Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, Bruenor pulled himself up to his elbows.

A wave of blackness rolled over him and sent his thoughts reeling in nauseous circles. He dropped heavily to his back.

His vision returned for just a moment, long enough to register the form of a tall and beautiful woman kneeling over him. Her long hair, gleaming silver in the firelight, brushed across his face.

“Spider’s poison,” she said softly. “Would have killed anything but a dwarf.”

Then there was only the blackness.

Bruenor awoke again a few hours later, stronger and more alert. Trying not to stir and bring any attention, he half-opened one eye and surveyed the area, glancing at the pile first. Satisfied that all of his equipment was there, he slowly turned his head over.

He was in a small chamber, apparently a one-roomed structure, for the only door seemed to lead outside. The woman he had seen earlier—though Bruenor wasn’t really sure until now if that image had been a dream—stood beside the door, staring out the room’s single window to the night sky beyond. Her hair was indeed silver. Bruenor could see that its hue was no trick of the firelight. But not silver with the graying of age; this lustrous mane glowed with vibrant life.

“Yer pardon, fair lady,” the dwarf croaked, his voice cracking on every syllable. The woman twirled and looked at him curiously.

“Might I be getting a bit o’ food?” asked Bruenor, never one to mix up his priorities.

The woman floated across the room and helped Bruenor up into a sitting position. Again a wave of blackness swirled over the dwarf, but he managed to shrug it away.

“Only a dwarf!” the woman muttered, astonished that Bruenor had come through his ordeal.

Bruenor cocked his head up at her. “I know ye, lady, though I cannot find yer name in me thoughts.”

“It is not important,” the woman replied. “You have come through much, Bruenor Battlehammer.” Bruenor cocked his head further and leaned away at the mention of his name, but the woman steadied him and continued. “I attended to your wounds as best I could, though I feared that I had come upon you too late to mend the hurts of the spider’s poison.”

Bruenor looked down at his bandaged forearm, reliving those terrible moments when he had first encountered the giant spider. “How long?”

“How long you lay atop the broken grate, I do not know,” the woman answered. “But here you have rested for three days and more—too long for your stomach’s liking! I will prepare some food.” She started to rise, but Bruenor caught her arm.

“Where is this place?”

The lady’s smile eased his grip. “In a clearing not far from the grate. I feared to move you.”

Bruenor didn’t quite understand. “Yer home?”

“Oh, no,” the woman laughed, standing. “A creation, and only temporary. It will be gone with the dawn’s light if you feel able to travel.”

The tie to magic flickered recognition. “Ye’re the Lady of Silverymoon!” Bruenor spouted suddenly.

“Clearmoon Alustriel,” the woman said with a polite bow. “My greetings, noble King.”

“King?” Bruenor echoed in disgust. “Suren me halls are gone to the scum.”

“We shall see,” said Alustriel.

But Bruenor missed the words altogether. His thoughts were not on Mithril Hall, but on Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis, and especially on Catti-brie, the joy of his life. “Me friends,” he begged to the woman. “Do ye know o’ me friends?”

“Rest easy,” Alustriel answered. “They escaped the halls, each of them.”

“Even the drow?”

Alustriel nodded. “Drizzt Do’Urden was not destined to die in the home of his dearest friend.”

Alustriel’s familiarity with Drizzt triggered another memory in the dwarf. “Ye met him before,” he said, “on our road to Mithril Hall. Ye pointed the way for us. And that is how ye knew me name.”

“And knew where to search for you,” Alustriel added. “Your friends think you dead, to their ultimate grief. But I am a wizard of some talent, and can speak to worlds that oft bring surprising revelations. When the specter of Morkai, an old associate who passed from this world a few years ago, imparted to me an image of a fallen dwarf, half out of a hole on the side of a mountain, I knew the truth of the fate of Bruenor Battlehammer. I only hoped that I would not be too late.”

“Bah! Fit as ever!” Bruenor huffed, thumping a fist into his chest. As he shifted his weight, a stinging pain in his seat made him wince.

“A crossbow quarrel,” Alustriel explained.

Bruenor thought for a moment. He had no recollection of being hit, though the memory of his flight from the undercity was perfectly clear. He shrugged and attributed it to the blindness of his battle-lust. “So one o’ the gray scum got me…” he started to say, but then he blushed and turned his eyes away at the thought of this woman plucking the quarrel from his backside.

Alustriel was kind enough to change the subject. “Dine and then rest,” she instructed. “Your friends are safe…for the present.”

“Where—”

Alustriel cut him off with an outstretched palm. “My knowledge in this matter is not sufficient,” she explained. “You shall find your answers soon enough. In the morning, I will take you to Longsaddle and Catti-brie. She can tell you more than I.”

Bruenor wished that he could go right now to the human girl he had plucked from the ruins of a goblin raid and reared as his daughter, that he could crush her against him in his arms and tell her that everything was all right. But he reminded himself that he had never truly expected to see Catti-brie again, and he could suffer through one more night.

Any fears he had of anxious restlessness were washed away in the serenity of exhausted sleep only minutes after he had finished the meal. Alustriel watched over him until contented snores resounded throughout the magical shelter.

Satisfied that only a healthy sleeper could roar so loudly, the Lady of Silverymoon leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

It had been a long three days.

Bruenor watched in amazement as the structure faded around him with the first light of dawn, as if the dark of night had somehow lent the place the tangible material for its construction. He turned to say something to Alustriel but saw her in the midst of casting a spell, facing the pinkening sky and reaching out as though trying to grab the rays of light.

She clenched her hands and brought them to her mouth, whispering the enchantment into them. Then she flung the captured light out before her, crying out the final words of the dweomer, “Equine aflame!” A glowing ball of red struck the stone and burst into a shower of fire, forming almost instantly into a flaming chariot and two horses. Their images danced with the fire that gave them shape, but they did not burn the ground.

“Gather your things,” the lady instructed Bruenor. “It is time we leave.”

Bruenor stood motionless a moment longer. He had never come to appreciate magic, only the magic that strengthened weapons and armor, but neither did he ever deny its usefulness. He collected his equipment, not bothering to don armor or shield, and joined Alustriel behind the chariot. He followed her onto it, somewhat reluctantly, but it did not burn and it felt as tangible as wood.

Alustriel took a fiery rein in her slender hand and called to the team. A single bound lifted them into the morning sky, and they shot away, west around the bulk of the mountain and then south.

The stunned dwarf dropped his equipment to his feet—his chin to his chest—and clutched the side of the chariot. Mountains rolled out below him; he noted the ruins of Settlestone, the ancient dwarven city, now far below, and only a second later, far behind. The chariot roared over the open grassland and skimmed westward along the northern edge of the Trollmoors. Bruenor had relaxed enough to spit a curse as they soared over the town of Nesme, remembering the less-than-hospitable treatment he and his friends had received at the hands of a patrol from the place. They passed over the Dessarin River network, a shining snake writhing through the fields, and Bruenor saw a large encampment of barbarians far to the north.