Sea of Swords

Once again Catti-brie shows me that she knows me better than I know myself. As we came to understand that Wulfgar was climbing out of his dark hole, was truly resurfacing into the warrior he had once been, I have to admit a bit of fear, a bit of jealousy. Would he come back as the man who once stole Catti-brie's heart? Or had he, in fact, ever really done that? Was their planned marriage more a matter of convenience on both parts, a logical joining of the only two humans, matched in age and beauty, among our little band?

I think it was a little of both, and hence my jealousy. For though I understand that I have become special to Catti-brie in ways I had never before imagined, there is a part of me that wishes no one else ever had. For though I am certain that we two share many feelings that are new and exciting to both of us, I do not like to consider the possibility that she ever shared such emotions with another, even one who is so dear a friend. Perhaps especially one who is so dear a friend! But even as I admit all this, I know that I must take a deep breath and blow all of my fears and jealousies away, I must remind myself that I love this woman, Catti-brie, and that this woman is who she is because of a combination of all the experiences that brought her to this point. Would I prefer that her human parents had never died? On the one hand, of course! But if they hadn't, Catti-brie would not have wound up as Bruenor's adopted daughter, would likely not have come to reside in Icewind Dale at all. Given that, it is unlikely that we would have ever met. Beyond that, if she had been raised in a traditional human manner, she never would have become the warrior that she now is, the person who can best share my sense of adventure, who can accept the hardships of the road with good humor and risk, and allow me to risk—everything! — when going against the elements and the monsters of the world.

Hindsight, I think, is a useless tool. We, each of us, are at a place in our lives because of innumerable circumstances, and we, each of us, have a responsibility (if we do not like where we are) to move along life's road, to find a better path if this one does not suit, or to walk happily along this one if it is indeed our life's way. Changing even the bad things that have gone before would fundamentally change who we now are, and whether or not that would be a good thing, I believe, is impossible to predict.

So I take my past experiences and let Catti-brie take hers and try to regret nothing for either. I just try to blend our current existence into something grander and more beautiful together.

What of Wulfgar, then? He has a new bride and a child who is neither his nor hers naturally. And yet, it was obvious from Delly Curtie's face, and from her willingness to give herself if only the child would be unharmed that she loves the babe as if it was her own. I think the same must be true for Wulfgar because, despite the trials, despite the more recent behaviors, I know who he is, deep down, beneath the crusted, emotionally hardened exterior.

I know from her words that he loves this woman, Delly Curtie, and yet I know that he once loved Catti-brie as well.

What of this mystery, love? What is it that brings about this most elusive of magic? So many times I have heard people proclaim that their partner is their only love, the only possible completion to their soul, and surely I feel that way about Catti-brie, and I expect that she feels the same about me. But logically, is that possible? Is there one other person out there who can complete the soul of another? Is it really one for one, or is it rather a matter of circumstance?

Or do reasoning beings have the capacity to love many, and situation instead of fate brings them together?

Logically, I know the answer to be the latter. I know that if Wulfgar, or Catti-brie, or myself resided in another part of the world, we would all likely find that special completion to our soul, and with another. Logically, in a world of varying races and huge populations, that must be the case, or how, then, would true lovers ever meet? I am a thinking creature, a rational being, and so I know this to be the truth.

Why is it, then, that when I look at Catti-brie, all of those logical arguments make little sense? I remember our first meeting, when she was barely a young woman—more a girl, actually— and I saw her on the side of Kelvin's Cairn. I remember looking into her blue eyes on that occasion, feeling the warmth of her smile and the openness of her heart—something I had not much encountered since coming to the surface world—and feeling a definite bond there, a magic I could not explain. And as I watched her grow, that bond only strengthened.

So was it situation or fate? I know what logic says.

But I know, too, what my heart tells me.

It was fate. She is the one.

Perhaps situation allows for some, even most, people to find a suitable partner, but there is much more to it than finding just that. Perhaps some people are just more fortunate than others.

When I look into Catti-brie's blue eyes, when I feel the warmth of her smile and the openness of her heart, I know that I am.

– Drizzt Do'Urden

Chapter 14 CONFIRMATION

YE’ve been keeping yer eyes and ears on the elf?” Sheila Kree asked Bellany when the woman joined her in her private quarters that blustery autumn day.

“Le'lorinel is at work on Bloody Keel, attending to duties with little complaint or argument,” the sorceress replied. “Just what I'd be expectin' from a spy.”

Bellany shrugged, brushing back her dark hair, her expression | a dismissal of Sheila Kree's suspicions. “I have visited Le'lorinel privately and without permission. Magically, when Le’lorinel believed the room was empty. I have seen or heard nothing to make me doubt the elf's story.”

“A dark elf,” Sheila Kree remarked, going to the opening facing the sea, her red hair fluttering back from the whistling salty breeze that blew in. “A dark elf will seek us out, by Le'lorinel's own words.” She half-turned to regard Bellany, who seemed as if she might believe anything at that moment.

“If this dark elf, this Drizzt Do'Urden, does seek us out, then we will be glad we have not disposed of that one,” the sorceress reasoned.

Sheila Kree turned back to the sea, shaking her head as if it seemed impossible. “And how long should we be waitin' before decide that Le'lorinel is a spy?” she asked.

“We can not keel-haul the elf while Bloody Keel is in dock anyway,” Bellany said with a chuckle, and her reasoning brightened Sheila's mood as well. “The winter will not be so long, I expect.”

It wasn't the first time these two had shared such a discussion. Ever since Le'lorinel had arrived with the wild tale of a dark elf and a dwarf king coming to retrieve the warhammer, which Sheila believed she had honestly purchased from the fool Josi Puddles, the boss and her sorceress advisor had spent countless hours and endless days debating the fate of this strange elf. And on many of those days, Bellany had left Sheila thinking that Le'lorinel would likely be dead before the next dawn.

And yet, the elf remained alive.

“A visitor, boss lady,” came a guttural call from the door. A half-ogre guard entered, leading a tall and willowy black-haired woman, flanked by a pair of the half-ogre's kin. Both Sheila and Bellany gawked in surprise when they noted the newcomer.

“Jule Pepper,” Sheila said incredulously. “I been thinking that ye must own half the Ten-Towns by now!”

The black-haired woman, obviously bolstered by the warm tone from her former boss, shook her arms free of the two brutes flanking her and walked across the room to share a hug with Sheila and one with Bellany.

“I was doing well,” the highwaywoman purred. “I had a band of reasonable strength working under me, and on a scheme that seemed fairly secure. Or so I thought, until a certain wretched drow elf and his friends showed up to end the party.”

Sheila Kree and Bellany turned to each other in surprise, the pirate boss giving an amazed snort. “A dark elf?” she asked Jule. “Wouldn't happen to be one named Drizzt Do'Urden, would it?”

* * * * * * * * *

Even without the aid of wizards and clerics, without their magic spells of divination and communication, word traveled fast along the northern stretches of the Sword Coast, particularly when the news concerned the people living outside the restrictions and sensibilities of the law, and even more particularly when the hero of the hour was of a race not known for such actions. From tavern to tavern, street to street, boat to boat, and port to port went the recounting of the events at the house of Captain Deudermont, of how a mysterious drow elf and his two companions, one a great cat, throttled a theft and murder plot against the good captain's house. Few made the connection between Drizzt and Wulfgar even between Drizzt and Deudermont, though some did know that a dark elf once had sailed on Sea Sprite. It was a juicy tale bringing great interest on its own, but for the folks of the city bowels, ones who understood that such attempts against a noble and heroic citizen were rarely self-contained things, the interest was even greater. There were surely implications here that went beyond the events in the famous captain's house.

So the tale sped along the coast, and even at one point did encounter some wizardly assistance in moving it along, and so the news of the events at the house long preceded the arrival of Drizzt and Catti-brie in Luskan, and so the news spread even faster farther north.

Sheila Kree knew of the loss of Gayselle before the dark elf crossed through Luskan's southern gate.

The pirate stormed about her private rooms, overturning tables and swearing profusely. She called a pair of half-ogre sentries in so that she could yell at them and slap them, playing out her frustrations for a long, long while.

Finally, too exhausted to continue, the red-haired pirate dismissed the guards and picked up a chair so that she could fall into it, cursing still under her breath.

It made no sense to her. Who was this stupid dark elf—the same one who had foiled Jule Pepper's attempts to begin a powerful band in Ten-Towns—and how in the world did he happen to wind up at Captain Deudermont's house at the precise time to intercept Gayselle's band? Sheila Kree closed her eyes and let it all sink in.

“Redecorating?” came a question from the doorway, and Sheila opened her eyes to see Bellany, a bemused smile on her face, standing et the door.

“Ye heard o' Gayselle?” Sheila asked.

The sorceress shrugged as if it didn't matter. “She'll not be the last we lose.”

“I'm thinkin' that I'm hearing too much about a certain drow elf of late,” Sheila remarked.

“Seems we have made an enemy,” Bellany agreed. “How fortunate that we have been forewarned.”

“Where's the elf?”

“At work on the boat, as with every day. Le'lorinel goes about any duties assigned without a word of complaint.”

“There's but one focus for that one.”

“A certain dark elf,” Bellany agreed. “Is it time for Le'lorinel to take a higher step in our little band?”

“Time for a talk, at least,” Sheila replied, and Bellany didn't have to be told twice. She turned around with a nod and headed off for the lower levels to fetch the elf, whose tale had become so much more intriguing with the return of Jule Pepper and the news of the disaster in Waterdeep.

* * * * * * * * * *

“When ye first came wandering in, I thought to kill ye dead and be done with ye,” Sheila Kree remarked bluntly. The pirate nodded to her burly guards, and they rushed in close, grabbing Le'lorinel fast by the arms.

“I have not lied to you, have done nothing to deserve—” Le'lorinel started to protest.

“Oh, ye're to get what ye're deserving,” Sheila Kree assured the elf. She walked over and grabbed a handful of shirt, and with a wicked grin and a sudden jerk, she tore the shirt away, stripping the elf to the waist.

The two half-ogres giggled. Sheila Kree motioned to the door at the back of the room, and the brutes dragged their captive off, through the door and into a smaller room, undecorated except for a hot fire pit near one wall and a block set at about waist height in the center.

“What are you doing?” Le'lorinel demanded in a tone that held its calm edge, despite the obvious trouble.

“It's gonna hurt,” Sheila Kree promised as the half-ogres yanked the elf across the block, holding tight.

Le'lorinel struggled futilely against the powerful press.

“Now, ye tell me again about the drow elf, Drizzt Do'Urden,” Sheila remarked.

“I told you everything, and honestly,” Le'lorinel protested.

“Tell me again,” said Sheila.

“Yes, do,” came another voice, that of Bellany, who walked into the room. “Tell us about this fascinating character who has suddenly become so very important to us.”

“I heard of the killings at Captain Deudermont's house,”

Le'lorinel remarked, grunting as the half-ogres pulled a bit too hard. “I warned you that Drizzt Do'Urden is a powerful enemy.”

“But one ye're thinking ye can defeat,” Sheila interjected.

“I have prepared for little else.”

“And have ye prepared for the pain?” Sheila asked wickedly.

Le'lorinel felt an intense heat.

”I do not deserve this!” the elf protested, but the sentence faded with an agonized scream as the glowing hot metal came down hard on Le'lorinel's back.

The sickly smell of burning skin permeated the room.

“Now, ye tell us all about Drizzt Do'Urden again,” Sheila Kree demanded some time later, when Le'lorinel had come back to consciousness and sensibility. “Everything, including why ye're so damned determined to see him dead.”

Still held over the block, Le'lorinel stared at the pirate long and hard.

“Ah, let the fool go,” Sheila told the half-ogres. “And get ye gone, both of ye!”

The pair did as they were ordered, rushing out of the room. With great effort, Le'lorinel straightened.

Bellany thrust a shirt into the elf’s trembling hands. “You might want to wait a while before you try to put that on,” the sorceress explained.

Le'lorinel nodded and stretched repeatedly, trying to loosen the new scars.

“I'll be wanting to hear it all,” Sheila said. “Ye're owing me that, now.”

Le'lorinel looked at the pirate for a moment, then craned to see the new brand, the mark of Aegis-fang, the mark of acceptance and hierarchy in Sheila's band.

Eyes narrowed threateningly, teeth gritted with rage that denied the burning agony of the brand, the elf looked back at Sheila. “Everything, and you will come to trust that I will never rest until Drizzt Do'Urden is dead, slain by my own hands.”

* * * * * * * * * *

Later Sheila, Bellany, and Jule Pepper sat together in Sheila's room, digesting all that Le'lorinel had told them of Drizzt Do'Urden and his companions, who were apparently hunting Sheila in an effort to retrieve the warhammer.

“We are fortunate that Le'lorinel came to us,” Bellany admitted.

“Ye thinking that the elf can beat the drow?” Sheila asked with a doubtful snort. “Damn drow. Never seen one. Never wanted to.”

“I have no idea whether Le'lorinel has any chance at all against this dark elf or not,” Bellany honestly answered. “I do know that the elf s hatred for Drizzt is genuine and deep, and whatever the odds, we can expect Le'lorinel to lead the charge if Drizzt Do'Urden comes against us. That alone is a benefit.” As she finished, she turned a leading gaze over Jule Pepper, the only one of them to ever encounter Drizzt and his friends.

“I would hesitate to ever bet against that group,” Jule said. “Their teamwork is impeccable, wrought of years fighting together, and each of them, even the runt halfling, is formidable.”

“What o' these other ones, then?” the obviously nervous pirate leader asked. “What o' Bruenor the dwarf king? Think he'll bring an army against us?”

Neither Jule nor Bellany had any way of knowing. “Le'lorinel told us much,” the sorceress said, “but the information is far from complete.”

“In my encounter with them in Icewind Dale, the dwarf worked with his friends, but with no support from his clan whatsoever,” Jule interjected. “If Bruenor knows the power of your band, though, he might decide to rouse the fury of Clan Battle-hammer.”

“And?” Sheila asked.

“Then we sail, winter storm or no,” Bellany was quick to reply. Sheila started to scold her but noted that Jule was nodding her agreement, and in truth, the icy waters of the northern Sword

Coast in winter seemed insignificant against the threat of an army of hostile dwarves.

“When Wulfgar was in Luskan, he was known to be working for Arumn Gardpeck at the Cutlass,” Jule, who had been in Luskan in those days, offered.

“ 'Twas Arumn's fool friend who selled me the warhammer,” Sheila remarked.

“But his running companion was an old friend of mine,” Jule went on. “A shadowy little thief known as Morik the Rogue.”

Sheila and Bellany looked to each other and nodded. Sheila had heard of Morik, though not in any detail. Bellany, though, knew the man fairly well, or had known him, at least, back in her days as an apprentice at the Hosttower of the Arcane. She looked to Jule, considered what she personally knew of lusty Morik, and understood what the beautiful, sensuous woman likely meant by the phrase “an old friend.”

“Oh, by the gods,” Sheila Kree huffed a few moments later, her head sagging as so many things suddenly became clear to her.

Both of her companions looked at her curiously.

“Deudermont's chasing us,” Sheila Kree explained. “What'd'ye think he's looking for?”

