was that supplies were short and danger was ever present.
All that was left to decide was who would remain for the last hunt-which was as much an exercise of deciding who would no longer partake of the dwindling supplies.
“It is different to allow women to hunt and fight than to allow an old man along,” Brayleen countered. “His presence alone may prove a threat.”
“Not so!” Canaufa interrupted sharply. “He will not be burdensome. Wulfgar would never allow such a thing! He would not accept a litter if his legs rotted away underneath him. Nay, he would be left to die by his own demand.”
She snorted and continued, “And likely, knowing Wulfgar, he will not continue to eat the foodstuffs of a hungry tribe.”
Brayleen sighed.
“I would be proud to have him along,” Canaufa said.
“You cannot do this!” Bruenorson argued.
“You claim no power over me, my son,” Wulfgar reminded him calmly.
“I am Chieftain.”
“And I am your father,” Wulfgar said. “And the grandfather of your brood.”
“And you would have me sentence you to death,” Bruenorson said. “How might I explain that to my sisters, my children, my grandchildren?”
“Are you so sentencing Ilfgol and the others?” Wulfgar countered.
“That’s different!” Bruenorson said.
“Because they are young and strong,” Wulfgar said, “and I am old and will surely die in the weather and among the monsters?”
Bruenorson licked his lips. He was nearly forty years old, and had led the Tribe of the Elk for almost a decade, since the death of Kierstaad the Swift, but truly he felt a child before this man, Wulfgar, his father, his mentor, his hero. Wulfgar had been well past sixty when he had sired Bruenorson, the third of his children and the first boy. The other two had married into other tribes, royally binding Elk with Bear and Seal, and had begun families of their own.
“Do not answer,” Wulfgar went on. “Your loyalty is touching.”
Bruenorson began to speak, but Wulfgar cut him short. “Yes,” he admitted, “your eyes do not deceive. I am failing. At long last, the Halls of Tempus have begun to whisper of the arrival of Wulfgar.”
“No,” Bruenorson said.
“Yes,” Wulfgar replied. “But fear not, for I have not yet breathed my last. I know these foothills better than any in the tribe. I know where to find the caribou as they prepare for their journey. I know how to find sign of the yeti and avoid them-again, better than any. You do no service to the tribe or to those who will remain to hunt by keeping me with you.”
“Perhaps those who will hunt do not wish you along,” Bruenorson said, and he winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Wulfgar puffed out his still-massive chest and stood tall over him, those icy blue eyes boring into the chieftain and making him seem very small indeed.
“Your responsibility is to your tribe, not your family,” Wulfgar reminded him. “If you make the decision along those lines alone, you will accede to the council’s decision.”
Bruenorson swallowed hard. “And bid farewell to a man I most love?”
Wulfgar leaned over and hugged his son, a rare display of affection among the stoic people. But Bruenorson didn’t recoil and didn’t stiffen in the least, burying his face in his huge father’s strong shoulder.
The tribe of the Elk left the foothills that morning, leaving twelve, Wulfgar among them, to seek the caribou.
This was the illness that would at last claim him, he knew. His lungs felt heavy with fluid, his limbs weak, and a great fire burned within him. Wulfgar would not lament his death; what man could ask for more of a life than he had lived? He did feel guilty, though, given the timing and the circumstances. The Tribe of the Elk had been gone for nearly a tenday, leaving behind the hunters in their critical role: finding the caribou and sending supplies while the migrating herd caught up to the tribe. Few in number, the hunters couldn’t be burdened with the likes of Wulfgar, withering in his fever.
So Wulfgar had ordered them to be gone from his small tent, and to be done with him altogether.
But they would not, he knew. He was Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. He was the hero of Icewind Dale, the great warrior who had united the tribes and changed their very way of life so much for the better. Unlike their kin south of the Spine of the World, the tribes of Icewind Dale valued all their members, male and female, as equals. Unlike their kin south of the Spine of the World, the barbarian tribes of Icewind Dale knew they could depend on each other for support in times of peril, and not expect other tribes to exploit their weaknesses and misfortunes. Unlike their kin south of the Spine of the World, the tribes of Icewind Dale knew that they could find allies, not enemies, in the other settlers of their region.
Wulfgar had done all of that, but not alone. He had begun the process, but his progeny were taking it to new levels. His oldest son commanded the Tribe of the Elk with the same even hand that Wulfgar had shown decades before. His oldest daughter was wife to the chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear, and his youngest had married the mightiest warrior of the Tribe of the Seal, who spent most of the year out on the Sea of Moving Ice. Three surviving children of four had flourished in the tribulations of Icewind Dale; nine grandchildren had grown strong into respectable members of various tribes, and now his second-oldest grandson was poised to assume leadership of the Tribe of the Caribou.
Wulfgar’s fourth great-grandchild had been born that spring, and, alas, he had not yet seen the babe. He felt that sting keenly as he lay feverish in his cot. But also, surprisingly, there came to him a sense of calm with the knowledge that even without him, the world would move forward, his bloodline would continue and would thrive.
Hours passed as he lay there, recounting his many adventures, remembering dear old friends, including one special group he had not seen in half a century. “The Companions of the Hall,” he managed to whisper through his shivering lips, a nickname the five friends had earned well in the days of Wulfgar’s youth.
This was the end for him. He wondered if any of his old friends remained-Drizzt, possibly, and perhaps even Bruenor. He was contented and ready to pass on, though not particularly thrilled that he would die in his bed.
Or would he?
A commotion outside the tent stirred him from his thoughts. He heard the words of two of his companions, and one of those words, “yeti,” stirred something deep and profound in Wulfgar. His fever forgotten, he rolled off the side of his furs and forced himself to his feet.
He stumbled outside and, upon hearing the news, his limbs grew strong once more. Standing up straight, he hoisted Aegis-fang, his legendary warhammer.
“Stay true to our course,” he instructed the group gathered around him, all of whom were stunned that he had managed to get out of bed. “Break camp, collect our supplies, and begin the march to the northwest.”
“We’ll not leave Canaufa’s party out there!” one man complained.
“No,” Wulfgar agreed with a wry grin, “we’ll not. By my promise, we’ll not.”
Some of the hunters smiled back at him, some nodded, but more than one shook his head doubtfully.
“This you owe to me, I decree,” Wulfgar said. “In this, defer to me, this last time.”
How were they to argue? The man was a god among them, the greatest warrior the tribes of Icewind Dale had ever known.
On shaky old legs, Wulfgar climbed the slick and slippery stones. Not once did he glance back to the now- distant encampment that was being broken down even then. His great strides carried him fast and far, and he did not slow, could not slow, knowing that members of his clan were in trouble.
Yetis, Wulfgar confirmed as soon as he reached the rocky spur and heard the growls and calls beyond. At the sound, he was transformed once more, as if a second infusion of energy had come into him, stealing away ever more years from his aged frame. “Tempus,” he said under his breath, his voice not quite as thick with phlegm. “Give me strength this day.”
Climbing the stones quickly, he came over the apex of the spur and saw the fight in plain view below him. He
