The Crystal Shard

19. Grim Tidings

Drizzt padded through the tunnels and past the bodies of the dead giants, slowing only to grab another hunk of mutton from the large table. He crossed through the support beams and started down the dim hallway, tempering his eagerness with common sense. If the giants had hidden their treasure down here, the chamber holding it might be behind a concealed door, or there might even be some beast, though not likely another giant, since it would have joined in the fighting.

The tunnel was quite long, running straight northward, and Drizzt figured that he was now moving underneath the mass of Kelvin’s Cairn. He had passed the last torch, but he was glad for the darkness. He had lived the majority of his life traveling tunnels in the lightless subterranean world of his people, and his large eyes guided him in absolute darkness more accurately than in areas of light.

The hallway ended abruptly at a barred, iron-bound door, its metal holding bar locked into place by a large chain and padlock. Drizzt felt a pang of guilt for leaving Wulfgar behind. The drow had two weaknesses; foremost was the thrill of battle, but a close second the tingle of uncovering the booty of his vanquished foes. It wasn’t the gold or gems that lured Drizzt; he didn’t care for wealth and rarely even kept any of the treasures he had won. It was simply the thrill of viewing them for the first time, the excitement of sifting through them and, perhaps, discovering some incredible artifact that had been lost to knowledge in ages past, or maybe the spellbook of an ancient and powerful mage.

His guilt feelings flew away as he pulled a small lockpick from his beltpouch. He had never been formally trained in the thieving arts, but he was as agile and coordinated as any master burglar. With his sensitive fingers and acute hearing, he wasn’t particularly challenged by the clumsy lock; in a matter of seconds, it fell open. Drizzt listened carefully for any sounds behind the door. Hearing none, he gently lifted the large bar and set it aside. Listening one last time, he drew one of his scimitars, held his breath in anticipation, and pushed in the door.

His breath came back out with a disappointed sigh. The room beyond glowed with the waning light of two torches. It was small and empty, except for a large, metal-rimmed mirror standing in its center. Drizzt dodged out of the mirror’s path, well aware of some of the strange magical properties these items had been known to exhibit, and moved in to examine it more closely.

It was about half the height of a man but propped up to eye level by an intricately worked iron stand. That it was lined in silver and in such an out-of-the-way chamber led Drizzt to believe that there was something more here than an ordinary mirror. Yet his scrutinizing inspection revealed no arcane runes or markings of any kind that hinted at its properties.

Able to discover nothing unusual about the piece, Drizzt carelessly stepped in front of the glass. Suddenly a pinkish mist began to swirl within the mirror, giving the appearance of a three-dimensional space trapped within the flatness of the glass. Drizzt jumped to the side, more curious than afraid, and watched the growing spectacle.

The mist thickened and puffed as though fed by some hidden fire. Then its center mushroomed out and opened into a clear image of a man’s face, a gaunt, hollowed visage painted in the tradition of some of the southern cities.

“Why do you bother me?” the face asked at the empty room before the mirror. Drizzt took another step to the side, further away from the apparition’s line of sight. He considered confronting the mysterious mage, but figured that his friends had too much at stake for him to take such a reckless chance.

“Stand before me, Biggrin!” commanded the image. It waited for several seconds, sneering impatiently, and growing increasingly tense. “When I discover which of you idiots inadvertently summoned me, I shall turn you into a coney and put you in a pit of wolves!” the image screamed wildly. The mirror flashed suddenly and returned to normal.

Drizzt scratched his chin and wondered if there was anything more he could do or discover here. He decided that the risks were simply too great at this time.

When Drizzt returned through the lair, he found Wulfgar sitting with Guenhwyvar in the main passage just a few yards from the closed and barred front doors. The barbarian stroked the cat’s muscled shoulders and neck.

“I see that Guenhwyvar has won your friendship,” Drizzt said as he approached.

Wulfgar smiled. “A fine ally,” he said, giving the animal a playful shake. “And a true warrior!” He started to rise but was thrown violently back to the floor.

