THE WINTER OF THE IRON DWARF

VENGEANCE OF THE IRON DWARF

?2015 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

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Cover art by: Tyler Jacobson

ISBN: 978-0-7869-6570-0

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v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

Part One: The Winter of The Iron Dwarf

Chapter 1: Duke Tiago

Chapter 2: The Deep Skirmishes

Chapter 3: Raiding The Garden

Chapter 4: Growling Bellies

Chapter 5: Madness

Chapter 6: When Hammer Falls

Chapter 7: Moving Targets

Part Two: The God Inside Your Heart

Chapter 8: Influential Friends Chapter 9: By the Gods

Chapter 10: Trusting a Most Unusual Drow Chapter 11: The Possessed

Chapter 12: Where are the Damned Dragons? Chapter 13: The Haunted King

Chapter 14: Stinging Gnats

Part Three: The King of Dwarven Kings

Chapter 15: Field of Blood and Fire Chapter 16: The Puppet Master Chapter 17: Waiting for the Whites Chapter 18: Prelude

Chapter 19: The Battle of the Surbrin Bridge Chapter 20: The Violence of Dragons Chapter 21: The Wisdom of Moradin Chapter 22: The Ritual of the March Chapter 23: Drow Deconstruction

Chapter 24: Torn Ground and Excrement

Epilogue

PROLOGUE

IT WAS A SOLEMN GREETING AT THE UNDERGROUND WESTERN GATES OF Citadel Felbarr, on the first day

of the second tenday in the eleventh month of Uktar. The first snows had fallen in the Upper Surbrin Vale, and the white coating already reached low among the Rauvin Mountains above the dwarven fortress. But if the orc hordes now controlling what was left of once-mighty Sundabar, or those in sacked Nesmé, or besieging mighty Silverymoon, or camped around the dwarven citadels of Mithral Hall, Felbarr, and Adbar had any intention of packing up and returning to Dark Arrow Keep, or to anywhere else within the accepted boundaries of the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, they didn?t show it.

Nor were the vast networks of Upperdark tunnels clearing of invaders, as the procession from Mithral Hall discovered on their journey to the planned council at Citadel Felbarr. For nearly the entire month of Marpenoth and into Uktar, the legion of battle dwarves surrounding King Connerad Brawnanvil and his distinguished entourage had fought their way from waypoint to waypoint, regions the dwarves of Mithral Hall and Felbarr had strongly secured, heavily fortified and well supplied, in their long underground journey to the halls of King Emerus Warcrown.

Emerus himself was there to greet the dwarves of Mithral Hall. They were a tenday overdue. That had all been explained, and the actual arrival announced well in advance, thanks to the cunning dwarves of the Silver Marches, who had set up elaborate messaging systems through their connecting tunnels. Side-slinger ballistae would hurl messages rolled and tucked into hollow darts down long tunnels to be retrieved at the next guard post and there loaded again and sent flying along. Unless a section of the secured tunnels had been overrun by orcs and their allies, a message from King Connerad to King Emerus could be sent the two hundred miles in just a few days.

?Well met, King Connerad!? Emerus said as he wrapped his peer in a great hug, to cheers from his fellows gathered at Citadel Felbarr?s gate. ?Ah, but we been concerned, me friend.?

?Aye, the vermin are learnin? o? our main boulevard, and poking and prodding all about,? Connerad replied. ?Me and me boys had to stop and help along the way?or might be that our warriors down there didn?t need our help, but we just wanted to punch a few orcs, eh!?

That brought a cheer from dwarves of both groups.

?Aye, but the meetin? ye asked for can wait until a few orcs?re killed!? Emerus agreed. ?Ye surprised meself and the dwarves o? Adbar in callin? it, with such grim news dancing all about.?

Connerad nodded and pulled off his metal gauntlets. ?Bringed some fellows with me ye might be knowing,? he explained. ?And when ye?re seein? the truth, ye?ll know why I called us all together.?

Emerus nodded, putting a curious look on his face as he glanced past Connerad to the group of newcomers still out in the hallway, just beyond the immediate torchlight. Connerad followed his lead and glanced around. With a knowing grin, King Connerad waved the rogue drow, Drizzt Do?Urden, forward.

?Aye, I expect ye?re knowing this one, then,? Connerad said as Drizzt stepped up and bowed before the old King Emerus.

?Drizzt Do?Urden,? Emerus remarked, nodding. ?It has been many years since ye?ve been seen in the Silver Marches, old friend o? King Bruenor.?

?Too many, it would seem,? the drow answered, and extended his hand, which Emerus clasped and shook warmly. The curious manner in which Emerus had spoken of him, as a friend of Bruenor, surely didn?t slip past Drizzt or Connerad.

?These drow leading the orcs claim?? Emerus began.

?To be of my House, yes,? Drizzt interrupted. ?Though I beg to differ. There is no House Do?Urden, good King Emerus, or at least, there is no House Do?Urden of which I have been aware for many decades now.?

?So ye deny these drow be yer kin??

?Kin, perhaps,? Drizzt replied with a shrug. ?I deny any foreknowledge of this attack, if that is what you mean to ask me.?

?And deny that yerself was sent here to bring about the conception o? Many-Arrows, and so, in the end, to bring about this very war?? the old dwarf king asked. Still he held tight to Drizzt?s hand. Tighter even, squeezing as if the handshake was as much a test as this blunt line of questioning.

?Bah, but shut yer mouth!? roared a familiar voice from behind?one familiar to Drizzt and Connerad, and also to King Emerus and the dwarf named Ragged Dain, who stood behind the king of Felbarr. All glanced that way to see a young dwarf with a fiery reddish-orange beard hopping out from among the others.

