Sea of Swords

It is good to be home. It is good to hear the wind of Icewind Dale, to feel its invigorating bite, like some reminder that I am alive.

That seems such a self-evident thing—that I, that we, are alive—and yet, too often, I fear, we easily forget the importance of that simple fact. It is so easy to forget that you are truly alive, or at least, to appreciate that you are truly alive, that every sunrise is yours to view and every sunset is yours to enjoy.

And all those hours in between, and all those hours after dusk, are yours to make of what you will.

It is easy to miss the possibility that every person who crosses your path can become an event and a memory, good or bad, to fill in the hours with experience instead of tedium, to break the monotony of the passing moments. Those wasted moments, those hours of sameness, of routine, are the enemy, I say, are little stretches of death within the moments of life.

Yes, it is good to be home, in the wild land of Icewind Dale, where monsters roam aplenty and rogues threaten the roads at every turn. I am more alive and more content than in many years. For too long, I struggled with the legacy of my dark past. For too long, I struggled with the reality of my longevity, that I would likely die long after Bruenor, Wulfgar, and Regis.

And Catti-brie.

What a fool I am to rue the end of her days without enjoying the days that she, that we, now have! What a fool I am to let the present slip into the past, while lamenting a potential—and only potential—future!

We are all dying, every moment that passes of every day. That is the inescapable truth of this existence. It is a truth that can paralyze us with fear, or one that can energize us with impatience, with the desire to explore and experience, with the hope—nay, the iron will! — to find a memory in every action. To be alive, under sunshine or under starlight, in weather fair or stormy. To dance every step, be they through gardens of bright flowers or through deep snows.

The young know this truth so many of the old, or even middle-aged, have forgotten. Such is the source of the anger, the jealousy, that so many exhibit toward the young. So many times have I heard the common lament, “If only I could go back to that age, knowing what I now know!” Those words amuse me profoundly, for in truth, the lament should be, “If only I could reclaim the lust and the joy I knew then!”

That is the meaning of life, I have come at last to understand, and in that understanding, I have indeed found that lust and that joy. A life of twenty years where that lust and joy, where that truth is understood might be more full than a life of centuries with head bowed and shoulders slumped.

I remember my first battle beside Wulfgar, when I led him in, against tremendous odds and mighty giants, with a huge grin and a lust for life. How strange that as I gained more to lose, I allowed that lust to diminish!

It took me this long, through some bitter losses, to recognize the folly of that reasoning. It took me this long, returned to Icewind Dale after unwittingly surrendering the Crystal Shard to Jarlaxle and completing at last (and forever, I pray) my relationship with Artemis Entreri, to wake up to the life that is mine, to appreciate the beauty around me, to seek out and not shy away from the excitement that is there to be lived.

There remain worries and fears, of course. Wulfgar is gone from us—I know not where—and I fear for his head, his heart, and his body. But I have accepted that his path was his own to choose, and that he, for the sake of all three—head, heart, and body—had to step away from us. I pray that our paths will cross again, that he will find his way home. I pray that some news of him will come to us, either calming our fears or setting us into action to recover him.

But I can be patient and convince myself of the best. For to brood upon my fears for him, I am defeating the entire purpose of my own life.

That I will not do.

There is too much beauty.

There are too many monsters and too manyrogues.

There is too much fun.

–drizztdo'urden

Chapter 1 BACK TO BACK

His long white hair rolled down Catti-brie's shoulder, tickling the front of her bare arm, and her own thick auburn hair cascaded down Drizzt's arm and chest.

The two sat back to back on the banks of Maer Dualdon, the largest lake in Icewind Dale, staring up at the hazy summer sky. Lazy white clouds drifted slowly overhead, their white fluffy lines sometimes cut in sharp contrast as one of many huge schinlook vultures coasted underneath. It was the clouds, not the many birds that were out this day, that held the attention of the couple.

“A knucklehead trout on the gaff,” Catti-brie said of one unusual cloud formation, a curving oblong before a trailing, thin line of white.

“How do you see that?” the dark elf protested with a laugh.

Catti-brie turned her head to regard her black-skinned, violet-eyed companion. “How do ye' not?” she asked. “It's as plain as the white line o' yer own eyebrows.”

Drizzt laughed again, but not so much at what the woman was saying, but rather, at how she was saying it. She was living with Bruenor's clan again in the dwarven mines just outside of Ten-Towns, and the mannerisms and accent of the rough-and-tumble dwarves were obviously again wearing off on her.

Drizzt turned his head a bit toward the woman, as well, his right eye barely a couple of inches from Catti-brie's. He saw the sparkle there—it was unmistakable—a look of contentment and happiness only now returning in the months since Wulfgar had left them, a look that seemed, in fact, even more intense than ever before.

Drizzt laughed and looked back up at the sky. “Your fish got away,” he announced, for the wind had blown the thin line away from the larger shape,

“It is a fish,” Catti-brie insisted petulantly—or at least, the woman made it sound as if she was being petulant.

Smiling, Drizzt didn't pursue the argument.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Ye durn fool little one!” Bruenor Battlehammer grumbled and growled, spittle flying as his frustration increased. The dwarf stopped and stamped his hard boot ferociously on the ground, then smacked his one-horned helmet onto his head, his thick orange hair flying wildly from beneath the brim of the battered helm. “I'm here thinkin' I got a friend on the council, and there ye go, letting Kemp o' Targos go and spout the price without even a fight!”

Regis the halfling, thinner than he had been in years and favoring one arm from a ghastly wound he'd received on his last adventure with his friends, just shrugged and replied, “Kemp of Targos speaks only of the price of the ore for the fishermen.”

“And the fishermen buy a considerable portion of the ore!” Bruenor roared. “Why'd I put ye back on the council, Rumble-belly, if ye ain't to be making me life any easier?”

Regis gave a little smile at the tirade. He thought to remind Bruenor that the dwarf hadn't put him back on the council, that the folk of Lonelywood, needing a new representative since the last one had wound up in the belly of a yeti, had begged him to go, but he wisely kept the notion to himself.

“Fishermen,” the dwarf said, and he spat on the ground in front of Regis's hairy, unshod feet.

Again, the halfling merely smiled and sidestepped the mark. He knew Bruenor was more bellow than bite, and knew, too, that the dwarf would let this matter drop soon enough—as soon as the next crisis rolled down the road. Ever had Bruenor Battle-hammer been an excitable one.

The dwarf was still grumbling when the pair rounded a bend in the path to come in full view of Drizzt and Catti-brie, still sitting on the mossy bank, lost in their cloud-dreams and just enjoying each other's company. Regis sucked in his breath, thinking Bruenor might explode at the sight of his beloved adopted daughter in so intimate a position with Drizzt—or with anyone, for that matter—but Bruenor just shook his hairy head and stormed off the other way.

“Durned fool elf,” he was saying when Regis caught up to him. “Will ye just kiss the girl and be done with it?”

Regis's smile nearly took in his ears. “How do you know that he has not?” he remarked, for no better reason than to see the dwarfs cheeks turn as fiery red as his hair and beard.

And of course, Regis was quick to skitter far out of Bruenor's deadly grasp.

The dwarf just put his head down, muttering curses and stomping along. Regis could hardly believe that boots could make such thunder on a soft, mossy dirt path.

* * * * * * * *

The clamor in Brynn Shander's Council Hall was less of a surprise to Regis. He tried—he really did—to stay attentive to the proceedings, as Elderman Cassius, the highest-ranking leader in all of Ten-Towns, led the discussion through mostly procedural matters. Always before had the ten towns been ruled independently, or through a council comprised of one representative of each town, but so great had Cassius's service been to the region that he was no longer the representative of any single community, even that of Brynn Shander, the largest town by far and Cassius's home. Of course, that didn't sit well with Kemp of Targos, leader of the second city of Ten-Towns. He and Cassius had often been at odds, and with the elevation of Cassius and the appointment of a new councilor from Brynn Shander, Kemp felt outnumbered.

But Cassius had continued to rise above it all, and over the last few months even stubborn Kemp had grudgingly come to admit that the man was acting in a generally fair and impartial manner.

To the councilor from Lonelywood, though, the level of peace and community within the council hall in Brynn Shander only added to the tedium. The halfling loved a good debate and a good argument, especially when he was not a principal but could, rather, snipe in from the edges, fanning the emotions and the intensity.

Alas for the good old days!

Regis tried to stay awake—he really did—when the discussion became a matter of apportioning sections of the Maer Dualdon deepwaters to specific fishing vessels, to keep the lines untangled and keep the tempers out on the lake from flaring.

That rhetoric had been going on in Ten-Towns for decades, and Regis knew no rules would ever keep the boats apart out there on the cold waters of the large lake. Where the knucklehead were found, so the boats would go, whatever the rules. Knucklehead trout, perfect for scrimshaw and good eating besides, were the staple of the towns' economy, the lure that brought so many ruffians to Ten-Towns in search of fortune.

The rules established in this room so far from the banks of the three great lakes of Icewind Dale were no more than tools councilors could use to bolster subsequent tirades, when the rules had all been ignored.

By the time the halfling councilor from Lonelywood woke up, the discussion had shifted (thankfully) to more concrete matters, one that concerned Regis directly. In fact, the halfling only realized a moment later, the catalyst for opening his eyes had been Cassius's call to him.

“Pardon me for disturbing your sleep,” the Elderman of Ten-Towns quietly said to Regis.

“I–I have been, um, working many days and nights in preparation for, uh, coming here,” the halfling stammered, embarrassed. “And Brynn Shander is a long walk.”

Cassius, smiling, held his hand up to quiet Regis before the halfling embarrassed himself even more. Regis didn't need to make excuses to this group, in any case. They understood his shortcomings and his value—a value that depended upon, to no small extent, the powerful friends he kept.

“Can you take care of this issue for us, then?” Kemp of Targos, who among the councilors was the least enamored of Regis, asked gruffly.

“Issue?” Regis asked.

Kemp put his head down and cursed quietly.

“The issue of the highwaymen,” Cassius explained. “Since this newly sighted band is across the Shaengarne and south of Bremen, we know it would be a long ride for your friends, but we would certainly appreciate the effort if once again you and your companions could secure the roads into the region.”

Regis sat back, crossed his hands over his still ample (if not as obviously as before) belly, and assumed a rather elevated expression. So that was it, he mused. Another opportunity for him and his friends to serve as heroes to the folk of Ten-Towns. This was where Regis was fully in his element, even though he had to admit he was usually only a minor player in the heroics of his more powerful friends. But in the council sessions, these were the moments when Regis could shine, when he could stand as tall as powerful Kemp. He considered the task Cassius had put to him. Bremen was the westernmost of the towns, across the Shaengarne River, which would be low now that it was late summer.

“I expect we can be there within the tenday, securing the road,” Regis said after the appropriate pause.

He knew his friends would agree, after all. How many times in the last couple of months had they gone after monsters and highwaymen? It was a role Drizzt and Catti-brie, in particular, relished, and one that Bruenor, despite his constant complaining over it, did not truly mind at all.

As he sat there, thinking it over, Regis realized that he, too, wasn't upset to learn that he and his friends would have to be out on the adventurous road again. Something had happened to the halfling's sensibilities on the last long road, when he'd felt the piercing agony of a goblin spear through his shoulder—when he'd nearly died. Regis hadn't recognized the change back then. At that time, all the wounded halfling wanted was to be back in his comfortable little home in Lonelywood, carving knucklehead bones into beautiful scrimshaw and fishing absently from the banks of Maer Dualdon. Upon arriving at the comfy Lonelywood home, though, Regis had discovered a greater thrill than expected in showing off his scar.

So, yes, when Drizzt and the others headed out to defeat this newest threat, Regis would happily go along to play whatever role he might.

* * * * * * *

The end of the first tenday on the road south of Bremen seemed to be shaping up as another dreary day. Gnats and mosquitoes buzzed the air in ravenous swarms. The mud, freed of the nine-month lock of the Icewind Dale cold season, grabbed hard at the wheels of the small wagon and at Drizzt's worn boots as the drow shadowed the movements of his companions.

Catti-brie drove the one-horse wagon. She wore a long, dirty woolen dress, shoulder to toe, with her hair tied up tight. Regis, wearing the guise of a young boy, sat beside her, his face all ruddy from hours and hours under the summer sun.

Most uncomfortable of all was Bruenor, though, and by his own design. He had constructed a riding box for himself, to keep him well-hidden, nailing it underneath the center portion of the wagon. In there he rode, day after day.

Drizzt picked his path carefully about the mud-pocked landscape, spending his days walking, always on the alert. There were far greater dangers out in the open tundra of Icewind Dale than the highwayman band the group had come to catch. While most of the tundra yetis were likely farther to the south now, following the caribou herd to the foothills of the Spine of the World, some might still be around. Giants and goblins often came down from the distant mountains in this season, seeking easy prey and easy riches. And on many occasions, crossing areas of rocks and bogs, Drizzt had to quick-step past the deadly, gray-furred snakes, some measuring twenty feet or more and with a poisonous bite that could fell a giant.

With all of that on his mind, the drow still had to keep the wagon in sight out of one corner of his eye, and keep his gaze scanning all about, in every direction. He had to see the highwaymen before they saw him if this was to be an easy catch.

Easier, anyway, the drow mused. They had a fairly good description of the band, and it didn't seem overwhelming in numbers or in skill. Drizzt reminded himself almost constantly, though, not to let preconceptions garner overconfidence. A single lucky bow shot could reduce his band to three.

So the bugs were swarming despite the wind, the sun was stinging his eyes, every mud puddle before him might conceal a gray-furred snake ready to make of him a meal or a tundra yeti hiding low in waiting, and a band of dangerous bandits was reputedly in the area, threatening him and his friends.

Drizzt Do'Urden was in a splendid mood!

He quick-stepped across a small stream, then slid to a stop, noting a line of curious puddles, foot-sized and spaced appropriately for a man walking swiftly. The drow went to the closest and knelt to inspect it. Tracks didn't last long out there, he knew, so this one was fresh. Drizzt's finger went under water to the second knuckle before his fingertip hit the ground beneath—again, the depth consistent with these being the tracks of an adult man.

The drow stood, hands going to the hilts of his scimitars under the folds of his camouflaging cloak. Twinkle waited on his right hip, Icingdeath on his left, ready to flash out and cut down any threats.

Drizzt squinted his violet eyes, lifting one hand to further shield them from the sunlight. The tracks went out toward the road, to a place where the wagon would soon cross.

There lay the man, muddy and lying flat out on the ground, in wait.

Drizzt didn't head toward him but stayed low and circled back, meaning to cross over the road behind the rolling wagon to look for similar ambush spots on the other side. He pulled the cowl of his gray cloak lower, making sure it concealed his white hair, then came up into a full run, his black fingers rubbing against his palms with every eager stride.

* * * * * * *

Regis gave a yawn and a stretch, then leaned over against Catti-brie, nestling against her side and closing his big brown eyes.

“A fine time to be napping,” the woman whispered.

“A fine time to be making any observers think that I'm napping,” Regis corrected. “Did you see them back there, off to the side?”

