest out proudly, as if his name should mean something to Wulfgar.
Again Wulfgar, wiping Bungo’s spray from his face, had to resist his fighting instincts. He and Drizzt had more important business, he reminded himself.
“Who said ye could come to my bar?” Bungo growled, thinking—hoping—that he had put Wijlfgar on the defensive. He looked around at his friends, who leaned closer over Wulfgar, heightening the intimidation.
Surely Drizzt would understand the necessity to put this one down, Wulfgar reasoned, his fists tightening at his sides. “One shot,” he muttered silently, looking around at the wretched group—a group that would look better sprawled out unconscious in the corners of the floor.
Wulfgar summoned an image of Regis to ward off his welling rage, but he could not ignore the fact that his hands were now clenched on the rim of the table so tightly that his knuckles had whitened for lack of blood.
“The arrangements?” Drizzt asked.
“Secured,” replied Deudermont. “I’ve room on the
Sea
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