The Crystal Shard

by The Crystal Shard [lit]

  As dusk began to settle over the tundra, Drizzt, in the comfortable shadows deeper in the cave, stirred from his short nap. Wulfgar was pleased that the drow had trusted him enough to sleep easily, so obviously vulnerable, on their first day together. This, coupled with the beating Drizzt had given him earlier, had caused Wulfgar to question his initial outrage at the sight of a dark elf.

  "Do we begin our sessions this night, then?" Drizzt asked.

  "You are the master," Wulfgar said bitterly. "I am only the slave."

  "No more a slave than I," replied Drizzt. Wulfgar turned to him curiously.

  "We are both indebted to the dwarf," Drizzt explained. "I owe him my life many times over and thus have agreed to teach you my skill in battle. You follow an oath that you made to him in exchange for your life. Thus you are obliged to learn what I have to teach. I am no man's master, nor would I ever want to be."

  Wulfgar turned back to the tundra. He didn't fully trust Drizzt yet, though he couldn't figure out what ulterior motives the drow could possibly be pursuing with the friendly facade.

  "We fulfill our debts to Bruenor together," said Drizzt. He empathized with the emotions Wulfgar was feeling as the young man gazed out over the plains of his homeland for the first time in years. "Enjoy this night, barbarian. Go about as you please and remember again the feel of the wind on your face. We shall begin at the fall of tomorrow's night." He left then to allow Wulfgar the privacy he desired.

  Wulfgar could not deny that he appreciated the respect the drow had shown him.

  * * * * *

  During the daytime, Drizzt rested in the cool shadows of the cave while Wulfgar acclimated himself to the new area and hunted for their supper.

  By night, they fought.

  Drizzt pressed the young barbarian relentlessly, slapping him with the flat of a scimitar every time he opened a gap in his defenses. The exchanges often escalated dangerously, for Wulfgar was a proud warrior and grew enraged and frustrated at the drow's superiority. This only put the barbarian at a further disadvantage, for in his rage all semblance of discipline flew from him. Drizzt was ever quick to point this out with a series of slaps and twists that ultimately left Wulfgar sprawled on the ground.

  To his credit, though, Drizzt never taunted the barbarian or tried to humiliate him. The drow went about his task methodically, understanding that the first order of business was to sharpen the barbarian's reflexes and teach him some concern for defense.

  Drizzt was truly impressed with Wulfgar's raw ability. The incredible potential of the young warrior staggered him. At first he feared that Wulfgar's stubborn pride and bitterness would render him untrainable, but the barbarian had risen to the challenge. Recognizing the benefits he could reap from one as adept with weapons as Drizzt, Wulfgar listened attentively. His pride, instead of limiting him into believing that he was already a mighty warrior and needed no further instruction, pushed him to grab at every advantage he could find that would help him to achieve his ambitious goals. By the end of the first week, during those times he could control his volatile temper, he was already able to deflect many of Drizzt's cunning attacks.

  Drizzt said little during that first week, though he would occasionally compliment the barbarian about a good parry or counter, or more generally on the improvement Wulfgar was showing in such a short time. Wulfgar found himself eagerly anticipating the drow's remarks whenever he executed an especially difficult maneuver, and dreading the inevitable slap whenever he foolishly left himself vulnerable.

  The young barbarian's respect for Drizzt continued to grow. Something about the drow, living without complaint in stoic solitude, touched Wulfgar's sense of honor. He couldn't yet guess why Drizzt had chosen such an existence, but he was certain from what he had already seen of the drow that it had something to do with principles.

  By the middle of the second week, Wulfgar was in complete control of Aegis-fang, twisting its handle and head deftly to block against the two whirring scimitars, and responding with cautiously measured thrusts of his own.

  Drizzt could see the subtle change taking place as the barbarian stopped reacting after the fact to the scimitars' deft cuts and thrusts and began recognizing his own vulnerable areas and anticipating the next attack.

