“See to it,” he agreed.

CHAPTER 27

CIVILIZATION’S MELT

A tenday and a half,” Regis complained as he and Drizzt made their way down the trail south of Bryn Shander.

“These storms can arrive anytime for the next two months,” Drizzt replied. “Neither of us wants another two months in Ten-Towns.” As he finished, he cast a sidelong glance at his companion to note the expected wistfulness in Regis’s large eyes. It had not been a bad winter in Ten-Towns for the two of them, though the snow fell deep and the wind blew hard all those months. Still, strong too were the fires in the common rooms, and the many friendly conversations overwhelmed the wintry wind.

But as the winter waned, Drizzt had grown increasingly impatient. His business with Wulfgar was done, and he was satisfied that he would see his barbarian friend again, in better times.

He wanted to go home. His heart ached for Catti-brie, and though the situation had seemed stable, he couldn’t help but fear for his friend Bruenor, living as he was under the shadow of twenty thousand orcs.

The drow ranger set a strong pace down the uneven trail, where mud had refrozen and melted many times over the past few days. Patches of snow had clung stubbornly to the ground, behind every rock and filling every crevice. It was indeed early to be making such a journey through the Spine of the World, but Drizzt knew that to wait was to walk through deeper and more stubborn mud.

Over the months, Icewind Dale had filled their sensibilities again, rekindling old memories and experiences, and bringing forth many of the lessons their years there had taught them. They wouldn’t lose their way among familiar landmarks. They wouldn’t be caught unaware by tundra yetis or bands of goblins.

As Regis had feared, they awoke the next morning to find the air filled with snow, but Drizzt didn’t lead the way to a cave.

“It will not be a strong storm,” he assured the halfling repeatedly as they trudged along, and through good instinct or simply good fortune, his prediction proved correct.

Within a few days, they had made the trail through the Spine of the World, and soon after they entered the pass, the wind diminished considerably and not even the long shadows of the tall mountains to either side of them could cover the signs that spring fast approached.

“Do you think we’ll meet the Luskar caravan?” Regis asked more than once, for his belt pouches bulged with scrimshaw and he was eager to get first pickings from the Luskar goods.

“Too early,” Drizzt always answered, but as they crossed the miles through the mountain range, every step bringing them closer to the warming breezes of spring, his tone became more hopeful with each response. After all, in addition to the welcome sound of new voices and the luxuries such a caravan might offer, a strong and early showing by Luskan in Icewind Dale would go a long way toward calming Drizzt’s anxieties about the depth and endurance of Deudermont’s victory.

As they neared the southern end of the mountain pass, the trail widened and broke off in several directions.

“To Auckney, and Colson,” Drizzt explained to Regis as they crossed one trail climbing up to the west. “Two days of marching,” he answered in response to the halfling’s questioning gaze. “Two days there and two days back.”

“Straight to Luskan, then, for some sales and some food for the road east,” Regis replied. “Or is it possible that we might find a former Hosttower associate—or Robillard, yes Robillard! — to fly us home on a magical chariot?”

Drizzt chuckled in reply, and wished it were so. “We will arrive back at Mithral Hall in good time,” he said, “if you can stride longer with those short legs.”

On they went, down out of the foothills, and soon after breaking camp one brilliant morning, they came over a rocky rise in sight of the City of Sails.

Their hearts didn’t lift.

Smoke hung low and thick over Luskan, and even from a distance, the companions could see that large swaths of the city were still but blackened husks. It had not been a kind winter in Deudermont’s city, if indeed it remained Deudermont’s city.

Regis didn’t complain as Drizzt picked up their pace, almost trotting down the winding road. They passed many farms north of the city but noted surprisingly little activity, though the melt had progressed enough south of the Spine of the World for the early preparations of spring planting to begin. When it became apparent that they wouldn’t make the city that day, Drizzt veered off the road and led Regis to the door of one such farmhouse. He rapped loudly, and when the door swung open, the woman noted the black skin of her unexpected and hardly typical guest, and she jumped in surprise and gave a little yelp.

“Drizzt Do’Urden, at your service,” Drizzt said with a polite bow. “Back from Ten-Towns in Icewind Dale to visit my good friend Captain Deudermont.”

The woman seemed to ease considerably, for surely anyone that close to Luskan had heard of Drizzt Do’Urden even before his exploits beside Deudermont in throwing down Arklem Greeth.

“If it’s shelter ye’re seeking, then put up in the barn,” she said.

“The barn would be most hospitable,” said Drizzt, ‘but truly it’s more good conversation and news of Luskan that would do we weary travelers good.”

“Bah, but what news? News o’ yer friend the governor?”

Drizzt couldn’t suppress a smile at hearing Deudermont still referred to as governor. He nodded his assent.

“What’s to tell, then?” asked the woman. “He gets his cheers, but don’t he? And oh, but that one can wag a pretty tongue. A great feeder o’ the pig, none’s doubting.”

“But…?” Drizzt prompted, catching the prissy sarcasm sharpening her voice.

“But not so much for feedin’ them that’s feedin’ the pigs, eh?” she said. “And not so quick with the grain we’re needin’ for the fields.”

Drizzt looked south toward Luskan.

“I’m sure the captain will see to it as soon as he is able,” Regis offered.

“Which?” the woman asked, and Regis realized that his use of Deudermont’s old title had been taken to mean one of Luskan’s high captains, and that inadvertent misunderstanding, given the woman’s suddenly hopeful tone, had hinted to both Regis and Drizzt that Deudermont had not yet established control over those five.

“So, are ye to be stayin’?” the woman asked after a lengthy silence.

“Aye, the barn,” Drizzt replied, turning to face her again and putting on a supremely pleasant and cheery expression as he did.

The pair were out the next morning before the cock crowed, trotting fast down the road all the way to Luskan’s North Gate—Luskan’sunguarded North Gate, they realized to their surprise. The ironclad door was neither locked nor barred, and not a voice of protest came at them from either of the towers flanking it as they pushed it open and crossed into the city.

“To the Cutlass, or the Red Dragon?” Regis asked, moving to the wide stone stairway of the Upstream Span bridge, which opened up into the northern section of the city wherein lay Deudermont’s makeshift palace. But Drizzt shook his head and marched straight down the span, crossing the Mirar with Regis skipping at his heels.

“The market,” he explained. “The level of activity there will tell us much of Luskan’s winter before we rendezvous with Deudermont.”

“I think we’ve already seen too much of it,” Regis muttered.

Glancing left and right, it was hard for Drizzt to argue the sentiment. The city was a battered place, with many buildings crumbling, many more burned out, and with haggard folk covered in dirty layers of rags milling about the streets. The unmistakable look of hunger played on their dark faces, the profound hopelessness that could only be stamped by months of misery.