Tred opened one eye, caked with blood, and through a haze saw the battered form of Nikwillig, crouched before the brambles and staring in at him.
"Good, so ye are," said Nikwillig and he slipped his arm in, offering Tred a hand. "Keep your arse low or the pickers'll be skinning it good."
Tred took that hand and squeezed it tightly but did not start out of the tangle.
"Where're the others?" he asked. "Where's me brother?"
"The ores killed 'em all to death in battle," came the grim response, "and the pigs're not too far away. Damned horses dragged me a mile an' more."
Tred didn't let go, but neither did he start forward.
"Come on, ye dolt," Nikwillig scolded. "We got to get to Shallows and get the word spreadin' back to King Warcrown."
"Ye run on," Tred replied. "Me leg's all broke. I'll slow ye down."
"Bah, ye're talking like the fool I always knowed ye was!"
Nikwillig gave a great tug, dragging Tred right out from under the brambles.
"Bah, yerself!" Tred growled at him.
"And so ye'd be leaving me if it was th' other way around?"
That question hit home. "Get me a stick, ye stubborn old fool!"
Soon after, arm in arm, with Tred leaning on both Nikwillig and a stick, the two hardy dwarves ambled off toward Shallows, already plotting their revenge on the ambushing ore band.
They didn't know that another hundred such bands were out of their mountain holes and roaming the countryside.
When Thibbledorf Pwent and his small army of battleragers arrived in Icewind Dale with news that Gandalug Battlehammer, the First King and Ninth King of Mithral Hall, had died, I knew that Bruenor would have no choice but to return to his ancestral home and take again the mantle of leadership. His duties to the clan would demand no less, and for Bruenor, as with most dwarves, duties to king and clan usurp everything.
I recognized the sadness on Bruenor's face as he heard the news, though, and knew that little of it was in grieving for the former king. Gandalug had lived a long and amazing life, more so than any dwarf could ever hope. So while he was sad at losing this ancestor he had barely known, that wasn't the source of Bruenor's long look. No, what most troubled Bruenor, I knew, was the duty calling him to return to a settled existence.
I knew at once that I would accompany him, but I knew, too, that I would not remain for long in the safe confines of Mithral Hall. I am a creature of the road, of adventure. I came to know this after the battle against the drow, when Gandalug was returned to Clan Battlehammer. Finally, it seemed, peace had found our little troupe, but that, I knew so quickly, would prove a double-edged sword.
And so I found myself sailing the Sword Coast with Captain Deudermont and his pirate-chasing crew aboard Sea Sprite, with Catti-brie at my side.
It is strange, and somewhat unsettling, to come to the realization that no place will hold me for long, that no "home" will ever truly suffice. I wonder if I am running toward something or away from something. Am I driven, as were the misguided Entreri and Ellifain? These questions reverberate within my heart and soul. Why do I feel the need to keep moving? For what am I searching? Acceptance? Some wider reputation that will somehow grant me a renewed assurance that I had chosen well in leaving Menzoberranzan?
These questions rise up about me, and sometimes bring distress, but it is not a lasting thing. For in looking at them rationally, I understand their ridiculousness.
With Pwent s arrival in Icewind Dale, the prospect of settling in the security and comforts of Mithral Hall loomed before us all once more, and it is not a life I feel I can accept. My fear was for Catti-brie and the relationship we have forged. How would it change? Would Catti-brie desire to make a home and family of her own? Would she see the return to the dwarven stronghold as a signal that she had reached the end of her adventurous road?
And if so, then what would that mean for me?
Thus, we all took the news brought by Pwent with mixed feelings and more than a little trepidation.
Bruenor's conflicted attitude didn't hold for long, though. A young and fiery dwarf named Dagnabbit, one who had been instrumental in freeing Mithral Hall from the duergar those years ago, and son of