“Do we know that he's looking for anything at all?” Bellany replied, but she slowed down as she finished the sentence, as if starting to catch on.

“And now Drizzt and his girlfriend are waiting for us at Deudermont's house,” Sheila went on.

“So Deudermont is after Aegis-fang, as well,” reasoned Jule Pepper. “It's all connected. But Wulfgar is not—or at least was not—with Drizzt and the others from Icewind Dale, so. .”

“Wulfgar might be with Deudermont,” Bellany finished.

“I'll be paying Josi Puddles back for this, don't ye doubt,” Sheila said grimly, settling back in her seat.

“We know not where Wulfgar might be,” Jule Pepper put in. “We do know that Deudermont will not likely be sailing anywhere north of Waterdeep for the next season, so if Wulfgar is with Deudermont. .”

She stopped as Sheila growled and leaped up from her seat, pounding a fist into an open palm. “We're not knowing enough to make any choices,” she grumbled. “We're needing to learn more.”

An uncomfortable silence followed, at last broken by Jule Pepper. “Morik,” the woman said.

Bellany and Sheila looked at her curiously.

“Morik the Rogue, as well-connected as any rogue on Luskan's streets,” Bellany explained. “And with a previous interest in Wulfgar, as you just said. He will have some answers for us, perhaps.”

Sheila thought it over for a moment. “Bring him to me,” she ordered Bellany, whose magical powers could take her quickly to Luskan, despite the season.

Bellany nodded, and without a word she rose and left the room.

“Dark elves and war-hammers,” Sheila Kree remarked when she and Jule were alone. “A mysterious and beautiful elf visitor. .”

“Exotic, if not beautiful,” Jule agreed. “And I admit I do like the look. Especially the black mask.”

Sheila Kree laughed at the craziness of it all and shook her head vigorously, her wild red hair flying all about. “If Le'lorinel survives this, then I'll be naming an elf among me commanders,” she explained.

“A most mysterious and beautiful and exotic elf,” Jule agreed with a laugh. “Though perhaps a bit crazy.”

Sheila considered her with an incredulous expression. “Ain't we all?”

Chapter 15 SHARING A DRINK WITH A SURLY DWARF

I should've known better than to let the two of ye go running off on yer own,” a blustering voice greeted loudly as Drizzt and Catti-brie entered the Cutlass in Luskan. Bruenor and Regis sat at the bar, across from Arumn Gardpeck, both looking a bit haggard still from their harrowing journey.

“I didn't think you would come out,” Drizzt remarked, pulling a seat up beside his friends. “It is late in the season.”

“Later than you think,” Regis mumbled, and both Drizzt and Catti-brie turned to Bruenor for clarification.

“Bah, a little storm and nothing to fret about,” the dwarf bellowed.

“Little to a mountain giant,” Regis muttered quietly, and Bruenor gave a snort.

“Fix up me friend and me girl here with a bit o' the wine,” Bruenor called to Arumn, who was already doing just that. As soon as the drinks were delivered and Arumn, with a nod to the pair, started away, the red-bearded dwarfs expression grew very serious.

“So where's me boy?” he asked.

“With Deudermont, sailing on Sea Sprite, as far as we can tell,” Catti-brie answered.

“Not in port here,” Regis remarked.

“Nor in Waterdeep, though they might put in before winter,” Drizzt explained. “That would be Captain Deudermont's normal procedure, to properly stock the ship for the coming cold season.”

“Then they'll likely sail south,” Catti-brie added. “Not returning to Waterdeep until the spring.”

Bruenor snorted again, but with a mouthful of ale, and wound up spitting half of it over Regis, “Then why're ye here?” he demanded. “If me boy's soon to be in Waterdeep, and not back for half a year, why ain't ye there seeing to him?”

“We left word,” Drizzt explained.

“Word?” the dwarf echoed incredulously. “What word might that be? Hello? Well met? Keep warm through the winter? Ye durn fool elf, I was counting on ye to bring me boy back to us.”

“It is complicated,” Drizzt replied.

Only then did Catti-brie note that both Arumn Gardpeck and Josi Puddles were quietly edging closer, each craning an ear the way of the four friends. She didn't scold them, though, for she well understood their stake in all of this.

“We found Delly,” she said, turning to regard the two of them in turn. “And the child, Colson.”

“How fares my Delly?” asked Arumn, and Catti-brie didn't miss the fact that Josi Puddles was chewing his lip with anticipation. Likely that one was sweet on the girl, Catti-brie recognized.

“She does well, as does the little girl,” Drizzt put in. “Though even as we arrived, we found them in peril.”

All four of the listeners stared hard at those ominous words.

“Sheila Kree, the pirate, or so we believe,” Drizzt explained. “For some reason that I do not yet know, she took it upon herself to send a raiding party to Waterdeep.”

“Looking for me boy?” Bruenor asked.

“Or looking to back off Deudermont, who's been chasing her all season,” remarked Arumn, who was well versed in such things, listening to much of the gossip from the many sailors who frequented his tavern.

“One or the other, and so we have returned to find out which,” Drizzt replied.

“Do we even know that Sea Sprite is still afloat?” Regis asked.

The halfling's eyes went wide and he bit his lip as soon as he heard the words coming out of his mouth, his wince showing clearly that he had realized, too late, that such a possibility as the destruction of the ship would weigh very heavily on the shoulders of Bruenor.

Still, it was an honest question to ask, and one that Drizzt and Catti-brie had planned on asking Arumn long before they arrived in Luskan. Both looked questioningly to the tavern-keeper.

“Heard nothing to say it ain't,” Arumn answered. “But if Sheila Kree got Sea Sprite, then it could well be months before we knowed it here. Can't believe she did, though. Word among the docks is that none'd take on Sea Sprite in the open water.”

“See what you can find out, I beg you,” Drizzt said to him.

The portly tavern-keeper nodded and motioned to Josi to likewise begin an inquiry.

“I strongly doubt that Sheila Kree got anywhere near to Sea Sprite,” Drizzt echoed, for Bruenor's benefit, and with conviction. “Or if she did, then likely it was the remnants of her devastated band that staged the raid against Captain Deudermont's house, seeking one last bit of retribution for the destruction of Sheila's ship and the loss of her crew. I sailed with Captain Deudermont for five years, and I can tell you that I never encountered a single ship that could out-duel Sea Sprite,”

“Or her wizard, Robillard,” Catti-brie added.

Bruenor continued simply to stare at the two of them hard, the dwarf obviously on the very edge of anxiety for his missing son.

“And so we're to wait?” he asked a few moments later. It was obvious from his tone that he wasn't thrilled with that prospect.

“The winter puts Sea Sprite out of the hunt for Sheila Kree's ship,” Drizzt explained, lowering his voice so that only the companions could hear. “And likely it puts Sheila Kree off the cold waters for the season. She has to be docked somewhere.”

That seemed to appease Bruenor somewhat. “We'll find her, then,” he said determinedly. “And get back me warhammer.”

“And hopefully Wulfgar will join us,” Catti-brie added. “That he might be holdin' Aegis-fang once again. That he might be finding where he belongs and where the hammer belongs.”

Bruenor lifted his mug of ale in a toast to that hopeful sentiment, and all the others joined in, each understanding that Catti-brie's scenario had to be considered the most optimistic and that a far darker road likely awaited them all.

In the subsequent discussion, the companions decided to spend the next few days searching the immediate area around Luskan, including the docks. Arumn and Josi, and Morik the Rogue once they could find him, were to inquire where they might about Sea Sprite and Sheila Kree. The plan would give Wulfgar a chance to catch up with them, perhaps, if he got the news in Waterdeep and that was his intent. It was also possible that Sea Sprite would come through Luskan on its way to Waterdeep. If that was to happen, it would be very soon, Drizzt knew, for the season was getting late.

Drizzt ordered a round for all four, then held back the others before they could begin their drinking. He held his own glass up in a second toast, a reaffirmation of Bruenor's first one.

“The news is brighter than we could have expected when first we left Ten-Towns,” he reminded them all. “By all accounts, our friend is alive and with good and reliable company.”

“To Wulfgar!” said Regis, as Drizzt paused.

“And to Delly Curtie and to Colson,” Catti-brie added with a smile aimed right at Bruenor and even more pointedly at Drizzt. “A fine wife our friend has found, and a child who'll grow strong under Wulfgar's watchful eye.”

“He learned to raise a son from a master, I would say,” Drizzt remarked, grinning at Bruenor.

“And too bad it is that that one didn't know as much about raising a girl,” Catti-brie added, but she waited until precisely the moment that Bruenor began gulping his ale before launching the taunt.

Predictably, the dwarf spat and Regis got soaked again.

* * * * * * * * * *

Morik the Rogue wore a curious and not displeased expression when he opened the door to his small apartment to find a petite, dark-haired woman waiting for him.

“Perhaps you have found the wrong door,” Morik graciously offered, his dark eyes surveying the woman with more than a little interest. She was a comely one, and she held herself with perfect poise and a flicker of intelligence that Morik always found intriguing.

“Many people would call the door of Morik the Rogue the wrong door,” the woman answered. “But no, this is where I intended to be.” She gave a coy little smile and looked Morik over as thoroughly as he was regarding her. “You have aged well,” she said.

The implication that this enticing creature had known Morik in his earlier years piqued the rogue's curiosity. He stared at her hard, trying to place her.

“Perhaps it would help if I cast spells to shake our bed,” the woman remarked. “Or multicolored lights to dance about us as we make love.”

“Bellany!” Morik cried suddenly. “Bellany Tundash! How many years have passed?”

Indeed, Morik hadn't seen the sorceress in several years, not since she was a minor apprentice in the Hosttower of the Arcane. She had been the wild one! Sneaking out from the wizards' guild nearly every night to come and play along the wilder streets of Luskan. And like so many pretty women who had come out to play, Bellany had inevitably found her way to Morik's side and Morik's bed for a few encounters.

Amazing encounters, Morik recalled.

“Not so many years, Morik,” Bellany replied. “And here I thought I was more special than that to you.” She gave a little pout, pursing her lips in such a way as to make Morik's knees go weak. “I believed you would recognize me immediately and sweep me into your arms for a great kiss.”

“A situation I must correct!” said Morik, coming forward with his arms out wide, a bright and eager expression on his face.

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

Both Catti-brie and Regis retired early that night, but Drizzt stayed on in the tavern with Bruenor, suspecting that the dwarf needed to talk.

“When this business is finished, you and I must go to Waterdeep,” the drow remarked. “It would do my heart good to hear Colson talk of her grandfather.”

“Kid's talking?” Bruenor asked.

“No, not yet,” Drizzt replied with a laugh. “But soon enough.”

Bruenor merely nodded, seeming less than intrigued with it all.

“She has a good mother,” Drizzt said after a while. “And we know the character of her father. Colson will be a fine lass.”

“Colson,” Bruenor muttered, and he downed half his mug of ale. “Stupid name.”

“It is Elvish,” Drizzt explained. “With two meanings, and seeming perfectly fitting. 'Col' means 'not', and so the name literally translates into 'not-son, or 'daughter. Put together, though, the name Colson means 'from the dark town'. A fitting name, I would say, given Delly Curtie's tale of how Wulfgar came by the child.”

Bruenor huffed again and finished the mug.

“I would have thought you would be thrilled at the news,” the drow dared to say. “You, who knows better than any the joy of finding a wayward child to love as your own.”

“Bah,” Bruenor snorted.

“And I suspect that Wulfgar will soon enough produce grandchildren for you from his own loins,” Drizzt remarked, sliding another ale Bruenor's way.

“Grandchildren?” Bruenor echoed doubtfully, and he turned in his chair to face the drow directly. “Ain't ye assuming that Wulfgar's me own boy?”

“He is.”

“Is he?” Bruenor asked. “Ye're thinking that a couple o' years apart mended me heart for his actions on Catti-brie.” The dwarf snorted yet again, threw his hand up in disgust, then turned back to the bar, cradling his new drink below him, muttering, “Might be that I'm looking to find him so I can give him a big punch in the mouth for the way he treated me girl.”

“Your worry has been obvious and genuine,” Drizzt remarked. “You have forgiven Wulfgar, whether you admit it or not.

“As have I,” Drizzt quickly added when the dwarf turned back on him, his eyes narrow and threatening. “As has Catti-brie. Wulfgar was in a dark place, but from all I've learned, it would seem that he has begun the climb back to the light.”

Those words softened Bruenor's expression somewhat, and his ensuing snort was not as definitive this time.

“You will like Colson,” Drizzt said with a laugh. “And Delly Curtie.”

“Colson,” Bruenor echoed, listening carefully to the name as he spoke it. He looked at Drizzt and shook his head, but if he was trying to continue to show his disapproval, he was failing miserably.

“So now I got a granddaughter from a son who's not me own, and a daughter o' his that's not his own,” Bruenor said some time later, he and Drizzt having gone back to their respective drinks for a few reflective moments. “Ye'd think that one of us would've figured out that half the fun's in makin' the damn brats!”

“And will Bruenor one day sire his own son?” Drizzt asked. “A dwarf child?”

The dwarf turned and regarded Drizzt incredulously, but considered the words for a moment and shrugged. “I just might,” he said. He looked back at his ale, his face growing more serious and a bit sad, Drizzt noticed. “I'm not a young one, ye know, elf?” he asked. “Seen the centuries come and go, and remember times when Catti-brie and Wulfgar's parents' parents' parents' parents hadn't felt the warming of their first dawn. And I feel old, don't ye doubt! Feel it in me bones.”

“Centuries of banging stone will do that,” Drizzt said dryly, but his levity couldn't penetrate the dwarfs mood at that moment.

“And I see me girl all grown, and me boy the same, and now he's got a little one.. ” Bruenor's voice trailed off and he gave a great sigh, then drained the rest of his mug, turning as he finished to face Drizzt squarely. “And that little one will grow old and die, and I'll still be here with me aching bones.”

Drizzt understood, for he too, as a long-living creature, surely saw Bruenor's dilemma. When elves, dark or light, or dwarves befriended the shorter living races—humans, halflings, and gnomes—there came the expectancy that they would watch their friends grow old and die. Drizzt knew that one of the reasons elves and dwarves remained clannish to their own, whether they wanted to admit it or not, was because of exactly that—both races protecting themselves from the emotional tearing.

“Guess that's why we should be stickin' with our own kind, eh, elf?” Bruenor finished, looking slyly at Drizzt out of the corner of his eye.

Drizzt's expression went from sympathy to curiosity. Had Bruenor just warned him away from Catti-brie? That caught the drow off his guard, indeed! And rocked him right back in his seat, as he sat staring hard at Bruenor. Had he finally let himself see the truth of his feelings for Catti-brie just to encounter this dwarven roadblock? Or was Bruenor right, and was Drizzt being a fool?

The drow took a long, long moment to steady himself and collect his thoughts.

“Or perhaps those of us who hide from the pain will never know the joys that might lead to such profound pain,” Drizzt finally said. “Better to—”

“To what?” Bruenor interrupted. “To fall in love with one of them? To marry one, elf?”

Drizzt still didn't know what Bruenor was up to. Was he telling Drizzt to back off, calling the drow a fool for even thinking of falling in love with Catti-brie?

