“I didn't need it with me bow,” Catti-brie explained. “But he ran off.” She called out loudly, “Regis?”
“He ran away,” Bruenor whispered to Drizzt, but that just didn't sound right—to either of them—after the halfling's brave work on the roads outside of Ten-Towns and his surprisingly good performance against the ogres. “I'm thinking them ogres scared the fight outta him.”
Drizzt shook his head, slowly turning to scan the perimeter of the cave, fearing more that Regis had been cut down than that he had run off.
They heard their little friend a few moments later, whistling happily as he exited the goblin escape tunnel. He looked at Drizzt and Bruenor, who stared at him in blank amazement, then tossed something to Drizzt.
The drow caught it and regarded it, and his smile widened indeed.
A goblin ear, wearing a golden cuff.
The dwarf and the dark elf looked at the halfling incredulously.
“I heard what he said,” Regis answered their stares. “And I do understand goblin.” He snapped his little fingers in the air before the stunned pair and started across the cave toward Catti-brie. He stopped a few strides away, though, turned back, and tossed the second ear to Drizzt.
“What's gettin' into him?” Bruenor quietly asked the drow when Regis was far away.
“The adventurous spirit?” Drizzt asked more than stated.
“Ye could be right,” said Bruenor. He spat on the ground. “He's gonna get us all killed, or I'm a bearded gnome.”
The five, for Guenhwyvar remained throughout the night, waited out the rest of the storm in the goblin cave. They found a pile of kindling at the side of the cave, along with some rancid meat they didn't dare cook, and Bruenor set a blazing fire near the outside opening. Guenhwyvar stood sentry while Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Regis deposited the goblin bodies far down the passageway. They ate, and they huddled around the fire. They took turns on watch that night, sleeping two at a time, though they didn't really expect the cowardly goblins to return anytime soon.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Many miles to the south and east of the companions, another weary traveler didn't have the luxury of comrades who could stand watch while he slept. Still, not expecting that many enemies would be out and about on a stormy night such as this, Wulfgar did settle back against the rear wall of the covered nook he chose as his shelter and closed his eyes.
He had dug out this nook, and so he was flanked left and right by walls of solid snow, with the rock wall behind and a rising snow wall before him. He knew that even if no monsters or wild animals would likely find him, he had to take his sleep in short bursts, for if he didn't regularly clear some of the snow from the front, he ran the risk of being buried alive, and if he didn't occasionally throw another log on the fire, he'd likely freeze to death on this bitter night.
These were only minor inconveniences to the hearty barbarian, who had been raised from a babe on the open tundra of brutal Icewind Dale, who had been weaned with the bitter north wind singing in his ears.
And who had been hardened in the fiery swirls of Errtu's demonic home.
The wind sang a mournful song across the small opening of Wulfgar's rock and snow shelter, a long and melancholy note that opened the doorway to the barbarian's battered heart. In that cave, in that storm, and on that windy note, Wulfgar's thoughts were sent back across the span of time.
He recalled so many things about his childhood with the Tribe of the Elk, running the open and wild tundra, following the footsteps of his ancestors in hunts and rituals that had survived for hundreds of years.
He recalled the battle that had brought him to Ten-Towns, an aggressive attack by his warrior people upon the settlers of the villages. There an ill-placed blow on the head of a particularly hard-headed dwarf had led to young Wulfgar's defeat—and that defeat had landed young Wulfgar squarely in the tutelage and indenture of one Bruenor Battlehammer, the surly, gruff, golden-hearted dwarf who Wulfgar would soon enough come to know as a father. That defeat on the battlefield had brought Wulfgar to the side of Drizzt and Catti-brie, had set him on the road that had guided the later years of his youth and the early years of his adulthood. That same road, though, had landed Wulfgar in that most awful of all places, the lair of the demon Errtu.
Outside, the wind mourned and called to his soul, as if asking him to turn away now on his road of memories, to reject all thoughts of Errtu's hellish lair.
