Two days later, Morik’s predicted snowstorm did come on, but its fury was somewhat tempered by the late season, leaving the road passable. The two riders plodded along, taking care to stay on the trail. They made good time, despite the foul weather, with Wulfgar driving them hard. Soon they came to a region of scattered farmhouses and stone cottages. Now the storm proved to be their ally, for few curious faces showed in the heavily curtained windows, and through the snow, wrapped in thick skins, the pair were hardly recognizable.
Soon after, Wulfgar waited in a sheltered overhang along the foothills, while Morik, Lord Brandeburg of Waterdeep, rode down into the village. The day turned late, the storm continued, but Morik didn’t return. Wulfgar left his shelter to move to a vantage point that would afford him a view of Castle Auck. He wondered if Morik had been discovered. If so, should he rush down to find some way to aid his friend?
Wulfgar gave a chuckle. It was more likely that Morik had stayed on at the castle for a fine meal and was warming himself before the hearth at that very moment. The barbarian retreated again to his shelter to brush down his horse, telling himself to be patient.
Finally Morik did return, wearing a grim expression indeed. “I was not met with friendly hugs,” he explained.
“Your disguise did not hold?”
“It’s not that,” said the rogue. “They thought me Lord Brandeburg, but just as I feared they considered it a bit odd that I disappeared at the same time you did.”
Wulfgar nodded. They had discussed that very possibility. “Why did they let you leave if they were suspicious?”
“I convinced them it was but a coincidence,” he reported, “else why would I return to Auckney? Of course, I had to share a large meal to persuade them.”
“Of course,” Wulfgar agreed archly, his tone dry. “What of Lady Meralda and her child? Did you see her?” the barbarian prompted.
Morik pulled the saddle from his horse and began brushing his own beast down, as if preparing again for the road. “It is time for us to be gone,” he replied flatly. “Far from here.”
“What news?” Wulfgar pressed, now truly concerned.
“We have no allies here, and no acquaintances even, in any mood to entertain visitors,” Morik replied. “Better for all that Wulfgar, Morik, and Lord Brandeburg, put this wretched little pretend fiefdom far behind their horses’ tails.”
Wulfgar leaned over and grabbed the rogue’s shoulder, roughly turning him from his work on the horse. “The Lady Meralda?” he demanded.
“She birthed a child late last night,” Morik admitted reluctantly. Wulfgar’s eyes grew wide with trepidation. “Both survived,” Morik quickly added, “for now.” Pulling away, the rogue went back to his work with renewed vigor.
Feeling Wulfgar’s eyes on him expectantly, Morik sighed and turned back. “Look, she told them that you had ravished her,” he reminded his friend. “It seems likely that she was covering an affair,” Morik reasoned. “She lied, condemning you, to hide her own betrayal of the young lord.” Again, the knowing nod, for this was no news to Wulfgar.
Morik looked at him hard, surprised that he was not shaken somewhat by the blunt expression of all that had occurred, surprised that he was showing no anger at all despite the fact that, because of the woman, he had been beaten and nearly brutally executed.
“Well, now there is doubt concerning the heritage of the child,” Morik explained. “The birth was too soon, considering our encounter with the girl on the road, and there are those within the village and castle who do not believe her tale.”
Wulfgar gave a profound sigh. “I suspected as much would happen.”
“I heard some talk of a young man who fell to his death on the day of the wedding between Lord Feringal and Meralda, a man who died crying out for her.”
“Lord Feringal believes he’s the one who cuckolded him?” Wulfgar asked.
“Not specifically,” Morik replied. “Since the child was surely conceived before the wedding-even if it had been your child, that would have been so-but he knows, of course, that his wife once lay with another, and now he may be thinking that it was of her own volition and not something forced upon her on a wild road.”
“A ravished woman is without blame,” Wulfgar put in, for it all made sense.
“While a cheating woman. . . .” Morik added ominously.
Wulfgar gave another sigh and walked out of the shelter, staring again at the castle. “What will happen to her?” he called back to Morik.
“The marriage will be declared invalid, surely,” Morik answered, having lived in human cities long enough to understand such things.
“And the Lady Meralda will be sent from the castle,” the barbarian said hopefully.
“If she’s fortunate, she’ll be banished from Feringal Auck’s domain with neither money nor title,” Morik replied.
“And if she’s unfortunate?” Wulfgar asked.
Morik winced. “Noblemen’s wives have been put to death for such offenses,” the worldly rogue replied.
“What of the child?” an increasingly agitated Wulfgar demanded. The images of his own horrible past experiences began edging in at the corners of his consciousness.
“If fortunate, banished,” Morik replied, “though I fear such an action will take more good fortune than the banishment of the woman. It is very complicated. The child is a threat to Auck’s domain, but also to his pride.”
“They would kill a child, a helpless babe?” Wulfgar asked, his teeth clenched tightly as those awful memories began to creep ever closer.
“The rage of a betrayed lord cannot be underestimated,” Morik answered grimly. “Lord Feringal cannot show weakness, else risk the loss of the respect of his people and the loss of his lands. Complicated and unpleasant business, all. Now let us be gone from this place.”
Wulfgar was indeed gone, storming out from under the overhang and stalking down the trails. Morik was quick to catch him.
