Bremen was torched at dawn.
The people of the small, unwalled village had known better than to stand and fight when the wave of monsters rolled across the Shaengarne River. They put up token resistance at the ford, firing a few bursts of arrows at the lead goblins just to slow the ranks long enough for the heaviest and slowest ships to clear the harbor and reach the safety of Maer Dualdon. The archers then fled back to the docks and followed their fellow townsmen.
When the goblins finally entered the city, they found it completely deserted. They watched angrily as the sailing ships moved back toward the east to join the flotilla of Targos and Termalaine. Bremen was too far out of the way to be of any use to Akar Kessell, so, unlike the city of Termalaine which had been converted into a camp, this city was burned to the ground.
The people on the lake, the newest in the long line of homeless victims of Kessell’s wanton destruction, watched helplessly as their homes fell in smoldering splinters.
From the wall of Bryn Shander, Cassius and Regis watched, too. “He has made yet another mistake,” Cassius told the halfling.
“How so?”
“Kessell has backed the people of Targos and Termalaine, Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, and now Bremen into a corner,” Cassius explained. “They have nowhere to go now; their only hope lies in victory.”
“Not much of a hope,” Regis remarked. “You have seen what the tower can do. And even without it, Kessell’s army could destroy us all! As he said, he holds every advantage.”
“Perhaps,” Cassius conceded. “The wizard believes that he is invincible, that much is certain. And that is his mistake, my friend. The meekest of animals will fight bravely when it is backed against a wall, for it has nothing left to lose. A poor man is more deadly than a rich man because he puts less value on his own life. And a man stranded homeless on the frozen steppes with the first winds of winter already beginning to blow is a formidable enemy indeed!
“Fear not, little friend,” Cassius continued. “At our council this morning, we shall find a way to exploit the wizard’s weaknesses.”
Regis nodded, unable to dispute the spokesman’s simple logic and unwilling to refute his optimism. Still, as he scanned the deep ranks of goblins and orcs that surrounded the city, the halfling held out little hope.
He looked northward, where the dust had finally settled on the dwarven valley. Bruenor’s Climb was no more, having toppled with the rest of the cliff face when the dwarves closed up their caverns.
“Open a door for me, Bruenor,” Regis whispered absently. “Please let me in.”
* * * * *
Coincidentally, Bruenor and his clan were, at that very moment, discussing the feasibility of opening a door in their tunnels. But not to let anyone in. Soon after their smashing success against the ogres and goblins on the ledges outside their mines, the fighting longbeards had realized that they could not sit idly by while orcs and goblins and even worse monsters destroyed the world around them. They were eager to take a second shot at Kessell. In their underground womb, they had no idea if Bryn Shander was still standing, or if Kessell’s army had already rolled over all of Ten-Towns, but they could hear the sounds of an encampment above the southernmost sections of their huge complex.
Bruenor was the one who had proposed the idea of a second battle, mainly because of his own anger at the imminent loss of his closest non-dwarven friends. Shortly after the goblins that had escaped the tunnel collapse had been cut down, the leader of the clan from Mithril Hall gathered the whole of his people around him.
“Send someone to the farthest ends o’ the tunnels,” he instructed.
“Find out where the dogs’ll do their sleepin’.”
That night, the sounds of the marching monsters became obvious far in the south, under the field surrounding Bryn Shander. The industrious dwarves immediately set about reconditioning the little-used tunnels that ran in that direction. And when they had gotten under the army, they dug ten separate upward shafts, stopping just shy of the surface.
A special gleam had returned to their eyes: the sparkle of a dwarf who knows that he’s about to chop off a few goblin heads. Bruenor’s devious plan had endless potential for revenge with minimal risk. With five minutes notice, they could complete their new exits. Less than a minute beyond that, their entire force would be up in the middle of Kessell’s sleeping army.
* * * * *
The meeting that Cassius had labeled a council was truly more of a forum where the spokesman from Bryn Shander could unveil his first retaliatory strategies. Yet none of the gathered leaders, even Glensather, the only other spokesman in attendance, protested in the least. Cassius had studied every aspect of the entrenched goblin army and the wizard with meticulous attention to detail. The spokesman had outlined a layout of the entire force, detailing the most potentially explosive rivalries among the goblin and orc ranks and his best estimates about the length of time it would take for the inner fighting to sufficiently weaken the army.
Everyone in attendance was agreed, though, that the cornerstone holding the siege together was Cryshal-Tirith. The awesome power of the crystalline structure would cow even the most disruptive orcs into unquestioning obedience. Yet the limits of that power, as Cassius saw it, were the real issue.
“Why was Kessell so insistent on an immediate surrender?” the spokesman reasoned. “He could let us sit under the stress of a siege for a few days to soften our resistance:”
The others agreed with the logic of Cassius’s line of thinking but had no answers for him.
“Perhaps Kessell does not command as strong a hold over his charges as we believe,” Cassius himself proposed. “Might it be that the wizard fears his army will disintegrate around him if stalled for any length of time?”
“It might,” replied Glensather of Easthaven. “Or maybe Akar Kessell simply perceives the strength of his advantage and knows that we have no choice but to comply. Do you, perhaps, confuse confidence with concern?”
Cassius paused for a moment to reflect on the question. “A point well taken,” he said at length. “Yet immaterial to our plans.” Glensather and several others cocked a curious eye at the spokesman.
“We must assume the latter,” Cassius explained. “If the wizard is truly in absolute control of the gathered army, then anything we might attempt shall prove futile in any case. Therefore, we must act on the assumption that Kessell’s impatience reveals well-founded concern.
“I do not perceive the wizard as an exceptional strategist. He has embarked on a path of destruction that he assumed would cow us into submission, yet which, in reality, has actually strengthened the resolve of many of our people to fight to the last. Long-standing rivalries between several of the towns, bitterness that a wise leader of an invading force would surely have twisted into an excellent advantage, have been mended by Kessell’s blatant disregard of finesse and his displays of outrageous brutality.”
Cassius knew by the attentive looks he was receiving that he was gaining support from every corner. He was trying to accomplish two things in this meeting; to convince the others to go along with the gamble he was about to unveil, and to lift their outlook and give them back some shred of hope.
“Our people are out there,” he said, sweeping his arm in a wide arc. “On Maer Dualdon and Lac Dinneshere, the fleets have gathered, awaiting some sign from Bryn Shander that we shall support them. The people of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole do likewise on the southern lake, fully armed and knowing full well that in this struggle there is nothing left at all for any survivors if we are not victorious!” He leaned forward over the table, alternately catching and holding the gaze of each man seated before him and concluded grimly, “No homes. No hope for our wives. No hope for our children. Nowhere left to run.”
Cassius continued to rally the others around him and was soon backed by Glensather, who had guessed at the spokesman’s goal of increasing morale and recognized the value of it. Cassius searched for the most opportune moment. When the majority of the assembled leaders had replaced their frowns of despair with the determined grimace of survival, he put forth his daring plan.
“Kessell has demanded an emissary,” he said, “and so we must deliver one.”
“You or I would seem the most obvious choice,” Glensather intervened.
“Which shall it be?”
A wry smile spread across Cassius’s face. “Neither,” he replied. “One of us would be the obvious choice if we intended to go along with Kessell’s demands. But we have one other option.” He turned his gaze squarely upon Regis. The halfling squirmed uncomfortably, half-guessing what the spokesman had in mind. “There is one among us who has attained an almost legendary reputation for his considerable abilities of persuasion. Perhaps his charismatic appeal shall win us some valuable time in our dealings with the wizard.”
Regis felt ill. He had often wondered when the ruby pendant was going to get him into trouble too deep to climb out of.
Several other people eyed Regis now, apparently intrigued by the potential of Cassius’s suggestion. The stories of the halfling’s charm and persuasive ability, and the accusation that Kemp had made at the council a few weeks earlier, had been told and retold a thousand times in every one of the towns, each storyteller typically enhancing and exaggerating the tales to increase his own importance. Though Regis hadn’t been thrilled with losing the power of his secret-people seldom looked him straight in the eye anymore-he had come to enjoy a certain degree of fame.
He hadn’t considered the possible negative side effects of having so many people looking up to him.
“Let the halfling, the former spokesman from Lonelywood, represent us in Akar Kessell’s court,” Cassius declared to the nearly unanimous approval of the assembly. “Perhaps our small friend will be able to convince the wizard of the error of his evil ways!”
“You are mistaken!” Regis protested. “They are only rumors ....”
“Humility,” Cassius interrupted, “is a fine trait, good halfling. And all gathered here appreciate the sincerity of your self-doubts and appreciate even moreso your willingness to pit your talents against Kessell in the face of those self-doubts!”
Regis closed his eyes and did not reply, knowing that the motion would surely pass whether he approved of it or not.
It did, without a single dissenting vote. The cornered people were quite willing to grab at any possible sliver of hope they could find.
Cassius moved quickly to wrap up the council, for he believed that all other matters - problems of overcrowding and food hoarding - were of little importance at a time like this. If Regis failed, every other inconvenience would become immaterial.
Regis remained silent. He had only attended the council to lend support to his spokesmen friends. When he took his seat at the table, he had no intentions of even actively participating in the discussions, let alone becoming the focal point of the defense plan.
And so the meeting adjourned. Cassius and Glensather exchanged knowing winks of success, for everyone left the room feeling a bit more optimistic.
Cassius held Regis back when he moved to leave with the others. The spokesman from Bryn Shander shut the door behind the last of them, desiring a private briefing with the principle character of the first stages of his plan.
“You could have spoken to me about all of this first!” Regis grumbled at the spokesman’s back as soon as the door was closed. “It seems only right that I should have been given the opportunity to make a decision in this matter!”
Cassius wore a grim visage as he turned to face the halfling. “What choice do any of us have?” he asked. “At least this way we have given them all some hope.”
“You overestimate me,” Regis protested.
“Perhaps you underestimate yourself,” Cassius said. Though the halfling realized that Cassius would not back away from the plan that he had set in motion, the spokesman’s confidence relayed an altruistic spirit to Regis that was genuinely comforting.
“Let us pray, for both our sakes, that the latter is the truth,” Cassius continued, moving to his seat at the table. “But I truly believe this to be the case. I have faith in you, even if you do not. I remember well what you did to Spokesman Kemp at the council five years ago, though it took his own declaration that he had been tricked to make me realize the truth of the situation. A masterful job of persuasion, Regis of Lonelywood, and moreso because it held its secret for so long!”
Regis blushed and conceded the point.
“And if you can deal with the stubborn likes of Kemp of Targos, you should find Akar Kessell easy prey!”
“I agree with your perceptions of Kessell as something less than a man of inner strength,” said Regis, “but wizards have a way of uncovering wizardlike tricks. And you forget the demon. I would not even attempt to deceive one of its kind!”
“Let us hope that you shall not have to deal with that one,” Cassius agreed with a visible shudder. “Yet I feel that you must go to the tower and try to dissuade the wizard. If we cannot somehow hold the gathered army at bay until its own inner turmoil becomes our ally, then we are surely doomed. Believe me, as I am your friend, that I would not ask you to journey into such peril if I saw any other possible path.” A pained look of helpless empathy had clearly worn through the spokesman’s earlier facade of rousing optimism. His concern touched Regis, as would a starving man crying out for food.
Even beyond his feelings for the overly pressured spokesman, Regis was forced to admit the logic of the plan and the absence of other avenues to explore. Kessell hadn’t given them much time to regroup after the initial attack. In the razing of Targos, the wizard had demonstrated his ability to likewise destroy Bryn Shander, and the halfling had little doubt that Kessell would carry out his vile threat.
So Regis came to accept his role as their only option. The halfling wasn’t easily spurred to action, but when he made up his mind to do something, he usually tried to do it properly.
“First of all,” he began, “I must tell you in the strictest of confidence that I do indeed have magical aid.” A glimmer of hope returned to Cassius’s eyes. He leaned forward, anxious to hear more, but Regis calmed him with an outstretched palm.
“You must understand, however,” the halfling explained, “that I do not, as some tales claim, have the power to pervert what is in a person’s heart. I could not convince Kessell to abandon his evil path any more than I could convince Spokesman Kemp to make peace with Termalaine.” He rose from his cushioned chair and paced around the table, his hands clasped behind his back. Cassius watched him in uncertain anticipation, unable to figure out exactly what he was leading up to with his admission and then disclaimer of power.
“Sometimes, though, I do have a way of making someone view his surroundings from a different perspective,” Regis admitted. “Like the incident you have referred to, when I convinced Kemp that embarking upon a certain preferable course of action would actually help him to achieve his own aspirations.
“So tell me again, Cassius, all that you have learned about the wizard and his army. Let us see if we might discover a way to make Kessell doubt the very things that he has come to rely upon!”
The halfling’s eloquence stunned the spokesman. Even though he hadn’t looked Regis in the eye, he could see the promise of truth in the tales he had always presumed to be exaggerated.
“We know from the newsbearer that Kemp has taken command of the remaining forces of the four towns on Maer Dualdon,” Cassius explained. “Likewise, Jensin Brent and Schermont are poised upon Lac Dinneshere, and combined with the fleets on Redwaters, they should prove a powerful force indeed!
“Kemp has already vowed revenge, and I doubt if any of the other refugees entertain thoughts of surrender or fleeing.”
“Where could they go?” Regis muttered. He looked pitifully at Cassius, who had no words of comfort. Cassius had put on a show of confidence and hope for the others at the council and for the people in the town, but he could not look at Regis now and make hollow promises.
Glensather suddenly burst back into the room. “The wizard is back on the field!” he cried. “He has demanded our emissary - the lights on the tower have started again!”
The three rushed from the building, Cassius reiterating as much of the pertinent information as he could.
Regis silenced him. “I am prepared,” he assured Cassius. “I don’t know if this outrageous scheme of yours has any chance of working, but you have my vow that I’ll work hard to carry out the deception.”
Then they were at the gate. “It must work,” Cassius said, clapping Regis on the shoulder. “We have no other hope.” He started to turn away, but Regis had one final question that he needed answered.
“If I find that Kessell is beyond my power?” he asked grimly. “What am I to do if the deception fails?”
Cassius looked around at the thousands of women and children huddled against the chill wind in the city’s common grounds. “If it fails,” he began slowly, “if Kessell cannot be dissuaded from using the power of the tower against Bryn Shander,” he paused again, if only to delay having to hear himself utter the words, “you are then under my personal orders to surrender the city.”
