The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  The young lord calmed somewhat and sat back, staring at his wife, at the woman he wanted, above all else, to protect. After a moment’s thought, a moment of looking into that beautiful, innocent face, Feringal nodded his agreement. “Search all the lands,” he instructed the guard, “and the castle again from dungeon to parapet. Return him to me alive.”

  Beads of sweat on his forehead, the guard bowed and ran out of the room.

  “Fear not, my love,” Lord Feringal said to Meralda. “I shall recall the wizard and begin the search anew. The barbarian shall not escape.”

  “Please, my lord,” Meralda begged. “Don’t summon the wizard again, or any other.” That raised a few eyebrows, including Priscilla’s and Temigast’s. “I’m wanting it all done,” she explained. “It’s done, I say, and on the road behind me. I’m not wanting to look back ever again. Let the man go and die in the mountains, and let us look ahead to our own life, to when you might be siring children of our own.”

  Feringal continued to stare, unblinking. Slowly, very slowly, his head nodded, and Meralda relaxed back in her chair.

  Steward Temigast watched it all with growing certainty. He knew, without doubt, that Meralda was the one who had freed the barbarian. The wise old man, suspicious since seeing the woman’s reaction when Wulfgar had first been dragged before her, had little trouble in understanding why. He resolved to say nothing, for it was not his place to inflict unnecessary pain on his lord. In any event, the child would be put out of the way and in no line of ascension.

  But Temigast was far from easy with it all, especially after he looked at Priscilla and saw her wearing an expression that might have been his own. She was always suspicious, that one, and Temigast feared she was harboring his same doubts about the child’s heritage. Though Temigast felt it not his place to inflict unnecessary pain, Priscilla Auck seemed to revel in just that sort of thing. The road to which Meralda had referred was far from clear in either direction.

  his is our chance,” Wulfgar explained to Morik. The pair were crouched behind a shielding wall of stone on a mountainside above one of the many small villages on the southern side of the Spine of the World.

  Morik looked at his friend and shook his head, giving a less-than-enthusiastic sigh. Not only had Wulfgar refrained from the bottle in the two tendays since their return from Auckney, but had forbidden either of them to engage in any more highwayman activities. The season was getting late, turning toward winter, which meant a nearly constant stream of caravans as the last merchants returned from Icewind Dale. The seasonal occupants of the northern stretches left then as well, the men and women who went to Ten-Towns to fish for the summers then rolled their wagons back to Luskan when the season ended.

  Wulfgar had made it clear to Morik that their thieving days were over. So here they were, overlooking a small, incredibly boring village they’d learned was expecting some sort of orc or goblin attack.

  “They will not attack from below,” Wulfgar remarked, pointing to a wide field east of the village on the same height as the higher buildings. “From there,” Wulfgar explained.

  “That’s where they’ve constructed their wall and best defenses,” Morik replied, as if that should settle it all. They believed that the coming band of monsters numbered less than a score, and while there weren’t more than half that number in the town, Morik didn’t see any real problems here.

  “More may come down from above,” Wulfgar reasoned. “The villagers might be sorely pressed if attacked from two sides.”

  “You’re looking for an excuse,” Morik accused. Wulfgar stared at him curiously. “An excuse to get into the fight,” the rogue clarified, which brought a smile to Wulfgar’s face. “Unless it’s against merchants,” Morik glumly added.

  Wulfgar held his calm and contented expression. “I wish to battle deserving opponents,” he said.

  “I know many peasants who would argue that merchants are more deserving than goblinkind,” Morik replied.

  Wulfgar shook his head, in no mood and with no time to sit and ponder the philosophical points. They saw the movement beyond the village, the approach of monsters Wulfgar knew, of creatures the barbarian could cut down without remorse or regard. A score of orcs charged wildly across the field, rushing past the ineffective arrow volleys from the villagers.

  “Go and be done with it,” Morik said, starting to rise.

  Wulfgar, a student of such attacks, held him down and turned his gaze up the slopes to where a huge boulder soared down, smashing the side of one building.