“Aye,” said Catti-brie. “A dirty pair.”

As she spoke, the woman dropped one hand from the reins and slid it under the front lip of the wagon seat. Regis watched her fingers close on the item, and he knew she was taking comfort that Taulmaril the Heartseeker, her devastating bow, was in place and ready for her.

In truth, the halfling took more than a little comfort from that fact as well.

Regis reached one hand over the back of the driver's bench and slapped it absently, but hard, against the wooden planking inside the wagon bed, the signal to Bruenor to be alert and ready.

“Here we go,” Catti-brie whispered to him a moment later.

Regis kept his eyes closed, kept his hand tap-tapping, at a quicker pace now. He did peek out of his left eye just a bit, to see a trio of scruffy-looking rogues walking down the road.

Catti-brie brought the wagon to a halt. “Oh, good sirs!” she cried. “Can ye be helpin' me and me boy, if ye please? My man done got hisself killed back at the mountain pass, and I'm thinking we're a bit o' the lost. Been days going back and forth, and not knowing which way's best for the Ten-Towns.”

“Very clever,” Regis whispered, covering his words by smacking his lips and shifting in his seat, seeming very much asleep.

Indeed, the halfling was impressed by the way Catti-brie had covered their movements, back and forth along the road, over the last few days. If the band had been watching, they'd be less suspicious now.

“But I don't know what I'm to do!” Catti-brie pleaded, her voice taking on a shrill, fearful edge. “Me and me boy here, all alone and lost!”

“We'll be helping ye,” said the skinny man in the center, redheaded and with a beard that reached nearly to his belt.

“But fer a price,” explained the rogue to his left, the largest of the three, holding a huge battle-axe across his shoulders.

“A price?” Catti-brie asked.

“The price of your wagon,” said the third, seeming the most refined of the group, in accent and in appearance. He wore a colorful vest and tunic, yellow on red, and had a fine-looking rapier set in his belt on his left hip.

Regis and Catti-brie exchanged glances, hardly surprised.

Behind them they heard a bump, and Regis bit his lip, hoping Bruenor wouldn't crash out and ruin everything. Their plans had been carefully laid, their initial movements choreographed to the last step.

Another bump came from behind, but the halfling had already draped his arm over the bench and banged his fist on the backboard of the seat to cover the sound.

He looked to Catti-brie, at the intensity of her blue eyes, and knew it would be his turn to move very, very soon.

* * * * * * * *

He'll be the most formidable, Catti-brie told herself, looking to the rogue on the right, the most refined of the trio. She did glance to the other end of their line, though, at the huge man. She didn't doubt for a moment that he could cut her in two with that monstrous axe of his.

“And a bit o' the womanflesh,” the rogue on the left remarked, showing an eager, gap-toothed smile. The man in the middle smiled evilly, as well, but the one on the right glanced at the other two with disdain.

“Bah, but she's lost her husband, so she's said!” the burly one argued. “She could be using a good ride, I'd be guessing.”

The image of Khazid’hea, her razor-sharp sword, prodding the buffoon's groin, crossed Catti-brie's mind, but she did well to hide her smile.

“Your wagon will, perhaps, suffice,” the refined highwayman explained, and Catti-brie noted that he hadn't ruled out a few games with her completely.

Yes, she understood this one well enough. He'd try to take with his charms what the burly one would grab with his muscles. It would be more fun for him if she played along, after all.

“And all that's in it, of course,” the refined highwayman went on. “A pity we must accept this donation of your goods, but I fear that we, too, must survive out here, patrolling the roads.”

“Is that what ye're doing, then?” Catti-brie asked. “I'd've marked ye out as a bunch o' worthless thieves, meself.”

That opened their eyes!

“Two to the right and three to the left,” Catti-brie whispered to Regis. “The dogs in front are mine.”

“Of course they are,” Regis replied, and Catti-brie glanced over at him in surprise.

That surprise lasted only a moment, though, only the time it took for Catti-brie to remind herself that Regis understood her so very well, and had likely followed her emotions through the discussion with the highwayman as clearly as she had recognized them herself.

She turned back to the halfling, smiling wryly, and gave a slight motion, then turned back to the highwaymen.

“Ye've no call or right to be taking anything,” she said to the thieves, putting just enough of a tremor in her voice to make them think her bold front was just that, a front hiding sheer terror.

Regis yawned and stretched, then popped wide his eyes, feigning surprise and terror. He gave a yelp and leaped off the right side of the wagon, running out into the mud.

Catti-brie took the cue, standing tall, and in a single tug pulling off her phony woolen dress, tossing it aside and revealing herself as the warrior she was. Out came Khazid’hea, the deadly Cutter, and the woman reached under the lip of the wagon seat, pulling forth her bow. She leaped ahead, one stride along the hitch and to the ground beside the horse, pulling the beast forward in a sudden rush, using its bulk to separate the big man from his two partners.

* * * * * * *

The three thugs to the left hand side of the wagon saw the movement and leaped up from the mud, drawing swords and howling as they charged forward.

A lithe and quick-moving form rose up from a crouch behind a small banking to the side of them, silent as a ghost, and seeming almost to float, so quick were its feet moving, across the sloppy ground.

Shining twin scimitars came out from under the folds of a gray cloak; a white smile and violet eyes greeting the charging trio.

“ 'Ere, get him!” one thug cried and all three went at the drow. Their movements, two stabbing thrusts and a wild slash, were uncoordinated and awkward.

Drizzt's right arm went straight out to the side, presenting Icingdeath at a perfect angle to deflect the sidelong slash way up high, while his left hand worked over and in, driving the concave side of Twinkle down across both stabbing blades. Down came Icingdeath as Twinkle retracted, to slam against the extended swords, and down and across came Twinkle, to hit them both again. A subtle dip and duck backward had the drow's head clear of the outraged thug's backhand slash, and Drizzt snapped Icingdeath up quickly enough to stick the man in the hand as the sword whistled past.

The thug howled and let go, his sword flying free.

But not far, for the drow was already in motion with his left hand. He brought Twinkle across to hook the blade as it spun free. What followed was a dance that mesmerized the three thugs. A swift movement of the twin scimitars had the sword spinning in the air, over, under, and about, with the drow playing a song, it seemed, on the weapon's sides.

Drizzt finished with an over and about movement of Icingdeath that perfectly presented the sword back to its original owner.

“Surely you can do better than that,” the smiling drow offered as the hilt of the sword landed perfectly in the hand of the stunned thug.

The man screamed and dropped his weapon to the ground, turning around and running off.

“It's the Drizzit!” another of them shouted, similarly following.

The third, though, out of fear or anger or stupidity, came on instead. His sword worked furiously, forward in a thrust then back, then forward higher and in a roundabout turn back down.

Or at least, it started down.

Up came the drow's scimitars, hitting it alternately, twice each. Then over went Twinkle, forcing the sword low, and the drow went into a furious attack, his blades smashing hard, side to side against the overmatched thug's sword, hitting it so fast and with such fury that the song sounded as one long note.

The man surely felt his arm going numb, but he tried to take advantage of his opponent's furious movements by rushing forward suddenly, an obvious attempt to get in close and tie up the drow's lightning-fast hands.

He found himself without his weapon, though he did not know how. The thug lunged forward, arms wide to capture his foe in a bear hug, to catch only air.

He must have felt a painful sting between his legs as the drow, somehow behind him, slapped the back side of a scimitar up between his legs, bringing him up to tip-toe.

Drizzt retracted the scimitar quickly, and the man had to leap up, then stumble forward, nearly falling.

Then Drizzt had a foot on the thug's back, between his shoulder-blades, and the dark elf stomped him facedown into the muck.

“You would do well to stay right there until I ask you to get up,” Drizzt said. After a look at the wagons to ensure that his friends were all right, the drow headed off at a leisurely pace to follow the trail of the fleeing duo.

* * * * * * * *

Regis did a fine impression of a frightened child as he scrambled across the muck, arms waving frantically, and yelling, “Help! Help!” all the way.

The two men Catti-brie had warned him of stood up to block his path. He gave a cry and scrambled out to the side, stumbling and falling to his knees.

“Oh, don't ye kill me, please misters!” Regis wailed pitifully as the two stalked in, wicked grins on their faces, nasty weapons in their hand.

“Oh, please!” said Regis. “Here, I'll give ye me dad's necklace, I will!”

Regis reached under the front of his shirt, pulled forth a ruby pendant, and held it up by a short length of chain, just enough to send it swaying and spinning.

The thugs approached, their grins melting into expressions of curiosity as they regarded the spinning gemstones, the thousand, thousand sparkles and the tantalizing way it seemed to catch and hold the light.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Catti-brie let go of the trotting horse, dropped her bow and quiver to the side of the road, and skipped out to the side to avoid the passing wagon and to square up against the large rogue and his huge axe.

He came at her aggressively and clumsily, sweeping the axe across in front of him, then back across, then up and over with a tremendous downward chop.

Nimble Catti-brie had little trouble avoiding the three swipes. The miss on the third, the axe diving into the soft ground, left her the perfect opportunity to score a quick kill and move on. She heard the more refined rogue's voice urging the horse on and saw the wagon rumble past, the other two highwaymen sitting on the driver's bench.

They were Bruenor's problem now.

She decided to take her time. She hadn't appreciated this one's lewd remarks.

“Burn latch!” Bruenor grumbled, for the catch on his makeshift compartment, too full of mud from the wheels, would not budge.

The wagon was moving faster now, exaggerating each bump, bouncing the dwarf about wildly.

Finally, Bruenor managed to get one foot under him, then the other, steadying himself in a tight, tight crouch. He gave a roar that would make a red dragon proud, and snapped up with all his might, blasting his head right through the floorboards of the wagon.

“Ye think ye might be slowin' it down?” he asked the finely dressed highwayman driver and the red-headed thug sitting beside him. Both turned back, their expressions quite entertaining.

That is, until the red-headed thug drew out a dagger and spun about, leaping over the seat in a wild dive at Bruenor, who only then realized he wasn't in a very good defensive posture there, with his arms pinned to his sides by splintered boards.

* * * * * * *

One of the rogues seemed quite content to stand there stupidly watching the spinning gemstone. The other, though, watched for only a few moments, then stood up straight and shook his head roughly, his lips flapping.

“ 'Ere now, ye little trickster!” he bellowed.

Regis hopped to his feet and snapped the ruby pendant up into his plump little hand.

“Don't let him hurt me!” he cried to the entranced man as the other came forward, reaching for Regis's throat with both hands.

Regis was quicker than he looked, though, and he skittered backward. Still, the taller man had the advantage and would easily catch up to him.

Except that the other rogue, who knew beyond any doubt that this little guy here was a friend, a dear friend, slammed against his companion's side and drove him down to the ground. In a moment, the two rolled and thrashed, trading punches and oaths.

“Ye're a fool, and he's a trickster!” the enemy yelled and put his fist in the other one's eye.

“Ye're a brute, and he's a friendly little fellow!” the other countered, and countered, too, with a punch to the nose.

Regis gave a sigh and turned about to regard the battle scene. He had played out his role perfectly, as he had in all the recent exploits of the Companions of the Hall. But still, he thought of how Drizzt would have handled these two, scimitars flashing brilliantly in the sunlight, and he wished he could do that.

He thought of how Catti-brie would have handled them, a combination, no doubt, of a quick and deadly slice of Cutter, followed by a well-aimed, devastating lightning arrow from that marvelous bow of hers. And again, the halfling wished he could do it like that.

He thought of how Bruenor would have handled the thugs, taking a smash in the face and handing out one, catching a smash on the side that might have felled a giant, but rolling along until the pair had been squashed into the muck, and he wished he could do it like that.

“Nah,” Regis said. He rubbed his shoulder out of sympathy for Bruenor. Each had their own way, he decided, and he turned his attention to the combatants rolling about the muck before him.

His new pet was losing.

Regis took out his own weapon, a little mace Bruenor had crafted for him, and, as the pair rolled about, gave a couple of well-placed bonks to get things moving in the right direction.

Soon his pet had the upper hand, and Regis was well on his way to success.

To each his own.

* * * * * * *

She came ahead with a thrust, and the thug tore his axe free and set it into a blocking position before him, snapping it this way and that to intercept, or at least deflect, the stabbing sword.

Catti-brie strode forward powerfully, presenting her self too far forward, she knew, at least in the eyes of the thug.

For she knew that this one would underestimate her. His remarks when first he'd seen her told her pretty much the way this one viewed women.

Taking the bait, the thug shoved out with his axe, turning it head-out toward the woman and trying to slam her with it.

A planted foot and a turn brought her right by the awkward weapon, and while she could have pierced the man's chest with Khazid’hea, she used her foot instead, kicking him hard in the crotch.

She skittered back, and the man, with a groan, set himself again,

Catti-brie waited, allowing him to take the offensive again. Predictably, he worked his way around to launch another of those mighty—and useless—horizontal slashes. This time Catti-brie backed away only enough so the flying blade barely missed her. She turned as she came forward past the man's extended reach, pivoting on her left foot and back-kicking with her right, again slamming the man in the crotch.

She didn't really know why, but she just felt like doing that.

Again, the woman was out of harm's way before the thug could begin to react, before he had even recovered from the sickening pain that was likely rolling up from his loins.

He did manage to straighten, barely, and he brought his axe up high and roared, rushing forward—the attack of a desperate opponent. Khazid’hea's hungry tip dived in at the man's belly, stopping him short. A flick of Catti-brie's wrist sent the deadly blade snapping down, and a quick step had the woman right up against the man, face to face.

“Bet it hurts,” she whispered, and up came her knee, hard.

Catti-brie jumped back then leaped forward in a spin, her sword cutting across inside the angle of the downward-chopping axe, the fine blade shearing through the axe handle as easily as if it was made of candle wax. Catti-brie rushed back out again, but not before one last, well-placed kick.

The thug, his eyes fully crossed, his face locked in a grimace of absolute pain, tried to pursue, but the down cut of Khazid’hea had taken off his belt and all other supporting ties of his pants, dropping them to the man's ankles.

One shortened step, and another, and the man tripped up and tumbled headlong into the muck. Mud-covered, waves of pain obviously rolling through his body, he scrambled to his knees and swiped at the woman as she stalked in. Only then did he seem to realize he was holding no more than half an axe handle. The swing fell way short and brought the man too far out to the left. Catti-brie stepped in behind it, braced her foot on the brute's right shoulder, and pushed him back down in the muck.

He got up to his knees again, blinded by mud and swinging wildly.

She was behind him.

She kicked him to the muck again.

“Stay down,” the woman warned.

Sputtering curses, mud, and brown water, the stubborn, stunned ruffian rose again.

“Stay down,” Catti-brie said, knowing he would focus in on her voice.

He threw one leg out to the side for balance and shifted around, launching a desperate swing.

Catti-brie hopped over both the club and the leg, landing before the man and shifting her momentum into one more great kick to the crotch.

This time, as the man curled in the fetal position in the muck, making little mewling sounds and clutching at his groin, the woman knew he wouldn't be getting back up.

With a look over at Regis and a wide grin, Catti-brie started back for her bow.