Cassius turned away and headed for the parapets to witness the critical confrontation. Regis didn’t hesitate any longer, for he knew that any pause at this frightening juncture would probably cause him to change his mind and run to find a hiding place in some dark hole in the city. Before he even had the chance to reconsider, he was through the gate and boldly marching down the hill toward the waiting spector of Akar Kessell.
Kessell had again appeared between two mirrors borne by trolls, standing with arms crossed and one foot tapping impatiently. The evil scowl on his face gave Regis the distinct impression that the wizard, in a fit of uncontrollable rage, would strike him dead before he even reached the bottom of the hill. Yet the halfling had to keep his eyes focused on Kessell to even continue his approach. The wretched trolls disgusted and revulsed him beyond anything he had ever encountered, and it took all of his willpower to move anywhere near them. Even from the gate, he could smell the foul odor of their rotting stench.
But somehow he made it to the mirrors and stood facing the evil wizard.
Kessell studied the emissary for quite a while. He certainly hadn’t expected a halfling to represent the city and wondered why Cassius hadn’t come personally to such an important meeting. “Do you come before me as the official representative of Bryn Shander and all who now reside within her walls?”
Regis nodded. “I am Regis of Lonelywood,” he answered, “a friend to Cassius and former member of the Council of Ten. I have been appointed to speak for the people within the city.”
Kessell’s eyes narrowed in anticipation of his victory. “And do you bear their message of unconditional surrender?”
Regis shuffled uneasily, purposely shifting so that the ruby pendant would start into motion on his chest. “I desire private council with thee, mighty wizard, that we might discuss the terms of the agreement.”
Kessell’s eyes widened. He looked at Cassius upon the wall. “I said unconditional!” he shrieked. Behind him, the lights of Cryshal-Tirith began to swirl and grow. “Now you shall witness the folly of your insolence!”
“Wait!” pleaded Regis, jumping around to regain the wizard’s attention.
“There are some things that you should be aware of before all is decided!”
Kessell paid little attention to the halfling’s rambling, but the ruby pendant suddenly caught his attention. Even through the protection offered by the distance between his physical body and the window of his image projection, he found the gem fascinating.
Regis couldn’t resist the urge to smile, though only slightly, when he realized that the eyes of the wizard no longer blinked. “I have some information that I am sure you will find valuable,” the halfling said quietly.
Kessell signaled for him to continue.
“Not here,” Regis whispered. “There are too many curious ears about.
Not all of the gathered goblins would be pleased to hear what I have to say!”
Kessell considered the halfling’s words for a moment. He felt curiously subdued for some reason that he couldn’t yet understand. “Very well, halfling,” he agreed. “I shall hear your words.” With a flash and a puff of smoke, the wizard was gone.
Regis looked back over his shoulder at the people on the wall and nodded.
Under telepathic command from within the tower, the trolls shifted the mirrors to catch Regis’s reflection. A second flash and puff of smoke, and Regis, too, was gone.
On the wall, Cassius returned the halfling’s nod, though Regis had already disappeared. The spokesman breathed a bit easier, comforted by the last look Regis had thrown him and by the fact that the sun was setting and Bryn Shander still stood. If his guess, based on the timing of the wizard’s actions, was correct, Cryshal-Tirith drew most of its energy from the light of the sun.
It appeared that his plan had bought them at least one more night.
* * * * *
Even through his bleary eyes, Drizzt recognized the dark shape that hovered over him. The drow had banged his head when he had been thrown from the scimitar’s hilt and Guenhwyvar, his loyal companion, had kept a silent vigil throughout the long hours the drow had remained unconscious, even though the cat had also been battered in the fight with Errtu.
Drizzt rolled into a sitting position and tried to reorient himself to his surroundings. At first he thought that dawn had come, but then he realized that the dim sunlight was coming from the west. He had been out for the better part of a day, drained completely, for the scimitar had sapped his vital energy in its battle with the demon.
Guenhwyvar looked even more haggard. The cat’s shoulder hung limp from its collision with the stone wall, and Errtu had torn a deep cut into one of its forelegs.
More than injuries, though, fatigue was wearing on the magical beast. It had overstayed the normal limits of its visit to the material plane by many hours. The chord between its home plane and the drow’s was only kept intact by the cat’s own magical energy, and each passing minute that it remained in this world drew away a bit of its strength.
Drizzt stroked the muscled neck tenderly. He understood the sacrifice Guenhwyvar had made for his sake, and he wished that he could comply with the cat’s needs and send it back to its own world.
But he could not. If the cat returned to its own plane, it would be hours before it would regain the strength required to reestablish a link back to this world. And he needed the cat now.
“A bit longer,” he begged. The faithful beast lay down beside him without any hint of protest. Drizzt looked upon it with pity and petted the neck once again. How he longed to release the cat from his service! Yet he could not.
From what Errtu had told him, the door to Cryshal-Tirith was invisible only to beings of the Material Plane.
Drizzt needed the cat’s eyes.
Regis rubbed the after-image of the blinding flash out of his eyes and found himself again facing the wizard. Kessell lounged on a crystal throne, leaning back against one of its arms with his legs casually thrown over the other. They were in a squared room of crystal, giving a slick visual impression, but feeling as solid as stone. Regis knew immediately that he was inside the tower. The room was filled with dozens of ornate and strangely shaped mirrors. One of these in particular, the largest and most decorative, caught the halfling’s eye, for a fire was ablaze within its depths. At first Regis looked opposite the mirror, expecting to see the source of the image, but then he realized that the flames were not a reflection but an actual event occurring within the dimensions of the mirror itself.
“Welcome to my home,” the wizard laughed. “You should consider yourself fortunate to witness its splendor!” But Regis fixed his gaze upon Kessell, studying the wizard closely, for the tone of his voice did not resemble the characteristic slur of others he had entranced with the ruby.
“You’ll forgive my surprise when first we met,” Kessell continued. “I did not expect the sturdy men of Ten-Towns to send a halfling to do their work!” He laughed again, and Regis knew that something had disrupted the charm he had cast upon the wizard when they were outside.
The halfling could guess what had happened. He could feel the throbbing power of this room; it was evident that Kessell fed off of it. With his psyche outside, the wizard had been vulnerable to the magic of the gemstone, but in here his strength was quite beyond the ruby’s influence.
“You said that you had information to tell me,” Kessell demanded suddenly. “Speak now, the whole of it! Or I shall make your death an unpleasant one!”
Regis stuttered, trying to improvise an alternate tale. The insidious lies he had planned to weave would have little value on the unaffected wizard. In fact, in their obvious weaknesses they might reveal much of the truth about Cassius’s strategies.
Kessell straightened on his throne and leaned over the halfling, imposing his gaze upon his counterpart. “Speak!” he commanded evenly.
Regis felt an iron will insinuating itself into all of his thoughts, compelling him to obey Kessell’s every command. He sensed that the dominating force wasn’t emanating from the wizard, though. Rather it seemed to be coming from some external source, perhaps the unseen object that the wizard occasionally clutched in a pocket of his robes.
Those of halfling stock possessed a strong natural resistance to such magic, however, and a countering force - the gemstone - helped Regis fight back against the insinuating will and gradually push it away. A sudden idea came over Regis. He had certainly seen enough individuals fall under his own charms to be able to imitate their revealing posture. He slouched a bit, as though he had suddenly been put completely at ease, and focused his blank stare on an image in the corner of the room beyond Kessell’s shoulder. He felt his eyes drying out, but he resisted the temptation to blink.
“What information do you desire?” he responded mechanically.
Kessell slumped back again confidently. “Address me as Master Kessell,” he ordered.
“What information do you desire, Master Kessell?”
“Good,” the wizard smirked to himself. “Admit the truth, halfling, the story you were sent to tell me was a deception.”
Why not? Regis thought. A lie flavored with the sprinklings of truth becomes that much stronger. “Yes,” he answered. “To make you think that your truest allies plotted against you.”
“And what was the purpose?” Kessell pressed, quite pleased with himself. “Surely the people of Bryn Shander know that I could easily crush them even without any allies at all. It seems a feeble plan to me.”
“Cassius had no intentions of trying to defeat you, Master Kessell,” Regis said.
“Then why are you here? And why didn’t Cassius simply surrender the city as I demanded?”
“I was sent to plant some doubts,” replied Regis, blindly improvising to keep Kessell intrigued and occupied. Behind the facade of his words, he was trying to put together some kind of an alternate plan. “’To give Cassius more time to lay out his true course of action.”
Kessell leaned forward. “And what might that course of action be?”
Regis paused, searching for an answer.
“You cannot resist me!” Kessell roared. “My will is too great! Answer or I shall tear the truth from your mind!”
“’To escape,” Regis blurted, and after he had said it, several possibilities opened up before him.
Kessell reclined again. “Impossible,” he replied casually. “My army is too strong at every point for the humans to break through.”
“Perhaps not as strong as you believe, Master Kessell,” Regis baited. His path now lay clear before him. A lie within another lie. He liked the formula.
“Explain,” Kessell demanded, a shadow of worry clouding his cocky visage.
“Cassius has allies within your ranks.”
The wizard leaped from his chair, trembling in rage. Regis marveled at how effectively his simple imitation was working. He wondered for an instant if any of his own victims had likewise reversed the dupe on him. He put the disturbing thought away for future contemplation.
“Orcs have lived among the people of Ten-Towns for many months now,” Regis went on. “One tribe actually opened up a trading relationship with the fishermen. They, too, answered your summons to arms, but they still hold loyalties, if any of their kind ever truly hold loyalties, to Cassius. Even as your army was entrenching in the field around Bryn Shander, the first communications were exchanged between the orc chieftain and orc messengers that slipped out of Bryn Shander.”
Kessell smoothed his hair back and rubbed his hand nervously across his face. Was it possible that his seemingly invincible army had a secret weakness?
No, none would dare oppose Akar Kessell!
But still, if some of them were plotting against him - if all of them were plotting against him - would he know? And where was Errtu? Could the demon be behind this?
“Which tribe?” he asked Regis softly, his tone revealing that the halfling’s news had humbled him.
Regis drew the wizard fully into the deception. “The group that you sent to sack the city of Bremen, the Orcs of the Severed Tongue,” he said, watching the wizard’s widening eyes with complete satisfaction. “My job was merely to prevent you. from taking any action against Bryn Shander before the fall of night, for the orcs shall return before dawn, presumably to regroup in their assigned position on the field, but in actuality, to open a gap in your western flank. Cassius will lead the people down the western slopes to the open tundra. They only hope to keep you disorganized long enough to give them a solid lead. Then you shall be forced to pursue them all the way to Luskan!”
Many weak points were apparent in the plan, but it seemed a reasonable gamble for people in such a desperate situation to attempt. Kessell slammed his fist down on the arm of the throne. “The fools!” he growled.
Regis breathed a bit easier. Kessell was convinced.
“Errtu!” he screamed suddenly, unaware that the demon had been banished from the world.
There was no reply. “Oh, damn you, demon!” Kessell cursed. “You are never about when I most need you!” He spun on Regis. “You wait here. I shall have many more questions for you later!” The roaring fires of his anger simmered wickedly. “But first I must speak with some of my generals. I shall teach the Orcs of the Severed Tongue to oppose me!”
In truth, the observations Cassius had made had labeled the Orcs of the Severed Tongue as Kessell’s strongest and most fanatical supporters.
A lie within a lie.
* * * * *
Out on the waters of Maer Dualdon later that evening, the assembled fleet of the four towns watched suspiciously as a second group of monsters flowed out from the main force and headed in the direction of Bremen.
“Curious,” Kemp remarked to Muldoon of Lonelywood and the spokesman from the burned city of Bremen, who were standing on the deck of Targos’ flagship beside him. All of Bremen’s populace was out on the lake. Certainly the first group of orcs, after the initial bowshots, had met no further resistance in the city. And Bryn Shander stood intact. Why, then, was the wizard further extending his line of power?
“Akar Kessell confuses me,” said Muldoon. “Either his genius is simply beyond me or he truly makes glaring tactical errors!”
“Assume the second possibility,” Kemp instructed hopefully, “for anything that we might try shall be in vain if the first is the truth!”
So they continued repositioning their warriors for an opportune strike, moving their children and womenfolk in the remaining boats to the as yet unassailed moorings of Lonelywood, similar to the strategies of the refugee forces on the other two lakes.
On the wall of Bryn Shander, Cassius and Glensather watched the division of Kessell’s forces with deeper understanding.
“Masterfully done, halfling,” Cassius whispered into the night wind.
Smiling, Glensather put a steadying hand on his fellow spokesman’s shoulder. “I shall go and inform our field commanders,” he said. “If the tune for us to attack comes, we shall be ready!”
Cassius clasped Glensather’s hand and nodded his approval. As the spokesman from Easthaven sped away, Cassius leaned upon the ridge of the wall, glaring determinedly at the now darkened walls of Cryshal-Tirith. Through gritted teeth, he declared openly, “The time shall come!”
* * * * *
From the high vantage point of Kelvin’s Cairn, Drizzt Do’Urden had also witnessed the abrupt shift of the monster army. He had just completed the final preparations for his courageous assault on Cryshal-Tirith when the distant flickers of a large mass of torches suddenly flowed away to the west. He and Guenhwyvar sat quietly and studied the situation for a short while, trying to find some clue as to what had prompted such action.
Nothing became apparent, but the night was growing long and he had to make haste. He wasn’t sure if the activity would prove helpful, by thinning out the camp’s ranks, or disruptive, by heightening the remaining monsters’ state of readiness. Yet he knew that the people of Bryn Shander could not afford any delays. He started down the mountain trail, the great panther trailing along silently behind him.
He made the open ground in good time and started his hasty trot down the length of Bremen’s Run. If he had paused to study his surroundings or put one of his sensitive ears to the ground, he might have heard the distant rumble from the open tundra to the north of yet another approaching army.
But the drow’s focus was on the south, his vision narrowed upon the waiting darkness of Cryshal-Tirith as he made haste. He was traveling light, carrying only items he believed essential to the task. He had his five weapons: the two scimitars sheathed in their leather scabbards on his hips, a dagger tucked in his belt at the middle of his back, and the two knives hidden in his boots. His holy symbol and pouch of wealth was around his neck and a small sack of flour, leftover from the raid on the giant’s lair, still hung on his belt - a sentimental choice, a comforting reminder of the daring adventures he had shared with Wulfgar. All of his other supplies, backpack, rope, waterskins, and other basic items of everyday survival on the harsh tundra, he had left in the small cubby.
