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  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.

  But to this day, Regis and the dwarves were the only ones in the area who considered the drow a friend. “I do not know why I care,” Drizzt answered honestly. His eyes turned back to his ancient homeland, where loyalty was merely a device to gain an advantage over a common foe. “Perhaps I care because I strive to be different from my people,” he said, as much to himself as to Bruenor. “Perhaps I care because I am different from my people. I may be more akin to the races of the surface…that is my hope at least. I care because I have to care about something. You are not so different, Bruenor Battlehammer. We care lest our own lives be empty.”

  Bruenor cocked a curious eye.

  “You can deny your feelings for the people of Ten-Towns to me, but not to yourself.”

  “Bah!” Bruenor snorted. “Sure that I care for them! My folk need the trade!”

  “Stubborn,” Drizzt mumbled, smiling knowingly. “And Catti-brie?” he pressed. “What of the human girl who was orphaned in the raid those years ago on Termalaine? The waif that you took in and raised as your own child.” Bruenor was glad that the cover of night offered some protection from his revealing blush. “She lives with you still, though even you would have to admit that she is able to go back to her own kind. Might it be, perhaps, that you care for her, gruff dwarf?”

  “Aw, shut yer mouth,” Bruenor grumbled. “She’s a servin’ wench and makes my life a bit easier, but don’t ye go gettin’ sappy about her!”

  “Stubborn,” Drizzt reiterated more loudly this time. He had one more card to play in this discussion. “What of myself, then? Dwarves are not overly fond of the light elves, let alone the drow. How do you justify the friendship you have shown me? I have nothing to offer you in return but my own friendship. Why do you care?”

  “Ye bring me news when…” Bruenor stopped short, aware that Drizzt had cornered him.

  But the drow didn’t press the issue any further.

  So the friends watched in silence as the lights of Bryn Shander went down, one by one. Despite his outward callousness, Bruenor realized how true some of the drow’s accusations had rung; he had come to care for the people who had settled on the banks of the three lakes.

  “What do ye mean to do then?” the dwarf asked at length.

  “I mean to warn them,” Drizzt replied. “You underestimate your neighbors, Bruenor. They’re made of tougher stuff than you believe.”

  “Agreed,” said the dwarf, “but my questions are of their character. Every day we see fightin’ on the lakes, an’ always over the damned fish. The people cling to their own towns an’ goblins take the others, for all they care! Now they’ve to show me an’ mine that they’ve the will to fight together!”

  Drizzt had to admit the truth of Bruenor’s observations. The fishermen had grown more competitive over the last couple of years as the knucklehead trout took to the deeper waters of the lakes and became harder to catch. Cooperation among the towns was at a low point as each town tried to gain an economic advantage over the rival towns on its lake.

  “There is a council in Bryn Shander in two days,” Drizzt continued. “I believe that we still have some time before the barbarians come. Though I fear for any delays, I do not believe that we would be able to bring the spokesmen together any sooner. It will take me that long to properly instruct Regis on the course of action that he must take with his peers, for he must carry the tidings of the coming invasion.”

  “Rumblebelly?” snorted Bruenor, using the name he had tagged on Regis for the halfling’s insatiable appetite. “He sits on the council for no better reason than t’ keep his stomach well-stocked! They’ll hear ‘im less than they’d hear yerself, elf.”

  “You underestimate the halfling, moreso even than you underestimate the people of Ten-Towns,” answered Drizzt. “Remember always that he carries the stone.”

  “Bah! A fine-cut gem, but no more!” Bruenor insisted. “I’ve seen it meself, an’ it holds no spell on me.”

  “The magic is too subtle for the eyes of a dwarf, and perhaps not strong enough to penetrate your thick skull,” laughed Drizzt. “But it is there—I see it clearly and know the legend of such a stone. Regis may be able to influence the council more than you would believe—and certainly more than I could. Let us hope so, for you know as well as I that some of the spokesmen might be reluctant to pursue any plan of unity, whether in their arrogant independence, or in their belief that a barbarian raid upon some of their less protected rivals might actually help their own selfish ambitions. Bryn Shander remains the key, but the principle city will only be spurred to action if the major fishing towns, Targos in particular, join in.”

  “Ye know that Easthaven’ll help,” said Bruenor. “They’re ever ones for bringing all o’ the towns together.”

  “And Lonelywood, too, with Regis speaking for them. But Kemp of Targos surely believes that his walled city is powerful enough to stand alone, whereas its rival, Termalaine, would be hardpressed to hold back the horde.”

  “He’s not likely to join anythin’ that includes Termalaine. An’ yer in for more trouble then, drow, for without Kemp ye’ll never get Konig and Dineval to shut up!”

  “But that is where Regis comes in,” Drizzt explained. “The ruby he possesses can do wondrous things, I assure you.”