?Little Arr Arr!? Ragged Dain cried, both in surprise and to scold the impetuous young warrior.

The dwarf came forward, looking very much like he would put his fist into King Emerus?s old face?until Connerad stopped him with a shout. ?It is not time for this, Mister Reginald Roundshield!?

The young dwarf paused and put his hands on his hips. He looked to Drizzt, who nodded, and grumbled as he went back to the group to stand beside a fair-haired human woman.

Ragged Dain continued to glower at the fellow, though he whispered to the others around him, ?Ye be at yer ease, Mister Do?Urden. None outside o? the human cities?re thinking bad o? King Bruenor and his old friends.?

?Bring yer boys in,? Emerus bade Connerad. ?All of ?em. We?ll show ye to yer rooms and show ye proper Felbarr hospitality, don?t ye doubt.?

?Show me boys to their rooms,? Connerad replied. ?For meself and a few others, show us to the gatherin? at yer table. I?ve much to tell ye, and it?s not for waitin?. Get King Harnoth and his boys, and let?s get to talking!?

King Emerus shook his head. ?King Harnoth didn?t come,? he explained, and Connerad?s eyes went wide.

?I begged ye all ??

?His seconds?re here,? King Emerus explained. ?And we?ll collect them for yer talk.? He looked to Ragged Dain and nodded. ?Take Connerad and them he wants aside him to the table.?

Huffing and puffing, Franko Olbert stumbled up against the thick trunk of a tree. He dared a glance back across the snowy field to the distant wall of the town that had been his home for most of his life.

But though the skyline of Nesmé was surely familiar, Franko could not look upon that blasted and cursed place as his home. Not since the orcs had come. Not since the drow had come.

Not since Duke Tiago Do?Urden had come.

He started away once more, determined to get to the Uthgardt tribes, to raise an army, to find some way to repay the monstrous scum. His mother was Uthgardt. He knew their language, their ways, their pride. The proud barbarians would not suffer the orcs and dark elves to hold a city so near their borders.

Franko slipped away from the tree to another, then made a short run to a copse not far from there. He paused when he saw the human form lying on the ground facedown. The fallen man was dressed in armor: plate mail, mostly, and with a full helm, like some knight from Everlund.

The escapee hesitated and looked around cautiously. There were no signs of a struggle, other than the clear implications that this man was quite dead. He wasn?t moving at all, set in the snow in an awkward and broken pose, with the stillness Franko had seen all too often since the monstrous horde had poured over Nesmé.

Seeing no one around, the escapee inched his way toward the fallen knight. He gingerly grabbed the dead warrior by his arm and turned him a bit so he could look into the man?s face.

He shuddered at the gruesome visage. One eye had been pecked out, with more than half the poor man?s face shredded and torn. Franko dropped the corpse back down to the snow, then fell back into a sitting position, forcing some deep breaths to help steady himself.

He noted the man?s sword poking out from under one hip, and he was fast to it, easing it out of its sheath. Franko was an accomplished warrior, had ridden with the Riders of Nesmé, and he knew weapons. This one was fine indeed! And so was the armor, he noted, and the man was almost exactly his size.

?Thank you, brother,? he said with respect, and he went to the man and began his looting. With every piece he put on?the greaves, the breastplate, the paul-drons?Franko grew more confident. He strapped on the sword belt and breathed a sigh of relief. Even if his pursuers caught up to him now, he knew he would die a warrior, and Franko could ask for no more than that, particularly given the torturous executions he had witnessed in Nesmé under

the cruel gaze of the tyrant Duke Tiago. The city stank of bloated corpses.

?I should bury you, friend, but I haven?t the time,? he whispered. ?Please forgive me, leaving you to the crows. Please forgive me, stealing your sword. But never would I steal your honor.?

He knelt and said an Uthgardt prayer for the spirit of the dead man, then removed the dead man?s helmet, gently and respectfully pulling it free of the torn head.

Before Franko had even brought it back, he understood something was amiss.

He plopped the helmet on his head and jumped to his feet, determined to be away quickly, but even as he took his first stride, he was stopped by curiosity and turned back.

Something nagged at him, just beyond his conscious recognition. The wounds on the back?

He turned back to the corpse and this time suppressed his revulsion to take a good look at the poor man. The corpse had been rolled over in the process of looting it and that shredded face was clear to see.

?Marquen?? he gasped, and he looked closer, confirming his suspicion. ?Marquen,? he said, for surely this was the warrior Marquen of Silverymoon, who had moved to Nesmé a decade before. Franko?s shock turned quickly to confusion. He had seen Marquen die, just a tenday earlier, as part of the executions in the open square in Nesmé.

Marquen had been tied to a pair of stakes and beaten mercilessly by Tiago?s wife. Franko had watched as the vile Duchess Saribel Do?Urden had put her awful, venomous snake-headed whip to its cruel work. Again and again, the serpents struck, tearing Marquen?s shirt, tearing his flesh, filling him with poisonous fire.

And there was the tattered, bloody shirt, and Franko didn?t have to pull the ripped strands aside to know that the viper wounds were there in the flesh. Aye, this was Marquen, and Franko had watched Marquen die.

So how was he out here in the snow, a mile from the city, dressed in armor and carrying a sword?

?By the gods,? Franko whispered, figuring it out, and he leaped to his feet and ran off at full speed.

He neared a small ravine, and didn?t dare slow. Not until he was struck blind.

No, not blind, Franko realized, as he stumbled over the ledge and tumbled down, falling out of the globe of magical darkness.

He felt his shoulder pop out as he crashed into the rocky dell, but came right up and threw himself hard into a tree, jamming his limb back in place. He ignored the waves of nausea and the dimming consciousness. He had no time for that.