“What will you do?” the rogue demanded, recognizing Wulfgar’s resolve.
“I don’t know, but I’ve got to do something,” Wulfgar said, increasing his pace with the level of his agitation while Morik struggled to keep up. As they entered the village, the storm again proved an ally, for no peasants were about. Wulfgar’s eyes were set on the bridge leading to Castle Auck.
*****
“Give the child away, as you planned,” Steward Temigast suggested to the pacing Lord Feringal.
“It is different now,” the young man stammered, slapping his fists helplessly at his sides. He glanced over at Priscilla. His sister was sitting comfortably, her smug smile a reminder that she’d warned him against marrying a peasant in the first place.
“We don’t know that anything has changed,” Temigast said, always the voice of reason.
Priscilla snorted. “Can you not count?” she asked.
“The child could be early,” Temigast protested.
“As well-formed a babe as ever I’ve seen,” said Priscilla. “She was not early, Temigast, and you know it.” Priscilla looked straight at her brother, reiterating the talk that had been buzzing about Castle Auck all day. “The child was conceived mid-summer,” she said, “before the supposed attack on the road.”
“How can I know for sure?” Lord Feringal wailed. His hands tore at the sides of his pants, an accurate reflection of the rending going on inside his mind.
“How can you not know?” Priscilla shot back. “You’ve been made a fool to the mirth of all the village. Will you compound that now with weakness?”
“You still love her,” Steward Temigast cut in.
“Do I?” Lord Feringal said, so obviously torn and confused. “I don’t know anymore.”
“Send her away, then,” the steward offered. “Banish her with the child.”
“That would make the villagers laugh all the harder,” Priscilla observed sourly. “Do you want the child to return in a score of years and take your kingdom from you? How many times have we heard of such tales?”
Temigast glared at the woman. Such things had occurred, but they were far from common.
“What am I to do, then?” Lord Feringal demanded of his sister.
“A trial of treason for the whore,” Priscilla answered matter-of-factly, “and a swift and just removal of the result of her infidelity.”
“Removal?” Feringal echoed skeptically.
“She wants you to kill the child,” Temigast explained archly.
“Throw it to the waves,” Priscilla supplied feverishly, coming right out of her chair. “If you show no weakness now, the folk will still respect you.”
“They will hate you more if you murder an innocent child,” Temigast said angrily, more to Priscilla than Lord Feringal.
“Innocent?” Priscilla balked as if the notion were preposterous.
“Let them hate you,” she said to Lord Feringal, moving her face to within an inch of his. “Better that than to laugh at you. Would you suffer the bastard to live? A reminder, then, of he who lay with Meralda before you?”
“Shut your mouth!” Lord Feringal demanded, pushing her back.
Priscilla didn’t back down. “Oh, but how she purred in the arms of Jaka Sculi,” she said, and her brother was trembling so much that he couldn’t even speak through his grinding teeth. “I’ll wager she arched that pretty back of hers for him,” Priscilla finished lewdly.
Feral, sputtering sounds escaped the young lord. He grabbed his sister by the shoulders with both hands and flung her aside. She was smiling the whole time, satisfied, for the enraged lord shoved past Temigast and ran for the stairs. The stairs that led to Meralda and her bastard child.
*****
“It’s guarded, you know,” Morik reminded him, yelling though his voice sounded thin in the howling wind.
Wulfgar wouldn’t have heeded the warning anyway. His eyes were set on Castle Auck, and his line to the bridge didn’t waver. He pictured the mounds of snow as the Spine of the World, as that barrier between the man he had been and the victim he had become. Now, his mind free at last of all influence of potent liquor, his strength of will granting him armor against those awful images of his imprisonment, Wulfgar saw the choices clearly before him. He could turn back to the life he had found or he could press on, could cross that emotional barrier, could fight and claw his way back to the man he once was.
The barbarian growled and pressed on against the storm. He even picked up speed as he reached the bridge, a fast walk, a trot, then a full run as he picked his course, veering to the right, where the snow had drifted along the railing and the castle’s front wall. Up the drift Wulfgar went, crunching into snow past his knees, but growling and plowing on, maintaining his momentum. He leaped from the top of the drift, reaching with an outstretched arm to hook his hammer’s head atop the wall. Wulfgar heard a startled call from above as it caught loudly against the stone, but he hardly slowed, great muscles cording and tugging, propelling him upward, where he rolled around, slipping right over the crenelated barrier. He landed nimbly on his feet on the parapet within, right between two dumbfounded guards, neither of them holding a weapon as they tried to keep their hands warm.
Morik rushed up the same path as Wulfgar, using agile moves to scale the wall nearly as fast as his friend had done with brute strength. Still, by the time he got to the parapet Wulfgar was already down in the courtyard, storming for the main keep. Both guards were down, too, lying on the ground and groaning, one holding his jaw, the other curled up and clutching his belly.
“Secure the door!” one of the guards managed to cry out.
The main door cracked open then, a man peeking out. Seeing Wulfgar bearing in, he tried to close it fast. Wulfgar got there just before it slammed, pushing back with all his strength. He heard the man calling frantically for help, felt the greater push as another guard joined the first, both leaning heavily.
