Sea of Swords

It has often struck me how reckless human beings tend to be.

In comparison to the other goodly reasoning beings, I mean, for comparisons of humans to dark elves and goblins and other creatures of selfish and vicious ends make no sense. Menzoberranzan is no safe place, to be sure, and most dark elves die long before the natural expiration of their corporeal bodies, but that, I believe, is more a matter of ambition and religious zeal, and also a measure of hubris. Every dark elf, in his ultimate confidence, rarely envisions the possibility of his own death, and when he does, he often deludes himself into thinking that any death in the chaotic service of Lolth can only bring him eternal glory and paradise beside the Spider Queen.

The same can be said of the goblinkin, creatures who, for whatever misguided reasons, often rush headlong to their deaths.

Many races, humans included, often use the reasoning of godly service to justify dangerous actions, even warfare, and there is a good deal of truth to the belief that dying in the cause of a greater good must be an ennobling thing.

But aside from the fanaticism and the various cultures of warfare, I find that humans are often the most reckless of the goodly reasoning beings. I have witnessed many wealthy humans venturing to Ten-Towns for holiday, to sail on the cold and deadly waters of Maer Dualdon, or to climb rugged Kelvin's Cairn, a dangerous prospect. They risk everything for the sake of minor accomplishment.

I admire their determination and trust in themselves.

I suspect that this willingness to risk is in part due to the short expected life span of the humans. A human of four decades risking his life could lose a score of years, perhaps two, perhaps three in extraordinary circumstances, but an elf of four decades would be risking several centuries of life! There is, then, an immediacy and urgency in being human that elves, light or dark, and dwarves will never understand.

And with that immediacy comes a zest for life beyond anything an elf or a dwarf might know. I see it, every day, in Catti-brie's fair face—this love of life, this urgency, this need to fill the hours and the days with experience and joy. In a strange paradox, I saw that urgency only increase when we thought that Wulfgar had died, and in speaking to Catti-brie about this, I came to know that such eagerness to experience, even at great personal risk, is often experienced by humans who have lost a loved one, as if the reminder of their own impending mortality serves to enhance the need to squeeze as much living as possible into the days and years remaining.

What a wonderful way to view the world, and sad, it seems, that it takes a loss to correct the often mundane path.

What course for me, then, who might know seven centuries of life, even eight, perhaps? Am I to take the easy trail of contemplation and sedentary existence, so common to the elves of Toril? Am I to dance beneath the stars every night, and spend the days in reverie, turning inward to better see the world about me? Both worthy pursuits, indeed, and dancing under the nighttime sky is a joy I would never forsake. But there must be more for me, I know. There must be the pursuit of adventure and experience. I take my cue from Catti-brie and the other humans on this, and remind myself of the fuller road with every beautiful sunrise.

The fewer the lost hours, the fuller the life, and a life of a few decades can surely, in some measures, be longer than a life of several centuries. How else to explain the accomplishments of a warrior such as Artemis Entreri, who could outfight many drow veterans ten times his age? How else to explain the truth that the most accomplished wizards in the world are not elves but humans, who spend decades, not centuries, pondering the complexities of the magical Weave?

I have been blessed indeed in coming to the surface, in finding a companion such as Catti-brie. For this, I believe, is the mission of my existence, not just the purpose, but the point of life itself. What opportunities might I find if I can combine the life span of my heritage with the intensity of humanity? And what joys might I miss if I follow the more patient and sedate road, the winding road dotted with signposts reminding me that I have too much to lose, the road that avoids mountain and valley alike, traversing the plain, sacrificing the heights for fear of the depths?

Often elves forsake intimate relationships with humans, denying love, because they know, logically, that it can not be, in the frame of elven time, a long-lasting partnership.

Alas, a philosophy doomed to mediocrity.

We need to be reminded sometimes that a sunrise lasts but a few minutes.

But its beauty can burn in our hearts eternally.

– Drizzt Do'Urden

Chapter 7 UNSEEMLY COMPANY

The guard blanched ridiculously, seeming as if he would simply fall over dead, when he noted the sylvan features and ebony skin of the visitor to Luskan's gate this rainy morning. He stuttered and stumbled, clenched his polearm so tightly in both hands that his knuckles turned as white as his face, and at last he managed to stammer out, “Halt!”

We're not moving,” Catti-brie replied, looking at the man curiously. “Just standing here, watching yerself sweating.”

The man gave what could have been either a growl or a whimper, then, as if finding his heart, called out for support and boldly stepped in front of the pair, presenting his polearm defensively. “Halt!” he said again, though neither of them had started moving.

“He figured out ye were a drow,” Catti-brie said dryly.

“He does not recognize that even a high elf's skin might darken under the sun,” Drizzt replied with a profound sigh. “The curse of fine summer weather.”

The guard stared at him, perplexed by the foolish words. What do you want?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”

To enter Luskan,” said Catti-brie. “Can't ye be guessing that much yerself?”

Enough of your ridicule!” cried the guard, and he thrust the polearm threateningly in Catti-brie's direction.

A black hand snapped out before the sentry could even register the movement, catching his weapon just below its metal head.

“There is no need of any of this,” Drizzt remarked, striding next to the trapped weapon to better secure his hold. “I, we, are no strangers to Luskan, nor, can I assure you, have we ever been less than welcomed.”

“Well, Drizzt Do'Urden, bless my eyes!” came a call behind the startled sentry, a cry from one of a pair of soldiers rushing up to answer the man's cry. “And Catti-brie, looking less like a dwarf than e'er before!”

“Oh, put your weapon away, you fool, before this pair puts it away for you, in a holder you'd not expect and not much enjoy!” said the other of the newcomers. “Have you not heard of this duo before? Why, they sailed with Sea Sprite for years and brought more pirates in for trial than we've soldiers to guard them!”

The first sentry swallowed hard and, as soon as Drizzt let go of the polearm, hastily retracted it and skittered out of the way. “Your pardon,” he said with an awkward bow. “I did not know. . the sight of a. .” He stopped there, obviously mortified.

“And how might you know?” Drizzt generously returned. “We have not been here in more than a year.”

“I have only served for three months,” the relieved sentry answered.

“And a pity to have to bury one so quickly,” one of the soldiers behind him remarked with a hearty laugh. “Threatening Drizzt and Catti-brie! O, but that will get you in the ground right quick and make yer wife a weeping widow!”

Drizzt and Catti-brie accepted the compliments with a slight grin and a nod, trying to get past it. For the dark elf, compliments sat as uncomfortably as insults, and one of the natural side-products of hunting with Deudermont was a bit of notoriety in the port towns along the northern Sword Coast.

“So what blesses Luskan with your presence?” one of the more knowledgeable soldiers asked. His demeanor made both Drizzt and Catti-brie think they should know the man.

“Looking for an old friend,” Drizzt answered. “We have reason to believe he might be in Luskan.”

“Many folks in Luskan,” the other seasoned soldier answered.

“A barbarian,” Catti-brie explained. “A foot and more taller than me, with blond hair. If you saw him, you'd not likely forget him.”

The closest of the soldiers nodded, but then a cloud crossed his face and he turned about to regard his companion.

“What's his name?” the other asked. “Wulfgar?”

Drizzt's excitement at hearing the confirmation was shallowed by the expressions worn by both soldiers, grave looks that made him think immediately that something terrible had befallen his friend.

“You have seen him,” the drow stated, holding his arm out to calm Catti-brie, who had likewise noted the guards' concern.

“You'd best come with me, Master Drizzt,” the older of the soldiers remarked.

“Is he in trouble?” Drizzt asked.

“Is he dead?” Catti-brie asked, stating the truth of what was on Drizzt's mind.

“Was in trouble, and I'd not be surprised one bit if he's now dead,” the soldier answered. “Come along and I'll lead you to someone who can offer more answers.”

They followed the soldier along Luskan's winding avenues, moving toward the center of the city, and, finally, into one of the largest buildings in all the city, which housed both the jail and most of the city officials. The soldier, apparently a man of some importance, led the way without challenge from any of the many guards posted at nearly every corridor, up a couple of flights of stairs and into an area where every door marked the office of a magistrate.

He stopped in front of one that identified the office of Magistrate Bardoun, then, with a concerned look back at the pair, knocked loudly.

“Enter,” came a commanding reply.

Two black-robed men were in the room, on opposite sides of a huge desk cluttered with papers. The closest, standing, looked every bit the part of one of Luskan's notorious justice-bringers, with hawkish features and narrow eyes all but hidden beneath long gray eyebrows. The man sitting behind the desk, Bardoun, obviously, was much younger than his counterpart, no more than thirty, certainly, with thick brown hair and matching eyes and a clean-shaven, boyish face.

“Begging your pardon, Magistrate,” the soldier asked, his voice showing a nervous edge, “but I have here two heroes, Drizzt Do'Urden and Catti-brie, daughter of dwarf King Bruenor Battlehammer himself, come back to Luskan in search of an old friend.”

“Do enter,” Bardoun said in a friendly tone. His standing partner, though, put a scrutinizing glare over the two, particularly over the dark elf.

“Drizzt and Catti-brie sailed with Deudermont—” the soldier started to remark, but Bardoun stopped him with an upraised hand.

“Their exploits are well known to us,” the magistrate said. “You may leave us.”

The soldier bowed, offered a wink to the pair then exited, closing the door behind him.

“My associate, Magistrate Callanan,” Bardoun introduced, and he stood up, motioning for the pair to come closer. “We will be of any help we may, of course,” he said. “Though Deudermont has fallen on some disfavor among some of the magistrates, many of us greatly appreciate the work he and his brave crew have done in clearing the waters about our fair city of some dreadful pirates.”

Drizzt glanced at Catti-brie, both of them surprised to hear that Captain Deudermont, as fine a man as ever sailed the Sword Coast, a man given a prized three-masted schooner by the Lords of Waterdeep to aid in his gallant work, had fallen upon any disfavor at all from officers of the law.

“Your soldier indicated that you might be able to help us in locating an old friend,” Drizzt explained. “Wulfgar, by name. A large northman of fair complexion and light hair. We have reason to believe..” The drow stopped in mid-sentence, caught by the cloud that crossed Bardoun's face and the scowl suddenly worn by Callanan.

“If you are friends of that one, then perhaps you should not be in Luskan,” Callanan remarked with a derisive snort.

Bardoun composed himself and sat back down. “Wulfgar is well known to us indeed,” he explained. “Too well known, perhaps.”

He motioned for Drizzt and Catti-brie to take the seats along the side of the small office, then told them the story of Wulfgar's entanglement with Luskan's law, of how the barbarian had been accused and convicted of trying to murder Deudermont (which Catti-brie interrupted by saying, “Impossible!”), and had been facing execution at Prisoner's Carnival, barely moments from death, when Deudermont himself had pardoned the man.

“A foolish move by the good captain,” Callanan added. “One that brought him disfavor. We do not enjoy seeing a guilty man walk free of the Carnival.”

“I know what you enjoy,” Drizzt said, more harshly than he had intended.

The drow was no fan of the brutal and sadistic Prisoner's Carnival, nor did he carry many kind words for the magistrates of Luskan. When he and Catti-brie had sailed with Deudermont and they had taken pirate prisoners on the high seas, the couple had always prompted the captain to turn for Waterdeep instead of Luskan, and Deudermont, no fan of the vicious Prisoner's Carnival himself, had often complied, even if the larger city was a longer sail.

Recognizing the harshness in his tone, Drizzt turned to the relatively gentle Bardoun and said, “Some of you, at least.”

“You speak honestly,” Bardoun returned. “I do respect that, even if I do not agree with you. Deudermont saved your friend from execution, but not from banishment. He, along with his little friend were cast out of Luskan, though rumor has it that Morik the Rogue has returned.”

“And apparently with enough influence so that we are instructed not to go and bring him back to our dungeons for breaking the exile,” Callanan said with obvious disgust.

“Morik the Rogue?” Catti-brie asked.

Bardoun waved his hand, indicating that this character was of no great importance. “A minor street thug,” he explained.

“And he traveled with Wulfgar?”

“They were known associates, yes, and convicted together of the attempt upon Deudermont's life, along with a pair of pirates whose lives were not spared that day.”

Callanan's wicked grin at Bardoun's remark was not lost on Drizzt, yet another confirmation to the dark elf of the barbarism that was Luskan's Prisoner's Carnival.

Drizzt and Catti-brie looked to each other again.

“Where can we find Morik?” the woman asked, her tone determined and offering no debate.

“In the gutter,” Callanan answered. “Or the sewer, perhaps.”

“You may try Half-Moon Street,” Magistrate Bardoun added. “He has been known to frequent that area, particularly a tavern known as the Cutlass.”

The name had a ring of familiarity to Drizzt, and he nodded as he remembered the place. He hadn't been there during his days with Deudermont, but well before that, he and Wulfgar had come through Luskan on their way to reclaim Mithral Hall. Together, they had gone into the Cutlass, where Wulfgar had started quite a brawl.

“That is where your friend Wulfgar made quite a reputation, as well,” said Callanan.

Drizzt nodded, as did Catti-brie. “My thanks to you for the information,” he said. “We will find our friend, I am sure.” He bowed and started away, but stopped at the door as Bardoun called after him.

“If you do find Wulfgar, and in Luskan, do well by him and take him far, far away,” the magistrate said. “Far away from here, and, for his own sake, far away from the rat, Morik the Rogue.”

Drizzt turned and nodded, then left the room. He and Catti-brie went and got their own lodgings at a fine inn along one of the better avenues of Luskan, and spent the day walking about the city, reminiscing about old times and their previous journey through the city. The weather was fine for the season, with bright sun splashing about the leaves, beginning their autumnal color turn, and the city certainly had many places of great beauty. Together, then, walking and enjoying the sights and the weather, Drizzt and Catti-brie took no note of the gawks and the gasps, even the sight of several children running full speed away from the dark elf.

Drizzt couldn't be bothered by such things. Not with Catti-brie at his side.

The couple waited patiently for the fall of night, when they knew they had a better chance of finding someone like Morik the Rogue, and, it seemed, of finding someone like Wulfgar.

The Cutlass was not busy when the pair entered, soon after dusk, though it seemed to Drizzt as if a hundred sets of eyes had suddenly focused upon him, most notably, a glance both horrified and threatening from a skinny man seated at the bar, directly opposite the barkeep, whose rag stopped its movement completely as he, too, focused on the unexpected newcomer. When he had come into this place those years ago, Drizzt had remained off to the side, buried in the clamor and tumult of the busy, ill-lit tavern, his hood up and his head low.

Drizzt nodded to the barkeep and approached him directly. The skinny man gave a yelp and fell away, scrambling to the far end of the room.

“Greetings, good sir,” Drizzt said to the barkeep. “I come here with no ill intentions, I assure you, despite the panic of your patron.”

“Just Josi Puddles,” the barkeep replied, though he, too, was obviously a bit shaken at the appearance of a dark elf in his establishment. “Don't pay him any attention.” The man extended his hand, then retracted it quickly and wiped it on his apron before offering it again. “Arumn Gardpeck at your service.”

“Drizzt Do'Urden,” the drow replied, taking the hand in his own surprisingly strong grasp. “And my friend is Catti-brie.”

Arumn looked at the pair curiously, his expression softening as if he came to truly recognize them.

“We seek someone,” Drizzt started.

“Wulfgar,” Arumn said with confidence, and he grinned at the wide-eyed expressions his response brought to the drow and the woman. “Aye, he told me of you. Both of you.”

“Is he here?” Catti-brie asked.

“Been gone for a long time,” the skinny man, Josi, said, daring to come forward. “Come back only once, to get Delly.”

“Delly?”

“She worked here,” Arumn explained. “Was always sweet on Wulfgar. He came back for her, and the three of them left Luskan—for Waterdeep, I'm guessing.”

“Three?” Drizzt asked, thinking the third to be Morik.

“Wulfgar, Delly, and the baby,” Josi explained.

“The baby?” both Drizzt and Catti-brie said together. They looked at each other incredulously. When they turned back to Arumn, he merely shrugged, having nothing to offer.

“That was months ago,” Josi Puddles interjected. “Ain't heared a thing o' them since.”

Drizzt paused, digesting it all. Apparently, Wulfgar would have quite a tale to tell when at last they found him — if he was still alive. “Actually, we came in here seeking one we were told might have information about Wulfgar,” the drow explained. “A man named Morik.”

There came a scuffle of scrambling feet from behind, and the pair turned to see a small, dark-cloaked figure moving swiftly out of the tavern.

“That'd be yer Morik,” Arumn explained.

Drizzt and Catti-brie rushed outside, glancing up and down the nearly deserted Half-Moon Street, but Morik, obviously a master of shadows, was nowhere to be seen.

Drizzt bent down near the soft dirt just beyond the Cutlass's wooden porch, noting a boot print. He smiled at Catti-brie and pointed to the left, an easy trail for the skilled ranger to follow.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“Ye're a pretty laddie, ain't ye?” the grimy old lech said. He pushed Le'lorinel up against the wall, putting his smelly face right up against the elf’s.

