hair was black.
"Oh, no," Regis groaned, remembering his own warnings to Bruenor about
the Uthgardt barbarians. The man had saved his life, but knowing the savage
reputation, Regis doubted that a friendship would grow out of the
encounter. He started to sit up, wanting to express his sincere thanks and
dispel any unfriendly notions the barbarian might have about him. He even
considered using the ruby pendant to evoke some friendly feelings.
But the big man, noting the movement, spun suddenly and kicked him in
the face.
And Regis fell backward into blackness.
6
Sky Ponies
Black-haired barbarians, screaming in the frenzy of battle, burst into
the copse. Drizzt realized at once that these burly warriors were the forms
he had seen moving behind the orcan ranks on the field, but he wasn't yet
certain of their allegiance.
Whatever their ties, their arrival struck terror into the remaining
orcs. The two fighting Drizzt lost all heart for the battle, a sudden shift
in their posture revealing their desire to break off the confrontation and
flee. Drizzt obliged, assured that they wouldn't get far anyway, and
sensing that he, too, would be wise to slip from sight.
The orcs fled, but their pursuers soon caught them in another battle
just beyond the trees. Less obvious in his flight, Drizzt slipped unnoticed
back up the tree where he had left his bow.
Wulfgar could not so easily sublimate his battle lust. With two of his
friends down, his thirst for orcan blood was insatiable, and the new group
of men that had joined the fight cried out to Tempus, his own god of
battle, with a fervor that the young warrior could not ignore. Distracted
by the sudden developments, the ring of orcs around Wulfgar let up for just
a moment, and he struck hard.
One orc looked away, and Aegis-fang tore its face off before its eyes
returned to the fight at hand. Wulfgar bore through the gap in the ring,
jostling a second orc as he passed. As it stumbled in its attempt to turn
and realign its defense, the mighty barbarian chopped it down. The two
remaining turned and fled, but Wulfgar was right behind. He launched his
hammer, blasting one from life, and sprang upon the other, bearing it to
the ground beneath him and then crushing the life from it with his bare
hands.
When he was finished, when he had heard the final crack of neckbone,
Wulfgar remembered his predicament and his friends. He sprang up and backed
away, his back against the trees.
The black-haired barbarians kept their distance, respectful of his
prowess, and Wulfgar could not be sure of their intentions. He scanned
around for his friends. Regis and Bruenor lay side by side near where the
horses had been tethered; he could not tell if they were alive or dead.
There was no sign of Drizzt, but a fight continued beyond the other edge of
the trees.
The warriors fanned out in a wide semi-circle around him, cutting off
any routes of escape. But they stopped their positioning suddenly, for
Aegis-fang had magically returned to Wulfgar's grasp.
He could not win against so many, but the thought did not dismay him.
He would die fighting, as a true warrior, and his death would be
remembered. If the black-haired barbarians came at him, many, he knew,
would not return to their families. He dug his heels in and clasped the
warhammer tightly. "Let us be done with it," he growled into the night.
"Hold!" came a soft, but imperative whisper from above. Wulfgar
recognized Drizzt's voice at once and relaxed his grip. "Keep to your
honor, but know that more lives are at stake than your own!"
Wulfgar understood then that Regis and Bruenor were probably still
alive. He dropped Aegis-fang to the ground and called out to the warriors,
"Well met."
They did not reply, but one of them, nearly as tall and heavily muscled
as Wulfgar, broke rank and closed in to stand before him. The stranger wore
a single braid in his long hair, running down the side of his face and over
his shoulder. His cheeks were painted white in the image of wings. The
hardness of his frame and disciplined set of his face reflected a life in
the harsh wilderness, and were it not for the raven color of his hair,
Wulfgar would have thought him to be of one of the tribes of Icewind Dale.
The dark-haired man similarly recognized Wulfgar, but better versed in
the overall structures of the societies in the northland, was not so
perplexed by their similarities. "You are of the dale," he said in a broken
form of the common tongue. "Beyond the mountains, where the cold wind
blows."