  “Again ye speak of the power o’ the stone,” grumbled Bruenor. “But Rumblebelly claims that his master o’ old had twelve o’ the things,” he reasoned. “Mighty magics don’t come in dozens!”

  “Regis said that his master had twelve similar stones,” Drizzt corrected. “In truth, the halfling had no way of knowing if all twelve, or any of the others, were magical.”

  “Then why would the man have given the only one o’ power to Rumblebelly?”

  Drizzt left the question unanswered, but his silence soon led Bruenor to the same inescapable conclusion. Regis had a way of collecting things that didn’t belong to him, and though the halfling had explained the stone as a gift…

  6. Bryn Shander

  Bryn Shander was unlike any of the other communities of Ten-Towns. Its proud pennant flew high from the top of a hill in the middle of the dry tundra between the three lakes, just south of the southern tip of the dwarven valley
. No ships flew the flags of this city, and it had no docks on any of the lakes, yet there was little argument that it was not only the geographical hub of the region but the center of activity as well.

  This was where the major merchant caravans from Luskan put in, where the dwarves came to trade, and where the vast majority of craftsman, scrimshanders, and scrimshaw evaluators, were housed. Proximity to Bryn Shander was second only to the quantity of fish hooked in determining the success and size of the fishing towns. Thus, Termalaine and Targos on the southeastern banks of Maer Dualdon, and Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval on the western shores of Lac Dinneshere, four towns less than a day’s journey from the principle city, were the dominant towns on the lakes.

  High walls surrounded Bryn Shander, as much protection from the biting wind as from invading goblins or barbarians. Inside, the buildings were similar to those of the other towns: low, wooden structures, except that in Bryn Shander they were more tightly packed together and often subdivided to house several families. Congested as it was, though, there was a measure of comfort and security in the city, the largest taste of civilization a person could find for four hundred long and desolate miles.

  Regis always enjoyed the sounds and smells that greeted him when he walked through the iron-bound wooden gates on the northern wall of the principle city. Though on a smaller scale than the great cities of the south, the bustle and shouts of Bryn Shander’s open markets and plentiful street vendors reminded him of his days back in Calimport. And, as in Calimport, the people of Bryn Shander’s streets were a cross-section of every heritage that the Realms had to offer. Tall, dark-skinned desert folk mingled among fair-skinned travelers from the Moonshaes. The loud boasts of swarthy southerners and robust mountain men trading fanciful tales of love and battle in one of the many taverns echoed on nearly every street corner.

  And Regis took it all in, for though the location was changed, the noise remained the same. If he closed his eyes as he skipped along down one of the narrow streets he could almost recapture the zest for life that he had known those years before in Calimport.

  This time, though, the halfling’s business was so grave that it dampened even his ever-lifted spirits. He had been horrified at the drow’s grim news and was nervous about being the messenger who would deliver it to the council.

  Away from the noisy market section of the city, Regis passed the palatial home of Cassius, the spokesman of Bryn Shander. This was the largest and most luxurious building in all of Ten-Towns, with a columned front and bas-relief artwork adorning all of its walls. It had originally been built for the meetings of the ten spokesmen, but as interest in the councils had died away, Cassius, skilled in diplomacy and not above using strong-arm tactics, had appropriated the palace as his official residence and moved the council hall to a vacant warehouse tucked away in a remote corner of the city. Several of the other spokesmen had complained about the change, but though the fishing towns could often exert some influence on the principle city in matters of public concern, they had little recourse in an issue as trivial to the general populace as this. Cassius understood his city’s position well and knew how to keep most of the other communities under his thumb. The militia of Bryn Shander could defeat the combined forces of any five of the other nine towns combined, and Cassius’s officers held a monopoly on connections to the necessary marketplace in the south. The other spokesmen might grumble about the change in the meeting place, but their dependence on the principle city would prevent them from taking any actions against Cassius.

  Regis was the last to enter the small hall. He looked around at the nine men who had gathered at the table and realized how out of place he truly was. He had been elected spokesman because nobody else in Lonelywood cared enough to want to sit on the council, but his peers had attained their positions through valorous and heroic deeds. They were the leaders of their communities, the men who had organized the structure and defenses of the towns. Each of these spokesmen had seen a score of battles and more, for goblin and barbarian raiders descended upon Ten-Towns more often than sunny days. It was a simple rule of life in Icewind Dale that if you couldn’t fight, you couldn’t survive, and the spokesmen of the council were some of the most proficient fighters in all of Ten-Towns.

  Regis had never been intimidated by the spokesmen before because normally he had nothing to say at council. Lonelywood, a secluded town hidden away in a small, thick wood of fir trees, asked for nothing from anyone. And with an insignificant fishing fleet, the other three towns it shared Maer Dualdon with imposed no demands upon it. Regis never offered an opinion unless pressed and had been careful always to cast his vote on an issue in the way of the general consensus. And if the council was split on an issue, Regis simply followed the lead of Cassius. In Ten-Towns, one couldn’t go wrong by following Bryn Shander.