He heard the shouts of goblin merrymaking when he crossed by the eastern outskirts of Termalaine. “Strike now, sailors of Maer Dualdon,” the drow said quietly. But when he thought about it, he was glad that the boats remained out on the lake. Even if they could slip in and strike quickly at the monsters in the city, they could not afford the losses they would suffer. Termalaine could wait; there was a more important battle yet to be fought.
Drizzt and Guenhwyvar approached the outer perimeter of Kessell’s main encampment. The drow was comforted by signs that the commotion within the camp had quieted. A solitary orc guard leaned wearily on its spear, halfheartedly watching the empty blackness of the northern horizon. Even had it been wary; it would not have noticed the stealthy approach of the two shapes, blacker than the darkness of night.
“Call in!” came a command from somewhere in the distance.
“Clear!” replied the guard.
Drizzt listened as the check was called in from various distant spots.
He signaled for Guenhwyvar to hold back, then crept up within throwing range of the guard.
The tired orc never even heard the whistle of the approaching dagger.
And then Drizzt was beside it, silently breaking its fall into the darkness. The drow pulled his dagger from the orc’s throat and laid his victim softly on the ground. He and Guenhwyvar, unnoticed shadows of death, moved on.
They had broken through the only line of guards that had been set on the northern perimeter and now easily picked their way among the sleeping camp. Drizzt could have killed dozens of orcs and goblins, even a verbeeg, though the cessation of its thundering snores might have drawn attention, but he couldn’t afford to slow his pace. Each passing minute continued to drain Guenhwyvar, and now the first hints of a second enemy, the revealing dawn, were becoming apparent in the eastern sky.
The drow’s hopes had risen considerably with the progress he had made, but he was dismayed when he came upon Cryshal-Tirith. A group of battle-ready ogre guards ringed the tower, blocking his way.
He crouched beside the cat, undecided on what they should do. To escape the breadth of the huge camp before the dawn exposed them, they would have to flee back the way they came. Drizzt doubted that Guenhwyvar, in its pitiful state, could even attempt that route. Yet to go on meant a hopeless fight with a group of ogres. There seemed no answer to the dilemma.
Then something happened back in the northeast section of the encampment, opening a path for the stealthy companions. Sudden shouts of alarm sprang up, drawing the ogres a few long strides away from their posts. Drizzt thought at first that the murdered orc guard had been discovered, but the cries were too far to the east.
Soon the clang of steel on steel rang out in the predawn air. A battle had been joined. Rival tribes, Drizzt supposed, though he could not spot the combatants from this distance.
His curiosity wasn’t overwhelming, however. The undisciplined ogres had moved even farther away from their appointed positions. And Guenhwyvar had spotted the tower door. The two didn’t hesitate for a second.
The ogres never even noticed the two shadows enter the tower behind them.
* * * * *
A strange sensation, a buzzing vibration, came over Drizzt as he passed through Cryshal-Tirith’s entryway, as though he had moved into the bowels of a living entity. He continued on, though, through the darkened hallway that led to the tower’s first level, marveling at the strange crystalline material that comprised the walls and floors of the structure.
He found himself in a squared hall, the bottom chamber of the four-roomed structure. This was the hall where Kessell often met with his field generals, the wizard’s primary audience hall for all but his top-ranking commanders.
Drizzt peered around at the dark forms in the room and the deeper shadows that they created. Though he sighted no movement, he sensed that he was not alone. He knew that Guenhwyvar had the same uneasy feelings, for the fur on the scruff of the black-coated neck was ruffled and the cat let out a low growl.
Kessell considered this room a buffer zone between himself and the rabble of the outside world. It was the one chamber in the tower that he rarely visited. This was the place where Akar Kessell housed his trolls.
The dwarves of Mithril Hall completed the first of their secret exits shortly after sunset. Bruenor was the first to climb to the top of the ladder and peek out from under the cut sod at the settling monster army. So expert were the dwarven miners that they had been able to dig a shaft right up into the middle of a large group of goblins and ogres without even alerting the monsters in the least.
Bruenor was smiling when he came back down to rejoin his clansmen. “Finish th’ other nine,” he instructed as he moved down the tunnel, Catti-brie beside him. “Tonight’s sleep’ll be a sound one for some o’ Kessell’s boys!” he declared, patting the head of his belted axe.
“What role am I to play in the coming battle?” Catti-brie asked when they moved away from the other dwarves.
“Ye’ll get to pull one o’ the levers an’ collapse the tunnels if any o’ the swine come down,” Bruenor replied.
“And if you are all killed on the field?” Catti-brie reasoned. “Being buried alone in these tunnels does not hold much promise for me.”
Bruenor stroked his red beard. He hadn’t considered that consequence, figuring only that if he and his clan were cut down on the field, Catti-brie would be safe enough behind the collapsed tunnels. But how could she live down here alone? What price would she pay for survival?
“Do ye want to come up an’ fight then? Ye’re fair enough with a sword, an’ I’ll be right beside ye! “
Catti-brie considered the proposition for a moment. “I’ll stay with the lever,” she decided. “You’ll have enough to look after your own head up there. And someone has to be here to drop the tunnels; we cannot let goblins claim our halls as their home!”
“Besides,” she added with a smile, “it was stupid of me to worry. I know that you will come back to me, Bruenor. Never have you, nor any of your clan, failed me!” She kissed the dwarf on the forehead and skipped away.
Bruenor smiled after her. “Suren yer a brave girl, my Catti-brie,” he muttered.
The work on the tunnels was finished a few hours later. The shafts had been dug and the entire tunnel complex around them had been rigged to collapse to cover any retreating action or squash any goblin advance. The entire clan, their faces purposely blackened with soot and their heavy armor and weapons muffled under layers of dark cloth, lined up at the base of the ten shafts. Bruenor went up first to investigate. He peeked out and smiled grimly. All around him ogres and goblins had bedded down for the night.
He was about to give the signal for his kinsmen to move when a commotion suddenly started up in the camp. Bruenor remained at the top of the shaft, though he kept his head beneath the sod layer (which got him stepped on by a passing goblin), and tried to figure out what had alerted the monsters. He heard shouts of command and a clatter like a large force assembling.
More shouts followed, calls for the death of the Severed Tongue. Though he had never heard that name before, the dwarf easily guessed that it described an orc tribe. “So, they’re fightin’ amongst themselves, are they?” he muttered softly, chuckling. Realizing that the dwarves’ assault would have to wait, he climbed back down the ladder.
But the clan, disappointed in the delay, did not disperse. They were determined that this night’s work would indeed be done. So they waited.
The night passed its mid-point and still the sounds of movement came from the camp above. Yet the wait wasn’t dulling the edge of the dwarves determination. Conversely, the delay was sharpening their intensity, heightening their hunger for goblin. blood. These fighters were also blacksmiths, craftsman who spent long hours adding a single scale to a dragon statue. They knew patience.
Finally, when all was again quiet, Bruenor went back up the ladder. Before he had even poked his head through the turf, he heard the comforting sounds of rhythmic breathing and loud snores.
Without further delay, the clan slipped out of the holes and methodically set about their murderous work. They did not revel in their roles as assassins, preferring to fight sword against sword, but they understood the necessity of this type of raid, and they placed no value whatsoever on the lives of goblin scum.
The area gradually quieted as more and more of the monsters entered the silent sleep of death. The dwarves concentrated on the ogres first, in case their attack was discovered before they were able to do much damage. But their strategy was unnecessary. Many minutes passed without retaliation.
By the time one of the guards noticed what was happening and managed to shout out a cry of alarm, the blood of more than a thousand of Kessell’s charges wetted the field.
Cries went up all about them, but Bruenor did not call for a retreat. “Form up!” he commanded. “Tight around the tunnels!” He knew that the mad rush of the first wave of counterattackers would be disorganized and unprepared.
The dwarves formed into a tight defensive posture and had little trouble cutting the goblins down. Bruenor’s axe was marked with many more notches before any goblin had even taken a swing at him.
Gradually, though, Kessell’s charges became more organized. They came at the dwarves in formations of their own, and their growing numbers, as more and more of the camp was roused and alerted, began to press heavily on the raiders. And then a group of ogres, Kessell’s elite tower guard, came charging across the field.
The first of the dwarves to retreat, the tunnel experts who were to make the final check on the preparations for the collapse, put their booted feet on the top rungs of the shaft ladders. The escape into the tunnels would be a delicate operation, and efficient haste would be the deciding factor in its success or failure.
But Bruenor unexpectedly ordered the tunnel experts to come back out of the shafts and the dwarves to hold their line.
He had heard the first notes of an ancient song, a song that, just a few years before, would have filled him with dread. Now, though, it lifted his heart with hope.
He recognized the voice that led the stirring words.
* * * * *
A severed arm of rotted flesh splatted on the floor, yet another victim of the whirring scimitars of Drizzt Do’Urden.
But the fearless trolls crowded in. Normally, Drizzt would have known of their presence as soon as he entered the square chamber. Their terrible stench made it hard for them to hide. These ones, though, hadn’t actually been in the chamber when the drow entered. As Drizzt had moved deeper into the room, he tripped a magical alarm that bathed the area in wizard’s light and cued the guardians. They stepped in through the magical mirrors that Kessell had planted as watchposts throughout the room.
Drizzt had already dropped one of the wretched beasts, but now he was more concerned with running than fighting. Five others replaced the first and were more than a match for any fighter. Drizzt shook his head in disbelief when the body of the troll he had beheaded suddenly rose again and began flailing blindly.
And then, a clawed hand caught hold of his ankle. He knew without looking that it was the limb he had just cut free.
Horrified, he kicked the grotesque arm away from him and turned and sprinted to the spiraling stairway that ran up to the tower’s second level from the back of the chamber. At his earlier command, Guenhwyvar had already limped weakly up the stairs and now waited on the platform at the top.
Drizzt distinctly heard the sucking footsteps of his sickening pursuers and the scratching of the severed hand’s filthy nails as it also took up the chase. The drow bounded up the stairway without looking back, hoping that his speed and agility would give him enough of a lead to find some way of escaping.
For there was no door on the platform.
The landing at the top of the stairs was rectangular and about ten feet across at its widest length. Two sides were open to the room, a third caught the lip of the cresting stairwell, and the fourth was a flat sheet of mirror, extending the exact length of the platform and secured between it and the chamber’s ceiling. Drizzt hoped that he would be able to understand the nuances of this unusual door, if that was what the mirror actually was, when he examined it from the platform’s level.
It wouldn’t be that easy.
Though the mirror was filled with the reflection of an ornate tapestry hanging on the wall of the chamber directly opposite it, its surface appeared perfectly smooth and unbroken by any cracks or handles that might indicate a concealed opening. Drizzt sheathed his weapons and ran his hands across the surface to see if there was a handle hidden from his sharp eyes, but the even slide of the glass only confirmed his observation.
The trolls were on the stairway.
Drizzt tried to push his way through the glass, speaking all of the command words of opening he had ever learned, searching for an extra-dimensional portal similar to the ones that had held Kessell’s hideous guards. The wall remained a tangible barrier.
The lead troll reached the halfway point on the stairs.
“There must be a clue somewhere!” the drow groaned. “Wizards love a challenge, and there is no sport to this!” The only possible answer lay in the intricate designs and images of the tapestry. Drizzt stared at it, trying to sort through the thousands of interwoven images for some special hint that would show him the way to safety.
The stench flowed up to him. He could hear the slobbering of the ever-hungry monsters.
But he had to control his revulsion and concentrate on the myriad images. One thing in the tapestry caught his eye: the lines of a poem that wove through all of the other images along the top border. In contrast to the dulling colors of the rest of the ancient artwork, the calligraphed letters of the poem held the contrasting brightness of a newer addition. Something Kessell had added?
Come if ye will To the orgy within, But first ye must find the latch!
Seen and not seen,
Been yet not been And a handle that flesh cannot catch.
One line in particular stood out in the drow’s mind. He had heard the phrase “Been yet not been” in his childhood days in Menzoberranzan. They referred to Urgutha Forka, a vicious demon that had ravaged the planet with a particularly virulent plague in the ancient times when Drizzt’s ancestors had walked on the surface. The surface elves had always denied the existence of Urgutha Forka, blaming the plague on the drow, but the dark elves knew better. Something in their physical make-up had kept them immune to the demon, and after they realized how deadly it was to their enemies, they had worked to fulfill the suspicions of the light elves by enlisting Urgutha as an ally.
Thus the reference “Been yet not been” was a derogatory line in a longer drow tale, a secret joke on their hated cousins who had lost thousands to a creature they denied even existed.
The riddle would have been impossible to anyone unaware of the tale of Urgutha Forka. The drow had found a valuable advantage. He scanned the reflection of the tapestry for some image that had a connection to the demon. And he found it in on the far edge of the mirror at belt height: a portrayal of Urgutha itself, revealed in all of its horrible splendor. The demon was depicted smashing the skull of an elf with a black rod, its symbol. Drizzt had seen this same portrayal before. Nothing seemed out of place or hinted at anything unusual.
The trolls had turned the final corner of their ascent. Drizzt was nearly out of time.
He turned and searched the source of the image for some discrepancy. It struck him at once. In the original tapestry Urgutha was striking the elf with its fist; there was no rod!
“Seen and not seen.”
Drizzt spun back on the mirror, grasping at the demon’s illusory weapon. But all he felt was smooth glass. He nearly cried out in frustration.
His experience had taught him discipline, and he quickly regained his composure. He moved his hand back away from the mirror, attempting to position his own reflection at the same depth he judged the rod to be at. He slowly closed his fingers, watching his hand’s image close around the rod with the excitement of anticipated success.
He shifted his hand slightly.
A thin crack appeared in the mirror.
The leading troll reached the top of the stairs, but Drizzt and Guenhwyvar were gone.
The drow slid the strange door back into its closed position, leaned back, and sighed with relief. A dimly lit stairway led up before him, ending with a platform that opened into the tower’s second level. No door blocked the way, just hanging strands of beads, sparkling orange in the torchlight of the room beyond. Drizzt heard giggling.
Silently, he and the cat crept up the stairs and peeked over the rim of the landing. They had come to Kessell’s harem room.