Le'lorinel looked past him, to the other four old drunkards, all of them howling with laughter as the old fool started fiddling with the rope he used as a belt.

He stopped abruptly and slowly sank to the floor before the elf, moving his suddenly trembling hands lower, to where the knee had just connected.

Le'lorinel came out from the wall, drawing a sword, putting the flat of it against the old wretch's head, and none too gently pushing him over to the floor.

“I came in asking a simple question,” the elf explained to the others, who were not laughing any longer.

The old wretches, former sailors, former pirates, glanced nervously from one to the other.

“Ye be a good laddie,” one bald-headed man said, climbing to stand on severely bowed legs. “Tookie, there, he was just funning with ye.”

“A simple question,” Le'lorinel said again.

The elf had come into this dirty tavern along Luskan's docks showing the illusionary images E'kressa had prepared, asking about the significance of the mark.

“Not so simple, mayhaps,” the bald-headed sea dog replied. “Ye're askin' about a mark, and many're wearin' marks.”

“And most who are wearin' marks ain't looking to show 'em,” another of the old men said.

Le'lorinel heard a movement to the side and saw the man, Tookie, rising fast from the floor and coming in hard. A sweep and turn, swinging the sword down to the side, not to slash the man—though Le'lorinel thought he surely deserved it—but to force him into an awkward, off-balance dodge, followed by a simple duck and step maneuver had the elf behind the attacker. A firm shove against Tookie's back had him diving forward to skid down hard to the floor.

But two of the others were there, one brandishing a curved knife used for scaling fish, another a short gaff hook.

Le'lorinel's right hand presented the sword defensively, while the elf s left hand went to the right hip, then snapped out.

The man with the gaff hook fell back, wailing and wheezing, a dagger deep in his chest.

Le'lorinel lunged forward, and the other attacker leaped back, presented his hands up before him in surrender, and let the curved knife fall to the floor.

“A simple question,” the elf reiterated through gritted teeth, and the look in Le'lorinel's blue and gold eyes left no doubt among any in the room that this warrior would leave them all dead with hardly a thought.

“I ain't never seen it,” the man who'd been holding the knife replied.

“But you are going to go and find out about it for me, correct?” Le'lorinel remarked. “All of you.”

“Oh, yes, laddie, we'll get ye yer answers,” another said.

The one still lying on the floor and facing away from Le'lorinel scrambled up suddenly and bolted for the door, bursting through and out into the twilight. Another rose to follow, but Le'lorinel stepped to the side, tore the dagger free from the dying man's chest and cocked it back, ready to throw.

“A simple question,” Le'lorinel said yet again. “Find me my answer and I will reward you. Fail me and. . ” The elf finished by turning to look at the man propped against the wall, laboring for breath now, obviously suffering in the last moments of his life.

Le'lorinel walked for the open door, pausing only long enough to wipe the dagger on the tunic of the man who'd attacked with the curved blade, finishing by sliding the knife up teasingly toward the man's throat, up and over his shoulder as the elf walked by.

* * * * * * * * * *

The small form came out of the alleyway in a blur of motion, spinning and swinging, a pair of silvery daggers in his hands.

His attack was nearly perfect, slicing in low at Drizzt's mid-section with his left, then stopping short with a feint and launching a wide-arching chopping left, coming down at the side of the drow's neck.

Nearly perfect.

Drizzt saw the feint for what it was, ignored the first attack, and focused on the second. The dark elf caught Morik's hand in his own and as he did he turned the rogue's hand in so that Drizzt's fingers covered those of the rogue.

Morik neatly adjusted to the block, trying instead to finish his first stab, but Drizzt was too quick and too balanced, skittering with blazing speed, his already brilliant footwork enhanced by magical anklets. The drow went right under Morik's upraised arm, turning as he moved, then running right behind the rogue, twisting that arm and maneuvering out of the reach of the other stabbing dagger.

Morik, too, started to turn, but then Drizzt merely cupped the ends of his fingers and squeezed, compressing the top knuckles of Morik's hand and causing excruciating pain. The dagger fell to the ground, and Morik too went down to one knee.

Catti-brie had the rogue's other hand caught and held before he could even think of trying to retaliate again.

“Oh, please don't kill me,” the rogue pleaded. “I did get the jewels … I told the assassin … I did follow Wulfgar. . everything you said!”

Drizzt stared up at Catti-brie in disbelief, and he lessened his pressure on the man's hand and yanked Morik back to his feet.

“I did not betray Jarlaxle,” Morik cried. “Never that!”

“Jarlaxle?” Catti-brie asked incredulously. “Who does he think we are?”

“A good question,” Drizzt asked, looking to Morik for an answer.

“You are not agents of Jarlaxle?” the rogue asked. A moment later, his face beamed with obvious relief and he gave a little embarrassed chuckle. “But then, who. .” He stopped short, his smile going wide. “You're Wulfgar's friends,” he said, his smile nearly taking in his ears.

Drizzt let him go, and so did Catti-brie, and the man retrieved his fallen dagger and replaced both in his belt. “Well met!” he said exuberantly, reaching his hand toward them. “Wulfgar told me so much about the both of you!”

“It would appear that you and Wulfgar have a few tales of your own to tell,” Drizzt remarked.

Morik chuckled again and shook his head. When it became apparent that neither the drow nor the woman were going to take the offered handshake, Morik brought his hand back in and wiped it on his hip. “Too many tales to tell!” he explained. “Stories of battle and love all the way from Luskan to Auckney.”

“How do you know Jarlaxle?” Catti-brie asked. “And where is Wulfgar?”

“Two completely unrelated events, I assure you,” Morik replied. “At least, they were when last I saw my large friend. He left Luskan some time ago, with Delly Curtie and the child he took from the foppish lord of Auckney.”

“Kidnapped?” Drizzt asked skeptically.

“Saved,” Morik replied. “A bastard child of a frightened young lady, certain to be killed by the fop or his nasty sister.” He gave a great sigh. “It is a long and complicated tale. Better that you hear it from Wulfgar.”

“He is alive?”

“Last I heard,” Morik replied. “Alive and heading for … for Waterdeep, I believe. Trying to find Captain Deudermont, and hoping the captain would help him retrieve his lost warhammer.”

Catti-brie blew a most profound and relieved sigh.

“How did he lose the warhammer?” Drizzt asked.

“The fool Josi Puddles stole it and sold it to Sheila Kree, a most disagreeable pirate,” Morik answered. “Nasty sort, that pirate lady, but Wulfgar's found his heart again, I believe, and so I would not wish to be serving beside Sheila Kree!” He looked at Drizzt, who was staring at Catti-brie, and with both wearing their emotions in plain sight. “You thought he was dead,” Morik stated.

“We found a highwayman, a highwaywoman, actually, wearing a brand that could only have come from Aegis-fang,” Drizzt explained. “We know how dear that weapon was to Wulfgar and know that he was not in league with the bandit's former gang.”

“Never did we think he'd have let the thing go, except from his dying grasp,” Catti-brie admitted.

“I think we owe you a meal and a drink, at least,” Drizzt said to Morik, whose face brightened at the prospect.

Together, the three walked back toward the Cutlass, Morik seeming quite pleased with himself.

“And you can tell us how you have come to know Jarlaxle,” Drizzt remarked as they were entering, and Morik's shoulders visibly slumped.

The rogue did tell them of the coming of the dark elves to Luskan, of how he had been visited by henchmen of Jarlaxle and by the strange mercenary himself and told to shadow Wulfgar. He recounted his more recent adventures with the dark elves, after Wulfgar had departed Luskan and Morik's life, taking care to leave out the part about Jarlaxle's punishment once he had lost touch with the barbarian. Still, when he got to that particular part of the tale, Morik's hand went up reflexively for his face, which had been burned away by the nasty Rai-guy, a dark elf Morik despised with all his heart.

Catti-brie and Drizzt looked at each other throughout the tale with honest concern. If Jarlaxle was interested in their friend, perhaps Wulfgar was not so safe after all. Even more perplexing to them, though, was the question of why the dangerous Jarlaxle would be interested in Wulfgar in the first place.

Morik went on to assure the two that he'd had no dealings with Jarlaxle or his lieutenants in months and didn't expect to see any of them again. “Not since that human assassin showed up and told me to run away,” Morik explained. “Which I did, and only recently came back. I'm smarter than to have that band after me, but I believe the human covered my trail well enough. He could not have gone back to them if they believed I was still alive, I would guess.”

“Human assassin?” Drizzt asked, and he could guess easily enough who it might have been, though as to why Artemis Entreri would spare the life of anyone and risk the displeasure of mighty Bregan D'aerthe, the drow could not begin to guess. But that was a long tale, likely, and one that Drizzt hoped had nothing to do with Wulfgar.

“Where can we find Sheila Kree?” he asked, stopping Morik before he could really get going with his dark elf stories.

Morik stared at him for a few moments. “The high seas, perhaps,” he answered. “She may have a favored and secret port— in fact, I believe I have heard rumors of one.”

“You can find out for us?” Catti-brie asked.

“Such information will not come cheaply,” Morik started to explain, but his words were lost in a great gulp when Drizzt, a friend of a rich dwarf king whose stake in Wulfgar's return was no less than his own, dropped a small bag bulging with coins on the table.

“Tomorrow night,” the drow explained. “In here.”

Morik took the purse, nodded, and went fast out of the Cutlass.

“Ye're thinking the rogue will return with information?” Catti-brie asked.

“He was an honest friend of Wulfgar's,” Drizzt answered, “and he's too afraid of us to stay away.”

“Sounds like our old friend got himself mixed up in a bit of trouble and adventure,” Catti-brie remarked.

“Sounds like our old friend found his way out of the darkness,” Drizzt countered, his smile beaming behind his dark features, his lavender eyes full of sparkling hope.

Chapter 8 TEARING AT THE WARRIOR'S SOUL

They found the merchant vessel listing badly, a fair portion of her sails torn away by chain-shot, and her crewmen—those who were still aboard—lying dead, sprawled across the deck. Deudermont and his experienced crew knew that others had been aboard. A ship such as this would normally carry a crew of at least a dozen and only seven bodies had been found. The captain held out little hope that any of the missing were still alive. An abundance of sharks could be seen in the water around the wounded caravel, and probably more than a few had their bellies full of human flesh.

“No more than a few hours,” Robillard announced to the captain, catching up to Deudermont near to the damaged ship's tied-off wheel.

The pirates had wounded her, stripped her of her crew and her valuables, then set her on a tight course, circling in the water. In the stiff wind that had been blowing all day, Deudermont had been forced to order Robillard to further damage the merchant vessel, letting loose a lightning bolt to destroy the rudder, before he could allow Sea Sprite to even catch hold of the caravel.

“They would have taken a fair haul from her,” Deudermont reasoned.

The remaining stocks in the merchant vessel's hold indicated

That the ship, bound from Memnon, had been carrying a large cargo of fabrics, though the cargo log said nothing about any exotic or exceptional pieces.

“Minimal value goods,” Robillard replied. “They had to take a substantial amount simply to make the scuttling and murder worth their time. If they filled their hold, they're obviously running for land.” He paused and wetted a finger, then held it up. “And they've a favorable breeze for such a journey.”

“No more favorable than our own,” the captain said grimly. He called to one of his lieutenants, who was standing nearby ordering a last check for any survivors, to be followed by a hasty return to Sea Sprite.

The hunt was on.

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

Standing not so far away from Captain Deudermont and Robillard, Wulfgar heard every word. He agreed with the assessment that the atrocity was barely hours old. With the strong wind, the fleet Sea Sprite, her holds empty, would quickly overtake the laden pirate, even if the pirate was making all speed for safe harbor.

The barbarian closed his eyes and considered the forthcoming battle, his first action since Sea Sprite had put back out from Waterdeep. This would be a moment of truth for Wulfgar, a time when his determination and strength of will would have to take command from his faltering fortitude. He looked around at the murdered merchant sailors, men slaughtered by bloodthirsty pirates. Those killers deserved the harsh fate that would likely find them soon, deserved to be sent to a cold and lonely death in the dark waters, or to be captured and returned to Waterdeep, even to Luskan, for trial and execution.

Wulfgar told himself that it was his duty to avenge these innocent sailors, that it was his responsibility to use his gods-given prowess as a warrior to help bring justice to a wild world, to help bring security to helpless and innocent people.

Standing there on the deck of the broken merchant caravel, Wulfgar tried to consciously appeal to every ennobling characteristic, to every ideal. Standing there in that place of murder, Wulfgar appealed to his instincts of duty and responsibility, to the altruism of his former friends—to Drizzt, who would not hesitate to throw himself in harm's way for the sake of another.

But he kept seeing Delly and Colson, standing alone against the harshness of the world, broken in grief and poverty.

A prod in the side alerted the barbarian to the scene about him, to the fact that he and the lieutenant who had poked him were the only remaining crewmen on the wounded caravel. He followed the lieutenant to the boarding plank and noted that Robillard was watching his every step.

Stepping back onto Sea Sprite, the barbarian took one last glance at the grisly scene on the merchant ship and burned the images of the dead sailors into his consciousness that he might recall it when the time came for action.

He tried very hard to suppress the images of Delly and Colson as he did, tried to remind himself of who he was and of who he must be.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Using common sense and a bit of Robillard's magic, Sea Sprite had the pirate in sight soon after the next dawn. It seemed a formidable craft, a large three-master with a prominent second deck and catapult. Even from a distance, Deudermont could see many crewmen scrambling about the pirate's deck, bows in hand.

“Carling Badeen?” Robillard asked Deudermont, moving beside him near the prow of the swift-sailing schooner.

“It could be,” the captain replied, turning to regard his thin friend.

Sea Sprite had been chasing Carling Badeen, one of the more notorious pirates of the Sword Coast, off and on for years. It appeared they'd finally caught up to the elusive cutthroat. By reputation, Badeen's ship was large but slow and formidably armored and armed, with a crack crew of archers and a pair of notorious wizards. The pirate Badeen himself was known to be one of the more bloodthirsty of the breed, and certainly the gruesome scene back at the merchant ship fit the pattern of Badeen's work.

“If it is, then we must be at our very best, or risk losing many crewmen,” Robillard remarked.

Deudermont, his eye back against his spyglass, did not disagree.

“One error, like the many we have been making of late, could cost many of our crew their lives,” the wizard pressed on.

Deudermont lowered the glass and regarded his cryptic friend, then followed Robillard's reasoning, and his sidelong glance, to Wulfgar, who stood at the starboard rail amidships.

“He has been shown his errors,” Deudermont reminded.

“Errors that he logically understood he was making even as he was making them,” Robillard countered. “Our large friend is not controlled by reason when these affairs begin, but rather by emotion, by fear and by rage. You appeal to his rational mind when you explain the errors to him, and on that level, your words do get through. But once the battle is joined, that rational mind, that level of logical progression, is replaced by something more primal and apparently uncontrollable.”

Deudermont listened carefully, if somewhat defensively. Still, despite his hopes to the opposite, he could not deny his wizard friend's reasoning. Neither could he ignore the implications for the rest of his crew should Wulfgar act irrationally, interrupting Robillard's progression of the battle. Badeen's ship, after all, carried two wizards and a healthy number of dangerous archers.

“We will win this fight by sailing circles around the lumbering craft,” Robillard went on. “We will need to be quick and responsive, and strong on the turn.”

Deudermont nodded, for indeed Sea Sprite had employed maneuverability as its main weapon against many larger ships, often putting a broadside along a pirate's stern for a devastating archer rake of the enemy decks. Robillard's words, then, seemed fairly obvious.

“Strong on the turn,” the wizard reiterated, and Deudermont caught on to what the wizard was really saying.

“You wish me to assign Wulfgar to the rudder crew.”

“I wish you to do that which is best for the safety of every man aboard Sea Sprite” Robillard answered. “We know how to defeat a, ship such as this one, Captain. I only ask that you allow us to do so in our practiced manner, without adding a dangerous variable to the mix. I am not going to deny that our Wulfgar is a mighty warrior, but unlike his friends who once sailed with us, he is unpredictable.”

Robillard made to continue, but Deudermont stopped him with an upraised hand and a slight nod, an admission of defeat in this debate. Wulfgar had indeed acted dangerously in previous encounters, and doing that now, against this formidable pirate, could bring disaster.

Was Deudermont willing to risk that for the sake of a friend's ego?

He looked more closely at Wulfgar, the big man standing at the rail staring intently at their quarry, fists clenched, blue eyes blazing with inner fires.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Wulfgar reluctantly climbed down into the hold—even more so when he realized he actually preferred to be down there. He had watched the captain's approach, coming to him from Robillard, but still Wulfgar had been surprised when Deudermont instructed him to go down into the aft hold where the battle rudder crew worked. Normally, Sea Sprite's rudder worked off the wheel above, but when battle was joined the navigator at the wheel simply relayed his commands to the crew below, who more forcefully and reliably turned the ship as instructed.

Wulfgar had never worked the manual rudder before and hardly saw it as the optimal place to make use of his talents.

