wasn't yer own father?"
Again Wulfgar turned to show her his perplexed expression. He started to nod, but just shrugged instead.
"You are no child of Bruenor," he remarked.
"But I am the wife of Wulfgar."
Wulfgar brought Colson down to his hip, and when the toddler whined and wriggled, he set her down to the floor and let her go. He came up straight before Delly, facing her directly, and placed his huge hands on her slender shoulders.
"You wish to cross the river," he stated.
"My place is with Wulfgar."
"But I cannot leave," Wulfgar said. "We have only begun to break free of Obould's grasp, and now that we have a way beyond Mithral Hall's doors, I must learn the fate of my friend."
Delly didn't interrupt him, for she knew all of it, of course, and Wulfgar was merely reaffirming the truth of the situation.
"When the Surbrin east of Mithral Hall is more secure, have King Bruenor find you a place working out there, in the sun. I agree that we are not built as dwarves."
"The walls're closing in tight on me."
"I know," Wulfgar assured her, and he pulled her close. "I know. When this is done - by summer, we hope - you and I will journey to all the cities you long to see. You will come to love Mithral Hall all the more if it is your home and not your prison." As he finished, he pulled her closer, wrapping his strong arms around her. He kissed her on top of her head and whispered promises that things would get better.
Delly appreciated the words and the gestures, though in her mind, they hardly diminished the echoes of the cheers of the people who would soon be leaving the smoky dark tunnels of King Bruenor's domain.
She couldn't tell that to Wulfgar, though, she knew. He was trying to understand and she appreciated that. But in the end, he couldn't. His life was in Mithral Hall. His beloved friends were there. His cause was there.
Not in Silverymoon, where Delly wanted to be.
20. A FRIENDLY DOSE OF REALITY
Two thousand mugs raised in toast, the dwarven holy water foaming over the sides. Two thousand Battlehammer dwarves, every dwarf that could be spared from the work out in the east or from the tunnels, cheered, "To the Mirabarran Battlehammers!" Then as one, they drained their mugs, and invariably splashed foam on beards yellow and red and white and orange and black and brown and silver and even green.
"Oo oi!" came the shout from Pikel Bouldershoulder as soon as the toast was finished.
That a non-Battlehammer and non-Mirabarran like Pikel had so perfectly accentuated the celebration of Bruenor's clan for the immigrants from Mirabar was a point not lost on Catti-brie. Sitting beside her father's dais, propped with fluffy pillows - of which there were very few in all the halls - the woman considered the unlikely collection represented in the gathering before her.
Most of the group were Bruenor's kinfolk, of course, some dwarves who had lived in Mithral Hall before the coming of Shimmergloom the shadow dragon, and others who had been raised as Battlehammers under the shadow of Kelvin's Cairn in Icewind Dale. Others were Felbarran, coming in from the east and seeming as much at home as the Battlehammers themselves. Torgar and his boys were all there, even the many who had been wounded in the fighting on the ridge north of Keeper's Dale or more recently in the fighting in the south. Ivan and Pikel Bouldershoulder were there, and though they weren't Battlehammers, every dwarf in the complex wanted them to become of the clan. Nanfoodle the gnome was there, along with Regis, Wulfgar, and Catti-brie.
So they were not all joined by blood, Catti-brie understood, but they were certainly all joined by cause and by common resolve. She glanced over at her father, sitting on his throne and draining another mug of mead, blessed as holy water by the priests. His toasts and his appreciation were genuine, she knew. He couldn't be happier or more full of gratitude concerning the arrival of Torgar, Shingles, and the boys from Mirabar. They had saved the day over and over again, from the northern stretches of the mountainous terrain to, apparently, the work in the south. They had fought brilliantly with Banak Brawnanvil north of Keeper's Dale, had pushed the entrenched orcs from the tunnels so that Nanfoodle could work his magic on the ridge. They had suffered terrible losses, but had done so with typical dwarven