“I’m coming, too,” Morik called, “though only the gods know why!”
His thoughts far away, in a dark and smoky place where his child’s last terrified cry rent the air, Wulfgar didn’t hear his friend, didn’t need him. Bellowing, he shoved with all his strength until the door flew in, tossing the two guards like children against the back wall of the foyer.
“Where is she?” Wulfgar demanded, and even as he spoke the foyer’s other door swung open. Liam Woodgate appeared, rushing in with sword in hand.
“Now you pay, dog!” the coachman cried, coming in fast and hard, stabbing, a feint. Pulling the blade back in, he sent it into a sudden twirl, then feigned a sidelong slice, turning it over again and coming straight in with a deadly thrust.
Liam was good, the best fighter in all of Auckney, and he knew it. That’s why it was difficult to understand how Wulfgar’s hammer came out so fast to hook over Liam’s blade and take it safely wide of the mark. How could the huge barbarian turn so nimbly on his feet to get within reach of Liam’s sword? How was he able to come around perfectly, sending his thick arm spiking up under Liam’s sword arm? Liam knew his own skill, and so it was even harder for him to understand how his clever attack had been turned against him so completely. Liam knew only that his face was suddenly pressed against the stone wall, his arms pulled tight behind his back, and the snarling barbarian’s breath was on his neck.
“Lady Meralda and the child,” Wulfgar asked. “Where are they?”
“I’d die afore I’d tell you!” Liam declared. Wulfgar pressed in. The poor old gnome thought he surely would die, but Liam held his determined tongue and growled against the pain.
Wulfgar spun him around and slammed him once, then slammed him again when he managed somehow to hold his feet, launching him over to the floor. Liam nearly tripped up Morik, who skipped right on by through the other door and into the castle proper.
Wulfgar was right behind him. They heard voices, and Morik led the way, crashing through a set of double doors and into a comfortable sitting room.
“Lord Brandeburg?” Lady Priscilla asked.
She squealed in fright and fell back in her chair as Wulfgar followed the rogue into the room. “Where is Lady Meralda and the child?” he roared.
“Haven’t you caused enough harm?” Steward Temigast demanded, moving to stand boldly before the huge man.
Wulfgar looked him right in the eye. “Too much,” he admitted, “but none here.”
That set Temigast back on his heels.
“Where are they?” Wulfgar demanded, rushing up to Priscilla.
“Thieves! Murderers!” Priscilla cried, swooning.
Wulfgar locked stares with Temigast. To Wulfgar’s surprise, the old steward nodded and motioned toward the staircase.
Even as he did, Priscilla Auck ran full-out up the staircase.
*****
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” Feringal asked Meralda, standing by the edge of her bed, the infant girl lying warm beside her. “To us? To Auckney?”
“I beg you to try to understand, my lord,” the woman pleaded.
Feringal winced, pounding his fists into his eyes. His visage steeled, and he reached down and plucked the babe from her side. Meralda started up toward him, but she hadn’t the strength and fell back on the bed. “What’re you about?”
Feringal strode over to the window and pulled the curtain aside. “My sister says I should toss it to the waves upon the rocks,” he said through teeth locked in a tight grimace, “to rid myself of the evidence of your betrayal.”
“Please, Feringal, do not-” Meralda began.
“It’s what they’re all saying, you know,” Feringal said as if she hadn’t spoken. He blinked his eyes and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “The child of Jaka Sculi.”
“My lord!” she cried, her red-rimmed eyes fearful.
“How could you?” Feringal yelled, then looked from the baby in his hands to the open window. Meralda started to cry.
“The cuckold, and now the murderer,” Feringal muttered to himself as he moved closer to the window. “You have damned me, Meralda!” he cursed. Holding out his arms, he moved the crying baby to the opening, then he looked down at the innocent little girl and pulled her back close, his tears mixing with the baby’s. “Damned me, I say!” he cried, and the breath came in labored, forced gasps.
Suddenly the door to the room flew open, and Lady Priscilla burst in. She slammed it shut and secured the bolt behind her. Surveying the scene quickly, she ran to her brother, her voice shrill. “Give it to me!”
Lord Feringal rolled his shoulder between the child and Priscilla’s grasping hands.
“Give it to me!” the woman shrieked again, and a tussle for the baby ensued.
*****
Wulfgar went in fast pursuit, taking the curving staircase four steps at a stride. He came to a long hallway lined with rich tapestries where he ran into yet another bumbling castle guard. The barbarian slapped the prone man’s sword away, caught him by the throat, and lifted him into the air.
Morik skittered past him, going from door to door, ear cocked, then he stopped abruptly at one. “They’re in here,” he announced. He grabbed the handle only to find it locked.
“The key?” Wulfgar demanded, giving the guard a shake.
The man grabbed the barbarian’s iron arm. “No key,” he gasped breathlessly. Wulfgar looked about to strangle him, but the thief intervened.
“Don’t bother, I’ll pick the lock,” he said, going fast to his belt pouch.
“Don’t bother, I have a key,” Wulfgar cried. Morik looked up to see the barbarian bearing down on him, the guard still dangling at the end of one arm. Seeing his intent, Morik skittered out of the way as Wulfgar hurled the hapless man through the wooden door. “A key,” the barbarian explained.