  “There’s a giant above,” Wulfgar whispered, already starting his circle up the mountain. “Perhaps more.”

  “So that is where we shall go,” Morik grumbled with resignation, though he obviously doubted the wisdom of such a course.

  Another rock soared down, then a third. The giant was lifting a fourth when Wulfgar and Morik turned a bend in the trail and slipped between a pair of boulders, spotting the behemoth from behind.

  Wulfgar’s hand axe bit into the giant’s arm, and it dropped the boulder onto its own head. The giant bellowed and spun around to where Morik stood shrugging, slender sword in hand. Bellowing, the giant came at him in one long stride. Morik yelped and turned to flee back through the boulders. The giant came on in swift pursuit, but as it reached the narrow pass Wulfgar leaped atop one of the boulders and brought his ordinary hammer in hard against the side of the behemoth’s head, sending it staggering. By the time the dazed giant managed to look to the boulder Wulfgar was already gone. Back on the ground, the barbarian rushed at the giant’s side to smash its kneecap hard, then dashed back into the boulders.

  The giant ran in pursuit, clutching its bruised head, then its aching knee, then looking at the axe deep into its forearm. It changed direction suddenly, having had enough of this fight, and ran up the mountainside instead, back into the wilds of the Spine of the World.

  Morik stepped from the boulders and offered his hand to Wulfgar. “A job well done,” he congratulated him.

  Wulfgar ignored the hand. “A job just begun,” he corrected, sprinting down the mountainside toward the village and the battle being waged at the eastern barricade.

  “You do love the fighting,” Morik commented dryly after his friend. Sighing, he loped behind.

  Below, the battle at the barricade was practically at a standoff, with no orcs yet breaching the shielding wall, but few had taken any solid hits, either. That changed abruptly when Wulfgar came down from on high, running full out across the field, howling at the top of his lungs. Leaping, soaring, arms outstretched, he crashed into four of the creatures, bearing them all to the ground. A frenzy of clubbing and stabbing, punching and kicking ensued. More orcs moved to join the fight but in the end, bloody, battered, but smiling widely, Wulfgar was the only one to emerge alive.

  Rallied by his amazing assault and by the appearance of Morik, who had struck down another orc on his way down the slope, the villagers poured into the remaining raiding party. The routed creatures, the dozen who still could run, fled back the way they had come.

  By the time Morik got near Wulfgar, the barbarian was surrounded by villagers, patting him, cheering him, promising eternal friendship, offering him a place to live for the coming winter.

  “You see,” Wulfgar said to Morik with a happy smile. “Easier than any work at the pass.”

  Wiping off his blade, the rogue eyed his friend skeptically. The fight had been easy, even more so than an optimistic Wulfgar had predicted. Morik, too, was quickly surrounded by appreciative villagers, including a couple of young and attractive women. A quiet winter of relaxation in front of a blazing hearth might not be so bad a thing. Perhaps he would hold off on his plans to return to Luskan after all.

  Meralda’s first three months of married life had been wonderful. Not blissful, but wonderful, as she watched her mother grow strong and healthy for the first time in years. Even life at the castle was not as bad as she had feared. Priscilla was there, of course, never more than ca
sually friendly and often glowering, but she’d made no move against Meralda. How could she with her brother so obviously enamored of his wife?

  She, too, had grown to love her husband. That combined with the sight of her healthy mother had made it a lovely autumn for the young woman, a time of things new, a time of comfort, a time of hope.

  But as winter deepened around Auckney, ghosts of the past began to creep into the castle.

  Jaka’s child growing large and kicking reminded Meralda in no uncertain terms of her terrible lie. She found herself thinking more and more about Jaka Sculi, of her own moments of foolishness regarding him, and there had been many. She pondered the last moments of Jaka’s life when he had cried out her name, had risked his entire existence for her. At the time, Meralda had convinced herself that it was out of jealousy for Lord Feringal and not love. Now, with Jaka’s child kicking in her womb and the inevitable haze brought by the passage of time, she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Jaka had loved her in the end. Perhaps the tingling they’d felt on their night of passion had also planted the seeds of deeper emotions that had only needed time to find their way through the harsh reality of a peasant’s existence.