Indeed, Franko had no time at all, as he learned when he spun to find a small but deadly figure standing in front of him, looking quite amused.

Duke Tiago of Nesmé.

The drow smiled and raised his gloved hands, his small, translucent buckler strapped to his left forearm, and began to clap.

?You did well, iblith,? Tiago said. ?You traveled farther than I expected. A most worthy hunt, considering my prey is no more than a pathetic human.?

Franko glanced around, expecting to see some orc archers or a giant holding a boulder nearby. Or other drow.

?It is just me,? Tiago assured him. ?Why would I need more?? As he finished, he held out his arms.

And Franko leaped at him, sword cutting for the foul drow?s head.

But up came the shield, and its edge spiraled magically as it did. With each turn, the magnificent shield enlarged, and behind it, Tiago easily ducked the blow.

And out came the drow?s sword, so fast that Franko didn?t register the movement, or hear the star-filled blade sliding free of its scabbard.

Franko felt the bite of the tip, though, as it pierced his thigh. He grimaced and fell back into a defensive crouch, his sword slashing out sidelong to keep his enemy at bay.

But Tiago wasn?t advancing. Instead, he moved easily, circling Franko, just out of reach. ?Fight,? the drow said. ?There is only me. I?ve no friends nearby. Only me, only Tiago,

standing between you and your freedom.?

?You think this sport?? Franko spat at him, and he rushed and chopped with his sword, cleverly?he thought?pulling up short and breaking his momentum to stab straight ahead.

?Is it anything less?? a laughing Tiago said from back the other way, having somehow eluded Franko?s attack so fully that the stabbing sword was farther from Tiago?s flesh than it had been before Franko began the strike.

Franko licked his lips. The extent of that miss wasn?t promising. ?Just me,? Tiago teased, circling back the other way.

Franko, too, began to circle, studying the area to see if he might find some advantage in the uneven ground, trees, and rocks.

?Is that not a fair game, human?? Tiago asked. ?I even armed and armored you, finely so! I could have struck you dead while you robbed the corpse. I could have stopped you from fleeing Nesmé?a dozen archers watched you run out. They had their bows trained upon you even as you squeezed through the crack in the wall. I held their shots. I gave you a chance. All you need to do is defeat me, and as you?re nearly twice my size, that should prove simple enough.?

His voice never strained, never lost its composure, even though Franko came on in midspeech, ferociously chopping and stabbing, pressing ahead, trying to simply overwhelm the diminutive drow.

?Though I admit you are a bit clumsy,? Tiago added, and that last sentence was spoken from behind Franko, as the drow?s sword slashed across the man?s calf, tearing a painful line.

Franko turned and slashed with his blade, and staggered, hopping up on one foot as fiery agony filled his other leg.

Ahead sprang Tiago, his sword poking forward and turning subtly to avoid the desperate parry, slipping past to prod Franko in the shoulder, in the crease between breastplate and pauldron. The blade came again, stabbing a second time in the same place, and ahead yet again, and this time, as Franko wildly tried to protect that burning shoulder, Tiago shifted Vidrinath the other way, taking Franko in the crease between his right pauldron and breastplate.

The man fell back, waving his sword wildly to fend off the drow, who was not pursuing. As Franko?s weight came down on his torn leg, he stumbled and fell over backward, wildly trying to right himself, slashing his blade, desperate to keep the drow at bay.

Except the drow was still standing, back where he had stabbed the man.

Franko stared at him, hard and determined, pulling himself back to his feet, hating this drow all the more. Tiago was playing with him, taunting him by refusing to press the advantage.

Supremely confident.

Franko silently berated himself. He was overplaying his hand. Perhaps it was the size difference, as Tiago had hinted. Or maybe Franko?s supreme hatred of this false tyrant duke had stolen his better judgment. He knew he was a better fighter by far than he was showing against Tiago. He was a Rider of Nesmé, finely trained, and he knew better than to give in to his anger.

He told himself all of that, replayed the drow?s maneuvers, and nodded quietly as he considered a better approach to engage this skilled swordsman.

He moved ahead slowly.

Tiago stood there, his left hand on his hip, his sword tip down to the ground at his right side.

Tiago?s posture invited a fierce attack.

But Franko paced himself this time, eased his way forward, and kept his sword in tight, defensively. He understood now that Tiago?s seemingly unprepared posture was just that, ?seemingly.? The drow reacted too quickly for him to hope for an open strike, and indeed, the overbalancing thrust would get him stabbed yet again.

But now he knew.

He stepped his sword ahead in a measured and balanced thrust, a lazy and meaningless attack.

Too lazy, Franko thought. Too slow.

And his arms were too heavy.

He didn?t understand. He didn?t know the more common name of Tiago?s sword, Lullaby, and didn?t know that each strike had sent sleeping poison coursing into his body and blood.

But he knew that he was sluggish, and so he reached his sword out once more to keep the drow at bay until he could sort it out.

The drow wasn?t there.

Franko heard a laugh behind him, and he swung around as quickly as he could manage, sweeping his sword.

It got halfway around but no more, met with a sudden and vicious uppercut by Vidrinath. Franko?s sword went flying away, his severed hand still gripping it. The man brought the

stump of his arm in close, crying in pain and shock, hugging tight his bloody wrist.

?Run away,? Tiago said teasingly, and stabbed him again, this time in his fleshy rump. ?Flee, you fool!?

He stuck Franko again, and the man began his run and Tiago was close behind, poking him painfully. Then Tiago was beside him, taunting him, sticking him repeatedly, but never deeply, never a wound to kill him.

Desperate now, Franko threw himself at the drow. But the drow was too quick, and kicked out his ankles, dropping him hard to the ground.

And in came Vidrinath, and a sizable piece of Franko?s right ear flew away.