But then Bruenor tipped his hand.

“Yeah, fall in love with one,” he said with a derisive snort, but one Drizzt recognized that was equally aimed at himself. “Or maybe take one of 'em in to raise as yer own. Heck, maybe more than one!”

Bruenor glanced over at Drizzt, his toothy smile showing through his brilliant red whiskers. He lifted his mug toward Drizzt in a toast. “To the both of us, then, elf!” he boomed. “A pair o' fools, but smiling fools!”

Drizzt gladly answered that toast with a tap of his own glass. He understood then that Bruenor wasn't subtly trying to (in a dwarf sort of way) ward him off, but rather that the dwarf was merely making sure Drizzt understood the depth of what he had.

They went back to their drinking. Bruenor drained mug after mug, but Drizzt cradled that single glass of fine wine.

Many minutes passed before either spoke again, and it was Bruenor, cracking in a tone that seemed all seriousness, which made it all the funnier, “Hey, elf, me next grandkid won't be striped, will it?”

“As long as it doesn't have a red beard,” Drizzt replied without missing a beat.

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

“I heard you were traveling with a great barbarian warrior named Wulfgar,” Bellany said to Morik when the rogue finally woke up long after the following dawn.

“Wulfgar?” Morik echoed, rubbing the sleep from his dark eyes and running his fingers through his matted black hair. “I have not seen Wulfgar in many months.”

He didn't catch on to the telling manner in which Bellany was scrutinizing him.

“He went south, to find Deudermont, I think,” Morik went on, and he looked at Bellany curiously. “Am I not enough man for you?” he asked.

The dark-haired sorceress smirked in a neutral manner, pointedly not answering the rogue's question. “I ask only for a friend of mine,” she said.

Morik's smile was perfectly crude. “Two of you, eh?” he asked. “Am I not man enough?”

Bellany gave a great sigh and rolled to the side of the bed, gathering up the bedclothes about her and dragging them free as she rose.

Only then, upon the back of her naked shoulder, did Morik take note of the curious brand.

“So you have not spoken with Wulfgar in months?” the woman asked, moving to her clothing.

“Why do you ask?”

The suspicious nature of the question had the sorceress turning about to regard Morik, who was still reclining on the bed, lying on his side and-propped up on one elbow.

“A friend wishes to know of him,” Bellany said, rather curtly.

“Seems like a lot of people are suddenly wanting to know about him,” the rogue remarked. He fell to his back and threw one arm across his eyes.

“People like a dark elf?” Bellany asked.

Morik peeked out at her from under his arm, his expression answering the question clearly.

Wider went his eyes when the sorceress lifted the robe that was lying across one chair, and produced from beneath it a thin, black wand. Bellany didn't point it at him, but the threat was obvious.

“Get dressed, and quickly,” Bellany said. “My lady will speak with you.”

“Your lady?”

“I've not the time to explain things now,” Bellany replied. “We've a long road ahead of us, and though I have spells to speed us along our way, it would be better if we were gone from Luskan within the hour.”

Morik scoffed at her. “Gone to where?” he asked. “I have no plans to leave. .”

His voice trailed off as Bellany came back over to the edge of the bed, placing one knee up on it in a sexy pose, and lowered her face, putting one finger across her pouting lips.

“There are two ways we can do this, Morik,” she explained quietly and calmly—too calmly for the sensibilities of the poor, surprised rogue. “One will be quite pleasurable for you, I am sure, and will guarantee your safe return to Luskan, where your friends here will no doubt comment on the wideness and constancy of your smile.”

Morik regarded the enticing woman for a few moments. “Don't even bother to tell me the other way,” he agreed.

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

“Arumn Gardpeck has not seen him,” Catti-brie reported, “nor have any of the other regulars at the Cutlass—and they see Morik the Rogue almost every day.”

Drizzt considered the words carefully. It was possible, of course, that the absence of Morik—he was not at his apartment, nor in any of his familiar haunts—was nothing more than coincidence. A man like Morik was constantly on the move, from one deal to another, from one theft to another.

But more than a day had passed since the four friends had begun their search for the rogue, using all the assets at their disposal, including the Luskan town guard, with no sign of the man. Given what had happened in Waterdeep with the agents of Sheila Kree, and given that Morik was a known associate of Wulfgar, Drizzt was not pleased by this disappearance.

“You put word in at the Hosttower?” Drizzt asked Regis.

“Robbers to a wizard,” the halfling replied. “But yes, they will send word to Sea Sprite's wizard, Robillard, as soon as they can locate him. It took more than half a bag of gold to persuade them to do the work.”

“I gived ye a whole bag to pay for the task,” Bruenor remarked dryly.

“Even with my ruby pendant, it took more than half a bag of gold to persuade them to do the work,” Regis clarified.

Bruenor just put his head down and shook it. “Well, that means ye got nearly half a bag o' me gold for safe-keeping, Rumblebelly,” he took care to state openly, and before witnesses.

“Did the wizards say anything about the fate of Sea Sprite?” Catti-brie asked. “Do they know if she's still afloat?”

“They said they've seen nothing to indicate anything different,” Regis answered. “They have contacts among the docks, including many pirates. If Sea Sprite went down anywhere near Luskan the celebration would be immediate and surely loud.”

It wasn't much of a confirmation, really, but the other three took the words with great hope.

“Which brings us back to Morik,” Drizzt said. “If the pirate Kree is trying to strike first to chase off Deudermont and Wulfgar, then perhaps Morik became a target.”

“What connection would Deudermont hold with that rogue?” Catti-brie asked, a perfectly logical question and one that had Drizzt obviously stumped.

“Perhaps Morik is in league with Sheila Kree,” Regis reasoned. “An informant?”

Drizzt was shaking his head before the halfling ever finished. From his brief meeting with Morik, he did not think that the man would do such a thing. Though, he had to admit, Morik was a man whose loyalties didn't seem hard to buy.

“What do we know of Kree?” the drow asked.

“We know she ain't nowhere near to here,” Bruenor answered impatiently. “And we know that we're wasting time here, that bein' the case!”

“True enough,” Catti-brie agreed.

“But the season is deepening up north,” Regis put in. “Perhaps we should begin our search to the south.”

“All signs are that Sheila Kree is put in up north,” Drizzt was quick to answer. “The rumors we have heard, from Morik and from Josi Puddles, place her somewhere up there.”

“Lotta coast between here and the Sea o' Moving Ice,” Bruenor put in.

“So we should wait?” Regis quickly followed.

“So we should get moving!” Bruenor retorted just as quickly, and since both Drizzt and Catti-brie agreed with the dwarfs reasoning the four friends departed Luskan later that same day, only hours after Morik and Bellany had left the city. But the latter, moving with the enhancements of many magical spells, and knowing where they were going, were soon enough far, far away.

Chapter 16 UNEXPECTED FRIENDSHIP

As usual, Wulfgar was the first one to debark Sea Sprite when the schooner glided into dock at one of Waterdeep's many long wharves. There was little spring in the barbarian's step this day, despite his excitement at the prospect of seeing Delly and Colson again. Deudermont's last real discussion with him, more than a tenday before, had put many things into perspective for Wulfgar, had forced him to look into a mirror. He did not like the reflection.

He knew Captain Deudermont was his friend, an honest friend and one who had spared his life despite evidence that he, along with Morik, had tried to murder the man. Deudermont had believed in Wulfgar when no others would. He'd rescued Wulfgar from Prisoner's Carnival without even a question, begging confirmation that Wulfgar had not been involved in any plot to kill. Deudermont had welcomed Wulfgar aboard Sea Sprite and had altered the course-of his pirate-hunting schooner many times in an effort to find the elusive Sheila Kree. Even with the anger bubbling within him from the image in the mirror Deudermont pointedly held up before his eyes on the return journey to their home port, Wulfgar could not dispute the honesty embodied in that image.

Deudermont had told him the truth of who he had become, with as much tact as was possible.

Wulfgar couldn't ignore that truth now. He knew his days sailing with Sea Sprite were at their end, at least for the season. If Sea Sprite was going south, as was her usual winter route—and in truth, the only available winter route—then there was little chance of encountering Kree. And if the ship wasn't going to find Kree, then what point would there be in having Wulfgar aboard, especially if the barbarian warrior and his impulsive tactics were a detriment to the crew?

That was the crux of it, Wulfgar knew. That was the truth in the mirror. Never before had the proud son of Beornegar considered himself anything less than a warrior. Many times in his life, Wulfgar had done things of which he was not proud—nothing more poignantly than the occasion on which he had slapped Catti-brie. But even then, Wulfgar had one thing he could hold onto. He was a fighter, among the greatest ever to come out of Icewind Dale, among the most legendary to ever come out of the Tribe of the Elk, or any of the other tribes. He was the warrior who had united the tribes with strength of arm and conviction, the barbarian who had hurled his warhammer high to shatter the cavern's hold on the great icicle, dropping the natural spear onto the back of the great white wyrm, Icingdeath. He was the warrior who had braved the Calimport sun and the assassins, tearing through the guildhouse of a notorious ruffian to save his halfling friend. He was, above all else, the companion of Drizzt Do'Urden, a Companion of the Hall, part of a team that had fostered the talk of legend wherever it had gone.

But not now. Now he could not rightly hold claim to that title of mighty warrior, not after his disastrous attempts to battle pirates aboard Sea Sprite. Now his friend Deudermont—an honest and compassionate friend—had looked him in the eye and showed to him the truth, and a diminishing truth it was. Would Wulfgar find again the courageous heart that had guided him through his emotional crises? Would he ever again be that proud warrior who had united the tribes of Ten-Towns, who had helped reclaim Mithral Hall, who had chased a notorious assassin across Toril too rescue his halfling friend?

Or had Errtu stolen that from him forever? Had the demon truly broken that spirit deep within the son of Beornegar? Had the demon altered his identity forever?

As he walked across the city of Waterdeep, turning to the hillock containing Deudermont's house, Wulfgar could not truly deny the possibility that the man he had once been, the warrior he had once been, was now lost to him forever. He wasn't sure what that meant, however.

Who was he?

His thoughts remained inward until he almost reached the front door of Captain Deudermont's mansion, when the sharp, unfamiliar voice ordered him to halt and be counted.

Wulfgar looked up, his crystal-blue eyes scanning all about, noting the many soldiers standing about the perimeter of the house, noting the lighter colors of the splintered wood near the lock of the front doors.

Wulfgar felt his gut churning, his warrior instincts telling him clearly that something was terribly amiss, his heart telling him that danger had come to Delly and Colson. With a growl that was half rage and half terror, Wulfgar sprinted straight ahead for the house, oblivious to the trio of soldiers who rushed to bar the way with their great halberds.

“Let him pass!” came a shout at the last second, right before Wulfgar crashed through the blocking soldiers. “It's Wulfgar returned! Sea Sprite is in!”

The soldiers parted, the rearmost wisely rushing back to push open the door or Wulfgar would have surely shattered it to pieces. The barbarian charged through.

He skidded to an abrupt stop just in side the foyer, though, spotting Delly coming down the main stairway, holding Colson tight in her arms.

She stared at him, managing a weak smile until she reached the bottom of the stairs—and there she broke down, tears flowing freely, and she rushed forward, falling into Wulfgar's waiting arms and tender hug.

Time seemed to stop for the couple as they stood there, clenched, needing each other's support. Wulfgar could have stayed like that for hours, indeed, but then he heard the voice of Captain Deudermont's surprise behind him, followed by a stream of curses from Robillard.

Wulfgar gently pushed Delly back, and turned about as the pair entered. The three stood there, looking about blankly, and their stares were no less incredulous when Delly at last inserted some sense into the surreal scene by saying, simply, “Sheila Kree.”

* * * * * * * * *

Deudermont caught up to Wulfgar later, alone, the barbarian staring out the window at the crashing waves far below. It was the same window through which Drizzt and Catti-brie had entered, to save Delly and Colson.

“Fine friends you left behind in Icewind Dale,” the captain remarked, moving to stand beside Wulfgar and staring out rather than looking at the huge man. When Wulfgar didn't answer, Deudermont did glance his way, and noted that his expression was pained.

“Do you believe you should have been here, protecting Delly and the child?” the captain said bluntly. He looked up as Wulfgar looked down upon him, not scowling, but not looking very happy, either.

“You apparently believe so,” the barbarian quipped.

“Why do you say that?” the captain asked. “Because I hinted that perhaps you should not take the next voyage out of Water-deep with Sea Sprite1? What would be the point? You joined with us to hunt Sheila Kree, and we'll not find her in the south, where surely we will go.”

“Even now?” Wulfgar asked, seeming a bit surprised. “After Kree launched this attack against your own house? After your two friends lay cold in the ground, murdered by her assassins?”

“We can not sail to the north with the winter winds beginning to blow,” Deudermont replied. “And thus, our course is south, where we will find many pirates the equal to Sheila Kree in their murders and mayhem. But do not think that I will forget this attack upon my house,” the captain added with a dangerous grimace. “When the warm spring winds blow, Sea Sprite will return and sail right into the Sea of Moving Ice, if necessary, to find Kree and pay her her due.”

Deudermont paused and stared at Wulfgar, holding the look until the barbarian reciprocated with a stare of his own. “Unless our dark elf friend beats us to the target, of course,” the captain remarked.

Again Wulfgar winced, and looked back out to sea.

“The attack was nearly a month ago,” Deudermont went on. “Drizzt is likely far north of Luskan by now, already on the hunt.”

Wulfgar nodded, but didn't even blink at the proclamation, and the captain could see that the huge man was truly torn.

“I suspect the drow and Catti-brie would welcome the companionship of their old friend for this battle,” he dared to say.

“Would you so curse Drizzt as to wish that upon him?” Wulfgar asked in all seriousness. He turned an icy glare upon Deudermont as he spoke the damning words, a look that showed a combination of sarcasm, anger, and just a bit of resignation.

Deudermont matched that stare for just a few short moments, taking a measure of the man. Then he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “As you wish. But I must tell you, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale, self pity does not become you.”

With that, the captain turned and walked out of the room, leaving Wulfgar alone with some very unsettling thoughts.

* * * * * * * * * *

“The captain said we can stay as long as we wish,” Wulfgar explained to Delly that same night. “Through the winter and spring. I'll find some work — I am no stranger to a blacksmith's shop — and perhaps we can find our own home next year.”

“In Waterdeep?” the woman asked, seeming quite concerned.

“Perhaps. Or Luskan, or anywhere else you believe would be best for Colson to grow strong.”

“Icewind Dale?” the woman asked without hesitation, and Wulfgar's shoulders sagged.

“It is a difficult land, full of hardship,” Wulfgar answered, trying to remain matter-of-fact.

“Full o' strong men,” Delly added. “Full of heroes.”

Wulfgar's expression showed clearly that he was through playing this game. “Full of cutthroats and thieves,” he said sternly. “Full of thieves running from the honest lands, and no place for a girl to grow to a woman.”

“I know of one girl who grew quite strong and true up there,” the indomitable Delly Curtie pressed.