* * * * * * * * * *

Desperation drove Bruenor's arm and leg forward, hand pushing and knee coming up to support it. A plank cracked apart, coming up as a shield against the charging dagger, and Bruenor somehow managed to free his hand enough to angle the plank to knock the dagger free of the red-haired man's hand.

Or, the dwarf realized, maybe the thug had just decided to let it go.

The man's fist came around the board and slugged him good in the face. There came a following left, and another right, and Bruenor had no way to defend, so he didn't. He just let the man pound on him while he wriggled and forced both of his hands free, and finally he managed to come forward while offering some defense. He caught the man's slugging left by the wrist with his right and launched his own left that seemed as if it would tear the thug's head right off.

But the ruffian managed to catch that arm, as Bruenor had caught his, and so the two found a stand-off, struggling in the back of the rolling and bouncing wagon.

“C'mere, Kenda!” the red-headed man cried. “Oh, we got him!” He looked back to Bruenor, his ugly face barely an inch from the dwarfs. “What're ye gonna do now, dwarfie?”

“Anyone ever tell ye that ye spit when ye talk?” the disgusted Bruenor asked.

In response, the man grinned stupidly and snorted and hocked, filling his mouth with a great wad to launch at the dwarf.

Bruenor's entire body tightened, and like a singular giant muscle, like the body of a great serpent, perhaps, the dwarf struck. He smashed his forehead into the ugly rogue's face, snapping the man's head back so that he was staring up at the sky, so that, when he spit—and somehow, he still managed to do that—the wad went straight up and fell back upon him.

Bruenor tugged his hand free, let go of the man's arm, and clamped one hand on the rogue's throat, the other grabbing him by the belt. Up he went, over the dwarf's head, and flying off the side of the speeding wagon.

Bruenor saw the composure on the face of the remaining ruffian as the man set down the reins and calmly turned and drew out his fine rapier. Calmly, too, went Bruenor, pulling himself fully from the compartment and reaching back in to pick up his many-notched axe.

The dwarf slapped the axe over his right shoulder, assuming a casual stance, feet wide apart to brace him against the bouncing.

“Ye'd be smart to just put it down and stop the stupid wagon,” he said to his opponent, the man waving his rapier out before him.

“It is you who should surrender,” the highwayman remarked, “foolish dwarf!” As he finished, he lunged forward, and Bruenor, with enough experience to understand the full measure of his reach and balance, didn't blink.

The dwarf had underestimated just a bit, though, and the rapier tip did jab in against his mithral chest-piece, finding enough of a seam to poke the dwarf hard.

“Ouch,” Bruenor said, seeming less than impressed.

The highwayman retracted, ready to spring again. “Your clumsy weapon is no match for my speed and agility!” he proclaimed, and he started forward. “Hah!”

A flick of Bruenor's strong wrist sent his axe flying forward, a single spin before embedding in the thrusting highwayman's chest, blasting him backward to fall against the back of the driver's seat.

“That so?” the dwarf asked. He stomped one foot on the highwayman's breast and yanked his weapon free.

* * * * * * * *

Catti-brie lowered her bow, seeing that Bruenor had the wagon under control. She had the rapier-wielding highwayman in her sights and would have shot him dead if necessary.

Not that she believed for a moment that Bruenor Battlehammer would need her help against the likes of those two.

She turned to regard Regis, approaching from the right. Behind him came his obedient pet, carrying the captive across his shoulders.

“Ye got some bandages for the one Bruenor dropped?” Catti-brie asked, though she wasn't very confident that the man was even alive.

Regis started to nod, but then shouted, “Left!” with alarm.

Catti-brie spun, Taulmaril coming up, and noted the target. The man Drizzt had dropped to the mud was starting to rise.

She put an arrow that streaked and sparked like a bolt of lightning into the ground right beneath his rising head. The man froze in place, and seemed to be whimpering.

“Ye would do well to lie back down,” Catti-brie called from the road.

He did.

* * * * * * * *

More than two hours later, the two escaping rogues crashed through the brush, the one break through the ring of boulders that concealed their encampment. Still stumbling, still frantic, they pushed past the horses and moved around the stolen wagon, to find Jule Pepper, their leader, the strategist of the outfit and also the cook, stirring a huge caldron.

“Nothing today?” the tall black-haired woman asked, her brown eyes scrutinizing them. Her tone and her posture revealed the truth, though neither of the rogues were smart enough to catch on. Jule understood that something had happened, and likely, nothing good.

“The Drizzit,” one of the rogues spurted, gasping for breath with every word. “The Drizzit and 'is friends got us.”

“Drizzt?” Jules asked.

“Drizzit Dudden, the damned drow elf,” said the other. “We was takin' a wagon—just a woman and her kid—and there he was, behind the three of us. Poor Walken got him in the fight, head up.”

“Poor Walken,” the other said.

Jule closed her eyes and shook her head, seeing something that the others apparently had not. “And this woman,” she asked, “she merely surrendered the wagon?”

“She was puttin' up a fight when we runned off,” said the first of the dirty pair. “We didn't get to see much.”

“She?” Jule asked. “You mean Catti-brie? The daughter of Bruenor Battlehammer? You were baited, you fools!”

The pair looked at each other in confusion. “And we're payin' with the loss of a few, don't ye doubt,” one finally said, mustering the courage to look back at the imposing woman. “Could'a been worse.”

“Could it?” Jule asked doubtfully. “Tell me, then, did this dark elf’s panther companion make an appearance?”

Again the two looked at each other.

As if in response, a low growl reverberated through the encampment, resonating as if it was coming from the ground itself, running into the bodies of the three rogues. The horses at the side of the camp neighed and stomped and tossed their heads nervously.

“I would guess that it did,” Jule answered her own question, and she gave a great sigh.

A movement to the side, a flash of flying blackness, caught their attention, turning all three heads to regard the new arrival. It was a huge black cat, ten feet long at least, and with muscled shoulders as high as a tall man's chest.

“Drow elf’s cat?” one of the dirty rogues asked.

“They say her name is Guenhwyvar,” Jule confirmed.

The other rogue was already backing away, staring at the cat all the while. He bumped into a wagon then edged around it, moving right before the nervous and sweating horses.

“And so you ran right back to me,” Jule said to the other with obvious contempt. “You could not understand that the drow allowed you to escape?”

“No, he was busy!” the remaining rogue protested.

Jule just shook her head. She wasn't really surprised it had ended like this, after all. She supposed that she deserved it for taking up with a band of fools.

Guenhwyvar roared and sprang into the middle of the camp, landing right between the pair. Jule, wiser than to even think of giving a fight against the mighty beast, just threw up her hands. She was about to instruct her companions to do the same when she heard one of them hit the ground. He'd fainted dead away.

The remaining dirty rogue didn't even see Guenhwyvar's spring. He spun around and rushed through the break in the boulder ring, crashing through the brush, thinking to leave his friends behind to fight while he made his escape, as he had done back on the road. He came through, squinting against the slapping branches, and did notice a dark form standing to the side and did notice a pair of intense violet eyes regarding him—just an instant before the hilt of a scimitar rushed up and slammed him in the face, laying him low.

Chapter 2 CONFLICTED

The wind and salty spray felt good on his face, his long blond hair trailing out behind him, his crystal blue eyes squinting against the glare. Wulfgar's features remained strong, but boyish, despite the ruddiness of his skin from tendays at sea. To the more discerning observer, though, there loomed in Wulfgar's eyes a resonance that denied the youthful appearance, a sadness wrought of bitter experience.

That melancholy was not with him now, though, for up there, on the prow of Sea Sprite, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, felt the same rush of adrenaline he'd known all those years growing up in Icewind Dale, all those years learning the ways of his people, and all those years fighting beside Drizzt. The exhilaration could not be denied; this was the way of the warrior, the proud and tingling anticipation before the onset of battle.

And battle would soon be joined, the barbarian did not doubt, Far ahead, across the sparkling waters, Wulfgar saw the sails of the running pirate.

Was this Bloody Keel, Sheila Kree's boat? Was his warhammer mighty Aegis-fang, the gift of his adoptive father, in the hands a pirate aboard that ship?

Wulfgar winced as he considered the question, at the myriad of feelings that the mere thought of once again possessing Aegis-fang brought up inside him. He'd left Delly Curtie and Colson, the baby girl they'd taken in as their own daughter, back in Waterdeep. They were staying at Captain Deudermont's beautiful home while he had come out with Sea Sprite for the express purpose of regaining the warhammer. Yet, the thought of Aegis-fang, of what he might do once he had the weapon back in his grasp, was, at that time, still beyond Wulfgar's swirling sensibilities. What did the warhammer mean, really?

That warhammer, a gift from Bruenor, had been meant as a symbol of the dwarf's love for him, of the dwarfs recognition that Wulfgar had risen above his stoic and brutal upbringing to become a better warrior, and more importantly, a better man. But had Wulfgar, really? Was he deserving of the warhammer, of Bruenor's love? Certainly the events since his return from the Abyss would argue against that. Over the past months Wulfgar hadn't done many things of which he was proud and had an entire list of accomplishments, beginning with his slapping Catti-brie's face, that he would rather forget.

And so this pursuit of Aegis-fang had come to him as a welcome relief, a distraction that kept him busy, and positively employed for a good cause, while he continued to sort things out. But if Aegis-fang was on that boat ahead, or the next one in line, and Wulfgar retrieved it, where would it lead? Was his place still waiting for him in Icewind Dale among his former friends? Would he return to a life of adventure and wild battles, living on the edge of disaster with Drizzt and the others?

Wulfgar's thoughts returned to Delly and the child. Given the new reality of his life, given those two, how could he return to that previous life? What did such a reversion mean regarding his responsibilities to his new family?

The barbarian gave a laugh, recognizing that it was far more than responsibilities hindering him, though he didn't often admit it, even to himself. When he had first taken the child from Auckney, a minor kingdom nestled in the eastern reaches of the Spine of the World, it had been out of responsibility, it had been because the person he truly was (or wanted to be again!) demanded of him that he not let the child suffer the sins of the or the cowardice and stupidity of the father, had been responsibility that had taken him back to the Cutlass tavern in Luskan, a debt owed to his former friends, Arumn, Delly, and even Josi Puddles, whom he had surely let down with his drunken antics. Asking Delly to come along with him and the child had been yet another impulse wrought of responsibility—he had seen the opportunity to make some amends for his wretched treatment of the poor woman, and so he had offered her a new road to explore. In truth, Wulfgar hadn't given the decision to ask Delly along much thought at all, and even after her surprising acceptance, the barbarian had not understood how profoundly her choice would come to affect his life. Because now. . now his relationship with Delly and their adopted child had become something more. This child he had taken out of generosity—and, in truth, because Wulfgar had instinctively recognized that he needed the generosity more than the child ever would—had become to him his daughter, his own child. In every way. Much as he had long ago become the child of Bruenor Battlehammer. Never before had Wulfgar held even a hint of the level of vulnerability the new title, father, had brought to him. Never had he imagined that anyone could truly hurt him, in any real way. Now all he had to do was look into Colson's blue eyes, so much like her real mother's, and Wulfgar knew his entire world could be destroyed about him.

Similarly, with Delly Curtie, the barbarian had come to understand that he'd taken on more than he'd bargained for. This woman he'd invited to join him, again in the spirit of generosity and as a denial of the thug he'd become, was now something much more important than a mere traveling companion. In the months since their departure from Luskan, Wulfgar had come to see Delly Curtie in a completely different light, had come to see the depth of her spirit and the wisdom that had been buried beneath the sarcastic and gruff exterior she'd been forced to assume in order to survive in her miserable existence.

Delly had told him of the few glorious moments she had known—and none of those had been in the arms of one of her many lovers. She told him of the many hours she'd spent along the quiet wharves of Luskan before having to force herself to begin her nights at the Cutlass. There she'd sit and watch the sun sinking into the distant ocean, seeming to set all the water ablaze.

Delly loved the dusk—the quiet hour, she called it—when the daytime folk of Luskan returned home to their families and the nighttime crowd had not yet awakened to the bustle of their adventurous but ultimately empty nights. In the months he'd known Delly at the Cutlass, in the nights they'd spent in each others' arms, Wulfgar had never begun to imagine that there was so much more to her, that she was possessed of hopes and dreams, and that she held such a deep understanding of the people around her. When men bedded her, they often thought her an easy target, tossing a few words of compliment to get their prize.

What Wulfgar came to understand about Delly was that none of those words, none of that game, had ever really meant anything to her. Her one measure of power on the streets was her body, and so she used it to gain favor, to gain knowledge, to gain security, in a place lacking in all three. How strange it seemed to Wulfgar to recognize that while all the men had believed they were taking advantage of Delly's ignorance, she was, in fact, taking advantage of their weakness in the face of lust.

Yes, Delly Curtie could play the “using” game as well as any, and that was why this blossoming relationship seemed so amazing to him. Because Delly wasn't using him at all, he knew, and he wasn't using her. For the first time in all their history together, the two had merely been sharing each others' company, honestly and without pretense, without an agenda.

And Wulfgar would be a liar indeed if he couldn't admit that he was enjoying it.

A liar Wulfgar would be indeed, and a coward besides, if he couldn't admit that he'd fallen in love with Delly Curtie. Thus, the couple had married. Not formally, but in heart and soul, and Wulfgar knew that this woman, this unlikely companion, had completed him in ways he had never known possible.

“Killer banner up!” came a call from the crow's nest, meaning that this was indeed a pirate vessel ahead of Sea Sprite, for in her arrogance, she was flying a recognized pirate pennant.

With nothing but open water ahead, the ship had no chance of escape. No vessel on the Sword Coast could outrun Sea Sprite, especially with the powerful wizard Robillard sitting atop the back of the flying bridge, summoning gusts of wind repeatedly into the schooner's mainsail.

Wulfgar took a deep breath, and another, but found little in them to help steady his nerves.

/ am a warrior! he reminded himself, but that other truth, that he was a husband and a father, would not be so easily put down.

How strange this change in heart seemed to him. Just a few months before, he had been the terror of Luskan, throwing himself into fights with abandon, reckless to the point of self-destructive. But that was when he had nothing to lose, when he believed that death would take away the pain. Now, it was something even greater than those things he had to lose, it was the realization that if he perished out here, Delly and Colson would suffer.

And for what? the barbarian had to ask himself. For a warhammer, a symbol of a past he wasn't even sure he wanted to recapture?

Wulfgar grabbed tight to the line running back to the foremast, clenching it so tightly his knuckles whitened from the press, and again took in a deep and steadying breath, letting it out as a feral growl. Wulfgar shook the thoughts away, recognizing them as anathema to the heart of a true warrior. Charge in bravely, that was his mantra, his code, and indeed, that was the way a true warrior survived. Overwhelm your enemies, and quickly, and you will likely walk away. Hesitation only provided opportunity for the enemy to shoot you down with arrows and spears.

Hesitation, cowardice, would destroy him.

* * * * * * * * *

Sea Sprite gained quickly on the vessel, and soon it could be seen clearly as a two-masted caravel. How fast that pirate insignia pennant came down when the ship recognized its pursuer!

