“Respect, good dwarf,” said one of the men carrying Regis. “In single combat Spokesman Regis of Lonelywood slew the traitor that brought the horde upon us, though he was wickedly injured in the battle!”

Bruenor snorted in amusement as the procession passed. “There’s more to that tale than what’s been told, I’ll wager!” he chuckled to his equally amused companions. “Or I’m a bearded gnome!”

Kemp of Targos and one of his lieutenants were the first to come upon the fallen form of Drizzt Do’Urden. Kemp prodded the dark elf with the toe of his blood-stained boot, drawing a semiconscious groan in response.

“He lives,” Kemp said to his lieutenant with an amused smile. “A pity.” He kicked the injured drow again, this time with more enthusiasm. The other man laughed in approval and lifted his own foot to join in the fun.

Suddenly, a mailed fist slammed into Kemp’s kidney with enough force to carry the spokesman over Drizzt and send him bouncing down the long decline of the hill. His lieutenant whirled around, conveniently ducking low to receive Bruenor’s second swing square in the face.

“One for yerself, too!” the enraged dwarf growled as he felt the man’s nose shatter under his blow.

Cassius of Bryn Shander, viewing the incident from higher up on the hill, screamed in anger and rushed down the slope toward Bruenor. “You should be taught some diplomacy!” he scolded.

“Stand where y’ are, son of a swamp pig!” was Bruenor’s threatening response. “Ye owe the drow yer stinkin’ lives and homes,” he roared to all around who could hear him, “and ye treat him as vermin!”

“‘Ware your words, dwarf!” retorted Cassius, tentatively grabbing at his sword hilt. The dwarves formed a line around their leader, and Cassius’s men gathered around him.

Then a third voice sounded clearly. “‘Ware your own, Cassius,” warned Agorwal of Termalaine. “I would have done the same thing to Kemp if I was possessed of the courage of the dwarf!” He pointed to the north. “The sky is clear,” he yelled. “Yet were it not for the drow, it would be filled with the smoke of burning Termalaine!” The spokesman from Termalaine and his companions moved over to join Bruenor’s line. Two of the men gently lifted Drizzt from the ground.

“Fear not for your friend, valiant dwarf,” said Agorwal. “He will be well tended in my city. Never again shall I, or my fellow men of Termalaine, prejudge him by the color of his skin and the reputation of his kin!”

Cassius was outraged. “Remove your soldiers from the grounds of Bryn Shander!” he screamed at Agorwal, but it was an empty threat, for the men of Termalaine were already departing.

Satisfied that the drow was in safe hands, Bruenor and his clan moved on to search the rest of the battleground.

“I’ll not forget this!” Kemp yelled at him from far down the hill.

Bruenor spat at the spokesman from Targos and continued on unshaken.

And so it went that the alliance of the people of Ten-Towns lasted only as long as their common enemy.

All along the hill, the fishermen of Ten-Towns moved among their fallen enemies, looting the barbarians of what small wealth they possessed and putting the sword to the unfortunate ones who were not quite dead.

Yet amid the carnage of the bloody scene, a finger of mercy was to be found. A man from Good Mead rolled the limp form of an unconscious young barbarian over onto its back, preparing to finish the job with his dagger. Bruenor came upon them then and, recognizing the youth as the standard bearer who had dented his helmet, stayed the fisherman’s thrust. “Don’t kill ‘im. He’s nothing but a boy, and he can’t have known truly what he an’ his people did.”

“Bah,” huffed the fisherman. “What mercy would these dogs have shown to our children, I ask you? He’s half in the grave anyway.”

“Still I ask ye to let him be!” Bruenor growled, his axe bouncing impatiently against his shoulder. “In fact, I insist!”

The fisherman returned the dwarf’s scowl, but he had witnessed Bruenor’s proficiency in battle and thought the better of pushing him too far. With a disgusted sigh, he headed off around the hill to find less protected victims.

The boy stirred on the grass and moaned.

“So ye’ve a bit of life left in ye yet,” said Bruenor. He knelt beside the lad’s head and lifted it by the hair to meet his eyes. “Hear me well, boy. I saved yer life here—why, I’m not quite knowin’—but don’t ye think ye’ve been pardoned by the people of Ten-Towns. I want ye to see the misery yer people have brung. Maybe killing is in yer blood, and if it is, then let the fisherman’s blade end ye here and now! But I’m feelin’ there’s more to ye, and ye’ll have the time to show me right.

“Ye’re to serve me and me people in our mines for five years and a day to prove yourself worthy of life and freedom.”

Bruenor saw that the youth had slumped back into unconsciousness. “Never mind,” he muttered. “Ye’ll hear me well before all’s done, be sure o’ that!” He moved to drop the head back to the grass, but laid it down gently instead.

Onlookers to the spectacle of the gruff dwarf showing kindness to the barbarian youth were indeed startled, but none could guess the implications of what they had witnessed. Bruenor himself, for all of his assumptions of this barbarian’s character, could not have foreseen that this boy, Wulfgar, would grow into the man who would reshape this harsh region of the tundra.

Far to the south, in a wide pass among the towering peaks of the Spine of the World, Akar Kessell languished in the soft life that Crenshinibon had provided for him. His goblin slaves had captured yet another female from a merchant caravan for him to play with, but now something else had caught his eye. Smoke, rising into the empty sky from the direction of Ten-Towns.

“Barbarians,” Kessell guessed. He had heard rumors that the tribes were gathering when he and the wizards from Luskan had been visiting Easthaven. But it didn’t matter to him, and why should it? He had all that he needed right here in Cryshal-Tirith and had no desire to travel anywhere else.

No desires that were wrought of his own will.

Crenshinibon was a relic that was truly alive in its magic. And part of its life was the desire to conquer and command. The crystal shard was not content with an existence in a desolate mountain range, where the only servants were lowly goblins. It wanted more. It wanted power.

Kessell’s own subconscious recollections of Ten-Towns when he had spotted the column of smoke had stirred the relic’s hunger, so it now used the same empathetic power of suggestion on Kessell.

A sudden image grasped at the wizard’s deepest needs. He saw himself seated on a throne in Bryn Shander, immeasurably wealthy and respected by all in his court. He imagined the response from the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan when the mages there, especially Eldulac and Dendybar, learned of Akar Kessell, Lord of Ten-Towns and Ruler of all Icewind Dale! Would they offer him a robe in their puny order then?

Despite Kessell’s true enjoyment of the leisurely existence he had found, the thought appealed to him. He let his mind continue through the fantasy, exploring the paths that he might take to accomplish such an ambitious goal.

He ruled out trying to dominate the fisherfolk as he had dominated this goblin tribe, for even the least intelligent of the goblins had held out against his imposing will for quite a long time. And when any of these had gotten away from the immediate area of the tower, they regained their ability to determine their own actions and had fled into the mountains. No, simple domination would not work against the humans.