'You do not belong here!' Berkthgar immediately growled at the dwarven leader.
'Well met to yerself too,' Stumpet, never the one to sit back and let others speak for her, snarled at Berkthgar. 'Ye're forgettin' Keeper's Dale, then, as we've heard ye were?'
'I do not speak to females on matters of importance,' Berkthgar said evenly.
Bruenor moved quickly, extending an arm to hold the outraged Stumpet back. 'And I'm not for talking with yerself,' Bruenor replied. 'Me and me cleric have come to see Revjak, the leader of the Tribe of the Elk.'
Berkthgar's nostrils flared. For a moment, Kierstaad and the others expected him to hurl himself at Bruenor, and the dwarf, bracing himself and slapping his many-notched axe across his open palm, apparently expected it, too.
But Berkthgar, no fool, calmed himself. 'I, too, lead the hunters of Icewind Dale,' he said. 'Speak your business and be gone!'
Bruenor chuckled and walked past the proud barbarian, moving into the settlement. Berkthgar howled and leaped, landing right in Bruenor's path.
'Ye led in Settlestone,' the red-bearded dwarf said firmly. 'And ye might be leadin' here. Then again, ye might not. Revjak was king when we left the dale and Revjak's king still, by all word I'm hearing.' Bruenor's judging gray eyes never left Berkthgar as he walked past the huge man once more.
Stumpet turned up her nose and didn't bother to eye the giant barbarian.
For Kierstaad, who liked Bruenor and his wild clan, it was a painful meeting.
* * * * *
The wind was light, the only sound the creaking timbers of the
Catti-brie sat on the raised platform of the ballista, huddled near to a candle, every so often jotting something down on parchment. Drizzt leaned on the rail, his parchment rolled and in a pocket of his cloak. On Deudermont's wise instructions, all six who had been in the blind witch's cave were to write down the poem as they remembered it. Five of them could write, an extraordinary percentage. Waillan, who was not skilled with letters would dictate his recollection to both Harkle and Robillard, who would separately pen the words, hopefully without any of their own interpretations.
It hadn't taken Drizzt long to write down the verse, at least the parts he remembered most clearly, the parts he considered vital. He understood that every word might provide a necessary clue, but he was simply too excited, too overwhelmed to pay attention to minute details. In the poem's second line, the witch had spoken of Drizzt's father, and had intimated at Zaknafein's survival several times thereafter. That was all that Drizzt could think of, all that he could hope to remember.
Catti-brie was more diligent, her written record of the verse far more complete. But she, too, had been overwhelmed and surprised, and simply couldn't be certain of how accurate her recording might be.
'I would have liked to share a night such as this with him,' Drizzt said, his voice shattering the stillness so abruptly that the young woman nearly jabbed her quill through the fragile parchment. She looked up to Drizzt, whose eyes were high, his gaze focused on the moon.
'Just one,' the drow went on. 'Zaknafein would have loved the surface night.'
Catti-brie smiled, not doubting the claim. Drizzt had spoken to her many times about his father. Drizzt's soul was the legacy of his father's, not of his evil mother's. The two were alike, in combat and in heart, with the notable exception that Drizzt had found the courage to walk away from Menzoberranzan, whereas Zaknafein had not. He had remained with the evil dark elves and had eventually come to be sacrificed to the Spider Queen.
'Given to Lloth and by Lloth given.'
The true line came suddenly to Catti-brie. She whispered it once aloud, hearing the ring and knowing it to be exact, then went back to her parchment and located the line. She had written, «for» instead of 'to,' which she quickly corrected.
Every little word could be vital.
'I suspect that the danger I now face is beyond anything we have ever witnessed,' Drizzt went on, talking to himself as much as to Catti-brie.
Catti-brie didn't miss his use of the personal pronoun, instead of the collective. She too was involved, a point that she was about to make clear, but another line came to her, jogged by Drizzt's proclamation.
'That thee might seek the darkest of trails.'
Catti-brie realized that was the next line and her quill went to work. Drizzt was talking again, but she hardly heard him. She did catch a few words, though, and she stopped writing, her gaze lifting from the parchment to consider the drow. He was speaking again of going off alone!
'The verse was for us two,' Catti-brie reminded him.
'The dark trail leads to my father,' Drizzt replied, 'a drow you have never met.'
'Yer point being?' Catti-brie asked.
'The trail is for me to walk …'
'With meself,' Catti-brie said determinedly. 'Don't ye be doing that again!' she scolded. 'Ye walked off once on me, and nearly brought ruin upon yerself and us all for yer stupidity!'
Drizzt swung about and eyed her directly. How he loved this woman! He knew that he could not argue the point with her, knew that whatever arguments he might present, she would defeat them, or simply ignore them.
'I'm going with ye, all the way,' Catti-brie said, no compromise in her firm tone. 'And me thinkin's that Deudermont and Harkle, and maybe a few o' the others're coming along, too. And just ye try to stop us, Drizzt Do'Urden!'
Drizzt began to reply, but changed his mind. Why bother? He would never talk his friends into letting him walk this dark course alone. Never.
He looked back out to the dark sea and to the moon and stars, his thoughts drifting back to Zaknafein and the 'golden ring,' the witch had held out to him.
'It will take at least two weeks to get back to port,' he lamented.
'Three, if the wind doesn't come up strong,' Catti-brie put in, her focus never leaving the all-important parchment.
Not so far away, on the main deck just below the rail of the poop deck, Harkle Harpell rubbed his hands eagerly. He shared Drizzt's lament that all of this would take so very long, and had no stomach for another two or three weeks of rolling about on the empty water.
'The fog of fate,' he mouthed quietly, thinking of his new, powerful spell, the enchantment that had brought him out to the
Chapter 11 BREWING STORM
Revjak's smile widened nearly enough to take in his ears when he saw that the rumors were true, that Bruenor Battlehammer had returned to Icewind Dale. The two had lived side by side for the first forty years of Revjak's life, but during that time the barbarian had little experience with Bruenor, other than as enemies. But then Wulfgar had united the nomadic tribes and cast them into the war as allies of the folk of Ten-Towns and the dwarves of Clan Battlehammer against evil Akar Kessel and his goblinoid minions.
On that occasion, less than a decade before, Revjak had come to appreciate the strength and fortitude of Bruenor and of all the dwarves. In the few weeks that had followed, before Bruenor and Wulfgar had set out to find Mithril Hall, Revjak had spent many days with Bruenor and had forged a fast friendship. Bruenor was going to leave, but the rest of Clan Battlehammer would remain in Icewind Dale until Mithril Hall was found, and Revjak had taken on the responsibility of tightening the friendship between the giant barbarians and the diminutive dwarves. He had done
such a fine job that many of his people, Berkthgar included, had opted to go south with Clan Battlehammer to join in the fight to reclaim Mithril Hall, and there they had stayed for several years.
