Catti-brie calmed, more from the sincerity and regret in Alustriel’s tone than from her actual words. Alustriel had helped, despite her refusal to go along, for she had given to Bruenor a locket enchanted to lead the dwarf toward Drizzt, an identical locket to the one she had given to Catti-brie many years before when she, too, had gone off to find a wandering Drizzt.

“I hope that Bruenor is correct in his guess,” Alustriel went on, trepidation in her voice. “I hope that killing Obould will bring the results he desires.”

Catti-brie didn’t reply, but just stood there and absorbed the words. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Obould, who had started the war, might actually have become a stabilizing force, and yet she could not deny her doubts.

The two orcs stood under a widespread maple, the sharp, stark lines of its branches not yet softened by the onset of buds. They talked and chuckled at their own stupidity, for they were completely lost, and far separated from their kin at the small village. A wrong turn on a trail in the dark of night had put them far afield, and they had long ago abandoned the firewood they had come out to collect.

One lamented that his wife would beat him red, to warm him up so he could replace the fire that wouldn’t last half the night.

The other laughed and his smile lingered long after his mirth was stolen by an elven arrow, one that neatly sliced into his companion’s temple. Standing in confusion, grinning simply because he hadn’t the presence of mind to remove his own smile, the orc didn’t even register the sudden thump of heavy boots closing in fast from behind him. He was caught completely unawares as the sharp tip of a helmet spike drove into his spine, tearing through muscle and bone, and blasted out the front of his chest, covered in blood and pieces of his torn heart.

He was dead before Thibble dorf Pwent straightened, lifting the orc’s flopping body atop his head. The dwarf hopped around, looking for more enemies. He saw Bruenor and Cordio scrambling in the shadows south of the maple, and noted Torgar and Shingles farther to the east. With Hralien in the northwest, and Regis following in the shadows behind Pwent, the group soon surmised that the pair had been out alone.

“Good enough, then,” said Bruenor, nodding his approval. He held up the locket Alustriel had given him. “Warmer,” he explained. ”Drizzt is nearby.”

“Still north?” Hralien asked, coming in under the maple to stand beside Bruenor.

“Back from where ye just walked,” Bruenor confirmed, holding forth his fist, which held the locket. “And getting warmer by the step.”

A curious expression showed on Bruenor’s face. “And getting warmer as we’re standin’ here,” he explained to the curious glances that came his way.

“Drizzt!” Regis cried an instant later.

Following the halfling’s pointing finger, the others spied a pair of dark elves coming toward them, with Tos’un bound and walking before their friend.

“Taked ye long enough to find him, eh?” Thibble dorf Pwent said with a snort. He bent and slapped his leg for effect, which sent the dead orc flopping weirdly.

Drizzt stared at the bloody dwarf, at the cargo he carried on his helmet spike. Realizing that there was simply nothing he might say against the absurdity of that image, he just prodded Tos’un on, moving to the main group.

“They hit the wall east of Mithral Hall,” Hralien explained to Drizzt. “As you had feared.”

“Aye, but know that we sent them running,” Bruenor added.

Drizzt’s confused expression didn’t change as he scanned the group.

“And now we’re out for Obould,” Bruenor explained. “I’m knowing ye were right, elf. We got to kill Obould and break it all apart, as ye thought afore when ye went after him with me girl’s sword.”

“We’re out for him?” Drizzt asked doubtfully, looking past the small group. “You’ve brought no army, my friend.”

“Bah, an army’d just muddle it all,” Bruenor said with a wave of his hand.

It wasn’t hard for Drizzt to catch the gist of that, and in considering it for a moment, in considering Bruenor’s leadership methodology, he realized that he should not be the least bit surprised.

“We wish to get to Obould, and it seems that we have a captive who might aid in exactly that,” Hralien remarked, stepping up before Tos’un.

“I have no idea where he is,” Tos’un said in his still-stinted command of the Elvish tongue.

“You would have to say that,” said Hralien.

“I helped you…your people,” Tos’un protested. “Grguch had them caught in the failed raid and I showed them the tunnel that took them to safety.”

“True,” Hralien replied. “But then, isn’t that what a drow would do? To gain our trust, I mean?”

Tos’un’s shoulders sagged and he lowered his eyes, for he had just fought that same battle with Drizzt, and there seemed no way for him to escape it. Everything he had done leading up to that point could be interpreted as self-serving, and for the benefit of a larger and more nefarious plot.

“Ye should’ve just killed him and been done with it,” Bruenor said to Drizzt. “If he’s not for helping us then he’s just slowing us down.”

“Meself’ll be there for the task in a heartbeat, me king!” Pwent shouted from the side, and all eyes turned to see the dwarf, bent low with head forward, backing through the narrow opening between a pair of trees. Pwent set the back of the dead orc’s thighs against one trunk, the poor creature’s shoulder blades against another, and with a sudden burst, the dwarf tugged backward. Bones and gristle popped and ground as the barbed spike tore back through, freeing the dwarf of his dead-weight burden.

Pwent stumbled backward and fell to his rump, but hopped right back to his feet and bounced around to face the others, shaking his head so vigorously that his lips flapped. Then, with a smile, Pwent brought his hands up before him, palms facing out, extended thumbs touching tip-to-tip, lining up his charge.

“Turn the dark-skinned dog just a bit,” he instructed.

“Not just yet, good dwarf,” Drizzt said, and Pwent straightened, disappointment clear on his face.

“Ye thinkin’ to take him along?” Bruenor asked, and Drizzt nodded.

“We could divert our course to the Moonwood, or back to Mithral Hall,” Hralien offered. “We would lose no more than a day or so, and would be rid of our burden.”

But Drizzt shook his head.

“Easier just to kill him,” said Bruenor, and to the side, Pwent began scraping his feet across the ground like a bull readying for a charge.

“But not wiser,” Drizzt said. “If Tos’un’s claims are true, he might prove to be a valuable asset to us. If not, we have lost nothing because we have risked nothing.” He looked to his fellow drow. “If you do not deceive us, on my word I will let you leave when we are done.”

“You cannot do this,” said Hralien, drawing all eyes his way. “If he has committed crimes against the Moonwood, his fate is not yours alone to decide.”

“He has not,” Drizzt assured the elf. “He was not there, for Khazid’hea was not there.”

Bruenor yanked Drizzt aside, pulling him away from the others. “How much o’ this is yer way o’ hoping for a drow akin to yerself?” the dwarf asked bluntly.

Drizzt shook his head, with sincerity and certainty. “On my word, Bruenor, this I do because I think it best for us and our cause—whatever that cause may be.”

“What’s that meaning?” the dwarf demanded. “We’re for killing Obould, don’t ye doubt!” He raised his voice with the proclamation, and the others all looked his way.

Drizzt didn’t argue. “Obould would kill Tos’un if given the chance, as Obould murdered Tos’un’s companion. We will gamble nothing with Tos’un, I promise you, my friend, and the possibility of gain cannot be ignored.”

Bruenor looked long and hard at Drizzt then glanced back at Tos’un, who stood calmly, as if resigned to his fate—whatever that fate may be.