With the freezing wind roaring in at him from the right, Wulfgar plodded along, ducking his shoulder and head against the constant icy press. He was on a high pass, and though he didn't like being out in the open, this windblown stretch was the route with by far the least remaining snow. He knew that enemies might spot him from a mile away, a dark spot against the whiteness, but knew he also that unless they were aerial creatures - and ones large enough to buck the wintry blow - they'd never get near to him.
What he was hoping for was that his former companions might spot him. For how else might he find them in this vast, up-and-down landscape, where vision was ever limited by the next mountain peak and where distances were badly distorted? Sometimes the next mountain slope, where individual trees could be picked out, might seem to be a short march, but was in reality miles and miles away, and those with often insurmountable obstacles, a sharp ravine or unclimbable facing, preventing Wulfgar from getting there without a detour that would take days.
How did I ever hope to find them? the barbarian asked himself, and not for the first, or even the hundredth time. He shook his head at his own foolishness in ever walking through Luskan's north gate on that fateful morning, and again at continuing into the mountains after the terrific storm when the south road seemed so much more accessible.
"And would I not be the fool if Drizzt and the others have sought out shelter, a town through which they can spend the winter?" the barbarian asked himself, and he laughed aloud.
Yes, this was about as hopeless as seemed possible, seeking his friends in a wilderness so vast and inhospitable, in conditions so wild that he might pass within a few yards of them without ever noticing them. But still, when he considered it in context, the barbarian realized he was not foolish, despite the odds, that he had done what he needed to do.
Wulfgar paused from that high vantage point and looked all around him at the valleys, at the peak looming before him, and at one expanse of fir trees, a dark green splash against the white-sided mountain, down to the right.
He decided he would go there, under the cover of those trees, making his way to the west until he came to the main mountain pass that would take him back into Icewind Dale. If he found his former companions along the way, then all the better. If not, he would continue along to Ten-Towns and stay there until Drizzt and the others came to him, or until the spring, if they did not arrive, when he could sign on with a caravan heading back to Waterdeep.
Wulfgar shielded his eyes from the glare and the blowing snow and picked his path. He'd have to continue across the open facing to the larger mountain, then make his way down its steep western side. At least there were trees along that slope, against which he could lean his weight and slow his descent. If he tried to go down from this barren area and got into a slide, he'd tumble a long way indeed.
Wulfgar put his head down again and plowed on, leaning into the wind.
That lean cost him when he stepped upon one stone, which sloped down to the right much more than it appeared. His furry boot found little traction on the icy surface, and the overbalanced Wulfgar couldn't compensate quickly enough to belay the skid. Out he went, feet first, to land hard on his rump. He was sliding, his arms flailing wildly in an effort to find a hold.
He let go of the large, unwieldy bardiche, tossing the weapon a bit to the side so it didn't tumble down onto his head behind him. He couldn't slow and was soon bouncing more than sliding, going into a headlong roll and clipping one large stone that turned him over sideways. The straps on his pack fell loose, one untying, the other tearing free. He left it behind, its flap opening and a line of his supplies spilling out behind it as it slid.
Wulfgar continued his twisting, bouncing descent and left the pack, the bardiche, and the top of the pass, far behind.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
"He's hurt!" Captain Deudermont said, his voice rising with anxiety as he watched the barbarian's long and brutal tumble.
He and Robillard were in his private quarters aboard Sea Sprite, staring into a bowl of enchanted water the wizard was using to scrye out the wandering barbarian. Robillard was not fond of such divination spells, nor was he very proficient with them, but he had secretly placed a magical pin under the folds of Wulfgar's silver wolf-furred clothing. That pin, attuned to the bowl, allowed even Robillard, whose prowess was in evocation and not divination, to catch a glimpse of the distant man.
"Oaf," Robillard quietly remarked.
They watched silently, Deudermont chewing his lip, as Wulfgar climbed to his feet at the bottom of the long slide. The barbarian leaned over to one side, favoring an injured shoulder. As he walked about, obviously trying to sort out the best path back to his equipment, the pair noted a pronounced limp.
"He'll not make it back up without aid," Deudermont said.
"Oaf," Robillard said again.
"Look at him!" the captain cried. "He could have turned south, as you predicted, but he did not. No, he went out to the north and into the frozen mountains, a place where few would travel, even in the summer and even in a group, and fewer still would dare try alone."
"That is the way of nature," Robillard quipped. "Those who would try alone likely have and thus are all dead. Fools have a way of weeding themselves out of the bloodlines."
"You wanted him to go north," the captain pointedly reminded.
"You said as much, and many times. And not so that he would fall and die. You insisted that if Wulfgar was a man deserving of such friends as Drizzt and Catti-brie, that he would go in search of them, no matter the odds.
"Look now, my curmudgeonly friend," Deudermont stated, waving his arm out toward the water bowl, to the image of stubborn Wulfgar.
Obviously in pain but just grimacing it away, the man was scrambling inch by inch to scale back up the mountainside. The barbarian didn't stop and cry out in rage, didn't punch his fist into the air. He just picked his path and clawed at it without complaint.
Deudermont eyed Robillard as intently as the wizard was then eyeing the scrying bowl. Finally, Robillard looked up. "Perhaps there is more to this Wulfgar than I believed," the wizard admitted.
"Are we to let him die out there, alone and cold?"
Robillard sighed, then growled and rubbed his hands forcefully across his face, so that his skinny features glowed bright red. "He has been nothing but trouble since the day he arrived on Waterdeep's long dock to speak with you!" Robillard snarled, and he shook his head. "Nay, even before that, in Luskan, when he tried to kill - "
"He did not!" Deudermont insisted, angry that Robillard had reopened that old wound. "That was neither Wulfgar nor the little one named Morik."
"So you say."
"He suffers hardships without complaint," the captain went on, again directing the wizard's eyes to the image in the bowl. "Though I hardly think Wulfgar considers such a storm as this even a hardship after the torments he likely faced at the hands of the demon Errtu."
"Then there is no problem here."
"But what now?" the captain pressed. "Wulfgar will never find his friends while wandering aimlessly through the wintry mountains."
Deudermont could tell by the ensuing sigh that Robillard understood him completely.
"We spotted a pirate just yesterday," the wizard remarked, a verbal squirm if Deudermont had ever heard one. "Likely we will do battle in the morning. You can not afford - "
"If we see the pirate again and you have not returned, or if you are not yet prepared for the fight, then we will shadow her. As we can outrun any ship when we are in pursuit, so we can when we are in retreat."