It was softly lit with torches glowing under screening shades. Most of the floor was covered with overstuffed pillows, and sections of the room were curtained off. The harem girls, Kessell’s mindless playthings, sat in a circle in the center of the floor, giggling with the uninhibited enthusiasm of children at play. Drizzt doubted that they would notice him, but even if they did, he wasn’t overly concerned. He understood right away that these pitiful, broken creatures were incapable of initiating any action against him.
He kept alert, though, especially of the curtained boudoirs. He doubted that Kessell would have put guards here, certainly none as unpredictably vicious as trolls, but he couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.
With Guenhwyvar close at his side, he slipped silently from shadow to shadow, and when the two companions had ascended the stairs and were on the landing before the door to the third level, Drizzt was more relaxed.
But then the buzzing sound that Drizzt had heard when he first entered the tower returned. It gathered strength as it continued, as though its song came from the vibrations of the very walls of the tower. Drizzt looked all around for a possible source.
Chimes hanging from the room’s ceiling began to tinkle eerily. The fires of the torches on the walls danced wildly.
Then Drizzt understood.
The structure was awakening with a life of its own. The field outside remained under the shadow of night, but the first fingers of dawn brightened the tower’s high pinnacle.
The door suddenly swung open into the third level, Kessell’s throne room.
“Well done!” cried the wizard. He was standing beyond the crystal throne across the room from Drizzt, holding an unlit candle and facing the open door. Regis stood obediently at his side, wearing a blank expression on his face.
“Please enter,” Kessell said with false courtesy. “Fear not for my trolls that you injured, they will surely heal!” He threw his head back and laughed.
Drizzt felt a fool; to think that all of his caution and stealth had served no better purpose than to amuse the wizard! He rested his hands on the hilts of his sheathed scimitars and stepped through the doorway.
Guenhwyvar remained crouched in the shadows of the stairway, partly because the wizard had said nothing to indicate that he knew of the cat, and partly because the weakened cat didn’t want to expend the energy of walking.
Drizzt halted before the throne and bowed low. The sight of Regis standing beside the wizard disturbed him more than a little, but he managed to hide that he recognized the halfling. Regis likewise had shown no familiarity when he had first seen the drow, though Drizzt couldn’t be sure if that was a conscious effort or if the halfling was under the influence of some type of enchantment.
“Greetings, Akar Kessell,” Drizzt stammered in the broken accent of denizens of the underworld, as though the common tongue of the surface was foreign to him. He figured that he might as well try the same tactics he had used against the demon. “I am sent from my people in good faith to parley with you on matters concerning our common interests.”
Kessell laughed aloud. “Are you indeed!” a wide smile spread across his face, replaced abruptly with a scowl. His eyes narrowed evilly. “I know you, dark elf! Any man who has ever lived in Ten-Towns has heard the name of Drizzt Do’Urden in tale or in jest! So keep your lies unspoken!”
“Your pardon, mighty wizard,” Drizzt said calmly, changing tactics. “In many ways, it seems, you are wiser than your demon.”
The self-assured look disappeared from Kessell’s face. He had been wondering what had prevented Errtu from answering his summons. He looked at the drow with more respect. Had this solitary warrior slain a major demon?
“Allow me to begin again,” Drizzt said. “Greetings, Akar Kessell.” He bowed low. “I am Drizzt Do’Urden, ranger of Gwaeron Windstrom, guardian of Icewind Dale. I have come to kill you.”
The scimitars leaped out of their sheaths.
But Kessell moved, too. The candle he held suddenly flickered to life.
Its flame was caught in the maze of prisms and mirrors that cluttered the entire chamber, focused and sharpened at each reflecting spot. Instantaneously with the lighting of the candle, three concentrated beams of light enclosed the drow in a triangular prison. None of the beams had touched him, but he sensed their power and dared not cross their path.
Drizzt clearly heard the tower humming as daylight filtered down its length. The room brightened considerably as several of the wall panels which had appeared mirrorlike in the torchlight showed themselves to be windows.
“Did you believe that you could walk right in here and simply dispose of me?” Kessell asked incredulously. “I am Akar Kessell, you fool! The Tyrant of Icewind Dale! I command the greatest army that has ever marched on the frozen steppes of this forsaken land!”
“Behold my army!” He waved his hand and one of the scrying mirrors came to life, revealing part of the vast encampment that surrounded the tower, complete with the shouts of the awakening camp.
Then a death cry sounded from somewhere in the unseen reaches of the field. Instinctively, both the drow and the wizard tuned their ears on the distant clamor and heard the continuing ring of battle. Drizzt looked curiously at Kessell, wondering if the wizard knew what was happening in the northern section of his camp.
Kessell answered the drow’s unspoken question with a wave of his hand. The image in the mirror clouded over with an inner fog for a moment, then shifted to the other side of the field. The shouts and clanging of the battle rang out loudly from within the depths of the scrying instrument. Then, as the mist cleared, the image of Bruenor’s clansmen, fighting back to back in the midst of a sea of goblins, came clear. The field all around the dwarves was littered with the corpses of goblins and ogres.
“You see how foolish it is to oppose me?” Kessell squealed.
“It appears to me that the dwarves have done well.”
“Nonsense!” Kessell screamed. He waved his hand again, and the fog returned to the mirror. Abruptly, the Song of Tempos resounded from within its depths. Drizzt leaned forward and strained to catch a glimpse of an image through the veil, anxious to see the leader of the song.
“Even as the stupid dwarves cut down a few of my lesser fighters, more warriors swarm to join the ranks of my army! Doom is upon you all, Drizzt Do’Urden! Akar Kessell is come!”
The fog cleared.
With a thousand fervent warriors behind him, Wulfgar approached the unsuspecting monsters. The goblins and orcs who were closest to the charging barbarians, holding unbending faith in the words of their master, cheered at the coming of their promised allies.
Then they died.
The barbarian horde drove through their ranks, singing and killing with wild abandonment. Even through the clatter of weapons, the sound of the dwarves joining in the Song of Tempos could be heard.
Wide-eyed, jaw hanging open, trembling with rage, Kessell waved the shocking image away and swung back on Drizzt. “It does not matter!” he said, fighting to keep his tone steady. “I shall deal with them mercilessly! And then Bryn Shander shall topple in flames!”
“But first, you, traitorous drow,” the wizard hissed. “Killer of your own kin, what gods have you left to pray to?” He puffed on the candle, causing its flame to dance on its side.
The angle of reflection shifted and one of the beams landed on Drizzt, boring a hole completely through the hilt of his old scimitar and then drove deeper, cutting through the black skin of his hand. Drizzt grimaced in agony and clutched at his wound as the scimitar fell to the floor and the beam returned to its original path.
“You see how easy it is?” Kessell taunted. “Your feeble mind cannot begin to imagine the power of Crenshinibon! Feel blessed that I allowed you to feel a sample of that power before you died!”
Drizzt held his jaw firm, and there was no sign of pleading in his eyes as he glared at the wizard. He had long ago accepted the possibility of death as an acceptable risk of his trade, and he was determined to die with dignity.
Kessell tried to goad the sweat out of him. The wizard swayed the deadly candle tantalizingly about, causing the rays to shift back and forth. When he finally realized that he would not hear any whimpering or begging out of the proud ranger, Kessell grew tired of the game. “Farewell, fool,” he growled and puckered his lips to puff on the flame.
Regis blew out the candle.
Everything seemed to come to a complete halt for several seconds. The wizard looked down at the halfling, whom he thought to be his slave, in horrified amazement. Regis merely shrugged his shoulders, as if he was as surprised by his uncharacteristically brave act as Kessell.
Relying on instinct, the wizard threw the silver plate that held the candle through the glass of the mirror and ran screaming toward the back corner of the room to a small ladder hidden in the shadows. Drizzt had just taken his first steps when the fires within the mirror roared. Four evil red eyes stared out, catching the drow’s attention, and two hellhounds bounded through the broken glass.
Guenhwyvar intercepted one, leaping past its master and crashing headlong into the demon hound. The two beasts tumbled back toward the rear of the room, a black and tawny-red blur of fangs and claws, knocking Regis aside.
The second dog unleashed its fire breath at Drizzt, but again, as with the demon, the fire didn’t bother the drow. Then it was his turn to strike. The fire-hating scimitar rang in ecstasy, cleaving the charging beast in half as Drizzt brought it down. Amazed at the power of the blade but not having time even to gawk at his mutilated victim, Drizzt resumed his chase.
He reached the bottom of the ladder. Up above, through the open trap door to the tower’s highest floor, came the rhythmic flashing of a throbbing light. Drizzt felt the intensity of the vibrations increasing with each pulse. The heart of Cryshal-Tirith was beating stronger with the rising sun. Drizzt understood the danger that he was heading into, but he didn’t have the time to stop and ponder the odds.
And then he was once again facing Kessell, this time in the smallest room of the structure. Between them, hanging eerily in midair, was the pulsating hunk of crystal - Cryshal-Tirith’s heart. It was four-sided and tapered like an icicle. Drizzt recognized it as a miniature replica of the tower he stood in, though it was barely a foot long.
An exact image of Crenshinibon.
A wall of light emanated from it, cutting the chamber in half, with the drow on one side and the wizard on the other. Drizzt knew from the wizard’s snicker that it was a barrier as tangible as one of stone. Unlike the cluttered scrying room below, only one mirror, appearing more like a window in the tower’s wall, adorned this room, just to the side of the wizard.
“Strike the heart, drow,” Kessell laughed. “Fool! The heart of Cryshal-Tirith is mightier than any weapon in the world! Nothing that you could ever do, magical or otherwise, could even put the slightest scratch upon its pure surface! Strike it; let your foolish impertinence be revealed!”
Drizzt had other plans, though. He was flexible and cunning enough to realize that some foes could not be defeated with force alone. There were always other options.
He sheathed his remaining weapon, the magical scimitar, and began untying the rope that secured the sack to his belt. Kessell looked on curiously, disturbed by the drow’s calm, even when his death seemed inevitable. “What are you doing?” the wizard demanded.
Drizzt didn’t reply. His actions were methodical and unshaken. He loosened the drawstring on the sack and pulled it open.
“I asked you what you were doing!” Kessell scowled as Drizzt began walking toward the heart. Suddenly the replica seemed vulnerable to the wizard. He had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps this dark elf was more dangerous than he had originally estimated.
Crenshinibon sensed it, too. The crystal shard telepathically instructed Kessell to unleash a killing bolt and be done with the drow.
But Kessell was afraid.
Drizzt neared the crystal. He tried to put his hand over it, but the light wall repulsed him. He nodded, expecting as much, and pulled back the sack’s opening as wide as it would go. His concentration was solely on the tower itself, he never looked at the wizard or acknowledged his ranting.
Then he emptied the bag of flour over the gemstone.
The tower seemed to groan in protest. It darkened.
The wall of light that separated the drow from the wizard disappeared.
But still Drizzt concentrated on the tower. He knew that the layer of suffocating flour could only block the gemstone’s powerful radiations for a short time.
Long enough, though, for him to slip the now-empty bag over it and pull the drawstring tight. Kessell wailed and lurched forward, but halted before the drawn scimitar.
“No!” the wizard cried in helpless protest. “Do you realize the consequences of what you have done?” As if in answer, the tower trembled. It calmed quickly, but both the drow and the wizard sensed the approaching danger. Somewhere in the bowels of Cryshal-Tirith, the decay had already begun.
“I understand completely,” replied Drizzt. “I have defeated you, Akar Kessell. Your short reign as self-proclaimed ruler of Ten-Towns is ended.”
“You have killed yourself, drow!” Kessell retorted as Cryshal-Tirith shuddered again, this time even more violently. “You cannot hope to escape before the tower crumbles upon you!”
The quake came again. And again.
Drizzt shrugged, unconcerned. “So be it,” he said. “My purpose is fulfilled, for you, too, shall perish.”
A sudden, crazy cackle exploded from the wizard’s lips. He spun away from Drizzt and dove at the mirror embedded in the tower wall. Instead of crashing through the glass and falling to the field below, as Drizzt expected, Kessell slipped into the mirror and was gone.
The tower shook again, and this time the trembling did not relent. Drizzt started for the trap door but could barely keep his footing. Cracks appeared along the walls.
“Regis!” he yelled, but there was no answer. Part of the wall in the room below had already collapsed; Drizzt could see the rubble at the base of the ladder. Praying that his friends had already escaped, he took the only route left open to him.
He dove through the magic mirror after Kessell.
The people of Bryn Shander heard the fighting out on the field, but it wasn’t until the lightening of full dawn that they could see what was happening. They cheered the dwarves wildly and were amazed when the barbarians crashed into Kessell’s ranks, hacking down goblins with gleeful abandon.
Cassius and Glensather, in their customary positions upon the wall, pondered the unexpected turn of events, undecided as to whether or not they should release their forces into the fray.
“Barbarians?” gawked Glensather. “Are they our friends or foes?”
“They kill orcs,” Cassius answered. “They are friends!”
Out on Maer Dualdon, Kemp and the others also heard the clang of battle, though they couldn’t see who was involved. Even more confusing, a second fight had begun, this one to the southwest, in the town of Bremen. Had the men of Bryn Shander come out and attacked? Or was Akar Kessell’s force destroying itself around him?
Then Cryshal-Tirith suddenly fell dark, its once glassy and vibrant sides taking on an opaque, deathly stillness.
“Regis,” muttered Cassius, sensing the tower’s loss of power. “If ever a hero we had!”
The tower shuddered and shook. Great cracks appeared over the length of its walls. Then it broke apart.
The monster army looked on in horrified disbelief as the bastion of the wizard they had come to worship as a god came crashing down.
The horns in Bryn Shander began to blow. Kemp’s people cheered wildly and rushed for the oars. Jensin Brent’s forward scouts signaled back the startling news to the fleet on Lac Dinneshere, who in turn relayed the message to Redwaters. Throughout the temporary sanctuaries that hid the routed people of Ten-Towns came the same command.
“Charge!”
The army assembled inside the great gates of Bryn Shander’s wall poured out of the courtyard and onto the field. The fleets of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval on Lac Dinneshere and Good Mead and Dougan’s hole in the south lifted their sails to catch the east wind and raced across the lakes. The four fleets assembled on Maer Dualdon rowed hard, bucking that same wind in their haste to get revenge.