Sea Sprite's rear catapult and forward ballista both let fly, neither scoring a hit of any consequence, and the pirate responded with a catapult shot of its own, a meager thing that fell far short of the approaching hunter.

“A second volley?” Captain Deudermont asked his ship's wizard. The captain was a tall and straight-backed man with a perfectly trimmed goatee that was still more brown than gray.

“To coax?” Robillard replied. “Nay, if they've a wizard, he is too cagey to be baited, else he would have shown himself already. Move into true range and let fly, and so will I.”

Deudermont nodded and lifted his spyglass to his eye to better see the pirate—and he could make out the individuals on the deck now, scrambling every which way.

Sea Sprite closed with every passing second, her sails gathering up the wind greedily, her prow cutting walls of water high into the air.

Deudermont looked behind, to his gunners manning the catapult on the poop deck. One used a spyglass much like the captain's own, lining up the vessel with a marked stick set before him. He lowered the glass to see the captain and nodded.

“Let fly for mainsail,” Deudermont said to the crewman beside him, and the cry went out, gaining momentum and volume, and both catapult and ballista let fly again. This time, a ball of burning pitch clipped the sails and rigging of the pirate, who was bending hard into a desperate turn, and the ballista bolt, trailing chains, tore through a sail.

A moment later came a brilliant flash, a streak of lightning from Robillard that smacked the pirate's hull at the water line, splintering wood.

“Going defensive!” came Robillard's cry, and he enacted a semitranslucent globe about him and rushed to the prow, shoving past Wulfgar, who was moving amidships.

A responding lightning bolt did come from the pirate, not nearly as searing and bright as Robillard's. Sea Sprite's wizard, considered among the very finest of sea-fighting mages in all Faerыn, had his shields in place to minimize the damage to no more than a black scar on the side of Sea Sprite's prow, one of many badges of honor the proud pirate hunter had earned in her years of service.

The pirate continued its evasive turn, but Sea Sprite, more nimble by far, cut right inside her angle, closing even more rapidly.

Deudermont smiled as he considered Robillard, the wizard nibbing his fingers together eagerly, ready to drop a series of spells to counter any defenses, followed by a devastating fireball that would consume rigging and sails, leaving the pirate dead in the water.

The pirates would likely surrender soon after.

* * * * * * * * * *

A row of archers lined Sea Sprite's side rail, with several standing forward, as obvious targets, Robillard had placed enchantments on these few, making them impervious to unenchanted arrows, and so they were the brave ones inviting the shots.

“Volley as we pass!” the group leader commanded, and every man and woman began checking their draw and their arrows, finding ones that would fly straight and true.

Behind them, Wulfgar paced nervously, anxiously. He wanted this to be done—a perfectly reasonable and rational desire—and yet he cursed himself for those feelings.

“A pop to steady yer hands?” one greasy crewman said to him, holding forth a small bottle of rum, which the boarding party had been passing around.

Wulfgar stared at the bottle long and hard. For months he had hidden inside one of those seemingly transparent things. For months he had bottled up his fears and his horrible memories, a futile attempt to escape the truth of his life and his past.

He shook his head and went back to pacing.

A moment later came the sound of twenty bowstrings humming, the cries of many pirates, and of a couple from Sea Sprite's crew, hit by the exchange.

Wulfgar knew he should be moving into position with the rest of the boarding party, and yet he found he could not. His legs would not walk past conjured images of Delly and Colson. How could he be doing this? How could he be out here, chasing a warhammer, while they waited back in Waterdeep?

The questions sounded loudly and horribly in Wulfgar's mind. All he had once been screamed back at him. He heard the name of Tempus, the barbarian god of war, pounding in his head, telling him to deny his fears, telling him to remember who he was.

With a roar that sent those men closest to him scurrying in fear, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, charged for the rail, and though no boarding party had been called and though Robillard was even then preparing his fiery blast and though the two ships were still a dozen feet apart, with Sea Sprite fast passing, the furious barbarian leaped atop that rail and sprang forward.

Cries of protest sounded behind him, cries of surprise and fear sounded before him.

But the only cry Wulfgar heard was his own. “Tempus!” he bellowed, denying his fears and his hesitance.

“Tempus!”

* * * * * * * * * *

Captain Deudermont rushed to Robillard and grabbed the skinny wizard, pinning his arms to his side and interrupting his spellcasting.

“The fool!” Robillard shouted as soon as he opened his eyes, to see what had prompted the captain's interference.

Not that the wizard was surprised, for Wulfgar had been a thorn in Robillard's side ever since he'd joined up with the crew. Unlike his old companions, Drizzt and Catti-brie, this barbarian simply did not seem to understand the subtleties of wizardly combat. And, to Robillard's thinking, wizardly combat was all-important, certainly far above the follies of meager warriors.

Robillard pulled free of Deudermont. “I will be throwing the fireball soon enough,” he insisted. “When Wulfgar is dead!”

Deudermont was hardly listening. He called out to his crew to bring Sea Sprite about and called to his archers to find angles for their shots that they might lend aid to the one-man boarding party.

* * * * * * * * * *

Wulfgar clipped the rail as he went aboard the pirate ship, tripping forward onto the deck. On came pirate swordsmen, rolling like water to cover him—but he was up and roaring, a long length of chain held in each hand.

The closest pirate slashed with a sword and scored a hit against the barbarian's shoulder, though Wulfgar quickly got his forearm up and pressed out, stopping the blade from doing more than a surface cut. The barbarian pumped out a right cross as he parried, hitting the man hard in the chest, lifting him from his feet and throwing him across the deck, where he lay broken on his back.

Chains snapping and smashing, roaring to his god, the barbarian went into a rampage, scattering pirates before him. They had never seen anything like this before, a nearly seven-foot-tall wild man, and so most fled before his thunderous charge.

Out went one length of chain, entwining a pair of legs, and Wulfgar gave a mighty jerk that sent the poor pirate flying to the deck. Out went the second length of chain, rolling about the shoulder of a man to Wulfgar's left, going completely around him to snap up and smack him in the chest. Wulfgar's tug took a considerable amount of skin from that one, and sent him into a fast-descending spin.

“Run away!” came the cries before him. “Oh, but a demon he is!”

Both his chains were entangled quickly enough, so Wulfgar dropped them and pulled a pair of small clubs from his belt. He leaped forward and cut fast to the side, catching one pirate, obviously the leader of the deck crew and the most heavily armored of the bunch, against the rail.

The pirate slashed with a fine sword, but Wulfgar jumped back out of reach, then reversed stride with another roar.

Up came a large, fine shield, and that should have been enough, but never before had this warrior faced the primal fury of Wulfgar.

The barbarian's first smash against the shield numbed the pirate's arm. Wulfgar's second blow bent in the top of the shield and drove the blocking arm low. His third strike took the defense away all together, and his fourth, following so quickly his opponent hadn't even found the opportunity to bring his sword back in, smacked the pirate on the side of his helmet and staggered him to the side.

Wulfgar bore in, raining a series of blows that left huge dents in the fine armor and that sent the pirate stumbling to the deck. He had barely hit the planking though, before Wulfgar grabbed him by the ankle and jerked him back up, feet first.

A twist and a single stride had the mighty barbarian standing at the rail, the armored pirate hanging in midair over the side. Wulfgar held him there, with hardly any effort, it seemed, and with only one arm. The barbarian eyed the rest of the crew dangerously. Not a man approached, and not an archer lifted a bow against him.

From the flying bridge, though, there did indeed come a challenge, and Wulfgar turned to see the pirate wizard, staring at him while in the throes of spellcasting.

A flick of Wulfgar's wrist sent his remaining club spinning at the man, and the wizard had to dodge aside, interrupting his own spell.

But now Wulfgar was unarmed, and the pirate crew seemed recovered from the initial shock of his overwhelming charge. The pirate captain appeared, promising a horde of treasure to the one who brought the barbarian giant down. The wizard was back into casting.

The sea scum approached, murder in their eyes.

And they stopped and stood straighter, and some dropped their weapons, as Sea Sprite glided alongside their ship right behind the barbarian, archers ready, boarding party ready.

Robillard let fly another lightning bolt that smashed the distracted pirate wizard, driving him right over the far rail of the ship and into the cold sea.

One pirate called for a charge, but was stopped short as a pair of arrows thudded into his chest.

Sea Sprite's crew was too well trained, too disciplined, too experienced. The fight was over before it had even really begun.

“You can probably bring him back over the rail,” Deudermont said to Wulfgar a short while later, with the barbarian still standing there, holding the armored pirate upside-down above the short expanse of water between the ships, though Wulfgar was now using two hands, at least.

“Yes, do!” the embarrassed pirate demanded, lifting the cage visor of his expensive helm. “I am the Earl of Taskadale Manor! I demand—”

“You are a pirate,” Deudermont said to him, simply.

“A bit of adventure and nothing more,” the man replied haughtily. “Now please have your ogre friend put me down!”

Before the captain could say a word, Wulfgar went into a half spin and sent the earl flying across the deck, to smack the mainmast with a great clang and roll right around it, crumbling down in a noisy lump.

“Earl of Taskadale, whatever that might be,” Deudermont remarked.

“Not impressed,” Wulfgar replied, and he started away, to the plank that would take him back to Sea Sprite.

A fuming Robillard was waiting for him on the other side.

“Who instructed you to board?” the furious wizard demanded. “They could have been taken with a single spell!”

“Then cast your spell, wizard,” Wulfgar grumbled at him, striding right past, having no time to explain his emotions and impulses to another when he hadn't even sorted them out for himself.

“Do not think that next time I shan't!” Robillard yelled at him, but Wulfgar just went on his way. “And pity Wulfgar when burning pieces of sail rain down upon his head, lighting his hair and curling his skin! Pity Wulfgar when—”

“Rest easy,” Deudermont remarked, coming up behind the wizard. “The pirate is taken and not a crewman lost.”

“As it would have been,” Robillard insisted, “with less chance. Their magical defenses were down, their sails exposed. I had—”

“Enough, my friend,” Deudermont interrupted.

“That one, Wulfgar, is a fool,” Robillard replied. “A barbarian indeed! A savage to his heart and soul, and with no better understanding of tactics and advantage than an orc might hold.”

Deudermont, who had sailed with Wulfgar before and who knew well the dark elf who had trained this warrior, knew better. But he said nothing, just let the always-grumpy Robillard play out his frustration with a string of curses and protests.

In truth, Captain Deudermont was beginning to rethink the decision to allow Wulfgar to join Sea Sprite's crew, though he certainly believed he owed that much to the man, out of friendship and respect. Wulfgar's apparent redemption had struck well the heart of Captain Deudermont, for he had seen the man at his lowest point, on trial before the vicious magistrates of Luskan for attempting to assassinate Deudermont.

The captain hadn't believed the charge then—that was the only reason Wulfgar was still alive—though he had recognized that something terrible had happened to the noble warrior, that some unspeakable event had dropped Wulfgar to the bottom of the lowest gutter. Deudermont had been pleased indeed when Wulfgar had arrived at the dock in Waterdeep, asking to come aboard and join the crew, asking Deudermont to help him in retrieving the mighty warhammer that Bruenor Battlehammer had crafted for him.

Now it was clear to the captain, though, that the scars of Wulfgar's pain had not yet fully healed. His charge back there had been reckless and foolish and could have endangered the entire crew. That, Captain Deudermont could not tolerate. He would have to speak with Wulfgar, and sternly.

More than that, the captain decided then and there that he would make finding Sheila Kree and her elusive ship a priority, would get Wulfgar back Aegis-fang, and would put him back ashore in Waterdeep.

To the benefit of all.

Chapter 3 BELLS AND WHISTLES

Great gargoyles leered down from twenty feet; a gigantic stone statue of a humanoid lizard warrior—a golem of some sorts, perhaps, but more likely just a carving—guarded the door, which was set between its wide-spread legs. Just inside that dark opening, a myriad of magical lights danced and floated about, some throwing sparks in a threatening manner.

Le'lorinel was hardly impressed by any of it. The elf knew the schools of magic used by this one, studies that involved illusion and divination, and feared neither. No, E'kressa the Seer's guards and wards did not impress the seasoned warrior. They were more show than substance. Le'lorinel didn't even draw a sword and even removed a shining silver helmet when crossing through that darkened opening and into a circular corridor.

“E'kressa diknomin tue?” the elf asked, using the tongue of the gnomes. Le'lorinel paused at the base of a ladder, waiting for a response.

“E'kressa diknomin tue?” the elf asked again, louder and more insistently.

A response drifted through the air on unseen breezes.

“What adventures dark and fell, await the darker side of Le'lorinel?” came a high-pitched, but still gravelly voice, speaking in the common tongue. “When dark skin splashes blade with red, then shall insatiable hunger be fed? When Le'lorinel has noble drow dead, will he smile, his anger fled?”

Le'lorinel did smile then, at the display of divination, and at the obvious errors.

“May I—?” the elf started to ask.

“Do come up,” came a quick interruption, the tone and abrupt manner telling Le'lorinel that E'kressa wanted to make it clear that the question had been foreseen.

With a chuckle, Le'lorinel trotted up the stairs. At the top, the elf found a door of hanging blue beads, a soft glow coming from behind them. Pushing through brought Le'lorinel into E'kressa's main audience chamber, obviously, a place of many carpets and pillows for sitting, and with arcane runes and artifacts: a skull here, a gigantic bat wing there, a crystal ball set on a pedestal along the wall, a large mirror, its golden edges all of shaped and twisted design.

Never had Le'lorinel seen so many trite wizardly items all piled together in one place, and after years of working with Mahskevic the elf knew indeed that they were minor things, window dressing and nothing more—except, perhaps, for the crystal ball.

Le'lorinel hardly paid them any heed, though, for the elf was watching E'kressa. Dressed in robes of dark blue with red swirling patterns all about them, and a with a gigantic conical hat, the gnome seemed almost a caricature of the classic expectations of a wizard, except, of course, that instead of being tall and imposing, E'kressa barely topped three feet. A large gray beard and bushy eyebrows stuck out from under that hat, and E'kressa tilted his head back, face aimed in the general direction of Le'lorinel, but not as if looking at the elf.

Two pure white orbs showed under those bushy eyebrows.

Le'lorinel laughed out loud. “A blind seer? How perfectly typical.”

“You doubt the powers of my magical sight?” E'kressa replied, raising his arms in threat like the wings of a crowning eagle.

More than you could ever understand,” Le'lorinel casually replied.

E'kressa held the pose for a long moment, but then, in the face of Le'lorinel's relaxed posture and ridiculing smirk, the gnome finally relented. With a shrug, E'kressa reached up and took the phony white lenses out of his sparkling gray eyes.

“Works for the peasants,” the illusionist seer explained. “Amazes them, indeed! And they always seem more eager to drop an extra coin or two to a blind seer.”

“Peasants are easily impressed,” said Le'lorinel. “I am not.”

“And yet I knew of you, and your quest,” E'kressa was fast to point out.

“And you know of Mahskevic, too,” the elf replied dryly.