  When he became convinced that Wulfgar's defenses were sufficiently strengthened, Drizzt began the lessons of attack. The drow knew that his style of offense would not be the most effective mode for Wulfgar. The barbarian could use his unrivaled strength more effectively than deceptive feints and twists. Wulfgar's people were naturally aggressive fighters, and striking came more easily to them than parrying. The mighty barbarian could fell a giant with a single, well-placed blow.

  All that he had left to learn was patience.

  * * * * *

  Early one dark, moonless night, as he prepared himself for the evening's lesson, Wulfgar noticed the flare of a campfire far out on the plain. He watched, mesmerized, as several others sprang suddenly into sight, wondering if it might even be the fires of his own tribe.

  Drizzt silently approached, unnoticed by the engrossed barbarian. The drow's keen eyes had noted the stirrings of the distant camp long before the firelight had grown strong enough for Wulfgar to see. "Your people have survived," he said to comfort the young man.

  Wulfgar started at the sudden appearance of his teacher. "You know of them?" he asked.

  Drizzt moved beside him and stared out over the tundra. "Their losses were great at the Battle of Bryn Shander," he said. "And the winter that followed bit hard at the many women and children who had no men to hunt for them. They fled west to find the reindeer, banding together with other tribes for strength. The peoples still hold to the names of the original tribes, but in truth there are only two remaining: the Tribe of the Elk and the Tribe of the Bear.

  "You were of the Tribe of the Elk, l believe," Drizzt continued, drawing a nod from Wulfgar. "Your people have done well. They dominate the plain now, and though more years will have to pass before the people of the tundra regain the strength they held before the battle, the younger warriors are already coming into manhood."

  Relief flooded through Wulfgar. He had feared that the Battle of Bryn Shander had decimated his people to a point from which they could never recover. The tundra was doubly harsh in the frozen winter, and Wulfgar often considered the possibility that the sudden loss of so many warriors - some of the tribes had lost every one of their menfolk - would doom the remaining people to slow death.

  "You know much about my people," Wulfgar remarked.

  "I have spent many days watching them," Drizzt explained, wondering what line of thought the barbarian was drawing, "learning their ways and tricks for prospering in such an unwelcoming land."

  Wulfgar chuckled softly and shook his head, further impressed by the sincere reverence the drow showed whenever he spoke of the natives of Icewind Dale. He had known the drow less than two weeks, but already he understood the character of Drizzt Do'Urden well enough to know that his next observation about the drow was true to the mark.

  "I'll wager you even felled deer silently in the darkness, to be found in the morning light by people too hungry, to question their good fortune."

  Drizzt neither answered the remark nor changed the set of his gaze, but Wulfgar was confident in his guess.

  "Do you know of Heafstaag?" the barbarian asked after a few moments of silence. "He was king of my tribe, a man of many scars and great renown."

  Drizzt remembered the one-eyed barbarian well. The mere mention of his name sent a dull ache into the drow's shoulder, where he had been wounded by the huge man's heavy axe. "He lives," Drizzt replied, somewhat shielding his contempt. "Heafstaag speaks for the whole of the north now. None of true enough blood remain to oppose him in combat or speak out against him to hold him in check."

  "He is a mighty king," Wulfgar said, oblivious to the venom in the drow's voice.

  "He is a savage fighter," Drizzt corrected. His lavender eyes bore into Wulfgar
, catching the barbarian completely by surprise with their sudden flash of anger. Wulfgar saw the incredible character in those violet pools, an inner strength within the drow whose pure quality would make the most noble of kings envious.

  "You have grown into a man in the shadow of a dwarf of indisputable character," Drizzt scolded. "Have you gained nothing for the experience?"

  Wulfgar was dumbfounded and couldn't find the words to reply.

  Drizzt decided that the tune had come for him to lay bare the barbarian's principles and judge the wisdom and worth of teaching the young man. "A king is a man strong of character and conviction who leads by example and truly cares for the sufferings of his people," he lectured. "Not a brute who rules simply because he is the strongest. I should think you would have learned to understand the distinction."

  Drizzt noted the embarrassment on Wulfgar's face and knew that the years in the dwarven caves had shaken the very ground that the barbarian had grown on. He hoped that Bruenor's belief in Wulfgar's sense of conscience and principle proved true, for he, too, like Bruenor years before, had come to recognize the promise of the intelligent young man and found that he cared about Wulfgar's future. He turned suddenly and started away, leaving the barbarian to find the answers to his own questions.