In a whirlwind rush of chaos and surprise, the final Battle of Icewind Dale had begun.
* * * * *
Regis rolled out of the way as the embattled creatures tumbled past again, claws and fangs tearing and ripping in a desperate struggle. Normally, Guenhwyvar would have had little trouble dispatching the helldog, but in its weakened state, the cat found itself fighting for its life. The hound’s hot breath seared black fur; its great fangs bit into muscled neck.
Regis wanted to help the cat, but he couldn’t even get close enough to kick at its foe. Why had Drizzt run off so abruptly?
Guenhwyvar felt its neck being crushed by the powerful maw. The cat rolled, its greater weight taking the dog over with it. But the hold of the canine jaws was not broken. Dizziness swept over the cat from lack of air. It began to send its mind back across the planes, to its true home, though it lamented having failed its master in his time of need.
Then the tower went dark. The startled hellhound relaxed its grip slightly, and Guenhwyvar was quick to seize the opportunity. The cat planted its paws against the dog’s ribs and shoved free of the grasp, rolling away into the blackness.
The helldog scanned for its foe, but the panther’s powers of stealth were beyond even the considerable awareness of its keen senses. Then the dog saw a second quarry. A single bound took it to Regis.
Guenhwyvar was playing a game that it knew better, now. The panther was a creature of the night, a predator that struck from the blackness and killed before its prey even sensed its presence. The helldog crouched for a strike at Regis, then dropped as the panther landed heavily upon its back, claws raking deeply into the rust-colored hide.
The dog yelped only once before the killing fangs found its neck.
Mirrors cracked and shattered. A sudden hole in the floor swallowed Kessell’s throne. Blocks of crystalline rubble began falling all about as the tower shuddered in its final death throes. Screams from the harem chamber below told Regis that a similar scene of destruction was common throughout the structure. He was gladdened when he saw Guenhwyvar dispatch the helldog, but he understood the futility of the cat’s heroics. They had nowhere to run, no escape from the death of Cryshal-Tirith.
Regis called Guenhwyvar to his side.
He couldn’t see the cat’s body in the blackness, but he saw the eyes, intent upon him and circling around, as though the cat was stalking him. “What?” the halfling balked in astonishment, wondering if the stress and the wounds the dog had inflicted upon Guenhwyvar had driven the cat into madness.
A chunk of wall crashed right beside him, sending him sprawling to the floor. He saw the cat’s eyes rise high into the air; Guenhwyvar had sprung.
Dust choked him, and he felt the final collapse of the crystal tower begin. Then came a deeper darkness as the black cat engulfed him.
* * * * *
Drizzt felt himself falling.
The light was too bright, he couldn’t see. He heard nothing, not even the sound of air rushing by. Yet he knew for certain that he was falling.
And then the light dimmed in a gray mist, as though he were passing through a cloud. It all seemed so dreamlike, so completely unreal. He couldn’t recall how he had gotten into this position. He couldn’t recall his own name.
Then he dropped into a deep pile of snow and knew that he was not dreaming. He heard the howl of the wind and felt its freezing bite. He tried to stand and get a better idea of his surroundings.
And then he heard, far away and below, the screams of the raging battle. He remembered Cryshal-Tirith, remembered where he had been. There could only be one answer.
He was on top of Kelvin’s Cairn.
* * * * *
The soldiers of Bryn Shander and Easthaven, fighting arm in arm with Cassius and Glensather at their head, charged down the sloping hill and drove hard into the confused ranks of goblins. The two spokesmen had a particular goal in mind: They wanted to cut through the ranks of monsters and link up with Bruenor’s charges. On the wall a few moments before, they had seen the barbarians attempting the same strategy, and they figured that if all three armies could be brought together in flanking support, their slim chances would be greatly improved.
The goblins gave way to the assault. In their absolute dismay and surprise at the sudden turn of events, the monsters were unable to organize any semblance of a defensive line.
When the four fleets on Maer Dualdon landed just north of the ruins of Targos, they encountered the same disorganized and disoriented resistance. Kemp and the other leaders had figured that they could easily gain a foothold on the land, but their main concern was that the large goblin forces occupying Termalaine would sweep down behind them if they pushed in from the beach and cut off their only escape route.
They needn’t have worried, though. In the first stages of the battle, the goblins in Termalaine had indeed rushed out with every intention of supporting their wizard. But then Cryshal-Tirith had tumbled down. The goblins were already skeptical, having heard rumors throughout the night that Kessell had dispatched a large force to wipe out the Orcs of the Severed Tongue in the conquered city of Bremen. And when they saw the tower, the pinnacle of Kessell’s strength, crash down in ruins, they had reconsidered their alternatives, weighing the consequences of the choices before them. They fled back to the north and the safety of the open plain.
* * * * *
Blowing snow added to the heavy veil atop the mountain. Drizzt kept his eyes down, but he could hardly see his own feet as he determinedly placed one in front of the other. He still held the magical scimitar, and it glowed a pale light, as though it approved of the frigid temperatures.
The drow’s numbing body begged him to start down the mountain, and yet he was moving farther along the high face, to one of the adjacent peaks. The wind carried a disturbing sound to his ears-the cackle of insane laughter.
And then he saw the blurred form of the wizard, leaning out over the southern precipice, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening on the battlefield below.
“Kessell!” Drizzt shouted. He saw the form shift abruptly and knew that the wizard had heard him, even through the howl of the wind. “In the name of the people of Ten-Towns, I demand that you surrender to me! Quickly, now, lest this unrelenting breath of winter freeze us where we stand!”
Kessell sneered. “You still do not understand what it is you face, do you?” he asked. in amazement. “Do you truly believe that you have won this battle?”
“How the people below fare I do not yet know,” Drizzt answered. “But you are defeated! Your tower is destroyed, Kessell, and without it you are but a minor trickster!” He continued moving while they talked and was now only a few feet from the wizard, though his opponent was still a mere black blur in a gray field.
“Do you wish to know how they fare, Drow?” Kessell asked. “Then look! Witness the fall of Ten-Towns!” He reached under his cloak and pulled out a shining object - a crystal shard. The clouds seemed to recoil from it. The wind halted within the wide radius of its influence. Drizzt could see its incredible power. The drow felt the blood returning to his numbed hands in the light of the crystal. Then the gray veil was burned away, and the sky before them was clear.
“The tower destroyed?” Kessell mocked. “You have broken just one of Crenshinibon’s countless images! A sack of flour? To defeat the most powerful relic in the world? Look down upon the foolish men who dare to oppose me!”
The battlefield was spread wide before the drow. He could see the white, wind-filled sails of the boats of Caer-Dineval and Caer-Konig as they neared the western banks of Lac Dinneshere.
In the south, the fleets of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole had already docked. The sailors met no initial resistance, and even now were forming up for an inland strike. The goblins and orcs that had formed the southern half of Kessell’s ring had not witnessed the fall of Cryshal-Tirith. Though they sensed the loss of power and guidance, and as many of them remained where they were or deserted their comrades and fled as rushed around Bryn Shander’s hill to join in the battle.
Kemp’s troops were also ashore, shoving off cautiously from the beaches with a wary eye to the north. This group had landed into the thickest concentration of Kessell’s forces, but also into the area that was under the shadow of the tower, where the fall of Cryshal-Tirith had been the most disheartening. The fishermen found more goblins interested in running away than ones intent on a fight.
In the center of the field, where the heaviest fighting was taking place, the men of Ten-Towns and their allies also seemed to be faring well. The barbarians had nearly joined with the dwarves. Spurred by the might of Wulfgar’s hammer and the unrivaled courage of Bruenor, the two forces were tearing apart all that stood between them. And they would soon become even more formidable, for Cassius and Glensather were close by and moving in at a steady pace.
“By the tale my eyes tell me, your army does not fare well,” Drizzt retorted. “The ‘foolish’ men of Ten-Towns are not defeated yet!”
Kessell raised the crystal shard high above him, its light flaring to an even greater level of power. Down on the battlefield, even at the great distance, the combatants understood at once the resurgence of the powerful presence they had known as Cryshal-Tirith. Human, dwarf, and goblinalike, even those locked in mortal combat, paused for a second to look at the beacon on the mountain. The monsters, sensing the return of their god, cheered wildly and abandoned their heretofore defensive posture. Encouraged by the glorious reappearance of Kessell, they pressed the attack with savage fury.
“You see how my mere presence incites them!” Kessell boasted proudly.
But Drizzt wasn’t paying attention - to the wizard or the battle below.
He was standing in puddles of water now from snow melting under the warmth of the shining relic. He was intent on a noise that his keen ears had caught among the clatter of the distant fighting. A rumble of protest from the frozen peaks of Kelvin’s Cairn.
“Behold the glory of Akar Kessell!” the wizard cried, his voice magnified to deafening proportions by the power of the relic he held. “How easy it shall be for me to destroy the boats on the lake below!”
Drizzt realized that Kessell, in his arrogant disregard for the dangers growing around him, was making a flagrant mistake. All that he had to do was delay the wizard from taking any decisive actions for the next few moments. Reflexively, he grabbed the dagger at the back of his belt and flung it at Kessell, though he knew that Kessell was joined in some perverted symbiosis with Crenshinibon and that the small weapon had no chance of hitting its mark. The drow was hoping to distract and anger the wizard to divert his fury away from the battlefield.
The dagger sped through the air. Drizzt turned and ran.
A thin beam shot out from Crenshinibon and melted the weapon before it found its mark, but Kessell was outraged. “’You should bow down before me!” he screamed at Drizzt. “Blasphemous dog, you have earned the distinction of being my first victim of the day!” He swung the shard away from the ledge to point it at the fleeing drow. But as he spun he sank, suddenly up to his knees in the melting snow.
Then he, too, heard the angry rumbles of the mountain.
Drizzt broke free of the relic’s sphere of influence and without hesitating to look back, he ran, putting as much distance between himself and the southern face of Kelvin’s Cairn as he could.
Immersed up to his chest now, Kessell struggled to get free of the watery snow. He called upon the power of Crenshinibon again, but his concentration wavered under the intense stress of impending doom.
Akar Kessell felt weak again for the first time in years. Not the Tyrant of Icewind Dale, but the bumbling apprentice who had murdered his teacher.
As if the crystal shard had rejected him.
Then the entire side of the mountain’s snow cap fell. The rumble shook the land for many miles around. Men and orcs, goblins and even ogres, were thrown to the ground.
Kessell clutched the shard close to him when he began to fall. But Crenshinibon burned his hands, pushed him away. Kessell had failed too many times. The relic would no longer accept him as its wielder.
Kessell screamed when he felt the shard slipping through his fingers. His shriek, though, was drowned out by the thunder of the avalanche. The cold darkness of snow closed around him, falling, tumbling with him on the descent. Kessell desperately believed that if he still held the crystal shard, he could survive even this. Small comfort when he settled onto a lower peak of Kelvin’s Cairn.
And half of the mountain’s cap landed on top of him.
* * * * *
The monster army had seen their god fall again. The thread that had incited their momentum quickly began to unravel. But in the time that Kessell had reappeared, some measure of coordinating activity had taken place. Two frost giants, the only remaining true giants in the wizard’s entire army, had taken command. They called the elite ogre guard to their side and then called for the orc and goblin tribes to gather around them and follow their lead.
Still, the dismay of the army was obvious. Tribal rivalries that had been buried under the iron-fisted domination of Akar Kessell resurfaced in the form of blatant mistrust. Only fear of their enemies kept them fighting, and only fear of the giants held them in line beside the other tribes.
“Well met, Bruenor!” Wulfgar sang out, splattering another goblin head, as the barbarian horde finally broke through to the dwarves.
“An’ to yerself, boy!” the dwarf replied, burying his axe into the chest of his own opponent. “Time’s almost passed that ye got back! I thought that I’d have to kill yer share o’ the scum, too!”
Wulfgar’s attention was elsewhere, though. He had discovered the two giants commanding the force. “Frost giants,” he told Bruenor, directing the dwarf’s gaze to the ring of ogres. “They are all that hold the tribes together!”
“Better sport!” Bruenor laughed. “Lead on!”
And so, with his principle attendants and Bruenor beside him, the young king started smashing a path through the goblin ranks.
The ogres crowded in front of their newfound commanders to block the barbarian’s path.
Wulfgar was close enough by then.
Aegis-Fang whistled past the ogre ranks and took one of the giants in the head, dropping it lifeless to the ground. The other, gawking in disbelief that a human had been able to deliver such a deadly blow against one of its kind from such a distance, hesitated for only a brief moment before it fled the battle.
Undaunted, the vicious ogres charged in on Wulfgar’s group, pushing them back. But Wulfgar was satisfied, and he willingly gave ground before the press, anxious to rejoin the bulk of the human and dwarven army.
Bruenor wasn’t so willing, though. This was the type of chaotic fighting that he most enjoyed. He disappeared under the long legs of the leading line of ogres and moved, unseen in the dust and confusion, among their ranks.
From the corner of his eye, Wulfgar saw the dwarf’s odd departure. “Where are you off to?” he shouted after him, but battle-hungry Bruenor couldn’t hear the call and wouldn’t have heeded it anyway.
Wulfgar couldn’t view the flight of the wild dwarf, but he could approximate Bruenor’s position, or at least where the dwarf had just been, as ogre after ogre doubled over in surprised agony, clutching a knee, hamstring, or groin.
Above all of the commotion, those orcs and goblins who weren’t engaged in direct combat kept a watchful eye on Kelvin’s Cairn, awaiting the second resurgence.
But, settled now on the lower slopes of the mountain, there was only snow.
* * * * *
Lusting for revenge, the fighting men of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval brought their ships in under full sail, sliding them up recklessly onto the sands of the shallows to avoid the delays of mooring in deeper waters. They leaped from the boats and splashed ashore, rushing into the battle with a fearless frenzy that drove their opponents away.
Once they had established themselves on the land, Jensin Brent brought them together in a tight formation and turned them south. The spokesman heard the fighting far off in that direction and knew that the men of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole were cutting a swath north to join up with his men. His plan was to meet them on the Eastway and then drive westward toward Bryn Shander with his reinforced numbers.
Many of the goblins on this side of the city had long since fled, and many more had gone northwest to the ruins of Cryshal-Tirith and the main fighting. The army of Lac Dinneshere made good speed toward their goal. They reached the road with few losses and dug in to wait for the southerners.
