Nesme."
Regis was the first one out of the hole.
Unbearable humidity and muddy ground kept the pace slow, and the
friends soon found their knees aching from the constant twisting and
sloshing. Their sodden clothes clung to them uncomfortably and weighed on
their every step.
They came upon Wulfgar's horse, a burned and smoking form half-buried
in the mud. "Lightning," Regis observed.
The three looked at their barbarian friend, amazed that he could have
survived such a hit. Wulfgar, too, stared in shock, realizing what had
dropped him from his mount in the night.
"Tougher'n a badger!" Bruenor hailed again to Drizzt.
Sunshine teasingly found a crack in the overcast now and then. The
sunlight was nothing substantial, though, and by noon, the day had actually
grown darker. Distant thunder foretold a dismal afternoon.
The storm had already spent its killing might, but that night they
found no shelter beyond their wet clothes, and whenever the crackle of
lightning lit up the sky, four hunched forms could be seen sitting in the
mud, their heads downcast as they accepted their fate in helpless
resignation.
For two more days they lumbered on through the rain and wind, having
little choice and nowhere to go but forward. Wulfgar proved to be the
savior of the party's morale at this low time. He scooped Regis up from the
sodden ground, tossing the halfling easily onto his back, and explaining
that he needed the extra weight for balance. By sparing the halfling's
pride this way, the barbarian even managed to convince the surly dwarf to
ride for a short time. And always, Wulfgar was indomitable. "A blessing, I
tell you," he kept crying at the gray heavens. "The storm keeps the insects
and the orcs - out of our faces! And how many months shall it be before we
want for water?"
He worked hard to keep their spirits high. At one point, he watched the
lightning closely, timing the delay between the flash and the ensuing
thunder. As they neared the blackened skeleton of a long-dead tree, the
lightning flashed and Wulfgar pulled his trick. Yelling "Tempus!" he heaved
his warhammer so that it smashed into, and leveled, the trunk at precisely
the moment the thunder exploded around them. His amused friends looked back
to him only to find him standing proud, arms and eyes uplifted to the gods
as though they had personally answered his call.
Drizzt, accepting this whole ordeal with his customary stoicism,
silently applauded his young friend and knew again, even more than before,
that they had made a wise decision in bringing him along. The drow
understood that his own duty in these rough times was to continue his role
as sentry, keeping his diligent guard despite the barbarian's proclamation
of safety.
Finally, the storm was blown away by the same brisk wind that had
ushered it in. The bright sunshine and clear blue skies of the subsequent
dawn lightened the companions' mood immeasurably and allowed them to think
again of what lay ahead.
Especially Bruenor. The dwarf leaned forward in his pressing march,
just as he had when they had first begun their journey back in Icewind
Dale.
Red beard wagging with the intensity of his pumping stride, Bruenor
found his narrow focus once again. He fell back into the dreams of his
homeland, seeing the flickering shadows of the torchlight against the
silver-streamed walls and the wondrous artifacts of his people's meticulous
labors. His heightened concentration on Mithril Hall over the last few
months had sparked clearer, and new, memories in him, and on the road now
he remembered, for the first time in more than a century, the Hall of
Dumathoin.
The dwarves of Mithril Hall had made a fine living in the trade of
their crafted items, but they always kept their very finest pieces, and the
most precious gifts bestowed upon them from outsiders, to themselves. In a
large and decorated chamber that opened wide the eyes of every visitor, the
legacy of Bruenor's ancestors sat in open display, serving as inspiration
for the clan's future artists.
Bruenor chuckled softly at the memory of the wondrous hall and the
marvelous pieces, mostly weapons and armor. He looked at Wulfgar striding
beside him, and at the mighty warhammer he had crafted the year before.
Aegis-fang might have hung in the Hall of Dumathoin if Bruenor's clan still
ruled Mithril Hall, sealing Bruenor's immortality in the legacy of his
people.
But watching Wulfgar handling the hammer, swinging it as easily as he
would swing his own arm, Bruenor had no regrets.
