“The least, or the wisest?”
Robillard laughed. “Wisdom is not something Suljack has oft been accused of, I’m sure.”
“If he sees the future of Luskan united, then it’s a mantle he will wear more often,” Deudermont insisted.
“So says the governor.”
“So he does.” Deudermont insisted. “Have you no faith in the spirit of humanity?”
Robillard scoffed loudly at that. “I’ve sailed the same seas you have, Captain. I saw the same murderers and pirates. I’ve seen the nature of men, indeed. The spirit of humanity?”
“I believe in it. Optimism, good man! Shake off your surliness and take heart and take hope. Optimism trumps pessimism, and—”
“And reality slaughters one and justifies the other. Problems are not often simply matters of perception.”
“True enough,” Deudermont conceded, “but we can shape that reality if we’re clever enough and strong enough.”
“And optimistic enough,” Robillard said dryly.
“Indeed,” the captain, the governor, beamed against that unending sarcasm.
“The spirit of humanity and brotherhood,” came another dry remark.
“Indeed!”
And wise Robillard rolled his eyes.
CHAPTER 21
THE UNFORGIVING ICEWIND DALE
T he rocks provided only meager shelter from the relentlessly howling wind.
North of Kelvin’s Cairn, out on the open tundra, Drizzt and Regis appreciated having found any shelter at all. Somehow the drow managed to get a fire started, though the flames engaged in so fierce a battle with the wind that they seemed to have little heat left over for the companions.
Regis sat uncomplaining, working his little knife fast over a piece of knucklehead bone.
“A cold night indeed,” Drizzt remarked.
Regis looked up to see his friend staring at him curiously, as if expecting that Regis would launch into a series of complaints, as, he had to admit, had often been his nature. For some reason even he didn’t understand—perhaps it was the feeling of homecoming, or maybe the hope that he would soon see Wulfgar again—Regis wasn’t miserable in the wind and certainly didn’t feel like grumbling.
“It’s the north sea wind come calling,” the halfling said absently, still focused on his scrimshaw. “And it’s here for the season, of course.” He looked up at the sky and confirmed his observation. Far fewer stars shone, and the black shapes of clouds moved swiftly from the northwest.
“Then even if we find Wulfgar’s tribe in the morning as we had hoped, we’ll not likely get out of Icewind Dale in time to beat the first deep snows,” said Drizzt. “We’re stuck here for the duration of the winter.”
Regis shrugged, strangely unbothered by the thought, and went on with his carving.
A few moments later, Drizzt chuckled, drawing the halfling’s eyes up to see the drow staring at him.
“What?”
“You feel it, too,” said Drizzt.
Regis paused in his carving and let the drow’s words sink in. “A lot of years, a lot of memories.”
“And most of them grand.”
“And even the bad ones, like Akar Kessell and the Crystal Shard, worth retelling,” Regis agreed. “So when we’re all gone, even Bruenor dead of old age, will you return to Icewind Dale?”
The question had Drizzt blinking and leaning back from the fire, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and alarm. “It’s not something I prefer to think about,” he replied.
“I’m asking you to do that very thing.”
Drizzt shrugged and seemed lost, seemed almost as if he were drowning. “With all the battles ahead of us, what makes you believe I’ll outlive you all?”
“It’s the way of things, or could well be…elf.”
“And if I’m cut down in battle, and the rest with me, would you return to Icewind Dale?”
“Bruenor would likely bind me to Mithral Hall to serve the next king, or to serve as steward until a king might be found.”
“You’ll not escape that easily, my little friend.”
“But I asked first.”
“But I demand of you an answer before I offer my own.”
Drizzt started to settle in stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest, and Regis blurted out, “Yes!” before he could assume his defiant posture.
“Yes,” the halfling said again. “I would return if I had no duties elsewhere. I cannot think of a better place in all the world to live.”
“You don’t much sound like the Regis who used to button up tight against the winter’s chill and complain at the turn of the first leaf of Lonelywood.”