An explosion rocked the lair as a ballista bolt slammed into the heavy doors, splintering their wooden bar and blasting them in. One of the doors broke cleanly in half and the other’s top hinge tore away, leaving the door hanging awkwardly by its twisted bottom hinge.

Drizzt drew his scimitar and stood protectively over Wulfgar as the barbarian tried to regain his balance.

Abruptly a bearded fighter leaped onto the hanging door, a circular shield, its standard a mug of foaming ale, slung over one arm and a notched and bloodstained battle-ax poised in the other. “Come out and play, giants!” Bruenor called, banging his shield with his axe—as if his clan hadn’t already made enough noise to rouse the lair!

“Rest easy, wild dwarf,” Drizzt laughed. “The verbeeg are all dead.”

Bruenor spotted his friends and hopped down into the tunnel, soon followed by the rest of the rowdy clan. “All dead!” the dwarf cried. “Damn ye, elf, I knew ye’d keep all the play to yerself!”

“What about the reinforcements?” Wulfgar asked.

Bruenor chuckled wickedly. “Some faith, will ye, boy? They’re lumped in a common hole, though buryin’s too good for ‘em, I say! Only one’s alive, a miserable orc who’ll breath only as long as ‘e wags ‘is stinkin’ tongue!”

After the episode with the mirror, Drizzt was more than a little interested in interrogating the orc. “Have you questioned him?” he asked Bruenor.

“Ah, he’s mum to now,” the dwarf replied. “But I’ve a few things should make ‘im squeal!”

Drizzt knew better. Orcs were not loyal creatures, but under the enchantment of a mage, torturing techniques weren’t usually much good. They needed something to counteract the magic, and Drizzt had a notion of what might work. “Go for Regis,” he instructed Bruenor. “The halfling can make the orc tell us everything we want to know.”

“Torturin’d be more fun,” lamented Bruenor, but he, too, understood the wisdom of the drow’s suggestion. He was more than a bit curious—and worried—about so many giants working together. And now with orcs beside them…

Drizzt and Wulfgar sat in the far corner of the small chamber, as far from Bruenor and the other two dwarves as they could get. One of Bruenor’s troops had returned from Lonelywood with Regis that same night, and though they were all exhausted from marching and fighting, they were too anxious about the impending information to sleep. Regis and the captive orc had moved into the adjoining room for a private conversation as soon as the halfling had gotten the prisoner firmly under his control with his ruby pendant.

Bruenor busied himself preparing a new recipe—giant-brain stew—boiling the wretched, foul-smelling ingredients right in a hollowed-out verbeeg skull. “Use yer heads!” he had argued in response to Drizzt and Wulfgar’s expressions of horror and disgust. “A barnyard goose tastes better ‘an a wild one cause it don’t use its muscles. The same oughta hold true for a giant’s brains!”

Drizzt and Wulfgar hadn’t seen things quite the same way. They didn’t want to leave the area and miss anything that Regis might have to say, though, so they huddled in the farthest corner of the room, carrying on a private conversation.

Bruenor strained to hear them, for they were talking of something that he had more than a passing interest in.

“Half for the last one in the kitchen,” Wulfgar insisted, “and half for the cat.”

“And you only get half for the one at the chasm,” Drizzt retorted.

“Agreed,” said Wulfgar. “And we split the one in the hall and Biggrin down the middle?”

Drizzt nodded. “Then with all halves and shared kills added up, it’s ten and one-half for me and ten and one-half for you.”

“And four for the cat,” added Wulfgar.

“Four for the cat,” Drizzt echoed. “Well fought, friend. You’ve held your own up to now, but I’ve a feeling that we have a lot more fighting before us, and my greater experience will win out in the end!”

“You grow old, good elf,” Wulfgar teased, leaning back against the wall, the whiteness of a confident grin showing through his blond beard. “We shall see. We shall see.”

Bruenor, too, was smiling, both at the good-natured competition between his friends and at his continued pride in the young barbarian. Wulfgar was doing well to keep pace with a skilled veteran like Drizzt Do’Urden.

Regis emerged from the room, and the gray pall upon his usually jovial face deadened the lighthearted atmosphere. “We are in trouble,” the halfling said grimly.

