“And even Jarlaxle, with resources beyond any we could imagine, found no trail at all,” Drizzt reminded him. “We know not the truth or fancy of this forest called Iruladoon, my friend, and could not have found it in time in any case. You did as your station demanded, through two wars that would have grown to engulf the whole of the Silver Marches had wise King Bruenor not been there to end them. The whole of the North owes you its gratitude. We have seen the world beyond that land we once called home, and it’s a dark place indeed.”
Bruenor considered the words for a few heartbeats then nodded. “Bah!” he snorted, just because. “And I’m for seeing Gauntlgrym afore me old bones surrender to the years.” He indicated some maps on the far side of the floor. “One o’ them, I’m thinking, elf. One o’ them.”
“When’re ye thinking to be on the road?” Thibbledorf Pwent asked, and there was something in his voice that caught Drizzt off guard.
“It has to be soon, very soon,” the drow replied, studying Pwent through every word.
Always before, the battlerager had shown eagerness, a fanatical need, even, to march beside his King Bruenor. On many occasions, particularly their infrequent visits to Luskan, Bruenor had looked for ways to avoid taking Pwent along. The dirty dwarf was always a sight, of course, and always drew attention, and in the pirate-run City of Sails, such notice was not always a welcomed thing.
But there was something else in Pwent’s eye, in his posture, and in the timbre of his voice when he asked the question.
“We’ll be going right this day, then,” said Bruenor and he began rolling a parchment to stuff it back into his oversized pack.
Drizzt nodded and moved to help, but again he watched the hesitating battlerager.
“What do ye know?” Bruenor finally asked Pwent, noticing that the dwarf didn’t move to help with the packing.
“Ah, me king …” Pwent replied, voice full of regret.
“I telled ye not to call me—“Bruenor started to scold him, but Drizzt put his hand on Bruenor’s shoulder.
The drow locked stares with Pwent for a long while, then silently nodded his understanding. “He’s not coming,” Drizzt explained.
“Eh? What’re ye saying?” Bruenor looked at Drizzt with puzzlement, but the drow deflected his gaze to Pwent.
“Ah, me king,” the battlerager said again. “I’m fearin’ that I can’no go. Me old knees.…” He sighed, his face long, like a dog that couldn’t head out on the hunt.
Thibbledorf Pwent wasn’t as old as ancient Bruenor Battlehammer, but the years, and thousands of particularly violent fights, had not been kind to the battlerager. The journey to Icewind Dale had taken a lot out of him, though of course Pwent had never complained. Pwent never complained at all, unless he was being excluded from a fight or an adventure, or told to take a bath.
Bruenor turned his stunned expression back to Drizzt, but the drow just nodded his agreement, for both knew that Thibbledorf Pwent would never have made such a claim unless he knew in his old heart that he simply couldn’t make the journey, that he had reached the end of his adventuring days.
“Bah, but ye’re just a child!” Bruenor said, more to boost the spirits of his friend than to try to change his mind.
“Ah, me king, forgive me,” Pwent said.
Bruenor considered him for a moment, then walked over and crushed Pwent in a great hug. “Ye been the best guard, the best friend an old dwarf could e’er know,” Bruenor said. “Ye been with me through it all, ye been, and how could ye even be thinking that ye’re needin’ me forgiving? I’m the one what’s should be asking! For all yer life—”
“No!” Pwent interrupted. “No! It’s been me joy, me king. It’s been me joy. And this isn’t how it’s supposed to end. Been waiting for that one great fight, that last fight. To die for me king …”
“Better in me own heart that ye live for me, ye dolt,” said Bruenor.
“So you mean to live out your days here in the dale?” Drizzt asked. “With Stokely and his clan?”
“Aye, if they’ll have me.”
“But they’d be fools not to, and Stokely ain’t no fool,” Bruenor assured him. He looked to Drizzt. “We go tomorrow, not today.”
The drow nodded.
“Today, tonight, we drink and talk o’ all the old times,” Bruenor said, looking back to Pwent. “Today, tonight, we toast every sip to Thibbledorf Pwent, the greatest warrior Mithral Hall’s e’er known!”
It may have been a bit of an exaggeration, for Mithral Hall had known many heroes of legend, not the least of whom was King Bruenor himself. But none who had ever battled Pwent would argue that claim, to be sure, what few who’d faced the rage of Thibbledorf Pwent were still around to argue anyway.
They spent all the day and night together, the three old friends, drinking and reminiscing. They talked of reclaiming Mithral Hall, of the coming of the drow, of their adventures on the road, to the dark days of Cadderly’s library, of the coming of Obould and three wars they had suffered and survived. They toasted to Wulfgar and Catti-brie and Regis, old friends lost, and to Nanfoodle and Jessa, new friends lost, and to a life well-lived and battles well-fought.
And most of all, Bruenor lifted his mug in toast to Thibbledorf Pwent, who, alongside Drizzt, had to be counted as his oldest and dearest friend. The old king was almost ashamed as he spoke words of gratitude and friendship, silently berating himself for all the times he had been embarrassed by the Gutbuster’s gruff demeanor and outrageous antics.
