The ranger ran with the wind in his ears, that constant humming. It had shifted more from the north now, off the glaciers and the great bergs of the Sea of Moving Ice, as the season drifted away from summer, through the short fall and into the long and dark winter.
Drizzt knew this change on the tundra as well as any. He had lived in Icewind Dale for just a decade, but in that time he had come to know well the land and its ways. He could tell by the texture of the ground exactly what time of year it was to within a ten-day. Now the ground was hardening once more, though there remained a bit of sliding under his moving feet, a subtle hint of mud below the dry surface, the last remnant of the short summer.
The ranger kept his cloak tight about his neck, warding off the chilly breeze. Though he was bundled, and though he could not hear much above the incessant moan of the wind, the drow was alert, always alert. Creatures venturing out onto the open plain of Icewind Dale who were not careful did not survive for long. Drizzt noted tracks of tundra yeti in several places. He also found one group of footprints close together, moving side by side, the way a goblin band might travel. He could read those prints, where they had come from and where they were going, and he had not come out from Kelvin’s Cairn for any fight. He took special note of them now simply to avoid the creatures who had made them.
Soon Drizzt found the tracks he desired, two sets of prints from soft boots, man-sized, traveling slowly, as a hunter would stalk. He noted that the deepest depression by far was near the ball of the foot. Barbarians walked in a toe-heel manner, not the heel-toe stride used by most of the peoples of the Realms. There could be no doubt now for the ranger. He had ventured near to the barbarian encampment the night before, meaning to go in and speak with Revjak and Berkthgar. Listening secretly from the darkness, however, the drow had discovered that Berkthgar intended to go out on a hunt the next day, alone with Revjak’s son.
That news unsettled Drizzt at first-did Berkthgar mean to indirectly strike a blow at Revjak and kill the boy?
Drizzt had quickly dismissed that silly notion; he knew Berkthgar. For all their differences, the man was honorable and no murderer. More likely, Drizzt reasoned, Berkthgar was trying to win over the trust of Revjak’s son, strengthening his base of power within the tribe.
Drizzt had stayed out of the encampment all the night, in the darkness, undetected. He had moved safely away before the dawn and had subsequently circled far to the north.
Now he had found the tracks, two men, side by side. They were an hour ahead of him, but moving as hunters, and so Drizzt was confident that he would find them in but a few minutes.
The ranger slowed his pace a moment later when he found that the tracks split, the smaller set going off to the west, the larger continuing straight north. Drizzt followed the larger, figuring them to be Berkthgar’s, and a few minutes later, he spotted the giant barbarian, kneeling on the tundra, shielding his eyes and peering hard to the north and west.
Drizzt slowed and moved cautiously. He discovered that he was nervous at the sight of the imposing man. Drizzt and Berkthgar had argued many times in the past, usually when Drizzt was serving Bruenor as liaison to Settlestone, where Berkthgar ruled. This time was different, Drizzt realized. Berkthgar was back home now, needing nothing from Bruenor, and that might make the man more dangerous.
Drizzt had to find out. That was why he had come out from Kelvin’s Cairn in the first place. He moved silently, step by step, until he was within a few yards of the still-kneeling, apparently oblivious barbarian.
“My greetings, Berkthgar,” the ranger said. His sudden voice did not appear to startle the barbarian, and Drizzt believed that Berkthgar, so at home on the tundra, had sensed his approach.
Berkthgar rose slowly and turned to face the drow.
Drizzt looked to the west, to a speck on the distant tundra. “Your hunting partner?” he asked.
“Revjak’s son, Kierstaad by name,” Berkthgar replied. “A fine boy.”
“And what of Revjak?” Drizzt asked.
Berkthgar paused a moment, jaw firm. “It was whispered that you had returned to the dale,” he said.
“Is that a good thing in the eyes of Berkthgar?”
“No,” came the simple reply. “The tundra is wide, drow. Wide enough so that we will not have to meet again.” Berkthgar began to turn away, as if that was all that had to be said, but Drizzt wasn’t ready to let things go just yet.
