“Do we begin our sessions this night, then?” Drizzt asked.

“You are the master,” Wulfgar said bitterly. “I am only the slave.”

“No more a slave than I,” replied Drizzt. Wulfgar turned to him curiously.

“We are both indebted to the dwarf,” Drizzt explained. “I owe him my life many times over and thus have agreed to teach you my skill in battle. You follow an oath that you made to him in exchange for your life. Thus you are obliged to learn what I have to teach. I am no man’s master, nor would I ever want to be.”

Wulfgar turned back to the tundra. He didn’t fully trust Drizzt yet, though he couldn’t figure out what ulterior motives the drow could possibly be pursuing with the friendly facade.

“We fulfill our debts to Bruenor together,” said Drizzt. He empathized with the emotions Wulfgar was feeling as the young man gazed out over the plains of his homeland for the first time in years. “Enjoy this night, barbarian. Go about as you please and remember again the feel of the wind on your face. We shall begin at the fall of tomorrow’s night.” He left then to allow Wulfgar the privacy he desired.

Wulfgar could not deny that he appreciated the respect the drow had shown him.

During the daytime, Drizzt rested in the cool shadows of the cave while Wulfgar acclimated himself to the new area and hunted for their supper.

By night, they fought.

Drizzt pressed the young barbarian relentlessly, slapping him with the flat of a scimitar every time he opened a gap in his defenses. The exchanges often escalated dangerously, for Wulfgar was a proud warrior and grew enraged and frustrated at the drow’s superiority. This only put the barbarian at a further disadvantage, for in his rage all semblance of discipline flew from him. Drizzt was ever quick to point this out with a series of slaps and twists that ultimately left Wulfgar sprawled on the ground.

To his credit, though, Drizzt never taunted the barbarian or tried to humiliate him. The drow went about his task methodically, understanding that the first order of business was to sharpen the barbarian’s reflexes and teach him some concern for defense.

Drizzt was truly impressed with Wulfgar’s raw ability. The incredible potential of the young warrior staggered him. At first he feared that Wulfgar’s stubborn pride and bitterness would render him untrainable, but the barbarian had risen to the challenge. Recognizing the benefits he could reap from one as adept with weapons as Drizzt, Wulfgar listened attentively. His pride, instead of limiting him into believing that he was already a mighty warrior and needed no further instruction, pushed him to grab at every advantage he could find that would help him to achieve his ambitious goals. By the end of the first week, during those times he could control his volatile temper, he was already able to deflect many of Drizzt’s cunning attacks.

Drizzt said little during that first week, though he would occasionally compliment the barbarian about a good parry or counter, or more generally on the improvement Wulfgar was showing in such a short time. Wulfgar found himself eagerly anticipating the drow’s remarks whenever he executed an especially difficult maneuver, and dreading the inevitable slap whenever he foolishly left himself vulnerable.

The young barbarian’s respect for Drizzt continued to grow. Something about the drow, living without complaint in stoic solitude, touched Wulfgar’s sense of honor. He couldn’t yet guess why Drizzt had chosen such an existence, but he was certain from what he had already seen of the drow that it had something to do with principles.

By the middle of the second week, Wulfgar was in complete control of Aegis-fang, twisting its handle and head deftly to block against the two whirring scimitars, and responding with cautiously measured thrusts of his own.

Drizzt could see the subtle change taking place as the barbarian stopped reacting after the fact to the scimitars’ deft cuts and thrusts and began recognizing his own vulnerable areas and anticipating the next attack.

When he became convinced that Wulfgar’s defenses were sufficiently strengthened, Drizzt began the lessons of attack. The drow knew that his style of offense would not be the most effective mode for Wulfgar. The barbarian could use his unrivaled strength more effectively than deceptive feints and twists. Wulfgar’s people were naturally aggressive fighters, and striking came more easily to them than parrying. The mighty barbarian could fell a giant with a single, well-placed blow.

All that he had left to learn was patience.

Early one dark, moonless night, as he prepared himself for the evening’s lesson, Wulfgar noticed the flare of a campfire far out on the plain. He watched, mesmerized, as several others sprang suddenly into sight, wondering if it might even be the fires of his own tribe.

Drizzt silently approached, unnoticed by the engrossed barbarian. The drow’s keen eyes had noted the stirrings of the distant camp long before the firelight had grown strong enough for Wulfgar to see. “Your people have survived,” he said to comfort the young man.

Wulfgar started at the sudden appearance of his teacher. “You know of them?” he asked.

Drizzt moved beside him and stared out over the tundra. “Their losses were great at the Battle of Bryn Shander,” he said. “And the winter that followed bit hard at the many women and children who had no men to hunt for them. They fled west to find the reindeer, banding together with other tribes for strength. The peoples still hold to the names of the original tribes, but in truth there are only two remaining: the Tribe of the Elk and the Tribe of the Bear.

“You were of the Tribe of the Elk, I believe,” Drizzt continued, drawing a nod from Wulfgar. “Your people have done well. They dominate the plain now, and though more years will have to pass before the people of the tundra regain the strength they held before the battle, the younger warriors are already coming into manhood.”

Relief flooded through Wulfgar. He had feared that the Battle of Bryn Shander had decimated his people to a point from which they could never recover. The tundra was doubly harsh in the frozen winter, and Wulfgar often considered the possibility that the sudden loss of so many warriors—some of the tribes had lost every one of their menfolk—would doom the remaining people to slow death.

“You know much about my people,” Wulfgar remarked.

“I have spent many days watching them,” Drizzt explained, wondering what line of thought the barbarian was drawing, “learning their ways and tricks for prospering in such an unwelcoming land.”

Wulfgar chuckled softly and shook his head, further impressed by the sincere reverence the drow showed whenever he spoke of the natives of Icewind Dale. He had known the drow less than two weeks, but already he understood the character of Drizzt Do’Urden well enough to know that his next observation about the drow was true to the mark.

“I’ll wager you even felled deer silently in the darkness, to be found in the morning light by people too hungry to question their good fortune.”

Drizzt neither answered the remark nor changed the set of his gaze, but Wulfgar was confident in his guess.

“Do you know of Heafstaag?” the barbarian asked after a few moments of silence. “He was king of my tribe, a man of many scars and great renown.”

Drizzt remembered the one-eyed barbarian well. The mere mention of his name sent a dull ache into the drow’s shoulder, where he had been wounded by the huge man’s heavy axe. “He lives,” Drizzt replied, somewhat shielding his contempt. “Heafstaag speaks for the whole of the north now. None of true enough blood remain to oppose him in combat or speak out against him to hold him in check.”