Bruenor walked up the rocky slope with measured steps, his boots finding the same footholds he always used when he ascended to the high point of the southern end of the dwarven valley. To the people of Ten-Towns, who often saw the dwarf standing meditatively on the perch, this high column of stones in the rocky ridge that lined the valley had come to be known as Bruenor's Climb. Just below the dwarf, to the west, were the lights of Termalaine, and beyond them the dark waters of Maer Dualdon, spotted occasionally by the running lights of a fishing boat whose resolute crew stubbornly refused to come ashore until they had landed a knucklehead.
The dwarf was well above the tundra floor and the lowest of the countless stars that sparkled the night. The celestial dome seemed polished by the chill breeze that had blown since sunset, and Bruenor felt as though he had escaped the bonds of earth.
In this place he found his dreams, and ever they took him back to his ancient home. Mithril Hall, home of his fathers and their's before them, where rivers of the shining metal ran rich and deep and the hammers of dwarven smiths rang out in praise to Moradin and Dumathoin. Bruenor was merely an unbearded boy when his people had delved too deep into the bowels of the world and had been driven out by the dark things in dark holes. He was now the eldest surviving member of his small clan and the only one among them who had witnessed the treasures of Mithril Hall.
They had made their home in the rocky valley between the two northernmost of the three lakes long before any humans, other than the barbarians, had come to Icewind Dale. They were a poor remnant of what had once been a thriving dwarven society, a band of refugees beaten and broken by the loss of their homeland and heritage. They continued to dwindle in numbers, their elders dying as much of sadness as old age. Though the mining under the fields of the region was good, the dwarves seemed destined to fade away into oblivion.
When Ten-Towns had sprung up, though, the luck of the dwarves rose considerably. Their valley was just north of Bryn Shander, as close to the principle city as any of the fishing villages, and the humans, often warring with each other and fighting off invaders, were happy to trade for the marvelous armor and weapons that the dwarves forged.
But even with the betterment of their lives, Bruenor, particularly, longed to recover the ancient glory of his ancestors. He viewed the arrival of Ten-Towns as a temporary stay from a problem that would not be resolved until Mithril Hall had been recovered and restored.
"A cold night for so high a perch, good friend," came a call from behind.
The dwarf turned around to face Drizzt Do'Urden, though he realized that the drow would be invisible against the black backdrop of Kelvin's Cairn. From this vantage point, the mountain was the only silhouette that broke the featureless line of the northern horizon. It had been so named because it resembled a mound of purposely piled boulders; barbarian legend claimed that it truly served as a grave. Certainly the valley where the dwarves now made their home did not resemble any natural landmark. In every direction the tundra rolled on, flat and earthen. But the valley had only sparse patches of dirt sprinkled in among broken boulders and walls of solid stone. It, and the mountain on its northern border, were the only features in all of Icewind Dale with any mentionable quantities of rock, as if they had been misplaced by some god in the earliest days of creation.
Drizzt noted the glazed look of his friend's eyes. "You seek the sights that only your memory can see," he said, well aware of the dwarf's obsession with his ancient homeland.
"A sight I'll see again!" Bruenor insisted. "We'll get there, elf."
"We do not even know the way."
"Roads can be found," said Bruenor. "But not until ye look for them."
"Someday, my friend," Drizzt humored. In the few years that he and Bruenor had been friends, the dwarf had constantly badgered Drizzt about accompanying him on his adventure to find Mithril Hall. Drizzt thought the idea foolish, for no one that he had ever spoken with had even a clue as to the location of the ancient dwarven home, and Bruenor could only remember disjointed images of the silvery halls. Still, the drow was sensitive to his friend's deepest desire, and he always answered Bruenor's pleas with the promise of "someday."
"We have more urgent business at the moment," Drizzt reminded Bruenor. Earlier that day, in a meeting in the dwarven halls, the drow had detailed his findings to the dwarves.
"Yer sure they'll be comin' then?" Bruenor asked now.
"Their charge will shake the stones of Kelvin's Cairn," Drizzt replied as he left the darkness of the mountain's silhouette and joined his friend. "And if Ten-Towns does not stand united against them, the people are doomed."
Bruenor settled into a crouch and turned his eyes to the south, toward the distant lights of Bryn Shander. "They'll not, the stubborn fools," he muttered.
"They might, if your people went to them."
"No," growled the dwarf. "We'll fight beside them if they choose to stand together, an' pity then to the barbarians! Go to them, if ye wish, an' good luck to ye, but nothing o' the dwarves. Let us see what grit an' guts the fisherfolk can muster."
Drizzt smiled at the irony of Bruenor's refusal. Both of them knew well that the drow was not trusted, not even openly welcomed, in any of the towns other than Lonelywood, where their friend Regis was spokesman. Bruenor marked the drow's look, and it pained him as it pained Drizzt, though the elf stoically pretended otherwise.
"They owe ye more than they'll ever know," Bruenor stated flatly, turning a sympathetic eye on his friend.
"They owe me nothing."
Bruenor shook his head. "Why do ye care?" he growled. "Ever yer watchin' over the folk that show ye no good will. What do ye owe to them?"
Drizzt shrugged, hard-pressed to find an answer. Bruenor was right. When the drow had first come to this land, the only one who had shown him any friendship at all was Regis. He often escorted and protected the halfling through the dangerous first legs of the journey from Lonelywood, around the open tundra north of Maer Dualdon and down toward Bryn Shander, when Regis went to the principle city for business or council meetings. They had actually met on one such trek: Regis tried to flee from Drizzt because he'd heard terrible rumors about him. Luckily for both of them, Regis was a halfling who was usually able to keep an open mind about people and make his own judgements concerning their character. It wasn't long before the two were fast friends.