“Well thrown,” Morik commented.
“I have had practice,” explained Wulfgar, thundering past the dazed guard to leap into the room.
Meralda sat up on the bed, sobbing, while Lord Feringal and his sister stood by the open window, the babe in Feringal’s arms. He was leaning toward the opening as if he meant to throw the child out. Both siblings and Meralda turned stunned expressions Wulfgar’s way, and their eyes widened even more when Morik crashed in behind the barbarian.
“Lord Brandeburg!” Feringal cried.
Lady Priscilla shouted at her brother, “Do it now, before they ruin every-”
“The child is mine!” Wulfgar declared. Priscilla bit off the end of her sentence in surprise. Feringal froze as if turned to stone.
“What?” the young lord gasped.
“What?” Lady Priscilla gasped.
“What?” gasped Morik, at the same time.
“What?” gasped Meralda, quietly, and she coughed quickly to cover her surprise.
“The child is mine,” Wulfgar repeated firmly, “and if you throw her out the window, then you shall follow so quickly that you’ll pass her by and your broken body will pad her fall.”
“You are so eloquent in emergencies,” Morik remarked. To Lord Feringal, he added, “The window is small, yes, but I’ll wager that my big friend can squeeze you through it. And your plump sister, as well.”
“You can’t be the father,” Lord Feringal declared, trembling so violently that it seemed as if his legs would just buckle beneath him. He looked to Priscilla for an answer, to his sister who was always hovering above him with all of the answers. “What trick is this?”
“Give it to me!” Priscilla demanded. Taking advantage of her brother’s paralyzing confusion, she moved quickly and tore the child from Feringal’s grasp. Meralda cried out, the baby cried, and Wulfgar started forward, knowing that he could never get there in time, knowing that the innocent was surely doomed.
Even as Priscilla turned for the window, her brother leaped before her and slugged her in the face. Stunned, she staggered back a step. Feringal snatched the child from her arms and shoved her again, sending his sister stumbling to the floor.
Wulfgar eyed the man for a long and telling moment, understanding then beyond any doubt that despite his obvious anger and revulsion, Feringal would not hurt the child. The barbarian strode across the room, secure in his observations, confident that the young man would take no action against the babe.
“The child is mine,” the barbarian said with a growl, reaching over to gently pull the wailing baby from Feringal’s weakening grasp. “I meant to wait another month before returning,” he explained, turning to face Meralda. “But it’s good you delivered early. A child of mine come to full term would likely have killed you in birthing.”
“Wulfgar!” Morik cried suddenly.
Lord Feringal, apparently recovering some of his nerve and most of his rage, produced a dagger from his belt and came in hard at the barbarian. Morik needn’t have worried, though, for Wulfgar heard the movement. Lifting the babe high with one arm to keep her from harm’s way, he spun and slapped the dagger aside with his free hand. As Feringal came in close, Wulfgar brought his knee up hard into the man’s groin. Down Lord Feringal went, curling into a mewling heap on the floor.
“I think my large friend can make it so that you never have children of your own,” Morik remarked with a wink to Meralda.
Meralda didn’t even hear the words, staring dumbfounded at Wulfgar, at the child he had proclaimed as his own.
“For my actions on the road, I truly apologize, Lady Meralda,” the barbarian said, and he was playing to a full audience now, as Liam Woodgate, Steward Temigast and the remaining half dozen castle guards appeared at the door, staring in wide-eyed disbelief. On the floor before Wulfgar, Lady Priscilla looked up at him, confusion and unbridled anger simmering in her eyes.
“It was the bottle and your beauty that took me,” Wulfgar explained. He turned his attention to the child, his smile wide as he lifted the infant girl into the air for his sparkling blue eyes to behold. “But I’ll not apologize for the result of that crime,” he said. “Never that.”
“I will kill you,” Lord Feringal growled, struggling to his knees.
Wulfgar reached down with one hand and grabbed him by the collar. Helping him up with a powerful jerk, he spun the lord around into a choke hold. “You will forget me, and the child,” Wulfgar whispered into his ear. “Else the combined tribes of Icewind Dale will sack you and your wretched little village.”
Wulfgar pushed the young lord, spinning him into Morik’s waiting grasp. Staring at Liam and the other dangerous guards, the rogue wasted no time in putting a sharp dagger to the man’s throat.
“Secure us supplies for the road,” Wulfgar instructed. “We need wrappings and food for the babe.” Everyone in the room, save Wulfgar and the baby, wore incredulous expressions. “Do it!” the barbarian roared. Frowning, Morik pushed toward the door with Lord Feringal, waving a scrambling Priscilla out ahead of him.
“Fetch!” the rogue instructed Liam and Priscilla. He glanced back and saw Wulfgar moving toward Meralda then, so he pushed out even further, backing them all away.
“What made you do such a thing?” Meralda asked when she was alone with Wulfgar and the child.
“Your problem was not hard to discern,” Wulfgar explained.
“I falsely accused you.”
“Understandably so,” Wulfgar replied. “You were trapped and scared, but in the end you risked everything to free me from prison. I could not let that deed go unpaid.”