“Sour face,” said Grimsley, the rudder crew chief. “Ye should be glad for bein' outta the way o' the wizards and bowmen.”

Wulfgar hardly responded, just walked over and took up the heavy steering pole.

“He put ye down here for yer strength, I'm guessin',” Grimsley went on, and Wulfgar recognized that the grizzled old seaman was trying to spare his feelings.

The barbarian knew better. If Deudermont truly wanted to utilize his great strength in steering the ship, he would have put Wulfgar on the main tack lines above. Once, aboard the old Sea Sprite many years before, Wulfgar had brilliantly and mightily turned the ship, bringing her prow right out of the water, executing a seemingly impossible maneuver to win the day.

But now, it seemed, Deudermont would not even trust him at that task, would not allow him to even view the battle at all.

Wulfgar didn't like it—not one bit—but this was Deudermont's ship, he reminded himself. It was not his place to question the captain, especially with a battle looming before them.

The first shouts of alarm echoed down a few moments later. Wulfgar heard the concussion of a fireball exploding nearby.

“Pull her left to mark three!” Grimsley yelled.

Wulfgar and the one other man on the long pole tugged hard, lining the pole's front tip with the third mark on the wall to the left of center.

“Bring her back to left one!” Grimsley screamed.

The pair responded, and Sea Sprite cut back out of a steep turn.

Wulfgar heard the continuing shouts above, the hum of bowstrings, the swish of the catapult, and the blasts of wizardry. The sounds cut to the core of the noble barbarian's warrior identity.

Warrior?

How could Wulfgar rightly even call himself that when he could not be trusted to join in the battle, when he could not be allowed to perform the tasks he had trained for all his life? Who was he, then, he had to wonder, when companions—men of lesser fighting skill and strength than he—were doing battle right above him, while he acted the part of a mule and nothing more?

With a growl, Wulfgar responded to the next command of, “Two right!” then yanked back fiercely as Grimsley, following the frantic shouts from above, called for a dramatic cut to the left, as steep as Sea Sprite could make it.

The beams and rudder groaned in protest as Wulfgar forced the bar all the way to the left, and Sect Sprite leaned so violently that the man working the pole behind Wulfgar lost his balance.

“Easy! Easy!” Grimsley shouted at the mighty barbarian. “Ye're not to pitch the crew off the deck, ye fool!”

Wulfgar eased up a bit and accepted the scolding as deserved. He was hardly listening to Grimsley anyway, other than the specific commands the old sea dog was shouting. His attention was more to the sound of the battle above, the shrieks and the cries, the continuing roar of wizardry and catapult.

Other men were up there in danger, in his place.

“Bah, don't ye worry,” Grimsley remarked, obviously noting the sour expression on Wulfgar's face, “Deudermont and his boys'll win the day, don't ye doubt!”

Indeed, Wulfgar didn't doubt that at all. Captain Deudermont and his crew had been successfully waging these battles since long before his arrival. But that wasn't what was tearing at Wulfgar's heart. He knew his place, and this wasn't it, but because of his own weakness of heart it was the only place Captain Deudermont could responsibly put him.

Above him, the fireballs boomed and the lightning crackled, the bowstrings hummed and the catapults launched their fiery loads with a great swish of sound. The battle went on for nearly an hour, and when the call was relayed through Grimsley that the crew could reattach the rudder to the wheel, the man working beside Wulfgar eagerly rushed up to the deck to survey the victory, right behind Grimsley.

Wulfgar stayed alone in the aft hold, sitting against the wall, too ashamed to show his face above, too fearful that someone had died in his stead.

He heard someone on the ladder a short while later and was surprised to see Robillard coming down, his dark blue robes hiked up so that he could manage the steps.

“Control is back with the wheel,” the wizard said. “Do you not think you might be useful helping to salvage what we might from the pirate ship?”

Wulfgar stared at him hard. Even sitting, the barbarian seemed to tower over the wizard. Wulfgar was thrice the man's weight, with arms thicker than Robillard's skinny legs. By all appearances, Wulfgar could snap the wizard into pieces with hardly an effort.

If Robillard was the least bit intimidated by the barbarian, he never once showed it.

“You did this to me,” Wulfgar remarked.

“Did what?”

“Your words put me here, not those of Captain Deudermont, Wulfgar clarified. “You did this.”

“No, dear Wulfgar,” Robillard said venomously. “You did.”

Wulfgar lifted his chin, his stare defiant.

“In the face of a potentially difficult battle, Captain Deudermont had no choice but to relegate you to this place,” the wizard was happy to explain. “Your own insolence and independence demanded nothing less of him. Do you think we would risk losing crewmen to satisfy your unbridled rage and high opinion of yourself?”

Wulfgar shifted forward and went up to his feet, into a crouch as if he meant to spring out and throttle the wizard.

“For what else but such an opinion, unless it is sheer stupidity itself, could possibly have guided your actions in the last battles?” Robillard went on, seeming hardly impressed or nervous. “We are a team, well-disciplined and each with a role to play. When one does not play his prescribed part, then we are a weakened team, working in spite of each other instead of in unison. That we can not tolerate. Not from you, not from anyone. So spare me your insults, your accusations and your empty threats, or you may find yourself swimming.”

Wulfgar's eyes did widen a bit, betraying his intentionally stoic posture and stare.

“And I assure you, we are a long way from land,” Robillard finished, and he started up the ladder. He paused, though, and looked back to Wulfgar. “If you did not enjoy this day's battle, then perhaps you would be wise to remain behind after our next docking in Waterdeep.

“Yes, perhaps that would be the best course,” Robillard went on after a pause, after assuming a pensive posture. “Go back to the land, Wulfgar. You do not belong here.”

The wizard left, but Wulfgar did not start after him. Rather, the barbarian slumped back to the wall, sliding to a sitting position once again, thinking of who he once had been, of who he now was—an awful truth he did not wish to face.

He couldn't even begin to look ahead, to consider who he wished to become.

Chapter 9 PATHS CROSSING… ALMOST

Le'lorinel stalked down Dollemand Street in Luskan, the elf s stride revealing anxiety and eagerness. The destination was a private apartment, where the elf was to meet with a representative of Sheila Kree. It all seemed to be falling into place now, the road to Drizzt Do'Urden, the road to justice. The elf stopped abruptly and wheeled about as two cloaked figures came out of an alley. Hands going to sword and dagger, Le'lorinel had to pause and take a deep breath, recognizing that these two were no threat. They weren't even paying the elf any heed but were simply walking on their way back down the street

in the opposite direction. “Too anxious,” the elf quietly chided, easing the sword and dagger back into their respective sheaths.

With a last look at the pair as they walked away, Le'lorinel gave a laugh and turned back toward the apartment, resuming the march down the road for Drizzt Do'Urden.

* * * * * * * * * *

Walking the other way down Dollemand Street, Drizzt and Catti-brie didn't even notice Le'lorinel as the elf spun on them, thinking them to be a threat. Had Drizzt not been wearing the hood of his cloak, his distinctive long, thick white hair might have marked him clearly for the vengeful elf.

The couple's strides were no less eager than Le'lorinel's, carrying them in the opposite direction, to a meeting with Morik the Rogue and news of Wulfgar. They found the rogue in the appointed place, a back table in Arumn Gardpeck's Cutlass. He smiled at their approach and lifted his foaming mug of beer in toast to them.

“Ye've got our information, then?” Catti-brie asked, sliding into a seat opposite the rogue.

“As much as can be found,” Morik replied. His smile dimmed and he lifted the bag of coins Drizzt had given him to the table. “You might want to take some of it back,” Morik admitted, pushing it out toward the pair.

“We shall see,” Drizzt said, pushing it right back.

Morik shrugged but didn't reach for the bag. “Not much to be learned of Sheila Kree,” he began. “I will be honest with you in saying that I'm not overly fond of even asking anyone about her. The only ones who truly know about her are her many commanders, all of them women, and none of them fond of men. Men who go asking too much about Kree usually wind up dead or running, and I have no desire for either course.”

“But ye said ye did learn a bit,” the eager Catti-brie prompted.

Morik nodded and took a long draw on his beer. “It's been rumored that she operates her own private, secret port somewhere north of Luskan, probably nestled in one of the many coves along the end of the Spine of the World. That would make sense, since she's rarely seen in Luskan of late and has never been known to sail the waters to the south. I don't think her ship has ever been seen in Waterdeep.”

Drizzt looked at Catti-brie, the two sharing silent agreement. They had chased pirates with Deudermont for some time, mostly to the south off the docks of Waterdeep, and neither had ever heard of the pirate, Kree.

“What's her ship's name?” Catti-brie asked.

“Bloody Keel,” Morik replied. “Well-earned name. Sheila takes great enjoyment in keelhauling her victims.” He shuddered visibly and took another drink. “That is all I have,” he finished, and he again pushed the bag of coins back toward Drizzt.

“And more than I expected,” the drow replied, pushing it right back. This time, after a quick pause and a confirming look, Morik took it up and slipped it away.

“There is one more thing,” the rogue said as the couple stood to leave. “From all reports, Sheila has not been seen much of late. It may well be that she is in hiding, knowing Deudermont to be after her.”

“With her reputation and Wulfgar's hammer, don't ye think she'd try to take Sea Sprite on?” Catti-brie asked.

Morik laughed aloud before she ever finished asking the question. “Kree's no fool, and one would have to be a fool to go against Sea Sprite on the open waters. Sea Sprite's got one purpose in being out there, and she and her crew do that task with perfect efficiency. Kree might have the warhammer, but Deudermont's got Robillard, and a nasty one he is! And Deudermont's got Wulfgar. No, Kree's laying low, and wise to be doing so. That might well work to your advantage, though.”

He paused, making sure he had their attention, which he most certainly did.

“Kree knows the waters north of here better than anyone,” Morik explained. “Better than Deudermont, certainly, who spends most of his time to the south. If she's in hiding the good captain will have a hard time finding her. I think it likely that Sea Sprite has many voyages ahead before they ever catch sight of Bloody Keel.”

Again, Drizzt and Catti-brie exchanged curious looks. “Perhaps we should stay put in the city if we wish to find Wulfgar,” the drow offered.

“Sea Sprite doesn't put in to Luskan much anymore,” Morik interjected. “The ship's wizard is not so fond of the Hosttower of the Arcane.”

“And Captain Deudermont has sullied his good name somewhat, has he not?” Catti-brie asked.

Morik's expression showed surprise. “Deudermont and his crew have been the greatest pirate hunters along the Sword Coast for longer than the memories of the eldest elves,” he said.

“In freeing yerself and Wulfgar, I mean,” Catti-brie clarified with an unintentional smirk. “We're hearing his action at Prisoner's Carnival wasn't looked on with favor by the magistrates.”

“Idiots all,” Morik mumbled. “But yes, Deudermont's reputation took a blow that day—the day he acted in the name of justice and not politics. He would have been better off personally in letting them kill us, but. .”

“To his credit, he did not,” Drizzt finished for him.

“Deudermont never liked the carnival,” Catti-brie remarked.

“So it's likely that the captain has found a more favorable berth for his ship,” Morik went on. “Waterdeep, I'd guess, since that's where he is best known—and known to keep a fairly fabulous house.”

Drizzt looked to Catti-brie yet again. “We can be there in a tenday,” he suggested, and the woman nodded her agreement.

“Well met, Morik, and thank you for your time,” the drow said. He bowed and turned to leave.

“You are described in the same manner as a paladin might be, dark elf,” Morik remarked, turning both friends back to him one last time. “Righteous and self-righteous. Does it not harm your reputation to do business with the likes of Morik the Rogue?”

Drizzt offered a smile that somehow managed to be warm, self-deprecating, and to show the ridiculousness of Morik's statement clearly, all at once. “You were a friend of Wulfgar's, by all I have heard. I name Wulfgar among my most trusted of companions.”

“The Wulfgar you knew, or the one I knew?” Morik asked. “Perhaps they are not one and the same.”

“Perhaps they are,” Drizzt replied, and he bowed again, as did Catti-brie, and the pair departed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Le'lorinel entered the small room at the back of the tavern tentatively, hands on dagger and sword. A woman—Sheila Kree's representative, Le'lorinel believed—sat across the room, not behind any desk, but simply against the wall, out in the open. Flanking her were two huge guards, brutes Le'lorinel figured had more than human blood running through their veins— a bit of orc, perhaps even ogre.

“Do come in,” the woman said in a friendly and casual manner.

She held up her hands to show the elf that she had no weapon. “You requested an audience, and so you have found one.”

Le'lorinel relaxed, just a bit, one hand slipping down from the weapon hilt. A glance to the left and the right showed that no one was concealed in the small and sparsely furnished room, so the elf took a stride forward.

The right cross came out of nowhere, a heavy slug that caught the unsuspecting elf on the side of the jaw.

Only the far wall kept the staggering Le'lorinel from falling to the floor. The elf struggled against waves of dizziness and disorientation, fighting to find some center of balance.

The third guard, the largest of the trio, came visible, the concealing enchantment dispelled with the attack. Smiling evilly through a couple of crooked yellow teeth, the brute waded in with another heavy punch, this one blowing the air out of the stunned elf s lungs.

Le'lorinel went for dagger and sword, but the third punch, an uppercut, connected squarely under the elf's chin, lifting Le'lorinel into the air. The last thing Le'lorinel saw was the approach of the other two, one of them with its huge fists wrapped in chains.

A downward chop caught the elf on the side of the head, bringing a myriad of flashing explosions.

All went black.

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

“Information is not so high a price to pay,” Val-Doussen said dramatically—as he said everything dramatically—waving his arms so that his voluminous sleeves seemed more like a raven's wings. “Is it so much that I ask of you?”

Drizzt dropped his head and ran his fingers through his thick white hair, glancing sidelong at Catti-brie as he did. The two had come to the Hosttower of the Arcane, Luskan's wizards guild, in hopes that they would find a mage traveling to Ten-Towns, one who might deliver a message to Bruenor. They knew the dwarf to be terribly worried, and the things they'd learned concerning Wulfgar, while not confirming that he was alive, certainly pointed in that positive direction. They'd been directed to this black-robed eccentric, Val-Doussen, who'd been planning a trip to Icewind Dale for several tendays. They didn't think they were asking much of the wizard, though they were prepared to pay him, if necessary, but then the silver-haired and bearded wizard had taken a huge interest in Drizzt, particularly in the drow's origins.

He would deliver the information to Bruenor, as requested, but only if Drizzt would give him a dissertation on the dark elf society of Menzoberranzan.

“I have not the time,” Drizzt said, yet again. “I am bound for the south, for Waterdeep.”

“Might that our wizardly friend here can take us to Waterdeep in a hurry,” Catti-brie put in on sudden inspiration, as Val-Doussen began to nervously tug at his beard.

Across the room, the other mage in attendance, one of the guild's leaders by the name of Cannabere, began waving his arms frantically, warding off the suggestion with a look of the purest alarm on his craggy old features.

“Well, well,” Val-Doussen said, picking up on Catti-brie's suggestion. “Yes, that would require a bit of effort, but it can be I done. For a price, of course, and a substantial one at that. Yes, let me think … I take you two to Waterdeep in exchange for a thousand gold coins and two days of tales of Menzoberranzan. Yes, yes, that might do well. And of course, I'll then go to Ten-Towns, as I had planned, and speak with Bruenor—but that for yet another day of dark elven tales.”

He looked up at Drizzt, bright-eyed with eagerness, but the drow merely shook his head.

“I've no tales to tell,” Drizzt remarked. “I left before I knew |much of the place. In truth, I'm certain that many others, likely yourself included, know more of Menzoberranzan than I.”

Val-Doussen's expression became a pout. “One day of stories, then, and I shall take your letter to Bruenor.”

“No tales of Menzoberranzan,” Drizzt replied firmly. He Reached under the folds of his cloak and pulled forth the letter he'd prepared for Bruenor. “I will pay you twenty gold pieces— and that is a great sum for this small favor—for you to deliver this to a councilor in Brynn Shander, where you are going anyway, with the request that he relay it to Regis of Lonelywood.”

“Small favor?” Val-Doussen asked dramatically.

“We have spent more time discussing this issue than it will take you to carry through with my request,” Drizzt replied.

“I will have my stories!” the wizard insisted.

“From someone else,” Drizzt answered. He rose to leave, Catti-brie right behind.

The couple nearly made it to the door before Cannabere called out, “He will do it.”

Drizzt turned to regard the guildmaster, then the huffing Val-Doussen.

Cannabere looked to the flustered mage, as well, then nodded toward Drizzt. With a great sigh, Val-Doussen went over and took the note. As he began to hold out his hand for the payment, Cannabere added, “As a favor to you, Drizzt Do'Urden, and with our thanks for your work with Sea Sprite. “

Val-Doussen grumbled again, but he snapped up the note in his hand and spun away.

“Perhaps I will weave a tale or two for you when we meet again,” Drizzt said to placate him, as the wizard stormed from the room.

The drow looked to the guildmaster, who merely bowed politely, and Drizzt and Catti-brie went on their way, bound for Luskan's southern gate and the road to Waterdeep.