He was crying, frustrated and angry and hurt, but he stubbornly got his legs under him and began stumbling away.

And again Tiago paced him.

?You, human,? the drow said. ?You, yes you, you fool!? His sword tapped Franko on the

shoulder, but didn?t cut into any flesh this time, but rather, pointed ahead.

?You see that clearing beyond the birch?? Tiago asked. ?Run, fool. If you get there, I will not pursue you further!?

He ended with a hard slap across Franko?s rump with the flat of his blade.

?Ah, but you are too tired,? Tiago teased, pacing the man just behind, close enough to kill Franko with an easy thrust. ?Your legs are heavy. Aye, you can barely stay upright! Oh fie, but then I?ll have to kill you!?

He poked Franko in the rump again, and twisted his blade painfully for good measure. Tiago?s laugh chased him.

But Franko had an idea now. He felt as though he?d gained some insight into the sadistic drow. He slowed even more and staggered sideways as much as forward with every step. He didn?t think Tiago would kill him until the last moment, until he reached the birch tree, and he used that knowledge to change the cadence of the pursuit.

He got stabbed again, repeatedly, but never more than superficially, never intended to inflict true damage, but always to inflict more pain. But he held his course, his ruse. The birch was close now.

Franko stumbled and started to fall, enough to look good, but he burst ahead suddenly, using every ounce of weary strength he could muster to propel him to the birch tree and past it, diving out into the clearing.

He rolled onto his back, expecting the treacherous drow to be right above him, ready to kill him. To his surprise, though?indeed to his shock?Tiago had not come out past the birch.

?Well played!? the self-proclaimed Duke of Nesmé said, and he tipped his sword in salute. ?Come on, then!? Franko yelled at him, certain it was all a cruel taunt.

?I am a drow of my word, fool,? Tiago said. ?I am a royal duke, after all. I promised that I would pursue you no further, and so I shan?t. Indeed, you are free of my blade, though I expect your wounds to take you in the forest. If not, then you?ll come back, of course, with some pitiful army, and I will find you again and finish my kill. Next time, I will start with your eyes, so that you will not see the next blow falling.

?Ah, but you will hear me, and that voice, my voice, will frighten you, for it will portend the fall of Vidrinath upon your exposed flesh.?

And he laughed an awful laugh as Franko stumbled away across the wide field. He kept looking back, but Tiago was not pursuing.

So he turned ahead, determined to find the Uthgardt, determined?

The ground erupted in front of him, and a beast, gleaming stark white and colder than winter itself, came up from the snow.

?Oh fie,? Tiago lamented behind him. ?Did I not warn you that my dragon was waiting?? Franko screamed, feeling the warmth of his own piss running down his leg when those

terrible jaws opened wide, spear-like teeth closing around him. Up he went into the air, sidelong in the dragon?s maw, legs hanging out one side, head and shoulders out the other.

He kept screaming, but the dragon didn?t bite down, or maybe it did and he was already dead and just hadn?t realized it yet. He couldn?t know.

?I do find this enjoyable,? Tiago whispered in his ear.

Jolted by the voice so near, Franko composed himself just enough to turn and look the drow in the eye.

And in came the sword, surgically, and Franko?s right eye flipped free into the drow?s waiting hand.

?Dear Arauthator,? Tiago said to the dragon. ?Pray do not bite the life from him. Nay, swallow this proud one whole, that he can lay pressed in your belly, your juices melting him to nothingness.?

The dragon issued a long, low growl.

?He has no blade, I promise!? Tiago assured the beast.

Up went the head, tossing poor Franko inside?and down he went into the beast, helpless.

?I feel more a snake than a wyrm,? Arauthator complained. ?Is he wriggling?? the drow asked.

The dragon paused in a pensive pose. ?Whimpering, I think,? he answered. ?Good, good,? said Tiago.

?Are you done with your silly game, Husband?? asked another voice, and Tiago turned to see the approach of Saribel.

?I must find my pleasure where I can!? he said. ?Would that I could fly the Old White Death over Silverymoon to drop stones on the fools within! Would that I could assail Everlund??

?You cannot!? Saribel scolded. Tiago couldn?t argue; that command had come from Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre herself.

They were to sit quietly in their conquered lands and vast encampments. ?Let the folk of the Silver Marches take hope that the spring will bring relief? was Matron Mother Quenthel?s command.

Tiago understood the implications all too well, as did Saribel. The matron mother was making sure that no other surface kingdoms from beyond the Silver Marches? alliance of Luruar became involved in this war. The drow incursion could inspire no terror beyond the North; they would involve none but those kingdoms they had used their orc fodder to assail.

No one would raise an army and fight here because there was no ultimate victory, no lasting gains of land and conquest, to be found here, not on the battlefield at least. The campaign had never been about that.

?We have pressed them to the edge of doom, and we will let them wriggle free,? Tiago said. He turned to the dragon. ?But that one will not!?

Arauthator laughed, a strange and unnerving rumble, then belched, and from deep inside, a muffled cry of hopelessness and pain accompanied the burp.

?It is not about victory,? Tiago said accusatorily.

Saribel held her ground and even looked at him rather condescendingly. ?Define victory,? she said.

?It is about Matron Mother Quenthel securing her hold on Menzoberranzan,? said Tiago. ?You would wish differently? She is our benefactor, our reason for existence. House

Do?Urden is the domain of the matron mother as surely as are the halls of House Baenre you walked as a child.?

Tiago muttered a curse under his breath and turned away. He was full of battle lust,

craving victory and glory, and these pitiful hunting games he allowed himself with the captives of Nesmé were growing older and more boring with each tormented kill.

?We have already achieved victory,? Saribel said.