“Why would you desire that?” Drizzt asked innocently, trying to push Berkthgar into playing his hand openly. Drizzt wanted to know just how far the barbarians were moving away from the dwarves and the folk of Ten-Towns. Were they to become invisible partners sharing the tundra, or, as they once had been, sworn enemies?
“Revjak calls me friend,” Drizzt went on. “When I left the dale those years ago, I named Revjak among those I would truly miss.”
“Revjak is an old man,” Berkthgar said evenly.
“Revjak speaks for the tribe.”
“No!” Berkthgar’s response came fast and sharp. Then he quickly calmed and his smile told Drizzt that the denial was true. “No more does Revjak speak for the tribe,” Berkthgar went on.
“Berkthgar, then?” Drizzt asked.
The huge barbarian nodded, smiling still. “I have returned to lead my people,” he said. “Away from the errors of Wulfgar and
Revjak, back to the ways we once knew, when we were free, when we answered to no one but our own and our god.”
Drizzt thought on that for a moment. The proud young man was truly deluding himself, the drow realized, for those old times that Berkthgar spoke of so reverently were not as carefree and wonderful as the huge man apparently believed. Those years were marked by war, usually between tribes competing for food that was often scarce. Barbarians starved to death and froze to death, and often wound up as meals for tundra yeti, or for the great white bears that also followed the reindeer herd along the coast of the Sea of Moving Ice.
That was the danger of nostalgia, Drizzt realized. One often remembered the good of the past while forgetting the troubles.
“Then Berkthgar speaks for the tribes,” Drizzt agreed. “Will he lead them to despair? To war?”
“War is not always despair,” the barbarian said coolly. “And do you forget so soon that following the course of Wulfgar led us to war with your own people?”
Drizzt had no response to that statement. It hadn’t happened exactly like that, of course. The drow war was far more an accident of chance than of anything Wulfgar had done. But still, the words were true enough, at least from Berkthgar’s stilted perspective.
“And before that, Wulfgar’s course led the tribes to war in helping to reclaim the throne for your ungrateful friend,” Berkthgar pressed.
Drizzt glared hard at Berkthgar. Again the man’s words were true, if stilted, and the drow realized that there was no practical response he could offer to sway Berkthgar.
They both noticed then that the speck on the tundra was larger now as Kierstaad approached.
“We have found the clean air of the tundra again,” Berkthgar proclaimed before the lad arrived. “We have returned to the old ways, the better ways, and those do not allow for friendship with drow elves.”
“Berkthgar forgets much,” Drizzt replied.
“Berkthgar remembers much,” the giant barbarian answered, and walked away.
“You would do well to consider the good that Wulfgar did for your people,” Drizzt called after him. “Perhaps Settlestone was not the place for the tribe, but Icewind Dale is an unforgiving land, a land where allies are the most valuable assets for any man.”
Berkthgar didn’t slow. He came up to Kierstaad and walked right past the young man. Kierstaad turned and watched him for a short time, the young man quickly deciphering what had just happened. Then Kierstaad turned back to Drizzt and, recognizing the drow, sprinted over to stand before him.
“Well met, Kierstaad,” Drizzt said. “The years have done you well.”
Kierstaad straightened a bit at that remark, thrilled to have Drizzt Do’Urden say anything complimentary to him. Kierstaad was just a boy of twelve when Drizzt left Mithril Hall, and so he did not know the drow very well. He knew of Drizzt, though, the legendary warrior. Once Drizzt and Catti-brie had come to Hengorot, the mead hall in Settlestone, and Drizzt had leaped upon the table, giving a speech that called for a strengthened alliance between the dwarves and the barbarians. By all the old ways that Berkthgar so often spoke of, no drow elf should have been allowed in Hengorot, and certainly none would have been shown any respect. But the mead hall showed respect to Drizzt Do’Urden that day, a testament to the drow’s battle prowess.