Wulfgar glanced all around, seeming angry and tense, and Delly knew that she had put him into a box here. Given his increasingly surly expression, she had to wonder if that was a good thing, and was about to suggest that they stay in Waterdeep for the foreseeable future just to let him out of the trap.

But then Wulfgar admitted the truth, bluntly. “I will not return to Icewind Dale. That is who I was, not who I am, and I have no desire to ever see the place again. Let the tribes of my people find their way without me.”

“Let yer friends find their way without ye, even when they're trying to find their way to help ye?”

Wulfgar stared at her for a long moment, grinding his teeth at her accusatory words. He turned and pulled off his shirt, as if the matter was settled, but Delly Curtie could not be put in her place so easily.

“And ye speak of honest work,” she said after him, and though he didn't turn back, he did stop walking away. “Honest work like hunting pirates with Captain Deudermont? He'd give ye a fine pay, no doubt, and get ye yer hammer in the meantime.”

Wulfgar turned slowly, ominously. “Aegis-fang is not mine,” he announced, and Delly had to chew on her bottom lip so she didn't scream out at him. “It belonged to a man who is dead, to a warrior who is no more.”

“Ye canno' be meaning that!” Delly exclaimed, moving right up to grab him in a hug.

But Wulfgar pushed her back to arms' length and answered her denial with an uncompromising glare.

“Do ye not even wish to find Drizzt and Catti-brie to offer yer' thanks for their saving me and yer baby girl?” the woman, obviously wounded, asked. “Or is that no big matter to ye?”

Wulfgar's expression softened, and he brought Delly in and hugged her tightly. “It is everything to me,” he whispered into her ear. “Everything. And if I ever cross paths with Drizzt and Catti-brie again, I will offer my thanks. But I'll not go to find them—there is no need. They know how I feel.”

Delly Curtie just let herself enjoy the hug and let the conversation end there. She knew that Wulfgar was kidding himself, though. There was no way Drizzt and Catti-brie could know how he truly felt.

How could they, when Wulfgar didn't even know?

Delly didn't know her place here, to push the warrior back to his roots or to allow him this new identity he was apparently trying on. Would the return to who he once was break him in the process, or would he forever be haunted by that intimidating and heroic past if he settled into a more mundane life as a blacksmith?

Delly Curtie had no answers.

* * * * * * * * * *

A foul mood followed Wulfgar throughout the next few days. He took his comfort with Delly and Colson, using them as armor against the emotional turmoil that now roiled within him, but he could plainly see that even Delly was growing frustrated with him. More than once, the woman suggested that perhaps he should convince Deudermont to take him with Sea Sprite when they put out for the south, an imminent event.

Wulfgar understood those suggestions for what they were: frustration on the part of poor Delly, who had to listen to his constant grumbling, who had to sit by and watch him get torn apart by emotions he could not control.

He went out of the house often those few days and even managed to find some work with one of the many blacksmiths operating in Waterdeep.

He was at that job on the day Sea Sprite sailed.

He was at that job the day after that when a very unexpected visitor walked in to see him.

“Putting those enormous muscles of yours to work, I see,” said Robillard the wizard.

Wulfgar looked at the man incredulously, his expression shifting from surprise to suspicion. He gripped the large hammer he had been using tightly as he stood and considered the visitor, ready to throw the tool right through this one's face if he began any sort of spellcasting. For Wulfgar knew that Sea Sprite was long out of dock, and he knew, too, that Robillard was well enough known among the rabble of the pirate culture for other wizards to use magic to impersonate him. Given the previous attack on Deudermont's house, the barbarian wasn't about to take any chances.

“It is me, Wulfgar,” Robillard said with a chuckle, obviously recognizing every doubt on the barbarian's face. “I will rejoin the captain and crew in a couple of days—a minor spell, really, to teleport me to a place I have set up on the ship for just such occasions.”

“You have never done that before, to my knowledge,” Wulfgar remarked, his suspicions holding strong, his grip as tight as ever on the hammer.

“Never before have I had to play nursemaid to a confused barbarian,” Robillard countered.

“Here now,” came a gruff voice. A grizzled man walked in, all girth and hair and beard, his skin as dark as his hair from all the soot. “What're ye looking to buy or get fixed?”

“I am looking to speak with Wulfgar, and nothing more,” Robillard said curtly.

The blacksmith spat on the floor, then wiped a dirty cloth across his mouth. “I ain't paying him to talk,” he said. “I'm paying him to work!”

“We shall see,” the wizard replied. He turned back to Wulfgar but the blacksmith stormed over, poking a finger the wizard's way and reiterating his point.

Robillard turned his bored expression toward Wulfgar, and the barbarian understood that if he did not calm his often-angry boss, he might soon be self-employed. He patted the blacksmith's shoulders gently, and with strength that mocked even that of the lifelong smith, Wulfgar guided the man away.

When Wulfgar returned to Robillard, his face was a mask of anger. “What do you want, wizard?” he asked gruffly. “Have you come here to taunt me? To inform me of how much better off Sea Sprite is with me here on land?”

“Hmm,” said Robillard, scratching at his chin. “There is truth in that, I suppose.”

Wulfgar's crystal-blue eyes narrowed threateningly.

“But no, my large, foolish. . whatever you are,” Robillard remarked, and if he was the least bit nervous about Wulfgar's dangerous posture, he didn't show it one bit. “I came here, I suppose, because I am possessed of a tender heart.”

“Well hidden.”

“Purposely so,” the wizard replied without hesitation. “So tell me, are you planning to spend the entirety of the winter at Deudermont's house, working. . here?” He finished the question with a derisive snort.

“Would you be pleased if I left the captain's house?” Wulfgar asked in reply. “Do you have plans for the house? Because if you do, then I will gladly leave, and at once.”

“Calm down, angry giant,” Robillard said in purely condescending tones. “I have no plans for the house, for as I already told you I will be rejoining Sea Sprite very soon, and I have no family to speak of left on shore. You should pay better attention.”

“Then you simply want me out,” Wulfgar concluded. “Out of the house and out of Deudermont's life.”

“That is a completely different point,” Robillard dryly responded. “Have I said that I want you out, or have I asked if you plan to stay?”

Tired of the word games, and tired of Robillard all together, Wulfgar gave a little growl and went back to his work, banging away on the metal with his heavy hammer. “The captain told me that I could stay,” he said. “And so I plan to stay until I have earned enough coin to purchase living quarters of my own. I would leave now—I plan to hold no debts to any man—except that I have Delly and Colson to look after.”

“Got that backward,” Robillard muttered under his breath, but loud enough—and Wulfgar knew, intentionally so—so that Wulfgar could hear.

“Wonderful plan,” the wizard said more loudly. “And you will execute it while your former friends run off, and perhaps get themselves killed, trying to retrieve the magical warhammer that you were too stupid to hold onto. Brilliant, young Wulfgar!”

Wulfgar stood up straight from his work, the hammer falling from his hand, his jaw dropping open in astonishment.

“It is the truth, is it not?” the unshakable wizard calmly asked.

Wulfgar started to respond, but had no practical words to use as armor against the brutal and straightforward attack. However he might parse his response, however he might speak the words to make himself feel better, the simple fact was that Robillard's observations were correct.

“I can not change that which has happened,” the defeated barbarian said as he bent to retrieve his hammer.

“But you can work to right the wrongs you have committed,” Robillard pointed out. “Who are you, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale? And more importantly, who do you wish to be?”

There was nothing friendly in Robillard's sharp tone or in his stiff and hawkish posture, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest, his expression one of absolute superiority. But still, the mere fact that the wizard was showing any interest in Wulfgar's plight at all came as a surprise to the barbarian. He had thought, and not without reason, that Robillard's only concern regarding him was to keep him off Sea Sprite.

Wulfgar's angry stare at Robillard gradually eased into a self-deprecating chuckle. “I am who you see before you,” he said, and he presented himself with his arms wide, his leather smithy apron prominently displayed. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“A man who lives a lie will soon enough be consumed by it,” Robillard remarked.

Wulfgar's smile became a sudden scowl.

“Wulfgar the smith?” Robillard asked skeptically, and he gave a snort. “You are no laborer, and you fool yourself if you think that this newest pursuit will allow you to hide from the truth. You were born a warrior, bred and trained a warrior, and have ever relished that calling. How many times has Wulfgar charged into battle, the song of Tempus on his lips?”

“Tempus,” Wulfgar said with disdain. “Tempus deserted me.”

“Tempus was with you, and your faith in the code of the warrior sustained you through your trials,” Robillard strongly countered. “All of your trials.”

“You can not know what I endured.”

“I do not care what you endured,” Robillard replied. His claim, and the sheer power in his voice, surely had Wulfgar back on his heels. “I care only for that which I see before me now, a man living a lie and bringing pain to all around him and to himself because he hasn't the courage to face the truth of his own identity.”

“A warrior?” Wulfgar asked doubtfully. “And yet it is Robillard who keeps me from that very pursuit. It is Robillard who bids Captain Deudermont to put me off Sea Sprite,”

“You do not belong on Sea Sprite, of that I am certain,” the wizard calmly replied. “Not at this time, at least. Sea Sprite is no place for one who would charge ahead in pursuit of personal demons. We succeed because we each know our place against the pirates. But I know, too, that you do not belong here, working as a smith in a Waterdhavian shop. Take heed of my words here and now, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale. Your friends are walking into grave danger, and whether you admit it or not, they are doing so for your benefit. If you do not join with them now, or at least go and speak with them to alter their course, there will be consequences. If Drizzt Do'Urden and Catti-brie walk into peril in search of Aegis-fang, whatever the outcome, you will punish yourself for the rest of your life. Not for your stupidity in losing the hammer so much as your cowardice in refusing to join in with them.”

The wizard ended abruptly and just stood staring at the barbarian, whose expression was blank as he digested the truth of the words.

“They have been gone nearly a month,” Wulfgar said, his voice carrying far less conviction. “They could be anywhere.”

“They passed through Luskan, to be sure,” Robillard replied. “I can have you there this very day, and from there, I have contacts to guide our pursuit.”

“You will join in the hunt?”

“For your former friends, yes,” Robillard answered. “For Aegis-fang? We shall see, but it hardly seems my affair.”

Wulfgar looked as if a gentle breeze could blow him right over. He rocked back and forth, from foot to foot, staring blankly.

“Do not refuse this opportunity,” Robillard warned. “It is your one chance to answer the questions that so haunt you and your one chance to belay the guilt that will forever stoop your shoulders. I offer you this, but life's road is too wound with unexpected turns for you to dare hope that the opportunity will ever again be before you.”

“Why?” Wulfgar asked quietly.

“I have explained my reasoning of your current state clearly enough, as well as my beliefs that you should now take the strides to correct your errant course,” Robillard answered, but Wulfgar was shaking his head before the wizard finished the thought.

“No,” the barbarian clarified. “Why you?” When Robillard didn't immediately answer, Wulfgar went on, “You offer to help me, though you have shown me little friendship and I have made no attempt to befriend you. Yet here you are, offering advice and assistance. Why? Is it out of your previous friendship with Drizzt and Catti-brie? Or is it out of your desire to be rid of me, to have me far from your precious Sea Sprite?”

Robillard looked at him slyly. “Yes,” he answered.

Chapter 17 MORIK'S VIEW

He's a bit forthcoming for a prisoner, I'd say,” Sheila Kree remarked to Bellany after an exhausting three hours of interrogation during which Morik the Rogue had volunteered all he knew of Wulfgar, Drizzt, and Catti-brie. Sheila had listened carefully to every word about the dark elf in particular.

“Morik's credo is self-preservation,” Bellany explained. “Nothing more than that. He would put a dagger into Wulfgar's heart himself, if his own life demanded it. Morik will not be glad if Drizzt and Wulfgar come against us. He may even find ways to stay out of the fight and not aid us as we destroy his former companion, but he'll not risk his own life going against us. Nor will he jeopardize the promise of a better future he knows we can offer to him. That's just not his way.”

Sheila could accept the idea of personal gain over communal loyalty readily enough. It was certainly the source of any loyalty her cutthroat band held for her. They were a crew she kept together only by threat and promise—only because they all knew their best personal gains could be found under the command of Sheila Kree. They likewise knew that if they tried to leave, they would face the wrath of the deadly pirate leader and her elite group of commanders.

Sitting at the side of the room, Jule Pepper was even more convinced of Morik's authenticity, mostly because of his actions since he'd arrived with Bellany in Golden Cove. Everything Morik had said had been in complete agreement with all she'd learned of Drizzt during her short stay in Ten-Towns.

“If the drow and Catti-brie intend to come after the warhammer, then we can expect the dwarf, Bruenor, and the halfling, Regis, to join with them,” she said. “And do not dismiss that panther companion Drizzt carries along.”

“Won't forget any of it,” Sheila Kree assured her. “Makes me glad Le'lorinel came to us.”

“Le'lorinel's appearance here might prove to be the most fortunate thing of all,” Bellany agreed.

“Morik's going to fight the elf now?” the pirate leader asked, for Le'lorinel, so obsessed with Drizzt, had requested some private time with this newest addition to the hide-out, one who had just suffered firsthand experience against the hated dark elf.

Jule Pepper laughed aloud at the question. Soon after Jule had arrived at Golden Cove, Le'lorinel had spent hour after hour with her, making her mimic every movement she'd seen Drizzt make, even those unrelated to battle. Le'lorinel wanted to know the length of his stride, the tilt of his head when he spoke, anything at all about the hated drow. Jule knew Morik would likely show the elf nothing of any value, but knew, too, that Le'lorinel would make him repeat his actions and words again and again. Never had Jule seen anyone so perfectly obsessed.

“Morik is likely beside Le'lorinel even now, no doubt reenacting the sequence that got him caught by Drizzt and Catti-brie,” Bellany answered with a glance at the amused Jule.

“Ye be watchin' them with yer magic,” Sheila instructed the sorceress. “Ye pay attention to every word Le'lorinel utters, to every movement made toward Morik.”

“You still fear that our enemies might have sent the elf as a diversion?” Bellany asked.

“Le’lorinel's arrival was a bit too convenient,” Jule remarked.

“What I'm fearin' even more is that the fool elf'll go finding Drizzt and his friends afore they're finding us,” Sheila explained. “That group might be spendin' tendays wandering the mountains without any sign o' Minster Gorge or Golden Cove, and I'm preferring that to having enemies that powerful walkin' right in.”

“I'd like to raise a beacon to guide them in,” Jule said quietly. “I owe that group and intend to see them paid back in full.”

“To say nothing of the many magical treasures they carry,” Bellany agreed. “I believe I could get used to such a companion as Guenhwyvar, and wouldn't you look fine, Sheila, wearing the dark elf's reportedly fabulous scimitars strapped about your waist?”

Sheila Kree nodded and smiled wickedly. “But we got to get that group on our own terms and not theirs,” she explained. “We'll bring 'em in when we're ready for 'em, after the winter's softened them up a bit. We'll get Le'lorinel the fight that's been doggin' the stubborn fool elf for all these years and hope that Drizzt falls hard then and there. And if not, there'll be fewer of us left to split the treasure.”

“Speaking of that,” Jule put in, “I note that many of our ogre friends have gone out and about, hunting the countryside. We would do well, I think, to keep them close until this business with Drizzt Do'Urden is finished.”