“Where’s the orc?” Bruenor demanded as he pulled his axe from his belt, misunderstanding the halfling’s meaning.

“In there. He’s all right,” Regis replied. The orc had been happy to tell its new-found friend everything about Akar Kessell’s plans to invade Ten-Towns and the size of the gathering forces. Regis visibly trembled as he told his friends the news.

“All of the orc and goblin tribes and verbeeg clans of this region of the Spine of the World are banding together under a sorcerer named Akar Kessell,” the halfling began. Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other, recognizing Kessell’s name. The barbarian had thought Akar Kessell to be a huge frost giant when the verbeeg had spoken of him, but Drizzt had suspected differently, especially after the incident at the mirror.

“They plan to attack Ten-Towns,” Regis continued. “And even the barbarians, led by some mighty, one-eyed leader, have joined their ranks!”

Wulfgar’s face reddened in anger and embarrassment. His people fighting beside orcs! He knew the leader that Regis spoke of, for Wulfgar was of the Tribe of the Elk and had even once carried the tribe’s standard as Heafstaag’s herald. Drizzt painfully recalled the one-eyed king, too. He put a comforting hand on Wulfgar’s shoulder.

“Go to Bryn Shander,” the drow told Bruenor and Regis. “The people must prepare.”

Regis winced at the futility. If the orc’s estimation of the assembling army had been correct, all of Ten-Towns joined together could not withstand the assault. The halfling dropped his head and mouthed silently, not wanting to alarm his friends any more than was necessary, “We have to leave!”

Though Bruenor and Regis were able to convince Cassius of the urgency and importance of their news, it took several days to round up the other spokesmen for council. It was the height of knucklehead season, late summer, and the last push was on to land a big catch for the final trading caravan to Luskan. The spokesmen of the nine fishing villages understood their responsibilities to their community, but they were reluctant to leave the lakes even for a single day.

And so, with the exceptions of Cassius of Bryn Shander, Muldoon, the new spokesman from Lonelywood, who looked up to Regis as the hero of his town, Glensather of Easthaven, the community ever-willing to join in for the good of Ten-Towns, and Agorwal of Termalaine who held fierce loyalty to Bruenor, the mood of the council was not very receptive.

Kemp, still bearing a grudge against Bruenor for the incident over Drizzt after the Battle of Bryn Shander, was especially disruptive. Before Cassius even had the opportunity to present the Formalities of Order, the gruff spokesman from Targos leaped up from his seat and slammed his fists down on the table. “Damn the formal readings and be on with it!” Kemp growled. “By what right do you order us in from the lakes, Cassius? Even as we sit around this table, the merchants in Luskan are preparing for their journey!”

“We have news of an invasion, Spokesman Kemp,” Cassius answered calmly, understanding the fisherman’s anger. “I would not have summoned you, any of you, at this time of the season if it were not urgent.”

“Then the rumors are true,” Kemp sneered. “An invasion, you say? Bah! I see beyond this sham of a council!”

He turned on Agorwal. The fighting between Targos and Termalaine had escalated in the past few weeks, despite Cassius’s efforts to diffuse it and bring the principles of the warring towns to the bargaining table. Agorwal had agreed to a meeting, but Kemp was steadfastly against it. And so, with suspicions running high, the timing of this urgent council could not have been worse.

“This is a pitiful attempt indeed!” Kemp roared. He looked around at his fellow spokesmen. “A pitiful effort by Agorwal and his scheming supporters to bring about a favorable settlement for Termalaine in their dispute with Targos!”

Incited by the aura of suspicion that Kemp had infused, Schermont, the new spokesman from Caer-Konig, pointed an accusing finger at Jensin Brent of Caer-Dineval. “What part have you played in this treachery?” he spat at his bitter rival. Schermont had come into his position after the first spokesman from Caer-Konig had been killed on the waters of Lac Dinneshere in a battle with a Dineval boat. Dorim Lugar had been Schermont’s friend and leader, and the new spokesman’s policies toward hated Caer-Dineval were even more iron-handed than those of his predecessor.

