Satisfied that the drow was in safe hands, Bruenor and his clan moved on to search the rest of the battleground.
“I’ll not forget this!” Kemp yelled at him from far down the hill.
Bruenor spat at the spokesman from Targos and continued on unshaken.
And so it went that the alliance of the people of Ten-Towns lasted only as long as their common enemy.
ll along the hill, the fishermen of Ten-Towns moved among their fallen enemies, looting the barbarians of what small wealth they possessed and putting the sword to the unfortunate ones who were not quite dead.
Yet amid the carnage of the bloody scene, a finger of mercy was to be found. A man from Good Mead rolled the limp form of an unconscious young barbarian over onto its back, preparing to finish the job with his dagger. Bruenor came upon them then and recognizing the youth as the standard bearer who had dented his helmet, stayed the fisherman’s thrust. “Don’t kill ’im. He’s nothing but a boy, and he can’t have known truly what he an’ his people did.”
“Bah!” huffed the fisherman. “What mercy would these dogs have shown to our children, I ask you? He’s half in the grave anyway.”
“Still I ask ye to let him be!” Bruenor growled, his axe bouncing impatiently against his shoulder. “In fact, I insist!”
The fisherman returned the dwarf’s scowl, but he had witnessed Bruenor’s proficiency in battle and thought the better of pushing him too far. With a disgusted sigh, he headed off around the hill to find less protected victims.
The boy stirred on the grass and moaned.
“So ye’ve a bit of life left in ye yet,” said Bruenor. He knelt beside the lad’s head and lifted it by the hair to meet his eyes. “Hear me well, boy. I saved yer life here—why, I’m not quite knowin’—but don’t ye think ye’ve been pardoned by the people of Ten-Towns. I want ye to see the misery yer people have brung. Maybe killing is in yer blood, and if it is, then let the fisherman’s blade end ye here and now! But I’m feelin’ there’s more to ye, and ye’ll have the time to show me right.
“Ye’re to serve me and me people in our mines for five years and a day to prove yourself worthy of life and freedom.”
Bruenor saw that the youth had slumped back into unconsciousness. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Ye’ll hear me well before all’s done, be sure o’ that!” He moved to drop the head back to the grass, but laid it down gently instead.
Onlookers to the spectacle of the gruff dwarf showing kindness to the barbarian youth were indeed startled, but none could guess the implications of what they had witnessed. Bruenor himself, for all of his assumptions of this barbarian’s character, could not have foreseen that this boy, Wulfgar, would grow into the man who would reshape this harsh region of the tundra.
Far to the south, in a wide pass among the towering peaks of the Spine of the World, Akar Kessell languished in the soft life that Crenshinibon had provided for him. His goblin slaves had captured yet another female from a merchant caravan for him to play with, but now something else had caught his eye. Smoke, rising into the empty sky from the direction of Ten-Towns.
“Barbarians,” Kessell guessed. He had heard rumors that the tribes were gathering when he and the wizards from Luskan had been visiting Easthaven. But it didn’t matter to him, and why should it? He had all that he needed right here in Cryshal-Tirith and had no desire to travel anywhere else.
No desires that were wrought of his own will.
Crenshinibon was a relic that was truly alive in its magic. And part of its life was the desire to conquer and command. The Crystal Shard was not content with an existence in a desolate mountain range, where the only servants were lowly goblins. It wanted more. It wanted power.
Kessell’s own subconscious recollections of Ten-Towns when he had spotted the column of smoke had stirred the relic’s hunger, so it now used the same empathetic power of suggestion on Kessell.
A sudden image grasped at the wizard’s deepest needs. He saw himself seated on a throne in Bryn Shander, immeasurably wealthy and respected by all in his court. He imagined the response from the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan when the mages there, especially Eldulac and Dendybar, learned of Akar Kessell, Lord of Ten-Towns and Ruler of all Icewind Dale! Would they offer him a robe in their puny order then?