Meralda shook her head, too overwhelmed to even begin to sort this out. So many thoughts and emotions whirled in her mind. She had seen the look of despair on Feringal’s face, had thought he would, indeed, drop the baby to the rocks. Yet, in the end he hadn’t been able to do it, hadn’t let his sister do it. She did love this man-how could she not? And yet, she could hardly deny her unexpected feelings for her child, though she knew that never, ever, could she keep her.
“I am taking the babe far from here,” Wulfgar said determinedly, as if he had read her mind. “You are welcome to come with us.”
Meralda laughed softly, without humor, because she knew she would be crying soon enough. “I can’t,” she explained, her voice a whisper. “I’ve a duty to my husband, if he’ll still have me, and to my family. My folks would be branded if I went with you.”
“Duty? Is that the only reason you’re staying?” Wulfgar asked her, apparently sensing something more.
“I love him, you know,” Meralda replied, tears streaming down her beautiful face. “I know what you must think of me, but truly, the babe was made before I ever-”
Wulfgar held up his hand. “You owe me no explanation,” he said, “for I am hardly in a position to judge you or anyone else. I came to understand your . . . problem, and so I returned to repay your generosity, that is all.” He looked to the door through which Morik held Lord Feringal. “He does love you,” he said. “His eyes and the depth of his pain showed that clearly.”
“You think I’m right in staying?”
Wulfgar shrugged, again refusing to offer any judgments.
“I can’t leave him,” Meralda said, and she reached up and tenderly stroked the child’s face, “but I cannot keep her, either. Feringal would never accept her,” she admitted, her tone empty and hollow, for she realized her time with her daughter was nearing its end. “But perhaps he’d give her over to another family in Auckney now that he’s thinking I didn’t betray him,” she suggested faintly.
“A reminder to him of his pain, and to you of your lie,” Wulfgar said softly, not accusing the woman, but surely reminding her of the truth. “And within the reach of his shrewish sister.”
Meralda lowered her gaze and accepted the bitter truth. The baby was not safe in Auckney.
“Who better to raise her than me?” Wulfgar asked suddenly, resolve in his voice. He looked down at the little girl, and his mouth turned up into a warm smile.
“You’d do that?”
Wulfgar nodded. “Happily.”
“You’d keep her safe?” Meralda pressed. “Tell her of her ma?”
Wulfgar nodded. “I don’t know where my road now leads,” he explained, “but I suspect I’ll not venture too far from here. Perhaps someday I will return, or at least she will, to glimpse her ma.”
Meralda was shaking with sobs, her face gleaming with tears. Wulfgar glanced to the doorway to make sure that he was not being watched, then bent down and kissed her on the cheek. “I think it best,” he said quietly. “Do you agree?”
After she studied the man for a moment, this man who had risked everything to save her and her child though they had done nothing to deserve his heroism, Meralda nodded.
The tears continued to flow freely. Wulfgar could appreciate the pain she was feeling, the depth of her sacrifice. He leaned in, allowing Meralda to stroke and kiss her baby girl one last time, but when she moved to take her away, Wulfgar pulled back. Meralda’s smile of understanding was bittersweet.
“Fairwell, little one,” she said through her sobs and looked away. Wulfgar bowed to Meralda one last time, then, with the baby cradled in his big arms, he turned and left the room.
He found Morik in the hallway, barking commands for plenty of food and clothing-and gold, for they’d need gold to properly situate the child in warm and comfortable inns. Barbarian, baby, and thief, made their way through the castle, and no one made a move to stop them. It seemed as if Lord Feringal had cleared their path, wanting the two thieves and the bastard child out of his castle and out of his life as swiftly as possible.
Priscilla, however, was a different issue. They ran into her on the first floor, where she came up to Wulfgar and tried to take the baby, glaring at him defiantly all the while. The barbarian held her at bay, his expression making it clear that he would break her in half if she tried to harm the child. Priscilla huffed her disgust, threw a thick wool wrap at him, and with a final growl of protest, turned on her heel.
“Stupid cow,” Morik muttered under his breath.
Chuckling, Wulfgar tenderly wrapped the baby in the warm blanket, finally silencing her crying. Outside, the daylight was fast on the wane, but the storm had faded, the last clouds breaking apart and rushing across the sky on swift winds. The gate was lowered. Across the bridge they saw Steward Temigast waiting for them with a pair of horses, Lord Feringal at his side.
Feringal stood staring at Wulfgar and the baby for a long moment. “If you ever come back . . .” he started to say.
“Why would I?” the barbarian interrupted. “I have my child now, and she will grow up to be a queen in Icewind Dale. Entertain no thoughts of coming after me, Lord Feringal, to the ruin of all your world.”
“Why would I?” Feringal returned in the same grim tone, facing up to Wulfgar boldly. “I have my wife, my beautiful wife. My innocent wife, who gives herself to me willingly. I do not have to force myself upon her.”
That last statement, a recapture of some measure of manly pride, told Wulfgar that Feringal had forgiven Meralda, or that he soon enough would. Wulfgar’s desperate, unconsidered and purely improvised plan had somehow, miraculously, worked. He bit back any semblance of a chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all, let Feringal have his needed moment. He didn’t even blink as the lord of Auckney composed himself, squared his shoulders, and walked back across the bridge through the lowered gate to his home and his wife.