“My complaining was…”
“Extortion,” Drizzt finished. “A way to ensure that Regis’s hearth was never short of logs, for those around you could not suffer your whining.”
Regis considered the playful insult for a moment, then shrugged in acceptance, not about to disagree. “And the complaints were borne of fear,” he explained. “I couldn’t believe this was my home—I couldn’t appreciate that this was my home. I came here fleeing Pasha Pook and Artemis Entreri, and had no idea I would remain here for so long. In my mind, Icewind Dale was a waypoint and nothing more, a place to set that devilish assassin off my trail.”
He gave a little laugh and shake of his head as he looked back down at the small statue taking shape in his hand. “Somewhere along the way, I came to know Icewind Dale as my home,” he said, his voice growing somber. “I don’t think I understood that until I came back here just now.”
“It might be you’re just weary of the battles and tribulations of Mithral Hall,” said Drizzt, “with Obould so close and Bruenor in constant worry.”
“Perhaps,” Regis conceded, but he didn’t seem convinced. He looked back up at Drizzt and offered a sincere smile. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad we’re here, we two together.”
“On a cold winter’s night.”
“So be it.”
Drizzt looked at Regis with friendship and admiration, amazed at how much the halfling had grown over the last few years, ever since he had taken a spear in battle several years before. That wound, that near-death experience, had brought a palpable change over Drizzt’s halfling friend. Before that fight on the river, far to the south, Regis had always shied from trouble, and had been very good at fleeing, but from that point on, when he’d recognized, admitted, and was horrified to see that he had become a dangerous burden to his heroic friends, the halfling had faced, met, and conquered every challenge put before him.
“I think it’ll snow tonight,” Regis said, looking up at the lowering and thickening clouds.
“So be it,” Drizzt replied with an infectious grin.
Surprisingly, the wind let up before dawn, and though Regis’s prediction of snow proved accurate, it was not a driving and unpleasant storm. Thick flakes drifted down from above, lazily pirouetting, dodging and darting on their way to the whitened ground.
The companions had barely started on their way when they saw again the smoke of campfires, and as they neared the camp, still before midday, Drizzt recognized the standards and knew that they had indeed found the Tribe of the Elk, Wulfgar’s people.
“Just the Elk?” Regis remarked, and cast a concerned look up at Drizzt at the apparent confirmation of what they had been told in Bryn Shander. When they’d left for Mithral Hall, the barbarians of Icewind Dale had been united, all tribes in one. That seemed not to be the case anymore, both from the small size of the encampment and from the fact of that one, and only one, distinguished banner.
They approached slowly, side by side, hands up, palms out in an unthreatening manner.
Smiles and nods came back at them from the men sitting watch on the perimeter; they were recognized still in that place, and accepted as friends. The vigilant sentries didn’t leave their positions to go over and greet them, but did wave, and motion them through.
And somehow signaled ahead to t
he people in the camp, Drizzt and Regis realized from the movements of the main area. It was set in the shelter of a shallow dell, so there was no way they had been spotted from within the collection of tents before they’d crested the surrounding hillock, and yet the camp was all astir, with people rushing about excitedly. A large figure, a huge man with corded muscles and wisdom in his seasoned eyes, stood in the center of all the commotion, flanked by warriors and priests.
He wore the headdress of leadership, elf-horned and decorated, and he was well-known to Drizzt and Regis.
But to their surprise, it was not Wulfgar.
“You stopped the wind, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Berkthgar the Bold said in his strong voice. “Your legend is without end.”
Drizzt accepted the compliment with a polite bow. “You are well, Berkthgar, and that gladdens my heart,” the drow said.
“The seasons have been difficult,” the barbarian admitted. “Winter has been the strongest, and the filthy goblins and giants ever-present. We have suffered many losses, but my people have fared best among the tribes.”
Both Regis and Drizzt stiffened at that admission, particularly of the losses, and particularly in light of the fact that it was not Wulfgar standing before them, and that he was nowhere to be seen.