* * * * *
Kemp watched anxiously for the signal from the lone ship sailing on the waters of Maer Dualdon. The spokesman from Targos, appointed commander of the forces of the four cities of the lake, had moved cautiously thus far for fear of a heavy assault from the north. He held his men in check, allowing them to fight only the monsters that came to them, though this conservative stance, with the sounds of raging battle howling across the field, was tearing at his adventurous heart.
As the minutes had dragged along with no sign of goblin reinforcements, the spokesman had sent a small schooner to run up the coastline and find out what was delaying the occupying force in Termalaine.
Then he spied the white sails gliding into view. Riding high upon the small ship’s bow was the signal flag that Kemp had most desired but least expected: The red banner of the catch, though in this instance, it signaled that Termalaine was clear and the goblins were fleeing northward.
Kemp ran to the highest spot he could find, his face flushed with a vengeful desire. “Break the line, boys!” he shouted to his men. “Cut me a swath to the city on the hill! Let Cassius come back and find us sitting on the doorstep of his town!”
They shouted wildly with every step, men who had lost homes and kin and seen their cities burned out from under them. Many of them had nothing left to lose. All that they could hope to gain was a small taste of bitter satisfaction.
* * * * *
The battle raged for the remainder of the morning. Man and monster alike lifting swords and spears that seemed to have doubled their weight. Yet exhaustion, though it slowed their reflexes, did nothing to temper the anger that burned in the blood of every combatant.
The battlelines grew indistinguishable as the fighting wore on, with troops getting hopelessly separated from their commanders. In many places, goblins and orcs fought against each other, unable, even with a common foe so readily available, to sublimate their long-standing hatred for the rival tribes. A thick cloud of dust enveloped the heaviest concentrations of fighting; the dizzying clamor of steel grating on steel, swords banging against shields, and the expanding screams of death, agony, and victory degenerated the structured clash into an all out brawl.
The sole exception was the group of battle-seasoned dwarves. Their ranks did not waver or disintegrate in the least, though Bruenor had not yet returned to them after his strange exit.
The dwarves provided a solid platform for the barbarians to strike from and for Wulfgar and his small group to mark for their return. The young king was back among the ranks of his men just as Cassius and his force linked up. The spokesman and Wulfgar exchanged intent stares, neither certain of where he stood with the other. Both were wise enough to trust fully in their alliance for the present, though. Both understood that intelligent foes put aside their differences in the face of a greater enemy.
Supporting each other would be the only advantage that the newly banded allies enjoyed. Together, they outnumbered and could overwhelm any individual orc or goblin tribe they faced. And since the goblin tribes would not work in unison, each group had no external support on its flanks. Wulfgar and Cassius, following and supporting each other’s movements, sent out defensive spurs of warriors to hold off perimeter groups, while the main force of the combined army blasted through one tribe at a time.
Though his troops had cut down better than ten goblins for every man they had lost, Cassius was truly concerned. Thousands of the monsters had not even come in contact with the humans or raised a weapon yet, and his men were nearly dropping with fatigue. He had to get them back to the city. He let the dwarves lead the way.
Wulfgar, also apprehensive about his warriors’ ability to maintain their pace, and knowing that there was no other escape route, instructed his men to follow Cassius and the dwarves. This was a gamble, for the barbarian king wasn’t even certain that the people of Bryn Shander would let his warriors into the city.
Kemp’s force had made impressive initial headway in their charge to the slopes of the principle city, but as they neared their goal, they ran up against heavier and more desperate concentrations of humanoids. Barely a hundred yards from the hill, they were bogged down and fighting on all sides.
The armies rolling in from the east had done better. Their rush down the Eastway had met with little resistance, and they were the first to reach the hill. They had sailed madly across the breadth of the lakes and ran and fought all the way across the plain, yet Jensin Brent, the lone surviving spokesman of the original four, for Schermont and the two from the southern cities had fallen on the Eastway, would not let them rest. He clearly heard the heated battle and knew that the brave men in the northern fields, facing the mass of Kessell’s army, needed any support they could get.
Yet when the spokesman led his troops around the final bend to the city’s north gate, they froze in their tracks and looked upon the spectacle of the most brutal battle they had ever seen or even heard of in exaggerated tales. Combatants battled atop the hacked bodies of the fallen, fighters who had somehow lost their weapons bit and scratched at their opponents.
Brent surmised at once that Cassius and his large force would be able to make it back to the city on their own. The armies of Maer Dualdon, though, were in a tight spot.
“To the west!” he cried to his men as he charged toward the trapped force. A new surge of adrenalin sent the weary army in full flight to the rescue of their comrades. On orders from Brent, they came down off of the slopes in a long, side-by-side line, but when they reached the battlefield, only the middle group continued forward. The groups at the ends of the formation collapsed into the middle, and the whole force had soon formed a wedge, its tip breaking all the way through the monsters to reach Kemp’s embattled armies.
Kemp’s men eagerly accepted the lifeline, and the united force was soon able to retreat to the northern face of the hill. The last stragglers stumbled in at the same time as the army of Cassius, Wulfgar’s barbarians, and the dwarves broke free of the closest ranks of goblins and climbed the open ground of the hill.
Now, with the humans and dwarves joined as one force, the goblins moved in tentatively. Their losses had been staggering. No giants or ogres remained, and several entire tribes of goblins and orcs lay dead. Cryshal-Tirith was a pile of blackened rubble, and Akar Kessell was buried in a frozen grave.
The men on Bryn Shander’s hill were battered and wobbly with exhaustion, yet the grim set of their jaws told the remaining monsters unequivocally that they would fight on to their last breath. They had backed into the final corner, there would be no further retreat.
Doubts crept into the mind of every goblin and orc that remained to carry on the war. Though their numbers were still probably sufficient to complete the task, many more of them would yet fall before the fierce men of Ten-Towns and their deadly allies would be put down. Even then, which of the surviving tribes would claim victory? Without the guidance of the wizard, the survivors of the battle would certainly be hard-pressed to fairly divide the spoils without further fighting.
The Battle of Icewind Dale had not followed the course that Akar Kessell had promised.
The men of Ten-Towns, along with their dwarven and barbarian allies, had fought their way from all sides of the wide field and now stood unified before the northern gate of Bryn Shander. And while their army had achieved a singular fighting stance, with all of the once-separate groups banded together toward the common goal of survival, Kessell’s army had gone down the opposite road. When the goblins had first charged into Icewind Pass, their common purpose was victory for the glory of Akar Kessell. But Kessell was gone and Cryshal-Tirith destroyed, and the cord that had held together the long-standing bitter enemies, the rival orc and goblin tribes, had begun to unravel.
The humans and dwarves looked upon the mass of invaders with returning hope, for on all the outer fringes of the vast force dark shapes continued to break away and flee from the battlefield and back to the tundra.
Still, the defenders of Ten-Towns were surrounded on three sides with their backs to Bryn Shander’s wall. At this point the monsters made no move to press the attack, but thousands of goblins held their positions all around the northern fields of the city.
Earlier in the battle, when the initial attacks had caught the invaders by surprise, the leaders of the engaged defending forces would have considered such a lull in the fighting disastrous, stealing their momentum and allowing their stunned enemies to regroup into more favorable formations.
Now, though, the break came as a two-fold blessing: It gave the soldiers a desperately needed rest and let the goblins and orcs fully absorb the beating they had taken. The field on this side of the city was littered with corpses, many more goblin than human, and the crumbled pile that was Cryshal-Tirith only heightened the monsters’ perceptions of their staggering losses. No giants or ogres remained to bolster their thinning lines, and each passing second saw more of their allies desert the cause.
Cassius had time to call all of the surviving spokesmen to his side for a brief council.
A short distance away, Wulfgar and Revjak were meeting with Fender Mallot, the appointed leader of the dwarven forces in light of Bruenor’s disturbing absence.
“Glad we are o’ yer return, mighty Wulfgar,” Fender said. “Bruenor knew ye’d be back.”
Wulfgar looked out over the field, searching for some sign that Bruenor was still out there swinging. “Have you any news of Bruenor at all?”
“Ye, yerself, were the last to see ‘im,” Fender replied grimly.
And then they were silent, scanning the field.
“Let me hear again the ring of your axe,” Wulfgar whispered.
But Bruenor could not hear him.
* * * * *
“Jensin,” Cassius asked the spokesman from Caer-Dineval, “where are your womenfolk and children? Are they safe?”
“Safe in Easthaven,” Jensin Brent replied. “Joined, by now, by the people of Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole. They are well-provisioned and watched. If Kessell’s wretches make for the town, the people shall know of the danger with ample time left for them to put back out onto Lac Dinneshere.”
“But how long could they survive on the water?” Cassius asked.
Jensin Brent shrugged noncommittally. “Until the winter falls, I should guess. They shall always have a place to land, though, for the remaining goblins and orcs could not possibly encompass even half of the lake’s shoreline.”
Cassius seemed satisfied. He turned to Kemp.
“Lonelywood,” Kemp answered to his unspoken question. “And I’ll wager that they’re better off than we are! They’ve enough boats in dock there to found a city in the middle of Maer Dualdon.”
“That is good,” Cassius told them. “It leaves yet another option open to us. We could, perhaps, hold our ground here for a while, then retreat back within the walls of the city. The goblins and orcs, even with their greater numbers, couldn’t hope to conquer us there!”
The idea seemed to appeal to Jensin Brent, but Kemp scowled. “So our folk may be safe enough,” he said, “but what of the barbarians?”
“Their women are sturdy and capable of surviving without them,” Cassius replied.
“I care not the least for their foul-smelling women,” Kemp blustered, purposely raising his voice so that Wulfgar and Revjak, holding their own council not far away, could hear him. “I speak of these wild dogs, themselves! Surely you’re not going to open your door wide in invitation to them!”
Proud Wulfgar started toward the spokesmen.
Cassius turned angrily on Kemp. “Stubborn ass!” he whispered harshly.
“Our only hope lies in unity!”
“Our only hope lies in attacking!” Kemp retorted. “We have them terrified, and you ask us to run and hide!”
The huge barbarian king stepped up before the two spokesmen, towering above them. “Greetings, Cassius of Bryn Shander,” he said politely. “I am Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, and leader of the tribes who have come to join in your noble cause.”
“What could your kind possibly know of nobility?” Kemp interrupted.
Wulfgar ignored him. “I have overheard much of your discussion,” he continued, unshaken. “It is my judgment that your ill-mannered and ungrateful advisor,” he paused for control, “has proposed the only solution.”
Cassius, still expecting Wulfgar to be enraged at Kemp’s insults, was at first confused.
“Attack,” Wulfgar explained. “The goblins are uncertain now of what gains they can hope to make. They wonder why they ever followed the evil wizard to this place of doom. If they are allowed to find their battle-lust again, they will prove a more formidable foe.”
“I thank you for your words, barbarian king,” Cassius replied. “Yet it is my guess that this rabble will not be able to support a siege. They will leave the fields before a week has passed.”
“Perhaps,” said Wulfgar. “Yet even then your people shall pay dearly. The goblins leaving of their own choice will not return to their caves empty-handed. There are still several unprotected cities that they could strike at on their way out of Icewind Dale.
“And, worse yet, they shall not leave with fear in their eyes. Your retreat shall save the lives of some of your men, Cassius, but it will not prevent the future return of your enemies!”
“Then you agree that we should attack?” Cassius asked.
“Our enemies have come to fear us. They look about and see the ruin we have brought down upon them. Fear is a powerful tool, especially against cowardly goblins. Let us complete the rout, as your people did to mine five years ago. . .” Cassius recognized the pain in Wulfgar’s eyes as he recalled the incident, “. . . and send these foul beasts scurrying back to their mountain homes! Many years shall pass before they venture out to strike at your towns again.”
Cassius looked upon the young barbarian with profound respect, and also deep curiosity. He could hardly believe that these proud tundra warriors, who vividly remembered the slaughter they had suffered at the hands of Ten-Towns, had come to the aid of the fishing communities. “My people did indeed rout yours, noble king. Brutally. Why, then, have you come?”
“That is a matter we shall discuss after we have completed our task,” Wulfgar answered. “Now, let us sing! Let us strike terror into the hearts of our enemies and break them!”
He turned to Revjak and some of his other leaders. “Sing, proud warriors!” he commanded. “Let the Song of Tempos foretell the death of the goblins!” A rousing cheer went up throughout the barbarian ranks, and they lifted their voices proudly to their god of war.
Cassius noted the immediate effect the song had on the closest monsters. They backed away a step and clutched their weapons tightly.
A smile crossed the spokesman’s face. He still couldn’t understood the barbarians’ presence, but explanations would have to wait. “Join our barbarian allies!” he shouted to his soldiers. “Today is a day of victory!”
The dwarves had taken up the grim war chant of their ancient homeland. The fishermen of Ten-Towns followed the words of the Song of Tempos, tentatively at first, until the foreign inflections and phrases easily rolled from their lips. And then they joined in fully, proclaiming the glory of their individual towns as the barbarians did of their tribes.
The tempo increased, the volume moved toward a powerful crescendo. The goblins trembled at the growing frenzy of their deadly enemies. The stream of deserters flowing away from the edges of the main gathering grew thicker and thicker.
And then, as one killing wave the human and dwarven allies charged down the hill.
* * * * *
Drizzt had been able to scramble far enough away from the southern face to escape the fury of the avalanche, but he still found himself in a dangerous predicament. Kelvin’s Cairn wasn’t a high mountain, but the top third was perpetually covered with deep snow and brutally exposed to the icy wind that gave this land its name.
Even worse for the drow, his feet had gotten wet in the melt caused by Crenshinibon, and now, as the moisture hardened around his skin to ice, movement through the snow was painful.
He resolved to plod on, making for the western face which offered the best protection against the wind. His motions were violent and exaggerated, expending all of the energy that he could to keep the circulation flowing through his veins. When he reached the lip of the mountain’s peak and started down, he had to move more tentatively, fearing that any sudden jolts would deliver him into the same grim fate that had befallen Akar Kessell.
His legs were completely numb now, but he kept them moving, almost having to force his automatic reflexes.
But then he slipped.
* * * * *
Wulfgar’s fierce warriors were the first to crash into the goblin line, hacking anal pushing back the first rank of monsters. Neither goblin nor orc dared stand before the mighty king, but in the crowded confusion of the fighting few could find their way out of his path. One after another they fell to the ground.
