Thus was Deudermont faced with an untenable situation and a lofty challenge indeed. He didn’t shy, he didn’t sway, but rather took his ship straight to the source to face this greater foe.

His reaction to a more terrible and wider world was to fight for control of that which seemed uncontrollable. And with such courage and allies, he may actually succeed, for the specter of the Hosttower of the Arcane is no more, Arklem Greeth is no more, and the people of Luskan have rallied to Deudermont’s noble cause.

How different has been Wulfgar’s path. Where Deudermont turned outward to seek greater allies and greater victories, Wulfgar turned inward, and returned his thoughts to a time and place more simple and straightforward. A time and place no less harsh or dangerous, to be sure, but one of clear definition, and one where a victory does not mean a stalemate with a horde of orcs, or a political concession for the sake of expediency. In Wulfgar’s world, in Icewind Dale, there is no compromise. There is perfection of effort, of body, of soul, or there is death. Indeed, even absent mistakes, even if perfection is achieved, Icewind Dale can take a man, any man, at a whim. Living there, I know, is the most humbling of experiences.

Still, I have no doubt that Wulfgar will defeat Icewind Dale’s winter season. I have no doubt that upon his return to the Tribe of the Elk at the spring equinox, he will be greeted as family and friend, to be trusted. I have no doubt that Wulfgar will one day again be crowned as chief of his tribe, and that, should a terrible enemy rise up in the dale, he will stand forward, with all the inspired tribes gratefully at his back, cheering for the son of Beornegar.

His legend is secured, but hardly fully written.

So one of my friends battles a lich and an army of pirates and sorcerers, while the other battles inner demons and seeks definition of a scattered and unique existence. And there, I think, rests the most profound difference in their respective roads. For Deudermont is secure in his time and place, and reaches from solid foundation to greater endeavors. He is confident and comfortable with, above all others, Deudermont. He knows his pleasures and comforts, and knows, too, his enemies within and without. Because he understands his limitations, so he can find the allies to help him step beyond them. He is, in spirit, that which Wulfgar will become, for only after one has understanding and acceptance of the self can one truly affect the external.

I have looked into the eyes of Wulfgar, into the eyes of the son of Beornegar, into the eyes of the son of Icewind Dale.

I fear for him no longer—not in body, not in soul.

And yet, even though Wulfgar seeks as a goal to be where Deu dermont already resides, it’s Deudermont for whom I now fear. He steps with confidence and so he steps boldly, but in Menzoberranzan we had a saying, “Noet z’hin lil’avinsin.”

“Boldly stride the doomed.”

— Drizzt Do’Urden

CHAPTER 26

LUSKAN’S LONG WINTER NIGHT

T he man walked down the ally, glancing left and right. He knew he was right to be careful, for the cargo he would soon carry was among the most precious of commodities in Luskan that harsh winter.

He moved to a spot on the wall, one that seemed unremarkable, and knocked in a specific manner, three short raps, a pause, two short raps, a pause, and a final heavy thud.

The boards of the house parted, revealing a cleverly concealed window.

“Yeah?” asked the grumpy old man within. “Who ye for?”

“Seven,” the man replied, and he handed over a note sealed with the mark of Ship Rethnor, cupping it around seven small chips, like those often used as substitutions for gold and silver in gambling games along the docks. Those too bore Ship Rethnor’s mark.

“Seven, ye say?” replied the old man inside. “But I’m knowin’ ye, Feercus Oduuna, and knowin’ that ye got no wife and no brats, no brothers and naught but the one sister. That adds to two, if me brain’s not gone too feeble.”

“Seven chips,” Feercus argued.

“Five bought, pocket-picked, or taken from a dead man?”

“If bought, then what’s the harm?” Feercus argued. “I’m not stealing from my brothers of Ship Rethnor, nor killing them to take their chips!”

“So ye admit ye bought ’em?”

Feercus shook his head.

“Kensidan’s not looking kindly on any black marketeering here, I’m telling ye for yer own sake.”

“I offered to retrieve the goods for five others,” Feercus explained. “Me sister and me, and Darvus’s family, with no living man to come and no child old enough to trust to do it.”

“Ah, and what might ye be getting from Missus Darvus in exchange for yer helpfulness?” the old codger asked.

Feercus flashed a lewd smile.

“More than that, if I’m knowin’ Feercus—and I am,” the old man said. “Ye’re taking part o’ the bargain in flesh, I’m not doubting, but ye’re getting a fill for yer pocket, too. How much?”

“Has Kensidan outlawed that as well?”

“Nay.”

“Then…”

“How much?” the old man insisted. “And I’ll be asking Darvus’s widow, and I’m knowin’ her well, so ye best be tellin’ me true.”

Feercus glanced around again then sighed and admitted, “Four silver.”

“Two for me,” said the old man, holding out his hand. When Feercus didn’t immediately hand over the coins, he wagged his fingers impatiently. “Two, or ye’re not eating.”

With a grumbled curse under his breath, Feercus handed over the coins. The old man retreated into the storehouse, and Feercus watched as he put seven small bags into a single sack, then returned and handed them out the window.

Again Feercus glanced around.

“Someone follow ye here?” the old man asked.

Feercus shrugged. “Lots of eyes. Baram or Taerl’s men, I expect, as they’re not eating so well.”

“Kensidan’s got guards all about the Ship,” the old man assured him. “Baram and Taerl wouldn’t dare to move against him, and Kurth’s been paid off with food. Likely them eyes ye’re seeing are the watching guards—and don’t ye doubt that they’ll not be friends o’ Feercus, if Feercus is stealing or murdering them who’re under the protection of Kensidan!”

Feercus held up the sack. “For widow Darvus,” he said, and slung it over his shoulder as he started away. He hadn’t gone more than a step when the window’s shutter banged closed, showing no more than an unremarkable wall once more.

Gradually, Feercus managed to take his thoughts off the watching eyes he knew to be peering out from every alley and window, and from many of the rooftops, as well. He thought of his cargo, and liked the weight of it. Widow Darvus had promised him that she had some spices to take the tanginess out of the curious meat Kensidan handed out to all under his protection—and many more had come under his protection, swearing fealty to Ship Rethnor, throughout that cold and threadbare winter. Between that and the strange, thick mushrooms, Feercus Oduuna expected a wonderful meal that evening.

He promised himself that he wouldn’t get too greedy and eat it all, and that his sister, all alone in her house since her husband and two children had died in the explosion of the Hosttower, would get more than her one-seventh share.

He glanced back once as he exited the alley, whispering his sincere thanks for the generosity of High Captain Kensidan.

In another part of Luskan, not far from the road Feercus traveled, several men stood on a street corner, a fire blazing between them over which they huddled for warmth. One man’s stomach growled from emptiness and another punched him in the shoulder for the painful reminder.

“Ah, keep it quiet,” he said.

“And how am I to stop it?” the man with the grumbling belly replied. “The rat I ate last night didn’t go near to filling me, and I been throwin’ up more of it than I put down!”