  More likely her mood was just the result of winter’s gloom playing on her thoughts, and on her new husband’s as well. It didn’t help that their lovemaking decreased dramatically as Meralda’s belly increased in size. He came to her one morning when the snow was deep around the castle and the wind howled through the cracks in the stone. Even as he began kissing her, he stopped and stared hard at her, then he’d asked her an unthinkable question.

  What had it been like with the barbarian?

  If he had kicked her in the head, it would not have hurt so much, yet Meralda was not angry at her husband, could surely understand his doubts and fears given her distant mood and the tangible evidence that she had been with another man.

  The woman told herself repeatedly that once the child was born and taken away, she and Feringal would settle into a normal existence. In that time when the obvious pressures were gone, they would come to love each other deeply. She could only hope that it all would not disintegrate in the months she had left carrying the child.

  Of course, as the tension grew between Feringal and Meralda, so too did the scowls Priscilla shot Meralda’s way. Power wrought of having Lord Feringal wrapped around her little finger had given Meralda the upper hand in the constant silent war Priscilla waged against her. Growing thick with another man’s child, she found that power waning.

  She didn’t understand it, though, considering Priscilla’s initial response to learning that she had been raped. Priscilla had even mentioned taking the child as her own, to raise away from the castle, as was often done in such situations.

  “You are uncommonly large for so early in the pregnancy,” Priscilla remarked to her on the same winter day that Feringal had asked her about Wulfgar. It occurred to Meralda that the shrewish woman had obviously sensed the palpable tension between the couple. Priscilla’s voice was uncommonly thick with suspicion and venom, which told Meralda that her sister-in-law was keeping close track of the passage of time. There would be trouble, indeed, when Meralda delivered a healthy, full-term baby only seven months after the incident on the road. Yes, Priscilla would have questions.

  Meralda deflected the conversation by sharing her fears about the barbarian’s size, that perhaps the child would tear her apart. That had silenced Priscilla briefly, but Meralda knew the truce wouldn’t last and the questions would return.

  Indeed, as winter waned and Meralda’s belly swelled, the whispers began throughout Auckney. Whispers about the child’s due date. Whispers about the incident on the road. Whispers about the tragic death of Jaka Sculi. No fool, Meralda saw people counting on their fingers, saw the tension in her mother’s face, though the woman wouldn’t openly ask for the truth.

  When the inevitable happened, predictably, Priscilla proved the source of it.

  “You will birth the child in the month of Ches,” the woman said rather sharply as she and Meralda dined with Steward Temigast one cold afternoon. The equinox was fast approaching, but winter hadn’t released its grip on the land yet, a howling blizzard whipping the snow deep around the castle walls. Meralda looked at her skeptically.

  “Mid-Ches,” Priscilla remarked. “Or perhaps late in the month, or even early in the Month of the Storms.”

  “Do you sense a problem with the pregnancy?” Steward Temigast intervened.

  Once again Meralda recognized that the man was her ally. He too knew, or at least he suspected as much as Priscilla, yet he’d shown no hostility toward Meralda. She’d begun to regard Temigast as a father figure, but the comparison seemed even more appropriate when she thought back to the morning after her night with Jaka, when Dohni Ganderlay had suspected the truth but had forgiven it in light of the larger sacrifice, the larger good.

  “I sense a problem, all right,” Priscilla replied, somehow managing to convey through her tone that she meant no problem with the physical aspects of the pregnancy. Priscilla looked at Meralda and huffed, then threw down her napkin and rushed away, heading right up the stairs.

  “What’s she about?” Meralda asked Temigast, her eyes fearful. Before he could respond, she had her answer, when shouts rang out from upstairs. Neither of them could make out any distinct words, but it was obvious Priscilla had gone to speak with her brother.

  “What should I do—” Meralda started to say, but Temigast hushed her.

  “Eat, my lady,” he said calmly. “You must remain strong, for you’ve trials ahead.” Meralda understood the double meaning in those words. “I’m certain you’ll come through them as long as you keep your wits about you,” the old steward added with a comforting wink. “When it is all past, you will find the life you desire.”