Warning him, warning him. .
But Wulfgar, as tormented by his self-perception as he was by the tortures of Errtu, would not turn away. Not this time. He embraced the awful memories. He brought them into his consciousness and examined them fully and rationally, telling himself that this was as it had been. Not as it should have been, but a simple reality of his past, a memory that he would have to carry with him.
A place from which he should try to grow, and not one from which he should reflexively cower.
The wind wailed its dire warnings, calling to him that he might lose himself within that pit of horror, that he might be going to dark places better left at rest. But Wulfgar held on to the thoughts, carried them through to the final victory over Errtu, out on the Sea of Moving Ice.
With his friends beside him.
That was the rub, the forlorn barbarian knew. With his friends beside him! He had forsaken his former companions because he had believed that he must. He had run away from them, particularly from Catti-brie, because he could not let them come to see what he had truly become: a broken wretch, a shell of his former glory.
Wulfgar paused in his contemplation and tossed the last of his logs onto the fire. He adjusted the stones he had set under the blaze, rocks that would catch the heat and hold it for some time. He prodded one stone away from the fire and rolled it under his bedroll, then worked it down under the fabric so that he could comfortably rest atop it.
He did just that and felt the new heat rising beneath, but the new-found comfort could not eliminate or deflect the wall of questions.
“And where am I now?” the barbarian asked of the wind, but it only continued its melancholy wail.
It had no answers, and neither did he.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The next morning dawned bright and clear, with the brilliant sun climbing into a cloudless eastern sky, sending the temperatures to comfortable levels and beginning the melt of the previous day's blizzard.
Drizzt regarded the sight and the warmth with mixed feelings, for while he and all the others were glad to have some feeling returning to their extremities, they all knew the dangers that sunshine after a blizzard could bring to mountain passes. They would have to move extra carefully that day, wary of avalanches with every step.
The drow looked back to the cave, wherein slept his three companions, resting easily, hoping to continue on their way. With any luck, they might make the coast that very day and begin the search in earnest for Minster Gorge and Sheila Kree.
Drizzt looked around and realized they would need considerable luck. Already he could hear the distant rumblings of falling snow.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Wulfgar punched and thrashed his way out of the overhang that had become a cave, that had become a snowy tomb, crawling out and stretching in the brilliant morning sunlight.
The barbarian was right on the edge of the mountains, with the terrain sloping greatly down to the south toward Luskan and with towering, snow-covered peaks all along the northern horizon. He noted, too, with a snort of resignation, that he had apparently been on the edge of the rain/snow line of the blizzard's precipitation, for those sloping hillsides south of him seemed more wet than deep with snow, while the region north of him was clogged with powder.
It was as if the gods themselves were telling him to turn back.
Wulfgar nodded. Perhaps that was it. Or perhaps the storm had been no more than an analogy of the roads now facing him in his life. The easy way, as it would have been out of Luskan, was to the south.
That road called to him clearly, showing him a path where he could avoid the difficult terrain.
The hearty barbarian laughed at the symbolism of it all, at the way nature herself seemed to be pushing him back toward that more peaceful and easy existence. He hoisted his pack and the unbalanced bardiche he carried in Aegis-fang's stead and trudged off to the north.
Chapter 21 WASTED CHARMS
I have business to attend to in Luskan,” Morik complained. “So many things I have set in place—connections and deals—and now, because of you and your friends, all of that will be for naught.”
“But you will enjoy the long winter's night,” Bellany said with a wicked grin. She curled seductively on the pile of furs.
“That is of no … well, there is that,” Morik admitted, shaking his head. “And my protest has nothing to do with you—you do understand that.”
“You talk way too much,” the woman replied, reaching for the small man.
“I … I mean, no this cannot be! Not now. There is my business—”
“Later.”
“Now!”