  "The lesson?" Wulfgar called after him, still confused and surprised.

  "You have had your lesson for this night," Drizzt replied without turning or slowing. "Perhaps it was the most important that I will ever teach." The drow faded into the blackness of the night, though the distinct image of lavender eyes remained clearly imprinted in Wulfgar's thoughts.

  The barbarian turned back to the distant campfire.

  And wondered.

  15

  On the Wings of Doom

  They came in under the cover of a violent squall line that swept down upon Ten-Towns from the open east. Ironically, they followed the same trail along the side of Kelvin's Cairn that Drizzt and Wulfgar had traveled just two weeks earlier. This band of verbeeg, though, headed south toward the settlements, rather than north to the open tundra. Though tall and thin - the smallest of the giants - they were still a formidable force.

  A frost giant led the advanced scout of Akar Kessell's vast army. Unheard beneath the howling blasts of wind, they moved with all speed to a secret lair that had been discovered by orc scouts in a rocky spur on the southern side of the mountain. There was barely a score of the monsters, but each carried a huge bundle of weapons and supplies.

  The leader pressed on with all speed toward its destination. Its name was Biggrin, a cunning and immensely strong giant whose upper lip had been torn away by the ripping maw of a huge wolf, leaving the grotesque caricature of a smile forever stamped upon its face. This disfigurement only added to the giant's stature, instilling the respect of fear in its normally unruly troops. Akar Kessel had personally hand-picked Biggrin as the leader of his forward scouts, though the wizard had been counseled to send a less conspicuous party, some of Heafstaag's people, for the delicate mission. But Kessell held Biggrin in high regard and was impressed with the enormous amount of supplies the small band of verbeeg could carry.

  The troop settled into their new quarters before midnight and immediately went about fashioning sleeping areas, storage rooms, and a small kitchen. Then they waited, silently poised to strike the first lethal blows in Akar Kessell's glorious assault on Ten-Towns.

  An orc runner came every couple of days to check on the band and deliver the latest instructions from the wizard, informing Biggrin of the progress of the next supply troop that was scheduled to arrive. Everything was proceeding according to Kessell's plan, but Biggrin noted with concern that many of his warriors grew more eager and anxious every time a new runner appeared, hoping that the time to march to war was finally upon them.

  Always the instructions were the same, though: Stay hidden and wait.

  In less than two weeks in the tense atmosphere of the stuffy cave, the comradery between the giants had disintegrated. Verbeeg were creatures of action, not contemplation, and boredom led them inescapably to frustration. Arguments became the norm, often leading to vicious fights. Biggrin was never far away, and the imposing frost giant usually managed to break up the scuffles before any of the troops were seriously wounded. The giant knew beyond any doubt that it could not keep control of the battlehungry band for much longer.

  The fifth runner slipped into the cave on a particularly hot and uncomfortable night. As soon as the unfortunate orc entered the common room, it was surrounded by a score of grumbling verbeeg.

  "What's the news, then?" one of them demanded impatiently.

  Thinking that the backing of Akar Kessell was sufficient protection, the orc eyed the giant in open defiance. "Fetch your master, soldier," it ordered.

  Suddenly a huge hand grabbed the orc by the scruff of the neck and shook the creature roughly. "Yous was asked a question, scum," said a second giant. "What's the news?"

  The orc, now visibly unnerved, shot back an angry threat at its giant assailant. "The wizard will peel the skin from your hide while you watch!"

  "I heared enough," growled the first giant, reaching down to clamp a huge hand around the orc's neck. It lifted the creature clear off the ground, using only one of its massive arms. The orc slapped and twisted pitifully, not bothering the verbeeg in the least.

  "Aw, squeeze its filthy neck!" came one call.

  "Put its eyes out an' drop it in a dark hole!" said another.