  Meralda wanted to run over and bury her head on the man’s shoulder, or to run out of the castle altogether, down the road to the warm and comfortable house Lord Feringal had given to her family and bury her face on her father’s shoulder. Instead, she took a deep breath to steady herself, then did as Temigast suggested and ate her meal.

  The snow came early and deep that year. Morik would have preferred Luskan, but he’d come to see Wulfgar’s point in bringing them to this village refuge. There was plenty of work to do, particularly after snowfalls when the grounds had to be cleared and defensible berm built, but Morik managed to avoid most of it by feigning an injury from the battle that had brought them here.

  Wulfgar, though, went at the work with relish, using it to keep his body so occupied he hadn’t time to think or dream. Still, Errtu found him in that village as he had in every place Wulfgar went, every place he would ever go. Now, instead of hiding in a bottle from the demon, the barbarian met those memories head-on, replayed the events, however horrible, and forced himself to admit that it had happened, all of it, and that he had faced moments of weakness and failure. Many times Wulfgar sat alone in the dark corner of the room he had been given, trembling, wet with cold sweat, and with tears he could hold back no longer. Many times he wanted to run to Morik’s inexhaustible supply of potent liquor, but he did not.

  He growled and he cried out, and yet he held fast his resolve to accept the past for what it was and to somehow move beyond it. Wulfgar didn’t know where he had found the strength and determination, but he suspected it had laid dormant within him, summoned when he’d witnessed the courage Meralda had displayed to free him. She’d had so much more to lose than he, and yet she had rejuvenated his faith in the world. He knew now that his fight with Errtu would continue until he had honestly won, that he could hide in a bottle, but not forever.

  They fought another battle around the turn of the year, a minor skirmish with another band of orcs. The villagers had seen the attack coming and had prepared the battlefield, pouring melted snow over the field of approach. When the orcs arrived they came skidding in on sheets of ice that left them floundering in the open while archers picked them off.


  The unexpected appearance of a group of Luskan soldiers who had lost their way on patrol did more to distress Wulfgar and Morik and shatter their idyllic existence than that battle. Wulfgar was certain at least one of the soldiers recognized the pair from Prisoner’s Carnival, but either the soldiers said nothing to the villagers or the villagers simply didn’t care. The pair heard no tremors of unrest after the soldiers departed.

  In the end, it was the quietest winter Wulfgar and Morik had ever known, a needed respite. The season turned to spring, though the snow remained thick, and the pair began to lay their future plans.

  “No more highwaymen,” Wulfgar reminded Morik one quiet night halfway through the month of Ches.

  “No,” the rogue agreed. “I don’t miss the life.”

  “What, then, for Morik?”

  “Back to Luskan, I’m afraid,” the rogue said. “My home. Ever my home.” “And your disguise will keep you safe?” Wulfgar asked with genuine concern.

  Morik smiled. “The folk have short memories, my friend,” he explained, silently adding that he hoped that drow had short memories, as well, for returning to Luskan meant abandoning his mission to watch over Wulfgar. “Since we were … exported they have no doubt sated their blood thirst on a hundred unfortunates at Prisoner’s Carnival. My disguise will protect me from the authorities, and my true identity will again grant me the respect needed on the streets.”

  Wulfgar nodded, not doubting Morik in the least. Out here in the wilds the rogue was not nearly as impressive as on the streets of Luskan, where few could match his wiles.

  “And what for Wulfgar?” Morik asked, surprised by the honest concern on his own voice. “Icewind Dale?” Morik asked. “Friends of old?”

  The barbarian shook his head, for he simply didn’t know the road ahead of him. He would have dismissed that possibility with hardly a thought, but he considered it now. Was he ready to return to the side of the companions of the hall, as he, Drizzt, Bruenor, Catti-brie, Guenhwyvar, and Regis had once been called? Had he escaped the demon and the demon bottle? Had he come to terms with Errtu and the truth of his imprisonment?