“Only a few out at a time,” Sheila Kree replied. “I telled as much to Chogurugga already.”

Bellany left the room soon after, and she couldn't help but smile at the way things were playing out. Normally, the winters had been dreadfully uneventful, but now this one promised a good fight, better treasure, and more companionship in the person of Morik the Rogue than the young sorceress had known since her days as an apprentice back in Luskan.

It was going to be a fine winter-But Bellany knew that Sheila Kree was right concerning Le'lorinel. If they weren't careful, the crazy elf's obsession with Drizzt could invite disaster.

Bellany went right to her chamber and gathered together the components she needed for some divination spells, tuning in to the wide and rocky chamber Sheila Kree had assigned to Le'lorinel, watching as the elf and Morik went at their weapon dance, Le'lorinel instructing Morik over and over again to tell everything he knew about this strange dark elf.

* * * * * * * * * * *

“How many times must I tell you that it was no fight?” Morik asked in exasperation, holding his arms out and down to the side, a dagger in each hand. “I had no desire to continue when I learned the prowess of the drow and his friend.”

“No desire to continue,” Le’lorinel pointedly echoed. “Which means that you began. And you just admitted that you learned of the dark elf's prowess. So show me, and now, else I will show you my prowess!”

Morik tilted his head and smirked at the elf, dismissing this upstart's threat. Or at least, appearing to. In truth, Le'lorinel had Morik quite unsettled. The rogue had survived many years on the tough streets by understanding his potential enemies and friends. He instinctively knew when to fight, when to bluff, and when to run away.

This encounter was fast shifting into the third category, for Morik could get no barometer on Le'lorinel. The elf's obsession was beyond readable, he recognized, drifting into something nearing insanity. He could see that clearly in the sheer intensity of the elf's blue and gold eyes, staring out at him through that ridiculous black mask. Would Le'lorinel really attack him if he didn't give the necessary information, and, apparently, in a manner that Le'lorinel could accept? He didn't doubt that for a moment, nor did he doubt that he might be overmatched. Drizzt Do'Urden had defeated his best attack routine with seeming ease, and had begun a counter that would have had Morik dead in seconds if the drow had so desired, and if Le'lorinel could pose an honest challenge to' Drizzt. .

“You wish him dead, but why?” the rogue asked.

“That is my affair and not your own,” Le'lorinel answered curtly.

“You speak to me in anger, as if I can not or would not help you,” Morik said, forcing a distinct level of calm into his voice. “Perhaps there's a way—”

“This is my fight and not your own,” came the response, as sharp as Morik's daggers.

“Ah, but you alone, against Drizzt and his friends?” the rogue reasoned. “You may begin a brilliant and winning attack against the drow only to be shot dead by Catti-brie, standing calmly off to the side. Her bow—”

“I know all of Taulmaril and of Guenhwyvar and all the others,” the elf assured him. “I will find Drizzt on my own terms and defeat him face to face, as justice demands.”

Morik gave a laugh. “He is not such a bad fellow,” he started to say, but the feral expression growing in Le'lorinel's eyes advised him to alter that course of reasoning. “Perhaps you should go and find a woman,” the rogue added. “Elf or human—there seem to be many attractive ones about. Make love, my friend. That is justice!”

The expression that came back at Morik, though he had never expected agreement, caught him by surprise, so doubtful and incredulous did it seem.

“How old are you?” Morik pressed on. “Seventy? Fifty? Even less? It is so hard to tell with you elves, and yes, I am jealous of you for that. But you are undeniably handsome, a delicate beauty the women will enjoy. So find a lover, my friend. Find two! And do not risk the centuries of life you have remaining in this battle with Drizzt Do'Urden.”

Le'lorinel came forward a step. Morik fast retreated, subtly twisting his hands to prepare to launch a dagger into the masked face of his opponent, should Le'lorinel continue.

“I can not live!” the elf cried angrily. “I will see justice done! The mere notion of a dark elf walking the surface, feigning friendship and goodness offends everything I am and everything I believe. This dupe that is Drizzt Do'Urden is an insult to all of my ancestors, who drove the drow from the surface world and into the lightless depths where they belong.”

“And if Drizzt retreated into the lightless depths, would you then pursue him?” Morik asked, thinking he might have found a break in the elf’s wall of reasoning.

“I would kill every drow if that power was in my hands,” Le'lorinel sneered in response. “I would obliterate the entire race and be proud of the action. I would kill their matrons and their murderous raiders. I would drive my dagger into the heart of every drow child!”

The elf was advancing with every sentence, and Morik was wisely backing, staying out of dangerous range, holding his hands up before him, daggers still ready, and patting the air in an effort to calm this brewing storm.

Finally Le'lorinel stopped the approach and stood glaring at him. “Now, Morik, are you going to show me the action that occurred between you and Drizzt Do'Urden, or am I to test your battle mettle personally and use it as a measure of the prowess of Drizzt Do'Urden, given what I already know about your encounter?”

Morik gave a sigh and nodded his compliance. Then he positioned Le'lorinel as Drizzt had been that night in the Luskan alley and took the elf through the attack and defense sequence.

Over and over and over and over, at Le’lorinel's predictable insistence.

* * * * * * * * *

Bellany watched the entire exchange with more than a bit of amusement. She enjoyed watching Morik's fluid motions, though she couldn't deny that Le'lorinel was even more beautiful in battle than he, with greater skill and grace. Bellany laughed aloud at that, given Morik's errant perceptions.

When the pair at last finished the multiple dances, Bellany heard Morik dare to argue, “You are a fine fighter, a wonderful warrior. I do not question your abilities, friend. But I warn you that Drizzt Do'Urden is good, very good. Perhaps as good as anyone in all the northland. I know that not only from my brief encounter with him, but from the tales that Wulfgar told me during our time together. I see that your rage is an honest one, but I implore you to reconsider this course. Drizzt Do'Urden is very good, and his friends are powerful indeed. If you follow through with this course, he will kill you. And what a waste of centuries that would be!”

Morik bowed, turned, and quickly headed away, moving, Bellany suspected, toward her room. She liked that thought, for watching the play between Morik and Le'lorinel had surely excited her, and she decided she would not correct the rogue. Not soon, at least.

This was too much fun.

* * * * * * * * *

Morik did indeed consider going to see Bellany as he departed Le'lorinel's sparring chamber. The elf had more amused him than shaken him—Morik saw him as a complete fool, wasting every potential enjoyment and experience in life in seeking this bloody vow of vengeance against a dark elf better left alone. Whether Drizzt was a good sort or a bad one wasn't really the issue, in Morik's view. The simple measure of the worth of Le'lorinel's quest was the question of whether or not Drizzt was seeking the elf. If he was, then Le'lorinel would do well to strike first, but if he was not, then the elf was surely a fool.

Drizzt was not looking for the elf. Morik knew that instinctively. Drizzt had come seeking information about Wulfgar and about Aegis-fang but had said nothing about any elf named Le'lorinel, or about any elf at all. Drizzt wasn't hunting Le'lorinel, and likely, he didn't even know that Le'lorinel was hunting him.

Morik turned down a side corridor, moving to an awkwardly set wooden door. With great effort, he managed to push it open and moved through it to an outside landing high up on the cliff face, perhaps two hundred feet from the crashing waves far below.

Morik considered the path that wound down around the rocky spur that would take him to the floor of the gorge on the other side of the mound and to the trails that would lead him far away from Sheila Kree. He could probably get by the sentries watching the gorge with relative ease, could probably get far, far away with little effort.

Of course, the storm clouds were gathering in the northwest, over the Sea of Moving Ice, and the wind was cold. He'd have a hard time making Luskan before the season overwhelmed him, and it wouldn't be a pleasant journey even if he did make it. And of course, Bellany had already shown that she could find him in Luskan.

Morik grinned as he considered other possible routes. He wasn't exactly sure where he was—Bellany had used magic to bounce them from place to place on the way there—but he suspected he wasn't very far from a potential shelter against the winter.

“Ah, Lord Feringal, are you expecting visitors?” the rogue whispered, but he was laughing with every word, hardly considering the possibility of fleeing to Auckney—if he could even figure out where Auckney was, relative to Golden Cove, Without the proper attire, it would not be easy for the rogue Morik to assume again the identity of Lord Brandeburg of Waterdeep, an alias he had once used to dupe Lord Feringal of Auckney.

Morik was laughing at the thought of wandering away into the wintry mountains, and the notion was far from serious. It was just comforting for Morik to know he could likely get away if he so desired.

With that in mind, Morik wasn't surprised that the pirates had given him fairly free reign. If they offered to put him back in Luskan and never bother him again, he wasn't sure he would take them up on it. Life there was tough, even for one of Morik's cunning and reputation, but life in the cove seemed easy enough, and certainly Bellany was going out of her way to make it pleasant.

But what about Wulfgar? What about Drizzt Do'Urden and Catti-brie?

Morik looked out over the cold waters and seriously considered the debts he might owe to his former traveling companion. Yes, he did care about Wulfgar, and he made up his mind then and there, that if the barbarian did come against Golden Cove in an effort to regain Aegis-fang, then he would do all that he could to convince Sheila Kree and particularly Bellany to try to capture the man and not to destroy him.

That would be a more difficult task concerning Drizzt, Morik knew, considering his recent encounter with the crazy Le'lorinel, but Morik was able to shrug that possibility away easily enough.

In truth, what in the world did Morik the Rogue owe to Drizzt Do'Urden? Or to Catti-brie?

The little dark-haired thief stretched and hugged his arms close to his chest to ward the cold wind. He thought of Bellany and her warm bed and started off for her immediately.

* * * * * * * * *

Le'lorinel stood sullenly in the sparring chamber after Morik had gone, considering his last words.

Morik was wrong, Le'lorinel knew. The elf didn't doubt his assessment of Drizzt's fighting prowess. Le'lorinel knew well the tales of Drizzt's exploits. But Morik did not understand the years of preparation for this one fight, the great extremes to which Le'lorinel had gone to be in a position to defeat Drizzt Do'Urden.

But Le'lorinel could not easily dismiss Morik's warning. This fight with Drizzt would indeed happen, the elf repeated silently, fingering the ring that contained the necessary spells. Even if it went exactly as Le'lorinel had prepared and planned, it would likely end in two deaths, not one.

So be it.

Chapter 18 WHERE TRAIL AND SMOKE COMBINE

The four companions, wearing layers of fur and with blood thickened from years of living in the harshness of Icewind Dale, were not overly bothered by the wintry conditions they found waiting for them not so far north of Luskan. The snow was deep in some places, the trails icy in others, but the group plodded along. Bruenor led Catti-brie and Regis, plowing a trail with his stout body, with Drizzt guiding them from along the side.

Their progress was wonderful, given the season and the difficult terrain, but of course Bruenor found a reason to grumble. “Damn twinkly elf don't even break the crust!” he muttered, crunching through one snow drift that was more than waist high, while Drizzt skipped along on the crusty surface of the snow, half-skating, half-running. “Gotta get him to eat more and put some meat on them skinny limbs!”

Behind the dwarf, Catti-brie merely smiled. She knew, and so did Bruenor, that Drizzt's grace was more a measure of balance than of weight. The drow knew how to distribute his weight perfectly, and because he was always balanced, he could shift that weight to his other foot immediately if he felt the snow collapsing beneath him. Catti-brie was about Drizzt's height and was even a bit lighter than him, but there was no way she could possibly move as he did.

Because he was atop the snow instead of plowing through it, Drizzt was afforded a fine vantage point of the rolling white lands all around. He noted a trail not far to the side—a recent one, where someone or something had plodded along, much as Bruenor was doing now.

“Hold!” the drow called. Even as he spoke, Drizzt noted another curious sight, that of smoke up ahead, some distance away, rising in a thin line as if from a chimney. He considered it for just a moment, then glanced back to the trail, which seemed to be going in that general direction. He wondered if the two were somehow connected. A trapper's house, perhaps, or a hermit.

Figuring that the friends could all use a bit of rest, Drizzt 'made good speed for the trail. They had been out from Luskan for nearly a tenday, finding good shelter only twice, once with a farmer the first night and another night spent in a cave.

Drizzt wasn't as hopeful for shelter when he arrived at the line in the snow and saw footprints more than twice the size of his own.

“What'd'ye got, elf?” Bruenor called.

Drizzt motioned for the group to be quiet and for them to come and join him.

“Big orcs, perhaps,” he remarked when they were all there. “Or small ogres.”

“Or barbarians,” Bruenor remarked. “Them folk got the biggest feet I ever seen on a human.”

Drizzt examined one clear print more carefully, bending over to put his eyes only a few inches from it. He shook his head. “These are too heavy, and those who made them wore hard boots, not the doeskin Wulfgar's people would wear,” he explained.

“Ogres, then,” said Catti-brie. “Or big orcs.”

“Plenty of those in these mountains,” Regis put in.

“And heading for that line of smoke,” Drizzt explained, pointing ahead to the thin plume.

“Might be their kinfolk making the smoke,” Bruenor reasoned. With a wry grin, the dwarf turned to Regis. “Get to it, Rumblebelly.”

Regis branched, thinking then that perhaps he had done too well with that last orc camp, when he and Bruenor were making their way to Luskan. The halfling wasn't going to shy from his responsibilities, but if these were ogres, he'd be sorely overmatched. And Regis knew that ogres favored halfling as one of their most desired meals.

When Regis came out of his contemplation, he noted that Drizzt was looking at him, smiling knowingly, as if he'd read the halfling's every thought.

“This is no job for Regis,” the dark elf said.

“He done it on the way to Luskan,” Bruenor protested. “Done it well, too.”

“But not in this snow,” Drizzt replied. “No thief would be able to find appropriate shadows in this white-out. No, let us go in together to see what friends or enemies we might find.”

“And if they are ogres?” Catti-brie asked. “Ye thinking we're overdue for a fight?”

Drizzt's expression showed clearly that the notion was not an unpleasant one, but he shook his head. “If they do not concern us, then better that we do not concern them,” he said. “But let us learn what we might—it may be that we will find shelter and good food for the night.”

Drizzt moved off to the side and a little ahead, and Bruenor led the way along the carved trail. The dwarf brought out his large axe, slapping its handle across his shield hand, and set his one-horned helmet firmly on his head, more than ready for a fight. Behind him, Catti-brie set an arrow to Taulmaril and tested the pull.

If these were ogres or orcs and they happened to have a decent shelter constructed, then Catti-brie fully expected to be occupying that shelter long before nightfall. She knew Bruenor Battle-hammer too well to think that the dwarf would ever walk away from a fight with either of those beasts.

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

“Yer turn to get the firewood,” Donbago snarled at his younger brother, Jeddith. He pushed the young man toward the tower door. “We'll all be frozen by morning if ye don't bring it!”

“Yeah, I know,” the younger soldier grumbled, running a hand through his greasy hair and scratching at some lice. “Damn weather. Shouldn't be this cold yet.”

The other two soldiers in the stone tower grumbled their agreement. Winter had come early, and with vigor, to the Spine of the World, sweeping down on an icy wind that cut right through the stones of the simple tower fortress to bite at the soldiers. They did have a fire burning in the hearth, but it was getting thin, and they didn't have enough wood to get through the night. There was plenty to be found, though, so none of them were worried.