?Quenthel has!? Tiago spat before he could properly voice the name, and he blanched when the whip appeared in Saribel?s hand, and when Arauthator?s toothy maw moved right beside him, reminding him so poignantly that the word of the matron mother, and thus, the word of her priestesses, outranked the demands of the Duke of Nesmé.

?Matron Mother Quenthel,? he said and lowered his eyes. He silently told himself, though, that if Saribel struck at him with that whip, he would kill her then and there, and hopefully be done with the witch before the dragon ate him. In that event, with Saribel, the only witness, lying dead, perhaps he could convince great Arauthator that eating him would only complicate things.

But the blow from Saribel?s whip did not fall.

?Be of good spirit, Husband, for we too have won!? Saribel said, and replaced the weapon on her belt.

Tiago looked up at her and growled, ?We will be recalled soon.?

Saribel nodded. ?And even now, we can return to the city with dignity, as heroes of Menzoberranzan, victorious in the glorious campaign, and so take our place as royals of House Do?Urden.?

Tiago started to respond, but paused as he considered the lighthearted, joyous tone of Saribel. His eyes widened as he figured it out.

?You expect to replace her,? he said. ?Darthiir, Matron Mother of House Do?Urden. You expect ??

He stopped and stared, Saribel?s expression giving no indication that she meant to argue the point. And as he thought of it, as he thought of broken Dahlia, he found that he, too, could come to no other conclusion as to where all of this was leading. For Dahlia was darthiir, a surface elf, and her appointment as Matron Mother of House Do?Urden had been no more than a cruel joke Matron Mother Quenthel had perpetrated on the Ruling Council. An insult to the very traditions of the drow, of the unending hatred the dark elves held for their surface cousins. Quenthel had elevated Dahlia for no better reason than to prove that she could, and to prove, even more poignantly, that there was nothing the other matron mothers could do about it.

And so, yes, it all made sense that Saribel, noble daughter of House Xorlarrin, would ascend to House Do?Urden?s ruling seat when the filthy Dahlia had outlived her usefulness.

?Ha, but sure ye?re to fit in the line o? Battlehammer kings,? Ragged Dain said to King Connerad as they made their way to the Court of Citadel Felbarr, Connerad?s chosen entourage in tow. General Dagnabbet and Bungalow Thump were among that group, along with Little Arr Arr and another tough, black-bearded fellow Ragged Dain did not know.

But so were Drizzt Do?Urden and a human lass.

?Never could stick to yer own kind, ye danged Battlehammers!? Ragged Dain teased. ?Even when old King Bruenor went huntin? for Mithral Hall. Bah, but he was the only dwarf among

that group what found the place!?

Connerad laughed the good-natured jab away, but he knew it was true enough. In the war with the first Obould a century before, Connerad?s own father, the great Banak, had been overlooked as steward when Bruenor had fallen in battle. On Bruenor?s orders, a halfling had taken control of Mithral Hall.

A halfling! And with an army of decorated dwarves ready to step in!

Connerad couldn?t suppress a glance back at the dwarf he knew to be Bruenor as he considered the insult to his father. Banak Brawnanvil had brushed the whole incident away, mitigating the sting, and reminding his son that Regis had been beside Bruenor as friend and confidant for years and knew the old dwarf?s heart better than anyone.

The young dwarf in the procession noted Connerad?s glance and offered him a knowing wink, and Connerad found that his anger, what little there was, couldn?t hold. Bruenor had honored his father and family in the end, elevating the Brawnanvils to the throne of Mithral Hall.

?And how ?bout yerself, Little Arr Arr?? Ragged Dain said when they entered the gathering hall. ?Ye done good for yerself, so it?s seemin?. So are ye meanin? to sit with the Battlehammers or with yer own o? Felbarr? And when?re ye to go and see yer dear Ma, Uween? Did ye even send word to her, then? Tell her that ye?ve returned??

The young dwarf nodded. ?Battlehammers,? he said gruffly. ?That?s me place above all.? ?Yer Ma might not be agreein?,? Ragged Dain teased.

?Me Ma?s to find a lot to scramble her brain, don?t ye doubt,? the red-bearded young dwarf replied, and he snorted in emphasis.

The seven representatives of Mithral Hall took their seats on their appointed side of the triangular table King Emerus had constructed specifically for meetings of the three citadels. General Dagnabbet, Bungalow Thump, and Bruenor sat to Connerad?s right, Athrogate, Drizzt, and Catti-brie to the young king?s left.

King Emerus entered soon after and took his place, flanked by Ragged Dain and Parson Glaive, and last came the delegation, six dwarf officers from Citadel Adbar, led by the fierce Oretheo Spikes of the battleraging Wilddwarves.

After proper greetings, promises of friendship, eternal alliance, and no small amount of ale, King Emerus called the chamber to order and turned the proceedings over to King Connerad.

?What news from Mithral Hall, then?? Emerus bade his young but respected peer. ?Ye promised us great tidings, and I?m meanin? to hold ye to ?em!?

?Aye, but we could all use a bit o? good news then,? Oretheo Spikes added, and lifted his tankard in toast.

?Ye see that me friend here, Drizzt Do?Urden, has returned to our side,? King Connerad began, and he paused and looked to the dark elf ranger.

The dwarves at the other sides of the triangular table did bristle a bit, but ultimately lifted their tankards in toast to Drizzt.

Connerad offered Drizzt the floor.

?I fought at the defense of Nesmé,? Drizzt began.

?Nesmé has fallen,? King Emerus interrupted, and the expressions on the faces of the Battlehammer contingent and those from Citadel Adbar showed that to be new information indeed.

?Bah!? Athrogate snorted. ?But we knowed she couldn?t be holdin? for long.?