  Biggrin entered the room, quickly pushing through the ranks to discover the source of the commotion. The giant wasn't surprised to find the verbeeg tormenting an orc. In truth, the giant leader was amused by the spectacle, but it understood the danger of angering the volatile Akar Kessell. It had seen more than one unruly goblin put to a slow death for disobeying, or simply to appease the wizard's distorted taste for pleasure. "Put the miserable thing down," Biggrin ordered calmly.

  Several groans and angry grumbles sprang up around the frost giant.

  "Bash its 'ead in!" cried one.

  "Bites its nose!" yelled another.

  By now, the orc's face had grown puffy from lack of air, and it hardly struggled at all. The verbeeg holding it returned Biggrin's threatening stare for a few moments longer, then tossed its helpless victim at the frost giant's booted feet.

  "Keep it then," the verbeeg snarled at Biggrin. "But if it wags its tongue at me agin, I'll eats it fer sure!"

  "I've 'ad too much o' this hole," complained a giant from the back of the ranks. "An' a whole dale o' filthy dwarfs fer the taken'!" The grumbling renewed with heightened intensity.

  Biggrin looked around and studied the seething rage that had crept into all of the troops, threatening to bring down the whole lair in one sudden fit of irrepressible violence.

  "Tomorrow night we starts goin' out t' see whats about us,"Biggrin offered in response. It was a dangerous move, the frost giant knew, but the alternative was certain disaster. "Only three at a time, an' no one's to know!"

  The orc had regained a measure of composure and heard Biggrin's proposal. It started to protest, but the giant leader silenced it immediately.

  "Shut yer mouth, orc dog," Biggrin commanded, looking to the verbeeg that had threatened the runner and smiling wryly. "Or I'll lets me friend eat!"

  The giants howled their glee and exchanged shoulderclaps with their companions, comrades again. Biggrin had given them back the promise of action, though the giant leader's doubts about its decision were far from dispelled by the lusty enthusiasm of the soldiers. Shouts of the various dwarven recipes the verbeegs had concocted - "Dwarf o' the Apple" and "Bearded, Basted, an' Baked" to name two - rang out to overwhelming hoots of approval.

  Biggrin dreaded what might happen if any of the verbeeg came upon some of the short folk.

  * * * * *

  Biggrin let the verbeeg out of the lair in groups of three, and only during the nighttime hours. The giant leader thought it unlikely that any dwarves would travel
this far north up the valley, but knew that it was taking a huge gamble. A sigh of relief escaped from the giant's mouth whenever a patrol returned without incident.

  Simply being allowed out of the cramped cave improved the verbeeg's morale tenfold. The tension inside the lair virtually disappeared as the troops regained their enthusiasm for the coming war. Up on the side of Kelvin's Cairn they often saw the lights of Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, Termalaine across the way to the west, and even Bryn Shander far to the south. Viewing the cities allowed them to fantasize about their upcoming victories, and the thoughts were enough to sustain them in their long wait.

  Another week slipped by. Everything seemed to be going along well. Witnessing the improvement the small measure of freedom had brought to his troops, Biggrin gradually began to relax about the risky decision.

  But then two dwarves, having been informed by Bruenor that there was some fine stone under the shadow of Kelvin's Cairn, made the trip to the north end of the valley to investigate its mining potential. They arrived on the southern slopes of the rocky mountain late one afternoon, and by dusk had made camp on a flat rock beside a swift stream.

  This was their valley, and it had known no trouble in several years. They took few precautions.

  So it happened that the first patrol of verbeeg to leave the lair that night soon spotted the flames of a campfire and heard the distinctive dialect of the hated dwarves.

  * * * * *

  On the other side of the mountain, Drizzt Do'Urden opened his eyes from his daytime slumber. Emerging from the cave into the growing gloom, he found Wulfgar in the customary spot, poised meditatively on a high stone, staring out over the plain.

  "You long for your home?" the drow asked rhetorically.

  Wulfgar shrugged his huge shoulders and answered absently, "Perhaps." The barbarian had come to ask many disturbing questions of himself about his people and their way of life since he had learned respect for Drizzt. The Drow was an enigma to him, a confusing combination of fighting brilliance and absolute control. Drizzt seemed able to weigh every move he ever made in the scales of high adventure and indisputable morals.