Wulfgar nodded. "I am Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, of the Tribe of the
Elk. We share gods, for I, too, call to Tempus for strength and courage."
The dark-haired man looked around at the fallen orcs.
"The god answers your call, warrior of the dale."
Wulfgar's jaw lifted in pride. "We share hatred for the orcs, as well,"
he continued, "but I know nothing of you or your people."
"You shall learn," the dark-haired man replied. He held out his hand
and indicated the warhammer. Wulfgar straightened firmly, having no
intentions of surrendering, no matter the odds. The dark-haired man looked
to the side, drawing Wulfgar's eyes with his own. Two warriors had picked
up Bruenor and Regis and slung them over their backs, while others had
recaptured the horses and were leading them in.
"The weapon," the dark-haired man demanded. "You are in our land
without our say, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. The price of that crime is
death. Shall you watch our judgement over your small friends?"
The younger Wulfgar would have struck then, damning them all in a blaze
of glorious fury. But Wulfgar had learned much from his new friends, Drizzt
in particular. He knew that Aegis-fang would return to his call, and he
knew, too, that Drizzt would not abandon them. This was not the time to
fight.
He even let them bind his hands, an act of dishonor that no warrior of
the Tribe of the Elk would ever allow. But Wulfgar had faith in Drizzt. His
hands would be freed again. Then he would have the last word.
By the time they reached the barbarian camp, both Regis and Bruenor had
regained consciousness and were bound and walking beside their barbarian
friend. Dried blood crusted Bruenor's hair and he had lost his helm, but
his dwarven toughness had carried him through another encounter that should
have finished him.
They crested a rise and came upon the perimeter of a ring of tents and
blazing campfires. Whooping their war cries to Tempus, the returning war
party roused the camp, tossing severed orc heads into the ring to announce
their glorious arrival. The fervor inside the camp soon matched the level
of the entering war party, and the three prisoners were pushed in first, to
be greeted by a score of howling barbarians.
"What do they eat?" Bruenor asked, more in sarcasm than concern.
"Whatever it is, feed them quickly," Regis replied, drawing a clap on
the back of his head and a warning to be silent from the guard behind him.
The prisoners and horses were herded into the center of the camp and
the tribe encircled them in a victory dance, kicking orc heads around in
the dust and singing out, in a language unknown to the companions, their
praise to Tempus and to Uthgar, their ancestral hero, for the success this
night.
It went on for nearly an hour, and then, all at once, it ended and
every face in the ring turned to the closed flap of a large and decorated
tent.
The silence held for a long moment before the flap swung open. Out
jumped an ancient man, as slender as a tent pole, but showing more energy
than his obvious years would indicate. His face painted in the same
markings as the warriors, though more elaborately, he wore a patch with a
huge green gemstone sewn upon it over one eye. His robe was the purest
white, its sleeves showing as feathered wings whenever he flapped his arms
out to the side. He danced and twirled through the ranks of the warriors,
and each held his breath, recoiling until he had passed.
"Chief?" Bruenor whispered.
"Shaman," corrected Wulfgar, more knowledgeable in the ways of tribal
life. The respect the warriors showed this man came from a fear beyond what
a mortal enemy, even a chieftain, could impart.
The shaman spun and leaped, landing right before the three prisoners.
He looked at Bruenor and Regis for just a moment, then turned his full
attention upon Wulfgar.
"I am Valric High Eye," he screeched suddenly. "Priest of the followers
of the Sky Ponies! The children of Uthgar!"
"Uthgar!" echoed the warriors, clapping their hatchets against their
wooden shields.
Wulfgar waited for the commotion to die away, then presented himself.
"I am Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, of the Tribe of the Elk."
"And I'm Bruenor-" began the dwarf.
"Silence!" Valric shouted at him, trembling with rage. "I care nothing
for you!"
Bruenor closed his mouth and entertained dreams concerning his axe and
Valric's head.