?A dragon arrived to bolster the Many-Arrows horde,? King Emerus explained. ?One ridden by a drow elf callin? himself Do?Urden.?

More grumbles came from the Adbar dwarves at that, but the Felbarrans remained stoic, having clearly already digested the news.

?I can say nothing to that claim,? Drizzt replied honestly. ?There is no surviving House Do?Urden that I know of, but I have not been to the city of my birth in long over a century now, and have no hopes or desires to ever return.?

He paused, and all eyes went to King Emerus, who nodded solemnly, indicating his acceptance of the explanation.

?My party was returning to Mithral Hall when we encountered this strange, darkened sky,? Drizzt explained. ?Then we encountered the western flank of the orc line camped outside of Nesmé.?

?Tricked ?em good,? Athrogate put in.

?Good enough for them to sack the town, so it?s seeming,? King Emerus said dryly.

?Bah, but it taked ?em long enough!? Athrogate roared in protest. ?And know that the fields?re filled with orc dead!?

?The town has fallen, so you say, and so it must be,? Drizzt interjected. ?It had not when my friends and I left through the tunnels of the Upperdark to get to Mithral Hall. Be assured that the taking of Nesmé was no easy task for the hordes of Many-Arrows. Thousands of goblins and orcs were slaughtered at her walls before we departed, and with the rotting stench of dead ogres and giants among them. They came against Nesmé?s walls day after day, and day after day, they were slaughtered.?

?This I have heard,? Emerus admitted. ?And yerself played a role in that??

?Aye,? said Drizzt. ?As did Athrogate of Felbarr here.? He patted Athrogate?s strong shoulder, but the dwarf?s eyes widened, and he looked up at Drizzt, seeming near panic.

?Felbarr?? King Emerus said, obviously caught by surprise. He looked to Parson Glaive, who could only shrug in confusion.

?I be so much older than I?m lookin?,? Athrogate admitted. ?Was here when Obould took the place. Didn?t e?er return.?

The Felbarr dwarves all glanced around, exchanging doubtful looks indeed.

?Not for mattering,? Athrogate said. ?Ain?t called Felbarr me home in two dwarves? lifetimes. Just Athrogate now. Just Athrogate.?

?We will talk, yerself and meself,? King Emerus said, and Athrogate looked back over his shoulder and cast a sour glance at Drizzt, who just patted him on the shoulder again.

?Athrogate was a hero of Nesmé,? Drizzt said, and he moved to stand behind Catti-brie, dropping his hands on her strong shoulders. ?As was this woman, my wife.?

?Ye seem to be favorin? human lasses with that fire hair, what ho!? Ragged Dain declared, and he lifted his tankard in toast to the woman.

?Indeed,? Drizzt agreed. ?And that will be explained shortly, I expect. Perhaps even by the fourth of my party who joins us this day.? He stepped to the side of Catti-brie and leaned over the table, nodding down the other end of the Battlehammer line to his dear friend, who nodded back.

?Little Arr Arr?? King Emerus asked with surprise. ?So ye?re with this one now, then, and

not with the Battlehammers?? ?With both,? Bruenor replied.

Emerus gave a snort and shook his head.

?Tale?s already got me head spinnin?,? Oretheo Spikes said from the Adbar side.

?Oh, but ye ain?t heared nothin? yet,? King Connerad assured him, assured all of them, and he lifted his pack from the floor and plopped it on the table in front of him, then reverently opened it to reveal a peculiar one-horned helmet.

?Ye e?er seen one akin to it?? he asked King Emerus. ?Looks like Bruenor?s own,? the king of Felbarr replied.

Connerad nodded, then suddenly slid the fabled item along the table to his right, past Dagnabbet and Bungalow Thump to the waiting hands of Little Arr Arr.

?Eh?? King Emerus and several others asked together.

Little Arr Arr lifted the one-horned helm in his strong hands and rolled it around, looking it over from every angle. Then, looking straight at Emerus, he plopped the helm, the old crown of Mithral Hall, atop his head.

? ?Ere now, what?re ye about?? King Emerus demanded.

?Ye?re not knowin? me, then?? Bruenor asked slyly. ?After all we been through together?? Emerus wore a curious expression and turned to Connerad for an answer.

?That one there, the one ye were knowin? as Little Arr Arr, son o? Reginald Roundshield and Uween,? Connerad began, and he paused and collected his breath, even shaking his head as if he, too, could hardly believe what he was about to declare.

?Me name?s Bruenor,? the young dwarf in the one-horned helm interjected. ?Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth King and Tenth King o? Mithral Hall. Son o? Bangor, me Da, who ye knowed well, me friend Emerus. Aye, son o? Bangor, that?d be me!?

?Ye dishonor yer Ma!? Ragged Dain scolded and came forward over the table threateningly. But Bruenor didn?t blink.

?And so too son o? Reginald Roundshield,? he said. ?And born again of Uween, me Ma, and she?s a fine one, don?t ye doubt.?

?Delusion!? Ragged Dain insisted. ?Blasphemy!? added Oretheo Spikes.

?Truth in tellin?!? Bruenor spat at both of them. ?Bruenor?s me name, the one gived me by me Da, Bangor!?

?Ye canno? believe this,? King Emerus said to Connerad. He turned fast to Drizzt, though, as he spoke. ?Surely yerself?s knowin? better!?

?Bruenor,? Drizzt said slowly and deliberately, nodding. ?It is.?

?Don?t you know him, then, King Emerus?? asked the woman beside Drizzt. ?And don?t you recognize me??

?Now, how might I be doing that?? Emerus asked, or almost asked. The last word caught in his throat as he took a closer look at this auburnhaired young woman sitting beside the dark elf.

?By the gods,? he muttered.