Bellany grinned, rolled over, and stretched. Morik's protests had to wait for some time. Later on, though, the rogue from Luskan was right back at it, complaining to Bellany that her little side trip here was going to cost him a king's treasure and more.
“Unavoidable,” the sorceress explained. “I had to bring you here, and winter came early.”
“And I am not allowed to leave?”
“Leave at your will,” Bellany replied. “It is a long, cold road— do you think you'll survive all the way back to Luskan?”
“You brought me here, you take me back.”
“Impossible,” the sorceress said calmly. “I can not teleport such distances. That spell is beyond me. I could conjure the odd magical portal for short distances perhaps, but not enough to skip our way to Luskan. And I do not like the cold, Morik. Not at all.”
“Then Sheila Kree will have to find a way to take me home,” Morik declared, pulling his trousers on—or at least trying to. As he brought the pants up over his ankles, Bellany waved her hand and cast a simple spell to bring about a sudden breeze. The gust was strong enough to push the already off-balance Morik backward, causing him to trip and fall.
He rolled and put his feet under him, rising, stumbling back to his knees, then pulling himself up and turning an indignant stare over the woman.
“Very humorous,” he said grimly, but as soon as he spoke the words, Morik noted the look on Bellany's face, one that showed little humor.
“You will go to Sheila Kree and demand that she take you home?” the sorceress asked.
“And if I do?”
“She will kill you,” Bellany stated. “Sheila is not overly fond of you, my friend, and in truth she desires you gone from here as much as you desire to be gone. But she'll spare no resources to do that, unless it is the short journey for one of her pet ogres to toss your lifeless body into the frigid ocean waters.
“No, Morik, understand that you would do well to remain unobtrusive and quietly out of Sheila's way,” Bellany went on. 'Bloody Keel will sail in the spring, and likely along the coast. We'll put you ashore not so far from Luskan, perhaps even in port, if we can be certain Deudermont's not lying in wait for us there.”
“I will be a pauper by then.”
“Well, if you are still rich, and wish to die that way, then go to Sheila with your demands,” the sorceress said with a laugh. She rolled over, wrapping herself in the furs, burying even her head to signal Morik that this conversation was at its end.
The rogue stood there staring at his lover for a long while. He liked Bellany—a lot—and believed that a winter of cuddling beside her wouldn't be so bad a thing. There were several other women there as well, including a couple of quite attractive ones, like Jule Pepper. Perhaps Morik might find a bit of challenge this season!
The rogue shook that thought out of his head. He had to be careful with such things, while in such tight and inescapable quarters beside such formidable companions. Woe to him if he angered Bellany by making a play for Jule. He winced as he considered the beating this beautiful sorceress might put on him. Morik had never liked wizards of any type, for they could see through his disguises and stealth and could blast him away before he ever got close to them. To Morik's way of thinking, wizards simply didn't fight fair.
Yes, he had to be careful not to evoke any jealousies.
Or perhaps that was it, Morik mused, considering Sheila's obvious disdain. Perhaps the fiery pirate didn't approve of Bellany's companion because she was trapped here as well, and with no one to warm her furs.
A wry smile grew on Morik's face as he watched the rhythmic breathing of sleeping Bellany.
“Ah, Sheila,” he whispered, and he wondered if he would even want to go home after spending some time with the captain, wondered if he might not find an even greater prosperity right here.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Chogurugga stalked about her huge room angrily, throwing furniture and any of the smaller ogres and half-ogres who were too slow to get out of her way.
“Bathunk!” the ogress wailed repeatedly. “Bathunk, where you be?” The ogress's prized son had gone out from the home to lead a raiding party, an expedition that was supposed to last only three or four days, but now nearly a tenday had passed, with no word from the young beast.
“Snow deep,” said a composed Bloog from the side of the room, lying back on a huge hammock—a gift from Sheila Kree—his massive legs hanging over, one on either side.