Steward Temigast handed the reins to the pair. “She isn’t yours,” the steward said unexpectedly. Starting to pull himself and the babe up into the saddle, Wulfgar pretended not to hear him.
“Fear not, for I’ll not tell, nor will Meralda, whose life you have truly saved this day,” the steward went on. “You are a fine man, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, of the Tribe of the Elk of Icewind Dale.” Wulfgar blinked in amazement, both at the compliment and at the simple fact that the man knew so much of him.
“The wizard who caught you told him,” Morik reasoned. “I hate wizards.”
“There will be no pursuit,” said Temigast. “On my word.”
And that word held true, for Morik and Wulfgar rode without incident back to the overhang, where they retrieved their own horses, then continued down the east road and out of Auckney for good.
“What is it?” Wulfgar asked Morik later that night, seeing the rogue’s amused expression. They were huddled about a blazing fire, keeping the child warm. Morik smiled and held up a pair of bottles, one with warm goat’s milk for the child, the other with their favored potent drink. Wulfgar took the one with the goat’s milk.
“I will never understand you, my friend,” Morik remarked.
Wulfgar smiled, but did not respond. Morik could never truly know of Wulfgar’s past, of the good times with Drizzt and the others, and of the very worst times with Errtu and the offspring of his stolen seed.
“There are easier ways to make gold,” Morik remarked, and that brought Wulfgar’s steely gaze over him. “You mean to sell the child, of course,” Morik reasoned.
Wulfgar scoffed.
“A fine price,” Morik argued, taking a healthy swig from the bottle.
“Not fine enough,” said Wulfgar, turning back to the babe. The little girl wriggled and cooed.
“You cannot plan to keep her!” Morik argued. “What place has she with us? With you, wherever you plan to go? Have you lost all sensibility?”
Scowling, Wulfgar spun on him, slapped the bottle from his hands, then shoved him back to the ground, as determined an answer as Morik the Rogue had ever heard.
“She’s not even yours!” Morik reminded him.
The rogue could not have been more wrong.
Morik looked at Wulfgar’s disguise one more time and sighed helplessly. There was only so much one could do to change the appearance of a nearly seven-foot-tall, three hundred pound, blond-haired barbarian.
Wulfgar was clean shaven again for the first time since his return from the Abyss. Morik had taught him to walk in a way that would somewhat lessen his height, with shoulders drooped but arms crooked so that they did not hang to his knees. Also, Morik had procured a large brown robe such as a priest might wear, with a bunched collar that allowed Wulfgar to scrunch down his neck without being obvious about it.
Still, the rogue was not entirely happy with the disguise, not when so much was riding on it. “You should wait out here,” he offered, for perhaps the tenth time since Wulfgar had told him his wishes.
“No,” Wulfgar said evenly. “They would not come at your word alone. This is something I must do.”
“Get us both killed?” the rogue asked sarcastically.
“Lead on,” Wulfgar said, ignoring him. When Morik tried to argue, the barbarian slapped a hand over the smaller man’s mouth and turned him around to face the distant city gate.
With one last sigh and a shake of his head, Morik led the way back into Luskan. To the great relief of both of them, for Wulfgar surely did not wish to be discovered while carrying the baby, they were not recognized, were not detained at all, but merely strode into the city where the spring festival was on in full.
They had come in late in the day by design. Wulfgar went straight to Half-Moon Street, arriving at the Cutlass as one of the evening’s first patrons. He moved to the bar, right beside Josi Puddles.
“What’re ye drinking?” Arumn Gardpeck asked, but the question caught in his throat and his eyes went wide as he looked more carefully at the big man. “Wulfgar,” he gasped.
Behind the barbarian a tray dropped, and Wulfgar turned to see Delly Curtie standing there, stunned. Josi Puddles gave a squeal and leaned away.
“Well met, Arumn,” Wulfgar said to the tavernkeeper. “I drink only water.”
“What’re ye doing here?” the tavernkeeper gasped, suspicious and more than a little fearful.
Josi hopped off his stool and started for the door, but Wulfgar caught him by the arm and held him in place. “I came to apologize,” the barbarian offered. “To you, and to you,” he added, turning to Josi.
“Ye tried to kill me,” Josi sputtered.
“I was blind with anger, and likely drink,” Wulfgar replied.
“He took yer hammer,” Arumn reminded.
“Out of rightful fear that I would use it against you,” the barbarian answered. “He acted as a friend, which is much more than I can say for Wulfgar.”
Arumn shook his head, hardly believing any of this. Wulfgar released Josi, but the man made no move to continue for the door, just stood there, dumbfounded.
“You took me in, gave me food, a paying job, and friendship when I needed it most,” Wulfgar continued to Arumn alone. “I wronged you, terribly so, and can only hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”
“Are ye looking to live here again?” Arumn asked.
Wulfgar smiled sadly and shook his head. “I risk my life by even entering the city,” he replied. “I’ll be gone within the hour, but I had to come, to apologize to you two, and mostly,” he turned about, facing Delly, “to you.”
Delly Curtie blanched as Wulfgar approached, as if she didn’t know how to react to the man’s words, to the mere sight of him again.
