“And you will not forget your friends?” Regis asked, breaking the silent communication between Drizzt and Wulfgar, both turning to regard him. “Well?” he said stubbornly. “Is there no place in the life of the son of Beornegar for those who once knew him and loved him? Will you forget your friends?”

The halfling’s warmth melted the ice from Wulfgar’s face, and he grinned widely. “How could I ever?” he asked. “How could anyone forget Drizzt Do’Urden, and the dwarf king of Mithral Hall, who was as my father for all those years? How could I forget the woman who taught me how to love, and who showed me such sincerity and honesty?”

Drizzt squirmed a bit at that reminder that it was his relationship with Catti-brie that had driven Wulfgar from them. But there was no malice, no regret, in Wulfgar’s eyes. Just calm nostalgia and peace—peace as Drizzt hadn’t seen in him in many, many years.

“And who could ever forget Regis of Lonelywood?” Wulfgar asked.

The halfling nodded appreciatively. “I wish you would come home,” he whispered.

“I am home, at long last,” said Wulfgar.

Regis shook his head and wanted to argue, but no words escaped the lump in his throat.

“You will one day challenge for the leadership of your tribe,” Drizzt said. “It’s the way of Icewind Dale.”

“I am old among them now,” Wulfgar replied. “There are many young and strong men.”

“Stronger than the son of Beornegar?” Drizzt said. “I think not.”

Wulfgar nodded in silent appreciation.

“You will one day challenge, and will again lead the Tribe of the Elk,” Drizzt predicted. “Berkthgar will serve you loyally, as you will serve him until that day arrives, until you are again comfortable among the people and among the dale. He knows that.”

Wulfgar shrugged. “I have yet to defeat the winter,” he said. “But I will return to them in the spring, after the first draw of light and dark. And they will accept me, as they tried to accept me when first I returned. From there, I don’t know, but I do know, with confidence, that ever will you be welcome among my people, and we will rejoice at your visits.”

“They were gracious to us even without you there,” Drizzt assured him.

Wulfgar again stared into the fire for a long, long while, deep in thought. Then he rose and moved to the back of the chamber, returning with a thick piece of meat. “I share my meal with you this night,” he said. “And give you my ear. Icewind Dale will not be angry at me for hearing of that which I left behind.”

“A meal for a tale,” Regis remarked.

“We will leave at dawn’s first light,” Drizzt assured Wulfgar, and that drew a startled expression from Regis. Wulfgar, though, nodded in gratitude.

“Then tell me of Mithral Hall,” he said. “Of Bruenor and Catti-brie. Of Obould—he is dead now, I hope.”

“Not remotely,” said Regis.

Wulfgar laughed, skewered the meat, and began to slow roast it.

They spent many hours catching up on the last four years, with Drizzt and Regis doing most of the talking, Drizzt running the litany of events and Regis adding color to every incident. They told him of Bruenor’s grudging acceptance of the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, for the good of the region, and of Obould’s fledgling and tentative kingdom. Wulfgar just shook his head in obvious disapproval. They told him of Catti-brie’s new endeavors alongside Lady Alustriel, turning to the Art, and surprisingly, the barbarian seemed quite pleased with the news, though he did quip, “She should bear your children.”

With much prodding, Wulfgar finally related his own adventures, the road with Colson that led to Auckney and his decision that her mother should raise her—and his insistence and relief that the foolish lord of Auckney went along with the decision.

“She is better off by far,” he said. “Her blood is not the blood of Icewind Dale, and here she would not have thrived.”

Regis and Drizzt exchanged knowing looks, recognizing the open wound in Wulfgar’s heart.

Regis was fast to change the subject at Wulfgar’s next pause, telling of Deudermont’s war in Luskan, of the fall of the Hosttower and the devastation that was general throughout the City of Sails.

“I fear that he moved too boldly, too swiftly,” Drizzt remarked.

“But he is beloved,” Regis argued, and a brief discussion and debate ensued about whether or not their friend had done the right thing. It was brief, because both quickly realized that Wulfgar cared little for the fate of Luskan. He sat there, his expression distant, rubbing his hands along the thick, sleek fur of Guenhwyvar, who lay beside him.

So Drizzt turned the discussion to times long past, to the first time he and Wulfgar had come to the verbeegs’ lair, and to their walks up Bruenor’s Climb on Kelvin’s Cairn. They replayed their adventures, those long and trying roads they had walked and sailed, the many fights, the many pleasures. They were still talking, though the conversation slowed as the fire burned low, when Regis fell fast asleep, right there on a little fur rug on the stone floor.

He awoke to find Drizzt and Wulfgar already up, sharing breakfast.

“Eat quickly,” Drizzt said to him. “The storm has subsided and we must be on our way.”

Regis did so, silently, and a short while later, the three said their good-byes at the edge of Wulfgar’s temporary home.

Wulfgar and Drizzt clasped hands firmly, eyes locking in deep and mutual respect. They fell into a tight hug, a bond that would last forever, then broke apart, Drizzt turning for the brightness outside. Wulfgar slapped Guenhwyvar on the rump as she trotted by.

“Here,” Regis said to him, and held out a piece of scrimshaw he’d been working for some time.

Wulfgar took it carefully and lifted it up before his eyes, his smile widening as he recognized it as a carving of the Companions of the Hall: Wulfgar and Drizzt, Cattie-brie and Bruenor, Regis and Guenhwyvar, side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder. He chuckled at the likeness of Aegis-fang in his miniature’s hand, at the sculpture of Bruenor’s axe and Catti-brie’s bow—a bow carried by Drizzt, he noted as he examined the scrimshaw.

“I will keep it against my heart and in my heart for the rest of my days,” the barbarian promised.

Regis shrugged, embarrassed. “If you lose the piece,” he offered, “well, if it’s in your heart then you never can.”

“Never,” Wulfgar agreed, and he lifted Regis in a crushing hug.

“You will find your way back to Icewind Dale,” he said in the halfling’s ear. “I will surprise you on the banks of Maer Dualdon. Perhaps I will even take the moment to bait your hook.”

The sun, meager though it was, seemed all the brighter to Regis and Drizzt that morning, as it reflected off the brilliant whiteness of new-fallen snow, glistening in their moist eyes.

PART 4

PRINCIPLES AND PRAGMATISM

T hey are two men I love dearly, two men I truly respect, and as such, I’m amazed when I step back and consider the opposite directions of the roads of Wulfgar and Deudermont. Indeed, they are both true warriors, yet they have chosen different foes to battle.

Deudermont’s road, I think, was wrought of frustration. He has spent more than two decades sailing the Sword Coast in pursuit of pirates, and no person in the memories of old elves has ever been so successful at such a dangerous trade. All honors were bestowed upon Sea Spritewhen she put in to any of the major cities, particularly the all-important Waterdeep. Captain Deudermont dined with lords, and could have taken that title at his whim, bestowed by the grateful noblemen of Waterdeep for his tireless and effective service.

But for all that, it was upon learning the truth of the newest pirate advances, that the Hosttower of the Arcane supported them with magic and coin, that Captain Deudermont had to face the futility of his lifelong quest. The pirates would outlive him, or at least, they would not soon run out of successors.