Despite Kessell’s true enjoyment of the leisurely existence he had found, the thought appealed to him. He let his mind continue through the fantasy, exploring the paths that he might take to accomplish such an ambitious goal.
He ruled out trying to dominate the fisherfolk as he had dominated this goblin tribe, for even the least intelligent of the goblins had held out against his imposing will for quite a long time. And when any of these had gotten away from the immediate area of the tower, they regained their ability to determine their own actions and had fled into the mountains. No, simple domination would not work against the humans.
Kessell pondered using the power that he felt pulsing within the structure of Cryshal-Tirith, destructive forces beyond anything he had ever heard of, even in the Hosttower. This would help, but it wouldn’t be enough. Even the strength of Crenshinibon was limited, requiring lengths of time under the sun to gather new power to replace expended energy. Furthermore, in Ten-Towns there were too many people too widely scattered to be corralled by a single sphere of influence, and Kessell didn’t want to destroy them all. Goblins were convenient; but the wizard longed to have humans bowing before him, real men like the ones who had persecuted him for all of his life.
For all of his life before he had gained the shard.
His ponderings eventually led him inevitably down the same line of reasoning. He would need an army.
He considered the goblins he presently commanded. Fanatically devoted to his every wish, they would gladly die for him (in fact, several had). Yet even they weren’t nearly numerous enough to engulf the wide region of the three lakes with any semblance of strength.
And then an evil thought, again covertly insinuated into his will by the Crystal Shard, came upon the wizard. “How many holes and caves,” Kessell cried aloud, “are there in this vast and rugged mountain range? And how many goblins, ogres, even trolls and giants, do they harbor?” The beginnings of a devious vision took shape in his mind. He saw himself at the head of a huge goblin and giant army, sweeping across the plains, unstoppable and irresistible.
How he would make men tremble!
He lay back on a soft pillow and called for the new harem girl. He had another game in mind, one that had also come to him in a strange dream; it called for her to beg and whimper, and finally, to die. The wizard decided, though, that he would certainly consider the possibilities of lordship over Ten-Towns that had opened wide before him. But there was no need to hurry; he had time. The goblins could always find him another plaything.
Crenshinibon, too, seemed to be at peace. It had placed the seed within Kessell’s mind, a seed that it knew would germinate into a plan of conquest. But like Kessell, the relic had no need for haste.
The Crystal Shard had waited ten thousand years to return to life and see this opportunity of power flicker again. It could wait a few more.
radition
The very sound of the word invokes a sense of gravity and solemnity. Tradition. Suuz’chok in the drow language, and there, too, as in every language that I have heard, the word rolls off of one’s tongue with tremendous weight and power.
Tradition. It is the root of who we are, the link to our heritage, the reminder that we as a people, if not individually, will span the ages. To many people and many societies, tradition is the source of structure and of law, the abiding fact of identity that denies the contrary claims of the outlaw, or the misbehavior of the rogue. It is that echoing sound deep in our hearts and our minds and our souls that reminds us of who we are by reinforcing who we were. To many it is even more than the law; it is the religion, guiding faith as it guides morality and society. To many, tradition is a god itself, the ancient rituals and holy t
exts, scribbled on unreadable parchments yellowed with age or chiseled into eternal rocks.
To many, tradition is all.
Personally, I view it as a double-edged sword, and one that can cut even more deeply in the way of error.
I saw the workings of tradition in Menzoberranzan, the ritualistic sacrifice of the third male child (which was almost my own fate), the workings of the three drow schools. Tradition justified my sister’s advances toward me in the graduation of Melee-Magthere, and denied me any claims against that wretched ceremony. Tradition holds the Matrons in power, limiting the ascent of any males. Even the vicious wars of Menzoberranzan, house against house, are rooted in tradition, are justified because that is the way it has always been.
