“And who could ever forget Regis of Lonelywood?” Wulfgar asked.
The halfling nodded appreciatively. “I wish you would come home,” he whispered.
“I am home, at long last,” said Wulfgar.
Regis shook his head and wanted to argue, but no words escaped the lump in his throat.
“You will one day challenge for the leadership of your tribe,” Drizzt said. “It’s the way of Icewind Dale.”
“I am old among them now,” Wulfgar replied. “There are many young and strong men.”
“Stronger than the son of Beornegar?” Drizzt said. “I think not.”
Wulfgar nodded in silent appreciation.
“You will one day challenge, and will again lead the Tribe of the Elk,” Drizzt predicted. “Berkthgar will serve you loyally, as you will serve him until that day arrives, until you are again comfortable among the people and among the dale. He knows that.”
Wulfgar shrugged. “I have yet to defeat the winter,” he said. “But I will return to them in the spring, after the first draw of light and dark. And they will accept me, as they tried to accept me when first I returned. From there, I don’t know, but I do know, with confidence, that ever will you be welcome among my people, and we will rejoice at your visits.”
“They were gracious to us even without you there,” Drizzt assured him.
Wulfgar again stared into the fire for a long, long while, deep in thought. Then he rose and moved to the back of the chamber, returning with a thick piece of meat. “I share my meal with you this night,” he said. “And give you my ear. Icewind Dale will not be angry at me for hearing of that which I left behind.”
“A meal for a tale,” Regis remarked.
“We will leave at dawn’s first light,” Drizzt assured Wulfgar, and that drew a startled expression from Regis. Wulfgar, though, nodded in gratitude.
“Then tell me of Mithral Hall,” he said. “Of Bruenor and Catti-brie. Of Obould—he is dead now, I hope.”
“Not remotely,” said Regis.
Wulfgar laughed, skewered the meat, and began to slow roast it.
They spent many hours catching up on the last four years, with Drizzt and Regis doing most of the talking, Drizzt running the litany of events and Regis adding color to every incident. They told him of Bruenor’s grudging acceptance of the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, for the good of the region, and of Obould’s fledgling and tentative kingdom. Wulfgar just shook his head in obvious disapproval. They told him of Catti-brie’s new endeavors alongside Lady Alustriel, turning to the Art, and surprisingly, the barbarian seemed quite pleased with the news, though he did quip, “She should bear your children.”
With much prodding, Wulfgar finally related his own adventures, the road with Colson that led to Auckney and his decision that her mother should raise her—and his insistence and relief that the foolish lord of Auckney went along with the decision.
“She is better off by far,” he said. “Her blood is not the blood of Icewind Dale, and here she would not have thrived.”
Regis and Drizzt exchanged knowing looks, recognizing the open wound in Wulfgar’s heart.
Regis was fast to change the subject at Wulfgar’s next pause, telling of Deudermont’s war in Luskan, of the fall of the Hosttower and the devastation that was general throughout the City of Sails.
“I fear that he moved too boldly, too swiftly,” Drizzt remarked.
“But he is beloved,” Regis argued, and a brief discussion and debate ensued about whether or not their friend had done the right thing. It was brief, because both quickly realized that Wulfgar cared little for the fate of Luskan. He sat there, his expression distant, rubbing his hands along the thick, sleek fur of Guenhwyvar, who lay beside him.
So Drizzt turned the discussion to times long past, to the first time he and Wulfgar had come to the verbeegs’ lair, and to their walks up Bruenor’s Climb on Kelvin’s Cairn. They replayed their adventures, those long and trying roads they had walked and sailed, the many fights, the many pleasures. They were still talking, though the conversation slowed as the fire burned low, when Regis fell fast asleep, right there on a little fur rug on the stone floor.
He awoke to find Drizzt and Wulfgar already up, sharing breakfast.
“Eat quickly,” Drizzt said to him. “The storm has subsided and we must be on our way.”
Regis did so, silently, and a short while later, the three said their good-byes at the edge of Wulfgar’s temporary home.