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

Tight cords dug deep lines into Le'lorinel's wrists as the elf sat upright on a hard, high, straight-backed wooden chair. A leather band even went about Le’lorinel's neck, holding the elf firmly in place, forcing a grimace.

One eye didn't open all the way, bloated and bruised from the beating, and both shoulders ached and showed purplish bruises, for the elf was no longer wearing a tunic, was no longer wearing many clothes at all.

As the elf's eyes adjusted, Le'lorinel noted that the same four — three brutish guards and a brown-haired woman of medium build — remained in the room. The guards were standing to the side, the woman sitting directly across the way, staring hard at the prisoner.

“My Lady is not fond of having people inquiring about her in public,” the woman remarked, her eyes roaming Le'lorinel's finely muscled frame.

“Your lady can not distinguish between friend and foe,” Le'lorinel, ever defiant, replied.

“Some things are difficult to distinguish,” the woman agreed, and she smiled as she continued her scan.

Le'lorinel gave a derisive snicker, and the woman nodded to the side. A brutish guard was beside the prisoner in a moment, offering a vicious smack across the face.

“Your attitude will get you killed,” the woman calmly stated.

Now it was Le'lorinel's turn to stare hard.

“You have been all around Luskan asking about Sheila Kree,” the woman went on after a few moments. “What is it about? Are you with the authorities? With that wretch Deudermont perhaps?”

“I am alone, and without friends west of Silverymoon,” Le'lorinel replied with equal calm.

“But with the name of a hoped-for contact you carelessly utter to anyone who will listen.”

“Not so,” the elf answered. “I spoke of Kree only to the one group, and only because I believed they could lead me to her.”

Again the woman nodded, and again the brute smacked Le'lorinel across the face.

“Sheila Kree,” the woman corrected.

Le'lorinel didn't audibly respond but did give a slight, deferential nod.

“You should explain, then, here and now, and parse your words carefully,” the woman explained. “Why do you so seek out my boss?”

“On the directions of a seer,” Le'lorinel admitted. “The one who created the sketch for me.”

As the elf finished, the woman lifted the parchment that held the symbol of Aegis-fang, the symbol that had become so connected to Sheila Kree's pirate band.

“I come in search of another, a dangerous foe, and one who will seek out Kr—Sheila Kree,” Le'lorinel explained. “I know not the time nor the place, but by the words of the seer, I will complete my quest to do battle with this rogue when I am in the company of Sheila Kree, if it is indeed Sheila Kree who now holds the weapon bearing that insignia.”

“A dangerous foe?” the woman slyly asked. “Captain Deudermont, perhaps?”

“Drizzt Do'Urden,” Le'lorinel stated clearly, seeing no reason to hide the truth—especially since any ill-considered words now could prove disastrous for the quest and for the elf's very life. “A dark elf, and friend to the one who once owned that weapon.”

“A drow?” the woman asked skeptically, showing no obvious recognition of the strange name.

“Indeed,” Le'lorinel said with a huff. “Hero of the northland. Beloved by many in Icewind Dale—and other locales.”

The woman's expression became curious, as if she might have heard of such a drow, but she merely shrugged it away. “And he seeks Sheila Kree?” she asked.

It was Le’lorinel's turn to shrug—had the tight binding allowed for such a movement. “I know only what the seer told to me and have traveled many hundreds of miles to find the vision fulfilled. I intend to kill this dark elf”

“And what, then, of any relationship you begin with my boss?” the woman asked. “Is she merely a pawn for your quest?”

“She. . her home, or fortress, or ship, or wherever it is she resides, is merely my destination, yes,” Le'lorinel admitted. “As of now, I have no relationship with your captain. Whether that situation changes or not will likely have more to do with her than with me, since. .” The elf stopped and glanced at the bindings.

The woman spent a long while studying the elf and considering the strange tale, then nodded again to her brutish guards, offering a subtle, yet clear signal to them.

One moved fast for Le'lorinel, drawing a long, jagged knife. The elf thought that doom had come, but then the brute stepped behind the chair and cut the wrist bindings. Another of the brutish guards came out of the shadows at the side of the room, bearing Le'lorinel's clothing and belongings, except for the weapons and the enchanted ring.

Le'lorinel looked to the woman, trying hard to ignore the disappointed scowls of the three brutes, and noted that she was wearing the ring—the ring Le'lorinel so desperately needed to win a battle against Drizzt Do'Urden.

“Give back the weapons, as well,” the woman instructed the guards, and all three paused and stared at her incredulously— or perhaps just stupidly.

“The road to Sheila Kree is fraught with danger,” the woman explained. “You will likely need your blades. Do not disappoint me in this journey, and perhaps you will live long enough to tell your tale to Sheila Kree, though whether she listens to it in full or merely kills you for the fun of it, only time will tell.”

Le'lorinel had to be satisfied with that. The elf gathered up the clothes and dressed, trying hard not to rush, trying hard to remain indignant toward the rude guards all the while.

Soon they, all five, were on the road, out of Luskan's north gate.

Chapter 10 DAMN THE WINTER

From Drizzt,” Cassius explained, handing the parchment over to Regis. “Delivered by a most unfriendly fellow from Luskan. A wizard of great importance, by his own measure, at least.”

Regis took the rolled and tied note and undid the bow holding it.

“You will be pleased, I believe,” Cassius prompted.

The halfling looked up at him skeptically. “You read it?”

“The wizard from Luskan, Val-Doussen by name—and he of self-proclaimed great intellect—forgot the name of the person I was supposed to give it to,” Cassius explained dryly. “So, yes, I perused it, and from its contents it seems obvious that it's either for you or for Bruenor Battlehammer or both.”

Regis nodded as if satisfied, though in truth he figured Cassius could have reasoned as much without ever reading the note. Who else would Drizzt and Catti-brie be sending messages to, after all? The halfling let it go, though, too concerned with what Drizzt might have to say. He pulled open the note, his eyes scanning the words quickly.

A smile brightened his face.

“Perhaps the barbarian remains alive,” Cassius remarked.

“So it would seem,” said the halfling. “Or at least, the brand we found on the woman does not mean what we all feared it might.”

Cassius nodded, but Regis couldn't help but note a bit of a cloud passing over his features.

“What is it?” the halfling asked.

“Nothing.”

“More than nothing,” Regis reasoned, and he considered his own words that had brought on the slight frown. “The woman,” he reasoned. “What of the woman?”

“She is gone,” Cassius admitted.

“Dead?”

“Escaped,” the elderman corrected. “A tenday ago. Councilor Kemp put her on a Targos fishing ship for indenture—a different ship than that on which he placed the other ruffians, for he knew she was the most dangerous by far. She leaped from the deck soon after the ship put out.”

“Then she died, frozen in Maer Dualdon,” Regis reasoned, for he knew the lake well and knew that no one could survive for long in the cold waters even in midsummer, let alone at this time of the year.

“So the crew believed,” Cassius said. “She must have had some enchantment upon her, for she was seen emerging from the water a short distance from the western reaches of Targos.”

“Then she is lying dead of exposure along the lake's southern bank,” the halfling said, “or is wandering in a near-dead stupor along the water's edge.”

Cassius was shaking his head through every word. “Jule Pepper is a clever one, it would seem,” he said. “She is nowhere to be found, and clothing was stolen from a farmhouse to the west of the city. Likely that one is long on the road out of Icewind Dale, and a glad farewell I offer her.”

Regis wasn't thinking along those same lines. He wondered if Jule Pepper presented any threat to his friends. Jule knew of Drizzt, obviously and likely held a grudge against him. If she was returning to her old hunting band, perhaps she and the drow would cross paths once more.

Regis forced himself to calm down, remembering the two friends, Drizzt and Catti-brie, that he was fearing for. If Jule Pepper crossed paths with that pair, then woe to her, he figured, and he let it go at that.

“I must get to Bruenor,” he said to Cassius. Regis snapped the parchment up tight in his hand and rushed out of the elderman's house, sprinting across Brynn Shander in the hopes that he might catch up to a merchant caravan he knew to be leaving for the dwarven mines that very morning.

Luck was with him, and he talked his way into a ride on a wagon full of grain bags. He slept nearly all the way.

Bruenor was in a foul mood when Regis finally caught up to him late that same night—a mood that had been common with the dwarf since Drizzt and Catti-brie had left Ten-Towns.

“Ye're bringing up weak stone!” the red-bearded dwarf king howled at a pair of young miners, their faces and beards black with dirt and dust. Bruenor held up one of the rock samples he had proffered from their small cart and crumbled it in one hand. “Ye're thinking there's ore worth taking in that?” he asked incredulously.

“A tough dig,” remarked one of the younger dwarves, his black beard barely reaching the middle of his thick neck. “We're down the deepest hole, hanging upside down. .”

“Bah, but ye're mixing me up for one who's caring to hear yer whining!” Bruenor roared. The dwarf king gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and gave a great growl, trembling as if he was throwing all of the rage right out of his body.

“Me king!” the black-bearded dwarf exclaimed. “We'll go and get better stone!”

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted.

He turned and slammed his body hard against the laden cart, overturning it. As if that one explosion had released the tension, Bruenor stood there, staring at the overturned cart and the stones strewn about the corridor, stubby hands on hips. He closed his eyes.

“Ye're not needing to go back down there,” he said calmly to the pair. “Ye go get yerselves cleaned and get yerselves some food. Ain't a thing wrong with most o' that ore—it's yer king who's needing a bit o' toughening, by me own eyes and ears.”

“Yes, me king,” both young dwarves said in unison.

Regis came up from the other side, then, and nodded to the pair, who turned and trotted away, mumbling.

The halfling walked up and put his hand on Bruenor’s shoulder. The dwarf king nearly jumped out of his boots, spinning about, his face a mask of fury.

“Don't ye be doing that!” he roared, though he did calm somewhat when he saw that it was only Regis. “Ain't ye supposed to be in a council meeting?”

“They can get through it without me,” the halfling replied, managing a smile. “I think you might need me more.”

Bruenor looked at him curiously, so Regis just turned and led the dwarfs gaze down the corridor, to the departing pair. “Criminals?” the halfling asked sarcastically.

Bruenor kicked a stone, sending it flying against the wall, seeming again as if he was so full of rage and frustration that he would simply explode. The dark cloud passed quickly, though, replaced by a more general air of gloom, and the dwarfs shoulders slumped. He bowed his head and shook it slowly.

“I can't be losin' me boy again,” he admitted.

Regis was beside him in an instant, one hand comfortingly placed on Bruenor's shoulder. As soon as the dwarf looked up at his buddy, Regis offered a wide smile and held the parchment up before him. “From Drizzt,” the halfling explained.

The words had barely left Regis's mouth before Bruenor grabbed the parchment away and pulled it open.

“He and Catti-brie found me boy!” the dwarf howled, but he stopped short as he read on.

“No, but they found out how Wulfgar got separated from Aegis-fang,” Regis was quick to add, for that, after all, had been the primary source of their concern that the barbarian might be dead.

“We're goin',” Bruenor declared.

“Going?” Regis echoed. “Going where?”

“To find Drizzt and Catti-brie. To find me boy!” the dwarf roared. He stormed away down the corridor. “We're leaving tonight, Rumblebelly. Ye'd best get yerself ready.”

“But. .” Re'gis started to reply. He stuttered over the beginnings of a series of arguments, the primary of which was the fact that it was getting late in the season to be heading out of Ten-Towns. Autumn was fast on the wane, and Icewind Dale had never been known for especially long autumn seasons, with winter seeming ever hungry to descend upon the region.

“We'll get to Luskan, don't ye worry, Rumblebelly!” Bruenor howled.

“You should take dwarves with you,” Regis stammered, skittering to catch up. “Yes, sturdy dwarves who can brave the winter snows, and who can fight., .”

“Don't need me kin,” Bruenor assured him. “I've got yerself beside me, and I know ye wouldn't be missing the chance to help me find me boy.”

It wasn't so much what Bruenor had said as it was the manner in which he had said it, a flat declaration that left no hint at all that he would even listen to contrary arguments.

Regis sputtered out a few undecipherable sounds, then just huffed through a resigned sigh. “All of my supplies for the road are in Lonelywood,” the halfling did manage to complain.

“And anything ye'll be needin' is right here in me caves,” Bruenor explained. “We'll put through Brynn Shander on our way so ye can apologize to Cassius—he'll see to yer house and yer possessions.”

“Indeed,” Regis mumbled under his breath, and in purely sarcastic tones, for the last time he had left the region, as in all the times he had wandered out of Icewind Dale, he had returned to find that he had nothing left waiting for him. The folk of Ten-Towns were honest enough as neighbors, but perfectly vulture-like when it came to picking clean abandoned houses—even if they were only supposed to be abandoned for a short time.

True to Bruenor's word, the halfling and the dwarf were on the road that very night, rambling along under crystalline skies and a cold wind, following the distant lights to Brynn Shander. They arrived just before the dawn, and though Regis begged for patience Bruenor led the way straight to Cassius's house and banged hard on the door, calling out loudly enough to not only wake Cassius but a substantial number of his neighbors as well.

When a sleepy-eyed Cassius at last opened his door, the dwarf bellowed, “Ye got five minutes!” and shoved Regis through.

And when, by Bruenor's count, the appropriated time had passed, the dwarf barged through the door, collected the halfling by the scruff of his neck, offered a few insincere apologies to Cassius, and pulled Regis out the door. Bruenor prodded him along all the way across the city and out the western gate.

“Cassius informed me that the fishermen are expecting a gale,” Regis said repeatedly, but if Bruenor even heard him, the determined dwarf wasn't showing it. “The wind and rain will be bad enough, but if it turns to snow and sleet. . ”

“Just a storm,” Bruenor said with a derisive snort. “Ain't no storm to stop me, Rumblebelly, nor yerself. I'll get ye there!”

“The yetis are out in force this time of year,” Regis cautioned.

“Good enough for keeping me axe nice and sharp,” Bruenor countered. “Hard-headed beasts.”

The storm began that same night, a cold and biting, steady rain, pelting them more horizontally than vertically in the driving wind.

Thoroughly miserable and soaked to the bone, Regis complained continually, though he knew Bruenor, in the sheer volume of the wind, couldn't even hear him. The wind was directly behind them, at least, propelling them along at a great pace, which Bruenor pointed out often and with a wide smile.

But Regis knew better, and so did the dwarf. The storm was coming from the southeast, off the mountains, the most unlikely direction, and often the most ominous. In Icewind Dale, such storms, if they progressed as expected, were known as Nor'westers. If the gale made its way across the dale and to the sea, the cold northeasterly wind would hold it there, over the moving ice, sometimes for days on end,

The pair stopped at a farmhouse for the evening and were welcomed in, though told that they could sleep in the barn with the livestock and not in the main house. Huddled about a small fire, naked and with their clothes drying on a rafter above, Regis again appealed to Bruenor's common sense.

The halfling found that target a hard one to locate.

“Nor'wester,” Regis explained. “Could storm for a tenday and could turn colder.”

“Not a Nor'wester yet,” the dwarf replied gruffly.

“We can wait it out. Stay here—or go to Bremen, perhaps. But to cross the dale in this could be the end of us!”

“Bah, it's just a bit o' rain,” Bruenor grumbled. He bit a huge chunk off the piece of mutton their hosts had provided. “Seen worse—used to play in worse when I was but a boy in Mithral Hall. Ye should’ve seen the snows in the mountains out there, Rumblebelly. Twice a dwarfs height in a single fall!”

“And a quarter of that will stop us cold on the road,” Regis answered. “And leave us frozen and dead in a place where only the yetis will ever find us.”

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted. “No snow'll stop me from me boy, or I'm a bearded gnome! Ye can turn about if ye're wantin'—ye should be able to get to Targos easy enough, and they'll get ye across the lake to yer home. But I'm for going on, soon as I get me sleep, and I'm not for stopping until I see Luskan's gate, until I find that tavern Drizzt wrote about, the Cutlass.”

Regis tried to hide his frown and just nodded.

“I'm not holdin' a bit o' yer choices against ye,” Bruenor said. “If ye ain't got the heart for it, then turn yerself about.”

“But you are going on?” Regis asked.

“All the way.”

What Regis didn't have the heart for, despite what his common sense was screaming out at him, was abandoning his friend to the perils of the road. When Bruenor left the next day, Regis was right beside him.

The only change that next day was that the wind was now from the northwest instead of the southeast, blowing the rain into their faces, which made them all the more miserable and slowed their progress considerably, Bruenor didn't complain, didn't say a word, just bent low into the gale and plowed on.

And Regis went with him, stoically, though the halfling did position himself somewhat behind and to the left of the dwarf, using Bruenor's wide body to block a bit of the rain and the wind.

The dwarf did concede to a more northerly route that day, one that would bring them to another farmhouse along the route, a homestead that was quite used to having visitors. In fact, when the dwarf and halfling arrived, they met with another group who had started on their way to Luskan. They had pulled in two days before, fearing that the mud would stop their wagon wheels dead in their tracks.