Fear had all but paralyzed the goblins, and their slight hesitation had spelled doom for the first groups to encounter the savage barbarians.
Yet the downfall of the army ultimately came from further back in the ranks. The tribes who had not even been involved in the fighting began to ponder the wisdom of continuing this campaign, for they recognized that they had gained enough of an advantage over their homeland rivals, weakened by heavy losses, to expand their territories back in the Spine of the World. Shortly after the second outburst of fighting had begun, the dust cloud of stamping feet once again rose above Icewind Pass as dozens of orc and goblin tribes headed home.
And the effect of the mass desertions on those goblins who could not easily flee was devastating. Even the most dim-witted goblin understood its people’s chance for victory against the stubborn defenders of Ten-Towns lay in the overwhelming weight of their numbers.
Aegis-fang thudded repeatedly as Wulfgar, charging in alone, swept a path of devastation before him. Even the men of Ten-Towns shied away from him, unnerved by his savage strength. But his own people looked upon him with awe and tried their best to follow his glorious lead.
Wulfgar waded in on a group of orcs. Aegis-fang slammed home on one, killing it and knocking those behind it to the ground. Wulfgar’s backswing with the hammer produced the same results on his other flank. In one burst, more than half of the group of orcs were killed or lying stunned.
Those remaining had no desire to move in on the mighty human.
Glensather of Easthaven also waded in on a group of goblins, hoping to incite his people with the same fury as his barbarian counterpart. But Glensather wasn’t an imposing giant like Wulfgar, and he didn’t wield a weapon as mighty as Aegis-fang. His sword cut down the first goblin he encountered, then spun back deftly and felled a second. The spokesman had done well, but one element was missing from his attack-the critical factor that elevated Wulfgar above other men. Glensather had killed two goblins, but he had not caused the chaos in their ranks that he needed to continue. Instead of fleeing, as they did before Wulfgar, the remaining goblins pressed in behind him.
Glensather had just come up beside the barbarian king when the cruel tip of a spear dove into his back and tore through, driving out the front of his chest.
Witnessing the gruesome spectacle, Wulfgar brought Aegis-fang over the spokesman, driving the head of the spear-wielding goblin down into its chest. Glensather heard the hammer connect behind him and even managed to smile his thanks before he fell dead to the grass.
The dwarves worked differently than their allies. Once again formed into their tight, supportive formation, they mowed down rows of goblins simultaneously. And the fishermen, fighting for the lives of their women and children, fought, and died, without fear.
In less than an hour, every group of goblins had been smashed, and half an hour after that, the last of the monsters fell dead to the blood-stained field.
* * * * *
Drizzt rode the white wave of falling snow down the side of the mountain. He tumbled helplessly, trying to brace himself whenever he saw the jutting tip of a boulder in his path. As he neared the base of the snowcap, he was thrown clear of the slide and sent bouncing through the gray rocks and boulders, as though the mountain’s proud, unconquerable peaks had spit him out like an uninvited guest.
His agility - and a strong dose of pure luck - saved him. When he at last was able to stop his momentum and find a perch, he discovered that his numerous injuries were superficial; a scrape on his knee, a bloodied nose, and a sprained wrist being the worst of them. In retrospect, Drizzt had to consider the small avalanche a blessing, for he had made swift progress down the mountain, and he wasn’t even certain that he could have otherwise escaped Kessell’s frosty fate without it.
The battle in the south had begun again by this time. Hearing the sounds of the fighting, Drizzt watched curiously as thousands of goblins passed by on the other side of the dwarven valley, running up Icewind Pass on the first legs of their long journey home. The drow couldn’t be sure of what was happening, though he was familiar with the cowardly reputation of goblins.
He didn’t give it too much thought, though, for the battle was no longer his first concern. His vision followed a narrow path, to the mound of broken black stonework that had been Cryshal-Tirith. He finished his descent from Kelvin’s Cairn and headed down Bremen’s Run-toward the rubble.
He had to find out if Regis or Guenhwyvar had escaped.
* * * * *
Victory.
It seemed a small comfort to Cassius, Kemp, and Jensin Brent as they looked around at the carnage on the scarred field. They were the only three spokesmen to have survived the struggle; seven others had been cut down.
“We have won,” Cassius declared grimly. He watched helplessly as more soldiers fell dead, men who had suffered mortal wounds earlier in the battle but had refused to fall down and die until they had seen it through. More than half of all the men of Ten-Towns lay dead, and many more would later die, for nearly half of those still alive had been grievously wounded. Four towns had been burned to the ground and another one looted and torn apart by occupying goblins.
They had paid a terrible price for their victory.
The barbarians, too, had been decimated. Mostly young and inexperienced, they had fought with the tenacity of their breeding and died accepting their fate as a glorious ending to their life’s tale.
Only the dwarves, disciplined by many battles, had come through relatively unscathed. Several had been slain, a few others wounded, but most were all too ready to take up the fight again if only they could have found more goblins to bash! Their one great lament, though, was that Bruenor was missing.
“Go to your people,” Cassius told his fellow spokesmen. “Then return this evening to council. Kemp shall speak for all the people of the four towns of Maer Dualdon, Jensin Brent for the people of the other lakes.”
“We have much to decide and little time to do it,” Jensin Brent said.
“Winter is fast approaching.”
“We shall survive!” Kemp declared with his characteristic defiance. But then he was aware of the sullen looks his peers had cast upon him, and he conceded a bit to their realism. “Though it will be a bitter struggle.”
“So it shall be for my people,” said another voice. The three spokesmen turned to see the giant Wulfgar striding out from the dusty, surrealistic scene of carnage. The barbarian was caked in dirt and spattered with the blood of his enemies, but he looked every bit the noble king. “I request an invitation to your council, Cassius. There is much that our people can offer to each other in this harsh time.”
Kemp growled. “If we need beasts of burden, we’ll buy oxen.”
Cassius shot Kemp a dangerous look and addressed his unexpected ally.
“You may indeed join the council, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. For your aid this day, my people owe yours much. Again I ask you, why did you come?”
For the second time that day, Wulfgar ignored Kemp’s insults. “To repay a debt,” he replied to Cassius. “And perhaps to better the lives of both our peoples.”
“By killing goblins?” Jensin Brent asked, suspecting that the barbarian had more in mind.
“A beginning,” Wulfgar answered. “Yet there is much more that we may accomplish. My people know the tundra better than even the yetis. We understand its ways and know how to survive. Your people would benefit from our friendship, especially in the hard times that lay ahead for you.”
“Bah!” Kemp snorted, but Cassius silenced him. The spokesman from Bryn Shander was intrigued by the possibilities.
“And what would your people gain from such a union?”
“A connection,” Wulfgar answered. “A link to a world of luxuries that we have never known. The tribes hold a dragon’s treasure in their hands, but gold and jewels do not provide warmth on a winter night, nor food when game is scarce.” “Your people have much rebuilding to do. My people have the wealth to assist in that task. In return, Ten-Towns will deliver my people into a better life.” Cassius and Jensin Brent nodded approvingly as Wulfgar laid out his plan.
“Finally, and perhaps most important,” the barbarian concluded, “is the fact that we need each other, for the present at least. Both of our peoples have been weakened and are vulnerable to the dangers of this land. Together, our remaining strength would see us through the winter.”
“You intrigue and surprise me,” Cassius said. “Attend the council, then, with my personal welcome, and let us put in motion a plan that will benefit ail who have survived the struggle against Akar Kessell!”
As Cassius turned, Wulfgar grabbed Kemp’s shirt with one of his huge hands and easily hoisted the spokesman from Targos off the ground. Kemp swatted at the muscled forearm, but realized that he had no chance of breaking the barbarian’s iron grip. Wulfgar glared at him dangerously. “For now,” he said, “I am responsible for all of my people. Thus have I disregarded your insults. But when the day comes that I am no longer king, you would do well to cross my path no more!” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the spokesman to the ground.
Kemp, too intimidated for the present to be angry or embarrassed, sat where he landed and did not respond. Cassius and Brent nudged each other and shared a low chuckle.
It only lasted until they saw the girl approaching, her arm in a bloody sling and her face and auburn hair caked with layers of dust. Wulfgar saw her, too, and the sight of her wounds pained him more than his own ever could.
“Catti-brie!” he cried, rushing to her. She calmed him with an outstretched palm.
“I am not badly injured,” she assured Wulfgar stoically, though it was obvious to the barbarian that she had been sorely injured. “Though I dare not think of what would have befallen me if Bruenor had not arrived!”
“You have seen Bruenor?”
“In the tunnels,” Cacti-brie explained. “Some orcs found their way in - perhaps I should have collapsed the tunnel. Yet there weren’t many, and I could hear that the dwarves were doing well on the field above.
“Bruenor came down then, but there were more orcs at his back. A support beam collapsed; I think Bruenor cut it out, and there was too much dust and confusion.”
“And Bruenor?” Wulfgar asked anxiously.
Catti-brie looked back across the field. “Out there. He has asked for you.”
* * * * *
By the time Drizzt reached the rubble that had been Cryshal-Tirith, the battle was over. The sights and sounds of the horrible aftermath pressed in all about him, but his goal remained unchanged. He started up the side of the broken stones.
In truth, the drow thought himself a fool for following such a hopeless cause. Even if Regis and Guenhwyvar hadn’t gotten out of the tower, how could he possibly hope to find them?
He pressed on stubbornly, refusing to give in to the inescapable logic that scolded him. This was where he differed from his people, this was what had driven him, finally, from the unbroken darkness of their vast cities. Drizzt Do’Urden allowed himself to feel compassion.
He moved up the side of the rubble and began digging around the debris with his bare hands. Larger blocks prevented him from going very deep into the pile, yet he did not yield, even squeezing into precariously tight and unstable crevices. He used his burned left hand little, and soon his right was bleeding from scraping. But he continued on, moving first around the pile, then scaling higher.
He was rewarded for his persistence, for his emotions. When he reached the top of the ruins, he felt a familiar aura of magical power. It guided him to a small crevice between two stones. He reached in tentatively, hoping to find the object intact, and pulled out the small feline figurine. His fingers trembled as he examined it for damage. But he found none - the magic within the object had resisted the weight of the stones.
The drow’s feelings at the find were mixed, however. Though he was relieved that Guenhwyvar had apparently survived, the presence of the figurine told him that Regis had probably not escaped to the field. His heart sank. And sank even farther when a sparkle within the same crevice caught his eye. He reached in and pulled out the golden chain with the ruby pendent, and his fears were confirmed.
“A fitting tomb for you, brave little friend,” he said somberly, and he decided at that moment to name the pile Regis’s Cairn. He could not understand, though, what had happened to separate the halfling from his necklace, for there was no blood or anything else on the chain to indicate that Regis had been wearing it when he died.
“Guenhwyvar,” he called. “Come to me, my shadow.” He felt the familiar sensations in the figurine as he placed it on the ground before him. Then the black mist appeared and formed into the great cat, unharmed and somewhat restored by the few hours it had spent back on its own plane.
Drizzt moved quickly toward his feline companion, but then he stopped as a second mist appeared a short distance away and began to solidify.
Regis.
The halfling sat with his eyes closed and his mouth opened wide, as though he was about to take an enjoyable and enormous bite out of some unseen delicacy. One of his hands was clenched to the side of his eager jowls, and the other open before him.
As his mouth snapped shut on empty air, his eyes snapped open in surprise. “Drizzt!” he groaned. “Really, you should ask before you steal me away! This perfectly marvelous cat had caught me the juiciest meal!”
Drizzt shook his head and smiled with a mixture of relief and disbelief.
“Oh, splendid,” Regis cried. “You have found my gemstone. I thought that I had lost it; for some reason it didn’t make the journey with the cat and me.”
Drizzt handed the ruby back to him. The cat could take someone along on its travels through the planes? Drizzt resolved to explore this facet of Guenhwyvar’s power later.
He stroked the cat’s neck, then released it back to its own world where it could further recuperate. “Come, Regis,” he said grimly. “Let us see where we might be of assistance.”
Regis shrugged resignedly and stood to follow the drow. When they crested the top of the ruins and saw the carnage spread out below them, the halfling realized the enormity of the destruction. His legs nearly faltered under him, but he managed, with some help from his agile friend, to make the descent.
“We won?” he asked Drizzt when they neared the level of the field, unsure if the people of Ten-Towns had labeled what he saw before him victory or defeat.
“We survived,” Drizzt corrected.
A shout went up suddenly as a group of fishermen, seeing the two companions, rushed toward them, yelling with abandon. “Wizard-slayer and tower-breaker!” they cried.
Drizzt, ever humble, lowered his eyes.
“Hail Regis,” the men continued, “the hero of Ten-Towns!”
Drizzt turned a surprised but amused eye on his friend. Regis merely shrugged helplessly, acting as much the victim of the error as Drizzt.
The men caught hold the halfling and hoisted him to their shoulders. “We shall carry you in glory to the council taking place within the city!” one proclaimed. “You, above all others, should have a say in the decisions that will be made!” Almost as an afterthought, the man said to Drizzt. “You can come too, drow.”
Drizzt declined. “All hail Regis,” he said, a smile splayed across his face. “Ah, little friend, ever you have the fortune to find gold in the mud where others wallow!” He clapped the halfling on the back and stood aside as the procession began.
Regis looked back over his shoulder and rolled his eyes as though he were merely going along for the ride.
But Drizzt knew better.
* * * * *
The drow’s amusement was short-lived.
Before he had even moved away from the spot, two dwarves hailed him.
“It is good that we have found ye, friend elf,” said one. The drow knew at once that they bore grim news.
“Bruenor?” he asked.
The dwarves nodded. “He lies near death, even now he might be gone. He has asked for ye.”
Without another word, the dwarves led Drizzt across the field to a small tent they had set up near their tunnel exits and escorted him in.
Inside candles flickered softly. Beyond the single cot, against the wall opposite the entrance, stood Wulfgar and Catti-brie, their heads bent reverently.
Bruenor lay on the cot, his head and chest wrapped in bloodstained bandages. His breathing was raspy and shallow, as though each breath would be his last. Drizzt moved solemnly to his side, stoically determined to hold back the uncharacteristic tears that welled in his lavender eyes. Bruenor would prefer strength.
“Is it . . . the elf?” Bruenor gasped when he saw the dark form over him.
“I have come, dearest of friends,” Drizzt replied.
“To see . . . me on me way?”