E'kressa stomped a booted foot and assumed a petulant posture that lasted all of four heartbeats. “You brought payment?” the seer asked indignantly.

Le'lorinel tossed a bag of silver across the expanse to the eager gnome's waiting hands. “Why not just use your incredible powers of divination to get the count?” Le'lorinel asked, as the gnome started counting out the coins.

E'kressa's eyes narrowed so that they were lost beneath the tremendous eyebrows. The gnome waved his hand over the bag, muttered a spell, then a moment later, nodded and put the bag aside. “I should charge you more for making me do that,” he remarked.

“For counting your payment?” Le'lorinel asked skeptically.

“For having to show you yet another feat of my great powers of seeing,” the gnome replied. “For not making you wait while I counted them out.”

“It took little magic to know that the coins would all be there,” the elf responded. “Why would I come here if I had not the agreed upon price?”

“Another test?” the gnome asked.

Le'lorinel groaned.

“Impatience is the folly of humans, not of elves,” E'kressa reminded. “I foresee that if you pursue your quest with such impatience, doom will befall you.”

“Brilliant,” came the sarcastic reply.

“You're not making this easy, you know,” the gnome said in deadpan tones.

“And while I can assure you that I have all the patience I will need to be rid of Drizzt Do'Urden, I do not wish to waste my hours standing here,” said Le'lorinel. “Too many preparations yet await me, E'kressa.”

The gnome considered that for a moment, then gave a simple shrug. “Indeed. Well, let us see what the crystal ball will show to us. The course of your pursuit, we hope, and perhaps whether Le'lorinel shall win or whether he shall lose.” He rambled down toward the center of the room, waddling like a duck, then veered to the crystal ball.

“The course, and nothing more,” Le'lorinel corrected.

E'kressa stopped short and turned about slowly to regard this curious creature. “Most would desire to know the outcome,” he said.

“And yet, I know, as do you, that any such outcome is not predetermined,” Le'lorinel replied.

“There is a probability. .”

“And nothing more than that. And what am I to do, O great seer, if you tell me I shall win my encounter with Drizzt Do'Urden, that I shall slay him as he deserves to be slain and wipe my bloodstained sword upon his white hair?”

“Rejoice?” E'kressa asked sarcastically.

“And what am I to do, O great seer, if you tell me that I shall lose this fight?” Le'lorinel went on. “Abandon that which I can not abandon? Forsake my people and suffer the drow to live?”

“Some people think he's a pretty nice guy.”

“Illusions do fool some people, do they not?” Le'lorinel remarked.

E'kressa started to respond, but then merely sighed and shrugged and continued on his waddling way to the crystal ball. “Tell me your thoughts of the road before you,” he instructed.

“The extra payment insures confidentiality?” Le'lorinel asked.

E'kressa regarded the elf as if that was a foolish question indeed. “Why would I inform this Drizzt character if ever I met him?” he asked. “And why would I ever meet him, with him being halfway across the world?”

“Then you have already spied him out?”

E'kressa picked up the cue that was the eagerness in the elf’s voice, and that anxious pitch made him straighten his shoulders and puff out his chest with pride. “Might that I have,” he said. “Might that I have.”

Le'lorinel answered with a determined stride, moving to the crystal ball directly opposite the gnome. “Find him.”

E'kressa began his casting. His little arms waved in high circles above his head while strange utterances in a language Le'lorinel did not know, and in a voice that hardly seemed familiar, came out of his mouth.

The gray eyes popped open. E'kressa bent forward intently. “Drizzt Do'Urden,” he said quietly, but firmly. “The doomed drow, for there can be but one outcome of such tedious and careful planning.

“Drizzt Do'Urden,” the gnome said again, the name running off his lips as rhythmically and enchantingly as had the arcane words of his spell. “I see … I see … I see. .”

E'kressa paused and gave a “Hmm,” then stood straighter. “I see the distorted face of an overeager bald-headed ridiculously masked elf,” he explained, bending to peer around the crystal ball and into Le'lorinel's wide-eyed face. “Do you think you might step back a bit?”

Le'lorinel's shoulders sagged, and a great sigh came forth, but the elf did as requested.

E'kressa rubbed his plump little hands together and muttered a continuance of the spell, then bent back in. “I see,” he said again. “Winter blows and deep, deep snows, I hear wind. . yes, yes, I hear wind in my ears and the running hooves of deers.”

“Deers?” Le'lorinel interrupted.

E'kressa stood up straight and glared at the elf.

“Deers?” Le'lorinel said again. “Rhymes with 'ears, right?”

“You are a troublesome one.”

“And you are somewhat annoying,” the elf replied. “Why must you speak in rhymes as soon as you fall into your divining? Is that a seer's rule, or something?”

“Or a preference!” the flustered gnome answered, again stamping his hard boot on the carpeted floor.

“I am no peasant to be impressed,” Le'lorinel explained. “Save yourself the trouble and the silly words, for you'll get no extra coins for atmosphere, visual or audible.”

E'kressa muttered a couple of curses under his breath and bent back down.

“Deers,” Le'lorinel said again, with a snort.

“Mock me one more time and I will send you hunting Drizzt in the Abyss itself,” the gnome warned.

“And from that place, too, I shall return, to repay you your favor,” Le'lorinel replied without missing a beat. “And I assure you, I know an illusion from an enemy, a guard of manipulated light from that of substance, and possess a manner of secrecy that will escape your eyes.”

“Ah, but I see all, foolish son of a foolish son!” E'kressa protested.

Le'lorinel merely laughed at that statement, and that proved to be as vigorous a response as any the elf might have offered, though E'kressa, of course, had no idea of the depth of irony in his boast.

Both elf and gnome sighed then, equally tired of the useless exchange, and with a shrug the gnome bent forward and peered again into the crystal ball.

“Word has been heard that Gandalug Battlehammer is not well,” Le'lorinel offered.

E'kressa muttered some arcane phrases and waggled his little arms about the curve of the sphere.

“To Mithral Hall seeing eyes go roaming, to throne and curtained bed, shrouded in gloaming,” the gnome began, but he stopped, hearing the impatient clearing of Le'lorinel's throat.

E'kressa stood up straight and regarded the elf. “Gandalug lays ill,” the gnome confirmed, losing both the mysterious voice and the aggravating rhymes. “Aye, and dying at that.”

“Priests in attendance?”

“Dwarf priests, yes,” the gnome answered. “Which is to say, little of any healing powers that might be offered to the dying king. No gentle hands there.

“Nor would it matter,” E'kressa went on, bending again to study the images, to absorb the feel of the scene as much as the actual display. “It is no wound, save the ravages of time, I fear, and no illness, save the one that fells all if nothing kills him sooner.” E'kressa stood straight again and blew a fluffy eyebrow up from in front of one gray eye.

“Old age,” the gnome explained. “The Ninth King of Mithral Hall is dying of old age.”

Le'lorinel nodded, having heard as much. “And Bruenor Battlehammer?” the elf asked.

“The Ninth King lies on a bed of sorrow,” the gnome said dramatically. “The Tenth King rises with the sun of the morrow!”

Le'lorinel crossed arms and assumed an irritated posture.

“Had to be said,” the gnome explained.

“Better by you, then,” the elf replied. “If it had to be.”

“It did,” said E'kressa, needing to get in the last word.

“Bruenor Battlehammer?” the elf asked.

The gnome spent a long time studying the scene in the crystal ball then, murmuring to himself, even at one point putting his ear flat against the smooth surface to better hear the events transpiring in the distant dwarf kingdom.

“He is not there,” E'kressa said with some confidence soon after. “Good enough for you, too, for if he had returned, with the dark elf beside him, would you think to penetrate a dwarven stronghold?”

“I will do as I must,” came the quiet and steady response.

E'kressa started to chuckle but stopped short when he saw the grim countenance worn by Le'lorinel.

“Better for you, then,” the gnome said, waving away the images in the scrying ball and enacting another spell of divination. He closed his eyes, not bothering with the ball, as he continued the chant—the call to an otherworldly being for some sign, some guidance.

A curious image entered his thoughts, burning like glowing metal. Two symbols showed clearly, images that he knew, though he had never seen them thus entwined.

“Dumathoin and Clangeddin,” he mumbled. “Dumathoin and Moradin.”

“Three dwarf gods?” Le'lorinel asked, but E'kressa, standing very still, eyes fluttering, didn't seem to hear.

“But how?” the gnome asked quietly.

Before Le'lorinel could inquire as to what the seer might be speaking of, E'kressa's gray eyes popped open wide. “To find Drizzt, you must indeed find Bruenor,” the gnome announced.

“To Mithral Hall, then,” Le'lorinel reasoned.

“Not so!” shrieked the gnome. “For there is a place more urgent in the eyes of the dwarf, a place as a father and not a king.”

“Riddles?”

E'kressa shook his hairy head vehemently. “Find the dwarfs most prized creation of his hands,” the gnome explained, “to find the dwarfs most prized creation of the flesh—well, one of two, but it sounded better that way,” the gnome admitted.

Le'lorinel's expression could not have been more puzzled.

“Bruenor Battlehammer made something once, something powerful and magical beyond his abilities as a craftsman,” E'kressa explained. “He crafted it for someone he treasured greatly. That creation of metal will bring the dwarf more certainly than will the void on Mithral Hall's stone throne. And more, that creation will bring the dark elf running.”

“What is it?” Le'lorinel asked, eagerness now evident. “Where is it?”

E'kressa bounded to his small desk and pulled forth a piece of parchment. With Le'lorinel rushing to join him, he enacted another spell, this one transforming the image that his previous spell had just burned into his thoughts to the parchment. He held up his handiwork, a perfect representation of the jumbled symbols of the dwarven gods.

“Find this mark, Le'lorinel, and you will find the end of your long road,” he explained.

E'kressa went into his spellcasting again, this time bringing forth lines on the opposite side of the parchment.

“Or this one,” he explained, holding the new image, one that looked very much like the old, up before Le'lorinel.

The elf took the parchment gently, staring at it wide-eyed.

“One is the mark of Clangeddin, covered by the mark of Dumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets Under the Mountain. The other is the mark of Moradin, similarly disguised.”

Le'lorinel nodded, turning the page over gently and reverently, like some sage studying the writings of some long-lost civilization.

“Far to the west, I believe,” the gnome explained before Le’lorinel could ask the question. “Waterdeep? Luskan? Somewhere in between? I can not be sure.”

“But you believe this to be the region?” the elf asked. “Did your divination tell you this, or is it a logical hunch, considering that Icewind Dale is immediately north of these places?”

E'kressa considered the words for a while, then merely shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Le'lorinel stared at him hard.

“Have you a better course to follow?” the gnome asked.

“I paid you well,” the elf reminded.

“And there, in your hands, you have the goods returned, tenfold,” the gnome asserted, so obviously pleased by his performance this day.

Le'lorinel looked down at the parchment, the lines of the intertwining symbols burned indelibly into the brown paper.

“I know not the immediate connection,” the gnome admitted. “I know not how this symbol, or the item holding it, will bring you to your obsession. But there lies the end of your road, so my spells have shown me. More than that, I do not know.”

“And will this end of the road prove fruitful to Le'lorinel?” the elf asked, despite the earlier discounting of such prophecy.

“This I have not seen,” the gnome replied smugly. “Shall I wager a guess?”

Le'lorinel, only then realizing the betrayal of emotions presented by merely asking the question, assumed a defensive posture. “Spare me,” the elf said.

“I could do it in rhyme,” the gnome offered with a superior smirk.

Le'lorinel thought to mention that a rhyme might be offered in return, a song actually, sung with eagerness as a delicate elven dagger removed a tongue from the mouth of a gloating gnome.

The elf said nothing, though, and the thought dissipated as the image on the parchment obscured all other notions.

Here it was, in Le'lorinel's hands, the destination of a lifetime's quest.

Given that, the elf had no anger left to offer.

Given that, the elf had too many questions to ponder, too many preparations to make, too many fears to overcome, and too many fantasies to entertain of seeing Drizzt Do'Urden, the imitation hero, revealed for the imposter he truly was.

* * * * * * * * *

Chogurugga lay back on five enormous pillows, stuffing great heaps of mutton into her fang-filled mouth. At eight and a half feet, the ogress wasn't very tall, but with legs the girth of ancient oaks and a round waist, she packed more than seven hundred pounds into her ample frame.

Many male attendants rushed about the central cavern, the largest in Golden Cove, keeping her fed and happy. Always they had been attentive of Chogurugga because of her unusual and exotic appearance. Her skin was light violet in color, not the normal yellow of her clan, perfectly complimenting her long and greasy bluish-black hair. Her eyes were caught somewhere between the skin and hair in hue, seeming deep purple or just a shade off true blue, depending on the lighting about her.

Chogurugga was indeed used to the twenty males of Clan Thump fawning over her, but since her new allegiance with the human pirates, an allegiance that had elevated the females of the clan to even higher stature, the males practically tripped over one another rushing to offer her food and fineries.

Except for Bloog, of course, the stern taskmaster of Golden Cove, the largest, meanest, ugliest ogre ever to walk these stretches of the Spine of the World. Many whispered that Bloog wasn't even a true ogre, that he had a bit of mountain giant blood in him, and since he stood closer to fifteen feet than to ten, with thick arms the size of Chogurugga's legs, it was a rumor not easily discounted.

Chogurugga, with the help of Sheila Kree, had become the brains of the ogre side of Golden Cove, but Bloog was the brawn, and, whenever he desired it to be so, the true boss. And he had become even meaner since Sheila Kree had come into their lives and had given to him a gift of tremendous power, a crafted warhammer that allowed Bloog to expand caverns with a single, mighty blow.

“Back again?” the ogress said when Sheila and Bellany strode into the cavern. “And what goodzies did yez bring fer Chogurugga this time?”

“A broken ship,” the pirate leader replied sarcastically. “Think ye might be eating that?”

Bloog's chuckle from the side of the room rumbled like distant thunder.

Chogurugga cast a glower his way. “Me got Bathunk now,” the female reminded. “Me no need Bloog.”

Bloog furrowed his brow, which made it stick out far beyond his deep-set eyes, a scowl that would have been comical had it not been coming from a beast that was a ton of muscle. Bathunk, Chogurugga and Bloog's vicious son, was becoming quite an issue between the couple of late. Normally in ogre society, when the son of a chieftain was growing as strong and as mean as the father, and that father was still young, the elder brute would beat the child down, and repeatedly, to secure his own place in the tribe. If that didn't work, the son would be killed, or put out at least. But this was no ordinary group of ogres, Clan Thump was a matriarchy instead of the more customary patriarchy, and Chogurugga would tolerate none of that behavior from Bloog— not with Bathunk, anyway.

“We barely hit open water when a familiar sight appeared on our horizon,” explained an obviously disgusted Bellany, who had no intention of witnessing another of Chogurugga and Bloog's legendary “Bathunk” battles.

“Chogurugga guesses three sails?” the ogress asked, taking the bait to change the subject and holding up four fingers.

Sheila Kree cast a disapproving glance Bellany's way—she didn't need to have the ogres' respect for her diminished in any way—then turned the same expression over Chogurugga. “He's a persistent one,” she admitted. “One day, he’ll even follow us to Golden Cove.”

