“What o’ Kurth?”

“He won’t move against me. He sees where this is leading, and he awaits the destination.”

“Ye sure?”

“Sure enough to tell you again to get to Suljack’s side.”

The dwarf gave an exaggerated sigh and thumped past the chair. “Getting a little tired o’ being telled what to do,” he mumbled under his breath, drawing a grin from Kensidan.

A few moments later, half the room where Kensidan sat alone darkened.

“You heard it all?” he stated as much as asked.

“Enough to know that you continue to put your friend in dire peril.”

“And that displeases you?”

“It encourages us,” said the voice of the unseen, the never-seen, speaker. “This is bigger than one alliance, of course.”

“The dwarf will protect him,” Kensidan replied, just to show that maybe it wasn’t bigger than his alliance with Suljack.

“Don’t doubt that,” the voice assured him. “Half of Luskan’s garrison would be killed trying to get past that one.”

“And if more than that come, and Suljack is killed?” Kensidan asked.

“Then he will be dead. That is not the question. The question is what will Kensidan then do if his ally is lost?”

“I have many inroads to Suljack’s followers,” the head of Ship Rethnor replied. “None of them will form allegiance to Baram or Taerl, nor will I let them forgive those two for killing Suljack.”

“The fighting will continue, then? Beware, for Kurth understands the depth of your trickery here.”

The dwarf walked back into the room at that moment, his eyes widening at the darkness, at the unexpected visitation by his true masters.

Kensidan watched him just long enough to gauge his reaction then answered, “The chaos is Deudermont’s worst enemy. My city guards don’t report to their posts, nor do many, many others. Deudermont can give great speeches and make wonderful promises, but he cannot control the streets. He cannot keep the peasants safe. But I can keep mine safe, and Kurth his, and so on.”

Beside him, the dwarf laughed, though he bit it off when Kensidan turned to regard him. “True enough,” the head of Ship Rethnor admitted. “’Tis the trap of competitive humanity, you see. Few men are content if others have more to be content about.”

“How long will you let it proceed?” asked the voice in the darkness.

Kensidan shrugged. “That is up to Deudermont.”

“He’s stubborn to the end.”

“Good enough,” Kensidan said with a shrug.

The dwarf laughed again as he moved behind the chair to retrieve his forgotten weathercloak.

“I hope you live up to your reputation,” Kensidan said to him as he passed by again.

“Been looking for something to hit for a long time,” the dwarf replied. “Might even have a rhyme or two ready for me first battle.”

Someone in the darkness groaned, and the dwarf laughed even louder and all but skipped from the room.

CHAPTER 25

VISION OF THE PAST

W e soon have to turn to Ten-Towns,” Drizzt informed Regis one morning.

They were out on the tundra, and had been for a tenday since their departure from Berkthgar and the Tribe of the Elk. They both knew they should have gone back to one of the towns with winter coming in so fast and hard. Prudence demanded such, for Icewind Dale winters were indeed deadly.

But they had stayed out, roaming from the Sea of Moving Ice to the south, and the foothills of the Spine of the World. They had encountered two other tribes, and had been greeted cordially, if not warmly, by both. Neither had any word of Wulfgar, however, and indeed had counted him dead.

“He’s not out here,” Regis said after a while. “He must have gone south, out of the dale.”

Drizzt nodded, or tried to, but so unconvincing was he that his motion seemed more a head shake of denial.

“Wulfgar was too upset at the revelation, embarrassed even, and so he went right past Ten-Towns,” Regis went on stubbornly. “When he lost his past, he lost his home, and so he could not bear to remain here.”

“And he traveled past Luskan?”

“We don’t know that Wulfgar avoided Luskan. He might have gone in—perhaps he signed on with a ship and is sailing the southern Sword Coast, out by Memnon or even Calimport. Wouldn’t he be amused to see us huddled in a snowstorm looking for him?”

Drizzt shrugged. “It’s possible,” he admitted, but again, his tone and posture conveyed no confidence.

“Whatever happened, we’ve seen no sign that he’s out here, alone or with anyone else,” said Regis. “He left Icewind Dale. He walked right past Ten-Towns last spring and moved south through the dale—or maybe he’s back in that little fiefdom, Auckney was its name, with Colson! Yes, that’s…”

Drizzt held up his hand to stop the rambling halfling. He, they, had no idea what had happened to Wulfgar, or to Colson for that matter, since she had left the Silver Marches with him but was not with him when he entered Ten-Towns those years ago. Perhaps Regis was correct, but more likely, Berkthgar, who understood Icewind Dale and who knew the turmoil within Wulfgar, had deduced it correctly.

So many men had ventured out alone on the tundra, to simply disappear—into a bog, under the snow, into the belly of a monster…. Wulfgar wouldn’t have been the first, surely, nor would he be the last.

“We make for Ten-Towns today,” Drizzt informed the halfling.

The dark elf stared up at the heavy gray sky, and knew that yet another snow was fast approaching, and one that would be colder and more driven by the winds—one that could kill them.

Regis started to argue, but just nodded and gave a sigh. Wulfgar was lost to them.

The pair set out forlornly, Regis following closely in Drizzt’s trail—which wasn’t much of a path in the snow, since the drow verily ran atop it—across the flat, white emptiness. Many times even Drizzt, who knew Icewind Dale so well, had to pause for a long while to regain his bearings.

By midday, the snow had begun to fall, lightly at first, but it steadily worsened, along with the howl of the northwestern gale. The pair bundled their cloaks tighter and leaned forward, pressing on.

“We should find a cave!” Regis shouted, his voice tiny against the wind.

Drizzt turned back and nodded, but before he turned forward again, Regis gave a yelp of alarm.

In the blink of an eye, Drizzt whirled, scimitars in hand, just in time to see a huge spear descend through the storm and drive into the ground just a few feet in front of him. He jumped back and tried to spot the thrower, but found his eyes drawn instead to the quivering weapon stuck into the ground before him.

The head of a verbeeg was tied to it, dangling at the end of a leather strap at the back of the spear.

Drizzt moved to it, glancing all around, and up, expecting a volley of similar missiles at any moment.

The giant head rolled over the spear shaft with the gusts of wind, lolling back and forth, staring at Drizzt with empty, dead eyes. Its forehead was curiously scarred. Drizzt used Twinkle to brush aside its thick shock of hair to get a better look.

“Wulfgar,” Regis muttered, and Drizzt turned to regard him. The halfling stared at the verbeeg’s scarred forehead.

“Wulfgar?” Drizzt replied. “This is a verb—”

“The pattern,” Regis said, pointing to the scar.

Drizzt examined it more closely, and sucked in his breath with anticipation. The scar, a brand, really, was jumbled and imperfect, but Drizzt could make out the overlapping symbols of three dwarf gods—the same etching that Bruenor had carved into the head of Aegis-fang! Wulfgar, or someone else holding Aegis-fang, had used that warhammer’s head to brand that verbeeg.

Drizzt stood up straight and looked all around. In the storm, the thrower could not have been too far away, particularly if he wanted to be sure he didn’t skewer either Drizzt or Regis.