Wulfgar and Drizzt clasped hands firmly, eyes locking in deep and mutual respect. They fell into a tight hug, a bond that would last forever, then broke apart, Drizzt turning for the brightness outside. Wulfgar slapped Guenhwyvar on the rump as she trotted by.
“Here,” Regis said to him, and held out a piece of scrimshaw he’d been working for some time.
Wulfgar took it carefully and lifted it up before his eyes, his smile widening as he recognized it as a carving of the Companions of the Hall: Wulfgar and Drizzt, Cattie-brie and Bruenor, Regis and Guenhwyvar, side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. He chuckled at the likeness of Aegis-fang in his miniature’s hand, at the sculpture of Bruenor’s axe and Catti-brie’s bow—a bow carried by Drizzt, he noted as he examined the scrimshaw.
“I will keep it against my heart and in my heart for the rest of my days,” the barbarian promised.
Regis shrugged, embarrassed. “If you lose the piece,” he offered, “well, if it’s in your heart then you never can.”
“Never,” Wulfgar agreed, and he lifted Regis in a crushing hug.
“You will find your way back to Icewind Dale,” he said in the halfling’s ear. “I will surprise you on the banks of Maer Dualdon. Perhaps I will even take the moment to bait your hook.”
The sun, meager though it was, seemed all the brighter to Regis and Drizzt that morning, as it reflected off the brilliant whiteness of new-fallen snow, glistening in their moist eyes.
PART 4
PRINCIPLES AND PRAGMATISM
T hey are two men I love dearly, two men I truly respect, and as such, I’m amazed when I step back and consider the opposite directions of the roads of Wulfgar and Deudermont. Indeed, they are both true warriors, yet they have chosen different foes to battle.
Deudermont’s road, I think, was wrought of frustration. He has spent more than two decades sailing the Sword Coast in pursuit of pirates, and no person in the memories of old elves has ever been so successful at such a dangerous trade. All honors were bestowed upon Sea Spritewhen she put in to any of the major cities, particularly the all-important Waterdeep. Captain Deudermont dined with lords, and could have taken that title at his whim, bestowed by the grateful noblemen of Waterdeep for his tireless and effective service.
But for all that, it was upon learning the truth of the newest pirate advances, that the Hosttower of the Arcane supported them with magic and coin, that Captain Deudermont had to face the futility of his lifelong quest. The pirates would outlive him, or at least, they would not soon run out of successors.
Thus was Deudermont faced with an untenable situation and a lofty challenge indeed. He didn’t shy, he didn’t sway, but rather took his ship straight to the source to face this greater foe.
His reaction to a more terrible and wider world was to fight for control of that which seemed uncontrollable. And with such courage and allies, he may actually succeed, for the specter of the Hosttower of the Arcane is no more, Arklem Greeth is no more, and the people of Luskan have rallied to Deudermont’s noble cause.
How different has been Wulfgar’s path. Where Deudermont turned outward to seek greater allies and greater victories, Wulfgar turned inward, and returned his thoughts to a time and place more simple and straightforward. A time and place no less harsh or dangerous, to be sure, but one of clear definition, and one where a victory does not mean a stalemate with a horde of orcs, or a political concession for the sake of expediency. In Wulfgar’s world, in Icewind Dale, there is no compromise. There is perfection of effort, of
body, of soul, or there is death. Indeed, even absent mistakes, even if perfection is achieved, Icewind Dale can take a man, any man, at a whim. Living there, I know, is the most humbling of experiences.
Still, I have no doubt that Wulfgar will defeat Icewind Dale’s winter season. I have no doubt that upon his return to the Tribe of the Elk at the spring equinox, he will be greeted as family and friend, to be trusted. I have no doubt that Wulfgar will one day again be crowned as chief of his tribe, and that, should a terrible enemy rise up in the dale, he will stand forward, with all the inspired tribes gratefully at his back, cheering for the son of Beornegar.
His legend is secured, but hardly fully written.
