“The town on the banks of the lake,” Heafstaag reasoned, “should then be the first that we crush!”

“That is Termalaine,” replied deBernezan. “All of its men are fishermen and will be out on the lake as we pass. You would not find good sport there.”

“We will not leave an enemy alive behind us!” Heafstaag roared, and several other kings cried out their agreement.

“No, of course not,” said deBernezan. “But it will not take many men to defeat Termalaine when the boats are out. Let King Haalfdane and the Tribe of the Bear sack the town while the rest of the force, led by yourself and King Beorg, presses on to Bryn Shander. The fires of the burning town should bring the entire fleet, even the ships from the other towns of Maer Dualdon, into Termalaine where King Haalfdane can destroy them on the docks. It is important that we keep them away from the stronghold of Targos. The people of Bryn Shander will receive no aid from the other lakes in time to support them and will have to stand alone against your charge. The Tribe of the Elk will flank around the base of the hill below the city and cut off any possible escape or any last-minute reinforcements.”

Drizzt watched closely as deBernezan described this second division of the barbarian forces on his map. Already the drow’s calculating mind was formulating initial defense plans. Bryn Shander’s hill wasn’t very high but its base was thick, and the barbarians who were to swing around the back of the hill would be a long way from the main force.

A long way from reinforcements.

“The city will fall before sunset!” deBernezan declared triumphantly. “And your men will feast on the finest booty in all of Ten-Towns!” A sudden cheer went up on cue from the seated kings at the southerner’s declaration of victory.

Drizzt put his back to the tent and considered what he had heard. This dark-haired man named deBernezan knew the towns well and understood their strengths and weaknesses. If Bryn Shander fell, no organized resistance could be formed to drive off the invaders. Indeed, once they held the fortified city, the barbarians would be able to strike at their leisure at any of the other towns.

“Again you have shown me your worth,” Drizzt heard Heafstaag tell the southerner, and the ensuing of conversations told the drow that the plans had been accepted as final. Drizzt then focused his keen senses on the encampment around him, seeking the best path for his escape. He noticed suddenly that two guards were walking his way and talking. Though they were too far away for their human eyes to see him as anything but a shadow on the side of the tent, he knew that any movement on his part would surely alert them.

Acting immediately, Drizzt dropped the black figurine to the ground. “Guenhwyvar,” he called softly. “Come to me, my shadow.”

Somewhere in a corner of the vast astral plane, the entity of the panther moved in sudden, subtle steps as it stalked the entity of the deer. The beasts of this natural world had played out this scenario countless times, following the harmonious order that guided the lives of their descendents. The panther crouched low for the final spring, sensing the sweetness of the upcoming kill. This strike was the harmony of natural order; the purpose of the panther’s existence, and the meat its reward.

It stopped at once, though, when it heard the call of its true name, compelled above any other directives to heed the call of its master.

The great cat’s spirit rushed down the long, darkened corridor that marked the void between the planes, seeking the the solitary speck of light that was its life on the material plane. And then it was beside the dark elf, its soulmate and master, crouching in the shadows by the hanging skins of a human dwelling.

It understood the urgency of its master’s call and quickly opened its mind to the drow’s instructions.

The two barbarian guards approached cautiously, trying to make out the dark forms that stood beside their kings’ tent. Suddenly Guenhwyvar sprang toward them and soared in a mighty leap past their drawn swords. The guards swung the weapons futilely and charged off after the cat, screaming an alert to the rest of the camp.

In the excitement of the diversion, Drizzt moved calmly and stealthily away in a different direction. He heard the shouts of alarm as Guenhwyvar darted through the campsites of the sleeping warriors and couldn’t help but smile when the cat crossed through one particular group. Upon sighting this feline, who moved with so much grace and speed that it appeared as no more than a cat’s spirit, the Tribe of the Tiger, instead of giving chase, fell to their knees and raised their hands and voices in thanks to Tempos.

Drizzt had little trouble escaping the perimeter of the camp, as all of the sentries were rushing off in the direction of the commotion. When the drow gained the blackness of the open tundra, he turned south toward Kelvin’s Cairn and sped off across the lonely plain in full flight, all the while concentrating on finalizing a deadly counter-plan of defense. The stars told him that there were less than three hours left before dawn, and he knew that he mustn’t be late for his meeting with Bruenor if the ambush were to be properly set.

The noise of the surprised barbarians soon died away, except for the prayers of the Tribe of the Tiger, which would continue until dawn. A few minutes later, Guenhwyvar was trotting easily by Drizzt’s side.

“A hundred times you have saved my life, trusted friend,” Drizzt said as he patted the great cat’s muscled neck. “A hundred times and more!”

“They’ve been arguin’ and scufflin’ for two days now,” Bruenor remarked disgustedly. “A blessing it is that the greater enemy has finally arrived!”

“Better to name the coming of barbarians in a different way,” Drizzt replied, though a smile had found its way onto his normally stoic features. He knew that his plan was solid and that the battle this day would belong to the people of Ten-Towns. “Go now and lay the trap—you’ve not much time.”

“We began loadin’ the womenfolk and children onto the boats as soon as Rumblebelly told us yer news,” Bruenor explained. “We’ll chase the vermin from our borders before the day is through!” The dwarf spread his feet wide in his customary battle stance and banged his axe onto his shield to emphasize his point. “Ye’ve a good eye for battle, elf. Yer plan’ll turn the surprise on the barbarians and it still splits the glory evenly among them that needs glory.”

“Even Kemp of Targos should be pleased,” Drizzt agreed.

Bruenor clapped his friend on the arm and turned to leave. “Ye’ll fight beside me, then?” he asked over his shoulder, though he already knew the answer.

“As it should be,” Drizzt assured him.

“An’ the cat?”

“Guenhwyvar has already played its part in this battle,” replied the drow. “I’ll be sending my friend home soon.”

Bruenor was pleased with the answer; he didn’t trust the drow’s strange beast. “It ain’t natural,” he said to himself as he trekked down Bremen’s Run toward the gathered hosts of Ten-Towns.

Bruenor was too far away for Drizzt to make out his final words, but the drow knew the dwarf well enough to gather the general meaning of his grumblings. He understood the uneasiness that Bruenor, and many others, felt around the mystical cat. Magic was a prominent part of the underworld of his people, a necessary fact of their everyday existence, but it was much rarer and less understood among the common folk of the surface. Dwarves in particular were usually uncomfortable with it, except for the crafted magical weapons and armor they often made themselves.