“I am most humbly sorry for any pain that I ever caused you, Delly,” he said. “You were as true a friend as any man could ever have desired.
“More than a friend,” Wulfgar quickly added, seeing her frown.
Delly eyed the bundle in his arms. “Ye’ve a little one,” the woman said, her voice thick with emotion.
“Mine by chance and not by heritage,” Wulfgar replied. He handed the little girl over to her. Delly took her, smiling tenderly, playing with the child’s fingers and bringing a smile to that innocent little face.
“I wish ye might be stayin’ again,” Arumn offered, and he sounded sincere, though Josi’s eyes widened in doubt at the mere mention.
“I cannot,” Wulfgar replied. Smiling at Delly, he leaned over and took the babe back, then kissed Delly on the forehead. “I pray you find all the happiness you deserve, Delly Curtie,” he said, and with a look and a nod at Arumn and Josi, he started for the door.
Delly, too, looked hard at Arumn, so much her father. The man understood and nodded once again. She caught up to Wulfgar before he reached the exit.
“Take me with ye,” she said, her eyes sparkling with hope-something few had seen from the woman in a long, long time.
Wulfgar looked puzzled. “I did not return to rescue you,” he explained.
“Rescue?” Delly echoed incredulously. “I’m not needin’ yer rescue, thank ye very much, but you’re needin’ help with the little one, I can see. I’m good with tykes-spent most o’ me young life raisin’ me brothers and sisters-and I’ve grown more than a bit bored with me life here.”
“I don’t know where my road shall lead,” Wulfgar argued.
“Safe enough, I’m guessing,” Delly replied. “Since ye’ve the little one to care for, I mean.”
“Waterdeep, perhaps,” said Wulfgar.
“A place I’ve always wanted to see,” she said, her smile growing with every word, for it seemed obvious that Wulfgar was becoming more than a little intrigued by her offer.
The barbarian looked curiously to Arumn, and the tavernkeeper nodded his head yet again. Even from that distance Wulfgar could see a bit of moisture rimming the man’s eyes.
He gave the child back to Delly, bade her wait there, and moved back to the bar with Arumn and Josi. “I’ll not hurt her ever again,” Wulfgar promised Arumn.
“If ye do, I’ll hunt ye down and kill ye,” Josi growled.
Wulfgar and Arumn looked at the man, Arumn doubtfully, but Wulfgar working hard to keep his expression serious. “I know that, Josi Puddles,” he replied without sarcasm, “and your wrath is something I would truly fear.”
When he got past his own surprise, Josi puffed up his little chest with pride. Wulfgar and Arumn exchanged stares.
“No drinking?” Arumn asked.
Wulfgar shook his head. “I needed the bottle to hide in,” he answered honestly, “but I have learned it to be worse than what haunts me.”
“And if ye get bored with the girl?”
“I didn’t come here for Delly Curtie,” Wulfgar replied. “Only to apologize. I didn’t think she would accept my apology so completely, but glad I am that she did. We’ll find a good road to travel, and I’ll protect her as best I can, from myself most of all.”
“See that ye do,” Arumn replied. “I’ll expect ye back.”
Wulfgar shook Arumn’s hand, patted Josi on the shoulder, and moved to take Delly’s arm, leading her out of the Cutlass. Together they walked away from a significant part of their lives.
*****
Lord Feringal and Meralda walked along the garden, hand in hand, enjoying the springtime fragrance and beauty. Wulfgar’s ploy had worked. Feringal and all the fiefdom believed Meralda the wronged party again, freeing her from blame and the young lord from ridicule.
Truly the woman felt pain at the loss of her child, but it, like her marriage, seemed well on the mend. She kept telling herself over and over that the babe was with a good and strong man, a better father than Jaka could ever have been. Many were the times Meralda cried for the lost child, but always she repeated her logical litany and remembered that her life, given her mistakes and station by birth, was better by far than she could ever have imagined. Her mother and father were healthy, and Tori visited her every day, bobbing happily among the flowers and proving more of a thorn to Priscilla than Meralda had ever been.
Now the couple was simply enjoying the splendor of spring, the woman adjusting to her new life. Feringal snapped his fingers suddenly and pulled away. Meralda regarded him curiously.
“I have forgotten something,” her husband replied. Feringal motioned for her to wait, then ran back into the castle, nearly running down Priscilla, who was coming out the garden door.
Of course, Priscilla still didn’t believe any of Wulfgar’s tale. She scowled at Meralda, but the younger woman just turned away and moved to the wall, staring out over the waves.
“Watching for your next lover to arrive?” Priscilla muttered under her breath as she moved by. She often launched verbal jabs Meralda’s way, and Meralda often just let them slide down her shoulders.
Not this time, though. Meralda stepped in front of her sister-in-law, hands on her hips. “You’ve never felt an honest emotion in your miserable life, Priscilla Auck, which is why you’re so bitter.” she said. “Judge me not.”
Priscilla’s eyes widened with shock and she trembled, unused to being spoken to in such a forward manner. “You ask-”
“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you,” Meralda said curtly.
Priscilla stood up and grimaced, then slapped Meralda across the face.