Chogurugga raced across the room, grabbed the side of the hammock, and dumped Bloog onto the stone floor. “If me learn that you hurt—”
“Bathunk go out,” Bloog protested, keeping his calm, though whether that was because he didn't want to lash out at his beautiful wife or because he didn't want to laugh at her hysteria, the ogress could not tell. “Him come back or him not. Bloog not go out.”
The logic, simple enough for even Chogurugga to grasp, did not calm the ogress, but turned her away from Bloog at least. She rushed across the room, wailing for Bathunk.
In truth, her son had been late in returning from raiding parties many times, but this time was different. It wasn't just the fierce storm that had come up. This time, Chogurugga sensed that something was terribly amiss. Disaster had befallen her beloved Bathunk.
He wouldn't be coming home.
The ogress just knew it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Morik grinned widely and pulled a second goblet, another beautiful silver and glass piece, out of the small belt pouch on his right hip, placing it in front of Sheila Kree on the table between them.
Sheila regarded him with an amused expression and a nod, bidding him to continue.
Out of the pouch next came a bottle of Feywine—itself much too big to fit in the small pouch, let alone beside a pair of sizeable goblets.
“What else ye got in yer magical pouch, Morik the Rogue?” Sheila asked suspiciously. “Does Bellany know ye got that magic about ye?”
“Why would it concern her, dear, beautiful Sheila?” Morik asked, pouring a generous amount of the expensive liquor into Sheila's cup and a lesser amount into his own. “I am no threat to anyone here. A friend and no enemy.”
Sheila smirked, then brought her goblet up so fast for a big swallow that some wine splashed out the sides of the drinking vessel and across her ruddy face. Hardly caring, the pirate banged the goblet back to the table, then ran an arm across her face.
“Would any enemy e'er say different?” she asked, simply. “Don't know o' many who'd be calling themselfs a foe when they're caught.”
Morik chuckled. “You do not approve of Bellany bringing me here.”
“Have I ever gived ye a different feeling?”
“Nor do you approve of Bellany's interest in my companionship,” Morik dared to say.
When Sheila winced slightly and shifted in her seat, Morik knew he'd hit a nerve. Bolste
red by the thought that Sheila's gruffness toward him might be nothing more than jealousy— and to confident Morik's way of thinking, why should it not be? — the rogue lifted his goblet out toward the pirate leader in toast.
“To a better understanding of each other's worth,” he said, tapping Sheila's cup.
“And a better understanding of each other's desires,” the pirate replied, her smirk even wider.
Morik grinned as well, considering how he might turn this one's fire into some wild pleasures.
He didn't get what he bargained for.
Morik staggered out of Sheila's room a short while later, his head throbbing from the left hook the pirate had leveled his way while still wearing that smirk of hers. Confused by Sheila's violent reaction to his advance—Morik had sidled up to her and gently brushed the back of his hand across her ruddy cheek—the rogue muttered a dozen different curses and stumbled across the way toward Bellany's room. Morik wasn't used to such treatment from the ladies, and his indignation was clear to the sorceress as she opened the door and stood there, blocking the way.
“Making love with a trapped badger?” the grinning Bellany asked.
“That would have been preferable,” Morik replied and tried to enter the room. Bellany, though, kept her arm up before him, blocking the way.
Morik looked at her quizzically. “Surely you are not jealous.”
“You seem to have a fair estimation of your worth to so definitely know that truth,” she replied.
Morik started to respond, but then the insult registered, and he stopped and gave a little salute to the woman.
“Jealous?” Bellany asked skeptically. “Hardly that. I would have thought you'd have bedded Jule Pepper by now, at least. You do surprise me with your taste, though. I didn't think you were Sheila Kree's type, nor she yours.”
“Apparently your suspicions are correct,” the rogue remarked, rubbing his bruised temple. He started ahead again, and this time Bellany let him move past her and into the room. “I suspect you would have had more luck in wooing that one.”
“Took you long enough to figure that one out,” Bellany replied, closing the door as she entered behind the rogue.
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