The next day brought more good news. Shortly after they broke camp, the
friends discovered that they had traveled farther than they had anticipated
during the trials of the storm, for as they marched, the landscape around
them went through subtle but definite transformations. Where before the
ground had been sparsely overgrown with thin patches of scraggly weeds, a
virtual sea of mud under the torrent of rain, they now found lush grasses
and scattered copses of tall elms. Cresting a final ridge confirmed their
suspicions, for before them lay the Dessarin Valley. A few miles ahead,
swollen from the spring melt and the recent storm, and clearly visible from
their high perch, the arm of the great river rolled steadily along its
southbound trek.
The long winter dominated this land, but when they finally bloomed, the
plants here made up for their short season with a vibrancy unmatched in all
the world. Rich colors of spring surrounded the friends as they made their
way down the slope to the river. The carpet of grass was so thick that they
took off their boots and walked barefoot through the spongy softness. The
vitality here was truly obvious, and contagious.
"Ye should see the halls," Bruenor remarked on sudden impulse. "Veins
of purest mithril wider than yer hand! Streams of silver, they be, and
bested in beauty only by what a dwarf's hand makes of 'em."
"The want of such a sight keeps our path running straight through the
hardships," Drizzt replied.
"Bah!" Bruenor snorted good-heartedly. "Ye're here because I tricked ye
into being here, elf. Ye had run outa reasons for holding back me adventure
anymore!"
Wulfgar had to chuckle. He had been in on the deception that had duped
Drizzt into agreeing to make this journey. After the great battle in
Ten-Towns with Akar Kessell, Bruenor had feigned mortal injury, and on his
apparent deathbed had begged the drow to journey with him to his ancient
homeland. Thinking the dwarf about to expire, Drizzt could not refuse.
"And yerself!" Bruenor roared at Wulfgar. "I see why ye've come, even
if ye're skull's too thick for ye to know!"
"Pray tell me," Wulfgar replied with a smile.
"Ye're running! But ye can't get away!" the dwarf cried. Wulfgar's
mirth shifted to confusion.
"The girl's spooked him, elf," Bruenor explained to Drizzt.
"Catti-brie's caught him in a net his muscles can no' break!"
Wulfgar laughed along with Bruenor's blunt conclusions, taking no
offense. But in the images triggered by Bruenor's allusions to Catti-brie,
memories of a sunset view on the face of Kelvin's Cairn, or of hours spent
talking on the rise of rocks called Bruenor's Climb, the young barbarian
found a disturbing element of truth in the dwarf's observations.
"And what of Regis?" Drizzt asked Bruenor. "Have you discerned his
motive for coming along? Might it be his love of ankle-deep mud that sucks
his little legs in to the knees?"
Bruenor stopped laughing and studied the halfling's reaction to the
drow's questions. "Nay, I have not," he replied seriously after a few
unrevealing moments. "This alone I know: If Rumblebelly chooses the road,
it means only that the mud and the orcs measure up better than what he's
leaving behind." Bruenor kept his eyes upon his little friend, again
seeking some revelations in the halfling's response.
Regis kept his head bowed, watching his furry feet, visible below the
diminishing roll of his belly for the first times in many months, as they
plowed through the thick waves of green. The assassin, Entreri, was a world
away, he thought. And he had no intention of dwelling on a danger that had
been avoided.
A few miles up the bank they came upon the first major fork in the
river, where the Surbrin, from the northeast, emptied into the main flow of
the northern arm of the great river network.
The friends looked for a way to cross the larger river, the Dessarin,
and get into the small valley between it and the Surbrin. Nesme, their
next, and final stopover before Silverymoon, was farther up the Surbrin,
and though the city was actually on the east bank of the river, the
friends, taking the advice of Harkle Harpell, had decided to travel up the
west bank and avoid the lurking dangers of the Evermoors.