“Too early in the season,” the lead driver explained to the duo. “Ground's not frozen up yet, so we've no chance of getting through.”

“Seems as if we'll be wintering in Bremen,” another of the group grumbled.

“Happened before, and'll happen again,” the lead driver said. “We'll take ye on with us to Bremen, if ye want.”

“Not going to Bremen,” Bruenor explained between bites of another mutton dinner. “Going to Luskan.”

Every member of the other group glanced incredulously at each other, and both Bruenor and Regis heard the word “Nor'wester” mumbled more than once.

“Got no wagons to get stuck in the mud,” Bruenor explained.

“Mud that'll reach more than halfway up yer little legs,” said another, with a chuckle that lasted only as long as it took Bruenor to fix him with a threatening scowl.

The other group, even the lead driver, appealed to the pair to be more sensible, but it was Regis, not Bruenor, who finally said, “We will see you on the road. Next spring. We'll be returning as you're leaving.”

That brought a great belly laugh out of Bruenor, and sure enough, before dawn the next day, before any members of the farm family or the other group had even opened their eyes, the dwarf and the halfling were on the road, bending into the cold wind. They knew they'd spent their last comfortable night for a long while, knew they'd have a difficult time even finding enough shelter to start a fizzling fire, knew that deep mud awaited them and possibly with deep snow covering it.

But they knew, too, that Drizzt and Catti-brie waited for them, and, perhaps, so did Wulfgar.

Regis did not register a single complaint that third day, nor the fourth, nor the fifth, though they were out of dry clothes and the wind had turned decidedly colder, and the rain had become sleet and snow. They plowed on, single file, Bruenor's sheer strength and determination plowing a trail ahead of Regis, though the mud grabbed at his every stride and the snow was piling as deep as his waist.

The fifth night they built a dome of snow for shelter and Bruenor did manage a bit of a fire, but neither could feel their feet any longer. With the current pace of the snowfall they expected to wake up to find the white stuff as deep as the horn on Bruenor's helmet.

“I shouldn't have taked ye along,” Bruenor admitted solemnly, as close to an admission of defeat as Regis had ever heard from the indomitable dwarf. “Should've trusted in Drizzt and Catti-brie to bring me boy back in the spring.”

“We're almost out of the dale,” Regis replied with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. It was true enough. Despite the weather, they had made great progress, and the mountain pass was in sight, though still a day's march away. “The storm has kept the yetis at bay.”

“Only because the damn things're smarter than us,” Bruenor grumbled. He put his toes practically into the fire, trying to thaw them.

They had a difficult time falling asleep that night, expecting the wind and the storm to collapse the dome atop them. In fact, when Regis awoke in the darkness, everything seeming perfectly still—too still! He knew in his heart that he was dead.

He lay there for what seemed like days, when finally the snow dome above him began to lighten and even glow.

Regis breathed a sigh of relief, but where was Bruenor? The halfling rolled to his side and propped himself up on his elbows, glancing all about. In the dim light, he finally made out Bruenor's bedroll, tossed asunder. Before he could even begin to question the scene, he heard a commotion by the low tunnel to the igloo and sucked in his breath.

It was Bruenor coming through, and wearing less clothing than Regis had seen him in for several days.

“Sun's up,” the dwarf said with a wide smile. “And the snow's fast melting. We best get our things and ourselves outta here afore the roof melts in on us!”

They didn't travel very far that day, for the warming weather fast melted the snows, making the mud nearly impossible to traverse. At least they weren't freezing anymore, though, and so they took the slowdown in good stride. Bruenor managed to find a dry spot for their camp, and they enjoyed a hearty meal and a fretful night filled with the sounds of wolves howling and yetis growling.

Still, they managed to find a bit of sleep, but when they awoke they had to wonder how good a thing that was. In the night a wolf, by the shape of the tracks, had come in and made off with a good deal of their supplies.

Despite loss and weariness, it was in good spirits that they made the beginning of the pass that day. No snow had fallen there, and the ground was stony and dry. They camped just within the protective walls of stone that night and were surprised when other lights appeared in the darkness. There was a camp of some sort higher up on the gorge's eastern wall.

“Well, go and see what that's all about,” Bruenor bade Regis.

Regis looked at him skeptically.

“Ye're the sneak, ain't ye?” the dwarf said.

With a helpless chuckle, Regis picked himself up from the stone on which he had been enjoying his meal, gave a series of belches, and rubbed his full belly.

“Get all the wind outta ye afore ye try sneakin' up on our friends,” the dwarf advised.

Regis burped again and patted his belly, then, with a resigned sigh (he always seemed to be doing that around Bruenor), he turned and started off into the dark night, leaving Bruenor to do the clean-up.

The smell of venison cooking as he neared the encampment, climbing quietly up a steep rock face, made the halfling think that perhaps Bruenor had been right in sending him out. Perhaps they would find a band of rangers willing to share the spoils of their hunt, or a band of merchants who had ridden out of the dale before them, and would be glad to hire them on as guards for the duration of the journey to Luskan.

Lost in fantasies of comfort, so eager to get his mouth on that beautiful-smelling venison, Regis nearly pulled himself full over the ledge with a big smile. Caution got the better of the halfling, though, and it was a good thing it did. As he pulled himself up slowly, lifting to just peek over the ledge, he saw that these were not rangers and were not merchants, but orcs. Big, smelly, ugly, nasty orcs. Fierce mountain orcs, wearing the skins of yetis, tearing at the hocks of venison with abandon, crunching cartilage and bone, swearing at each other and jostling for every piece they tore 'off the cooking carcass.

It took Regis a few moments to even realize that his arms had gone weak, and he had to catch himself before falling off the thirty-foot cliff. Slowly, trying hard not to scream out, trying hard not to breathe too loudly, he lowered himself back below lip.

In times past, that would have been the end of it, with Regis scrambling back down then running to Bruenor to report that there was nothing to be gained. But now, bolstered by the confidence that had come through his efforts on the road over the last few months, where he had worked hard to play an important role in his friends' heroics, and still stung by the nearly constant dismissal others showed to him when speaking of the Companions of the Hall, Regis decided it was not yet time to turn back. Far from it.

The halfling would get himself a meal of venison and one for Bruenor, too. But how?

The halfling worked himself around to the side, just a bit. Once out of the illumination of the firelight, he peeked over the ledge again. The orcs remained engrossed in their meal. One fight nearly broke out as two reached for the same chunk of meat, the first one even trying to bite the arm of the second as it reached in.

In the commotion that ensued, Regis went up over the ledge, staying flat on his belly and crawling behind a rock. A few moments later, with another squabble breaking out at the camp, the halfling picked a course and moved closer, and closer again.

“O, but now I've done it,” Regis silently mouthed. “I'll get myself killed, to be sure. Or worse, captured, and Bruenor will get himself killed coming to find me!”

The potential of that thought weighed heavily on the little halfling. The dwarf was a brutal foe, Regis knew, and these ores would feel his wrath terribly, but they were big and tough, and there were six of them after all.

The thought that he might get his friend killed almost turned the halfling back.

Almost.

Eventually he was close enough to smell the ugly brutes, and, more importantly, to notice some of the particulars about them. Like the fact that one was wearing a fairly expensive bracelet of gold, with a clasp that Regis knew he could easily undo.

A plan began to take shape.

The orc with the bracelet had a huge chunk of deer, a rear leg, in that hand. The nasty creature brought it up to its chomping mouth, then brought it back down to its side, then up and down, repeatedly and predictably.

Regis waited patiently for the next struggle that orc had with the beast to its left, as he knew that it would, as they all were, one after the other. As the bracelet-wearing brute held the venison out to the right defensively, fending off the advance of the creature on its left, a small hand came up from the shadows, taking the bracelet with a simple flick of plump little fingers.

The halfling brought his hand down, but to the right and not back, taking his loot to the pocket of the orc sitting to the right of his victim. In it went, softly and silently, and Regis took care to hang the end of the chain out in open sight.

The halfling quickly went back behind his rock and waited.

He heard his victim start with surprise a moment later.

“Who taked it?” the orc asked in its own brutish tongue, some of which Regis understood.

“Take what?” blustered the orc to the left. “Yer got yerself the bestest piece, ye glutton!”

“Yer taked me chain!” the victimized orc growled. It brought the deer leg across, smacking the other ore hard on the head.

“Aw, now how's Tuko got it?” asked another of the group. Ironically, it was the one with the chain hanging out of its pocket. “Yer been keeping yer hand away from Tuko all night!”

Things calmed for a second. Regis held his breath.

“Yer right, ain't ye, Ginick?” asked the victimized orc, and from its sly tone, Regis knew that the dim-witted creature had spotted something.

A terrible row ensued, with Regis's victim leaping up and swinging the deer leg in both hands like a club, aiming for Ginick's head. The target orc blocked with a burly arm and came up hard, catching the other about the waist and bearing it right over poor Tuko the other way. Soon all six were into it—pulling each other's hair, clubbing, punching, and biting.

Regis crept away soon after, enough venison in hand to satisfy a hungry dwarf and a hungrier halfling.

And wearing on his left wrist a newly acquired gold bracelet, one that had conveniently dropped from the pocket of a falsely accused orc thief.

Chapter 11 DIVERGING ROADS

We'd've found a faster road with a bit of wizard's magic,” Catti-brie remarked. It wasn't the first time the woman had good-naturedly ribbed Drizzt about his refusal to accept Val-Doussen's offer. “We'd be well on our way back, I'm thinking, and with Wulfgar in tow.”

“You sound more like a dwarf every day,” Drizzt countered, using a stick to prod the fire upon which a fine stew was cooking. “You should begin to worry when you notice an aversion to open spaces, like the road we now travel.

“No, wait!” the drow sarcastically exclaimed, as if the truth had just come to him. “Are you not expressing just such an aversion?”

“Keep waggin' yer tongue, Drizzt Do'Urden,” Catti-brie muttered quietly. “Ye might be fine with yer spinning blades, but how are ye with catching a few stinging arrows?”

“I have already cut your bowstring,” the drow casually replied, leaning forward and taking a sip of the steaming stew.

Catti-brie actually started to look over at Taulmaril, lying unstrung at the side of the fallen log on which she now sat. She put on a smirk, though, and turned back to her sarcastic friend. “I'm just thinking we might have missed Sea Sprite as she put out for her last run o' the season,” Catti-brie said, seriously, this time.

Indeed, the wind had taken on a bit of a bite over the last few days, autumn fast flowing past. Deudermont often took Sea Sprite out at this time of the year to haunt the waters off Water-deep for a couple of tendays before turning south to warmer climes and more active pirates.

Drizzt knew it, too, as was evident by the frown that crossed his angular features. That little possibility had been troubling him since he and Catti-brie had left the Hosttower, and made him wonder if his refusal of Val-Doussen's offer had been too selfish an act.

“All the fool mage wanted was a bit of talking,” the woman went on. “A few hours of yer time would've made him happy and would have saved us a tenday of walking—and no, I'm not fearing the road or even bothered by it, and ye know it! There's no place in the world I'd rather be than on the road beside ye, but we've got others to think of, and it'd be better for Bruenor, and for Wulfgar, if we find him before he gets into too much more trouble.”

Drizzt started to respond with a reminder that Wulfgar, if he was indeed with Deudermont and the crew of Sea Sprite, was in fine hands, was among allies at least as powerful as the Companions of the Hall. He held the words, though, and considered Catti-brie's argument more carefully, truly hearing what she was saying instead of reflexively formulating a defensive answer. He knew she was right, that Wulfgar, that all of them, would be better off if they were reunited. Perhaps he should have spent a few hours talking to Val-Doussen.

“So just tell me why ye didn't,” Catti-brie gently prompted. “Ye could've got us to Waterdeep in the blink of a wizard's eye, and I'm knowing ye believe that to be a good thing. And yet ye didn't, so might ye be telling me why?”

“Val-Doussen is no scholar,” Drizzt replied.

Catti-brie leaned in and took the spoon from him, then dipped it into the stew and, brushing her thick, long auburn hair back from her face, took a sip. She stared at Drizzt all the while, her inquisitive expression indicating that he should elaborate.

“His interest in Menzoberranzan is one of personal gain and nothing more,” Drizzt remarked. “He had no desire for bettering the world, but only hoped that something I would tell him might offer him an advantage he could exploit.”

Still Catti-brie stared at him, obviously not catching on. Even if Drizzt's words were true, why, given Drizzt's relationship with his wicked kin, did that even matter?

“He hoped I would unveil some of the mysteries of the drow,” Drizzt continued, undaunted by his companion's expression.

“And even if ye did, from what I know of Menzoberranzan Val-Doussen couldn't be using yer words for anything more than his own doom,” Catti-brie put in, and sincerely, for she had visited that exotic dark elf city, and she knew well the great power of the place.

Drizzt shrugged and reached for the spoon, but Catti-brie, smiling widely, pulled it away from him.

Drizzt sat back, staring at her, not sharing her smile. He was deep in concentration, needing to make his point. “Val-Doussen hoped to personally profit from my words, to use my tales for his own nefarious reasons, and at the expense of those my information delivered unto him. Be it my kin in Menzoberranzan, or Bruenor's in Mithral Hall, my actions would have been no less wicked.”

“I'd not be comparing Clan Battlehammer to—” Catti-brie started.

“I am not,” Drizzt assured her. “I speak of nothing more here than my own principles. If Val-Doussen sought information of a goblin settlement that he could lead a preemptive assault against them, I would gladly comply, because I trust that such a goblin settlement would soon enough cause tragedy to any living nearby.”

“And didn't yer own kin come to Mithral Hall?” Catti-brie asked, following the logic.

“Once,” Drizzt admitted. “But as far as I know, my kin are not on their way back to the surface world in search of plunder and mayhem.”

“As far as ye know.”

“Besides, anything I offered to Val-Doussen would not have prevented any dark elf raids in any case,” Drizzt went on, stepping lightly so that Catti-brie could not catch him in a logic trap. “No, more likely, the fool would have gone to Menzoberranzan, alone or with others, in some attempt at grand thievery. That most likely would have done no more than to stir up the dark elves into murderous revenge.”

Catti-brie started to ask another question, but just sat back instead, staring at her friend. Finally, she nodded and said, “Ye're making a bit o' assumptions there.”

Drizzt didn't begin to disagree, audibly or with his body language.

“But I'm seeing yer point that ye shouldn't be mixing yerself up with those of less than honorable intent.”

“You respect that?” Drizzt asked.

Catti-brie gave what might have been an agreeing nod.

“Then give me the spoon,” the dark elf said more forcefully. “I’m starving!”

In response, Catti-brie moved forward and dipped the spoon into the pot, then lifted it toward Drizzt's waiting lips. At the last moment, the drow's lavender eyes closed against the steam, the woman pulled the spoon back to her own lips.

Drizzt's eyes popped open, his surprised and angry expression overwhelmed by the playful and teasing stare of Catti-brie. He went forward in a sudden burst, falling over the woman and knocking her right off the back of the log, then wrestling with her for the spoon.

Neither Drizzt nor Catti-brie could deny the truth that there was no place in all the world they would rather be.

* * * * * * * * * *

The walls climbed up around the small party, a combination of dark gray-brown cliff facings and patches of steeply sloping green grass. A few trees dotted the sides of the gorge, small and thin things, really, unable to get firm footing or to send their roots very deep into the rocky ground.

The place was ripe for an ambush, Le'lorinel understood, but neither the elf nor the other four members of the party were the least bit worried of any such possibility. Sheila Kree and her ruffians owned this gorge. Le'lorinel had caught the group's leader, the brown-haired woman named Genny, offering a few subtle signals toward the peaks. Sentries were obviously in place there.

There would be no calls, though, for none would be heard beyond a few dozen strides. In the distance, Le'lorinel could hear the constant song of the river that had cut this gorge, flowing underground now, under the left-hand wall as they made their way to the south. Directly ahead, some distance away, the surf thundered against the rocky coast. The wind blew down from behind them, filling their ears. The chilling wind of Icewind Dale escaped the tundra through this mountain pass.

Le'lorinel felt strangely comfortable in this seemingly inhospitable and forlorn place. The elf felt a sense of freedom away from the clutter of society that had never held much interest. Perhaps there would be more to this relationship with Sheila Kree, Le'lorinel mused. Perhaps after the business with Drizzt Do'Urden was finished, Le'lorinel could stay on with Kree's band, serving as a sentry in this very gorge.

Of course, that all hinged on whether or not the elf remained alive after an encounter with the deadly dark elf, and in truth, unless Le'lorinel could find some way to get the enchanted ring back from Genny, that seemed a remote possibility indeed.

Without that ring, would Le'lorinel even dare to go against the dark elf?

A shudder coursed the elf's spine, one brought on by thoughts and not the chilly wind.

The party moved past several small openings, natural vents for the caverns that served as Kree's home in the three-hundred-foot mound to the left, a series of caves settled above the present-day river. Down around a bend in the gorge, they came to a wide natural alcove and a larger cave entrance, a place where the river had once cut its way out through the limestone rock.

