Regis could not stand on his own, though, his knees buckling. But Obould held him upright and motioned to Nukkels. Immediately, the shaman cast a spell of healing over the halfling, and though it only marginally helped, it was enough for Regis to stand at least. Obould pushed him toward Bruenor, but again, without any evident malice.
“Grguch is dead,” Obould proclaimed to all around, ending as he locked stares with Bruenor. “Grguch’s path is not the way.”
Beside Obould, General Dukka stood firm and nodded, and Bruenor and Obould both understood that the orc king had all the support he needed, and more.
“What are you wantin’, orc?” Bruenor asked, and he held his hand up as he finished, looking past Obould.
Many orcs turned, Obould, Dukka, and Nukkels included, to see Drizzt Do’Urden standing calmly, Taulmaril in hand, arrow resting at ease on its string, and with Guenhwyvar beside him.
“What are ye wanting?” Bruenor asked again as Obould turned back.
The dwarf already knew, of course, and the answer was one that filled him with both hope and dread.
Not that he was in any position to bargain.
“It won’t make her more than a surcoat, elf,” Bruenor said as Drizzt folded up the fabulous garment of Jack the Gnome, wrapping it over a few rings and other trinkets he had taken from the body.
“Give it to Rumblebelly,” said Bruenor, and he propped Regis up a bit more, for the halfling leaned on him heavily.
“A wizard’s…robe,” the still-groggy Regis slurred. “Not for me.”
“Not for me girl, neither,” Bruenor declared.
But Drizzt only smiled and tucked the fairly won gains into his pack.
Somewhere in the east, fighting erupted again, a reminder to them all that not everything was settled quite yet, with remnants of Clan Karuck still to be rooted out. The distant battle sounds also reminded them that their friends were still out there, and though Obould, after conferring with Dukka, had assured them that four dwarves, an elf, and a drow had gone back over the southern ridge when Dukka’s force had sent Wolf Jaw running, the relief of the companions showed clearly on their faces when they came in sight of the bedraggled, battered, and bloody sextet.
Cordio and Shingles ran to take Regis off of Bruenor’s hands, while Pwent fell all over himself, hopping around Bruenor with unbridled glee.
“Thought ye was sure’n dead,” Torgar said. “Thought we were suren dead, to boot. But them orcs held back and let us run south. I’m not for knowin’ why.”
Bruenor looked at Drizzt then at Torgar and the others. “Not sure that I’m knowin’ why, meself,” he said, and he shook his head helplessly, as if none of it made any sense to him. “Just get me home. Get us all home, and we’ll figure it out.”
It sounded good, of course, except that one of the group had no home to speak of, none in the area, at least. Drizzt stepped past Bruenor and the others and motioned for Tos’un and Hralien to join him off to the side.
Back with the others, Cordio tended to Bruenor’s broken arm, which of course had Bruenor cursing him profusely, while Torgar and Shingles tried to figure out the best way to repair the king’s broken shield, an artifact that could not be left in two pieces.
“Is it in your heart, or in your mind?” Drizzt asked his fellow drow when the three of them were far enough away.
“Your change, I mean,” Drizzt explained when Tos’un did not immediately answer. “This new demeanor you wear, these possibilities you see before you—are they in your heart, or in your mind? Are they born of feelings, or is it pragmatism that guides your actions?”
“He was dismissed and running free,” Hralien said. “Yet he came back to save me, perhaps to save us all.”
Drizzt nodded his acceptance of that fact, but it didn’t change his posture as he continued to stare at Tos’un.
“I do not know,” Tos’un admitted. “I prefer the elves of the Moon-wood to Obould’s orcs. That much I can tell you. And I will not go against the Moonwood elves, on my word.”
“The word of a drow,” Drizzt remarked, and Hralien snorted at the absurdity of the statement, given the speaker.
Drizzt held his hand out, and motioned toward the sentient sword belted on Tos’un’s hip. With only a moment’s hesitation, Tos’un drew the blade and handed it over.
“I cannot allow him to keep it,” Drizzt explained to Hralien.
“It is Catti-brie’s sword,” the elf agreed, but Drizzt shook his head.
“It is a corrupting, evil, sentient being,” Drizzt said. “It will feed the doubts of Tos’un and play into his fears, hoping to incite him to spill blood.” To Hralien’s surprise, Drizzt handed it over to him. “Nor does Catti-brie wish it returned to Mithral Hall. Take it to the Moonwood, I beg, for your wizards and priests are better able to deal with such weapons.”
“Tos’un will be there,” Hralien warned, and he glanced at the wandering drow and nodded, and relief showed clearly on Tos’un’s face.
“Perhaps your wizards and priests will be better able to discern the heart and mind of the dark elf, too,” said Drizzt. “If trust is gained then return the sword to him. It is a choice beyond my judgment.”
“Elf! Ye done jabberin’?” Bruenor called. “I’m wanting to go see me girl.”
Drizzt looked to Hralien and Tos’un in turn. “Indeed,” he offered. “Let us all go home.”
The wind howled out its singular, mournful note, a constant blow that sounded to Wulfgar of home.
He stood on the northeastern slopes of Kelvin’s Cairn, not far below the remnants of the high ridge once known as Bruenor’s Climb, looking out over the vast tundra, where the snows had receded once more.
Slanting light crossed the flat ground, the last rays of day sparkling in the many puddles dotting the landscape.
Wulfgar stayed there, unmoving, as the last lights faded, as the stars began to twinkle overhead, and his heart leaped again when a distant campfire appeared out in the north.
His people.
His heart was full. This was his place, his home, the land where he would build his legacy. He would assume his rightful place among the Tribe of the Elk, would take a wife and live as his father, his grandfather, and all of his ancestors had lived. The simplicity of it, the lack of the deceitful trappings of civilization, welcomed him, heart and soul.
His heart was full.
The son of Beornegar had come home.
The dwarven hall in the great chamber known as Garumn’s Gorge, with its gently arcing stone bridge and the new statue of Shimmergloom the shadow dragon, ridden to the bottom of the gorge to its death by heroic King Bruenor, had never looked so wondrous. Torches burned throughout the hall, lining the gorge and the bridge, their firelight changing through the spectrum of colors due to the enchantments of Lady Alustriel’s wizards.
On the western side of the gorge before the bridge stood hundreds of Battlehammer dwarves, all dressed in their full, shining armor, pennants flying, spear tips gleaming in the magical light. Across from them stood a contingent of orc warriors, not nearly as well-outfitted, but standing with equal discipline and pride.
Dwarf masons had constructed a platform at the center of the long bridge, and on it had built a three-tiered fountain. Nanfoodle’s alchemy and Alustriel’s wizards had done their work there, as well, for the water danced to the sound of haunting music, its flowing streams glowing brightly and changing colors.
Before the fountain, on a mosaic of intricate tiles fashioned to herald that very day, stood a mithral podium, and on it rested a pile of identical parchments, pinned by weights sculpted into the form of a dwarf, an elf, a human, and an orc. The bottom paper of that pile had been sealed atop the podium, to remain there throughout the coming decades.