Bloog chuckled again, and so did Chogurugga, both of them reveling in the thought of some fresh man-flesh.

Sheila Kree, though she surely wasn't in a smiling mood, joined in, but soon after motioned for Bellany to follow and headed out the exit on the opposite side of the room, to the tunnels leading to their quarters higher up in the mountain.

Sheila's room was not nearly as large as the chamber shared by the ogre leaders, but it was almost hedonistic in its furnishings, with ornate lamps throwing soft light into every nook along the uneven walls, and fine carpets piled so high that the women practically bounced along as they crossed the place.

“I grow weary o' that Deudermont,” Sheila said to the sorceress.

“He is likely hoping for that very thing,” Bellany replied. “Perhaps we'll grow weary enough to stop running, weary of the run enough to confront Sea Sprite on the open waters.”

Sheila looked at her most trusted companion, gave an agreeing smile, and nodded. Bellany was, in many ways, her better half, the crusty pirate knew. Always thinking, always looking ahead to the consequences, the wise and brilliant sorceress had been the greatest addition to Bloody Keel's crew in decades. Sheila trusted her implicitly—Bellany had been the very first to wear the brand once Sheila had decided to use the intricate design on the side of Aegis-fang's mithral head in that manner. Sheila even loved Bellany as her own sister, and, despite her overblown sense of pride, and the fact that she was always a bit too merciful and gentle-hearted toward their captives for Sheila's vicious tastes, Sheila knew better than to discount anything Bellany might say.

Three times in the last couple of months, Deudermont's ship had chased Bloody Keel off the high seas, though Sheila wasn't even certain Sea Sprite had seen them the first time and doubted that there had been any definite identification the other two. But perhaps Bellany was right. Perhaps that was Deudermont's way of catching elusive pirates. He'd chase them until they tired of running, and when they at last turned to fight. .

A shudder coursed Sheila Kree's spine as she thought of doing battle with Sea Sprite on the open waters.

“Not any bait we're soon to be taking,” Sheila said, and the answering expression from Bellany, who had no desire to ever tangle with Sea Sprite's devastating and legendary Robillard, was surely one of relief.

“Not out there,” Sheila Kree went on, moving to the side of the chamber, to one of the few openings in the dark caverns of Golden Cove, a natural window overlooking the small bay and the reefs beyond. “But he's chasin' us from profits, and we've got to make him pay.”

“Well, perhaps one day he'll be foolish enough to chase us into Golden Cove. We'll let Chogurugga's clan rain heavy stones down on his deck,” Bellany replied.

But Sheila Kree, staring out at the cold waters, at the waves where she and Bloody Keel should now be sailing in pursuit of greater riches and fame, wasn't so certain she could maintain that kind of patience.

There were other ways to win such a personal war.

Chapter 4 THE BRAND

Now, this was the kind of council meeting Regis of Lonelywood most enjoyed. The halfling sat back in his cushioned chair, hands folded behind his head, his cherubic face a mask of contentment, as the prisoners taken from the road south of Bremen were paraded before the councilors. Two were missing, one recovering (perhaps) from a newly placed crease in his chest, and the other—the woman whom the friends had believed to be the leader of the rogue band—held in another room to be brought in separately.

“It must be wonderful having such mighty friends,” Councilor Tamaroot of Easthaven, never a fan of the Lonelywood representative, said cynically and quietly in Regis's ear.

“Those two,” the halfling replied more loudly, so that the other three councilors on his side of the room certainly heard him. The halfling paused just long enough to ensure that he had the attention of all four, and of a couple of the five from across the way, as well as the attention of Elderman Cassius, then pointed to the two thugs he'd battled—or that he'd forced to battle each other. “I took them both, without aid,” the halfling finished.

Tamaroot bristled and sat back in his seat.

Regis smoothed his curly brown locks and put his hands behind his head again. He could not contain his smile.

After the introductions, and with no disputes from any of the others, Cassius imposed the expected sentence, “As you killed no one on the road—none that we know of, at least—so your own lives are not forfeit,” he said.

“Unless the wound Bruenor's axe carved into the missing one puts him down,” the councilor from Caer-Konig, the youngest and often crudest of the group, piped in. Despite the poor taste of the remark, a bit of muffled chortling did sound about the decorated room.

Cassius cleared his throat, a call for some solemnity. “But neither are your crimes dismissed,” the elderman went on. “Thus you are indentured, for a period of ten years, to a boat of Councilor Kemp's choosing, to serve on the waters of Maer Dualdon. All of your catch shall be forfeited to the common fund of Ten-Towns, less Kemp's expenses for the boat and the guards, of course, and less only enough to see that you live in a measure of meager sustenance. That is the judgment of this council. Do you accept it?”

“And what choice are we given?” said one of the thugs, the large man Catti-brie had overwhelmed.

“More than you deserve,” Kemp interjected before Cassius could reply. “Had you been captured by the Luskan authorities, you would have been paraded before Prisoner's Carnival and tortured to death in front of a screaming crowd of gleeful onlookers. We can arrange something similar, if that is your preference.”

He looked to Cassius as he finished, and the elderman nodded his grim approval of the Targos councilor's imposing speech.

“So which shall it be?” Cassius asked the group.

The answer was rather predictable, and the grumbling group of men was paraded out of the room and out of Brynn Shander, on the way to Targos where their prison ship waited.

As soon as they had gone, Cassius called for the cheers of the council, a salute to Regis and the others for a job well done.

The halfling soaked it in.

“And I fear we may need the group, the Companions of the Hall, yet again, and soon enough,” Cassius explained a moment later, and he motioned to the chamber's door sentries. One exited and returned with Jule Pepper, who cut a regal figure indeed, despite her capture and imprisonment.

Regis looked at her with a fair amount of respect. The tall woman's black hair shone, but no more than did her intelligent eyes. She stood straight, unbroken, as if this entire episode were no more than a nuisance, as if these pitiful creatures who had captured her could not really do anything long-lasting or devastating to her.

The functional tunic and leggings she had worn on the road were gone now, replaced by a simple gray dress, sleeveless and, since it was too short for a woman of Jule's stature, worn low off the shoulder. It was a simple piece really, nearly formless, and yet, somehow, the woman beneath it managed to give it quite an alluring shape, bringing it down just enough to hint at her shapely and fairly large breasts. The dress was even torn on one side—Regis suspected that Jule had done that, and purposely— and through that slot, the woman did well to show one smooth and curvaceous leg.

“Jule Pepper,” Cassius said curiously, and with a hint of sarcasm. “Of the Pepper family of…?”

“Was I to be imprisoned in the name my parents chose for me?” the woman answered, her voice deep and resonant, and with a stiff eastern accent that seemed to shorten every word into a crisp, accentuated sound. “Am I not allowed to choose for myself the title I shall wear?”

“That would be the custom,” Cassius said dryly.

“The custom of unremarkable people,” Jule confidently replied. “The jewel sparkles, the pepper spices.” She ended with a devastating grin, one that had several of the councilors—ten males, including the elderman, and only one woman—shifting uneasily in their seats.

Regis was no less flustered, but he tried to look beyond the impressive woman's obvious physical allure, taking even greater interest in Jule's manipulative cunning. She was one to be wary of, the halfling knew, and still, he could not deny he had more than a little curiosity about exploring this interesting creature more fully.

“May I ask why I am being held here against my choice and free will?” the woman remarked a moment later, after the group had settled again, with one even tugging at his collar, as if to let some heat out of his burning body.

Cassius snorted and waved a dismissive hand her way. “For crimes against Ten-Towns, obviously,” he replied.

“List them then,” Jule demanded. “I have done nothing.”

“Your band—” Cassius started to respond.

“I have no band,” Jule interrupted, her eyes flashing and narrowing. “I was on my way to Ten-Towns when I happened to cross paths with those rogues. I knew not who they were or why they were in that place at that time, but their fire was warm and their food acceptable, and any company seemed better than the murmuring of that endless wind.”

“Ridiculous!” one of the councilors asserted. “You were speaking with them knowingly when the terrified pair returned to you—on the word of Drizzt Do'Urden himself, and I have come to trust in that dark elf!”

“Indeed,” another councilor agreed.

“And pray tell me what I said, exactly,” the woman answered, and her grin showed that she didn't fear any answers they might give. “I spoke to the fools knowingly about Drizzt and Catti-brie and Bruenor. Certainly, I am as versed on the subject as any wise person venturing to Icewind Dale would be. Did I not speak knowingly that the fools had done something stupid and had then been baited by the drow and his companions? No stretch of intelligence there, I would say.”

The councilors began murmuring among themselves and Regis stared hard at Jule, his smile showing his respect for her cunning, if nothing else. He could tell already that with her devastating posture and shapeliness, combined with more than a measure of cunning and careful preparedness out on the road, she would likely slip through these bonds unscathed.

And Regis, knew, too, whatever she might say, that this one, Jule Pepper, was the leader of the highwayman band.

“We will discuss this matter,” Cassius said soon after, the private conversations of the councilors escalating into heated debate, divisions becoming apparent.

Jule smiled knowingly at Cassius. “Then I am free to go?”

“You are invited to return to the room we have provided,” the older and more comprehending elderman replied, and he waved to the guards.

They came up on either side of Jule, who gave Cassius one last perfectly superior look and turned to leave, swaying her shoulders in exactly the right manner to again set off the sweat of the male councilors.

Regis grinned at it all, thoroughly impressed, but his smile dropped into an open-mouthed stare a moment later, as Jule completed her turn, as he noticed a curious marking on the back of her right shoulder, a brand the halfling surely recognized.

“Wait!” the halfling cried and he hopped up from his seat and ducked low to scramble under the table rather than take the time to go around it.

The guards and Jule stopped, all turning about to regard the sudden commotion.

“Turn back,” the halfling instructed. “Turn back!” He waved his hand at Jule as he spoke, and the woman just stared at him incredulously, her gaze shifting from curiosity to withering.

“Cassius, turn her back!” the halfling pleaded.

Cassius looked at him with no less incredulity than had Jule.

Regis didn't wait for him. The halfling ran up to Jule, grabbed her right arm and started pulling her around. She resisted for a moment, but the halfling, stronger than he appeared, gave a great tug that brought her around enough, briefly, to show the brand.

“There!” Regis said, poking an accusing finger.

Jule pulled away from him, but it was out now, the councilors all leaning in and Cassius coming forward, motioning for Jule to turn around, or for the guards to turn her if she didn't willingly comply.

With a disgusted shake of her head, the raven-haired woman finally turned.

Regis went up on a nearby chair to better see the brand, but he knew before the inspection that his keen eyes had not deceived him, that the brand on the woman's shoulder was of a design unique to Bruenor Battlehammer, and more than that, a marking Bruenor had used only once, on the side of Aegis-fang. Moreover, the brand was exactly the right size for the warhammer's marking, as if a heated Aegis-fang had been pressed against her skin.

Regis nearly swooned. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

“A rogue's mark,” Cassius remarked. “Common enough, I'd say, for any guild.”

“Not common,” Regis answered, shaking his head. “Not that mark.”

“You know it?” the elderman inquired.

“My friends will speak with her,” Regis answered. “At once.”

“When we are done with her,” Councilor Tamaroot insisted.

“At once,” Regis insisted, turning to face the man. “Else you, good Tamaroot, can explain to King Bruenor the delay when his adopted son's life may likely hang in the balance.”

That brought a myriad of murmurs in the room.

Jule Pepper just glared down at Regis, and he got the distinct feeling that she had little idea what he was talking about, little idea of the significance of the mark.

For her sake, the halfling knew, that better be the truth of it.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

A few nights later, Drizzt found Bruenor atop a quiet and dark place called Bruenor's Climb, in the small rocky valley the dwarves mined to the northeast of Brynn Shander, between Maer Dualdon and the lake called Lac Dinneshire. Bruenor always had such private places as this, wherever he was, and he always named them Bruenor's Climb, as much to warn any intruders as out of any personal pride.

This was the dwarfs spot for reflection, his quiet place where he could ponder things beyond the everyday trials and tribulations of his station in life. This was the one place where practical and earthy Bruenor, on dark nights, could let go of his bonds a bit, could let his spirit climb to some place higher than the imagination of a dwarf. This was where Bruenor could come to ponder the meaning of it all and the end of it all.

Drizzt had found Bruenor up on his personal climb back at Mithral Hall, looking very much the same as he did now, when the yochlol had taken Wulfgar, when they had all believed that his adopted son was dead.

Silent as the clouds flying beneath the stars, the drow walked up behind the dwarf and stood patiently.

“Ye'd think losin' him a second time would've been easier,” Bruenor remarked at length. “Especially since he'd been such an orc-kin afore he left us.”

“You do not know that you have lost him,” the drow reminded.

“Ain't no mark in the world like it,” Bruenor reasoned. “And the thief said she got it from a hammer's head.”

Indeed, Jule had willingly surrendered much information to the imposing friends when they had spoken with her right after the confrontation in the council hall. She'd admitted that the brand was intentional, a marking given by a woman ship's captain. When pressed, Jule had admitted that this woman, Sheila Kree, was a pirate and that this particular brand was reserved by her for those most trusted within her small band.

Drizzt felt great pity for his friend. He started to remark on the fact that Jule had stated that the only physically large members of the pirate band were a clan of ogres Sheila Kree kept for tacking and steering. Wulfgar had not fallen in with the dogs, apparently. The drow held back the remarks, though, because the other implication, a clear one if Wulfgar was not in league with the pirates, was even more dire.

“Ye think this dog Kree killed me boy?” Bruenor asked, his thoughts obviously rolling along the same logic. “Or do ye think it was someone else, some dog who then sold the hammer to this one?”

“I do not think Wulfgar is dead at all,” Drizzt stated without hesitation.

Bruenor turned a curious eye up at him.

“Wulfgar may have sold the hammer,” Drizzt remarked, and Bruenor's look became even more skeptical. “He denied his past when he ran away from us,” the drow reminded. “Perhaps relieving himself of that hammer was a further step along the road he saw before him.”

“Yeah, or maybe he just needed the coin,” Bruenor said with such sarcasm that Drizzt let his argument die silently.

In truth, the drow hadn't even convinced himself. He knew Wulfgar's bond with Aegis-fang, and knew the barbarian would no sooner willingly part with the warhammer than he would part with one of his own arms.

“Then a theft,” Drizzt said after a pause. “If Wulfgar went to Luskan or to Waterdeep, as we believe, then he would likely find himself in the company of thieves.”

“In the company of murderers,” Bruenor remarked, and he looked back up at the starry sky.

“We can not know,” Drizzt said to him quietly.

The dwarf merely shrugged, and when his shoulders came back down from that action, they seemed to Drizzt lower than ever.

The very next morning dark clouds rumbled up from the south off the winds of the Spine of the World, threatening to deluge the region with a torrent of rain that would turn the thawed ground into a quagmire. Still, Drizzt and Catti-brie set out from Ten-Towns, running fast for Luskan. Running fast for answers all four of the friends needed desperately to hear.

