Berkthgar walked up beside the kneeling young man, the tall leader locking his own stare on distant Kelvin's Cairn. 'We must catch up to the beast soon,' Berkthgar stated. 'If it gets too close to the valley, the dwarves will steal it.'
There were a few nods of agreement and the hunting party started off at a swift pace. Kierstaad lagged behind this time, his steps weighed by his leader's words. Ever since they had left Settlestone, Berkthgar had spoken ill of the dwarves, the folk who had been their friends and allies, Bruenor's folk, who had fought in a war of good cause beside the barbarians. What had happened to the cheers of victory? His most vivid memory of the short couple of years in Settlestone was not of the drow war, but of the celebration that had followed, a time of great fellowship between the dwarves, the curious svirfneblin, and the warriors who had joined in the cause from several of the surrounding villages.
How had that all changed so dramatically? Barely a week on the road out of Settlestone, the story of the barbarian existence there had begun to change. The good times were no longer spoken of, replaced by tales of tragedy and hardship, of the barbarians lowering their spirits to menial tasks not fit for the Tribe of the Elk, or the Tribe of the Bear, or any of the ancestral tribes. Such talk had continued all the way around the Spine of the World, all the way back to Icewind Dale, and then, gradually, it had died away.
Now, with rumors that the several score of the dwarves had returned to Icewind Dale, Berkthgar's critical remarks had begun anew. Kierstaad understood the source. The rumors said that Bruenor Battlehammer himself, the Eighth King of Mithril Hall, had returned. Shortly after the drow war, Bruenor had given the throne back over to his ancestor, Gandalug, Patron of Clan Battlehammer, who had returned from centuries of magical imprisonment at the hands of the drow elves. Even at the height of their alliance, relations between Berkthgar and Bruenor had been strained, for Bruenor had been the adoptive father of Wulfgar, the man who stood tallest in the barbarians' legends. Bruenor had forged mighty Aegis-fang, the warhammer which, in the hands of Wulfgar, had become the most honored weapon of all the tribes.
But then, with Wulfgar gone, Bruenor would not give Aegis-fang over to Berkthgar.
Even after his heroic exploits in the battle of Keeper's Dale against the drow, Berkthgar had remained in Wulfgar's shadow. It seemed to perceptive Kierstaad, that the leader had embarked on a campaign to discredit Wulfgar, to convince his proud people that Wulfgar was wrong, that Wulfgar was not a strong leader, that he was even a traitor to his people and their gods. Their old life, so said Berkthgar, one of roaming the tundra and living free of any bonds, was the better way.
Kierstaad liked his life on the tundra, and wasn't certain that he disagreed with Berkthgar's observations concerning which was the more honorable lifestyle. But the young man had grown up admiring Wulfgar, and Berkthgar's words about the dead leader did not sit well with him.
Kierstaad looked to Kelvin's Cairn as he ran along the soft, spongy ground, and wondered if the rumors were true. Had the dwarves returned, and if so, was King Bruenor with them?
And if he was, could it be possible that he brought with him Aegis-fang, that most powerful of warhammers?
Kierstaad felt a tingle at that thought, but it was lost a moment later when Berkthgar spotted the wounded reindeer and the hunt was on in full.
* * * * *
'Rope!' Bruenor bellowed, hurling to the floor the twine the shopkeeper had offered him. 'Thick as me arm, ye durned orc-brain! Ye thinking that I'm to hold up a tunnel with that?'
The flustered shopkeeper scooped up the twine and rambled away, grumbling with every step.
Standing at Bruenor's left, Regis gave the dwarf a scowl.
'What?' demanded the red-bearded dwarf, leaping to face the portly halfling directly. There weren't many people that the four-and-a-half foot dwarf could look down on, but Regis was one of them.
Regis ran both his plump hands through his curly brown hair and chuckled. 'It is good that your coffers run deep,' the halfling said, not afraid of blustery Bruenor in the least. 'Otherwise Maboyo would throw you out into the street.'
'Bah!' the dwarf snorted, straightening his lopsided, one-horned helmet as he turned away. 'He's needing the business. I got mines to reopen, and that's meaning gold for Maboyo.'
'Good thing,' Regis muttered.
'Keep flapping yer lips,' Bruenor warned.
Regis looked up curiously, his expression one of blank amazement.
'What?' Bruenor insisted, turning to face him.
'You
Bruenor started to reply, but the words got caught in his throat. Regis was standing on Bruenor's left, and Bruenor had lost his left eye in a fight in Mithril Hall. After the war between Mithril Hall and Menzoberranzan, one of the most powerful priests of Silverymoon had cast healing spells over Bruenor's face, which was scarred from forehead, down diagonally across the eye, to the left side of his jaw. The wound was an old one by that point, and the cleric had predicted that his work would do little more than cosmetic repair. Indeed, it took several months for a new eye to appear, deep within the folds of the scar, and some time after that for the orb to grow to full size.
Regis pulled Bruenor closer. Unexpectedly, the halfling covered Bruenor's right eye with one hand, pointed a finger of his other hand, and jabbed it at the dwarfs left eye.
Bruenor jumped and caught the poking hand.
'You can see!' the halfling exclaimed.
Bruenor grabbed Regis in a tight hug, even swung him completely about. It was true, the dwarf's sight had returned in his left eye!
Several other patrons in the store watched the emotional outburst, and as soon as Bruenor became aware of their stares, and even worse, their smiles, he dropped Regis roughly back to the floor.
Maboyo arrived then, his arms full with a coil of heavy rope. 'Will this meet your desires?' he asked.
'It's a start,' Bruenor roared at him, the dwarf turning suddenly sour again. 'I need another thousand feet.'
Maboyo stared at him.
'Now!' Bruenor roared. 'Ye get me the rope or I'm out for Luskan with enough wagons to keep me and me kin supplied for a hunnerd years!'
Maboyo stared a moment longer, then gave up and headed for his storeroom. He had known the dwarf meant to clean him out of many items as soon as Bruenor had entered his store with a heavy purse. Maboyo liked to dole out supplies slowly, over time, making each purchase seem precious and extracting as much gold from the customer as possible. Bruenor, the toughest bargainer this side of the mountains, didn't play that game.
'Getting back your vision didn't do much to improve your mood,' Regis remarked as soon as Maboyo was out of sight.
Bruenor winked at him. 'Play the game, Rumblebelly,' the dwarf said slyly. 'Suren this one's glad we're back. Doubles his business.'
True enough, Regis understood. With Bruenor and two hundred of Clan Battlehammer back in Icewind Dale, Maboyo's store-the largest and best-stocked in all of Bryn Shander, in all of Ten-Towns-stood to do well.
Of course, that meant Maboyo would have to put up with the surliest of customers. Regis chuckled privately at the thought of the battles the shopkeeper and Bruenor would fight, just as it had been nearly a decade before, when the rocky valley just south of Kelvin's Cairn chimed with the ringing of dwarven hammers.
Regis spent a long while staring at Bruenor. It was good to be home.
Part 2 THE FOG OF FATE
