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

Bruenorson swallowed hard. “And bid farewell to a man I most love?”

Wulfgar leaned over and hugged his son, a rare display of affection among the stoic people. But Bruenorson didn’t recoil and didn’t stiffen in the least, burying his face in his huge father’s strong shoulder.

The tribe of the Elk left the foothills that morning, leaving twelve, Wulfgar among them, to seek the caribou.

This was the illness that would at last claim him, he knew. His lungs felt heavy with fluid, his limbs weak, and a great fire burned within him. Wulfgar would not lament his death; what man could ask for more of a life than he had lived? He did feel guilty, though, given the timing and the circumstances. The Tribe of the Elk had been gone for nearly a tenday, leaving behind the hunters in their critical role: finding the caribou and sending supplies while the migrating herd caught up to the tribe. Few in number, the hunters couldn’t be burdened with the likes of Wulfgar, withering in his fever.

So Wulfgar had ordered them to be gone from his small tent, and to be done with him altogether.

But they would not, he knew. He was Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. He was the hero of Icewind Dale, the great warrior who had united the tribes and changed their very way of life so much for the better. Unlike their kin south of the Spine of the World, the tribes of Icewind Dale valued all their members, male and female, as equals. Unlike their kin south of the Spine of the World, the barbarian tribes of Icewind Dale knew they could depend on each other for support in times of peril, and not expect other tribes to exploit their weaknesses and misfortunes. Unlike their kin south of the Spine of the World, the tribes of Icewind Dale knew that they could find allies, not enemies, in the other settlers of their region.

Wulfgar had done all of that, but not alone. He had begun the process, but his progeny were taking it to new levels. His oldest son commanded the Tribe of the Elk with the same even hand that Wulfgar had shown decades before. His oldest daughter was wife to the chieftain of the Tribe of the Bear, and his youngest had married the mightiest warrior of the Tribe of the Seal, who spent most of the year out on the Sea of Moving Ice. Three surviving children of four had flourished in the tribulations of Icewind Dale; nine grandchildren had grown strong into respectable members of various tribes, and now his second-oldest grandson was poised to assume leadership of the Tribe of the Caribou.

Wulfgar’s fourth great-grandchild had been born that spring, and, alas, he had not yet seen the babe. He felt that sting keenly as he lay feverish in his cot. But also, surprisingly, there came to him a sense of calm with the knowledge that even without him, the world would move forward, his bloodline would continue and would thrive.

Hours passed as he lay there, recounting his many adventures, remembering dear old friends, including one special group he had not seen in half a century. “The Companions of the Hall,” he managed to whisper through his shivering lips, a nickname the five friends had earned well in the days of Wulfgar’s youth.

This was the end for him. He wondered if any of his old friends remained-Drizzt, possibly, and perhaps even Bruenor. He was contented and ready to pass on, though not particularly thrilled that he would die in his bed.

Or would he?

A commotion outside the tent stirred him from his thoughts. He heard the words of two of his companions, and one of those words, “yeti,” stirred something deep and profound in Wulfgar. His fever forgotten, he rolled off the side of his furs and forced himself to his feet.

He stumbled outside and, upon hearing the news, his limbs grew strong once more. Standing up straight, he hoisted Aegis-fang, his legendary warhammer.

“Stay true to our course,” he instructed the group gathered around him, all of whom were stunned that he had managed to get out of bed. “Break camp, collect our supplies, and begin the march to the northwest.”

“We’ll not leave Canaufa’s party out there!” one man complained.

“No,” Wulfgar agreed with a wry grin, “we’ll not. By my promise, we’ll not.”

Some of the hunters smiled back at him, some nodded, but more than one shook his head doubtfully.

“This you owe to me, I decree,” Wulfgar said. “In this, defer to me, this last time.”

How were they to argue? The man was a god among them, the greatest warrior the tribes of Icewind Dale had ever known.

On shaky old legs, Wulfgar climbed the slick and slippery stones. Not once did he glance back to the now-distant encampment that was being broken down even then. His great strides carried him fast and far, and he did not slow, could not slow, knowing that members of his clan were in trouble.

Yetis, Wulfgar confirmed as soon as he reached the rocky spur and heard the growls and calls beyond. At the sound, he was transformed once more, as if a second infusion of energy had come into him, stealing away ever more years from his aged frame. “Tempus,” he said under his breath, his voice not quite as thick with phlegm. “Give me strength this day.”

Climbing the stones quickly, he came over the apex of the spur and saw the fight in plain view below him. He winced at the sight of a fellow tribesman lying in his own blood, at another swarmed by three of the large and shaggy bearlike beasts, and at the pair of women, back to back, stabbing with their spears to fend off several of the circling brutes.

Wulfgar pulled himself up to his full height, still more than six and a half feet. “Tempus!” he roared into the northern wind, and he grunted hard as he flexed his muscles, launching his magical warhammer at the nearest yeti.

It was dead before it landed.

Down leaped Wulfgar, no more the old man but seeming like the warrior who had become a hero throughout the dale and across the breadth of the northern realms. Roaring to his god, he lifted his hand and caught the magically returned hammer, the gift of a dwarf father whom he had not seen in more than five decades.

As if drawing strength from the magic of that weapon, he crashed into the nearest group of beasts, pushing them away with hand and hammer, chopping them down with short but devastating strikes. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted one of the women in trouble, and despite his own predicament, the old warrior launched his warhammer.

His throw was true, he saw in the brief moment before a yeti took advantage of his vulnerability. Leaping upon him, the yeti’s long and hooked claws raked at his abdomen.

Wulfgar grabbed the beast’s hair and yanked its head back so violently he heard the snap of neck bones. Slugging the shaggy beast hard under the chin, he threw it aside, then drove his elbow out the other way, smashing the jaw of another approaching yeti. His hammer returned to his hand as the beast staggered backward, just far enough for Wulfgar to chop his hammer across, crushing its skull.

“Tempus!” he roared, and on he came, thrashing wildly, throwing every ounce of energy in his old and battered frame behind every sweeping swing. A yeti leaped upon him from behind, and few men could have held their footing.

But Wulfgar, who had passed his one-hundredth birthday, remained such a man.

He felt the agony as the beast bit down on his collar, looping one claw around and hooking it in the gash already pouring blood from his abdomen. Wulfgar spun and reached back to punch at the beast, or to grab it and try to tug its claws free.

But he could not. With the beast on his back, it took him many strides to get near a large rock, where he swung around and threw himself backward. Again and again, he slammed the yeti into the stone, and during one crash, yet another beast leaped on him from in front, clawing and biting.