PROLOGUE
The Year of True Omens (1409 DR)
A LOT COULD BE SAID OF KING BRUENOR BATTLEHAMMER OF MITHRAL Hall, and many titles could be rightfully bestowed upon him: warrior, diplomat, adventurer, and leader among dwarves, men, and even elves. Bruenor had been instrumental in reshaping the Silver Marches into one of the most peaceful and prosperous regions in all Faerûn. Add “visionary” to his title, fittingly, for what other dwarf might have forged a truce with King Obould of the orc kingdom of Many-Arrows? And that truce had held through the death of Obould and the succession to his son, Urlgen, Obould II.
It was truly a remarkable feat, and one that had secured Bruenor’s place in dwarven legend, though many of the dwarves in Mithral Hall still grumbled about dealing with orcs in any way other than war. In truth, Bruenor was often heard second-guessing himself on the matter, year in and year out. However, in the end, the simple fact remained that not only had King Bruenor reclaimed Mithral Hall for his stout clan, but through his wisdom, he had changed the face of the North.
But of all the titles Bruenor Battlehammer could claim as earned, the ones that had always sat most comfortably on his strong shoulders were those of father and friend. Of the latter, Bruenor knew no peer, and all who called him friend knew without doubt that the dwarf king would gladly throw himself in front of a volley of arrows or a charging umber hulk, without hesitation, without regret, in the service of friendship. But of the former.…
Bruenor had never wed, never sired children of his own, but had come to claim two humans as his adoptive children.
Two children since lost to him.
“I tried me best,” the dwarf said to Drizzt Do’Urden, the unlikely drow advisor to the throne of Mithral Hall—on those increasingly rare occasions when Drizzt was actually present in Mithral Hall. “I teached them as me father teached me.”
“No one could ever say different,” Drizzt assured him.
The drow rested back in a comfortable chair near the hearth in a small side room of Bruenor’s chambers, and took a long look at his oldest friend. Bruenor’s great beard was less red, even less orange, as more gray wound among the fiery locks, and his shaggy scalp had receded just a bit. On most days, though, the fire in his gray eyes sparkled as intensely as it had those decades before on the slopes of Kelvin’s Cairn in Icewind Dale.
But not that day, and understandably so.
The melancholy so plain in his eyes was not reflected in the dwarf’s movements, though. He moved swiftly and surely, rocking in his chair and hopping to his feet to grab another log, which he pitched perfectly onto the fire. It crackled and smoldered in protest and failed to erupt in flames.
“Damn wet wood,” the dwarf grumbled. He stomped on the foot-bellows he had built into the hearth, sending a long, steady stream of air rushing across the coals and low-burning logs. He worked diligently at the fire for a long while, adjusting the logs, pumping the bellows, and Drizzt thought the display fitting for Bruenor. For that was how the dwarf did everything, from holding strong the tentative peace with Many-Arrows to keeping his clan operating in efficient harmony. Everything just right, and so too was the fire, at last, and Bruenor settled back in his chair and picked up his great mug of mead.
The king shook his head, his face a mask of regret. “Should o’ killed that smelly orc.”
Drizzt was all too familiar with the lament that had plagued Bruenor since the day he’d signed the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge.
“No,” the drow replied, less than convincing.
Bruenor scoffed at him, somewhat viciously. “Yerself vowed to kill ’im, elf, and ye let him die o’ old age, didn’t ye?”
“Take care, Bruenor.”
“Ah, but he cleaved yer elf friend in half, now, didn’t he? And his spearmen bringed down yer dear elf lass, and the winged horse she rode.”
Drizzt’s stare reflected both pain and simmering anger, a warning to Bruenor that he was crossing the line here.
“But ye let him live!” Bruenor shouted, and he slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair.
“Aye, and you signed the treaty,” Drizzt said, his face and voice calm. He knew he didn’t need to shout those words for them to have a devastating effect.
Bruenor sighed and dropped his face into his palm.
Drizzt let him stew there for a few moments, but finally could take it no longer. “You’re hardly the only one angered by the fact that Obould lived out his years in comfort,” he said. “No one wanted to kill him more than I.”
“But we didn’t.”
“And we did the right thing.”
“Did we, elf?” Bruenor asked in all seriousness. “Now he’s gone and they’re wantin’ to keep on, but are they really? When’s it goin’ to break? When’re the orcs goin’ to be orcs and start another war?”
Drizzt shrugged, for what answer could he give?
“And there ye go, elf!” Bruenor replied to that shrug. “Ye can’t be knowing and I can’t be knowing, and ye telled me to sign the damned treaty, and I signed the damned treaty … and we can’t be knowin’!”
“But we are ‘knowing’ that many humans and elves and yes, Bruenor, dwarves, got to live out their lives in peace and prosperity because you had the courage to sign that damned treaty. Because you chose not to fight that next war.”