Drizzt couldn’t honestly answer so blunt a question. “On your way?” He forced a laugh from his constricting throat. “You have suffered worse! I’ll hear no talk of dying - who then would find Mithril Hall?”
“Ah, my home ... .” Bruenor settled back at the name and seemed to relax, almost as if he felt that his dreams would carry him through the dark journey before him. “Ye’re to come with me, then?”
“Of course,” Drizzt agreed. He looked to Wulfgar and Catti-brie for support, but lost in their own grief, they kept their eyes averted.
“But not now, no, no,” Bruenor explained. “Wouldn’t do with the winter so close!” He coughed. “In the spring. Yes, in the spring.” His voice trailed away, and his eyes closed.
“Yes, my friend,” Drizzt agreed. “In the spring. I shall see you to your home in the spring!”
Bruenor’s eyes cracked open again, their deathly glaze washed away by a hint of the old sparkle. A contented smile widened across the dwarf’s face, and Drizzt was happy that he had been able to comfort his dying friend.
The drow looked back to Wulfgar and Catti-brie and they, too, were smiling. At each other, Drizzt noted curiously.
Suddenly, to Drizzt’s surprise and horror, Bruenor sat up and tore away the bandages.
“There!” he roared to the amusement of the others in the tent. “Ye’ve said it, and I have witnesses to the fact!”
Drizzt, after nearly falling over with the initial shock, scowled at Wulfgar. The barbarian and Catti-brie fought hard to subdue their laughter.
Wulfgar shrugged, and a chuckle escaped. “Bruenor said that he would cut me down to the height of a dwarf if I said a word!”
“And so he would have!” Catti-brie added. The two of them made a hasty exit. “A council in Bryn Shander,” Wulfgar explained hastily. Outside the tent, their laughter erupted unheeded.
“Damn you, Bruenor Battlehammer!” the drow scowled. Then unable to stop himself, he threw his arms around the barrel-shaped dwarf and hugged him.
“Get it over with,” Bruenor groaned, accepting the embrace. “But be quick. We’ve a lot o’ work to do through the winter! Spring’ll be here sooner than ye think, and on the first warm day we leave for Mithril Hall!”
“Wherever that might be,” Drizzt laughed, too relieved to be angered by the trick.
“We’ll make it, drow!” Bruenor cried. “We always do!”
The people of Ten-Towns and their barbarian allies found the winter following the battle a difficult one, but by pooling their talents and resources, they managed to survive. Many councils were held throughout those long months with Cassius, Jensin Brent, and Kemp representing the people of Ten-Towns, and Wulfgar and Revjak speaking for the barbarian tribes. The first order of business was to officially recognize and condone the alliance of the two peoples, though many on both sides were strongly opposed.
Those cities left untouched by Akar Kessell’s army were packed full of refugees during the brutal winter. Reconstruction began with the first signs of spring. When the region was well on its way to recovery, and after the barbarian expedition following Wulfgar’s directions returned with the dragon treasure, councils were held to divide the towns among the surviving people. Relations between the two peoples almost broke down several times and were held together only by the commanding presence of Wulfgar and the continued calm of Cassius.
When all was finally settled, the barbarians were given the cities of Bremen and Caer-Konig to rebuild, the homeless of Caer-Konig were moved into the reconstructed city of Caer-Dineval, and the refugees of Bremen who did not wish to live among the tribesmen were offered homes in the newly built city of Targos.
It was a difficult situation, where traditional enemies were forced to put aside their differences and live in close quarters. Though victorious in the battle, the people of the towns could not call themselves winners. Everyone had suffered tragic losses; no one had come out better for the fight.
Except Regis.
The opportunistic halfling was awarded the title of First Citizen and the finest house in all of Ten-Towns for his part in the battle. Cassius readily surrendered his palace to the “tower-breaker.” Regis accepted the spokesman’s offer and all of the other numerous gifts that rolled in from every city, for though he hadn’t truly earned the accolades awarded him, he justified his good fortune by considering himself a partner of the unassuming drow. And since Drizzt Do’Urden wasn’t about to come to Bryn Shander and collect the rewards, Regis figured that it was his duty to do so.
This was the pampered lifestyle that the halfling had always desired. He truly enjoyed the excessive wealth and luxuries, though he would later learn that there was indeed a hefty price to be paid for fame.
* * * * *
Drizzt and Bruenor had spent the winter in preparation for their search for Mithril Hall. The drow intended to honor his word, though he had been tricked, because life hadn’t changed much for him after the battle. Although he was in truth the hero of the fight, he still found himself barely tolerated among the people of Ten-Towns. And the barbarians, other than Wulfgar and Revjak, openly avoided him, mumbling warding prayers to their gods whenever they inadvertently crossed his path.
But the drow accepted the shunning with his characteristic stoicism.
* * * * *
“The whispers in town say that you have given your voice at council to Revjak,” Catti-brie said to Wulfgar on one of her many visits to Bryn Shander.
Wulfgar nodded. “He is older and wiser in many ways.”
Catti-brie drew Wulfgar under the uncomfortable scrutiny of her dark eyes. She knew that there were other reasons for Wulfgar stepping down as king. “ You mean to go with them,” she stated flatly.
“I owe it to the drow,” was Wulfgar’s only explanation as he turned away, in no mood to argue with the fiery girl.
“Again you parry the question,” Catti-brie laughed. “You go to pay no debt! You go because you choose the road!”
“What could you know of the road?” Wulfgar growled, pulled in by the girl’s painfully accurate observation. “What could you know of adventure?”
Catti-brie’s eyes sparkled disarmingly. “I know,” she stated flatly.
“Every day in every place is an adventure. This you have not yet learned. And so you chase down the distant roads, hoping to satisfy the hunger for excitement that burns in your heart. So go, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale. Follow your heart’s trail and be happy!
“Perhaps when you return you will understand the excitement of simply being alive.” She kissed him on the cheek and skipped to the door.
Wulfgar called after her, pleasantly surprised by her kiss. “Perhaps then our discussions will be more agreeable!”
“But not as interesting!” was her parting response.
* * * * *
One fine morning in early spring, the time finally came for Drizzt and Bruenor to leave. Catti-brie helped them pack their overstuffed sacks.
“When we’ve cleared the place, I’ll take ye there!” Bruenor told the girl one more time. “Sure yer eyes’ll shine when ye see the rivers runnin’ silver in Mithril Hall!”
Catti-brie smiled indulgently.
“Ye’re sure ye’ll be all right, then?” Bruenor asked more seriously. He knew that she would, but his heart flooded with fatherly concern.
Catti-brie’s smile widened. They had been through this discussion a hundred times over the winter. Catti-brie was glad that the dwarf was going, though she knew that she would miss him dearly, for it was clear that Bruenor would never truly be contented until he had at least tried to find his ancestral home.
And she knew, better than anyone, that the dwarf would be in fine company.
Bruenor was satisfied. The time had come to go.
The companions said their goodbyes to the dwarves and started off for Bryn Shander to bid farewell to their two closest friends.
They arrived at Regis’s house later in the morning, and found Wulfgar sitting on the steps waiting for them, Aegisfang and his pack by his side.
Drizzt eyed the barbarian’s belongings suspiciously as they approached, half-guessing Wulfgar’s intentions. “Well met, King Wulfgar,” he said. “Are you off to Bremen, or perhaps Caer-Konig, to oversee the work of your people?”
Wulfgar shook his head. “I am no king,” he replied. “Councils and speeches are better left to older men; I have had more of them than I can tolerate. Revjak speaks for the men, of the tundra now.”
“Then what o’ yerself?” asked Bruenor.
“I go with you,” Wulfgar replied. “To repay my last debt.”
“Ye owe me nothin’!” Bruenor declared.
“To you I am paid,” Wulfgar agreed. “And I have paid all that I owe to Ten-Towns, and to my own people as well. But there is one debt I am not yet free of.” He turned to face Drizzt squarely. “To you, friend elf.”
Drizzt didn’t know how to reply. He clapped the huge man on the shoulder and smiled warmly.
* * * * *
“Come with us, Rumblebelly,” Bruenor said after they had finished an excellent lunch in the palace. “Four adventurers, out on the open plain. It’ll do ye some good an’ take a bit o’ that belly o’ yers away!”
Regis grasped his ample stomach in both hands and jiggled it. “I like my belly and intend to keep it, thank you. I may even add some more to it!
“I cannot begin to understand why you all insist on going on this quest, anyway,” he said more seriously. He had spent many hours during the winter trying to talk Bruenor and Drizzt out of their chosen path. “We have an easy life here; why would you want to leave?”
“There is more to living than fine food and soft pillows, little friend,” said Wulfgar. “The lust of adventure burns our blood. With peace in the region, Ten-Towns cannot offer the thrill of danger or the satisfaction of victory.” Drizzt and Bruenor nodded their assent, though Regis shook his head.
“An’ ye call this pitiful place wealth?” Bruenor chuckled, snapping his stubby fingers. “When I return from Mithril Hall, I’ll build ye a home twice this size an’ edged in gems like ye never seen afore!”
But Regis was determined that he had witnessed his last adventure.
After the meal was finished, he accompanied his friends to the door. “If you make it back. . :”
“Your house shall be our first stop,” Drizzt assured him.
They met Kemp of Targos when they walked outside. He was standing across the road from Regis’s front step, apparently looking for them.
“He is waiting for me,” Wulfgar explained, smiling at the notion that Kemp would go out of his way to be rid of him.
“Farewell, good spokesman,” Wulfgar called, bowing low. “Prayne de crabug ahm rinedere be-yogt iglo kes gron.”
Kemp flashed an obscene gesture at the barbarian and stalked away.
Regis nearly doubled over with laughter.
Drizzt recognized the words, but was puzzled as to why Wulfgar had spoken them to Kemp. “You once told me that those words were an old tundra battle cry,” he remarked to the barbarian. “Why would you offer them to the man you most despite?”
Wulfgar stammered over an explanation that would get him out of this jam, but Regis answered for him.
“Battle cry?” the halfling exclaimed. “That is an old barbarian housemother’s curse, usually reserved for adulturous old barbarian housefathers.” The drow’s lavender eyes narrowed on the barbarian as Regis continued. “It means: May the fleas of a thousand reindeer nest in your genitals”
Bruenor broke down into laughter, Wulfgar soon joining. Drizzt couldn’t help but go along.
“Come, the day is long,” the drow said. “Let, us begin this adventure - it should prove interesting!”
“Where will you go?” Regis asked somberly. A small part of the halfling actually envied his friends; he had to admit that he would miss them.
“To Bremen, first,” replied Drizzt. “We shall complete our provisions there and strike out to the southwest.”
“Luskan?”
“Perhaps, if the fates deem it.”
“Good speed,” Regis offered as the three companions started out without further delay.
Regis watched them disappear, wondering how he had ever picked such foolish friends. He shrugged it away and turned back to his palace - there was plenty of food left over from lunch.
He was stopped before he got through the door.
“First Citizen!” came a call from the street. The voice belonged to a warehouseman from the southern section of the city, where the merchant caravans loaded and unloaded. Regis waited for his approach.
“A man, First Citizen,” the warehouseman said, bowing apologetically for disturbing so important a person. “Asking about you. He claims to be a representative from the Heroes Society in Luskan, sent to request your presence at their next meeting. He said that he would pay you well.”
“His name?”
“He gave none, just this!” The warehouseman opened a small pouch of gold.
It was all that Regis needed to see. He left at once for the rendezvous with the man from Luskan.
Once again, sheer luck saved the halfling’s life, for he saw the stranger before the stranger saw him. He recognized the man at once, though he hadn’t seen him in years, by the emerald-encrusted dagger hilt protruding from the sheath on his hip. Regis had often contemplated stealing that beautiful weapon, but even he had a limit to his foolhardiness. The dagger belonged to Artemis Entreri.
Pasha Pook’s prime assassin.
* * * * *
The three companions left Bremen before dawn the next day. Anxious to begin the adventure, they made good time and were far out into the tundra when the first rays of the sun peeked over the eastern horizon behind them.
Still, Bruenor was not surprised when he noticed Regis scrambling across the empty plain to catch up with them.
“Got ‘imself into trouble again, or I’m a bearded gnome,” the dwarf snickered to Wulfgar and Drizzt.
“Well met,” said Drizzt. “But haven’t we already said our farewells?”
“I decided that I could not let Bruenor run off into trouble without me being there to pull him out,” Regis puffed, trying to catch his breath.
“Yer cumin’?” groaned Bruenor. “Ye’ve brought no supplies, fool halfling!”
“I don’t eat much,” Regis pleaded, an edge of desperation creeping into his voice.
“Bah! Ye eat more’n the three of us together! But no mind, we’ll let ye tag along anyway.”
The halfling’s face brightened visibly, and Drizzt suspected that the dwarf’s guess about trouble wasn’t far off the mark.
“The four of us, then!” proclaimed Wulfgar. “One to represent each of the four common races: Bruenor for the dwarves, Regis for the halflings, Drizzt Do’Urden for the elves, and myself for the humans. A fitting troupe!”
“I hardly think the elves would choose a drow to represent them,” Drizzt remarked.
Bruenor snorted. “Ye think the halflings’d choose Rumblebelly for their champion?”
“You’re crazy, dwarf,” retorted Regis.
Bruenor dropped his shield to the ground, leaped around Wulfgar, and squared off before Regis. His face contorted in mock rage as he grasped Regis by the shoulders and hoisted him into the air.
“That’s right, Rumblebelly!” Bruenor cried wildly. “Crazy I am! An’ never cross one what’s crazier than yerself!”
Drizzt and Wulfgar looked at each other with knowing smiles.
It was indeed going to be an interesting adventure.
And with the rising sun at their back, their shadows standing long before them, they started off on their way.
To find Mithril Hall.
Born in Massachusetts in 1959, Bob Salvatore lives there still with his wife, Diane, and their three children. His love affair with fantasy, and with literature in general, began during his sophomore year of college when he was given a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings as a Christman gift. He promptly changed his major from computer science to journalism and was awarded a bachelor of science degree in Communications/Media from Fitchburg State College in 1981. He has continued his studies part-time since and is nearing completion of his bachelor of arts degree in English.
During the day, he works as a financial specialist for a manufacturer of automatic test equipment. He spends his evenings at his word processor, after the kids are tucked away in bed. The Crystal Shard is his first published novel.