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 dived 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 all 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 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 lasted only 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,” Catti-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 rubble.
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 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 of 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 Mithral 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.