“If ye help me, we'll bring enough to get it blazing,” Jeddith observed, but Donbago grumbled about taking his turn on the tower top watch, and headed for the stairs even as Jeddith started for the outside door.

A breeze whistling in through the opened door pushed Donbago along as he made the landing to the second floor, to find the other two soldiers of the remote outpost.

“Well, who's up top?” Donbago scolded.

“No one,” answered one of the pair, scaling the ladder running up from the center of the circular floor to the center of the ceiling. “The trapdoor's frozen stuck.”

Donbago grumbled and moved to the base of the ladder, watching as his companion for the sentry duty banged at the metal trapdoor. It took them some time to break through the ice, and so Donbago wasn't on the rooftop and didn't have to watch helplessly as Jeddith, some thirty feet from the tower door, bent over to retrieve some deadwood, oblivious to the hulking ogre that stepped out from behind a tree and crushed his skull with a single blow from a heavy club.

Jeddith went down without a sound, and the marauder dragged him out of sight.

The brute working at the back of the tower was noisier, throwing a grapnel attached to a heavy rope at the tower's top lip, but its tumult was covered by the banging on the metal trapdoor.

Before Donbago and his companion had the door unstuck, the half-ogre grabbed the knotted rope in its powerful hands and walked itself right up the nearly thirty feet of the tower wall, heaving itself to the roof.

The brute turned about, reaching for a large axe it had strapped across its back, even as the door banged open and Donbago climbed through.

With a roar, the half-ogre leaped at him, but it wound up just bowling the man aside. Fortune was with Donbago, and the half-ogre's axe got hooked on the heavy strapping. Still, the man went flying down hard against the tower crenellation, his breath blasting away.

Gasping, Donbago couldn't even cry out a warning as his companion climbed onto the roof. The half-ogre tore its axe free.

Donbago winced and grimaced as the brute cut his companion nearly in half. Donbago drew his sword and forced himself to his feet and into a charge. He let his rage be his guide as he closed on the brute, saw his companion, his friend, half out of the trapdoor, squirming in the last moments of his life. A seasoned warrior, Donbago didn't let the image force him into any rash movements. He came in fast and furiously, but in a tempered manner, launching what looked like a wild swing then retracting the sword just enough so that the brute's powerful parry whistled past without hitting anything.

Now Donbago came forward with a stab, and another, driving the brute back and opening its gut.

The half-ogre wailed and tried to retreat, but lost its footing on the slippery stone and went down hard.

On came Donbago, leaping forward with a tremendous slash, but even as his sword descended, the half-ogre's great leg kicked up, connecting solidly and launching the man into a head-over-heels somersault. His blow still landed, though, and the ragged half-ogre had to work hard to regain its footing.

Donbago was up before it, stabbing and slashing. He kept looking from his target to his dead friend, letting the rage drive him on. Even as the ogre attacked he scored a deep strike. Still, in his offensive stance, he couldn't get aside, and he took a glancing blow from that awful axe. Then he took a heavy punch in the face, one that shattered his nose, cracked the bones in both his cheeks, and sent him skidding back hard into the wall.

He slumped there, telling himself that he had to shake the black spots out of his eyes, had to get up and in a defensive posture, telling himself that the brute was falling over him even then, and that he would be crushed and chopped apart.

With a growl that came from deep in his belly, the dazed and bleeding Donbago forced himself to his feet, his sword before him in a pitiful attempt to ward what he knew would be a killing blow.

But the half-ogre wasn't there. It stood, or rather knelt on one knee by the open trapdoor, clutching at its belly, holding in its entrails, the look on its ugly face one of pure incredulity and pure horror.

Not wanting to wait until the beast decided if the wound was mortal or not, Donbago rushed across the tower top and smashed his sword repeatedly on the half-ogre's upraised arm. When that arm was at last knocked aside, the man continued to bash with every ounce of strength and energy, again spurred on by the sight of his dead companion and by the sudden fear that his brother—

His brother!

Donbago cried out and bashed away, cracking the beast's skull, knocking it flat to the stone. He bashed away some more, long after the half-ogre stopped moving, turning its ugly head to pulp.

Then he got up and staggered to the open hatch, trying to pull his torn friend all the way through. When that didn't work, Donbago pushed the man inside instead, holding him as low as he could so that the fall wouldn't be too jarring to the torn corpse.

Sniffling away the horror and the tears, Donbago called out for the others to secure the tower, called out for someone to go and find his brother.

But he heard the fighting from below and knew that no one was hearing him.

Without the strength to rush down to join them, Donbago considered his other options and worried, too, that other brutes might be climbing up behind him.

He started to turn away from the trapdoor and the spectacle of his dead friend in the room below, but stopped as he saw another of the soldiers rush up the stairs to make the landing at the side of the second level.

“Ogres!” the man cried, stumbling for the ladder. He made it to the base, almost, but then a half-ogre appeared on the landing behind him and launched a grapnel secured to a chain. It hooked over the man's shoulder even as he grabbed the ladder.

Donbago yelled out and started to go down after him, but with a single mighty jerk, an inhumanly powerful tug, the half-ogre tore the man from the ladder, so instantly, so brutally, that Donbago had to blink away the illusion that the man had simply disappeared.

Or part of him had, at least, for still holding the ladder below him was the man's severed arm.

Donbago looked over to the landing just in time to see the man's last moments as the half-ogre pummeled him down to the stone floor. Then the brute looked up at Donbago, smiling wickedly.

The battered Donbago rolled away from the trapdoor and quickly turned the metal portal over and closed it, then rolled on top of it using his body as a locking bar.

A glance at the dead ogre on the tower top reminded him of his vulnerability up there. Hearing no noise from below other than the distant fighting, Donbago leaped up and ran to the back lip of the tower, pulling free the grapnel. He took it with him as he dived back to cover the trapdoor, pulling the rope up the tower's side from there.

A few moment's later, he felt the first jarring blow from beneath him, a thunderous report that shook the teeth in his mouth.

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

Drizzt noted that the tower door was ajar, and noted, too, the crimson stain on the snow near some trees not far away. Then he heard the shout from the tower top.

He motioned for his friends to be alert and ready, then sprinted off to the side, flanking the tower, trying to get a measure of what was happening and where he would best fit into the battle.

Catti-brie and Bruenor stayed on the ogre trail, but moved more cautiously then, motioning to Drizzt. To the drow's surprise, Regis did not remain with the pair. The halfling ran off to the left, flanking the tower the other way. He plowed through the snow, then finally reached a patch of wind-blown stone and sprinted off from shadow to shadow, keeping low and moving swiftly, heading around the back.

Drizzt couldn't suppress a grin, thinking that Regis was typically trying to find an out-of-the-way hiding spot.

That smile went away almost immediately, though, as the drow came to understand that the threat was imminent, that indeed battle was already underway. He saw a man, his tunic and face bloody, sprint out of the open tower door and rush off to the side, screaming for help.

A hulking form, a large and ugly ogre, chased after him in close pursuit, its already bloody club raised high.

The man had a few step lead, but that wouldn't last in the deep snow, Drizzt knew. The ogre's longer and stronger legs would close the gap fast, and that club. .

Drizzt turned away from the tower in pursuit of the pair. He managed to offer a quick hand signal to Bruenor and Catti-brie, showing them his intent and indicating that they should continue on to the tower. He ran on, his light steps keeping him atop the snow pack.

At first Drizzt feared that the ogre would get to the fleeing man first, but the man put on a burst of speed and dived headlong over the side of a ridge, tumbling away in the snow.

The ogre stopped at the ridge, and Drizzt yelled out. The brute seemed more than happy to spin about and fight this newest challenger. Of course, the eager gleam in the ogre's eye melted away, and the stupid grin became an expression of surprise indeed when the ogre recognized that this newest challenger was not another human, but a drow elf.

Drizzt went in hard, scimitars whirling, hoping to make a quick kill. Then he could see to the wounded man, and he could get back to the tower and help his friends.

But this brute was no ordinary ogre. This was a seasoned warrior, nine feet of muscle and bone with the agility to maneuver its heavy spiked club with surprising deftness.

Drizzt's eagerness nearly cost him dearly, for as he came ahead, scimitars twirling in oppositional arcs, the quick-footed ogre stepped back just out of range and brought its club across with a tremendous sweep, taking one scimitar along with it. Drizzt was barely able to keep a grip on the weapon. If he'd dropped it, he might never find it in the deep snow.

Drizzt managed not only to get his second blade, in his right hand, out of the way of the blow, but he got in a stab that bloodied the ogre's trailing forearm. The brute accepted the sting, though, in exchange for slipping through its real attack. Lifting its heavy leg and following the sweep of the club with a mighty kick, it caught Drizzt on the shoulder and launched him a dozen spinning feet through the air to crash down into the snow.

The drow recognized his error, then, and was only glad that he had made the error out in the open, where he could fast recover. If he had gotten kicked like that inside the tower, he figured he'd now be little more than a red stain on the stone wall.

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

They saw the drow's signal, but neither Bruenor nor Catti-brie were about to abandon Drizzt as he chased off after the ogre — until they heard the cry for help, as pitiful a wail as either had ever heard, coming from inside the tower.

“Ye keep yer damned shots higher than me head!” Bruenor yelled to his girl, and the dwarf bent his shoulders low and rambled on for the tower door, gaining speed, momentum, and fury.

Catti-brie worked hard to keep up, just a few feet behind, Taulmaril in hand, leveled and ready.

There was nothing subtle or quiet about the dwarfs charge, and predictably, Bruenor was met at the doorway by another hulking form. The dwarf's axe chopped hard. Catti-brie's arrow slammed the brute in the chest. Those two blows, combined with the sturdy dwarf’s momentum, got Bruenor crashing into the main area of the tower's lowest floor.

This opponent, a half-ogre and a tough one at that, wasn't finished. It managed a counterstrike with its club, bouncing a mighty hit off Bruenor's shoulder.

“Ye got to do better than that!” the dwarf bellowed, though in truth, the blow hurt.

Smiling in spite of the pain, Bruenor swiped his axe across. The half-ogre stumbled out of reach but came back forward for a counter too soon. Bruenor's backhand caught it flat against the ribs, stealing its momentum and its intended attack.

The half-ogre staggered, giving Bruenor the time to set his feet properly and begin again. The next hit wasn't with the flat of the axe, but with the jagged, many-notched head, a swipe that cut a slice right down the battered brute's chest.

Before Bruenor could begin to celebrate the apparent victory, though, a second half-ogre leaped out from the stairway, slamming into its mortally wounded companion and taking both of them crashing over Bruenor, burying the dwarf beneath nearly a ton of flesh and bone.

The dwarf needed Catti-brie sorely at that point, but a call from above told him that, perhaps, so did someone else.

At the back of the tower, in close to the base of the wall and listening intently, Regis heard Bruenor's charge. He didn't have any great urge to go around with the dwarf, though, for Bruenor's tactics were straightforward, muscle against muscle, trading punch for punch.

Joining in that strategy against ogres, Regis wouldn't last beyond the first blow.

A cry from above jarred the halfling. He started to climb hand over hand, picking holds in the cold, cracked stone. By the time he was halfway up, his poor fingers were scraped and bleeding, but he kept going, moving with deceiving swiftness, picking his holds expertly and nearing the top.

He heard a yell and a crash, then some heavy scuffling. Up he went with all speed, and he nearly slipped and fell, catching himself at the very last moment—and with more than a little luck.

Finally he put his hand on the lip of the tower top and peeked over. What he saw almost made him want to leap right off.

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

Poor Donbago, crying out repeatedly, only wanted to hold the I portal shut, to close his eyes and will all of this horror away. He was a seasoned fighter and had seen many battles and had lost many friends.

But not his brother.

He knew in his heart that Jeddith was down, and likely dead.

He knew in his heart that the tower was lost, and that there would be no escape. Perhaps if he just lay there long enough, using his body to block the trapdoor, the brutes would go away. He knew, after all, that ogres were not known for persistence or for cunning.

Most were not, at least.

Donbago hardly noticed the warmth at first, though he did smell the burning leather. He didn't understand—until a sharp pain erupted in his back. Reflexively, the man rolled, but he stopped at once, realizing that he had to hold the door shut.

He tried going back, but the metal was hot—so hot!

The ogres below must have been heating it with torches.

Donbago jumped atop the door, hoping his boots would insulate him from the heat. He heard a scream as one of his companions exited the tower, and, a few moments later, a roar from below, by the front door.

He was hopping, his boots smoking. He looked around frantically, searching for something he could use to place over the door, a loose stone in the crenellation, perhaps.

He went flying away as an ogre below leveled a tremendous blow to the door. A second strike, before Donbago could scramble back, had the portal bouncing open. A brute came through with amazing speed, obviously boosted to the roof by a companion.

Donbago, waves of pain still spreading from his broken face, leaped into the fray immediately and furiously, thinking of his brother with every mad strike. He scored a couple of hits on the ogre, which seemed truly surprised by his ferocity, but then its companion was up beside it. Two heavy clubs swatted at him, back and forth.

He ducked, he dodged, he didn't even try to parry the too-powerful blows, and his desperate offensive posture allowed him to manage another serious stab at the first brute, sending it sprawling to the stone.

Donbago got hit, knocked to his back, his sword flying, and before he even realized what had happened, the valiant soldier felt a strong hand grab his ankle.

In an instant, he was scooped aloft, hanging upside down at the end of a mighty ogre's arm.

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

Drizzt rolled across the snow, not fighting the momentum but enhancing it, allowing the ogre's kick to take him as far from his formidable opponent as possible. He wanted to get up and face the ogre squarely, to take a better measure and put this fight back on more recognizable ground. He believed that his underestimation of his opponent alone had cost him that hit, that he had erred greatly.

He was surprised again when he at last tucked his feet under him and started to rise, to find that the ogre had kept up with him and was even then coming in for another furious attack.

The brute was moving too fast—too far beyond what Drizzt, no novice to battling ogres, would have expected from one of its lumbering kind.

In came the club, swatting down to the left, forcing the drow to dodge right. The ogre halted the swing quickly and put the club up and over, taking it up in both hands like someone splitting wood might, and slamming it straight down at the new position Drizzt was settling into, with more force than one of Drizzt's stature could possibly hope to block or even deflect.

Drizzt dived into a roll back to the left, coming up facing to the side and rushing fast in retreat, putting some ground between himself and the brute. He spun at the ready, almost expecting this surprising foe to be upon him once again.

This time, though, the ogre had remained in place. It grinned as it regarded Drizzt, then pulled a ceramic flask from its belt— a belt that already showed several open loops, Drizzt noted— and popped it into its mouth, chewing it up to get at the potion.

Almost immediately, the ogre's arms began to bulge with heightened strength, with the strength of a great giant.

Drizzt actually felt better now that he had sorted out the riddle. The ogre had taken a potion of speed, obviously, and now one of strength, and likely others of enhancing magical properties. Now the drow understood, and now the drow could better anticipate.

Drizzt lamented that Guenhwyvar had been with him the night before, that he had used up the magic of the figurine for the time being. He could not recall the panther, and now, it seemed, he could use the help.