Chapter 5 THE HONESTY OF LOVE

Wulfgar was the first off Sea Sprite when the pirate hunter returned to her berth at Waterdeep's long wharf. The barbarian leaped down to the dock before the ship had even been properly tied in, and his stride as he headed for shore was long and determined.

“Will you take him back out?” Robillard asked Deudermont, the two of them standing amidships, watching Wulfgar's departure.

“Your tone indicates to me that you do not wish me to,” the captain answered, and he turned to face his trusted wizard friend.

Robillard shrugged.

“Because he interfered with your plan of attack?” Deudermont asked.

“Because he jeopardized the safety of the crew with his rash actions,” the wizard replied, but there was little venom in his voice, just practicality. “I know you feel a debt to this one, Captain, though for what reason I cannot fathom. But Wulfgar is not Drizzt or Catti-brie. Those two were disciplined and understood how to play a role as part of our crew. This one is more like. . more like Harkle Harpell, I say! He finds a course and runs down it without regard to the consequences for those he leaves behind. Yes, we fought two successful engagements on this venture, sank a pirate, and brought another one in—”

“And captured two crews nearly intact,” Deudermont added.

“Still,” the wizard argued, “in both of those fights, we walked a line of disaster.” He knew he really didn't have to convince Deudermont, knew the captain understood as well as he did that Wulfgar's actions had been less than exemplary.

“We always walk that line,” Deudermont said.

“Too close to the edge this time,” the wizard insisted. “And with a long fall beside us.”

“You do not wish me to invite Wulfgar back.”

Again came the wizard's noncommittal shrug. “I wish to see the Wulfgar who took Sea Sprite through her trials at the Pirate Isles those years ago,” Robillard explained. “I wish to fight beside the Wulfgar who made himself so valuable a member of the Companions of the Hall, or whatever that gang of Drizzt Do'Urden's was called. The Wulfgar who fought to reclaim Mithral Hall and who gave his life, so it had seemed, to save his friends when the dark elves attacked the dwarf kingdom. All these tales I have heard of this magnificent barbarian warrior, and yet the Wulfgar I have known is a man consorting with thieves the likes of Morik the Rogue, the Wulfgar who was indicted for trying to assassinate you.”

“He had no part in that,” Deudermont insisted, but the captain did wince even in denial, for the memory of the poison and of the Prisoner's Carnival was a painful one.

Deudermont had lost much in granting Wulfgar his reprieve from the vicious magistrate that day in Luskan. By association, by his generosity to those the magistrates believed were truly not deserving, Deudermont had sullied Sea Sprite's reputation with the leaders of that important northern port. For Deudermont had stolen their show, had granted so unexpected a pardon, and all of that without any real proof that Wulfgar had not been involved in the attempt on his life.

“Perhaps not,” Robillard admitted. “And Wulfgar's character on this voyage, whatever his shortcomings, has borne out your decision to grant the pardon, I admit. But his discretion on the open waters has not borne out your decision to take him aboard Sea Sprite”

Captain Deudermont let the wizard's honest and fair words sink in for a long while. Robillard could be a crotchety and judgmental sort, a curmudgeon in the extreme, and a merciless one concerning those he believed had brought their doom upon themselves. In this case, though, his words rang of honest truth, of simple and undeniable observation. That truth stung Deudermont. When he'd encountered Wulfgar in Luskan, a bouncer in a seedy tavern, he recognized the big man's fall from glory and had tried to entice Wulfgar away from that life. Wulfgar had denied him outright, had even refused to admit his own true identity to the captain. Then came the assassination attempt, with Wulfgar indicted while Deudermont lay unconscious and near death.

The captain still wasn't sure why he'd denied the magistrate his murderous fun at Prisoner's Carnival that day, why he'd gone with his gut instinct against the common belief and a fair amount of circumstantial evidence, as well. Even after that display of mercy and trust, Wulfgar had shown little gratitude or friendship.

Deudermont had been pained when they parted outside of Luskan's gate that day of the reprieve, when Wulfgar had again refused him his offer to sail with Sea Sprite. The captain had been fond of the man once and considered himself a good friend of Drizzt and Catti-brie, who had sailed with him honorably those years after Wulfgar's fall. Yes, he had dearly wanted to help Wulfgar climb back to grace, and so Deudermont had been overjoyed when Wulfgar had arrived in Waterdeep, at this same long wharf, a woman and child in tow, announcing that he wished to sail with Deudermont, that he was searching for his lost warhammer.

Deudermont had correctly read that as something much more, had known then as he did now that Wulfgar was searching for more than his lost weapon, that he was searching for his former self.

But Robillard's observations had been on the mark, as well. While Wulfgar had not been a problem in any way during the routine tendays of patrolling, in the two battles Sect Sprite had fought, the barbarian had not performed well. Courageously? Yes. Devastating to the enemy? Yes. But Wulfgar, wild and vicious, had not been part of the crew, had not allowed the more conventional and less risky tactics of using Robillard's wizardry to force submission from afar, the chance to work. Deudermont wasn't sure why Wulfgar had gone into this battle rage. The seasoned captain understood the inner heat of battle, the ferocious surge that any man needed to overcome his logical fears, but Wulfgar's explosions of rage seemed something beyond even that, seemed the stuff of barbarian legend — and not a legend that shone favorably on the future of Sea Sprite.

“I will speak with him before we sail,” Deudermont offered.

“You already have,” the wizard reminded.

Deudermont looked to him and gave a slight shrug. “Then I will again,” he said.

Robillard's eyes narrowed.

“And if that is not effective, we will put Wulfgar to duty on the tiller,” the captain explained before Robillard could begin his obviously forthcoming stream of complaints, “below decks and away from the fighting.”

“Our steering crew is second to none,” Robillard did say.

“And they will appreciate Wulfgar's unparalleled strength when executing the tightest of turns.”

Robillard snorted, hardly seeming convinced. “He will probably ram us into the next pirate in line,” the wizard grumbled quietly as he walked away.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Deudermont could not suppress a chuckle as he watched Robillard's typical, grumbling departure.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wulfgar's surprise when he burst through the door to find Delly waiting for him was complete and overwhelming. He knew the woman, surely, with her slightly crooked smile and her light brown eyes, and yet he hardly recognized her. Wulfgar had known Delly as a barmaid living in squalor and as a traveling companion on a long and dirty road. Now, in the beautiful house of Captain Deudermont, with all his attendants and resources behind her, she hardly seemed the same person.

Before, she had almost always kept her dark brown hair pinned up, mostly because of the abundant lice she encountered in the Cutlass, but now her hair hung about her shoulders luxuriously, silken and shining and seeming darker. That, of course, only made her light brown eyes—remarkable eyes, Wulfgar realized—shine all the brighter. Before, Delly had worn plain and almost formless clothing, simple smocks and shifts, that had made her thin limbs seem spindly But now she was dressed in a formed blue dress with a low-cut white blouse.

It occurred to the barbarian, just briefly (for other things were suddenly flooding his thoughts!) how much an advantage the wealthy women of Faerыn held over the peasant women in terms of beauty. When first he and Delly had arrived, Deudermont had thrown a party for many of Waterdeep's society folk. Delly had felt so out of place, and so had Wulfgar, but for the woman, it was much worse, as her meager resources for beauty had been called to attention at every turn.

Not so now, Wulfgar understood. If Deudermont held another of his many parties on this stay in port, then Delly Curtie would shine more beautifully than any woman there!

Wulfgar could hardly find his breath. He had always thought Delly comely, even pretty, and her beauty had only increased for him in their time on the road from Luskan, as he had come to appreciate the depth of the woman even more. Now, combining that honest respect and love with this physical image proved too much for the barbarian who had spent the last three months at sea.

He fell over her with a great, crushing hug, interrupting her words with kiss after kiss, lifting her with ease right from the ground and burying his face in that mane of brown hair, biting gently at her delicate—and now it seemed delicate and not just skinny—neck. How tiny Delly seemed in his arms, for Wulfgar stood a foot and a half taller than her and was nearly thrice her body weight.

With hardly an effort, Wulfgar scooped her more comfortably into his arms, spinning her to the side and sliding one arm under her knees.

He laughed, then, when he noted that she was barefoot, and even her feet looked prettier to him.

“Are ye making fun o' me?” Delly asked, and Wulfgar noted that her peasant accent seemed less than he remembered, with the woman articulating the “g” on the end of the word “making.”

“Making fun of you?” Wulfgar asked, and he laughed again, all the louder. “I am making love to you,” he corrected, and he kissed her again, then launched into a spinning dance, swinging her all about as he headed for the door of their private room.

They almost got past the threshold before Colson started crying.

The two did find some time alone together later that night, and made love again before the dawn. As the first slanted rays of morning shone through the eastern window of their room, Wulfgar lay on his side beside his lover, his hand gently tracing about her neck, face, and shoulders.

“Sure that it's good to have ye home,” Delly said quietly, and she brought her small hand up to rub Wulfgar's muscular forearm. “Been a lonely time with ye out.”

“Perhaps my days out with Deudermont are at their end,” Wulfgar replied.

Delly looked at him curiously. “Did ye find yer hammer, then?” she asked. “And if ye did, then why'd ye wait for telling me?”

Wulfgar was shaking his head before she ever finished. “No word of it or of Sheila Kree,” he answered. “For all I know, the pirate went to the bottom of the sea and took Aegis-fang with her.”

“But ye're not knowing that.”

Wulfgar fell to his back and rubbed both his hands over his face.

“Then how can ye be saying ye're done with Deudermont?” Delly asked.

“How can I not?” Wulfgar asked. “With you here, and Colson? This is my life now, and a fine one it is! Am I to risk it all in pursuit of a weapon I no longer need? No, if Deudermont and his crew hear of Sheila Kree, they'll hunt her down without my help, and I hold great faith that they will return the war-hammer to me.”

Now it was Delly's turn to come upon her elbows, the smooth sheets falling from her naked torso. She gave a frustrated shake to toss her tangled brown hair out of her face, then fixed Wulfgar with a glare of severe disapproval.

“What kind of a fool's words are spilling from yer mouth?” she asked.

“You would prefer that I leave?” Wulfgar asked, a bit of suspicion showing on his square-jawed face.

For so many years that face had held a boyish charm, an innocence that reflected in Wulfgar's sky blue eyes. No more, though. He had shaved all the stubble from his face before retiring with Delly, but somehow Wulfgar's face now seemed almost out of place without the blond beard. The lines and creases, physical manifestation of honest emotional turmoil, were not the markings of a young man, though Wulfgar was only in his twenties.

“And more the fool do ye sound now!” Delly scolded. “Ye know I'm not wanting ye to go—ye know it! And ye know that no others are sharing me bed.

“But ye must be going,” Delly continued solemnly, and she fell back on the bed. “What's to haunt ye, then, if Deudermont and his crew go out without ye and find the pirate and some o' them die trying to get yer hammer back? How're ye to feel when they bring ye the hammer and the news, and all the while, ye been sitting here safe while they did yer work for ye?”

Wulfgar looked at Delly hard, studying her face and recognizing that she was indeed pained to be speaking to him so.

“Stupid Josi Puddles for stealing the damn hammer and selling it out to the pirate,” the woman finished.

“Some could die,” Wulfgar agreed. “Sheila Kree is known to be a fierce one, and by all accounts she has surrounded herself with a formidable crew. By your own reasoning, then, none of us, not Deudermont and not Wulfgar, should go out in search of her and Aegis-fang.”

“Not me own reasoning at all,” Delly argued. “Deudermont and his crew're choosing the road of pirate hunting—that's not yer doing. It's their calling, and they'd be going after Sheila Kree even if she'd ne'er taken yer hammer.”

“Then we are back where we started,” Wulfgar reasoned with a chuckle. “Let Deudermont and his fine crew go out and find the hammer if they—”

“Not so!” Delly interrupted angrily. “Their calling is to go and hunt the pirates, to be sure, and yer own is to be with them until they're finding yer hammer. Yers is to find yer hammer and yerself, to get back where ye once were.”

Wulfgar settled back on the bed and ran his huge, callused hands over his face again. “Perhaps I do not wish to be back there.”

“Perhaps ye don't,” said Delly. “But that's not a choice for ye to make until ye do get back there. When ye've found out again who ye were, me love, only then will ye be able to tell yerself honestly where ye're wanting to go. Until ye get it to where all is for the taking, then ye'll always be wondering and wanting.”

She went quiet then, and Wulfgar had no response. He sighed many times and started to repudiate her many times, but every avenue he tried to explore proved inevitably to be a dead end.

“When did Delly Curtie become so wise in the course of life?” a defeated Wulfgar asked a short while later.

Delly snickered and rolled to face him. “Might that I always been,” she answered playfully. “Or might not be at all. I'm just telling ye what I'm thinking, and what I'm thinking is that ye got to get back to a certain place afore ye can climb higher. Ye need to be getting yerself back to where ye once were, and ye'll find the road ye most want to walk, and not just the road ye're thinking ye have to walk.”

“I was back to that place,” Wulfgar replied in all seriousness, and a cloud passed over his face. “I was with them in Icewind Dale again, as it had been before, and I left, of my own choice.”

“Because of a better road calling?” Delly asked. “Or because ye weren't yet ready to be back? There's a bit o' difference there.”

Wulfgar was out of answers, and he knew it. He wasn't sure that he agreed with Delly, but when the call from Deudermont and Sea Sprite came the next day, he answered it.

Chapter 6 THE PATHS OF DOOM

Le'lorinel worked defensively, as always, letting the opponent take the lead, his twin scimitars weaving a furious dance. The elf parried and backed, dodged easily and twirled aside, letting Tunevec's furious charge go right past.

Tunevec stumbled, and cursed under his breath, thinking the fight lost, thinking Le'lorinel would surely complain and moan about his deficiencies. He closed his eyes, waiting for the slap of a sword across his back, or his rump if Le'lorinel was feeling particularly petty this day.

No blow came.

Tunevec turned about to see the bald elf leaning against the wall, weapons put away.

“You do not even bother to finish the fight?” Tunevec asked.

Le'lorinel regarded him absently, as if it didn't matter. The elf stared up at the lone window on this side of the tower, the one to Mahskevic's study. Behind that window, Le'lorinel knew, the wizard was getting some more answers.

“Come!” Tunevec bade, and he clapped his scimitars in the air before him. “You paid me for one last fight, so let us fight!”

Le'lorinel eventually got around to looking at the impatient warrior. “We are done, now and forever.”

“You paid for the last fight, and the last fight is not finished,” Tunevec protested.

“But it is. Take your coins and be gone. I have no further need of your services.”

Tunevec stared at the elf in abject disbelief. They had been sparring together for many months, and now to be dismissed so casually, so callously!

“Keep the scimitars,” Le'lorinel remarked, not even looking at Tunevec anymore, but rather, staring up at that window.

Tunevec stood there for a long while, staring at the elf incredulously. Finally, having sorted it all out, the reality of the dismissal leaving a foul taste in his mouth, he tossed the scimitars to the ground at Le'lorinel's feet, turned about, and stormed off, muttering curses.

