R. Salvatore: The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

He managed to get there and crawl out of the lake, trembling with fear and shivering with cold.

“How in the Nine Hells …?” the woman asked.

Addadearber shook his head, considering the whirlpool and the tunnel of water that had flushed him from Iruladoon, right back into the small lagoon. It made no sense, even to a man who had flown in the empty air, who had turned enemies into frogs, and who created lightning and fire out of thin air.

“Well, what do ye know?” Ashelia asked, helping him from the water.

But Addadearber could only wag his head and sputter.

Almost at the same moment, Roundabout walked out of the forest, his step light, his eyes glassy, and he seemed not even to recognize them or notice any of his surroundings.

“Roundabout!” Ashelia called, and she let go of the wizard and ran to the ranger.

He looked at her as though unable to understand her alarm. Then he looked all around, at the cabin and the lake, at the dock and Larson’s Boneyard tied up against it. His face screwed up with puzzlement, and he shrugged.

“They attacked me!” Addadearber insisted, storming up to the pair. “I will burn that forest to the ground!

“If you raise a torch or a spell against it, I will kill you,” Roundabout replied, and both Ashelia and Addadearber gasped.

“Ranger!” the fisherwoman scolded.

“We have to leave this place,” Roundabout said, retracting not a bit of his threat.

“We’re sailing in the morning.”

“We’re sailing now,” the ranger corrected.

“We? I thought you were to remain on this bank,” Addadearber said with a sharp tone, obviously unhappy with the threat. “With your friends who haunt the forest, perhaps?”

“Shut up, wizard.” Roundabout turned to Ashelia. “To Lac Dinneshere, all of us, and now.”

“Spragan’s still stupid, and Lathan’s still hurting,” Ashelia argued.

“I will row or tack, then, and so will Addadearber.”

“You have grown quite bold,” the wizard warned.

But Roundabout only smiled, and glanced back at Iruladoon. He had seen her. The witch, the ghost, the goddess-with that celestial image still fresh in his mind, there was little the blustering Addadearber could say that could bother him.

Unless the wizard did indeed try to turn his anger, magic or mundane, at the forest.

Roundabout smiled, hardly believing his own heart, for he knew that in that instance, he truly would kill the man.

They put out from the dock soon after, all glad to be gone from the haunted forest.

All, except for Roundabout, who knew that he wasn’t really leaving, that he took a piece of Iruladoon with him, and would hold it forevermore.

For he would never allow himself to forget the dance of the goddess, and her ladder of starlight.

Wulfgar had defied age like no other in recent memory. Some said it was the magic of the dwarves who had raised him wearing off on him. Others just pointed out that the legendary chieftains were often known for long and productive lives. Whatever the cause, Wulfgar had held his own in the hunt and in many battles, and not one in the tribe had whispered that it was time for him to drift on a floe.

But these were not usual times for the Tribe of the Elk, and the stakes were much higher.

“Were it not for Wulfgar, we would not be allowed on the hunt,” Canaufa reminded Brayleen, the two women standing off to the side of the large encampment of the Tribe of the Elk.

“There remain many who question the wisdom of that,” Brayleen countered. “The loss of a man does not weaken the tribe as much as does the loss of a woman. The seed of one can fill the wombs of many, but one womb, one child, one year.”

“And yet, you will remain here for the hunt.”

The simple logical retort had Brayleen’s face tightening with defeat.

“They say he learned it from the elves,” Canaufa went on, “where gender is no matter.”

“Or from the dwarves,” Brayleen added. “From what few females they claim.”

Both paused to watch the council across the way. The decision had been made that the tribe would move along to the northwest. Although the caribou had not yet left the mountainous foothills along the Spine of the World, too many monsters had shown themselves in the region, and a tribe of orcs was known to be crawling from a mountain hole not far away. All the other tribes had already begun the winter migration, leaving the Tribe of the Elk alone and exposed.

The snows had come early this year, and that was never a good thing for the barbarian tribes roaming the tundra of Icewind Dale. The unseasonal storms had brought the yetis down from the peaks and thinned the caribou herd before they even began their great trek across the narrow tundra to the sea. For the barbarians, the result was that supplies were short and danger was ever present.

All that was left to decide was who would remain for the last hunt-which was as much an exercise of deciding who would no longer partake of the dwindling supplies.

“It is different to allow women to hunt and fight than to allow an old man along,” Brayleen countered. “His presence alone may prove a threat.”

“Not so!” Canaufa interrupted sharply. “He will not be burdensome. Wulfgar would never allow such a thing! He would not accept a litter if his legs rotted away underneath him. Nay, he would be left to die by his own demand.”

She snorted and continued, “And likely, knowing Wulfgar, he will not continue to eat the foodstuffs of a hungry tribe.”

Brayleen sighed.

“I would be proud to have him along,” Canaufa said.

“You cannot do this!” Bruenorson argued.

“You claim no power over me, my son,” Wulfgar reminded him calmly.

“I am Chieftain.”

“And I am your father,” Wulfgar said. “And the grandfather of your brood.”

“And you would have me sentence you to death,” Bruenorson said. “How might I explain that to my sisters, my children, my grandchildren?”

“Are you so sentencing Ilfgol and the others?” Wulfgar countered.

“That’s different!” Bruenorson said.

“Because they are young and strong,” Wulfgar said, “and I am old and will surely die in the weather and among the monsters?”

Bruenorson licked his lips. He was nearly forty years old, and had led the Tribe of the Elk for almost a decade, since the death of Kierstaad the Swift, but truly he felt a child before this man, Wulfgar, his father, his mentor, his hero. Wulfgar had been well past sixty when he had sired Bruenorson, the third of his children and the first boy. The other two had married into other tribes, royally binding Elk with Bear and Seal, and had begun families of their own.

“Do not answer,” Wulfgar went on. “Your loyalty is touching.”

Bruenorson began to speak, but Wulfgar cut him short. “Yes,” he admitted, “your eyes do not deceive. I am failing. At long last, the Halls of Tempus have begun to whisper of the arrival of Wulfgar.”

“No,” Bruenorson said.

“Yes,” Wulfgar replied. “But fear not, for I have not yet breathed my last. I know these foothills better than any in the tribe. I know where to find the caribou as they prepare for their journey. I know how to find sign of the yeti and avoid them-again, better than any. You do no service to the tribe or to those who will remain to hunt by keeping me with you.”

“Perhaps those who will hunt do not wish you along,” Bruenorson said, and he winced as soon as the words left his mouth. Wulfgar puffed out his still-massive chest and stood tall over him, those icy blue eyes boring into the chieftain and making him seem very small indeed.

“Your responsibility is to your tribe, not your family,” Wulfgar reminded him. “If you make the decision along those lines alone, you will accede to the council’s decision.”