Regis and Bruenor sat back quietly in helpless dismay through all of the initial bickering. Finally Cassius slammed his gavel down, snapping its handle in two, and quieting the others long enough to make a point.

“A few moments of silence!” he commanded. “Hold your venomous words and listen to the messenger of grim tidings!” The others fell back to their seats and remained silent, but Cassius feared that the damage had already been done.

He turned the floor over to Regis.

Honestly terrified by what he had learned from the captive orc, Regis passionately told of the battle his friends had won over the verbeeg lair and on the grass of Daledrop. “And Bruenor has captured one of the orcs that was escorting the giants,” he said emphatically. Some of the spokesmen sucked in their breath at the notion of such creatures banding together, but Kemp and some of the others, ever suspicious of the more immediate threats of their rivals, and already decided on the true purpose of the meeting, remained unconvinced.

“The orc told us,” Regis continued grimly, “of the coming of a powerful wizard, Akar Kessell, and his vast host of goblins and giants! They mean to conquer Ten-Towns!” He thought that his dramatics would prove effective.

But Kemp was outraged. “On the word of an orc, Cassius? You summoned us in from the lakes at this critical time on the threat of a stinking orc?”

“The halfling’s tale is not an uncommon one,” Schermont added. “All of us have heard a captured goblin wag its tongue in any direction it could think of to save its worthless head.”

“Or perhaps you had other motives,” Kemp hissed, again eyeing Agorwal.

Cassius, though he truly believed the grim tidings, sat back in his chair and said nothing. With tensions on the lakes as high as they were, and the final trading fair of a particularly fruitless fishing season fast approaching, he had suspected that this would occur. He looked resignedly at Bruenor and Regis and shrugged as once again the council degenerated into a shouting match.

Amidst the ensuing commotion, Regis slipped the ruby pendant out from under his waistcoat and nudged Bruenor.

They looked at it and each other in disappointment; they had hoped that the magical gem wouldn’t be needed.

Regis pounded his gavel in a call for the floor and was granted it by Cassius. Then, as he had done five years previous, he hopped up on the table and walked toward his chief antagonist.

But this time the result wasn’t what Regis had expected. Kemp had spent many hours over the last five years reflecting on that council before the barbarian invasion. The spokesman was glad of the final outcome of that whole situation, and, in truth, realized that he and all of Ten-Towns were indebted to the halfling for making them heed his warning. Yet it bothered Kemp more than a little that his initial stance had been so easily swayed. He was a brawling type whose first love, even above fishing, was battle, but his mind was keen and always-alert to danger. He had observed Regis several times over the last few years and had listened intently to tales of the halfling’s prowess in the art of persuasion. As Regis approached, the burly spokesman averted his eyes.

“Be gone trickster!” he growled, shoving his chair defensively back from the table. “You seem to have a strange way of convincing people of your point of view, but I’ll not fall under your spell this time!” He addressed the other spokesmen. “Ware the halfling! He has some magic about him, be sure!”

Kemp understood that he would have no way of proving his claims, but he also realized that he wouldn’t have to. Regis looked about, flustered and unable to even answer the spokesman’s accusations. Even Agorwal, though the spokesman from Termalaine tactfully tried to hide the fact, would no longer look Regis straight in the eye.

“Sit down, trickster!” Kemp taunted. “Your magic’s no good once we’re on to you!”

Bruenor, silent up to now, suddenly leaped up, his face contorted with rage. “Is this, too, a trick, dog of Targos?” the dwarf challenged. He pulled a sack from his belt and rolled its contents, a severed verbeeg head, down the table toward Kemp. Several of the spokesmen jumped back in horror, but Kemp remained unshaken.

“We have dealt with rogue giants many times before,” the spokesman replied coolly.

“Rogues?” Bruenor echoed incredulously. “Two score o’ the beasts we cut down, orcs and ogres besides!”

