When Sheila winced slightly and shifted in her seat, Morik knew he'd hit a nerve. Bolstered 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.
Morik fell upon a bed of soft furs and rolled to cast a glance at the grinning sorceress. “A simple word of warning?” he asked. “You could not have done that for me beforehand?”
“And miss the fun?”
“You did not miss much,” said Morik, and he held his arms out toward her.
“Do you need your wound massaged?” Bellany asked, not moving. “Or your pride?”
Morik considered the question for just a moment. “Both,” he admitted, and, her smile widening even more, the sorceress approached.
“This is the last time I will warn you,” she said, slipping onto the bed beside him. “Tangle with Sheila Kree, and she will kill you. If you are lucky, I mean. If not, shell likely tell Chogurugga that you have amorous designs over her.”
“The ogress?” asked a horrified Morik.
“And if your coupling with that one does not kill you, then Bloog surely will.”
Bellany edged in closer, trying to kiss the man, but Morik turned away, any thoughts of passion suddenly flown.
“Chogurugga,” he said, and a shudder coursed his spine.
Chapter 22 ONE STEP AT A TIME
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.