Le'lorinel didn't even bother to retrieve the scimitars or to glance Tunevec's way. The fighter had done his job—not very well, but he had served a useful purpose—and now that job was done.

In a matter of moments, Le'lorinel stood before the door of Mahskevic's study, hand up to knock, but hesitating. Mahskevic wasn't pleased by all of this, Le'lorinel knew, and had seemed quite sullen since the elf s return from E'kressa.

Before Le'lorinel could find the nerve to knock, the door swung open, as if of its own accord, affording the elf a view of Mahskevic sitting behind his desk, his tall and pointy blue wizard's cap bent halfway up and leaning to the left, several large tomes open on the oaken desk before him, including one penned by Talasay, the bard of Silverymoon, detailing the recent events of Mithral Hall, including the reclamation of the dwarves' homeland from the duergar and the shadow dragon Shimmergloom, the anointing of Bruenor as King, the coming of the dark elves bearing Gandalug Battlehammer—Bruenor's grandfather—and finally, after the great victory over the forces of the Underdark, Bruenor's abdication of the throne to Gandalug and his reputed return to Icewind Dale. Le'lorinel had paid dearly for that tome and knew every word in it very well.

Between the books on the wizard's desk, and partially beneath one of them, was spread a parchment that Le'lorinel had written put for the wizard, recounting the exact words E'kressa had used in his divination.

“I told you that I would call to you when I was done,” Mahskevic, who seemed very surly this day, remarked without looking up. “Can you not find a bit of patience after all of these years?”

“Tunevec is gone,” Le'lorinel answered. “Dismissed and departed.”

Now Mahskevic did look up, his face a mask of concern. “You did not kill him?” the wizard asked.

Le'lorinel smiled. “Do you believe me to be such an evil creature?”

“I believe that you are obsessed beyond reason,” the wizard answered bluntly. “Perhaps you fear to leave witnesses behind, that one might alert Drizzt Do'Urden of the pursuit.”

“Then E'kressa would be dead, would he not?”

Mahskevic considered the words for a moment, then shrugged in acceptance of the simple logic. “But Tunevec has left?”

Le'lorinel nodded.

“A pity. I was just growing fond of the young and able warrior. As were you, I had thought.”

“Not so fine a fighter,” the elf answered, as if that was all that truly mattered.

“Not up to the standards you demanded of your sparring partner who was meant to emulate this notable dark elf,” Mahskevic replied immediately. “But then, who would be?”

“What have you learned?” Le'lorinel asked.

“Intertwined symbols of Dumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets under the Mountain, and of Clangeddin, dwarf god of battle,” the wizard explained. “E'kressa was correct.”

“The symbol of Bruenor Battlehammer,” Le'lorinel stated.

“Not really,” Mahskevic answered. “A symbol used only once by Bruenor, as far as I can tell. He was quite an accomplished smith, you know.”

As he spoke, he waved Le'lorinel over to his side, and when the elf arrived, he pointed out a few drawings in Talasay's work: unremarkable weapons and a breastplate.

“Bruenor's work,” Mahskevic remarked, and indeed, the picture captions indicated that very thing. “Yet I see no marking similar to the one E'kressa gave to you. There,” he explained, pointing to a small mark on the bottom corner of the breastplate. “There is Bruenor's mark, the mark of Clan Battlehammer with Bruenor's double 'B' on the mug.”

Le'lorinel bent in low to regard the drawing and saw the foaming mug standard of the dwarven clan and Bruenor's particular brand, as Mahskevic had declared. Of course, the elf had already reviewed all of this, though it seemed Mahskevic was drawing clues where Le'lorinel had not.

“As far as I can tell, Bruenor used this common brand for all his work,” the wizard explained.

“That is not what the seer told to me.”

“Ah,” the wizard remarked, holding up one crooked and bony finger, “but then there is this.” As he finished, he flipped to a different page in the large tome, to another drawing, this one depicting in great detail a fabulous warhammer, Aegis-fang, set upon a pedestal.

“The artist copying the image was remarkable,” Mahskevic explained. “Very detail-minded, that one!”

He lifted a circular glass about four inches in diameter and laid it upon the image, magnifying the warhammer. There, unmistakably, was the mark E'kressa had given to Le'lorinel.

“Aegis-fang,” the elf said quietly.

“Made by Bruenor for one of his two adopted children,” Mahskevic remarked, and that declaration made E'kressa's cryptic remarks come into clearer focus and seemed to give credence to the overblown and showy seer.

“Find the dwarf’s most prized creation of his hands to find the dwarf’s most prized creation of the flesh,” the gnome diviner had said, and he had admitted that he was referring to one of two creations of the flesh, or, it now seemed obvious, children.

“Find Aegis-fang to find Wulfgar?” Le'lorinel asked skeptically, for as far as both of them knew, as far as the tome indicated, Wulfgar, the young man for whom Bruenor had created Aegis-fang, was dead, killed by a handmaiden of Lolth, a yochlol, when the drow elves had attacked Mithral Hall.

“E'kressa did not name Wulfgar,” Mahskevic replied. “Perhaps he was referring to Catti-brie.”

“Find the hammer to find Catti-brie, to find Bruenor Battle-hammer, to find Drizzt Do'Urden,” Le'lorinel said with a frustrated sigh.

“Difficult crew to be fighting,” Mahskevic said, and he gave a sly smile. “I would enjoy your continued company,” he explained. “I have so much work yet to be done, and I am not a young man. I could use an apprentice, and you have shown remarkable insight and intelligence.”

“Then you will have to wait until my business is finished,” the stubborn elf said sternly. “If I live to return.”

“Remarkable intelligence in most matters,” the old wizard dryly clarified.

Le'lorinel snickered and took no offense.

“This group of friends surrounding Drizzt has earned quite a reputation,” Mahskevic stated.

“I have no desire to fight Bruenor Battlehammer, or Catti-brie, or anyone else other than Drizzt Do'Urden,” said the elf. “Though perhaps there would be a measure of justice in killing Drizzt's friends.”

Mahskevic gave a great growl and slammed Talasay's tome shut, then shoved back from the desk and stood tall, staring down hard at the elf. “And that would be an unconscionable act by every measure of the word,” he scolded. “Is your bitterness and hatred toward this dark elf so great that you would take innocent life to satisfy it?”

Le'lorinel stared at him coldly, lips very thin.

“If it is, then I beg you to reconsider your course even more seriously,” the wizard added. “You claim righteousness on your side in this inexplicable pursuit of yours, and yet nothing— nothing I say—would justify such unrelated murder! Do you hear me, boy? Do my words sink through that stubborn wall of hatred for Drizzt Do'Urden that you have, for some unexplained reason, erected?”

“I was not serious in my remark concerning the woman or the dwarf,” Le'lorinel admitted, and the elf visibly relaxed, features softening, eyes glancing downward.

“Can you not find a more constructive pursuit?” Mahskevic asked sincerely. “You are more a prisoner of your hatred for Drizzt than the dark elf could ever be.”

“I am a prisoner because I know the truth,” Le'lorinel agreed in that melodic alto voice. “And to hear tales of his heroism, even this far from Mithral Hall or Ten-Towns stabs profoundly at my heart.”

“You do not believe in redemption?”

“Not for Drizzt, not for any dark elf.”

“An uncompromising attitude,” Mahskevic remarked, stroking a hand knowingly over his fluffy beard. “And one that you will likely one day regret.”

“Perhaps I already regret that I know the truth,” the elf replied. “Better to be ignorant, to sing bard songs of Drizzt the hero.”

“Sarcasm is not becoming.”

“Honesty is oft painful.”

Mahskevic started to respond but just threw up his hands and gave a defeated laugh and a great shake of his shaggy head.

“Enough,” he said. “Enough. This is a circular road we have ridden far too often. You know that I do not approve.”

“Noted,” the uncompromising Le'lorinel said. “And dismissed.”

“Perhaps I was wrong,” Mahskevic mused aloud. “Perhaps you do not have the qualities necessary to serve as an appropriate apprentice.”

If his words were meant to wound Le'lorinel, they seemed to fail badly, for the elf merely turned around and calmly walked out of the room.

Mahskevic gave a great sigh and dropped his palms that he could lean on his desk. He had come to like Le'lorinel over the years, had come to think of the elf as an apprentice, even as a son, but he found this self-destructive single-mindedness disconcerting and disheartening, a shattering reality against his hopes and wishes.

Mahskevic had also spent more than a little effort in learning about this rogue drow that so possessed the elf's soul, and while information concerning Drizzt was scarce in these parts far to the east of Silverymoon, everything the wizard had heard marked the unusual dark elf as an honorable and decent sort. He wondered, then, if he should even allow Le'lorinel to begin this hunt, wondered if he would then be morally compromised through his inaction against what seemed a grave injustice.

He was still wondering that very thing the next morning, when Le'lorinel found him in his little spice garden on the small balcony halfway up his gray stone tower.

“You are versed in teleportation,” the elf explained. “It will be an expensive spell for me to purchase, I presume, since you do not approve of my destination, but I am willing to work another two tendays, from before dawn to after dusk, in exchange for a magical journey to Luskan, on the Sword Coast.”

Mahskevic didn't even look up from his spice plants, though he did stop his weeding long enough to consider the offer. “I do not approve, indeed,” he said quietly. “Once again I beseech you to abandon this folly.”

“And once again I tell you that it is none of your affair,” the elf retorted. “Help me if you will. If not, I suspect I will easily enough find a wizard in Silverymoon who is willing to sell a simple teleport.”

Mahskevic stood straight, even put his hand on the back of his hip for support and arched his back, stretching out the kinks. Then he turned, deliberately, and put an imposing glare over the confident elf.

“Will you indeed?” the wizard asked, his glare going to the elf s hand, to the onyx ring he had sold to Le'lorinel and into which he had placed the desired magical spells.

Le'lorinel had little trouble in following his gaze to discern the item that held his attention.

“And you will have enough coin, I expect,” the wizard remarked. “For I have changed my mind concerning the ring I created and will buy it back.”

Le'lorinel smiled. “There is not enough gold in all the world.”

“Give it over,” Mahskevic said, holding out his hand. “I will return your payment.”

Le'lorinel turned around and walked off the balcony, moving right to the stairs and heading down.

An angry Mahskevic caught up just outside the tower.

“This is foolishness!” he declared, rushing around and blocking the smaller elf s progress. “You are consumed by a vengeance that goes beyond all reason and beyond all morality!”

“Morality?” Le'lorinel echoed incredulously. “Because I see a drow elf for what he truly is? Because I know the truth of Drizzt Do'Urden and will not suffer his glowing reputation? You are wise in many things, old wizard, and I am better for having tutored under you these years, but of this quest I have undertaken, you know nothing.”

“I know you are likely to get yourself killed.”

Le'lorinel shrugged, not disagreeing. “And if I abandon this, then I am already dead.”

Mahskevic gave a shout and shook his head vigorously. “Insanity!” he cried. “This is naught but insanity. And I'll not have it!”

“And you can not stop it,” said Le'lorinel, and the elf started around the old man, but Mahskevic was quick to shift, again blocking the way.

“Do not underestimate—” Mahskevic started to say, but he stopped short, the tip of a dagger suddenly pressing against his throat.

“Take your own advice,” Le'lorinel threatened. “What spells have you prepared this day? Battle spells? Not likely, I know, and even if you have a couple in your present repertoire, do you believe you will ever get the chance to cast them? Think hard, wizard. A few seconds is a long time.”

“Le'lorinel,” Mahskevic said as calmly as he could muster.

“It is only because of our friendship that I will put my weapons aside,” the elf said quietly, and Mahskevic breathed more easily as the dagger went away. “I had hoped you would help me on my way, but I knew that as the time drew near, your efforts to aid me would diminish. And so I forgive you your abandonment, but be warned, I will not tolerate interference from anybody. Too long have I waited, have I prepared, and now the day is upon me. Wish me well, for our years together, if for nothing else.”

Mahskevic considered it for a while, then grimly nodded. “I do wish you well,” he said. “I pray you will find a greater truth in your heart than this and a greater road to travel than one of blind hatred.”

Le'lorinel just walked away.

“He is beyond reason,” came a familiar voice behind Mahskevic a few moments later, with the wizard watching the empty road where Le'lorinel had already gone out of sight. Mahskevic turned to see Tunevec standing there, quite at ease.

“I had hoped to dissuade him, as well,” Tunevec explained. “I believed the three of us could have carved out quite an existence here.”.

“The two of us, then?” Mahskevic asked, and Tunevec nodded, for he and the wizard had already spoken of his apprenticeship.

“Le'lorinel is not the first elf I have heard grumble about this Drizzt Do'Urden,” Tunevec explained as the pair walked back to the tower. “On those occasions when the rogue drow visited Alustriel in Silverymoon, there were more than a few citizens openly offering complaints, the light-skinned elves foremost among them. The enmity between the elves, light and dark, can not be overstated.”

Mahskevic gave one longing glance back over his shoulder at the road Le'lorinel had walked. “Indeed,” he said, his heart heavy.

With a profound sigh, the old wizard let go of his friend, of a large part of the last few years of his life.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

On a rocky road many hundreds of miles away, Sheila Kree stood before a quartet of her crewmen.

One of her most trusted compatriots, Gayselle Wayfarer, her deck commander for boarding parties, sat astride a small but strong chestnut mare. Though not nearly as thin or possessed of classic beauty as Bellany the Sorceress or the tall and willowy Jule Pepper, Gayselle was far from unattractive. Even though she kept her blond hair cropped short, there was a thickness and a luster to it that nicely complimented the softness of her blue eyes and her light complexion, a creaminess to her skin that remained despite the many days aboard ship. Gayselle, a short woman with the muscular stature to match her mount, was, perhaps, the most skilled with weapons of anyone aboard Bloody Keel, with the exception of Sheila Kree herself. She favored a short sword and dagger. The latter she could throw as precisely as anyone who'd ever served with Sheila Kree.

“Bellany wouldn't agree with this,” Gayselle said.

“If the task is completed, Bellany will be glad for it,” Sheila Kree replied.

She looked around somewhat sourly at Gayselle's chosen companions, a trio of brutal half-ogres. These three would be running, not riding, for no horse would suffer one of them on its

back. It hardly seemed as if it would slow Gayselle down on her journey to Luskan's docks, where a small rowboat would be waiting for them, for their ogre heritage gave them a long, swift stride and inhuman endurance.

“You have the potions?” the pirate captain asked.

Gayselle lifted one fold of her brown traveling cloak, revealing several small vials. “My companions will look human enough to walk through the gates of Luskan and off the docks of Water-deep,” the rider assured her captain.

“If Sea Sprite is in. .”

“We go nowhere near Deudermont's house,” Gayselle completed.

Sheila Kree started another remark but stopped and nodded, reminding herself that this was Gayselle, intelligent and dependable, the second of her crew after Bellany to wear the brand. Gayselle understood not only the desired course for this, but any alternate routes should the immediate plan not be possible. She would get the job done, and Captain Deudermont and the other fools of Sea Sprite would understand that their hounding of Sheila Kree might not be a wise course to continue.