Regis, with attendants in tow, joined them. He would make the trip to the Sea Sprite beside his formidable friends. Let his enemies see his allies in all their splendor, the sly new guildmaster figured, particularly a drow elf!

“A final offer before we go,” Regis proclaimed.

“We’re not for staying,” Bruenor retorted.

“Not to you,” Regis said. He turned squarely to Drizzt. “To you.”

Drizzt waited patiently for the pitch as the halfling rubbed his eager hands together.

“Fifty thousand gold pieces,” Regis said at length, “for your cat.”

Drizzt’s eyes widened to double their size.

“Guenhwyvar will be well cared for, I assure—”

Catti-brie slapped Regis on the back of the head. “Find yer shame,” she scolded. “Ye know the drow better than that!”

Drizzt calmed her with a smile. “A treasure for a treasure?” he said to Regis. “You know I must decline. Guenhwyvar cannot be bought, however good your intentions may be.”

“Fifty thousand,” Bruenor huffed. “If we wanted it, we’d take it afore we left!”

Regis then realized the absurdity of the offer, and he blushed in embarrassment.

“Are you so certain that we came across the world to your aid?” Wulfgar asked him. Regis looked at the barbarian, confused.

“Perhaps ‘twas the cat we came after,” Wulfgar continued seriously.

The stunned look on Regis’s face proved more than any of them could bear, and a burst of laughter like none of them had enjoyed in many months erupted, infecting even Regis.

“Here,” Drizzt offered when things had quieted once again. “Take this instead,” He pulled the magical mask off his head and tossed it to the halfling.

“Should ye keep it until we get to the boat?” Bruenor asked.

Drizzt looked to Catti-brie for an answer, and her smile of approval and admiration cast away any remaining doubts he might have had.

“No,” he said. “Let the Calishites judge me for what they will.” He swung open the doors, allowing the morning sun to sparkle in his lavender eyes.

“Let the wide world judge me for what it will,” he said, his look one of genuine contentment as he dropped his gaze alternately into the eyes of each of his four friends.

“You know who I am.”

Epilogue

The Sea Sprite cut a difficult course northward up the Sword Coast, into the wintry winds, but Captain Deudermont and his grateful crew were determined to see the four friends safely and swiftly back to Waterdeep.

Stunned expressions from every face on the docks greeted the resilient vessel as it put into Waterdeep Harbor, dodging the breakers and the ice floes as it went. Mustering all the skill he had gained through years of experience, Deudermont docked the Sea Sprite safely.

The four friends had recovered much of their health, and their humor, during those two months at sea, despite the rough voyage. All had turned out well in the end—even Catti-brie’s wounds appeared as if they would fully heal.

But if the sea voyage back to the North was difficult, the trek across the frozen lands was even worse. Winter was on the wane but still thick in the land, and the friends could not afford to wait for the snows to melt. They said their goodbyes to Deudermont and the men of the Sea Sprite, tightened heavy cloaks and boots, and trudged off through Waterdeep’s gate along the Trade Way on the northeastern course to Longsaddle.

Blizzards and wolves reared up to stop them. The path of the road, its plentiful markings buried under a year’s worth of snow, became no more than the guess of a drow elf reading the stars and the sun.

Somehow they made it, though, and they stormed into Longsaddle, ready to retake Mithril Hall. Bruenor’s kin from Icewind Dale were there to greet them, along with five hundred of Wulfgar’s people. Less than two weeks later, General Dagnabit of Citadel Adbar led his eight thousand dwarven troops to Bruenor’s side.

Battle plans were drawn and redrawn. Drizzt and Bruenor put their memories of the undercity and mine caverns together to create models of the place and estimate the number of duergar the army would face.

Then, with spring defeating the last blows of winter, and only a few days before the army was to set out to the mountains, two more groups of allies came in, quite unexpectedly: contingents of archers from Silverymoon and Nesme. Bruenor at first wanted to turn the warriors from Nesme away, remembering the treatment he and his friends had received at the hands of a Nesme patrol on their initial journey to Mithril Hall, and also because the dwarf wondered how much of the show of allegiance was motivated in the hopes of friendship, and how much in the hopes of profit!

But, as usual, Bruenor’s friends kept him on a wise course. The dwarves would have to deal extensively with Nesme, the closest settlement to Mithril Hall, once the mines were reopened, and a smart leader would patch the bad feelings there and then.

Their numbers were overwhelming, their determination unrivaled, and their leaders magnificent. Bruenor and Dagnabit led the main assault force of battle-hardened dwarves and wild barbarians, sweeping out room after room of the duergar scum. Catti-brie, with her bow, the few Harpells who had made the journey, and the archers from the two cities, cleared the side passages along the main force’s thrust.

Drizzt, Wulfgar, and Guenhwyvar, as they had so often in the past, forged out alone, scouting the areas ahead of and below the army, taking out more than their share of duergar along the way.

In three days, the top level was cleared. In two weeks, the undercity. By the time spring had settled fully onto the northland, less than a month after the army had set out from Longsaddle, the hammers of Clan Battlehammer began their smithing song in the ancient halls once again.

And the rightful king took his throne.

Drizzt looked down from the mountains to the distant lights of the enchanted city of Silverymoon. He had been turned away from that city once before—a painful rejection—but not this time.

He could walk the land as he chose, now, with his head held high and the cowl of his cloak thrown back. Most of the world did not treat him any differently; few knew the name of Drizzt Do’Urden. But Drizzt knew now that he owed no apologies, or excuses, for his black skin, and to those who placed unfair judgment upon him, he offered none.

The weight of the world’s prejudice would still fall upon him heavily, but Drizzt had learned, by the insights of Catti-brie, to stand against it.

What a wonderful friend she was to him. Drizzt had watched her grow into a special young woman, and he was warmed now by the knowledge that she had found her home.

The thought of her with Wulfgar, and standing beside Bruenor, touched the dark elf, who had never experienced the closeness of family.

“How much we all have changed,” the drow whispered to the empty mountain wind.

His words were not a lament.

The autumn saw the first crafted goods flow from Mithril Hall to Silverymoon, and by the time winter turned again to spring, the trade was in full force, with the barbarians from Icewind Dale working as market bearers for the dwarven goods.

That spring, too, a carving was begun in the Hall of Kings: the likeness of Bruenor Battlehammer.

To the dwarf who had wandered so far from his home and had seen so many marvelous—and horrible—sights, the reopening of the mines, and even the carving of his bust, seemed of minor importance when weighed against another event planned for that year.