Regis paused in his carving and let the drow’s words sink in. “A lot of years, a lot of memories.”
“And most of them grand.”
“And even the bad ones, like Akar Kessell and the Crystal Shard, worth retelling,” Regis agreed. “So when we’re all gone, even Bruenor dead of old age, will you return to Icewind Dale?”
The question had Drizzt blinking and leaning back from the fire, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and alarm. “It’s not something I prefer to think about,” he replied.
“I’m asking you to do that very thing.”
Drizzt shrugged and seemed lost, seemed almost as if he were drowning. “With all the battles ahead of us, what makes you believe I’ll outlive you all?”
“It’s the way of things, or could well be…elf.”
“And if I’m cut down in battle, and the rest with me, would you return to Icewind Dale?”
“Bruenor would likely bind me to Mithral Hall to serve the next king, or to serve as steward until a king might be found.”
“You’ll not escape that easily, my little friend.”
“But I asked first.”
“But I demand of you an answer before I offer my own.”
Drizzt started to settle in stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest, and Regis blurted out, “Yes!” before he could assume his defiant posture.
“Yes,” the halfling said again. “I would return if I had no duties elsewhere. I cannot think of a better place in all the world to live.”
“You don’t much sound like the Regis who used to button up tight against the winter’s chill and complain at the turn of the first leaf of Lonelywood.”
“My complaining was…”
“Extortion,” Drizzt finished. “A way to ensure that Regis’s hearth was never short of logs, for those around you could not suffer your whining.”
Regis considered the playful insult for a moment, then shrugged in acceptance, not about to disagree. “And the complaints were borne of fear,” he explained. “I couldn’t believe this was my home—I couldn’t appreciate that this was my home. I came here fleeing Pasha Pook and Artemis Entreri, and had no idea I would remain here for so long. In my mind, Icewind Dale was a waypoint and nothing more, a place to set that devilish assassin off my trail.”
He gave a little laugh and shake of his head as he looked back down at the small statue taking shape in his hand. “Somewhere along the way, I came to know Icewind Dale as my home,” he said, his voice growing somber. “I don’t think I understood that until I came back here just now.”
“It might be you’re just weary of the battles and tribulations of Mithral Hall,” said Drizzt, “with Obould so close and Bruenor in constant worry.”
“Perhaps,” Regis conceded, but he didn’t seem convinced. He looked back up at Drizzt and offered a sincere smile. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad we’re here, we two together.”
“On a cold winter’s night.”
“So be it.”
Drizzt looked at Regis with friendship and admiration, amazed at how much the halfling had grown over the last few years, ever since he had taken a spear in battle several years before. That wound, that near-death experience, had brought a palpable change over Drizzt’s halfling friend. Before that fight on the river, far to the south, Regis had always shied from trouble, and had been very good at fleeing, but from that point on, when he’d recognized, admitted, and was horrified to see that he had become a dangerous burden to his heroic friends, the halfling had faced, met, and conquered every challenge put before him.
“I think it’ll snow tonight,” Regis said, looking up at the lowering and thickening clouds.
“So be it,” Drizzt replied with an infectious grin.
Surprisingly, the wind let up before dawn, and though Regis’s prediction of snow proved accurate, it was not a driving and unpleasant storm. Thick flakes drifted down from above, lazily pirouetting, dodging and darting on their way to the whitened ground.
The companions had barely started on their way when they saw again the smoke of campfires, and as they neared the camp, still before midday, Drizzt recognized the standards and knew that they had indeed found the Tribe of the Elk, Wulfgar’s people.
“Just the Elk?” Regis remarked, and cast a concerned look up at Drizzt at the apparent confirmation of what they had been told in Bryn Shander. When they’d left for Mithral Hall, the barbarians of Icewind Dale had been united, all tribes in one. That seemed not to be the case anymore, both from the small size of the encampment and from the fact of that one, and only one, distinguished banner.
They approached slowly, side by side, hands up, palms out in an unthreatening manner.
Smiles and nods came back at them from the men sitting watch on the perimeter; they were recognized still in that place, and accepted as friends. The vigilant sentries didn’t leave their positions to go over and greet them, but did wave, and motion them through.
And somehow signaled ahead to the people in the camp, Drizzt and Regis realized from the movements of the main area. It was set in the shelter of a shallow dell, so there was no way they had been spotted from within the collection of tents before they’d crested the surrounding hillock, and yet the camp was all astir, with people rushing about excitedly. A large figure, a huge man with corded muscles and wisdom in his seasoned eyes, stood in the center of all the commotion, flanked by warriors and priests.
He wore the headdress of leadership, elf-horned and decorated, and he was well-known to Drizzt and Regis.
But to their surprise, it was not Wulfgar.
“You stopped the wind, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Berkthgar the Bold said in his strong voice. “Your legend is without end.”
Drizzt accepted the compliment with a polite bow. “You are well, Berkthgar, and that gladdens my heart,” the drow said.
“The seasons have been difficult,” the barbarian admitted. “Winter has been the strongest, and the filthy goblins and giants ever-present. We have suffered many losses, but my people have fared best among the tribes.”
Both Regis and Drizzt stiffened at that admission, particularly of the losses, and particularly in light of the fact that it was not Wulfgar standing before them, and that he was nowhere to be seen.
“We survive and we go on,” Berkthgar added. “That is our heritage and our way.”
Drizzt nodded solemnly. He wanted to ask the pressing question, but he held his tongue and let the barbarian continue.
“How fares Bruenor and Mithral Hall?” Berkthgar asked. “I pray to the spirits that you didn’t come to tell me that this foul orc king has won the day.”
“Nay, not tha—” Drizzt started to say, but he bit it off and looked at Berkthgar with curiosity. “How do you know of King Obould and his minions?”
“Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, returned to us with many tales to share.”
“Then where is he?” Regis blurted, unable to contain himself. “Out hunting?”
“None are out hunting.”
“Then where?” the halfling demanded, and such a voice came out of his diminutive form as to startle Berkthgar and all the others, even Drizzt.
“Wulfgar came to us four winters ago, and for three winters, he remained among the people,” Berkthgar replied. “He hunted with the Tribe of the Elk, as he always should have. He shared in our food and our drink. He danced and sang with the people who were once his own, but no more.”
“He tried to take your crown, but you wouldn’t let him!” Regis said, trying futilely to keep any level of accusation out of his voice. He knew he’d failed miserably at that, however, when Drizzt elbowed him in the shoulder.
“Wulfgar never challenged me,” Berkthgar replied. “He had no place to challenge my leadership, and no right.”