Such failings are not exclusive to the drow. Often I sit on the northern face of Kelvin’s Cairn looking out over the empty tundra and the twinkling lights of the camp-fires in the vast barbarian encampments. There, too, is a people wholly consumed by tradition, a people clinging to ancient codes and ways that once allowed them to survive as a society in an inhospitable land but that now hinder them as much as, or more than, helps them. The barbarians of Icewind Dale follow the caribou herd from one end of the dale to the other. In days long past that was the only way they could have survived up here, but how much easier might their existence be now if they only traded with the folk of Ten-Towns, offering pelts and good meat in exchange for stronger materials brought up from the south so they might construct more permanent homes for themselves?
In days long past, before any real civilization crept this far to the north, the barbarians refused to speak with, or even to accept, anyone else within Icewind Dale, the various tribes often joining for the sole purpose of driving out any intruders. In those past times, any newcomers would inevitably become rivals for the meager food and other scarce supplies, and so such xenophobia was necessary for basic survival.
The folk of Ten-Towns, with their advanced fishing techniques, and their rich trade with Luskan, are not rivals of the barbarians—most have never even eaten venison, I would guess. And yet, tradition demands of the barbarians that they do not make friends with those folk, and indeed, often war upon them.
Tradition.
What gravity indeed does that word impart! What power it wields! As it roots us and grounds us and gives us hope for who we are because of who we were, so it also wreaks destruction and denies change.
I would never pretend to understand another people well enough to demand that they change their traditions, yet how foolish it seems to me to hold fast and unyieldingly to those mores and ways without regard for any changes that have taken place in the world about us.
For that world is a changing place, moved by advancements in technology and magic, by the rise and fall of populations, even by the blending of races, as in the half-elf communities. The world is not static, and if the roots of our perceptions, traditions, hold static, then we are doomed, I say, into destructive dogma.
Then we fall upon the darker blade of that double-edged sword.
-Drizzt Do’Urden
egis stretched out lazily against his favorite tree and enjoyed a drawn-out yawn, his cherubic dimples beaming in the bright ray of sunlight that somehow found its way to him through the thickly packed branches. His fishing pole stood poised beside him, though its hook had long since been cleaned of any bait. Regis rarely caught any fish, but he prided himself on never wasting more than one worm.
He had come out here every day since his return to Lonelywood. He wintered in Bryn Shander now, enjoying the company of his good friend, Cassius. The city on the hill didn’t compare to Calimport, but the palace of its spokesman was the closest thing to luxury in all of Icewind Dale. Regis thought himself quite clever for persuading Cassius to invite him to spend the harsh winters there.
A cool breeze wafted in off Maer Dualdon, drawing a contented sigh from the halfling. Though Kythorn had already passed its midpoint, this was the first hot day of the short season. And Regis was determined to make the most of it. For the first time in over a year he had been out before noon, and he planned to stay in this spot, stripped of his clothes, letting the sun sink its warmth into every inch of his body until the last red glow of sunset.
An angry shout out on the lake caught his attention. He lifted his head and half-opened one heavy eyelid. The first thing he noticed, to his complete satisfaction, was that his belly had grown considerably over the winter, and from this angle, lying flat on his back, he could see only the tips of his toes.
Halfway across the water, four boats, two from Termalaine and two from Targos, jockeyed for position, running past each other with sudden tacks and turns, their sailors cursing and spitting at the boats that flew the flag of the other city. For the last four and a half years, since the Battle of Bryn Shander, the two cities had virtually been at war. Though their battles were more often fought with words and fists than weapons, more than one ship had been rammed or driven into rocks or up to beach in shallow waters.
Regis shrugged helplessly and dropped his head back to his folded waistcoat. Nothing had changed much around Ten-Towns in the last few years. Regis and some of the other spokesmen had entertained high hopes of a united community, despite the heated argument after the battle between Kemp of Targos and Agorwal of Termalaine over the drow.