Feeling the sting, Meralda slapped her back harder. “Judge me not, or I’ll whisper the truth of your wretchedness into your brother’s ear,” Meralda warned, so calm and calculating that her words alone made Priscilla’s face burn hot. “You can’t doubt that I have his ear,” Meralda finished. “Have you thought of what a life in the village among the peasants might be like for you?”
Even as she finished her husband bounded back out, a huge bouquet of flowers in his hand, flowers for his dear Meralda. Priscilla took one look at her fawning brother, gave a great cry, and ran into the castle.
Feringal watched her go, confused, but so little did he care what Priscilla thought or felt these days that he didn’t even bother to ask Meralda about it.
Meralda, too, watched the wretched woman depart. Her smile was wrought from more than delight at her husband’s thoughtful present. Much more.
*****
Morik said his farewells to Wulfgar and to Delly, then began at once to reestablish himself on Luskan’s streets. He took a room at an inn on Half-Moon Street but spent little time there, for he was out working hard, telling the truth of his identity to those who needed to know, establishing a reputation as a completely different man, Burglar Brandeburg, to those who did not.
By the end of the week many nodded in deference as he passed them on the streets. By the end of the month, the rogue no longer feared retribution from the authorities. He was home again, and soon things would be as they had been before Wulfgar had ever come to Luskan.
He was leaving his room one night with just that in mind when he stepped out of his bedroom door into the inn’s upper hallway. Instead he found himself sliding through a dizzying tunnel, coming to rest in a crystalline room whose circular walls gave the appearance of one level in a tower.
Dazed, Morik started to reach for his dagger, but he saw the ebon-skinned forms and changed his mind, wise enough not to resist the dark elves.
“You know me, Morik,” said Kimmuriel Oblodra, moving close to the man.
Morik did, indeed, recognize the drow as the messenger who had come to him a year before, bidding him to keep a watch over Wulfgar.
“I give you my friend, Rai-gy,” Kimmuriel said politely, indicating the other dark elf in the room, one wearing a sinister expression.
“Did we not ask you to watch over the one named Wulfgar?” Kimmuriel asked.
Morik stuttered, not knowing what to say.
“And have you not failed us?” Kimmuriel went on.
“But . . . but that was a year ago,” Morik protested. “I have heard nothing since.”
“Now you are in hiding, in disguise, knowing your crime against us,” said Kimmuriel.
“My supposed crimes are of another matter,” Morik stuttered, feeling as if the very walls were tightening around him. “I hide from the Luskan authorities, not from you.”
“From them you hide?” said the other drow. “Help you, I can!” He strode over to Morik and lifted his hands. Sheets of flame erupted from his fingertips, burning Morik’s face and lighting his hair on fire. The rogue howled and fell to the floor, slapping at his singed skin.
“Now you appear different,” Kimmuriel remarked, and both dark elves chuckled wickedly. They dragged him up the tower stairs into another room, where a bald-headed drow holding a great plumed purple hat sat comfortably in a chair.
“My apologies, Morik,” he said. “My lieutenants are an excitable lot.”
“I was with Wulfgar for months,” Morik claimed, obviously on the edge of hysteria. “Circumstance forced us apart and forced him from Luskan. I can find him for you-”
“No need,” said the drow in the chair, holding up his hand to calm the groveling man. “I am Jarlaxle, of Menzoberranzan, and I forgive you in full.”
Morik rubbed one hand over what was left of his hair, as if to say that he wished Jarlaxle had been so beneficent earlier.
“I had planned for Wulfgar to be my primary trading partner in Luskan, my representative here.” Jarlaxle explained. “Now, with him gone, I ask you to assume the role.”
Morik blinked, and his heart skipped a beat.
“We will make you wealthy and powerful beyond your dreams,” the mercenary leader explained, and Morik believed him. “You’ll not need to hide from the authorities. Indeed, many will invite you to their homes almost daily, for they will desperately want to remain in good standing with you. If there are any you wish . . . eliminated, that too, can be easily arranged.”
Morik licked what was left of his lips.
“Does this sound like a position Morik the Rogue would be interested in pursuing?” Jarlaxle asked, and Morik returned the dark elf’s sly look tenfold.
“I warn you,” Jarlaxle said, coming forward in his chair, his dark eyes flashing, “if you ever fail me, my friend Rai-gy will willingly alter your appearance yet again.”
“And again,” the wizard happily added.
“I hate wizards,” Morik muttered under his breath.
*****
Wulfgar and Delly looked down on Waterdeep, the City of Splendors. The most wondrous and powerful city on the Sword Coast, it was a place of great dreams and greater power.
“Where are ye thinkin’ we’ll be staying?” the happy woman asked, gently rocking the child.
Wulfgar shook his head. “I have coins,” he replied, “but I don’t know how long we’ll remain in Waterdeep.”
“Ye’re not thinkin’ to make our lives here?”
The barbarian shrugged, for he hadn’t given it much thought. He had come to Waterdeep with another purpose. He hoped to find Captain Deudermont and Sea Sprite in port, or hoped that they would come in soon, as they often did.
“Have you ever been to sea?” he asked the woman, his best friend and partner now, with a wide smile.
It was time for him to get Aegis-fang back.