“A passing band,” Kemp explained evenly, stubbornly. “And all dead, so you have said. Why, then, does this become a matter for the council? If it is accolades you desire, mighty dwarf, then you shall have them!” His voice dripped with venom, and he watched Bruenor’s reddening face with deep pleasure. “Perhaps Cassius could make a speech in your honor before all of the people of Ten-Towns.” Bruenor slammed his fists onto the table, eyeing all of the men about him in an open threat to anyone who would continue Kemp’s insults. “We have come before ye to help ye save yer homes an’ yer kin!” he roared. “Might be that ye believe us and ye’ll do something to survive. Or might be that ye’ll hear the words o’ the dog o’ Targos and ye’ll do nothin’. Either way, I’ve had enough o’ ye! Do as ye will, and may yer gods show ye favor!” He turned and stalked out of the room.

Bruenor’s grim tone brought many of the spokesmen to realize that the threat was simply too grave to be passed off as the deception of a desperate captive, or even as a more insidious plan by Cassius and some conspirators. Yet Kemp, proud and arrogant, and certain that Agorwal and his non-human friends, the halfling and the dwarf, were using the facade of an invasion to gain some advantage over the superior city of Targos, would not budge. Second only to Cassius in all of Ten-Towns, Kemp’s opinion carried great weight, especially to the people of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, who, in light of Bryn Shander’s unshakable neutrality in their struggle, sought the favor of Targos.

Enough spokesmen remained suspicious of their rivals and were willing to accept Kemp’s explanation to prevent Cassius from bringing the council to decisive action. The lines were soon clearly drawn.

Regis watched the spectacle as the opposing sides volleyed back and forth, but the halfling’s own credibility had been destroyed, and he had no impact on the rest of the meeting. In the end, little was decided. The most that Agorwal, Glensather, and Muldoon could squeeze out of public declaration that, “A general warning should go out to every household in Ten-Towns. Let the people know of our grim tidings, and let them be assured that I shall make room within the walls of Bryn Shander for every person who so desires our protection.”

Regis eyed the divided spokesmen. Without unity, the halfling wondered how much protection even the high walls of Bryn Shander could offer.

20. A Slave to No Man

“No arguin’,” Bruenor snarled, though none of his four friends standing beside him on the rocky slopes of the climb had any intention of speaking against the decision. In their foolish pettiness and pride, the majority of the spokesmen had doomed their communities to almost certain destruction and neither Drizzt, Wulfgar, Catti-brie, nor Regis expected the dwarves to join in such a hopeless cause.

“When will you block the mines?” Drizzt asked. The drow hadn’t yet decided if he would join the dwarves in the self-imposed prison of their caves, but he had planned to act as scout to Bryn Shander at least until Akar Kessell’s army moved into the region.

“The preparin’ll begin tonight,” said Bruenor. “But once they’re in place, we’ve no rush. We’ll let the stinkin’ orcs come right down our throats afore we drop the tunnels, an’ take ‘em in the fall! Are ye to stay with us, then?”

Drizzt shrugged his shoulders. Though he was still shunned by most of the people of Ten-Towns, the drow felt a strong sense of loyalty and wasn’t sure that he could turn his back on his chosen home, even under suicidal circumstances. And Drizzt had little desire to return to the lightless underworld, even in the hospitable caverns of the dwarven town.

“And what’s yer decision?” Bruenor asked Regis.

The halfling, too, was torn between his instincts for survival and his loyalty to Ten-Towns. With the help of the ruby, he had lived well during the last years on Maer Dualdon. But now his cover had been stripped away. After the rumors flowing out of the council, everyone in Bryn Shander whispered about the halfling’s magical influence. It wouldn’t be long before all of the communities heard about Kemp’s accusations and avoided, if not openly shunned, him. Either way, Regis knew that his days of easy living in Lonelywood were nearing an end.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he said to Bruenor. “I’ll come in before Kessell arrives.”

“Good,” replied the dwarf. “Ye’ll get a room near the boy, so none o’ the dwarves has to hear yer bellyachin’!” He flashed Drizzt a good-natured wink.

“Nay,” said Wulfgar. Bruenor looked at him curiously, misunderstanding the barbarian’s intentions and wondering why he objected to having Regis beside him.

“Watch yerself, boy,” the dwarf teased. “If ye’re thinkin’ ye’re to be stayin’ beside the girl, then be thinkin’ about duckin’ yer head from the swing o’ me axe!”