In came the ogre, swatting its club all about, howling with rage and with the anticipation of this sweet kill. Drizzt had to drop low to his knees, else that victory would have come quickly for the brute.

But now Drizzt had a plan. The ogre was moving more quickly than it was used to moving, and its great strength would send its club out with tremendous, often unbreakable momentum. Drizzt could use that against the beast, perhaps, could utilize misdirection as a way of having the ogre off-balance and with apparent openings.

Up came the drow, skittering to the side — or seeming to — then cutting back and rushing straight ahead, scoring a solid hit on the ogre's leg as he waded past.

He continued and dived ahead, turning as he came up to face his foe, expecting to see the blood turning bright red near that torn leg.

The ogre was hardly bleeding, as if something other than its skin had absorbed the bulk of that wicked scimitar strike.

Drizzt's mind whirled through the possibilities. There were potions, he had heard, that could do such things, potions offering varying degrees of added heroism.

“Ah, Guen,” the drow lamented, for he knew that he was in for quite a fight.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The dwarf wondered if he would simply suffocate under the press of the two heavy bodies, particularly the dead weight of the one he had defeated. He squirmed and tucked his legs, then worked to find some solid footing and pushed ahead with all his strength, his short, bunched muscles straining mightily.

He got his head out from under the fallen brute's hip, but then had to duck right back underneath as the second brute, still lying atop the dying one, slapped down at him with a powerful grasping hand.

The ogre finger-walked that hand underneath in pursuit of the dwarf, and with his own arms still pinned down beside him, Bruenor couldn't match the grab.

So he bit the hand instead, latching on like an angry dog, gnashing his teeth, and crunching the brute's knuckles.

The half-ogre howled and pulled back, but the dwarf's mighty jaw remained clamped. Bruenor held on ferociously. The brute crawled off its dying companion, twisting about to gain some leverage, then lifted the fallen ogre's hip and tugged hard, pulling the dwarf out on the end of its arm.

The brute lifted its other arm to smack at the dwarf, but once free, Bruenor didn't hesitate. He grabbed the trapped forearm in both hands and, still biting hard, ran straight back, turning about and twisting the arm as he went behind the half-ogre.

“Got one for ye!” the dwarf yelled, finally releasing his bite, for he had the half-ogre off-balance then, momentarily helpless and lined up for the open doorway. Bruenor drove ahead with all his strength and leverage, forcing the brute into a quick-step. With a great heave, the dwarf got the brute to the doorway and through it.

Where Catti-brie's arrow met it, square in the chest.

The half-ogre staggered backward, or started to, for as soon as he had let the thing go, Bruenor quick-stepped back a few steps, rubbed his heavy boots on the stone for traction, and rushed forward, leaping as the half-ogre staggered back to slam hard into the brute's lower back.

The brute stumbled out through the door, where another arrow hit it hard in the chest.

It fell to its knees grasping at the two shafts with trembling hands.

Catti-brie shot it again, right in the face.

“More on the stairs!” Bruenor yelled out to her. “Come on, girl, I need ye!”

Catti-brie started forward, ready to rush right in past the brute she had just felled, but then came another cry from above. She looked up to see a squirming, whimpering man hanging out over the tower's edge, a huge half-ogre holding him by the ankles.

Up came Taulmaril, leveling at the brute's face, for Catti-brie figured that the man might well survive the fall into the snow, which was piled pretty deep on this side of the tower, but knew that he had no chance of surviving his current captor.

But the half-ogre saw her as well, and, with a wicked grin, brought up its own weapon—a huge club—and lined up for a hit that would surely break the squirming man apart.

Catti-brie reflexively cried out.

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

At the back of the tower top, Regis heard that cry. Looking that way he understood that the poor soldier was in a precarious predicament. But the halfling couldn't get to the brute in time, and even if he did, what could he and his tiny mace do against something of that monster's bulk?

The second half-ogre, wounded by the soldier's valiant fight but not down, was on the move again to join its companion. It rushed across the tower top, oblivious to the halfling peering over the rim.

Purely on instinct—if he had thought about it, the halfling would have more likely simply passed out from fear than made the move—Regis pulled himself over the lip and scrambled forward half running, half diving, skidding low right between the running half-ogre's leading heel and trailing toe.

The brute tripped up, its kick as it stumbled forward jolting and battering the poor halfling and lifting Regis into a short flight.

Out of control, the half-ogre gained momentum, falling headlong into its companion's broad back.

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

Catti-brie saw no choice but to take her chances on the shot, much as she had done against the pirate holding Delly in Captain Deudermont's house.

The half-ogre apparently anticipated just that and delayed its swing at the man and ducked back instead, the arrow streaking harmlessly into the air before it.

Catti-brie winced, thinking the man surely doomed. Before she could even reach to set another arrow, though, the half-ogre came forward suddenly, way over the tower lip. It let go of the man, who dropped, screaming, into the snow. It too went over, hands flailing helplessly.

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

Gasping for his lost breath, his ribs sorely bruised, the battered halfling struggled to his feet and faced the half-ogre he had tripped even as the brute turned to regard him ominously. Its look was one of pure menace, promising a horrible death.

With a growl, it took a long step toward the halfling.

Regis considered his little mace, a perfectly insignificant weapon against the sheer mass and strength of this brute, then sighed and tossed it to the ground. With a tip of his hood, the halfling turned around and ran for the back of the tower, crying out with every running step. He understood the drop over that lip. It was a good thirty feet, and the back side of the tower, unlike the front, was nearly clear, wind-blown stone.

Still, the halfling never slowed. He leaped up and rolled over the edge. Without slowing, roaring in rage with every step, the half-ogre dived over right behind.

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

The lower vantage point for Bruenor proved an advantage as he charged at the half-ogre standing on the curving stairway. The brute slammed its club straight down at the dwarf but Bruenor got his fine shield—emblazoned with the “foaming mug” standard of Clan Battlehammer—up over his head and angled perfectly. The dwarf was strong enough of arm to accept and deflect the blow.

The half-ogre wasn't as fortunate against the counter, a mighty sweep of Bruenor's fine axe that cracked the brute's ankle, snapping bone and digging a deep, deep gash. The half-ogre howled in pain and reached down reflexively to grab at the torn limb. Bruenor moved against the wall and leaped up three steps, putting him one above the bending half-ogre. The dwarf turned and braced, planting his shield against the brute as it started to turn to face him. Bruenor shoved out with all his strength, his short, muscled legs driving hard.

The half-ogre went off the stairs. It wasn't a long fall, but one that proved disastrous, for as the brute tried to hold its balance it landed hard on the broken ankle. It fell over on its side with a howl.

Its blurry vision cleared a moment later, and it looked back to see a flying red-bearded dwarf coming its way, mouth opened in a primal roar, face twisted with eager rage, and that devilish axe gripped in both hands.

The dwarf snapped his body as he impacted, driving the axe in hard and heavy, cleaving the half-ogre's head in half.

“Bet that hurt,” Bruenor grumbled, pulling himself to his feet.

He looked at the gore on his axe and winced, then just shrugged and wiped it on the dead beast's dirty fur tunic.

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

Drizzt skittered back against a tree, then ducked and rolled around it to avoid a thundering smash.

The ogre's club smacked hard against the young tree and proved the stronger, cracking the living wood apart.

Drizzt groaned aloud as he considered the toppling tree, picturing what his own slender form might have looked like had he not dodged aside. He had no time to ponder at length, though, for the ogre, moving with enhanced speed and wielding its heavy club with ease with its giant-strength muscles, was fast in pursuit. It leaped the falling tree and swung again.

Drizzt fell to the snow flat on his face, the club whistling right above him. With amazing speed and grace, the drow put his legs under him and leaped straight up over the ogre's fast backhand, which came down diagonally from the side to smack the spot where Drizzt had just been lying. In the air, the drow had little weight behind the strikes, but he worked his scimitars in rapid alternating stabs, popping their points into the ogre's broad chest.

The drow landed lightly and went right back into the air, twisting as he did so that he rolled over the side-cutting club. As he landed he reversed the momentum of his somersault and drove one blade hard into the ogre's belly. Again, he didn't score nearly as much of a wound as he would have expected, but he didn't pause to lament the fact. He spun around the ogre's hip, reversed his grip on the blade in his right hand, and stabbed it out and hard into the back of the ogre's treelike leg.

Drizzt sprinted straight ahead, leaping another fallen tree and spinning around a pair of oaks, turning to face his predictably charging opponent.

The ogre chased him around the two oaks, but Drizzt held an advantage, for he could cut between the close-growing trees while the huge brute had to circle both. He went to the outside through a couple of rotations, letting the ogre fall into a set pace, then darted between the trees and came around fast and hard before the brute could properly turn and set its defenses.

Again the drow scored a pair of hits, one a stab, the other a slash. As he came across with his right hand, he followed through with the motion, turning a complete circle then sprinting ahead once more, the howling ogre in fast pursuit.

And so it went for many minutes, Drizzt using a hit and retreat strategy, hoping to tire the ogre, hoping that the potions, likely temporary enhancements, would run their course.

Drizzt scored again and again with minor hits, but he knew that this was no contest of finesse, where the better fighter would be awarded the victory by some neutral judges. This was a battle to the end, and while he looked beautiful with his precision movements and strikes, the only hit that would matter would be the last one. Given the ogre's sheer power, given the images burned into the drow's mind as yet another tree splintered and toppled under the weight of the brute's blow, Drizzt understood that the first solid hit he took from the creature would likely be the last hit of the fight.

The drow went full speed over one snowy ridge, diving down in a roll on his back and sliding to the bottom. He came up fast, spinning to face the pursuit. The drow was looking to score another hit, perhaps, or more likely, in this unfavorable place, to simply run away.

But the ogre wasn't there, and Drizzt understood that it had used its heightened speed and heightened strength in a different manner when he heard the brute touch down behind him.

The ogre had leaped off the top of the ridge, right over the sliding and turning drow.

Drizzt realized his mistake.

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

The surprised half-ogre landed flat on its back a few feet out from the tower and from the captive it had dropped, but was moving immediately, hardly seeming hurt, scrambling to its feet.

Catti-brie led her charge with another streaking arrow, a gut shot, then she threw her bow aside and drew out Khazid'hea. The eager sword telepathically prompted her to cut the beast apart.

The brute clutched at its belly wound with one hand and reached out at her with the other, as if to try to catch her charge. The flash of Khazid'hea ended that possibility, sending stubby fingers flying all about.

Catti-brie went in with fury, taking the advantage and never offering it back, slashing her fine-edged sword to and fro and hardly slowing enough to even bother to line up her strikes.

She didn't have to; not with this sword.

The half-ogre's heavy clothing and hide armor parted as if it was thin paper, and bright lines of red striped the creature in a matter of moments.

The half-ogre managed one punch out at her, but Khazid’hea was there, intercepting the punch with its sharp edge, splitting the half-ogre's hand and riding that cut right up through its thick wrist.

How the beast howled!

But that cry was silenced a moment later when Catti-brie slashed Khazid'hea across up high, taking out the brute's throat. Down went the half-ogre, and Catti-brie leaped beside it, her sword slashing repeatedly.

“Girl!” Bruenor cried, half in terror and half in surprise when he exited the tower to see his adopted daughter covered in blood. He ran to her and nearly got cut in half as she swung around, Khazid'hea flashing.

“It's the damn sword!” Bruenor cried at her, falling back and throwing his arms up defensively.

Catti-brie stopped suddenly, staring at her fine blade with shock.

Bruenor was right. In her moment of anger and terror at seeing the man fall from the tower, in her moment of guilt blaming herself for the man's fall because of her missed bowshot, the viciously sentient sword Khazid’hea had found its way into her thoughts yet again, prodding her into a frenzy.

She laughed aloud, helplessly. Her white teeth looked ridiculous, shining out from her bloodied face. She slapped the sword's blade down into the snow.

“Girl?” Bruenor asked cautiously.

“I'm thinking that we could both use a bath,” Catti-brie said to him, obviously in control again.

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

Regis, hanging on the edge of the tower top, wondered if the half-ogre even understood its mistake as it flew out over him, limbs flailing wildly on its fast descent to the stony ground. The brute hit with a muffled groan, and bounced once or twice.

The halfling pulled himself back over the tower top and looked down to see the half-ogre stubbornly trying to regain its footing. It stumbled once and went back down, but then tried to rise again.

Regis retrieved his little mace and took aim. He whistled down to the half-ogre as he let fly, timing it perfectly so that the brute looked up just in time to catch the falling weapon right in the face. There came a sharp report, like metal hitting stone, and the half-ogre stood there for a long while, staring up at Regis.

The halfling sucked in his breath, hardly believing that the mace, falling from thirty feet, hadn't done more damage.

But it had. The brute went down hard and didn't get up.

A shiver coursed up Regis's little spine, and he paused long enough to consider his actions in this battle, to consider that he had gotten involved at all when he really didn't have to. The halfling tried very hard not to look at things that way, tried to remind himself repeatedly that he had acted in accordance with the tenets of his group of friends, his dear, trusted companions, who would risk their lives without a second thought to help those in dire need.

Not for the first time, and not for the last, Regis wondered if he would be better off finding a new group of friends.

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

Drizzt could only guess from which direction the ogre's mighty swing would come, and he understood that if he guessed wrong, he'd be leaping right into the oncoming blow. In the split second he had to react, it all sorted out, his warrior instincts replaying the ogre's fighting style, telling him clearly that the ogre had initiated every attack with a right-to-left strike.

So Drizzt went left, his magical anklets speeding his feet into a desperate run.

And the club swatted in behind him, clipping him as he turned and leaped, launching him into a long, twisting tumble. The snow padded his fall, but when he came up he found that he was only holding one scimitar. His right arm had gone completely numb and his shoulder and side were exploding with pain. The drow glanced down and winced. His shoulder had clearly been dislocated, pushed back from its normal position.

Drizzt didn't have long, for the ogre was coming on in pursuit—though, the drow noted with some hope, not as quickly as it had been moving.

Drizzt skittered away, turning as he went and literally throwing himself backward into a tree, using the solidity of the tree to pop his shoulder back into place. The wave of agony turned his stomach and brought black spots spinning before his eyes. He nearly swooned, but knew that if he gave into that momentary weakness, the ogre would break him apart.

He rolled around the tree and stumbled away, buying himself more time. He knew then, by how easily he could distance himself from the brute, that at least one of the potions had worn off.

Every step was bringing some measure of relief to Drizzt. The ache in his shoulder had lessened already, and he found that he could feel his fingers again. He took a circuitous route that led him back to his fallen scimitar, with the dumb ogre, apparently thinking that it had the fight won, following fast in pursuit.

Drizzt stopped and turned, his lavender eyes boring into the approaching brute. Just before the combatants came together, their gazes met, and the ogre's confidence melted away.

There would be no underestimation by the dark elf this time.

Drizzt came ahead in a fury, holding the ogre's stare with his own. His scimitars worked as if of their own accord, in perfect harmony and with blazing speed—too quickly for the ogre, its magical speed worn away and its giant strength diminishing, to possibly keep up. The brute tried to take an offensive posture instead, swinging wildly, but Drizzt was behind it before it ever completed the blow. That other potion, the one that had someone made the ogre resistant to the drow's scimitar stings, was also dissipating.