“We survive and we go on,” Berkthgar added. “That is our heritage and our way.”
Drizzt nodded solemnly. He wanted to ask the pressing question, but he held his tongue and let the barbarian continue.
“How fares Bruenor and Mithral Hall?” Berkthgar asked. “I pray to the spirits that you didn’t come to tell me that this foul orc king has won the day.”
“Nay, not tha—” Drizzt started to say, but he bit it off and looked at Berkthgar with curiosity. “How do you know of King Obould and his minions?”
“Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, returned to us with many tales to share.”
“Then where is he?” Regis blurted, unable to contain himself. “Out hunting?”
“None are out hunting.”
“Then where?” the halfling demanded, and such a voice came out of his diminutive form as to startle Berkthgar and all the others, even Drizzt.
“Wulfgar came to us four winters ago, and for three winters, he remained among the people,” Berkthgar replied. “He hunted with the Tribe of the Elk, as he always should have. He shared in our food and our drink. He danced and sang with the people who were once his own, but no more.”
“He tried to take your crown, but you wouldn’t let him!” Regis said, trying futilely to keep any level of accusation out of his voice. He knew he’d failed miserably at that, however, when Drizzt elbowed him in the shoulder.
“Wulfgar never challenged me,” Berkthgar replied. “He had no place to challenge my leadership, and no right.”
“He was once your leader.”
“Once.”
The simple answer set the halfling back on his heels.
“Wulfgar forgot the ways of Icewind Dale, the ways of our people,” Berkthgar said, addressing Drizzt directly and not even glancing down at the upset halfling. “Icewind Dale is unforgiving. Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, didn’t need to be told that. He offered no challenge.”
Drizzt nodded his understanding and acceptance.
“He left us in the first draw of light and dark,” the barbarian explained.
“The spring equinox,” Drizzt explained to Regis. “When day and night are equal.”
He turned to Berkthgar and asked directly, “Was it demanded of him that he leave?”
The chieftain shook his head. “Too long are the tales of Wulfgar. Great sorrow, it is, for us to know that he is of us no more.”
“He thought he was coming home,” said Regis.
“This was not his home.”
“Then where is he?” the halfling demanded, and Berkthgar shook his head solemnly, having no answer.
“He didn’t go back to Ten-Towns,” Regis said, growing more animated as he became more alarmed. “He didn’t go back to Luskan. He couldn’t have without stopping through Ten—”
“The Son of Beornegar is dead,” Berkthgar interrupted. “We’re not pleased that it came to this, but Icewind Dale wins over us all. Wulfgar forgot who he was, and forgot where he came from. Icewind Dale does not forgive. He left us in the first draw of light and dark, and we found signs of him for many tendays. But they are gone, and he is gone.”
“Are you certain?” Drizzt asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his pained voice.
Berkthgar slowly blinked. “Our words with the people of the three lakes are few,” he explained. “But when sign of Wulfgar faded from the tundra of Icewind Dale, we asked of him among them. The little one is right. Wulfgar did not go back to Ten-Towns.”
“Our mourning is passed,” came a voice from behind Berkthgar and the barbarian leader turned to regard the man who had disregarded custom by speaking out. A nod from Berkthgar showed forgiveness for that, and when they saw the speaker, Drizzt and Regis understood the sympathy, for Kierstaad, grown into a strong man, had ever been a devout champion of the son of Beornegar. No doubt for Kierstaad, the loss of Wulfgar was akin to the loss of his father. None of that pain showed in his voice or his stance, however. He had proclaimed the mourning of Wulfgar passed, and so it simply was.
“You don’t know that he’s dead,” Regis protested, and both Berkthgar and Kierstaad, and many others, scowled at him. Drizzt hushed him with a little tap on the shoulder.
“You know the comforts of a hearth and a bed of down,” Berkthgar said to Regis. “We know Icewind Dale. Icewind Dale does not forgive.”
