logical level, the drow could surely understand that nothing that had happened that day was his fault, that he could not have foreseen the torment that would follow that rescued child all these decades.
But on another level, a deeper level, the fateful fight with the anguished Ellifain had struck a deep chord within Drizzt Do'Urden. He had left Icewind Dale full of anticipation for the open road, and indeed, he was glad to be with his friends, traveling the wilds, full of adventure and excitement.
But the keen edge of a purpose beyond material gain, beyond finding ancient kingdoms and ancient treasure, had been dulled. Drizzt had never fancied himself a major player in the events of the wider world. He had contented himself in the knowledge that his actions served those around him in a positive way. From his earliest days in Menzoberranzan, he had held an innate understand of the fundamental differences between good and evil, and he had always believed that he was a player for the side of justice and goodness.
But what of Ellifain?
He continued to listen to the excited talk around him and held fast his consenting smile, assuring himself that he would indeed enjoy this newest adventure.
He had to believe that.
There was nothing pretty about the open air city of Mirabar. Squat stone buildings and a few towers sat inside a square stone wall. Everything about the place spoke of efficiency and control, a no-nonsense approach to getting their work done.
To the sensibilities of a dwarf like Bruenor, that made Mirabar a place to be admired to a point, but to Drizzt and Catti-brie as they approached the city's northern gate, Mirabar seemed an unadorned blotch, uninteresting and unremarkable.
"Give me Silverymoon," Drizzt remarked to the woman as they walked along to the left of the dwarven caravan.
"Even Menzoberranzan's a prettier sight," Catti-brie replied, and Drizzt could only agree.
The guards at the north gate seemed an apt reflection of Mirabar's dour attitude. Four humans stood in pairs on opposite ends of sturdy metallic doors, halberds set on the ground and held vertically before them, silver armor gleaming in the early morning sun. Bruenor recognized the crest emblazoned on their tower shields, the royal badge of Mirabar, a deep red double-bladed axe with a pointed haft and a flaring, flat base, set on a black field. The approach of a huge caravan of dwarves, a veritable army, surely shook them all, but to their credit, they held their posture perfect, eyes straight ahead, faces impassive.
Bruenor brought his wagon around, moving to the front of the caravan, Pwent's Gutbusters running to keep their protective guard to either flank.
"Bring her right up afore 'em," Bruenor instructed his driver, Dagnabbit.
The younger, ye How-bearded dwarf gave a gap-toothed grin and urged his team on faster, but the Mirabar guards didn't blink.
The wagon skidded to a stop short of the closed doors and Bruenor stood up tall (relatively speaking) and put his hands on his hips.
"State your business. State your name," came a curt instruction from the inner guard on the right.
"Me business is with yer Council o' Sparkling Stones," Bruenor answered. "I'll be tellin' it to them alone."
"You will answer the appointed gate guard of Mirabar, visitor," the inner guard on the left hand side of the doors demanded.
"Ye think?" Bruenor asked. "And ye're wantin' me name? Bruenor Battlehammer's the name, ye durned fool. King Bruenor Battlehammer. Now ye go and run that name to yer council and we'll be seeing if they're to talk to me or not."
The guards tried to hold their posture and calm demeanor, but they did glance over at each other, hastily.
"Ye heared o' me?" Bruenor asked them. "Ye heared o' Mithral Hall?"
A moment later, one of the guards turned to the guard standing beside him and nodded, and that man produced a small horn from his belt and blew a series of short, sharp notes. A few moments later, a smaller hatch cunningly cut into the large portals, banged open and a tough-looking, many-scarred dwarf wearing a full suit of battered plate mail, ambled out. He too wore the badge of the city, emblazoned on his breastplate, as he carried no shield.
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere," Bruenor remarked. "And it does me old heart good to see that ye've a dwarf for a boss. Might be that ye' re not as stupid as ye look."
"Well met. King Bruenor," the dwarf said. "Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker at yer service." He bowed low. his black beard sweeping the