They crossed the Dessarin without too much trouble, thanks to the
incredible agility of the drow, who ran out over the river along an
overhanging tree limb and leaped to a similar perch on the branch of a tree
on the opposite bank. Soon after, they were all easily plodding along the
Surbrin, enjoying the sunshine, the warm breeze, and the endless song of
the river. Drizzt even managed to fell a deer with his bow, promising a
fine supper of venison and restocked packs for the road ahead.
They camped right down by the water, under starshine for the first time
in four nights, sitting around a fire and listening to Bruenor's tales of
the silvery halls and the wonders they would find at the end of their road.
The serenity of the night did not carry over into the morning, though,
for the friends were awakened by the sounds of battle. Wulfgar immediately
scrambled up a nearby tree to learn who the combatants were.
"Riders!" he yelled, leaping and drawing out his warhammer even before
he hit the ground. "Some are down! They do battle with monsters I do not
know!" He was off and running to the north, Bruenor on his heels, and
Drizzt circling to their flank down along the river. Less enthusiastic,
Regis hung back, pulling out his small mace but hardly preparing for open
battle.
Wulfgar was first on the scene. Seven riders were still up, trying
vainly to maneuver their mounts into some form of a defensive line. The
creatures they battled were quick and had no fear of running under stamping
legs to trip up the horses. The monsters were only about three feet high,
with arms twice that length. They resembled little trees, though undeniably
animated, running about wildly, whacking with their clublike arms or, as
another unfortunate rider discovered just as Wulfgar entered the fray,
winding their pliable limbs around their foes to pull them from their
mounts.
Wulfgar barreled between two creatures, knocking them aside, and bore
down on the one that had just taken down the rider. The barbarian
underestimated the monsters, though, for their rootlike toes found balance
quickly and their long arms caught him from behind before he had gone two
steps, grappling him on either side and stopping him in his tracks.
Bruenor charged in right behind. The dwarf's axe chopped through one of
the monsters, splitting it down the middle like firewood, and then cut in
wickedly on the other, sending a great chunk of its torso flying away.
Drizzt came up even with the battle, anxious but tempered, as always,
by the overruling sensibility that had kept him alive through hundreds of
encounters. He moved down to the side, below the drop of the bank, where he
discovered a ramshackle bridge of logs spanning the Surbrin. The monsters
had built it, Drizzt knew; apparently they weren't unthinking beasts.
Drizzt peered over the bank. The riders had rallied around the
unexpected reinforcements, but one right before him had been wrapped by a
monster and was being dragged from his horse. Seeing the treelike nature of
their weird foes, Drizzt understood why the riders all wielded axes, and
wondered how effective his slender scimitars would prove.
But he had to act. Springing from his concealment, he thrust both his
scimitars at the creature. They nicked into the mark, having no more effect
than if Drizzt had stabbed a tree.
Even so, the drow's attempt had saved the rider. The monster clubbed
its victim one last time to keep him dazed, then released its hold to face
Drizzt. Thinking quickly, the drow went to an alternate attack, using his
ineffective blades to parry the clubbing limbs. Then, as the creature
rushed in on him, he dove at its feet, uprooting it, and rolled it back
over him toward the riverbank. He poked his scimitars into the barklike
skin and pushed off, sending the monster tumbling toward the Surbrin. It
caught a hold before it went into the water, but Drizzt was on it again. A
flurry of well-placed kicks put the monster into the flow and the river
carried it away.
The rider, by this time, had regained his seat and his wits. He stepped
his horse to the bank to thank his rescuer.
Then he saw the black skin.
"Drow!" he screamed, and his axeblade cut down.
Drizzt was caught off guard. His keen reflexes got one blade up enough
to deflect the edge of the axe, but the flat of the weapon struck his head
and sent him reeling. He dove with the momentum of the hit and rolled,
trying to put as much ground between himself and the rider as he could,
realizing that the man would kill him before he could recover.
"Wulfgar!" Regis screamed from his own concealment a short way back on
the bank. The barbarian finished off one of the monsters with a thunderous
smack that sent cracks all along its length, and turned just as the rider