Kierstaad could not forget, too, the stories his father had told him of Drizzt. In one particularly vicious battle with the folk of Ten-Towns, the barbarian warriors invading Ten-Towns were badly beaten, in no small part because of Drizzt Do’Urden. After that fight, the ranks of the barbarians were greatly diminished. With winter coming on, it seemed that many hardships would befall those who had survived the war, particularly the very young and the very old, for there simply were not enough hunters left alive to provide for all.
But the fresh carcasses of reindeer had been found along the trail as the nomadic barbarians had moved west with the herd, killed cleanly and left for the tribe. The work of Drizzt Do’Urden, Revjak and many of the elders agreed, the drow who had defended Ten-Towns against the barbarians. Revjak had never forgotten the significance of that act of kindness, nor had many of the older barbarians.
“Well met, to you,” Kierstaad replied. “It is good that you have returned.”
“Not everyone agrees with that view,” Drizzt remarked.
Kierstaad snorted and shrugged noncommittally. “I am sure that Bruenor is glad to see the likes of Drizzt Do’Urden again,” he said.
“And of Catti-brie,” Drizzt added. “For she returned at my side.”
Again the young man nodded and Drizzt could tell that he wanted to say something more profound than the polite conversation. He kept looking back over his shoulder, though, to the departing form of Berkthgar, his leader. His loyalties were obviously split.
Finally, Kierstaad sighed and turned to face the drow directly, the internal battle decided. “Many remember the truth of Drizzt Do’Urden,” he said.
“And of Bruenor Battlehammer?”
Kierstaad nodded. “Berkthgar leads the tribe, by right of deed, but not all agree with his every word.”
“Then let us hope that Berkthgar soon remembers that truth,” Drizzt replied.
Kierstaad glanced back one more time, to see that Berkthgar had stopped and had turned to regard him. The young barbarian understood then what was expected of him, and he gave a quick nod to Drizzt, not even offering a parting word, and ran off to join the giant man.
Drizzt spent a long time considering the implications of that sight, the young man blindly running to Berkthgar’s will, though he did not share many of his leader’s views. Then Drizzt considered his own course. He had meant to go back to the encampment for a word with Revjak, but that seemed a useless, even dangerous proposition now.
Now that Berkthgar spoke for the tribe.
*****
While Drizzt was running north of Kelvin’s Cairn, another traveler was traversing the tundra to the south of the mountain. Stumpet Rakingclaw rambled on, her back bent for the weight of her huge pack, her eyes focused on that singular goal: the towering peaks of the Spine of the World.
Crenshinibon, hanging through a loop on the dwarf’s belt, was silent and pleased. The artifact had invaded Stumpet’s dreams every night. Its communications with the dwarf had been more subtle than was usual for the domineering artifact, for Crenshinibon held a healthy respect for this one, both dwarf and priestess of a goodly god. Gradually, over the weeks, Crenshinibon had worn away Stumpet’s resistance, had slowly convinced the dwarf that this was not a foolishly dangerous trek, but rather a challenge to be met and conquered.
And so Stumpet had come out the previous day, striding determinedly to the south, weapon in hand and ready to meet any monsters, ready to climb any mountain.
She wasn’t yet near the mountains, about halfway from Redwaters, the southernmost of the three lakes. Crenshinibon planned to remain silent. The artifact was a work of the ages and a few days meant nothing to it. When they got to the mountains, the wilderness, the artifact would find a more suitable wielder.
But then, unexpectedly, the crystal shard sensed a presence, powerful and familiar.
A tanar’ri.
Stumpet stopped her run a moment later, her face screwed up with curiosity as she considered the item on her belt. She felt the vibrations from it, as though it was a living thing. As she studied the item, she recognized those vibrations as a call.
“What then?” the dwarf asked, lifting the crystal shard from the loop. “What’re ye about?”
Stumpet was still eyeing the shard when a ball of blackness swept out of the blue haze of the distant horizon, hearing the call now and speeding fast on leathery wings. Finally, the dwarf shrugged her shoulders. Not understanding, she replaced the shard, then looked up.