So one of my friends battles a lich and an army of pirates and sorcerers, while the other battles inner demons and seeks definition of a scattered and unique existence. And there, I think, rests the most profound difference in their respective roads. For Deudermont is secure in his time and place, and reaches from solid foundation to greater endeavors. He is confident and comfortable with, above all others, Deudermont. He knows his pleasures and comforts, and knows, too, his enemies within and without. Because he understands his limitations, so he can find the allies to help him step beyond them. He is, in spirit, that which Wulfgar will become, for only after one has understanding and acceptance of the self can one truly affect the external.
I have looked into the eyes of Wulfgar, into the eyes of the son of Beornegar, into the eyes of the son of Icewind Dale.
I fear for him no longer—not in body, not in soul.
And yet, even though Wulfgar seeks as a goal to be where Deu dermont already resides, it’s Deudermont for whom I now fear. He steps with confidence and so he steps boldly, but in Menzoberranzan we had a saying, “Noet z’hin lil’avinsin.”
“Boldly stride the doomed.”
— Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 26
LUSKAN’S LONG WINTER NIGHT
T he man walked down the ally, glancing left and right. He knew he was right to be careful, for the cargo he would soon carry was among the most precious of commodities in Luskan that harsh winter.
He moved to a spot on the wall, one that seemed unremarkable, and knocked in a specific manner, three short raps, a pause, two short raps, a pause, and a final heavy thud.
The boards of the house parted, revealing a cleverly concealed window.
“Yeah?” asked the grumpy old man within. “Who ye for?”
“Seven,” the man replied, and he handed over a note sealed with the mark of Ship Rethnor, cupping it around seven small chips, like those often used as substitutions for gold and silver in gambling games along the docks. Those too bore Ship Rethnor’s mark.
“Seven, ye say?” replied the old man inside. “But I’m knowin’ ye, Feercus Oduuna, and knowin’ that ye got no wife and no brats, no brothers and naught but the one sister. That adds to two, if me brain’s not gone too feeble.”
“Seven chips,” Feercus argued.
“Five bought, pocket-picked, or taken from a dead man?”
“If bought, then what’s the harm?” Feercus argued. “I’m not stealing from my brothers of Ship Rethnor, nor killing them to take their chips!”
“So ye admit ye bought ’em?”
Feercus shook his head.
“Kensidan’s not looking kindly on any black marketeering here, I’m telling ye for yer own sake.”
“I offered to retrieve the goods for five others,” Feercus explained. “Me sister and me, and Darvus’s family, with no living man to come and no child old enough to trust to do it.”
“Ah, and what might ye be getting from Missus Darvus in exchange for yer helpfulness?” the old codger asked.
Feercus flashed a lewd smile.
“More than that, if I’m knowin’ Feercus—and I am,” the old man said. “Ye’re taking part o’ the bargain in flesh, I’m not doubting, but ye’re getting a fill for yer pocket, too. How much?”
“Has Kensidan outlawed that as well?”
“Nay.”
“Then…”
“How much?” the old man insisted. “And I’ll be asking Darvus’s widow, and I’m knowin’ her well, so ye best be tellin’ me true.”
Feercus glanced around again then sighed and admitted, “Four silver.”
“Two for me,” said the old man, holding out his hand. When Feercus didn’t immediately hand over the coins, he wagged his fingers impatiently. “Two, or ye’re not eating.”
With a grumbled curse under his breath, Feercus handed over the coins. The old man retreated into the storehouse, and Feercus watched as he put seven small bags into a single sack, then returned and handed them out the window.
Again Feercus glanced around.
“Someone follow ye here?” the old man asked.
Feercus shrugged. “Lots of eyes. Baram or Taerl’s men, I expect, as they’re not eating so well.”
“Kensidan’s got guards all about the Ship,” the old man assured him. “Baram and Taerl wouldn’t dare to move against him, and Kurth’s been paid off with food. Likely them eyes ye’re seeing are the watching guards—and don’t ye doubt that they’ll not be friends o’ Feercus, if Feercus is stealing or murdering them who’re under the protection of Kensidan!”
Feercus held up the sack. “For widow Darvus,” he said, and slung it over his shoulder as he started away. He hadn’t gone more than a step when the window’s shutter banged closed, showing no more than an unremarkable wall once more.