Catti-brie chuckled softly, embarrassed yet truly touched.

“Your mines are not the place for me,” Wulfgar said suddenly. “My life is on the plain.”

“Ye forget that yer life is mine for choosin’!” Bruenor retorted. In truth, his yelling was more the short temper of a father than the outrage of a master.

Wulfgar rose before the dwarf, proud and stern. Drizzt understood and was pleased. Now Bruenor also had an idea of what the barbarian was getting at, and though he hated the thought of separation, he felt more pride in the boy at that moment than ever before.

“My time of indenture is not ended,” Wulfgar began, “yet I have repaid my debt to you, my friend, and to your people many times over.

“I am Wulfgar!” he proudly proclaimed, his jaw firm and his muscles tightened with tension. “No more a boy but a man! A free man!”

Bruenor felt the moisture rimming his eves. For the first time he did nothing to conceal it. He walked out before the huge barbarian and returned Wulfgar’s unyielding stare with a look of sincere admiration.

“So ye are,” Bruenor observed. “Then might I ask ye, on yer choice, if ye’ll stay and fight beside me?”

Wulfgar shook his head. “My debt to you is paid, in truth. And forever I shall name you as my friend…dear friend. But I have another debt yet to pay.” He looked out to Kelvin’s Cairn and beyond. The countless stars shone clearly over the tundra, making the open plain seem even more vast and empty. “Out there, in another world.”

Catti-brie sighed and shuffled uncomfortably. She alone fully understood the vague picture that Wulfgar was painting. And she wasn’t pleased with his choice.

Bruenor nodded, respecting the barbarian’s decision. “Go then, and live well,” he said, straining to hold his breaking voice even as he moved to the rocky trail. He paused for one last moment and looked back at the tall, young barbarian. “Yer a man, there’s none to argue that,” he said over his shoulder. “But don’t ye never forget that ever ye’ll be me boy!”

“I shan’t,” Wulfgar whispered softly as Bruenor disappeared into the tunnel. He felt Drizzt’s hand on his shoulder.

“When do you leave?” the drow asked.

“Tonight,” Wulfgar replied. “These grim days offer no leisure.”

“And where do you go?” Catti-brie asked, already knowing the truth, and also the vague answer that Wulfgar would give.

The barbarian turned his misty gaze back out to the plain. “Home.”

He started back down the trail, Regis following. But Catti-brie waited behind and motioned for Drizzt to do likewise.

“Say your farewells to Wulfgar this night,” she told the drow. “I do not believe that he shall ever return.”

“Home is a place for him to choose,” Drizzt replied, guessing that the news about Heafstaag joining Kessell had played a part in Wulfgar’s decision. He watched the departing barbarian with respect. “He has some private matters to attend to.”

“More than you know,” Catti-brie said. Drizzt looked at her curiously. “Wulfgar has an adventure in mind,” she explained. She hadn’t meant to break her trust with Wulfgar, but figured that Drizzt Do’Urden, above anyone else, might be able to find a way to help. “One that I believe has been put upon him before he is ready.”

“Matters of the tribe are his own business,” Drizzt said, guessing what the girl was suggesting. “The barbarians have their own ways and do not welcome outsiders.”

“Of the tribes, I agree,” said Catti-brie. “Yet Wulfgar’s path, unless I am mistaken, does not lead directly home. He has something else ahead of him, an adventure that he has often hinted at but never fully explained. I only know that it involves great danger and a vow that even he fears is above his ability to fulfil alone.”

Drizzt looked over the starry plain and considered the girl’s words. He knew Catti-brie to be shrewd and observant beyond her years. He did not doubt her guesses.

The stars twinkled above the cool night, the celestial dome engulfing the flat rim of the horizon. A horizon as yet unmarked by the fires of an advancing army, Drizzt noted.

Perhaps he had time.

Although Cassius’s proclamation reached even the most remote of the towns within two days, few groups of refugees came down the roads to Bryn Shander. Cassius had fully expected this, or he never would have made the bold offer of sheltering all who would come. Bryn Shander was a fair-sized city, and her present population was not as large as it had once been. There were many vacant buildings within the walls, and an entire section of the city, reserved for visiting merchant caravans, lay empty at the present time. However, if even half of the people of the other nine communities sought refuge, Cassius would be hard-pressed to honor his pledge.