This time, both Twinkle and Icingdeath dug in, one taking a kidney, the other hamstringing the brute.

Drizzt worked in a fury but with controlled precision, rushing all around his opponent, stabbing and slashing, and always at a vital area.

The victorious drow put his scimitars away soon after, his right arm going numb again now that the adrenaline of battle was subsiding. Swaying with every step, and cursing himself for taking such an enemy as that for granted, he made his way back to the tower. There he found Bruenor and Regis sitting by the open door, both looking battered, and Catti-brie covered head to toe in blood, standing nearby, tending to a dazed and wounded man.

“A fine thing it'll be if we all wind up killed to death in battle afore we ever get to the pirate Kree,” Bruenor grumbled.

Chapter 19 WULFGAR'S CHOICE

He wasn't dead. Following Donbago's directions, after Jeddith had recovered his wits from the fall, Catti-brie and Regis found his brother behind some brush not far from the tower. His head was bloody and aching. They wrapped some bandages tight around the wound and tried to make him as comfortable as possible, but it became obvious that the dazed and delirious man would need to see a healer, and soon.

“He's alive,” Catti-brie announced to the man as she and Regis ushered him back to where Donbago sat propped against the tower.

Tears streamed down Donbago's face. “Me thanks,” he said over and over again. “Whoever ye are, me thanks for me brother's life and me own.”

“Another one's alive inside the tower,” Bruenor announced, coming out. “Ye finally waked up, eh?” he asked Donbago, who was nodding appreciatively.

“And we got one o' them stupid half-ogries alive,” Bruenor added. “Ugly thing.”

“We have to get this one to a healer, and quick,” Catti-brie explained as she and Regis managed to ease the half-conscious Jeddith down beside his brother.

“Auckney,” Donbago insisted. “Ye got to get us to Auckney.”

Drizzt came through the door and heard the man clearly. He and Catti-brie exchanged curious glances, knowing the name well from the tale Delly Curtie had told them of Wulfgar and the baby.

“How far a journey is Auckney?” the drow asked Donbago.

The man turned to regard Drizzt, and his eyes popped open wide. He seemed as if he would just fall over.

“He gets that a lot,” Regis quipped, patting Donbago's shoulder. “He'll forgive you.”

“Drow?” Donbago asked, trying to turn to regard Regis, but seeming unable to tear his eyes from the spectacle of a dark elf.

“Good drow,” Regis explained. “You'll get to like him after a while.”

“Bah, an elf's an elf!” Bruenor snorted.

“Yer pardon, good drow,” Donbago stammered, obviously at a loss, his emotions torn between the fact that this group had just saved his life and his brother's, and all he'd ever known about the race of evil dark elves.

“No pardon is needed,” Drizzt replied, “but an answer would be appreciated.”

Donbago considered the statement for a few moments, then bobbed his head repeatedly. “Auckney,” he echoed. “A few days and no more, if the weather holds.”

“A few days if it don't,” said Bruenor. “Good enough then. We got two to carry and a half-ogrie to drag along by the crotch.”

“I think the brute can walk,” Drizzt remarked. “He's a bit heavy to drag.”

Drizzt fashioned a pair of litters out of blankets and sticks he retrieved from nearby, and the group left soon after. As it turned out, the half-ogre wasn't too badly wounded. That was a good thing, for while Bruenor could drag along Jeddith, the drow's injured shoulder would not allow him the strength to pull the other litter. They made the prisoner do it, with Catti-brie walking right behind, Taulmaril strung and ready, an arrow set to its string.

The weather did hold, and the ragged band, battered as they were, made strong headway, arriving at the outskirts of Auckney in less than three days.

* * * * * * * * * *

Wulfgar blinked repeatedly as the multicolored bubbles popped and dissipated in the air around him. Never fond of, and not very familiar with the ways of magic, the barbarian had to spend a long while reorienting himself to his new surroundings, for no longer was he in the grand city of Waterdeep, One structure, a uniquely designed tower whose branching arms made it look like a living tree, confirmed to Wulfgar that he was in Luskan now, as Robillard had promised.

“I see doubt clearly etched upon your face,” the wizard remarked sourly. “I thought we had agreed—”

“You agreed,” Wulfgar interrupted, “with yourself.”

“You do not believe this to be the best course for you, then?” Robillard asked skeptically. “You would prefer the company of Delly Curtie back in the safety of Waterdeep, back in the security of a blacksmith's shop?”

The words surely stung the barbarian, but it was Robillard's condescending tone that really made Wulfgar want to throttle the skinny man. He didn't look at the wizard, fearing that he would simply spit in Robillard's face. He wasn't really afraid of a fight with the formidable wizard, not when he was this close, but if one did ensue and he did break Robillard in half, he'd have a long walk indeed back to Waterdeep.

“I will not go through this again with you, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale,” Robillard remarked. “Or Wulfgar of Waterdeep, or Wulfgar of wherever you think Wulfgar should be from. I have offered you more than you deserve from me already, and more than I would normally offer to one such as you. I must be in a fine and generous mood this day.”

Wulfgar scowled at him, but that only made Robillard laugh aloud.

“You are in the exact center of the city,” Robillard went on. “Through the south gate lies the road to Waterdeep and Delly, and your job as a smith. Through the north gate, the road back to your friends and what I believe to be your true home. I suspect that you'll find the south road an easier journey by far than the north, Wulfgar son of Beornegar.”

Wulfgar didn't respond, didn't even return the measuring stare Robillard was now casting over him. He knew which road the wizard believed he should take,

“I have always found those who take the easier road, when they know they should be walking the more difficult one, to be cowards,” Robillard remarked. “Haven't you?”

“It is not as easy as you make it sound,” Wulfgar replied quietly.

“It is likely far more difficult than ever I could imagine,” the wizard said. For the first time, Wulfgar detected a bit of sympathy in his voice. “I know nothing of that which you have endured, nothing of the pains that have so weakened your heart. But I know who you were, and know who you now are, and I can say with more than a little confidence that you are better off walking into darkness and dying than trying to hide behind the embers of a smithy's hearth.

“Those are your choices,” the wizard finished. “Farewell, wherever you fare!” With that Robillard began waving his arms again, casting another spell.

Wulfgar, distracted and looking to the north, didn't notice until it was too late. He turned to see the multicolored bubbles already filling the air around the vanishing wizard. A sack appeared where the wizard had been standing, along with a large axelike bardiche. It was a rather unwieldy weapon, but one that resembled the great warhammer in design and style of fighting, at least, and one that could deal tremendous damage. He knew without even looking that the sack likely contained supplies for the road.

Wulfgar was alone, as much so as he had ever been, standing in the exact center of Luskan, and he remembered then that he was not supposed to be in this place. He was an outlaw in Luskan, or had been. He could only hope that the magistrates and the guards did not have so long a memory.

But which way to go, the barbarian wondered. He turned several circles. It was all too confusing, all too frightening, and Robillard's dire words haunted him with every turn.

Wulfgar of Icewind Dale exited Luskan's northern gate soon after, trudging off alone into the cold wilderness.

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

It was under the glare of one surprised and horrified expression after another that the friends made their way through the small village of Auckney and into the castle of Lord Feringal and Lady Meralda. Donbago, well enough to walk easily by that time, guided them in and warded away any who grabbed at weapons at the sight of the half-ogre, to say nothing of the dark elf.

Donbago talked them through a mob of soldiers led by a growling gnome guard at the door. The gnome put the others into efficient motion, helping Donbago scurry poor delirious Jeddith off to the healer and dragging the half-ogre down into the dungeons, beating the brute with every step.

The fierce gnome, Liam Woodgate, then led the five to an inner room and introduced them to an old, hawkish-looking man named Temigast.

“Drizzt Do'Urden,” Temigast echoed, nodding with recognition as he spoke the name. “The ranger of Ten-Towns, I have heard. And you, good dwarf, are you not the King of Mithral Hall?”

“Was once and will be again, if me friends here don't get me killed to death,” Bruenor replied.

“Might we meet with yer lord and lady?” Catti-brie asked. While Regis and Bruenor looked at her curiously, Drizzt, who also wanted to get a glimpse of this woman who had mothered the child Wulfgar was now raising as his own, smiled.

“Liam will show you to a place where you can properly clean and dress for your audience,” Steward Temigast explained. “When you are ready, the audience with the Lord and Lady of Auckney will be arranged.”

While Bruenor barely splashed some of the water over him, grumbling that he looked good enough for anyone, Drizzt and Regis thoroughly washed. In another room, Catti-brie not only took a most welcomed soapy bath, but then spent a long while trying on many of the gorgeous gowns that Lady Meralda had sent down to her.

Soon after, the four were in the grand audience hall of Castle Auck, standing before Lord Feringal, a man in his thirties with curly black hair and a thick, dark goatee, and Lady Meralda, younger and an undeniably beautiful woman, with raven hair and creamy skin and a smile that brightened the whole of the huge room.

And while the Lord of Auckney was scowling almost continually, Meralda's smile didn't dissipate for a moment.

“I suppose that you now desire a reward,” asked the third in attendance, a shrewish, heavyset woman seated to Feringal's left and just a bit behind, which, in the tradition of the region, marked her as Feringal's sister.

Behind the four road-weary companions, Steward Temigast cleared his throat.

“Ye thinking ye got enough gold for us to even notice?” Bruenor growled back at her.

“We have no need of coin,” Drizzt interjected, trying to keep things calm. Bruenor had just suffered a bath, after all, and that always put the already surly dwarf into an even more foul mood. “We came here merely to return Donbago and two wounded men to their homes, as well as to deliver the prisoner. We would ask, though, that if you garner any information from the brute that might concern a certain notorious pirate by the name of Sheila Kree, you would pass it along. It is Kree we are hunting.”

“Of course we will share with ye whatever we might learn,” the Lady Meralda replied, cutting short her husband, whatever he meant to say. “And more. Whatever ye're needing, we're owing.”

Drizzt didn't miss the scowl from the woman at the side, and he knew it to be both her general surliness and the somewhat common manner in which the Lady of Auckney spoke.

“Ye can stay the winter through, if ye so choose,” Meralda went on.

Feringal looked at her, at first with surprise, but then in agreement.

“We might find an empty house about the town for—” the woman behind started to say.

“We will put them up right here in the castle, Priscilla,” the Lady of Auckney declared.

“I hardly think—” Priscilla started to argue.

“In yer own room if I hear another word from ye,” Meralda said, and she threw a wink at the four friends.

“Feri!” Priscilla roared.

“Shut up, dear sister,” said Feringal, in an exasperated tone that showed the friends clearly that he often had to extend such sentiments his troublesome sister's way. “Do not embarrass us before our most distinguished guests—guests who rescued three of my loyal soldiers and avenged our losses at the hands of the beastly ogres.”

“Guests who've got tales to tell of faraway lands and dragon's hoards,” Meralda added with a gleam in her green eyes.

“Only the night, I fear,” said Drizzt. “Our road will be winding and long, no doubt. We are determined to find and punish the pirate Kree before the spring thaw—before she can put her ship back out into the safety of the open seas and bring more mischief to the waters off Luskan.”

Meralda's disappointment was obvious, but Feringal nodded, seeming to hardly care whether they stayed or left.

The Lord and Lady of Auckney put on a splendid feast that night in honor of the heroes, and Donbago was able to attend as well, bringing with him the welcomed news that both his brother and the other man were faring better and seemed as if they would recover.

They ate (Bruenor and Regis more than all the others combined!) and they laughed. The companions, with so many miles beneath their weathered and well-worn boots, told tales of faraway lands as Lady Meralda had desired.

Much later, Catti-brie managed to toss a wink and nod to Drizzt, guiding him into a small side room where they could be alone. They fell onto a couch, side by side, beneath a bright tapestry cheaply sketched but with rich colors.

“Ye think we should tell her about the babe?” Catti-brie asked, her hand settling on Drizzt's slender, strong forearm.

“That would only bring her pain, after the initial relief, I fear,” the drow replied. “One day, perhaps, but not now.”

“Oh, ye must join us!” Meralda interrupted, coming through the door to stand beside the pair. “King Bruenor is telling the best o' tales, one of a dark dragon that stole his kingdom.”

“One we're knowing all too well,” Catti-brie replied with a smile.

“But it would be impolite not to hear it again,” said Drizzt, rising. He took Catti-brie's hand and pulled her up, and the two started past Meralda.

“So do ye think ye’ll find him?” the Lady of Auckney asked as they walked by.

The pair stopped and turned as one to regard her.

“The other one of yer group,” Meralda explained. “The one who went to reclaim Mithral Hall with ye, by the dwarf's own words.” She paused and stared hard at both of them. “The one ye call Wulfgar.”

Drizzt and Catti-brie stood silent for a moment, the woman so obviously on the edge of her nerves here, biting her lip and looking to the drow for a cue.

“It is our hope to find him, and find him whole,” Drizzt answered quietly, trying not to involve the whole room in this conversation.

“I've an interest. .”

“We know all about it,” Catti-brie interjected.

Lady Meralda stood very straight, obviously fighting to keep herself from swaying.

“The child grows strong and safe,” Drizzt assured her.

“And what did they name her?”

“Colson.”

“Meralda sighed and steadied herself. A sadness showed in her green eyes, but she managed a smile a moment later. “Come,” she said quietly. “Let us go and hear the dwarf’s tale.”

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

“The prisoner will be hung as soon as we find a rope strong enough to hold it,” Lord Feringal assured the group early the next morning, when they had gathered at the foyer of Castle Auckney, preparing to leave.

“The beast fancies itself a strong one,” the man went on with a snicker. “But how it whimpered last night!”

Drizzt winced, as did Catti-brie and Regis, but Bruenor merely nodded.

“The brute was indeed part of a larger band,” Feringal explained “Perhaps pirates, though the stupid creature didn't seem to understand the word.”

“Perhaps Kree,” the drow said. “Do you have any idea where the raiding band came from?”

“South coast of the mountain spur,” Feringal answered. “We could not get the ogre to admit it openly, but we believe it knows something of Minster Gorge. It will be a difficult hike in winter, with the passes likely full of snow.”

“Difficult, but one worth taking,” Drizzt replied.

Lady Meralda entered the room then, seeming no less beautiful in the early morning light than she had the night before. She regarded Drizzt and Catti-brie each in turn, offering a grateful smile.

And both the woman and the drow noted, too, that Feringal couldn't hide his scowl at the silent exchange. The wounds here were still too raw, and Feringal had obviously recognized Wulfgar's name from Bruenor's tale the night before, and that recognition had pained him greatly.

No doubt, the frustrated Lord of Auckney had taken that anger out on the half-ogre prisoner.

The four friends left Castle Auckney and the kingdom that same morning, though clouds had gathered in the east. There was no fanfare, no cheers for the departing heroes.

Just Lady Meralda, standing atop the parapet between the gate towers, wrapped in a heavy fur coat, watching them go.

Even from that distance, Drizzt and Catti-brie could see the mixture of pain and hope in her green eyes.