Regis started to protest again, but Drizzt held him back, understanding well that resignation and acceptance was the way of the barbarians. They accepted death without remorse because death was all too near, always. Not a man or woman there had not known the specter of death—of a lover, a parent, a child, or a friend.
And so the drow tried to show the same stoicism when he and Regis took their leave of the Tribe of the Elk soon after, walking the same path that had brought them so far out from Ten-Towns. The facade couldn’t hold, though, and the drow couldn’t hide his wince of pain. He didn’t know where to turn, where to look, who to ask. Wulfgar was gone, lost to him, and the taste proved bitter indeed. Black wings of guilt fluttered around him as he walked, images of the look on Wulfgar’s face when first he’d learned that Catti-brie was lost to him, betrothed to the drow he called his best friend. It had been no one’s fault, not Drizzt’s nor Catti-brie’s, nor Wulfgar’s, for Wulfgar had been lost to them for years, trapped in the Abyss by the balor Errtu. In that time, Drizzt and Catti-brie had fallen in love, or had at last admitted the love they had known for years, but had muted because of their obvious differences.
When Wulfgar had returned from the dead, there was nothing they could do, though Catti-brie had surely tried.
And so it was circumstance that had driven Wulfgar from the Companions of the Hall. Blameless circumstance, Drizzt tried hard to tell himself as he and Regis walked without speaking through the continuing gentle snowfall. He wasn’t about to convince himself, but it hardly mattered anyway. All that mattered was that Wulfgar was lost to him forever, that his beloved friend was no more and his world had diminished.
Beside him, the muffling aspect of the snow and breeze did little to hide Regis’s sniffles.
CHAPTER 22
PARADISE…DELAYED
A h, but ye’re a thief!” the man accused, poking his finger into the chest of the one who he believed had just pocketed the wares.
“Speak on yer own!” the other shouted back. “The merchant here’s pointin’ to yer vest and not me own.”
“And he’s wrong, because yerself took it!”
“Says a fool!”
The first man retracted his finger, balled up his fist, and let fly a heavy punch for the second’s face.
The other was more than ready, though, dropping low beneath the awkward swing and coming up fast and hard to hit his
opponent in the gut.
And not with just a fist.
The man staggered back, clutching at his spilling entrails. “Ah, but he sticked me!” he cried.
The knife-wielder came up straight and grinned, then stabbed his opponent again then a third time for good measure. Though screams erupted all across the open market of Luskan, with guards scrambling every which way, the attacker very calmly stepped over and wiped his blade on the shirt of the bent-over man.
“Fall down and die then, like a good fellow,” he said to his victim. “One less idiot walking the streets with the name of Captain Suljack on his sputtering lips.”
“Murderer!” a woman screamed at the knifeman as his victim fell to the street at his feet.
“Bah! But th’ other one struck first!” a man in the crowd shouted.
“Nay, but just a fist!” another one of Suljack’s men protested, and the shouting man replied by punching him in the face.
As if on cue, and indeed it was—though only those working for Baram and Taerl understood that cue—the market exploded into violent chaos. Fights broke out at every kiosk and wagon. Women screamed and children ran to better vantage points, so they could watch the fun.
From every corner, the city guards swooped in to restore order. Some shouted orders, but others countermanded those with opposing commands, and the fighting only widened. One furious guard captain ran into the midst of an opposing group, whose leader had just negated his call for a group of ruffians to stand down.
“And who are you with, then?” the leader of that group demanded of the guard captain.
“With Luskan, ye fool,” he retorted.
“Bah, there ain’t no Luskan,” the thug retorted. “Luskan’s dead—there’s just the Five Ships.”
“What nonsense escapes your flapping lips?” the guard captain demanded, but the man didn’t relent.
“Ye’re a Suljack man, ain’t ye?” he accused. The guard captain, who was indeed affiliated with Ship Suljack, stared at him incredulously.
The man slugged him in the chest, and before he could respond, two others pulled back his arms so that the thug could continue the beating uninterrupted.
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