Gauntlgrym (60 page)

So they buried their heroes, and there were many that fateful day, and they took their tour of what remained of ancient Gauntlgrym. Outside the main wall, in the vast cavern with the pond, they said their farewells. Both Stokely and Torgar offered Drizzt a home, Icewind Dale or Mirabar.

But he refused them, without even giving any real thought to their offers. Neither place was for him, he knew, nor was Mithral Hall.

Nor was anywhere, it seemed.

When he at last exited the tunnels east of the mountains, Guenhwyvar beside him, Drizzt Do’Urden turned to stare to the north, toward Icewind Dale, the place that had been his truest home, the place where he had known his truest friends.

And he was alone.

“Where’s your road lead, drow?” Dahlia said, walking up beside him.

Guenhwyvar favored her with a low purr.

“Where is yours?” he asked in return.

“Oh, I mean to finish this with Sylora Salm, don’t you doubt that,” the elf warrior promised without the slightest hesitation. “To Neverwinter Wood, for me. I will tell the witch to her face that her Dread Ring has failed, that her beast is trapped once more. I will tell her that, right before I kill her.”

Drizzt considered the declaration for a few moments then corrected, “Before
we
kill her.”

Dahlia stared at him with a grin that told that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

Drizzt looked her over, head to toe, and he realized only then that she had moved the last diamond stud out of her right ear and set it in her left.

There was a story there. There were many stories in the memories and the heart of that most curious elf.

He wanted to hear them all.

Bruenor Battlehammer pulled himself up to his elbows, opened his eyes, and shook his head to clear his jumbled thoughts.

He only became more confused, though, when he noted his surroundings: a springtime forest, and not the dark halls of Gauntlgrym.

“Eh?” he muttered as he hopped to his feet with energy and youth he hadn’t known in centuries.

“Pwent?” he called. “Drizzt?”

“Well met,” said a voice behind him, and he spun to see Regis standing there, looking in the prime of health and life, with a grin from ear to ear.

“Rumblebelly …?” Bruenor managed to gasp.

He stuttered as he tried to continue, when from out of a door in a small house behind Regis stepped another. Bruenor’s jaw fell limp and he didn’t even try to speak. His eyes welled with tears, for there stood his boy, Wulfgar, a young man once more, tall and strong.

“You mentioned Pwent,” Regis said. “Were you with him when you fell?”

Those last words hit the dwarf like a thrown stone, for indeed, he had fallen, indeed, he was dead. And so were the two before him, in a place that so confused him—even more, for surely it was not the Halls of Moradin.

“Thibbledorf Pwent is with Moradin now,” Bruenor said, more to himself than to the others. “Got to be. But why ain’t meself?”

He hardly noticed the growing sound of music behind him, but when he looked up, he saw Wulfgar looking past him, an enchanted expression on his face. Regis, too, stared over Bruenor’s shoulder. The halfling motioned with his chin and Bruenor glanced around.

His gaze went across a small and still pond, to the trees across the way.

And there she danced, his beloved daughter, dressed in a layered white gown of many folds and pretty lace, and with a black cape trailing her every twist and turn.

“By the gods,” the dwarf muttered, so completely overwhelmed.

For the first time in his long life, and his long life was no more, Bruenor Battlehammer fell to his knees, was literally knocked from his feet by overwhelming emotion. He put his face in his hands and he began to sob.

And they were tears of joy, tears of just rewards.