?Catti-brie?? Ragged Dain added, just as breathlessly.

?Aye, by the gods,? the woman answered. ?By Mielikki, most of all.?

?And with the blessings o? Moradin, Dumathoin, and Clangeddin, don?t ye doubt,? Bruenor

added. ?I been to their throne in Gauntlgrym, I tell ye. Thought I?d be drinking at their hall, but they had other plans.?

?And so we?re here, in this time of need,? Catti-brie added.

The others started to cheer, but King Emerus cut that short. ?No, canno? be,? he said. ?No, but I knowed ye when ye were here, I did! Little Arr Arr! I went to yer Ma and saw ye schooled in the fightin? ??

The King of Citadel Felbarr paused there, the memory catching him by surprise. He looked to Parson Glaive and Ragged Dain, and they each smiled and nodded, also recalling the way this young dwarf, the son of Reginald Roundshield, had toyed with dwarflings years beyond his age.

?No, but it couldn?t be all a lie,? Emerus insisted. ?Ye was right under me eyes! Yer Da was me friend, captain o? me guard! Ye canno? dishonor him now in such a way!?

?Ain?t no dishonor,? Bruenor insisted, shaking his head. ?I done what needed doin?. I could no? tell ye, though don?t ye doubt but I wanted to!?

?Blasphemy!? Emerus shouted.

?Wait,? Ragged Dain interrupted, and it seemed a fortunate coincidence that the old dwarf picked that time to slow down the momentum of King Emerus. Ragged Dain turned to Emerus and nodded an apology, and when the king bade him continue, he spun back on Bruenor. ?Then ye?re sayin? it was King Bruenor who threw himself at that giant in the Rauvins? King Bruenor who gived all but his life so that his fellows could get away??

?Seen a giant, sticked a giant,? Bruenor said matter-of-factly and with a shrug, though he did wince a bit at the painful memory. ?And aye, Mandarina Dobberbright?? he asked, looking to Emerus. ?Know that she saved me, as did yer second there, good Parson Glaive.?

Ragged Dain, King Emerus, and Bruenor looked to the high priest of Felbarr together, finding Parson Glaive standing and staring dumbfounded then, his jaw hanging open. ?It?s true,? he whispered breathlessly.

?Aye, so I said,? Bruenor replied. ?Mandarina tended me, and Dain and the boys bringed me back, though I?m not for rememberin? much o? that part!?

?No,? Parson Glaive said. ?Yerself ? ye?re Bruenor, and ye were Bruenor then.? ?Always been,? Bruenor answered, but King Emerus waved him to silence. ?What?d?ye know?? the king demanded of his high priest.

?When ye waked up after the fight in the Rauvins, back in Felbarr,? Parson Glaive said to Bruenor, ?I telled ye that ye might?ve been goin? to meet yer Da, and I was meanin? Arr Arr, course, as he went off to the table o? Moradin. But ye were half out o? yer wits, and ye said ??

?Bangor,? Bruenor replied.

King Emerus blinked repeatedly, turning from Parson Glaive to Bruenor and back again. ?Even then, ye knowed,? Ragged Dain whispered.

?Always knowed, from the day o? me birth.?

?Always knowed? And ye didn?t tell me?? Emerus demanded. Bruenor stood and bowed. ?Weren?t yer worry,? was all he offered.

?And was yerself that got yerself to Mithral Hall, to train with them Gutbusters, so ye said,? Ragged Dain added.

?Heigh ho!? Bungalow Thump had to put in.

The three from Citadel Felbarr exchanged looks, and Parson Glaive said with complete confidence, ?By the gods, but it?s him.?

?By the gods!? Oretheo Spikes and the rest of the Adbar contingent, King Emerus and Ragged Dain all shouted together, and they came to their feet as one, shaking their hairy heads, clapping each other on the back and crying, ?Huzzah to King Bruenor!?

?Aye, but the hopes just brightened and the dark sky ain?t so dark!? King Emerus proclaimed. ?Bruenor, me old friend, but how is it so?? He crawled across the table to offer a firm handshake, then pushed in closer and wrapped King Bruenor in a great hug.

?Drinks! Drinks!? he yelled to the attendants. ?Oh, but we?ll be puttin? ?em back for a tenday and more. Huzzah for Bruenor!?

And the cheering began anew, and the attendants came rushing in, foam flying, and the somber council quickly became a cacophony of toasts and cheers. Bruenor let the celebration go on for a while, but finally begged them all to take their seats once more.

?Not much to be cheerin? if the Silver Marches?re to fall,? he warned.

?And ye?re King o? Mithral Hall again?? Emerus asked Bruenor as soon as they had all settled back into their seats. The King of Citadel Felbarr looked to Connerad as he spoke the dangerous question.

Bruenor, too, glanced over at Connerad, who nodded. In that moment, it looked to all that Connerad would go along with whatever Bruenor decided. That subservience was not lost on King Emerus and Ragged Dain, both of whom gasped at the sight.

?Nah,? said Bruenor. ?Best choice meself ever made as king was giving me crown to Banak Brawnanvil, and him, to his boy Connerad. Mithral Hall?s got a king, and as fine a king as she?s e?er known. An ungrateful wretch I?d be if I called for me throne back now!?

?Then what?? asked Emerus.

?I been to Nesmé, and left Nesmé right afore she fell, so ye?re sayin?,? Bruenor answered. ?Me and me friends?ve come to tell ye to get out o? yer holes. Now?s the time, or there?s no time to be found! The land?s crawling with orcs, and they ain?t meanin? to go back to their holes. Nah, they?re taking it all, I tell ye.?

?We?ve heared as much from the couriers of the Knights in Silver,? Connerad added.

