wonderful gift Andahar had been, the drow thought, and certainly not for the first time. The ruling council of Silverymoon had commissioned the mount for Drizzt, in gratitude for his work, both with the blade and diplomacy, in the Third Orc War.
The wind whistled past his ears as Andahar galloped across the miles. The drow wasn’t cold, though, not with the warmth generated by the unicorn’s great muscles. His hair and cloak flew wide behind him. He called forth the bells to sing with the ride, and they answered to his will. Trusting in Andahar, Drizzt let his thoughts slip back to pleasant memories of his old friends. He was disappointed, of course, in not finding any sign of the mysterious witch of the wood, or the curious halfling caretaker, disappointed at the reaffirmation of that which he already knew to be true.
He still had his memories, though, and on occasions like this, alone and on the trail, he looked for them and found them, and couldn’t help but smile as he thought of that previous life he had known.
That previous life he knew he should forget.
That previous life he could not forget.
The sun was still high in the sky when he dismissed Andahar and entered the dwarven tunnels. Once the complex had been the home of Clan Battlehammer, and those few dozen dwarves who had remained there still considered themselves part of the clan. They knew of Drizzt, though only a couple had ever met the drow. They also knew of Pwent and the legendary Gutbuster Brigade, and glad they were to welcome travelers from Mithral Hall, including one who named himself as a distant cousin to the late King Bruenor Battlehammer himself.
“To King Connerad Brawnanvil Battlehammer!” the leader of the Kelvin’s Cairn Battlehammers, Stokely Silverstream, greeted Drizzt when he entered the main forge area. Stokely lifted a mug in toast and waved to a younger dwarf, who hustled to get Drizzt a drink.
“He fares well, I would hope,” Drizzt replied, not surprised that, four decades on, Connerad had succeeded his father, Banak. “Good blood.”
“Ye fought with his father.”
“Many the time,” Drizzt replied, accepting the mug and taking a welcomed swallow.
“And yer own salute?” Stokely asked.
“There can be only one,” Drizzt replied, and he lifted his mug high and waited until all the dwarves in the room turned to regard him.
“To King Bruenor Battlehammer!” Drizzt and Stokely said together, and a rousing cheer went up in the chamber. Every dwarf drank deep then scrambled to get their mugs refilled.
“I was but a dwarfling when me dad bringed us back to Icewind Dale,” Stokely explained. “But I’d’ve known him, and well, had I not been a fool and stayed so close to me home up here.”
“You served your own clan,” Drizzt replied. “Short are the times of respite in Icewind Dale. Could your father have fared as well, had you, and others with the wanderlust, traveled all the way to Mithral Hall?”
“Bah, but true enough! I’m guessin’ me and me boys’ll have to settle for yer tales, elf, and we’re holdin’ ye to that promise! Yerself and old Pwent and Bonnego Battle-axe, of the Adbar Battle-axes.”
“This very night,” Drizzt promised. He set his mug down and patted Stokely on the shoulder as he moved past him, heading for the lower tunnels, where he knew his friends to be.
“Well met, Bonnego,” he said to Bruenor when he entered the small side room, to find Bruenor, as always, spreading maps across the floor and taking notes.
“What do ye know, elf?” Bruenor replied a bit too hopefully.
Drizzt winced at the optimism, and let his expression convey the truth of the rumor.
“Just a few pines and a bit of scrag,” Bruenor said with a sigh and a shake of his head, for that was what they had heard of this supposedly enchanted forest from practically everyone in Icewind Dale they had asked.
“Ah, me king,” said Thibbledorf Pwent, limping into the room behind Drizzt.
“Shoosh, ye dolt!” Bruenor scolded.
“Perhaps there was once a forest there,” said Drizzt. “Perhaps enchanted in some way, and with a beautiful witch and halfling caretaker. The tale of Lathan mirrored that of Roundabout, and both I find credible.”
“Credible and wrong,” said Bruenor, “as I was knowin’ they’d be.”
“Ah, me king,” said Pwent.
“Ye quit calling me that!”
“Their words are no longer accurate,” Drizzt replied. “But that does not mean their memories are wrong. You saw the eyes of both men when they remembered that time, that encounter. Few could wear such expressions