Gradually, Feercus managed to take his thoughts off the watching eyes he knew to be peering out from every alley and window, and from many of the rooftops, as well. He thought of his cargo, and liked the weight of it. Widow Darvus had promised him that she had some spices to take the tanginess out of the curious meat Kensidan handed out to all under his protection—and many more had come under his protection, swearing fealty to Ship Rethnor, throughout that cold and threadbare winter. Between that and the strange, thick mushrooms, Feercus Oduuna expected a wonderful meal that evening.
He promised himself that he wouldn’t get too greedy and eat it all, and that his sister, all alone in her house since her husband and two children had died in the explosion of the Hosttower, would get more than her one-seventh share.
He glanced back once as he exited the alley, whispering his sincere thanks for the generosity of High Captain Kensidan.
In another part of Luskan, not far from the road Feercus traveled, several men stood on a street corner, a fire blazing between them over which they huddled for warmth. One man’s stomach growled from emptiness and another punched him in the shoulder for the painful reminder.
“Ah, keep it quiet,” he said.
“And how am I to stop it?” the man with the grumbling belly replied. “The rat I ate last night didn’t go near to filling me, and I been throwin’ up more of it than I put down!”
“All our bellies’re grumbling,” a third man said.
“Baram’s got food coming out tonight, so he says,” a fourth piped in hopefully.
“Won’t be near enough,” said the first, who punched the other’s shoulder again. “Never near enough. I ain’t been so hungry in all my days, not even when out on the water, days and days in a dead wind.”
“A pity we’re not for eating man flesh,” the third said with a pathetic chuckle. “Lots o’ fat bodies out on Cutlass Island, eh?”
“A pity we’re not working for Rethnor, ye mean,” said the first, and the others all snapped surprised glances his way. Such words could get a man killed in short order.
“Ain’t even Rethnor—Rethnor’s dead, so they’re saying,” said another.
“Aye, it’s that boy o’ his, the sneaky one they call the Crow,” said the first. “He’s gettin’ food. Not knowing how, but he’s gettin’ it and feedin’ his boys well this winter. I’m thinking that Baram’d be smart to stop arguing with him and start gettin’ us some of that food!”
“And I’m thinking ye’re talkin’ll of us
dead in an alley,” one of the others said in a tone that offered no room for argument. As much a threat as a warning, the harsh comment ended the discussion abruptly and the group went back to rubbing their hands, saying nothing, but with their bellies doing enough complaining to aptly relay their foul sentiments.
The mood in the Cutlass was fine that night—a small gathering, but of men who had eaten well and who had fed their families properly, and all thanks to the generosity of the son of Rethnor.
Behind the bar, Arumn Gardpeck noticed a couple of new faces that night, as he was now seeing quite regularly. He nudged his friend and most reliable customer, Josi Puddles, and nodded his chin toward the new pair who sat in a corner.
“I’m not liking it,” Josi slurred after glancing that way. “It’s our tavern.”
“More patrons, more coin,” Arumn replied.
“More trouble, you mean,” said Josi, and as if on cue, Kensidan’s dwarf walked in and moved right up to Arumn.
The dwarf followed their gazes to the corner then said to Arumn, “From the avenue called Setting Sun,” he said.
“Taerl’s men, then,” Josi replied.
“Or Kensidan’s now, eh?” Arumn said to the dwarf, sliding the usual brew his way.
The dwarf nodded, his eyes never leaving the two men as he brought the flagon to his lips and drained it in a single draw, ale spilling out over his black, beaded beard. He stayed there for some time, staring and hardly listening to the continuing conversation between Josi and Arumn. Every so often, he motioned for another ale, which Arumn, who was eating quite well thanks to the generosity of Kensidan, was happy to supply.
Finally the two men departed and the dwarf drained one last flagon and followed them out into the street. He wasn’t far behind when he exited, despite pausing for his last drink, because the pair had to pause as well to retrieve their weapons as they left. On Kensidan’s command, weapons weren’t allowed inside Arumn’s establishment. That rule didn’t apply to Kensidan’s personal bodyguard of course, and so the dwarf had not been similarly slowed.
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