The spokesman wasn’t worried. The people of Ten-Towns were a hardy folk and lived under the threat of a goblin invasion every day. Cassius knew that it would take more than an abstract warning to make them leave their homes. And with the allegiance between the towns at such a low point, few of the town leaders would take any action at all to convince their people to flee.

As it turned out, Glensather and Agorwal were the only spokesmen to arrive at the gates of Bryn Shander. Nearly all of Easthaven stood behind their leader, but Agorwal had less than half of the people of Termalaine behind him. The rumors from the arrogant city of Targos, itself nearly as well-defended as Bryn Shander, made it clear that none of its people would leave. Many of Termalaine’s fishermen, fearing the economic advantage that Targos would gain over them, had refused to give up the most lucrative month of the fishing season.

Such was the case with Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval. Neither of the bitter enemies dared give any edge to the other, and not a single person from either city fled to Bryn Shander. To the people of these embattled communities, the orcs were but a distant threat that would have to be dealt with if it ever materialized, but the fighting with their immediate neighbors was brutally real and evident in all of their daily routines.

On the western outskirts, the town of Bremen remained fiercely independent of the other communities, viewing Cassius’s offer as a feeble attempt by Bryn Shander to reaffirm its position of leadership. Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole in the south had no intention of hiding in the walled city or of sending any troops to aid in the fighting. These two towns on Redwaters, smallest of the lakes and poorest in terms of knuckleheads, could not afford any time away from the boats. They had heeded the call for unity five years previous under the threat of a barbarian invasion, and though they had suffered the worst losses of all the towns in the battle, they had gained the least.

Several groups filtered in from Lonelywood, but many of the folk of the northernmost town preferred to stay out of the way. Their hero had lost face, and even Muldoon now viewed the halfling in a different light and passed the warning of invasion off as a misunderstanding, or perhaps even a calculated hoax.

The greater good of the region had fallen beneath the lesser personal gains of stubborn pride, with most of the people of Ten-Towns confusing unity with dependence.

Regis returned to Bryn Shander to make some personal arrangements on the morning after Wulfgar departed. He had a friend coming from Lonelywood with his prized belongings, so he remained in the city, watching in dismay as the days drifted by without any real preparations being made to meet the coming army. Even after the council, the halfling had held out some hope that the people would realize the impending doom and band together, but now he came to believe that the dwarves’ decision to abandon Ten-Towns and lock themselves into their mines was the only option they had if they wished to survive.

Regis partially blamed himself for the coming tragedy, convinced that he had gotten careless. When he and Drizzt had concocted plans to use political situations and the power of the ruby to force the towns into unity against the barbarians, they had spent many hours predicting the initial responses of the spokesmen and weighing the worth of each town’s alliance. This time, though, Regis had placed more faith in the people of Ten-Towns and in the stone, figuring that he could simply employ its power to sway any of the few remaining doubters of the severity of the situation.

Yet Regis could not sustain his own guilt as he heard the arrogant and mistrusting responses coming in from the towns. Why should he have to trick the people into defending themselves? If they were stupid enough to let their own pride bring about their destruction, then what responsibility, or even what right, did he have to rescue them?

“You get what you deserve!” the halfling said aloud, smiling in spite of himself when he realized that he was beginning to sound as cynical as Bruenor.

But callousness was his only protection against such a helpless situation. He hoped that his friend from Lonelywood would arrive soon.

His sanctuary lay underground.

Akar Kessell sat on the crystal throne in the Hall of Scrying, the third level of Cryshal-Tirith, his fingers tapping nervously on the arm of the great chair as he stared intently at the dark mirror before him. Biggrin was long overdue with the report on the reinforcement caravan. The last summons the wizard had received from the lair had been suspicious, with no one on the end to greet his reply. Now the mirror in the lair revealed only blackness, resisting all of the wizard’s attempts to scry out the room.

