Again Wulfgar, wiping Bungo’s spray from his face, had to resist his fighting instincts. He and Drizzt had more important business, he reminded himself.

“Who said ye could come to my bar?” Bungo growled, thinking, hoping—that he had put Wulfgar on the defensive. He looked around at his friends, who leaned closer over Wulfgar, heightening the intimidation.

Surely Drizzt would understand the necessity to put this one down, Wulfgar reasoned, his fists tightening at his sides. “One shot,” he muttered silently, looking around at the wretched group, a group that would look better sprawled out unconscious in the corners of the floor.

Wulfgar summoned an image of Regis to ward off his welling rage, but he could not ignore the fact that his hands were now clenched on the rim of the table so tightly that his knuckles had whitened for lack of blood.

“The arrangements?” Drizzt asked.

“Secured,” replied Deudermont. “I’ve room on the Sea Sprite for you, and I welcome the added hands—and blades—especially of such veteran adventurers. But I’ve a suspicion that you might be missing our sailing.” He grasped Drizzt’s shoulder to turn him toward the trouble brewing at Wulfgar’s table.

“Tavern champion and his cronies,” Deudermont explained, “though my bet would be with your friend.”

“Money well placed,” Drizzt replied, “but we have no time…”

Deudermont guided Drizzt’s gaze across to a shadowy corner of the tavern and to four men sitting calmly watching the growing tumult with interest. “The Watch,” Deudermont said. “A fight will cost your friend a night in the dungeons. I cannot hold port.”

Drizzt searched the tavern, looking for some out. All eyes seemed to be closing in on Wulfgar and the ruffians, eagerly anticipating the fight. The drow realized that if he went to the table now, he would probably ignite the whole thing.

Bungo thrust his belly forward, inches from Wulfgar’s face, to display a wide belt notched in a hundred places. “Fer every man I beat,” he boasted. “Give me somethin’ to do on my night in jail.” He pointed at a large cut to the side of the buckle. “Killed that one there. Squashed ‘is head real good. Cost me five nights.”

Wulfgar eased his grip, not impressed, but wary now of the potential consequences of his actions. He had a ship to catch.

“Perhaps it was Bungo I came to see,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair.

“Get ‘im, then!” growled one of the ruffians.

Bungo eyed Wulfgar wickedly. “Come lookin’ fer a fight?”

“Nay, I think not,” Wulfgar retorted. “A fight? Nay, I am but a boy out to see the wide world.”

Bungo could not hide his confusion. He looked around to his friends, who could only shrug in response.

“Sit,” Wulfgar offered. Bungo made no move.

The ruffian behind Wulfgar poked him hard in the shoulder and growled, “What’re ye fer?”

Wulfgar had to consciously catch his own hand before it shot across and squashed the ruffian’s filthy fingers together. But he had control now. He leaned closer to the huge leader. “Not to fight; to watch,” he said quietly. “One day, perhaps, I might deem myself worthy to challenge the likes of Bungo, and on that day I will return, for I have no doubt that you will still be the champion of this tavern. But that day is many years away, I fear. I have so much to learn.”

“Then why’ve ye come?” Bungo demanded, his confidence brimming over. He leaned over Wulfgar, threateningly close.

“I have come to learn,” Wulfgar replied. “To learn by watching the toughest fighter in Waterdeep. To see how Bungo presents himself and goes about his affairs.”

Bungo straightened and looked around at his anxious friends, who were leaning nearly to the point of falling over the table. Bungo flashed his toothless grin, customary before he clobbered a challenger, and the ruffians tensed. But then their champion surprised them, slapping Wulfgar hard on the shoulder—the clap of a friend.

Audible groans issued throughout the tavern as Bungo pulled up a chair to share a drink with the impressive stranger.

“Get ye gone!” the slob roared at his companions. Their faces twisted in disappointment and confusion, but they did not dare disobey. The one behind Wulfgar poked him again for good measure, then followed the others back to the bar.

“A wise move,” Deudermont remarked to Drizzt.

“For both of them,” the drow replied, relaxing against the rail.

“You have other business in the city?” the captain asked.

Drizzt shook his head. “No. Get us to the ship,” he said. “I fear that Waterdeep can bring only trouble.”

A million stars filled the sky that cloudless night. They reached down from the velvety canopy to join with the distant lights of Waterdeep, setting the northern horizon aglow. Wulfgar found Drizzt above decks, sitting quietly in the rolling serenity offered by the sea.

“I should like to return,” Wulfgar said, following his friend’s gaze to the now distant city.

“To settle a score with a drunken ruffian and his wretched friends,” Drizzt concluded.

Wulfgar laughed but stopped abruptly when Drizzt wheeled on him.

“To what end?” Drizzt asked. “Would you then replace him as the champion of the Mermaid’s Arms?”

“That is a life I do not envy,” Wulfgar replied, chuckling again, though this time uncomfortably.

“Then leave it to Bungo,” Drizzt said, turning back to the glow of the city.

Again Wulfgar’s smile faded.

Seconds, minutes perhaps, slipped by, the only sound the slapping of the waves against the prow of the Sea Sprite. On an impulse, Drizzt slid Twinkle from its sheath. The crafted scimitar came to life in his hand, the blade glowing in the starlight that had given Twinkle its name and its enchantment.

“The weapon fits you well,” Wulfgar remarked.

“A fine companion,” Drizzt acknowledged, examining the intricate designs etched along the curving blade. He remembered another magical scimitar he had once possessed, a blade he had found in the lair of a dragon that he and Wulfgar had slain. That blade, too, had been a fine companion. Wrought of ice magic, the scimitar was forged as a bane to creatures of fire, impervious, along with its wielder, to their flames. It had served Drizzt well, even saving him from the certain and painful death of a demon’s fire.

Drizzt cast his gaze back to Wulfgar. “I was thinking of our first dragon,” he explained to the barbarian’s questioning look. “You and I alone in the ice cave against the likes of Icingdeath, an able foe.”

“He would have had us,” Wulfgar added, “had it not been for the luck of that huge icicle hanging above the dragon’s back.”

“Luck?” Drizzt replied. “Perhaps. But more often, I dare to say, luck is simply the advantage a true warrior gains in executing the correct course of action.”

Wulfgar took the compliment in stride; he had been the one to dislodge the pointed icicle, killing the dragon.

“A pity I do not have the scimitar I plundered from Icingdeath’s lair to serve as a companion for Twinkle,” Drizzt remarked.

“True enough,” replied Wulfgar, smiling as he remembered his early adventures beside the drow. “But, alas, that one went over Garumn’s Gorge with Bruenor.”

Drizzt paused and blinked as if cold water had been thrown in his face. A sudden image flooded through his mind, its implications both hopeful and frightening. The image of Bruenor Battlehammer drifting slowly down into the depths of the gorge on the back of a burning dragon.

A burning dragon!

It was the first time Wulfgar had ever noted a tremble in the voice of his normally composed friend, when Drizzt rasped out, “Bruenor had my blade?”