“Another one?” came a soft call from the door. Bruenor looked over his shoulder to see Catti-brie peeking in on him. Bruenor knew that he didn’t have to answer. He put his head down in one hand and rubbed his eyes.

“About Regis again?” asked Catti-brie, moving closer. Bruenor heard the door softly close.

“Rumblebelly,” Bruenor softly corrected, using the nickname he had tagged on the halfling who had been his closest friend for nearly a decade.

Bruenor swung his legs back up on the bed. “I should be with him,” he said gruffly, “or at least with the drow and Wulfgar, lookin’ for him!”

“Yer kingdom awaits,” Catti-brie reminded him, more to dispel his guilt than to soften his belief in where he truly belonged—a belief that the young woman wholeheartedly shared. “Yer kin from Icewind Dale’ll be here in a month, the army from Adbar in two.”

“Aye, but we can’t be going to the halls till the winter’s past.”

Catti-brie looked around for some way to deflect the sinking conversation. “Ye’ll wear it well,” she said cheerfully, indicating the bejeweled crown.

“Which?” Bruenor retorted, a sharp edge to his tongue.

Catti-brie looked at the dented helm, pitiful beside the glorious one, and nearly snorted aloud. But she turned to Bruenor before she commented, and the stern look stamped upon the dwarf’s face as he studied the old helmet told her that Bruenor had not asked in jest. At that moment, Catti-brie realized, Bruenor saw the one-horned helmet as infinitely more precious than the crown he was destined to wear.

“They’re halfway to Calimport,” Catti-brie remarked, sympathizing with the dwarf’s desires. “Maybe more.”

“Aye, and few boats’ll be leaving Waterdeep with the winter coming on,” Bruenor muttered grimly, echoing the same arguments Catti-brie had leveled on him during his second morning in the Ivy Mansion, when he had first mentioned his desire to go after his friends.

“We’ve a million preparations before us,” said Catti-brie, stubbornly holding her cheerful tone. “Suren the winter’ll pass quickly, and we’ll get the halls in time for Drizzt and Wulfgar and Regis’s return.”

Bruenor’s visage did not soften. His eyes locked on the broken helmet, but his mind wandered beyond the vision, back to the fateful scene at Garumn’s Gorge. He had at least made peace with Regis before they were separated…

Bruenor’s recollections blew away from him suddenly. He snapped a wry glance upon Catti-brie. “Ye think they might be back in time for the fighting?”

Catti-brie shrugged. “If they put right back out,” she replied, curious at the question, for she knew that Bruenor had more in mind than fighting beside Drizzt and Wulfgar in the battle for Mithril Hall. “They can be coverin’ many miles over the southland—even in the winter.”

Bruenor bounced off the bed and rushed for the door, scooping up the one-horned helmet and fitting it to his head as he went.

“Middle o’ the night?” Catti-brie gawked after him. She jumped up and followed him into the hall.

Bruenor never slowed. He marched straight to Harkle Harpell’s door and banged on it loudly enough to wake everyone in that wing of the house. “Harkle!” he roared.

Catti-brie knew better than to even try to calm him. She just shrugged apologetically to each curious head that popped into the hall to take a look.

Finally, Harkle, clad only in a nightshirt and ball-tipped cap, and holding a candle, opened his door.

Bruenor shoved himself into the room, Catti-brie in tow. “Can ye make me a chariot?” the dwarf demanded.

“A what?” Harkle yawned, trying futilely to brush his sleep away. “A chariot?”

“A chariot!” Bruenor growled. “Of fire. Like the Lady Alustriel bringed me here in! A chariot of fire!”

“Well,” Harkle stammered. “I have never—”

“Can ye do it?” Bruenor roared, having no patience now for unfocused blabbering.

“Yes,…uh, maybe,” Harkle proclaimed as confidently as he could. “Actually, that spell is Alustriel’s specialty. No one here has ever…” He stopped, feeling Bruenor’s frustrated glare boring into him. The dwarf stood straight-legged, one bare heel grinding into the floor, and his gnarled arms crossed over his chest, the stubby fingers of one hand tapping an impatient rhythm on his knotted biceps.

“I shall speak to the lady in the morning,” Harkle assured him. “I am certain—”

“Alustriel’s still here?” Bruenor interrupted.

“Why, yes,” Harkle replied. “She stayed on a few extra—”

“Where is she?” Bruenor demanded.

“Down the hall.”

“Which room?”

“I shall take you to her in the morn—” Harkle began.

Bruenor grabbed the front of the wizard’s nightshirt and brought him down to a dwarf’s eye level. Bruenor proved the stronger even with his nose, for the long, pointy thing pressed Harkle’s nose flat against one of his cheeks. Bruenor’s eyes did not blink, and he spoke each word of his question slowly and distinctly, just the way he wanted the answer. “Which room?”

“Green door, beside the bannister.” Harkle gulped.

Bruenor gave the wizard a goodhearted wink and let him go. The dwarf turned right past Catti-brie, returning her amused smile with a determined shake of his head, and burst into the hall.

“Oh, he should not disturb the Lady Alustriel at this late hour!” Harkle protested.

Catti-brie could not help but laugh. “So stop him yerself!”

Harkle listened to the dwarf’s heavy footsteps resounding down the hall; Bruenor’s bare feet thudded on the wooden floor like bouncing stones. “No,” Harkle answered her offer, his smile widening to match her own. “I think not.”

Abruptly awakened in the night, the Lady Alustriel appeared no less beautiful, her silvery mane somehow mystically connected to the soft glow of the evening. Bruenor composed himself when he saw the lady, remembering her station and his manners.

“Uh, begging the lady’s pardon,” he stammered, suddenly very embarrassed by his actions.

“It is late, good King Bruenor,” Alustriel said politely, an amused smile on her face as she viewed the dwarf, dressed only in his nightshirt and broken helmet. “What might have brought you to my door at this hour?”

“What with all that’s going on about, I did not even know ye were still in Longsaddle,” Bruenor explained.

“I would have come to see you before I left,” Alustriel replied, her tone still cordial. “No need to disturb your sleep or mine.”

“Me thoughts weren’t for good-byes,” Bruenor said. “I be needing a favor.”

“Urgently?”

Bruenor nodded emphatically. “A favor I should’ve asked afore we e’er got here.”

Alustriel led him into her room and closed the door behind them, realizing the seriousness of the dwarf’s business.

“I need another one of them chariots,” said Bruenor. “To take me to the south.”

“You mean to catch your friends and aid in the search for the halfling,” Alustriel reasoned.

“Aye, I know me place.”

“But I cannot accompany you,” Alustriel said. “I have a realm to rule; it is not my place to journey unannounced to other kingdoms.”

“I wouldn’t be askin’ ye to go,” replied Bruenor.

“Then who will drive the team? You have no experience with such magic.”

Bruenor thought for just a moment. “Harkle’ll take me!” he blurted.

Alustriel couldn’t hide a smirk as she thought of the possibilities for disaster. Harkle, like so many of his Harpell kin, usually hurt himself when spellcasting. The lady knew that she would not sway the dwarf, but she felt it her duty to point out all of the weaknesses of his plan.

“Calimport is a long way indeed,” she told him. “The trip there on the chariot will be speedy, but the return could take many months. Will not the true king of Mithril Hall lead the gathering armies in the fight for his throne?”

“He will,” Bruenor replied, “if it be possible. But me place’s with me friends. I owe them at least that!”