  This day, though, Regis found that he was intimidated by the council. The grim news that he bore would make him vulnerable to their bullying tactics and often angry reprisals. He focused his attention on the two most powerful spokesmen, Cassius of Bryn Shander and Kemp of Targos, as they sat at the head of the rectangular table and chatted. Kemp looked the part of rugged frontiersman: not too tall but barrel-chested, with gnarled and knotted arms, and a stern demeanor that frightened friend and foe alike.

  Cassius, though, hardly seemed a warrior. He was small of frame, with neatly trimmed gray hair and a face that never showed a hint of beard stubble. His big, bright blue eyes forever seemed locked into an inner contentment. But anyone who had ever seen the spokesman from Bryn Shander raise a sword in battle or maneuver his charges on the field had no doubts concerning his fighting prowess or his bravery. Regis truly liked the man, yet he was always careful not to fall into a situation that left him vulnerable. Cassius had earned a reputation for getting what he wanted at another’s expense.

  “Come to order,” Cassius commanded, rapping his gavel on the table. The host spokesman always opened the meeting with the Formalities of Order, readings of titles and official proposals that had originally been intended to give the council an aura of importance, impressing especially the ruffians that sometimes showed up to speak for the more remote communities. But now, with the degeneration of the council as a whole, the Formalitites of Order served only to delay the end of the meeting, to the regret of all ten spokesmen. Consequently, the Formalities were pared down more and more each time the group gathered, and there had even been talk of eliminating them altogether.

  When the list had finally been completed, Cassius turned to the important issues. “The first item on the agenda,” he said, hardly glancing at the notes that were laid out before him, “concerns the territorial dispute between the sister cities, Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, on Lac Dinneshere. I see that Dorim Lugar of Caer-Konig has brought the documents that he promised at the last meeting, so I turn the floor over to him. Spokesman Lugar.”

  Dorim Lugar, a gaunt, dark-complected man whose eyes never seemed to stop darting about nervously, nearly leaped out of his chair when he was introduced.

  “I have in my hand,” he yelled, his upraised fist closed about an old parchment, “the original agreement between Caer-Konig and Caer-Dineval, signed by the leaders of each town,” he shot an accusing finger in the direction of the spokesman from Caer-Dineval, “including your own signature, Jensin Brent!”

  “An agreement signed during a time of friendship and in the spirit of good will,” retorted Jensin Brent, a younger, golden-haired man with an innocent face that often gave him an advantage over people who judged him naive. “Unroll the parchment, Spokesman Lugar, and let the council view it. They shall see that it makes no provisions whatsoever for Easthaven.” He looked around at the other spokesmen. “Easthaven could hardly be called even a hamlet when the agreement to divide the lake in half was signed,” he explained, and not for the first time. “They had not a single boat to put in the water.”

  “Fellow spokesmen!” Dorim Lugar yelled, jolting some of them from the lethargy that had alr
eady begun to creep in. This same debate had dominated the last four councils with no ground gained by either side. The issue held little importance or interest for any but the two spokesmen and the spokesman from Easthaven.

  “Surely Caer-Konig cannot be blamed for the rise of Easthaven,” pleaded Dorim Lugar. “Who could have foreseen the Eastway?” he asked, referring to the straight and smooth road that Easthaven had constructed to Bryn Shander. It was an ingenious move and proved a boon to the small town on the southeastern corner of Lac Dinneshere. Combining the appeal of a remote community with easy access to Bryn Shander had made Easthaven the fastest growing community in all of Ten-Towns, with a fishing fleet that had swelled to nearly rival the boats of Caer-Dineval.

  “Who indeed?” retorted Jensin Brent, now a bit of fluster showing through his calm facade. “It is obvious that Easthaven’s growth has put Caer-Dineval in stiff competition for the southern waters of the lake, while Caer-Konig sails freely in the northern half. Yet Caer-Konig has flatly refused to renegotiate the original terms to compensate for the imbalance! We cannot prosper under such conditions!”

  Regis knew that he had to act before the argument between Brent and Lugar got out of control. Two previous meetings had been adjourned because of their volatile debates, and Regis couldn’t let this council disintegrate before he had told them of the impending barbarian attack.

  He hesitated, having to admit to himself once again that he had no options and could not back away from this urgent mission; his haven would be destroyed if he said nothing. Although Drizzt had reassured him of the power he possessed, he retained his doubts about the true magic of the stone. Yet due to his own insecurity, a trait common among little folk, Regis found himself blindly trusting in Drizzt’s judgment. The drow was possibly the most knowledgeable person he had ever known, with a list of experiences far beyond the tales that Regis could tell. Now was the time for action, and the halfling was determined to give the drow’s plan a try.