A trio of guards sat among the crags to the right-hand wall within, huddled in the shadows, throwing bones and chewing near-raw mutton, their heavy weapons close at hand. Like the three who had accompanied Le'lorinel to this place, the guards were huge, obviously a product of mixed parentage, human and ogre, and favoring the ogre side indeed.

They bristled at the approach of the band but didn't seem too concerned, and Le'lorinel understood that the sentries along the gorge had likely warned them of the intruders.

“Where is the boss?” Genny asked.

“Chogurugga in her room,” one soldier grunted in reply.

“Not Chogurugga,” said Genny. “Sheila Kree. The real boss.”

Le'lorinel didn't miss the scowl that came at the woman at that proclamation. The elf readily understood that there was some kind of power struggle going on here, likely between the pirates and the ogres.

One of the guards grunted and showed its nasty yellow teeth, then motioned toward the back of the cave.

The three accompanying soldiers took out torches and set them ablaze. On the travelers went, winding their way through a myriad of spectacular natural designs. At first, Le'lorinel thought running water was all around them, cascading down the sides of the tunnel in wide, graceful waterfalls, but as the elf looked closer the truth became evident. It was not water, but formations of rock left behind by the old river, limestone solidified into waterfall images still slick from the dripping that came with every rainfall.

Great tunnels ran off the main one, many winding up, spiraling into the mound, others branching off at this level often forming huge, boulder-filled chambers. So many shapes assaulted the elf's outdoor sensibilities! Images of animals and weapons, of lovers entwined and great forests, of whatever Le'lorinel's imagination allowed the elf to see! Le'lorinel was a creature of the forest, a creature of the moon, and had never before been underground. For the very first time, the elf gained some appreciation of the dwarves and the halflings, the gnomes and any other race that chose the subterranean world over that of the open sky.

No, not any other race, Le'lorinel promptly reminded. Not the drow, those ebon-skinned devils of lightless chambers. Certainly there was beauty here, but beauty only reflected in the light of the torches.

The party moved on in near silence, save the crackle of the torches, for the floor was of clay, smooth and soft. They descended for some time along the main chamber, the primary riverbed of ages past, and moved beyond several other guard stations, sometimes manned by half-ogres, once by a pair of true ogres, and once by normal-looking men—pirates, judging from their dress and from the company they kept.

Le'lorinel took it all in halfheartedly, too concerned with the forthcoming meeting, the all-important plea that had to be made to Sheila Kree. With Kree's assistance, Le'lorinel might find the end of a long, heart-wrenching road. Without Kree's favor, Le'lorinel would likely wind up dead and discarded in one of these side-passages.

And worse, to the elf's sensibilities, Drizzt Do'Urden would remain very much alive.

Genny turned aside suddenly, down a narrow side passage. Both Genny and Le'lorinel had to drop to all fours to continue on, crawling under a low overhang of solid stone. Their three larger companions had to get right down on their bellies and crawl. On the other side was a wide chamber of startling design, widening up and out to the left, its stalactite ceiling many, many feet above.

Genny didn't even look at it, though, but rather focused on a small hole in the floor, moving to a ladder that had been set into one wall. Down she went, followed by a guard, then Le'lorinel, then the other two.

Far down, perhaps a hundred steps, they came to another corridor and set off, arriving soon after in another cave. It was a huge cavern, open to the southwest, to the rocky bay and the sea beyond. Water poured in from many openings in the walls and ceiling, the river emptying into the sea.

In the cave sat Bloody Keel, moored to the western wall, with sailors crawling all over her repairing the rigging and hull damage.

“Now that you've seen this much, you would be wise to pray to whatever god you know that Sheila Kree accepts you,” Genny whispered to the elf. “There are but two ways out of here: as a friend or as a corpse.”

Looking at the ruffian crew scrambling all about the ship, cutthroats all, Le'lorinel didn't doubt those words for a moment.

Genny led the way out of another exit, this one winding back up into the mountain from the back of the docking cave. The passages smelled of smoke, and were torch-lit all the way, so the escorting guards doused their own torches and put them away, Higher and higher they climbed into the mountain, passing storerooms and barracks, crossing through an area that seemed to Le'lorinel to be reserved for the pirates, and another horribly smelly place that housed the ogre clan.

More than a few hungry gazes came the elf's way as they passed by the ravenous ogres, but none came close enough to even prod Le'lorinel. Their respect for Kree was tremendous, the elf recognized, simply from the fact that they weren't causing any trouble. Le'lorinel had enough experience with ogres to know that they were usually unruly and more than ready to make a meal of any smaller humanoid they encountered.

They came to the highest levels of the mound soon after, pausing in an open chamber lined by several doors. Genny motioned for the other four to wait there while she went to the center door of the room, knocked, and disappeared through the door. She returned a short while later.

“Come,” she bade Le'lorinel.

When the three brutish guards moved to escort the elf, Genny held them at bay with an upraised hand. “Go get some food,” the brown-haired woman instructed the half-ogres.

Le'lorinel glanced at the departing half-ogres curiously, not sure whether this signaled that Sheila Kree trusted Genny's word, or whether the pirate was simply too confident or too well-protected to care.

Le'lorinel figured it must be the latter.

Sheila Kree, dressed in nothing more than light breeches and a thin, sleeveless shirt, was standing in the room within, amongst piles of furs, staring out her window at the wide waters. She turned when Genny announced Le'lorinel, her smile bright on her freckled face, her green eyes shining under the crown of her tied-up red hair.

“I've been told ye're fearing for me life, elf,” the pirate leader remarked. “I'm touched by yer concern.”

Le'lorinel stared at her curiously.

“Ye’ve come to warn me of a dark elf, so says Genny,” the pirate clarified.

“I have come to slay a dark elf,” Le'lorinel corrected. “That my actions will benefit you as well is merely a fortunate coincidence.”

Sheila Kree gave a great belly laugh and strode over to stand right in front of the elf, towering over Le’lorinel. The pirate's eyes roamed up and down Le'lorinel's slender, even delicate form. “Fortunate for yerself, or for me?”

“For both, I would guess,” Le'lorinel answered.

“Ye must hate this drow more than a bit to have come here,” Sheila Kree remarked.

“More than you can possibly imagine.”

“And would ye tell me why?”

“It is a long tale,” Le'lorinel said.

“Well, since winter's fast coming and Bloody Keel's, still in dock, it's looking like I've got the time,” Sheila Kree said with another laugh. She swept her arm out toward some piles of furs, motioning for Le'lorinel to join her.

They talked for the rest of the afternoon, with Le'lorinel giving an honest, if slanted account of the many errors of Drizzt Do'Urden. Sheila Kree listened intently, as did Genny, as did a third woman, Bellany, who came in soon after the elf had begun the tale. All three seemed more than a little amused and interested, and as time went on, Le'lorinel relaxed even more.

When the tale was done, both Bellany and Genny applauded, but just for a moment stopping and looking to Sheila for a cue.

“A good tale,” the pirate leader decided. “And I find that I believe yer words. Ye'll understand that we've much to check on afore we let ye have a free run.”

“Of course,” Le'lorinel agreed, giving a slight bow.

“Ye give over yer weapons, and we'll set ye in a room,” Sheila explained. “I've no work for ye right now, so ye can get yer rest from the long road.” As she finished, the pirate held out her hand.

Le'lorinel considered things for just a moment, then decided that Kree and her associates—especially the one named Bellany, who Le'lorinel had concluded was a spellcaster, likely a sorceress—in truth made surrendering the weapons nothing more than symbolic. With a smile at the fiery pirate, the elf turned over the dagger and sword.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“I suppose you consider this humorous,” Drizzt said dryly, his tone interrupted only by the occasional wheeze as he tried to draw breath.

He was lying on the ground, facedown in the dirt, with six hundred pounds of panther draped over him. He had called up Guenhwyvar to do some hunting while he and Catti-brie continued their mock battle over the stew, but then the woman had whispered something in Guen's ear, and the cat, obviously gender loyal, had brought Drizzt down with a great flying tackle.

A few feet away, Catti-brie was thoroughly enjoying her stew.

“Ye do look a bit ridiculous,” she admitted between sips.

Drizzt scrambled, and almost slipped out from under the panther. Guenhwyvar dropped a huge paw on his shoulder, extracting long claws and holding him fast.

“Ye keep on with yer fighting and Guen'll have herself a meal,” Catti-brie remarked.

Drizzt's lavender eyes narrowed. “There remains a small matter of repayment,” he said quietly.

Catti-brie gave a snort, then moved down close to him, on her knees. She lifted a spoon full of stew and blew on it gently, then moved it out toward Drizzt, slowly, teasingly. It almost reached his mouth when the woman pulled it back abruptly, the spoon disappearing into her mouth.

Her smile went away fast, though, as she saw Guenhwyvar dissipating into a gray mist. The cat protested, but the dismissal of her master, Drizzt, could not be ignored.

Catti-brie darted off into the woods with Drizzt in fast pursuit.

He caught her with a leaping tackle a short distance away, bearing her to the ground beneath him, then using his amazing agility and deceptive strength to roll her over and pin her. The firelight was lost behind the trees and shrubs, the starlight and the glow of a half moon alone highlighting the woman's beautiful features.

“Ye call this repayment?” the woman teased when Drizzt was atop her, straddling her and holding her arms to the ground above her head.

“Only beginning,” he promised.

Catti-brie started to laugh, but stopped suddenly, her look to Drizzt becoming serious, even concerned.

“What is it?” the perceptive drow asked. He backed off a bit, letting go of her arms.

“With any luck, we'll be finding Wulfgar,” Catti-brie said.

“That is our hope, yes,” the drow agreed.

“How're ye feeling about that?” the woman asked bluntly.

Drizzt sat up straighter, staring at her hard. “How should I feel?”

“Are ye jealous?” Catti-brie asked. “Are ye fearing that Wulfgar's return—if he should return with us, I mean—will change some things in yer life that ye're not wanting changed?”

Drizzt gave a helpless chuckle, overwhelmed by Catti-brie's straightforwardness and honesty. Something was beginning to burn between them, the drow knew, something long overdue yet still amazing and unexpected. Catti-brie had once loved Wulfgar, had even been engaged to marry him before his apparent demise in Mithral Hall, so what would happen if Wulfgar returned to them now—not the Wulfgar who had run away, the Wulfgar who had slapped Catti-brie hard—but the man they had once known, the man who had once taken Catti-brie's heart?

“Do I hope that Wulfgar's return will not affect our relationship in any negative way?” he asked. “Of course I do. And saying that, do I hope that Wulfgar returns to us? Of course I do. And I pray that he has climbed out of his darkness, back to the man we both once knew and loved.”

Catti-brie settled comfortably and didn't interrupt, her interested expression prompting him to elaborate.

Drizzt began with a shrug. “I do not wish to live my life in a jealous manner,” he said. “And I especially can not think in those terms with any of my true friends. My stake in Wulfgar's return is no less than your own. My happiness will be greater if once again the proud and noble barbarian I once adventured beside returns to my life.

“As for our friendship and what may come of it,” Drizzt continued quietly, but with that same old self-assurance, that inner guidance that had walked the drow out of wicked Menzoberranzan and had carried him through so many difficult adventures and decisions ever since.

He gave a wistful smile and a shrug. “I live my life in the best manner I can,” he said. “I act honestly and in good faith and with the hopes of good friendship, and I hope that things turn out for the best. I can only be this drow you see before you, whether or not Wulfgar returns to us. If in your heart and in mine, there is meant to be more between us, then it shall be. If not. . ” He stopped and smiled and shrugged again.

“There ye go, with yer tongue wandering about again,” Catti-brie said. “Did ye ever think ye should just shut up and kiss me?”

Chapter 12 THE LAVENDER-EYED STATUE

Pull quiet, you oafs,” Gayselle softly scolded as the small skiff approached the imposing lights of Waterdeep Harbor. “I hope to make shore without any notice at all.”

The three oarsmen, half-ogres with burly muscles that lacked a gentle touch, grumbled amongst themselves but did try, with no success, to quiet the splash of the oars. Gayselle suffered through it, knowing they were doing the best they could. She would be glad when this business was ended, when she could be away from her present companions, whose names she did not know but who she'd nicknamed Lumpy, Grumpy, and Dumb-bunny.

She stayed up front of the skiff, trying to make out some markers along the shoreline that would guide her in. She had put into Waterdeep many, many times over the last few years and knew place well. Most of all now, she wanted to avoid the long wharves and larger ships, wanted to get into the smaller, less observed and regulated docks, where a temporary berth could be bought for a few coins.

To her relief she noted that few of the guards were moving about the pier this dark evening. The skiff, even with the half-ogres splashing, had little trouble gliding into the collection of small docks to the south of the long wharves.

Gayselle shifted back and reached to the nearest brute, Grumpy, holding out a satchel that held three small vials. “Drink and shift to human form,” she explained. When Grumpy gave her a lewd smile as he took the satchel, she added, “A male human form. Sheila Kree would not suffer one of you to even briefly assume the form of a woman.”

That brought some more grumbling from the brutes, but they each took a bottle and quaffed the liquid contents. One after another they transformed their physical features into those of human men.

Gayselle nodded with satisfaction and took a few long and steady breaths, considering the course before her. She knew the location of the target's house, of course. It was not far from the docks, set up on a hill above a rocky cove. They had to be done with this dark business quickly, she knew, for the polymorph potions would not last for very long, and the last thing Gayselle wanted was to be walking along Waterdeep's streets accompanied by a trio of half-ogres.

The woman made up her mind then and there that if the potions wore off and her companions became obvious as intruders, she would abandon them and go off on her own, deeper into the city, where she had friends who could get her back to Sheila Kree.

They set up the boat against one of the smaller docks, tying it off beside a dozen other similar boats quietly bumping the pier with the gentle ebb and flow of the tide. With no one about, Gayselle and her three “human” escorts moved with all speed to the north, off the docks and onto the winding avenues that would take them to Captain Deudermont's house.

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

Not so far away, Drizzt and Catti-brie walked through Water-deep's northern gate, the drow easily brushing away the hard stares that came at him from nearly every sentry. One or two recognized him for who he was and said as much to their nervous companions, but it would take more than a few reassuring words to alleviate the average surface dweller's trepidation toward a drow elf.

It didn't bother Drizzt, for he had played through this scenario hundred times before.

“They know ye, don't ye worry,” Catti-brie whispered to him.

“Some,” he agreed.

“Enough,” the woman said flatly. “Ye canno' be expecting all the world to know yer name.”

Drizzt gave a chuckle at that and shook his head in agreement. “And I know well enough that no matter what I may accomplish in my life, I will suffer their stares.” He gave a sincere smile and a shrug. “Suffer is not the right word,” he assured her. “Not any more.”

Catti-brie started to respond but stopped short, her defiant words defeated by Drizzt's disarming smile. She had fought this battle for acceptance beside her friend for all these years, in Icewind Dale, in Mithral Hall and Silverymoon, and even here in Waterdeep, and in every city and town along the Sword Coast during the years they sailed with Deudermont. In many ways, Catti-brie understood at that telling moment, she was more bothered by the stares than was Drizzt. She forced herself to take his lead this time, to let the looks slide off her shoulders, for surely Drizzt was doing just that. She could tell from the sincerity of his smile.

Drizzt stopped and spun about to face the guards, and the nearest couple jumped back in surprise.

“Is Sea Sprite in?” the drow asked.

“S-Sea Sprite?” one stammered in reply. “In where? What?”

An older soldier stepped by the flustered pair. “Captain Deudermont is not yet in,” he explained. “Though he's expected for a last stop at least before the winter sets in.”

Drizzt touched his hand to his forehead in a salute of thanks, then spun back and walked off with Catti-brie.

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

Delly Curtie was in fine spirits this evening. She had this feeling that Wulfgar would soon return with Aegis-fang and that she and her husband could finally get on with their lives.

Delly wasn't quite sure what that meant. Would they return to Luskan and life at the Cutlass with Arumn Gardpeck? She didn't think so. No, Delly understood that this hunt for Aegis-fang was about more than the retrieval of a warhammer—had it been just that, Delly would have discouraged Wulfgar from ever going out in search of the weapon.

This hunt was about Wulfgar finding himself, his past and his heart, and when that happened, Delly believed, he would also find his way back home—his true home, in Icewind Dale.

“And we will go there with him,” she said to Colson, as she held the baby girl out at arms length.

The thought of Icewind Dale appealed to Delly. She knew the hardships of the region, knew all about the tremendous snows and powerful winds, of the goblins and the yetis and other perils. But to Delly, who had grown up on the dirty streets of Luskan, there seemed something clean about Icewind Dale, something honest and pure, and in any case, she would be beside the man she loved, the man she loved more every day. She knew that when Wulfgar found himself, their relationship would only grow stronger.

She began to sing, then, dancing gracefully around the room, swinging Colson about as she turned and skittered, this way and that.

“Daddy will be home soon,” she promised their daughter, and, as if understanding, Colson laughed.

And Delly danced.

And all the world seemed beautiful and full of possibilities.

