They approached slowly, side by side, hands up, palms out in an unthreatening manner.

Smiles and nods came back at them from the men sitting watch on the perimeter; they were recognized still in that place, and accepted as friends. The vigilant sentries didn’t leave their positions to go over and greet them, but did wave, and motion them through.

And somehow signaled ahead to the people in the camp, Drizzt and Regis realized from the movements of the main area. It was set in the shelter of a shallow dell, so there was no way they had been spotted from within the collection of tents before they’d crested the surrounding hillock, and yet the camp was all astir, with people rushing about excitedly. A large figure, a huge man with corded muscles and wisdom in his seasoned eyes, stood in the center of all the commotion, flanked by warriors and priests.

He wore the headdress of leadership, elf-horned and decorated, and he was well-known to Drizzt and Regis.

But to their surprise, it was not Wulfgar.

“You stopped the wind, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Berkthgar the Bold said in his strong voice. “Your legend is without end.”

Drizzt accepted the compliment with a polite bow. “You are well, Berkthgar, and that gladdens my heart,” the drow said.

“The seasons have been difficult,” the barbarian admitted. “Winter has been the strongest, and the filthy goblins and giants ever-present. We have suffered many losses, but my people have fared best among the tribes.”

Both Regis and Drizzt stiffened at that admission, particularly of the losses, and particularly in light of the fact that it was not Wulfgar standing before them, and that he was nowhere to be seen.

“We survive and we go on,” Berkthgar added. “That is our heritage and our way.”

Drizzt nodded solemnly. He wanted to ask the pressing question, but he held his tongue and let the barbarian continue.

“How fares Bruenor and Mithral Hall?” Berkthgar asked. “I pray to the spirits that you didn’t come to tell me that this foul orc king has won the day.”

“Nay, not tha—” Drizzt started to say, but he bit it off and looked at Berkthgar with curiosity. “How do you know of King Obould and his minions?”

“Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, returned to us with many tales to share.”

“Then where is he?” Regis blurted, unable to contain himself. “Out hunting?”

“None are out hunting.”

“Then where?” the halfling demanded, and such a voice came out of his diminutive form as to startle Berkthgar and all the others, even Drizzt.

“Wulfgar came to us four winters ago, and for three winters, he remained among the people,” Berkthgar replied. “He hunted with the Tribe of the Elk, as he always should have. He shared in our food and our drink. He danced and sang with the people who were once his own, but no more.”

“He tried to take your crown, but you wouldn’t let him!” Regis said, trying futilely to keep any level of accusation out of his voice. He knew he’d failed miserably at that, however, when Drizzt elbowed him in the shoulder.

“Wulfgar never challenged me,” Berkthgar replied. “He had no place to challenge my leadership, and no right.”

“He was once your leader.”

“Once.”

The simple answer set the halfling back on his heels.

“Wulfgar forgot the ways of Icewind Dale, the ways of our people,” Berkthgar said, addressing Drizzt directly and not even glancing down at the upset halfling. “Icewind Dale is unforgiving. Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, didn’t need to be told that. He offered no challenge.”

Drizzt nodded his understanding and acceptance.

“He left us in the first draw of light and dark,” the barbarian explained.

“The spring equinox,” Drizzt explained to Regis. “When day and night are equal.”

He turned to Berkthgar and asked directly, “Was it demanded of him that he leave?”

The chieftain shook his head. “Too long are the tales of Wulfgar. Great sorrow, it is, for us to know that he is of us no more.”

“He thought he was coming home,” said Regis.

“This was not his home.”

“Then where is he?” the halfling demanded, and Berkthgar shook his head solemnly, having no answer.

“He didn’t go back to Ten-Towns,” Regis said, growing more animated as he became more alarmed. “He didn’t go back to Luskan. He couldn’t have without stopping through Ten—”

“The Son of Beornegar is dead,” Berkthgar interrupted. “We’re not pleased that it came to this, but Icewind Dale wins over us all. Wulfgar forgot who he was, and forgot where he came from. Icewind Dale does not forgive. He left us in the first draw of light and dark, and we found signs of him for many tendays. But they are gone, and he is gone.”

“Are you certain?” Drizzt asked, trying to keep the tremor out of his pained voice.

Berkthgar slowly blinked. “Our words with the people of the three lakes are few,” he explained. “But when sign of Wulfgar faded from the tundra of Icewind Dale, we asked of him among them. The little one is right. Wulfgar did not go back to Ten-Towns.”

“Our mourning is passed,” came a voice from behind Berkthgar and the barbarian leader turned to regard the man who had disregarded custom by speaking out. A nod from Berkthgar showed forgiveness for that, and when they saw the speaker, Drizzt and Regis understood the sympathy, for Kierstaad, grown into a strong man, had ever been a devout champion of the son of Beornegar. No doubt for Kierstaad, the loss of Wulfgar was akin to the loss of his father. None of that pain showed in his voice or his stance, however. He had proclaimed the mourning of Wulfgar passed, and so it simply was.

“You don’t know that he’s dead,” Regis protested, and both Berkthgar and Kierstaad, and many others, scowled at him. Drizzt hushed him with a little tap on the shoulder.

“You know the comforts of a hearth and a bed of down,” Berkthgar said to Regis. “We know Icewind Dale. Icewind Dale does not forgive.”

Regis started to protest again, but Drizzt held him back, understanding well that resignation and acceptance was the way of the barbarians. They accepted death without remorse because death was all too near, always. Not a man or woman there had not known the specter of death—of a lover, a parent, a child, or a friend.

And so the drow tried to show the same stoicism when he and Regis took their leave of the Tribe of the Elk soon after, walking the same path that had brought them so far out from Ten-Towns. The facade couldn’t hold, though, and the drow couldn’t hide his wince of pain. He didn’t know where to turn, where to look, who to ask. Wulfgar was gone, lost to him, and the taste proved bitter indeed. Black wings of guilt fluttered around him as he walked, images of the look on Wulfgar’s face when first he’d learned that Catti-brie was lost to him, betrothed to the drow he called his best friend. It had been no one’s fault, not Drizzt’s nor Catti-brie’s, nor Wulfgar’s, for Wulfgar had been lost to them for years, trapped in the Abyss by the balor Errtu. In that time, Drizzt and Catti-brie had fallen in love, or had at last admitted the love they had known for years, but had muted because of their obvious differences.

When Wulfgar had returned from the dead, there was nothing they could do, though Catti-brie had surely tried.

And so it was circumstance that had driven Wulfgar from the Companions of the Hall. Blameless circumstance, Drizzt tried hard to tell himself as he and Regis walked without speaking through the continuing gentle snowfall. He wasn’t about to convince himself, but it hardly mattered anyway. All that mattered was that Wulfgar was lost to him forever, that his beloved friend was no more and his world had diminished.

Beside him, the muffling aspect of the snow and breeze did little to hide Regis’s sniffles.