Under it all, Bruenor realized, none of that mattered. What mattered was the heart of Thibbledorf Pwent, a heart true and brave. Here was a dwarf who wouldn’t hesitate to leap in front of a ballista spear flying for a friend—any friend, not just his king. Here was a dwarf, Bruenor realized at long last, who truly understood what it was to be a dwarf, what it was to be of Clan Battlehammer.
He hugged his friend again the next morning, long and hard, and there was moisture in the eyes of King Bruenor as he and Drizzt walked out of Stokely Silverstream’s halls. And Pwent stood there at the exit, watching them go and quietly muttering, “Me king,” until they were long out of sight.
“A great dwarf is King Bruenor, eh?” Stokely Silverstream said, coming up to Pwent’s side.
The battlerager looked at him curiously, then widened his eyes in near panic as he feared that he’d just surrendered Bruenor’s identity with his foolish mumbling.
“I knowed from the moment ye arrived,” Stokely assured him. “What with Drizzt beside ye—could it be any but Bruenor himself?”
“Bruenor died many years ago,” Pwent said.
“Aye, and long live King Connerad!” Stokely replied, and he nodded and smiled. “And none need know otherwise, but don’t ye doubt, me new friend, that it does me heart good to know that he’s out there still, fightin’ the Battlehammer fight. Me only hope’s that we’ll see him again, that he’ll come back to Icewind Dale in his last days.”
Stokely put a hand on Pwent’s shoulder then, a shoulder bobbing with sobs.
Chapter 3 - Shades of Gray
AS HE WALKED PAST THE GLASS, HERZGO ALEGNI COULDN’T HELP BUT utter a soft growl. His skin had once been so beautifully red, a shining tribute to his devilish bloodline, but the gray pall of the Shadovar had dulled it. His eyes had escaped that change, though, he noted with some satisfaction. The red irises remained in all their hellish splendor.
Alegni accepted the trade-off, though. The dulling of his skin was a minor price to pay for the extended lifespan, and numerous other benefits his life among the Shadovar offered. And though they shared a xenophobic bias with so many of the other closed-minded races of Faerûn, he had found his own path within the ranks of his adopted people. In less than a decade, Herzgo Alegni had become a battle group leader, and barely a decade after that, he had been given the awesome responsibility of leading the Netherese expedition to Neverwinter Wood, in search of fallen Xinlenal Enclave.
He lingered in front of the mirror, admiring his new black weathercloak, its fabric satiny and shimmering, the interior of its stiff collar the most wondrous hue of bright red, matching the blade of his large sword and so beautifully complementing the long purple hair that flowed around his ramlike horns. The high collar diverted most of his hair so it wouldn’t hang down his back, but rather flow out around his neck and over his muscular chest. He kept his leather vest partially untied, of course, to emphasize the rippling muscles of his massive torso.
Appearance was important, the warrior knew, and Herzgo Alegni had never been one to shy from a mirror, in any case. He was the leader—intimidation worked in his favor, particularly when he planned to rendezvous with Barrabus the Gray. That one, Alegni did not trust. That one, above all others in his charge, he knew would one day try to kill him, and with good reason.
And Barrabus was quite accomplished at the art of murder.
The hard heels of his high black leather boots clicking loudly on the cobblestones, Herzgo Alegni strode from his house full of purpose and full of power that morning. He didn’t even attempt to hide his obvious Netherese affiliation. There was no need to do so in Neverwinter any longer, for Alegni’s expedition had been so successful already that none would dare move against the shades.
The Lucky Drake was the newest building in Neverwinter, set up high on a hill overlooking the city and the thundering surf of the Sword Coast. Surveying the city from the porch of the inn, Alegni was reminded yet again of the vast expansion of Neverwinter in the past few decades, since the fall of Luskan to the pirate captains and the floundering of Port Llast. How many lived within the walls of Neverwinter, and just outside the city proper? Thirty thousand, perhaps?
Despite their numbers, they were an unorganized bunch to be sure, with a feeble militia and a lord more concerned with his evenfeast than with protecting his city. For so long, Lord Hugo Babris had been secure in his position. With wild Luskan to the north, her rival pirates uniformly glad for the expanding buffer city, and mighty Waterdeep to the south, Neverwinter had enjoyed great security of late. No ships bent on attack would dodge the armada of Waterdeep, only to be raided by the many privateers running free along the coast north of that greatest of cities.
All of that had left Neverwinter ill-prepared for the arrival of the Netherese—but then again, could anyone truly be prepared for the fall of darkness?—a weakness Herzgo Alegni had been quick to exploit. And since Neverwinter had not been the target of his mission, that being the forest to the southeast, the tiefling had allowed Hugo Babris the illusion that he was still in control of his city.
Alegni’s gaze drifted down to the wharf, the precinct that had changed the least in the last tumultuous decades. The Sunken Flagon was there—Barrabus had no doubt spent the night at that very inn. Alegni couldn’t help but smile at long-ago memories of that place, back before the Spellplague, when he was a young warrior come to find his treasure and his legacy like so many other confident adventurers. Back then, tieflings had to lurk in the shadows, to hide their proud lineage and heritage. How fortunate, Alegni thought, for in those very shadows he had found something more, something greater, something darker.