* * * * * * * * *

Captain Deudermont's house was indeed palatial, even by Waterdhavian standards. It was two stories tall, with more than a dozen rooms. A great sweeping stairway dominated the foyer, which also sported a domed alcove that held two grand wooden double doors, each decorated with the carving of one half of a three-masted schooner. When the doors were closed, the image of Sea Sprite was clear to see. A second staircase in back led to the drawing room that overlooked the rocky cove and the sea.

This was Waterdeep, the City of Splendors, a city of laws. But despite the many patrols of the fabled Waterdhavian Watch and the general civility of the populace, most of the larger houses, Deudermont's included, also employed personal guards.

Deudermont had hired two, former soldiers, former sailors, both of whom had actually served on Sea Sprite many years before. They were friends as much as hired hands, house guests as much as sentries. Though they took their job seriously, they couldn't help but be lax about their work. Every day was inevitably uneventful. Thus, the pair helped out with chores, working with Delly at repairing the shingles blown away by a sea wind, or with the nearly constant painting of the clapboards. They cooked and they cleaned. Sometimes they carried their weapons, and sometimes they did not, for they understood, and so did Deudermont, that they were there more as a preventative measure than anything else. The thieves of Waterdeep avoided homes known to house guards.

Thus the pair were perfectly unprepared for what befell the House of Deudermont that dark night.

Gayselle was the first to Deudermont's front door, accompanied by one of the brutes who, using the polymorph potion, was doing a pretty fair imitation of the physical traits of Captain Deudermont. So good, in fact, that Gayselle found herself wondering if she had misnamed the brute Dumb-bunny. With a look around to see that the streets were quiet, Gayselle nodded to Lumpy, who was standing at the end of the walk, between the two hedgerows. Immediately, the brute began rubbing its feet on the stones, gaining traction and grinning wickedly.

One of the double doors opened to the knock, just three or four inches, for it was, as expected, secured with a chain. A cleanshaven, large man with short black hair and a brow so furrowed it seemed as if it could shield his eyes from a noonday sun, answered.

“Can I help you …?”

His voice trailed off, though, as he scanned the man standing behind the woman, a man who surely resembled Captain Deudermont.

“I have brought the brother of Captain Deudermont,” Gayselle answered. “Come to speak with his long-lost sibling.”

The guard's eyes widened for just a moment, then he resumed his steely, professional demeanor. “Well met,” he offered, “but I fear that your brother is not in Waterdeep at this time. Tell me where you will be staying and I will inform him as soon as he returns.”

“Our funds are low,” Gayselle answered quickly. “We have been on the road for a long time. We were hoping to find shelter here.”

The guard thought it over for just a moment but then shook his head. His orders concerning such matters were uncompromising, despite this surprising twist, and especially so with a woman and her child as guests in the house. He started to explain, to tell them he was sorry, but that they could find shelter at one of several inns for a reasonable price.

Gayselle was hardly listening. She casually looked back down the walk, to the eager half-ogre. The pirate gave a slight nod, setting Lumpy into a charge.

“Perhaps you will then open your door for the third of my group,” the woman said sweetly.

Again the guard shook his head. “I doubt—” he started to say, but then his words and his breath were stolen away as the half-ogre hit the doors in a dead run, splintering wood and tearing free the chain anchors. The guard was thrown back and to the floor, and the half-ogre stumbled in to land atop him.

In went Gayselle and the Deudermont impersonator, drawing weapons. The half-ogre willed away the illusionary image, dropping the human facade.

The guard on the floor started to call out, as he tried to scramble away from the half-ogre, but Gayselle was there, dagger in hand. With a swift and sure movement, she slashed open his throat.

The second guard came through the door at the side of the foyer. Then, his expression one of the purest horror, he sprinted for the stands.

Gayselle's dagger caught him in the back of the leg, hamstringing him. He continued on stubbornly, limping up the stairs and calling out. Dumb-bunny caught up to him and with fearful strength yanked him off the stairs and sent him flying back down to the bottom. The other half-ogre waited there.

Grumpy, still in human form, entered. He calmly closed the doors, though one no longer sat straight on its bent hinges.

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

Delly heard clearly the sour note from below that ended her song. Having grown up around ruffians, having seen and been involved in many, many brawls, the woman understood the gist of what was happening below.

“By the gods,” she muttered, biting off a wail before it could give her and Colson away.

She hugged the child close to her and rushed to the door. She cracked it, peeked out, then swung it wide. She paused only long enough to kick off her hard shoes, knowing they would give her away, then padded quietly along the corridor between the wall and the banister. She hugged the wall, not wanting to be spotted from the foyer below, and that, she could tell from the noises— grunting and heavy punches—was where the intruders were. Had she been alone, she would have rushed down the stairs and joined in the fight, but with Colson in her arms, the woman's only thoughts were for the safety of her child.

Past the front stairs, Delly turned down a side passage and ran full out, cutting through Deudermont's personal suite to the back staircase. Down she went, holding her breath with every step, for she had no way of knowing if others might be in the house, perhaps even in the room below.

She heard a noise above her and understood that she had few options, so she pushed right through the door into the elaborate drawing room. One of the windows was open across the wide room. A chill breeze was blowing in, just catching the edge of one opened drape, fluttering it below the sash tie.

Delly considered the route. Those large windows overlooked a rocky drop to the cove. She cursed herself then for having discarded her shoes, but she knew in her heart that it made little difference. The climb was too steep and too treacherous—she doubted the intruders had gained access from that direction— and she didn't dare attempt it with Colson in her arms.

But where to go?

She turned for the room's main doors, leading to a corridor to the foyer. There were side rooms off that corridor, including the kitchen, which held a garbage chute. Thinking she and Colson could hide in there, she rushed to the doors and cracked them open—but slammed them immediately and dropped the locking bar across them when she saw the approach of hulking figures. She heard running steps on the other side, followed by a tremendous crash as someone hurled himself against the locked doors.

Delly glanced all around, to the stairs and the open window, not knowing where she should run. So flustered was she that she didn't even see another form slip into the room.

The doors got hit again and started to crack. Delly heard one powerful man pounding hard against the wood. The woman retreated.

Then came some running footsteps, and another threw himself against the doors. They burst open, a large hulking form going down atop the pile of kindling. A woman entered, flanked by one, and the second as the door-breaker stood up. They were two of the ugliest, most imposing brutes Delly Curtie had ever seen. She didn't know what they were, having had few experiences outside of Luskan, but from their splotchy greenish skin and sheer size she understood that they had to be some kind of giantkin.

“Well, well, pretty one,” said the strange woman with a wicked smile. “You're not thinking of leaving before the party is over, are you?”

Delly turned for the stairs but didn't even start that way, seeing yet another of the brutes slowly descending, eyeing her lewdly with every step.

Delly considered the window behind her, the one that she and Wulfgar used to spend so many hours at, watching the setting sun or the reflection of the stars on the dark waters. She couldn't possibly get out and away without being caught, but she honestly considered that route anyway, thought of running full speed and throwing herself and Colson down onto the rocks, ending it quickly and mercifully.

Delly Curtie knew this type of ruffian and understood that she was surely doomed.

The woman and her two companions took a step toward her.

The window, Delly decided. She turned and fled, determined to leap far and wide to ensure a quick and painless end.

But the third giantkin had come down from the stairs by then, Delly's hesitation costing her the suicidal escape. The brute caught her easily with one huge arm, pinning her tightly to its massive chest.

It turned back, laughing, and was joined by the howls of its two ogre companions. The woman, though, seemed hardly amused. She stalked up to Delly, eyeing her every inch.

“You're Deudermont's woman, aren't you?” she asked.

“No,” Delly answered honestly, but her sincerity was far from apparent in her tone, since she was trembling so with fear.

She wasn't so much afraid for herself as for Colson, though she knew that the next few moments of her life, likely the last few moments of her life, were going to be as horrible as anything she had ever known.

The strange woman calmly walked over to her, smiling. “Deudermont is your man?”

“No,” Delly repeated, a bit more confidently.

The woman slapped her hard across the face, a blow that had Delly staggering back a step. A thug promptly pulled her forward, though, back into striking range.

“She's a tender one,” the brute said with a lewd chuckle, and it gave Delly’s arms a squeeze. “We plays with her 'fore we eats her!”

The other two in the room started laughing, one of them gyrating its hips crudely.

Delly felt her legs going weak beneath her, but she gritted her teeth and strengthened her resolve, realizing that she had a duty that went beyond the sacrifice that was soon to be forced upon her.

“Do as ye will with me,” she said. “And I'll be making it good for ye, so long as ye don't hurt me baby.”

The strange woman's eyes narrowed as Delly said that, the woman obviously not thrilled about Delly taking any kind of control at all. “You get your fun later,” she said to her three companions, then she swiveled her head, scanning each in turn. “Now go and gather some loot. You wouldn't wish to face the boss without any loot, now would you?”

The brute holding Delly tensed at the words but didn't let her go. Its companions, however, scrambled wildly, falling all over each other in an attempt to satisfy their boss's demands.

“Please,” Delly said to the woman. “I'm not a threat to ye and won't be any trouble. Just don't be hurting me babe. Ye're a woman, so ye know.”

“Shut your mouth,” the stranger interrupted harshly.

“Eats 'em both!” the giantkin holding Delly shouted, taking a cue from the woman's dismissive tone.

The woman came forward a step, hand upraised, and Delly flinched. But this slap went past her, striking the surprised brute. The woman stepped back, eyeing Delly once more.

“We will see about the baby,” she said calmly.

“Please,” Delly pleaded.

“For yourself, you're done with, and you know it,” the woman went on, ignoring her. “But you tell us the best loot and we might take pity on the little one. I might even consider taking her in myself.”

Delly tried hard not to wince at that wretched thought.

The stranger's smile widened as she leaned closer, regarding the child. “She can not be pointing us out to the watch, after all, now can she?”

Delly knew she should say something constructive at that point, knew that she should sort through the terror and the craziness of all of this and lead the woman on in the best direction for the sake of Colson. But it proved to be too much for her, a stymieing realization that she was soon to die, that her daughter was in mortal peril, and there was not a thing she could do about it. She stuttered and stammered and in the end said nothing at all.

The woman curled up her fist and punched Delly hard, right in the face. As Delly fell away, the stranger tore Colson from her arms.

Delly reached out even as she fell, trying to grab the baby back, but the big thug drove a heavy forearm across her chest, speeding her descent. She landed hard on her back, and the brute wasted no time in scrambling atop her.

A crash from the side granted her a temporary reprieve, all eyes turning to see one of the other brutes standing amidst a pile of broken dinnerware—very expensive dinnerware.

“Find something for carrying it, you fool!” the woman yelled at him. She glanced all about the room, finally settling her gaze on one of the heavy, long drapes, then motioned for the creature to be quick.

She gave a disgusted sigh, then stepped forward and kicked the brute that was still atop Delly hard in the ribs. “Just kill the witch and be done with it,” she said.

The brute looked up at her, as defiant as any of them had yet been, and shook its head.

To Belly's dismay, the woman merely waved away the ugly creature, giving in.

Delly closed her eyes and tried to let her mind fly free of her body.

The thug that had dropped the dinnerware scrambled across the room to the drapery beside the open window and with one great tug, pulled it free. The brute started to turn back for the remaining dinnerware, but it stopped, regarding a curious sculpture revealed by removing the curtain. It was a full-sized elf figure, dressed in the garb of an adventurer and apparently made of some ebony material, black stone or wood. It stood with eyes closed and two ornate scimitars presented in a cross-chest pose.

“Huh?” the brute said.

“Huh?” it said again, reaching slowly to feel the smooth skin.

The eyes popped open, penetrating, lavender orbs that froze the giantkin in place, that seemed to tell the brute without the slightest bit of doubt that its time in this world was fast ending.

* * * * * * * * * *

With a blur the creature hardly even registered, the “statue” exploded into motion, scimitars cutting left and right. Around spun the drow elf, gaining momentum for even mightier slashes. A double-cut, one scimitar following the other, opened the stunned half-ogre from shoulder to hip. A quick-step put the drow right beside the falling brute. He reversed his grip with his right hand and plunged one enchanted blade deeply into the half-ogre's back, severing its spine, then half-turned and hamstrung the beast—both legs—with a precise and devastating slash of the other blade.

Drizzt stepped aside as the dying half-ogre crumbled to the floor.

“You should probably get off of her,” the drow said casually to the next brute; who was laying atop Delly, staring at Drizzt incredulously.

Before the pirate woman could even growl out, “Kill him!” the third half-ogre charged across the room at Drizzt, a course that brought him right past the opened window. Halfway across, a flying black form intercepted the brute. Six hundred pounds of snapping teeth and raking claws stopped dead the half-ogre's progress toward Drizzt and launched it back toward the center of the room.

The brute flailed wildly, but the panther had too many natural weapons and too much sheer strength. Guenhwyvar snapped one forearm in her maw, then ripped her head back and forth, shattering the bone and tearing the flesh. All the while, the panther's front paws clawed repeatedly at the frantic brute's face, too quick for the other arm to block. Guen's powerful back legs found holds on the half-ogre's legs and torso, claws digging in, then tearing straight back.

The surviving half-ogre rolled off of Delly and onto its feet. It lifted its weapon, a heavy broadsword, and rushed the drow, thinking to cut Drizzt in half with a single stroke.

The slashing sword met only air as the agile drow easily sidestepped the blow, then poked Twinkle into the brute's belly and danced another step away.

The half-ogre grabbed at the wound, but only for a moment. It came on fast with a straightforward thrust.

The scimitar Icingdeath, in Drizzt's left hand, easily turned the broadsword to the side. Drizzt stepped forward beside the lunging brute and poked it hard again with Twinkle, this time the scimitar's tip scratching off a thick rib.

The half-ogre roared and spun, slashing mightily as it went, expecting to cut Drizzt in half. Again the blade cut only air.

The half-ogre paused, dumbfounded, for its opponent was nowhere to be seen.

“Strong, but slow,” came the drow's voice behind it. “Terrible combination.”

The half-ogre howled in fear and leaped to the side, but Icingdeath was quicker, slashing in hard at the side of its neck. The half-ogre took three running strides, hand going up to its torn neck, then stumbled to one knee, then to the ground, writhing in agony.

Drizzt started toward it to finish it off but changed direction and stopped cold, staring hard at the woman who had backed to the wall beside the room's broken doors. The baby girl was in her arms, with a narrow, deadly dagger pressed up against the child's throat.

“What business does a dark elf have in Waterdeep?” the woman asked, trying to sound calm and confident, but obviously shaken. “If you wish the house as your own target, I will leave it to you. I assure you I have no interest in speaking with the authorities.” The woman paused and stared hard at Drizzt, a smile of recognition at last coming over her.

“You are no drow come from the lightless depths as part of a raid,” the woman remarked. “You sailed with Deudermont.”

Drizzt bowed to her and didn't even bother trying to stop the last half-ogre he had grievously wounded as it crawled toward the woman. Across the room, Guenhwyvar stalked about the wall, flanking the woman, leaving the other half-ogre torn and dead in a puddle of its own blood and gore.

“And who are you who comes unbidden to the House of Deudermont?” Drizzt asked. “Along with some less-than-acceptable companions.”

“Give me Colson!” pleaded the second woman—who must have been Delly Curtie. She was still on the floor, propped on her elbows. “Oh, please. She has done nothing.”

“Silence!” the pirate roared at her. She looked back at Drizzt, pointedly turning that nasty dagger over and over against the child's throat. “She will get her child back, and alive,” the woman explained. “Once I am out of here, running free.”

“You bargain with that which you only think you possess,” Drizzt remarked, coming forward a step.

The half-ogre had reached its boss by that time. With great effort, it worked itself into a kneeling position before her, climbing its arms up the wall and pulling itself to its knees.

Gayselle gave it one look, then her hand flashed, driving her dagger deep into the brute's throat. It fell away gasping, dying.

The woman, obviously no novice to battle, had the dagger back at the child's throat in an instant, a flashing movement that made Delly cry out and had both Drizzt and Guenhwyvar breaking for her briefly. But only briefly, for that dagger was in place too quickly, and there could be no doubt that she would put it to use.

“I could not take him with me and could not leave the big mouth behind,” the woman explained as the drow looked at her dying half-ogre companion.

“As I can not let you leave with the child,” the drow replied.

“But you can, for you have little choice,” she announced. “I will leave this place, and I will send word as to where you can retrieve the uninjured babe.”

“No,” Drizzt corrected. “You will give the babe to her mother, then leave this place, never to return.”

The woman laughed at the notion. “Your panther friend would catch me and pull me down before I made the street,” she said.

“I give you my word,” Drizzt offered.

Again, the woman laughed. “I am to take the word of a drow elf?”

“And I am to take the word of a thief and murderess?” Drizzt was quick to reply.

“But you have no choice, drow,” the woman explained, lifting the baby closer to her face, looking at it with a strange, cold expression, and sliding the flat of the dagger back and forth over Colson's neck.