If the mirror had been broken, Kessell would have been able to sense the shift in his visions. But this was more mysterious, for something he could not understand was blocking his distance sight. The dilemma unnerved him, made him think that he had been deceived or discovered. His fingers continued to rap nervously.

“Perhaps it is time to make a decision,” Errtu, in its customary place at the side of the wizard’s throne, suggested.

“We have not yet reached our fullest strength!” Kessell retorted. “Many goblin tribes and a large clan of giants have not come in. And the barbarians are not yet ready.”

“The troops thirst for battle,” Errtu pointed out. “They fight with each other—you may find that your army will soon fall apart around you!”

Kessell agreed that holding so many goblin tribes together for long was a risky and dangerous proposition. Perhaps it would be better if they marched at once. But still, the wizard wanted to be certain. He wanted his forces at their strongest.

“Where is Biggrin?” Kessell wailed. “Why hasn’t he answered my summons?”

“What preparations are the humans now making?” Errtu asked abruptly.

But Kessell was not listening. He rubbed the sweat from his face. Maybe the shard and the demon had been right about sending the less-conspicuous barbarians to the lair. What must the fishermen be thinking if they found such an unusual combination of monsters lairing in their area? How much had they guessed?

Errtu noted Kessell’s discomfort with grim satisfaction. The demon and the shard had been pushing Kessell to strike much earlier, as soon as Biggrin’s messages had stopped coming in. But the cowardly wizard, needing more assurance that his numbers were overwhelming, had continued to delay.

“Shall I go to the troops?” Errtu asked, confident that Kessell’s resistance was gone.

“Send runners to the barbarians and to the tribes that have not yet joined us,” Kessell instructed. “Tell them that to fight beside us is to join in the feast of victory! But those who do not fight beside us shall fall before us! Tomorrow we march!”

Errtu rushed from the tower without delay, and soon cheers for the onset of war echoed throughout the huge encampment. Goblins and giants raced excitedly about, breaking down tents and packing supplies. They had anticipated this moment for long weeks, and now they wasted no tine in making the final preparations.

That same night, the vast army of Akar Kessell pulled up its camp and began its long march toward Ten-Towns.

Back in the routed verbeeg lair, the scrying mirror sat unmoved and unbroken, securely covered by the heavy blanket that Drizzt Do’Urden had thrown over it.

Epilogue

He ran under the bright sun of day; he ran under the dim stars of the night, ever with the east wind in his face. His long legs and great strides carried him tirelessly, a mere speck of movement in the empty plain. For days Wulfgar pushed himself to the absolute limits of his endurance, even hunting and eating on the run, stopping only when exhaustion felled him in his tracks.

Far to the south of him, rolling out of the Spine of the World like a toxic cloud of foul-smelling vapors, came the goblin and giant forces of Akar Kessell. With minds warped by the willpower of the crystal shard, they wanted only to kill, only to destroy. Only to please Akar Kessell.

Three days out from the dwarven valley, the barbarian came across the jumbled tracks of many warriors all leading toward a common destination. He was glad that he was able to find his people so easily, but the presence of so many tracks told him that the tribes were gathering, a fact that only emphasized the urgency of his mission. Spurred by necessity, he charged onward.

It wasn’t fatigue but solitude that was Wulfgar’s greatest enemy. He fought hard to keep his thoughts on the past during the long hours, recalling his vow to his dead father and contemplating the possibilities of his victories. He avoided any thought of his present path, though, understanding well that the sheer desperation of his plan might well destroy his resolve.

Yet this was his only chance. He was not of noble blood, and he had no Rights of Challenge against Heafstaag. Even if he defeated the chosen king, none of his people would recognize him as their leader. The only way that one such as he could legitimitize a claim to tribal kingship was through an act of heroic proportions.

He bounded on, toward the same goal that had lured many would-be kings before him to their deaths. And in the shadows behind him, cruising with the graceful ease that marked his race, came Drizzt Do’Urden.

Ever eastward, toward the Reghed Glacier and a place called Evermelt.

Toward the lair of Ingeloakastimizilian, the white dragon the barbarians simply called “Icingdeath.”