Even on the banks of the lake across the way, the period of good will was short-lived among the long-standing rivals. The truce between Caer-Dineval and Caer-Konig had lasted only until the first time one of Caer-Dineval’s boats landed a valuable and rare five-footer, on the stretch of Lac Dinneshere that Caer-Konig had relinquished to her as compensation for the waters she had lost to Easthaven’s expanding fleet.
Furthermore, Good Mead and Dougan’s Hole, the normally unassuming and fiercely independent towns on the southernmost lake, Redwaters, had boldly demanded compensation from Bryn Shander and Termalaine. They had suffered staggering casualties in the battle on Bryn Shander’s slopes, though they had never even considered the affair their business. They reasoned that the two towns which had gained the most from the united effort should be made to pay. The northern cities, of course, balked at the demand.
And so the lesson of the benefits of unification had gone unheeded. The ten communities remained as divided as ever before.
In truth, the town which had benefited the most from the battle was Lonelywood. The population of Ten-Towns as a whole had remained fairly constant. Many fortune hunters or hiding scoundrels continued to filter into the region, but an equal number were killed or grew disenchanted with the brutal conditions and returned to the more hospitable south.
Lonelywood, though, had grown considerably. Maer Dualdon, with its consistent yield of knucklehead, remained the most profitable of the lakes, and with the fighting between Termalaine and Targos, and Bremen precariously perched on the banks of the unpredictable and often flooding Shaengarne River, Lonelywood appeared the most appealing of the four towns. The people of the small community had even launched a campaign to draw newcomers, citing Lonelywood as the “Home of the Halfling Hero,” and as the only place with shade trees within a hundred miles.
Regis had given up his position as spokesman shortly after the battle, a choice mutually arrived at by himself and the townsfolk. With Lonelywood growing into greater prominence and shaking off its reputation as a melting pot of rogues, the town needed a more aggressive person to sit on the council. And Regis simply didn’t want to be bothered with the responsibility anymore.
Of course, Regis had found a way to turn his fame into profit. Every new settler in the town had to pay out a share of his first catches in return for the right to fly Lonelywood’s flag, and Regis had persuaded the new spokesman and the other leaders of the town that since his name had been used to help bring in the new settlers, he should be cut in for a portion of these fees.
The halfling wore a broad smile whenever he considered his good fortune. He spent his days in peace, coming and going at his leisure,
mostly just lying against the moss of his favorite tree, putting a line in the water once and letting the day pass him by.
His life had taken a comfortable turn, though the only work he ever did now was carving scrimshaw. His crafted pieces carried ten times their old value, the price partially inflated by the halfling’s small degree of fame, but moreso because he had persuaded some connoisseurs who were visiting Bryn Shander that his unique style and cut gave his scrimshaw a special artistic and aesthetic worth.
Regis patted the ruby pendant that rested on his bare chest. It seemed that he could “persuade” almost anyone of almost anything these days.
The hammer clanged down on the glowing metal. Sparks leaped off the anvil platform in a fiery arc, then died into the dimness of the stone chamber. The heavy hammer swung again and again, guided effortlessly by a huge, muscled arm.
The smith wore only a pair of pants and a leather apron tied about his waist in the small, hot chamber. Black lines of soot had settled in the muscular grooves across his broad shoulders and chest, and he glistened with sweat in the orange glow of the forge. His movements were marked by such rhythmic, tireless ease that they seemed almost preternatural, as though he were the god who had forged the world in the days before mortal man.
An approving grin spread across his face when he felt the rigidity of the iron finally give a bit under the force of his blows. Never before had he felt such strength in the metal; it tested him to the limits of his own resilience, and he felt a shiver as alluring as the thrill of battle when he had at last proven himself the stronger.
“Bruenor will be pleased.”
Wulfgar stopped for a moment and considered the implications of his thoughts, smiling in spite of himself as he remembered his first days in the mines of the dwarves. What a stubborn, angry youth he had been then, cheated out of his right to die on the field of honor by a grumbling dwarf who justified unasked-for compassion by labeling it “good business.”
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