The Spine of the World - By R. A. Salvatore Page 0,107

hit another caravan. This time it went smoothly, with the merchant handing over a tithe and no blood spilled. Morik had spotted their third group of victims, a caravan of three wagons heading north out of Luskan, bound for Icewind Dale.

"Always you are looking north," the rogue remarked, sitting next to Wulfgar, "and yet you will not venture there. Have you enemies in Ten-Towns?"

"I have friends who would stop us if they knew what we were about," Wulfgar explained.

"Who would try to stop us?" cocky Morik replied.

Wulfgar looked him right in the eye. "They would stop us," he insisted, his grave expression offering no room for argument. He let that look linger on Morik for a moment, then turned back to the dale, the wistfulness returning as well to his sky-blue eyes.

"What life did you leave behind there?" Morik asked.

Wulfgar turned back, surprised. He and Morik didn't often talk about their respective pasts, at least not unless they were drinking.

"Will you tell me?" Morik pressed. "I see so much in your face. Pain, regret, and what else?"

Wulfgar chuckled at that observation. "What did I leave behind?" he echoed. After a moment's pause, he answered, "Everything."

"That sounds foolish."

"I could be a king," Wulfgar went on, staring out at the dale again as if speaking to himself. Perhaps he was. "Chieftain of the combined tribes of Icewind Dale, with a strong voice on the council of Ten-Towns. My father-" He looked at Morik and laughed. "You would not like my father, Morik. Or at least, he would not like you."

"A proud barbarian?"

"A surly dwarf," Wulfgar countered. "He's my adoptive father," he clarified as Morik sputtered over that one. "The Eighth King of Mithral Hall and leader of a clan of dwarves mining in the valley before Kelvin's Cairn in Icewind Dale."

"Your father is a dwarven king?" Wulfgar nodded. "And you are out on the road beside me, sleeping on the ground?" Again the nod. "Truly you are a bigger fool than I had believed."

Wulfgar just stared out at the tundra, hearing the sad song of the wind. He couldn't disagree with Morik's assessment, but neither did he have the power to change things. He heard Morik reaching for his pack, then heard the familiar clink of bottles.

Part 4

BIRTH

We think we understand those around us. The people we have come to know reveal patterns of behavior, and as our expectations of that behavior are fulfilled time and again we begin to believe that we know the person's heart and soul.

I consider that to be an arrogant perception, for one cannot truly understand the heart and soul of another, one cannot truly appreciate the perceptions another might hold toward similar or recounted experiences. We all search for truth, particularly within our own sphere of existence, the home we have carved and those friends with whom we choose to share it. But truth, I fear, is not always evident where individuals, so complex and changing, are concerned.

If ever I believe that the foundations of my world are rooted in stone, I think of Jarlaxle and I am humbled. I have always recognized that there is more to the mercenary than a simple quest for personal gain-he let me and Catti-brie walk away from Menzoberranzan, after all, and at a time when our heads would have brought him a fine price, indeed. When Catti-brie was his prisoner and completely under his power, he did not take advantage of her, though he has admitted, through actions if not words, that he thinks her quite attractive. So always have I seen a level of character beneath the cold mercenary clothing, but despite that knowledge my last encounter with Jarlaxle has shown me that he is far more complex, and certainly more compassionate, than ever I could have guessed. Beyond that, he called himself a friend of Zaknafein, and though I initially recoiled at such a notion, now I consider it to be not only believable, but likely.

Do I now understand the truth of Jarlaxle? And is it the same truth that those around him, within Bregan D'aerthe, perceive? Certainly not, and though I believe my current assessment to be correct, I'll not be as arrogant as to claim certainty, nor do I even begin to believe that I know more of him than my surface reasoning.

What about Wulfgar, then? Which Wulfgar is the true Wulfgar? Is he the proud and honorable man Bruenor raised, the man who fought beside me against Biggrin and in so many subsequent battles?