"We meant no harm, nor trespass," Wulfgar began, but Valric put his
hand up, cutting him short.
"Your purpose does not interest me," he explained calmly, but his
excitement resurged at once. "Tempus has delivered you unto us, that is
all! A worthy warrior?" He looked around at his own men and their response
showed eagerness for the coming challenge.
"How many did you claim?" he asked Wulfgar.
"Seven fell before me," the young barbarian replied proudly.
Valric nodded in approval. "Tall and strong," he commented. "Let us
discover if Tempus is with you. Let us judge if you are worthy to run with
the Sky Ponies!"
Shouts started at once and two warriors rushed over to unbind Wulfgar.
A third, the leader of the war party who had spoken to Wulfgar at the copse
of trees, tossed down his hatchet and shield and stormed into the ring.
Drizzt waited in his tree until the last of the war party had given up
the search for the rider of the fourth horse and departed. Then the drow
moved quickly, gathering together some of the dropped items: the dwarf's
axe and Regis's mace. He had to pause and steady himself when he found
Bruenor's helm, though, blood-stained and newly dented, and with one of its
horns broken away. Had his friend survived?
He shoved the broken helm into his sack and slipped out after the
troupe, keeping a cautious distance.
Relief flooded through him when he came upon the camp and spotted his
three friends, Bruenor standing calmly between Wulfgar and Regis.
Satisfied, Drizzt put aside his emotions and all thoughts of the previous
encounter, narrowing his vision to the situation before him, formulating a
plan of attack that would free his friends.
The dark-haired man held his open hands out to Wulfgar, inviting his
blond counterpart to clasp them. Wulfgar had never seen this particular
challenge before, but it was not so different from the tests of strength
that his own people practised.
"Your feet do not move!" instructed Valric. "This is the challenge of
strength! Let Tempus show us your worth!"
Wulfgar's firm visage didn't reveal a hint of his confidence that he
could defeat any man at such a test. He brought his hands up level with
those of his opponent.
The man grabbed at them angrily, snarling at the large foreigner.
Almost immediately, before Wulfgar had even straightened his grip or set
his feet, the shaman screamed out to begin, and the dark-haired man drove
his hands forward, bending Wulfgar's back over his wrists. Shouting erupted
from every corner of the encampment; the dark-haired man roared and pushed
with all his strength, but as soon as the moment of surprise had passed,
Wulfgar fought back.
The iron-corded muscles in Wulfgar's neck and shoulders snapped taut
and his huge arms reddened with the forced surge of blood into their veins.
Tempus had blessed him truly; even his mighty opponent could only gape in
amazement at the spectacle of his power. Wulfgar looked him straight in the
eye and matched the snarl with a determined glare that foretold the
inevitable victory. Then the son of Beornegar drove forward, stopping the
dark-haired man's initial momentum and forcing his own hands back into a
more normal angle with his wrists. Once he had regained parity, Wulfgar
realized that one sudden push would put his opponent into the same
disadvantage that he had just escaped. From there, the dark-haired man
would have little chance of holding on.
But Wulfgar wasn't anxious to end this contest. He didn't want to
humiliate his opponent - that would breed only an enemy - and even more
importantly, he knew that Drizzt was about. The longer he could keep the
contest going, and the eyes of every member of the tribe fixed upon him,
the longer Drizzt would have to put some plan into motion.
The two men held there for many seconds, and Wulfgar couldn't help but
smile when he noticed a dark shape slip in among the horses, behind the
enthralled guards at the other end of the camp. Whether it was his
imagination, he could not tell, but he thought that he saw two points of
lavender flame staring out at him from the darkness. A few seconds more, he
decided, though he knew that he was taking a chance by not finishing the
challenge. The shaman could declare a draw if they held for too long.
But then it was over. The veins and sinews in Wulfgar's arms bulged and
his shoulders lifted even higher. "Tempus!" he growled, praising the god
for yet another victory, and then with a sudden, ferocious explosion of