Delly Curtie whimpered again and buried her face in her hands.

“How are you to stop me, drow?” the woman teased.

Even as the words left her mouth, a streak like blue lightning shot across the room, over the prone form of Delly Curtie, cutting right beside the tender flesh of Colson, to nail the pirate woman right between the eyes, slamming her back against the wall and pinning her there.

Her arms flew out wide, jerking spasmodically, the baby falling from her grasp.

But not to the floor, for as soon as he heard that familiar bowstring, Drizzt dived into a forward roll, coming around right before the pinned woman and gently catching Colson in his outstretched hands. He stood up and stared at the pirate.

The woman was already dead. Her arms gave a few more jerking spasms, and she went limp, hanging there, skull pinned to the wall. She wasn't seeing or hearing anything of this world.

“Just like that,” Drizzt told her anyway.

Chapter 13 WINTER SETTLING

Never much liked this place,” Bruenor grumbled as he and Regis stood at the north gate of Luskan. They had been held up for a long, long time by the curious and suspicious guards.

“They'll let us in soon,” Regis replied. “They always get like this as the weather turns—that's when the scum floats down from the mountains, after all. And when the highwaymen wander back into the city, pretending as if they belonged there all along.”

Bruenor spat on the ground.

Finally, the guard who'd first stopped them returned, along with another, older soldier.

“My friend says you've come from Icewind Dale,” the older man remarked. “And what goods have you brought to sell over the winter?”

“I bringed meself, and that oughta be enough for ye,” Bruenor grumbled. The soldier eyed him dangerously.

“We've come to meet up with friends who are on the road,” Regis was quick to interject, in a calmer tone.

He stepped between Bruenor and the soldier, trying to diffuse a potentially volatile situation—for any situation involving Bruenor Battlehammer was volatile these days! The dwarf was anxious to find his lost son, and woe to any who hindered him on that road.

“I am a councilor in Ten-Towns,” the halfling explained. “Regis of Lonelywood. Perhaps you have heard of me?”

The soldier, his bristles up from Bruenor's attitude, spat at the halfling's feet. “Nope.”

“And my companion is Bruenor Battlehammer himself,” Regis said, somewhat dramatically. “Leader of Clan Battlehammer in Ten-Towns. Once, and soon again to be, King of Mithral Hall.”

“Never heard of that either.”

“But oh, ye're gonna,” Bruenor muttered. He started around Regis, and the halfling skittered to stay in his way.

“Tough one, aren't you?” the soldier said.

“Please, good sir, enough of this foolishness,” Regis pleaded. “Bruenor is in a terrible way, for he has lost his son, who is rumored to be sailing with Captain Deudermont.”

This brought a puzzled expression to the face of the old soldier, “Haven't heard of any dwarves sailing on Sea Sprite” he said.

“His son is no dwarf, but a warrior, proud and strong,” Regis explained. “Wulfgar by name.” The halfling thought that he was making progress here, but, at the mention of Wulfgar's name, the soldier took on a most horrified and outraged expression.

“If you're calling that oaf your son, then you are far from welcome in Luskan!” the soldier declared.

Regis sighed, knowing what was to come. The many-notched axe hit the ground at his feet. At least Bruenor wouldn't cut the man in half. The halfling tried to anticipate the dwarfs movements to keep between the two, but Bruenor casually picked him up and turned around, dropping Regis behind him.

“Ye stay right there,” the dwarf instructed, wagging a gnarly, crooked finger in the halfling's face.

By the time the dwarf turned back around, the soldier had drawn his sword.

Bruenor regarded it and laughed. “Now, what was ye saying about me boy?” he asked.

“I said he was an oaf,” the man said, after glancing around to make sure he had enough support in the area. “And there are a million other insults I could rightfully hurl at the one named Wulfgar, murderer and rogue among them!”

He almost finished the sentence.

He almost got his sword up in time to block Bruenor's missile—that missile being Bruenor's entire body.

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

Drizzt turned to see a ragged and dirty Catti-brie standing at the window, outside and leaning on the pane, grim-faced and with Taulmaril in hand.

“It took you long enough,” the drow remarked, but his humor found no spot in Catti-brie—not so soon after the kill. She stared right past Drizzt, not even registering his words. Would such actions ever become less troubling to her?

A big part of the woman who was Catti-brie hoped they would not.

Delly Curtie sprang up from the floor and rushed at Drizzt, running to her crying child's call. The woman calmed as she neared, for the smiling dark elf held the unharmed, though obviously upset child out to her and gladly handed Colson over.

“It would have been easier if you came up right behind me,” Drizzt said to Catti-brie. “We could have saved some trouble.”

“Are these looking like elven-bred to ye?” the woman growled back, pointing to her eyes—human orbs far inferior in the low light of the Waterdeep night. “And are ye thinking this to be an easy climb?”

Drizzt shrugged, grinning still. After all, the rocky climb hadn't given him any trouble at all.

“Go back down, then,” Catti-brie insisted. She threw one leg over the window and eased herself into the room, not moving quickly, for her pant leg was torn, her leg bleeding. “Come back up with yer eyes closed, and ye tell me how easy them wet rocks might be for climbing.”

She stumbled into the room, moving forward a few steps before fully gaining her balance—and that put her right in front of Delly Curtie and the baby.

“Catti-brie,” the woman said. Her tone, while friendly and grateful enough, showed that she was a bit uneasy with seeing Catti-brie here.

The woman from Icewind Dale gave a slight bow. “And ye're Delly Curtie, unless I'm missing me guess,” she replied. “Me and me friend just came from Luskan, from the tavern of Arumn Gardpeck.”

Delly gave a chuckle and seemed to breathe for the first time since the fighting began. She looked from Catti-brie to Drizzt, knowing them from the tales Wulfgar had told to her. “Never seen a drow elf before,” she said. “But I've heard all about ye from me man.”

Despite herself, Catti-brie started at that remark, her blue eyes widening. She looked at Drizzt and saw him regarding her knowingly. She just grinned, shook her head, and turned her sights back on Delly.

“From Wulfgar,” Delly said evenly.

“Wulfgar is yer man?” Catti-brie asked bluntly.

“He's been,” Delly admitted, chewing her bottom lip.

Catti-brie read the woman perfectly. She understood that Delly was afraid, not of any physical harm, but that the return of Catti-brie into Wulfgar's life would somehow endanger her relationship with him. But Delly was ambiguous, as well, Catti-brie understood, for she couldn't rightly be upset about the arrival of Catti-brie and Drizzt, considering the pair had just saved her and her baby from certain death.

“We have come to find him,” Drizzt explained, “to see if it is time for him to come home, to Icewind Dale.”

“He's not alone anymore, ye know,” Delly said to the drow. “He's got. .” She started to name herself, but stopped and presented Colson instead. “He's got a little one to take care of.”

“So we heard, but a confusing tale, it seems,” Catti-brie said, approaching. “Can I hold the girl?”

Delly pulled the still-crying child in closer. “She's afraid,” she explained. “Best that she's with her ma.”

Catti-brie smiled at her, offering an expression that was honestly warm.

Their joy at the rescue was muted somewhat when Drizzt left Delly and Catti-brie in the drawing room and confirmed just how bloodthirsty this band truly had been. He found the two house guards murdered in the foyer, one lying by the door, one on the stairs. He went out front of the house, then, and called out repeatedly, until there at last came a reply.

“Go and fetch the watch,” Drizzt bade the neighbor. “A murder most terrible has occurred!”

The drow went back to Delly and Catti-brie. He found Delly sitting with the child, trying to stop her crying, while Catti-brie stood by the window, staring out, with Guenhwyvar curled up on the floor beside her.

“She's got quite a tale to tell us of our Wulfgar,” Catti-brie said to Drizzt.

The drow looked at Delly Curtie.

“He's speaking of ye both often,” Delly explained. “Ye should know the road he's walked.”

“Soon enough, then,” Drizzt replied. “But not now. The authorities should arrive momentarily.” The dark elf glanced around the room as he finished, his gaze landing alternately on the bodies of the intruders. “Do you have any idea what might have precipitated this attack?” he asked Delly.

“Deudermont's made many enemies,” Catti-brie reminded him from the window, not even turning about as she spoke.

“Nothing more than the usual,” Delly agreed. “Lots who'd like Captain Deudermont's head, but nothing special is afoot that I'm knowing.”

Drizzt paused before responding, thinking to ask Delly what she knew of this pirate who supposedly had Wulfgar's war-hammer. He looked again at the fallen intruders, settling his gaze on the woman.

The pattern fit, he realized, given what he had learned from the encounter with Jule Pepper in Icewind Dale and from Morik the Rogue. He crossed the room, ignoring the noise of the authorities coming to the front door, and moved right beside the dead woman, who was still stuck upright against the wall, pinned by Catti-brie's arrow.

“What're ye doing?” Catti-brie asked as Drizzt tugged at the collar of the dead woman's bloody tunic. “Just pull the damned arrow out to drop her from the perch.”

Catti-brie was obviously unnerved by the sight of the dead woman, the sight of her latest kill, but Drizzt wasn't trying to pull this one down. Far from it, her present angle afforded him the best view.

He took out one scimitar and used its fine edge to slice through the clothing a bit, enough so that he could pull the fabric down low over the back of the dead woman's shoulder.

The drow nodded, far from surprised.

“What is it?” Delly asked from her seat, where she had at last quieted Colson.

Catti-brie's expression showed that she was about to ask the same thing, but it shifted almost at once as she considered the angle with which Drizzt was viewing the woman and the knowing expression stamped upon his dark face. “She's branded,” Catti-brie answered, though she remained across the room.

“The mark of Aegis-fang,” Drizzt confirmed. “The mark of Sheila Kree.”

“What does it mean?” asked a concerned Delly, and she rose out of her chair, moving toward the drow, hugging her child close like some living, emotional armor. “Does it mean that Wulfgar and Captain Deudermont have caught Sheila Kree, and so her friends're trying to hit back?” she asked, looking nervously from the drow to the woman at the window. “Or might it mean that Sheila's sunk Sea Sprite and now is coming to finish off everything connected with Captain Deudermont and his crew?” Her voice rose as she finished, an edge of anxiety bubbling over.

“Or it means nothing more than that the pirate has learned that Captain Deudermont is in pursuit of her, and she wished to strike the first blow,” Drizzt replied, unconvincingly.

“Or it means nothing at all,” Catti-brie added. “Just a coincidence.”

The other two looked at her, but none, not even Catti-brie, believed that for a moment.

The door crashed open a moment later and a group of soldiers charged into the room. Some turned immediately for the dark elf, howling at the sight of a drow, but others recognized Drizzt, or at least recognized Delly Curtie and saw by her posture that the danger had passed. They held their companions at bay.

Catti-brie ushered Delly Curtie away, the woman bearing the child, and with Catti-brie calling Guenhwyvar to follow, while Drizzt gave the authorities a full account of what had occurred. The drow didn't stop at that, but went on to explain the likely personal feud heightening between Sheila Kree and Captain Deudermont.

After he had secured a net of soldiers to stand guard about the house, Drizzt went upstairs to join the women.

He found them in good spirits, with Catti-brie rocking Colson and Delly resting on the bed, a glass of wine in hand.

Catti-brie nodded to the woman, and without further word, Delly launched into her tale of Wulfgar, telling Drizzt and Catti-brie all about the barbarian's decline in Luskan, his trial at Prisoner's Carnival, his flight to the north with Morik and the circumstances that had brought him the child.

“Surprised was I when Wulfgar came back to the Cutlass,” Delly finished. “For me!”

She couldn't help but glance at Catti-brie as she said that, somewhat nervously, somewhat superiorly. The auburn-haired woman's expression hardly changed, though.

“He came to apologize, and oh, but he owed it to us all,” Delly went on. “We left, us three—me man and me child—to find Captain Deudermont, and for Wulfgar to find Aegis-fang. He's out there now,” Delly ended, staring out the west-facing window. “So I'm hoping.”

“Sheila Kree has not met up with Sea Sprite yet,” Drizzt said to her. “Or if she has, then her ship is at the bottom of those cold waters, and Wulfgar is on his way back to Waterdeep.”

“Ye can not know that,” Delly said.

“But we will find out,” a determined Catti-brie put in.

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

“The winter fast approaches,” Captain Deudermont remarked to Wulfgar, the two of them standing at Sea Sprite's rail as the ship sailed along at a great clip. They had seen no pirates over the past few tendays, and few merchant vessels save the last groups making the southern run out of Luskan.

Wulfgar, who had grown up in Icewind Dale and knew well the change of the season—a dramatic and swift change this far north—didn't disagree. He, too, had seen the signs, the noticeably chilly shift in the wind and the change of direction, flowing more from the northwest now, off the cold waters of the Sea of Moving Ice.

“We will not put in to Luskan, but sail straight for Waterdeep,”

Deudermont explained. “There, we will ready the ship for winter sailing.”

“Then you do not intend to put in for the season,” Wulfgar reasoned.

“No, but our route will be south out of Waterdeep harbor and not north,” Deudermont pointedly explained. “Perhaps we will patrol off of Baldur's Gate, perhaps even farther south. Robillard has made it clear that he would prefer a busy winter and has mentioned the Pirate Isles to me many times.”

Wulfgar nodded grimly, understanding more from Deudermont's leading tone than from his actual words. The captain was politely inviting him to debark in Waterdeep and remain there with Delly and Colson.

“You will need my strong arm,” Wulfgar said, less than convincingly.

“We are not likely to find Sheila Kree south of Waterdeep,” Deudermont said clearly. 'Bloody Keel has never been known to sail south of the City of Splendors. She has a reputation for putting into dock, wherever that dock may be, for the winter months.”

There, he had said it, plainly and bluntly. Wulfgar looked at him, trying hard to take no offense. Logically, he understood the captain's reasoning. He hadn't been of much help to Sea Sprite's efforts of late, he had to admit. While that only made him want to get right back into battle, he understood that Deudermont had more to worry about than the sensibilities of one warrior.

Wulfgar found it hard to get the words out of his mouth, but he graciously said, “I will spend the winter with my family. If you would allow us the use of your house through the season.”

“Of course,” said Deudermont. He managed a smile and gently patted Wulfgar on the shoulder, which meant that he had to reach up a considerable distance. “Enjoy these moments with your family,” he said quietly and with great compassion. “We will seek out Sheila Kree in the spring, on my word, and Aegis-fang will be returned to its rightful owner.”

Every fiber within Wulfgar wanted to refuse this entire scenario, wanted to shout out at Deudermont that he was not a broken warrior, that he would find his way back to the battle, with all of the fury, and, more importantly, with all of the discipline demanded by a crack crew. He wanted to explain to the captain that he would find his way clear, to assure the man that the warrior who was Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, was waiting to be freed of this emotional prison to find his way back.

But Wulfgar held back the thoughts. In light of his recent, dangerous failures in battle, it was not his place to argue with Deudermont but rather to graciously accept the captain's polite excuse to get him off the ship.

They would be in Waterdeep in a tenday's time, and there Wulfgar would stay.

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

Delly Curtie found Drizzt and Catti-brie packing their belongings, preparing to leave Deudermont's house early the next morning.

“Sea Sprite will likely return soon,” she explained to the duo.

“Likely,” Drizzt echoed. “But I fear there might already be news of a confrontation between Kree and Sea Sprite, farther in the north. We will go to Luskan, where we are to meet with some friends and follow a trail that will take us to Kree, or to Wulfgar.”

Delly thought about it for just a moment. “Give me some time to pack and to ready Colson,” she said.

Catti-brie was shaking her head before Delly ever finished the thought. “Ye'll slow us down,” she said.

“If ye're going to Wulfgar, then me place is with yerself,” the woman replied firmly.

“We're not knowing that we're going to Wulfgar,” Catti-brie replied with all honesty and with measured calm. “It might well be that Wulfgar will soon enough be here, with Sea Sprite. If that's the truth, then better that ye're here to meet with him and tell him all that ye know.”

“If you come with us, and Sea Sprite puts into Waterdeep, Wulfgar will be terribly worried about you,” Drizzt explained. “You stay here—the watch will keep you and your child safe now.”

Delly considered the pair for a few moments, her trepidation obvious on her soft features. Catti-brie caught it clearly and certainly understood.

“If we're first to Wulfgar, then we'll be coming with him back here,” she said, and Delly relaxed visibly.

After a moment, the woman nodded her agreement.

Drizzt and Catti-brie left a short while later, after gaining assurances from the authorities that Deudermont's house, and Delly and Colson, would be guarded day and night.

“Our road's going back and forth,” Catti-brie remarked to the drow as they made their way out of the great city's northern gate. “And all the while, Wulfgar's sailing out there, back and forth. We've just got to hope that our routes cross soon enough, though I'm thinking that he'll be landing in Waterdeep while we're walking into Luskan.”

Drizzt didn't crack a smile at her humorous words and tone. He looked to her and stared intently, giving her a moment to reflect on the raid of the previous night, and the dangerous implications, then said grimly, “We've just got to hope that Sea Sprite is still afloat and that Wulfgar is still alive.”