“Bah!” the dwarf snorted, throwing up his hands. “Been stickin’ in me craw since that day. Damned smell o’ orc. And now they’re tradin’ with Silverymoon and Sundabar, and them damned cowards o’ Nesmé! Should o’ killed them all to death in battle, by Clangeddin.”
Drizzt nodded. He didn’t disagree. How much easier his life would be if life in the North became a never-ending fight! In his heart, Drizzt surely agreed.
But in his head, he knew better. With Obould offering peace, Mithral Hall’s intransigence would have pitted Bruenor’s clan alone against Obould’s tens of thousands, a fight they could never have won. But if Obould’s successor decided to break the treaty, the resulting war would pit all the goodly kingdoms of the Silver Marches against Many-Arrows alone.
A cruel grin widened on the drow’s face, but it fast became a grimace as he considered the many orcs who had become, at least somewhat, friends of his over the last … had it been nearly four decades?
“You did the right thing, Bruenor,” he said. “Because you dared to sign that parchment, ten, twenty, fifty thousand lived out their lives that would have been shortened in a bloody war.”
“I cannot do it again,” Bruenor replied, shaking his head. “I got no more, elf. Done all I could be doin’ here, and not to be doin’ it again.”
He dipped his mug in the open cask between the chairs and took a great swallow.
“Ye think he’s still out there?” Bruenor asked through a foamy beard. “In the cold and snows?”
“If he is,” Drizzt replied, “then know that Wulfgar is where he wants to be.”
“Aye, but I’m bettin’ his old bones’re arguing that stubborn head o’ his every step!” Bruenor replied, adding a bit of levity that both needed this day.
Drizzt smiled as the dwarf chortled, but one word of Bruenor’s quip played a different note: old. He considered the year, and while he, being a long-lived drow, had barely aged, physically, if Wulfgar was indeed alive out there on the tundra of Icewind Dale, the barbarian would be greeting his seventieth year.
The reality of that struck Drizzt profoundly.
“Would ye still love her, elf?” Bruenor asked, referring to his other lost child.
Drizzt looked at him as if he’d been slapped, an all-too-familiar flash of anger crossing his once serene features. “I do still love her.”
“If me girl was still with us, I mean,” said Bruenor. “She’d be old now, same as Wulfgar, and many’d say she’d be ugly.”
“Many say that about you, and said it even when you were young,” the drow quipped, deflecting the absurd conversation. It was true enough that Catti-brie would be turning seventy as well, had she not been taken in the Spellplague those twenty-four years before. She would be old for a human, old like Wulfgar, but ugly? Drizzt could never think such a thing of his beloved Catti-brie, for never in his hundred and twelve years of life had the drow seen anyone or anything more beautiful than his wife. The reflection of her in Drizzt’s lavender eyes could hold no imperfection, no matter the ravages of time on her human face, no matter the scars of battle, no matter the color of her hair. Catti-brie would forever look to Drizzt as she had when he first came to know he loved her, on a long-ago journey to the far southern city of Calimport when they had gone to rescue Regis.
Regis. Drizzt winced at the memory of the halfling, another dear friend lost in that time of chaos, when the Ghost King had come to Spirit Soaring, laying low one of the most wondrous structures in the world, the portend of a great darkness that had spread across the breadth of Toril.
The drow had once been advised to live his long life in a series of shorter time spans, to dwell in the immediacy of the humans that surrounded him, then to move on, to find that life, that lust, that love, again. It was good advice, he knew in his heart, but in the quarter of a century since he’d lost Catti-brie, he had come to understand that sometimes advice was easier to hear than it was to embrace.
“She’s still with us,” Bruenor corrected himself a short while later. He drained his mug and threw it into the hearth, where it shattered into a thousand shards. “Just that damn Jarlaxle thinking like a drow and taking his time, as if the years mean nothing to him.”
Drizzt started to answer, reflexively moving to calm his friend, but he bit back the response and just stared into the flames. Both he and Bruenor had taxed, had begged Jarlaxle, that most worldly of dark elves, to find Catti-brie and Regis—to find their spirits, at least, for they had watched the spirits of their lost loved ones ride a ghostly unicorn through the stone walls of Mithral Hall on that fateful morning. The goddess Mielikki had taken the pair, Drizzt believed, but surely she could not be so cruel as to keep them. But perhaps even Mielikki could not rob Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead, of his hard-won prize.
Drizzt thought back to that terrible morning, as if it had been only the day before. He had awakened to Bruenor’s shouts, after a sweet night of lovemaking with his wife, who had seemed returned to him from the depths of her confusing affliction.
And there, that terrible morning, she lay beside him, cold to his touch.
“Break the truce,” Drizzt muttered, thinking of the new king of Many-Arrows, an orc not nearly as intelligent and far-seeing as his father.
Drizzt’s hand reflexively went to his hip, though he wasn’t wearing his scimitars. He wanted to feel the weight of those deadly blades in his grip once more. The thought of battle, of the stench of death, even of his own death, didn’t trouble him. Not that morning. Not with images of Catti-brie and Regis floating all around him, taunting him in his helplessness.