Too late.
Errtu came in hard and fast, overwhelming the dwarf before she could even lift her weapon. In mere seconds, the fiend held Crenshinibon in his clutches, a union both desired.
Stumpet, on the ground and dazed, her weapon knocked far from her hands, propped herself on her elbows and looked upon the tanar’ri. She started to call to her god, but Errtu would have none of that. He kicked her hard, launching her a dozen feet away and moved in for the torturous kill.
Crenshinibon stopped him. The artifact did not disdain brute force, nor did it hold any sympathy for the dwarf. But a simple reminder to Errtu that enemies such as Stumpet could be used to his advantage gave the fiend pause. Errtu knew nothing about Bruenor Battlehammer and the quest for Mithril Hall, knew nothing about the clan’s departure from the dale, let alone their return. But the fiend did know of Drizzt’s previous allegiance to the dwarves of Icewind Dale. If Drizzt Do’Urden was in the dale, or if he ever came back, he would likely once again befriend the dwarves that worked the mines south of the mountain called Kelvin’s Cairn. This female, obviously, was of that clan.
Errtu towered over her, menacing her, preventing her from holding any concentration that she would need to cast a spell, or even to retrieve her weapon. The fiend held out one hand, on his second finger was a ring adorned with a blackish-purple gemstone. Errtu’s black eyes blazed into orange flames as he began to chant in the guttural language of the Abyss.
The gemstone flared a purplish light that washed over Stumpet.
Suddenly Stumpet’s perspective changed. She was no longer looking up at the fiend, but was rather looking down, on her own body! She heard Errtu’s cackling laughter, sensed the approval of the crystal shard, and then watched helplessly as her form rose up from the ground and moved about, collecting the dropped items.
Zombielike, moving stiff-legged, the soulless dwarven body turned about and walked off to the north.
Stumpet’s soul remained, trapped within the purplish gem, hearing the cackles, sensing the sentient waves that the evil artifact sent out to Errtu.
*****
That same night, Drizzt and Catti-brie sat atop Bruenor’s climb with the red-bearded dwarf and Regis, basking in the starlight. Both the dwarf and the halfling recognized the uneasiness of their companions, sensed that Drizzt and Catti-brie were keeping a secret.
Many times, the drow and the woman exchanged concerned looks.
“Well,” Bruenor said at length, unable to bear the cryptic glances.
Catti-brie chuckled, the tension relieved by her father’s acute observations. She and Drizzt had indeed taken Bruenor and Regis up here this night to discuss more than the beauty of the moon and stars. After long discussion, the drow had finally agreed with Catti-brie’s reasoning that it would not be fair to keep their friends in the dark of their true reasons for returning to Icewind Dale.
And so Drizzt told the tale of his last few weeks aboard the Sea Sprite, of the attack on Deudermont in Waterdeep and the run to Caerwich, of the journey to Carradoon caused by Harkle’s spell and the windwalk with Cadderly that had brought them to Luskan. He left nothing out, not even the remnants he could remember of the blind hag’s poem and the intimations that his father was a prisoner of Errtu, the great tanar’ri.
Catti-brie interjected her thoughts often, mostly reassuring her father that a big part of the reason that they decided it was time to come home was because this was home, was because Bruenor was here, and Regis was here.
Silence fell over the four after Drizzt finished. All gazes fell over Bruenor, waiting for his response as though it was a judgment of them all.
“Ye durned elf!” he bellowed at last. “Ye’re always bringing trouble! Know that ye make life interesting!”
After a short, strained laugh, Drizzt, Catti-brie and Bruenor turned to hear what Regis had to say on the matter.
“I do have to widen my circle of friends,” the halfling remarked, but like Bruenor’s outrage, Regis’s despair was a feigned thing.
Guenhwyvar roared in the night.
They were together again, the five friends, more than ready to face whatever odds, more than ready for battle.
They didn’t know the depth of Errtu’s terror, and didn’t know that the fiend already had Crenshinibon in his evil clutches.