?Bah! But what?d?we care for them human lands?? King Emerus spouted. ?Layin? all the blame at our feet?at yer own feet, if ye?re who ye claim to be and who we think ye to be!?

?I am, and so they will, and so I won?t be caring!? Bruenor declared. ?I?m knowin? better. Me name?s on that damned treaty, aye, but was th? other kingdoms what put it there a hunnerd years ago, and yerself?s knowin? the truth o? that, me friend.?

King Emerus nodded.

?But now?s no time for blamin?,? Bruenor went on. ?We got thousands o? orcs to kill, me boys! Tens o? thousands! All o? Luruar stands together, or all o? Luruar?s sure to fall!?

?Ain?t no Luruar,? said Oretheo Spikes. He rose up from his seat and slowly walked around the sharp-angled corner of the table, moving deliberately for Bruenor. ?Just a bunch o? elves and humans dancing about three dwarf forts. Aye, and they?re to fall,? he said when he got right up to Bruenor, and he began carefully looking over the strange dwarf. ?All of ?em, and there ain?t a durned thing we can do to stop it.?

?We put our three as one and hammer them orcs ?? Bruenor started.

?We canno? get out,? Oretheo Spikes explained, and still he looked the strange dwarf up

and down, once again looking for some sign that the dwarf was an imposter, it seemed. And who could blame him?

Into the midst of a besieged and battered trio of citadels comes a young dwarf claiming to be a long-dead king, and telling the dwarves to come out of their impregnable fortresses.

?Oh, but we tried,? Oretheo went on, and he started back for his seat. ?King Harnoth won?t stay in his hall, so full o? grief is he for his brother, Bromm, who got himself murdered to death in the Cold Vale. I seen that murder, aye, me king frozen to death by the blow of a white dragon! Aye, a true dragon, I tell ye, and then me dear king got his head cut away by th? ugliest orc, Warlord Hartusk of Dark Arrow Keep. Oh, aye, young Bruenor, if that?s to be yer name,? he added and looked past Bruenor to Drizzt, ?and riding the wyrm was a drow elf, much akin to the one ye bringed in with ye.?

He turned his eye squarely on Bruenor. ?We?d lose half our dwarves and more tryin? to get out o? Adbar. Damned orcs canno? get in, but me boys canno? get out?and I ain?t for losing half o? them trying. Or might that be what ye?re lookin? to see??

The thick suspicion in Oretheo?s voice was not lost on Bruenor or any of the others from Mithral Hall.

And again, who could blame him?

?I?m hearin? ye,? Bruenor assured him, nodding solemnly. ?And me old heart?s breaking for yer King Bromm. A good one, I hear, though I knowed his Da better, to be sure.?

With a glance at Connerad, Bruenor leaped upon the table and stood to address them all. ?And I ain?t sayin?, and let none be sayin?, that we?re to crawl out and lose half our boys. Not for the Silver Marches, nay. But we?re better off by far in saving what?s left o? the place and not giving all the land above us to them damned orcs.?

?How, then?? asked Oretheo Spikes. ?Adbar canno? get out, and the rings about Felbarr and Mithral Hall ain?t any thinner.?

?One?s got to lead,? Bruenor said. ?One to break out and go to help the next in line. If we?re talkin? smart back and forth, we can coax th? orcs off the next and smash ?em from both sides.?

?Then two free go to the third?Adbar?d be me guess?and we?re out an? runnin?,? said King Emerus.

Bruenor nodded.

?Aye, but who, then?? asked Oretheo Spikes. ?Who?s first out? For sure that hall?s to suffer like none?ve been punched since Obould first came down from the Spine o? the World!?

Emerus nodded grimly at Oretheo?s reasoning, then slowly swung around to regard Bruenor.

?It?ll be the boys from Mithral Hall,? Connerad answered before Bruenor could, and all three turned to him with surprise.

?Aye,? Connerad said, nodding. ?I know none o? ye?re blamin? Mithral Hall and me friend Bruenor for what?s come crashin? down on us, but it?s right that me and me boys find our way out?out and over to Felbarr is me guess.?

Emerus looked to Bruenor, who shrugged and deferred back to the rightful king of Mithral Hall.

?We?ll find a way,? Connerad insisted, ?or I?m a bearded gnome!?

Bruenor started to agree, but that last remark, once his trademark vow, caught him off

guard so completely that he nearly toppled off the table. He stared at Connerad, who offered him a grin and a wink in explanation.

?Well, huzzah and heigh-ho to Mithral Hall then,? said King Emerus. ?And if ye?re findin? yer way out and across the Surbrin, know that Felbarr?ll be itchin? to get out and join ye in the slaughter.?

?Ye?re talkin? months,? Oretheo Spikes reminded them all, ?for winter?s soon to be deep about us.?

?Then yerself?s to keep the way from Adbar to Felbarr open,? King Emerus told him. ?And Felbarr?ll keep the way clear to Mithral Hall while Connerad and his boys get ready to break them orcs.

?So there ye have our answer, King Bruenor, me old friend,? Emerus went on. ?I got no love for the folk o? Silverymoon or Everlund, nor am I losin? much sleep for the folk o? Sundabar. Aye, but they?ve treated yer memory with disrespect, and called me own boys cowards for the slaughter at the Redrun, and now I wouldn?t lose a boy to save a one o? them towns! But aye, ye?re right in that we?re better with them orcs chased off and killed to death. Ye get yerselves out and we?ll watch for ye.?

He shifted his gaze to take in Connerad as well. ?But if ye canno? get out, ye won?t be findin? Felbarr leading the way up.?

?Nor Adbar,? Oretheo Spikes warned.

Bruenor and Connerad exchanged concerned glances, then Bruenor looked over to Drizzt, who nodded.

They really couldn?t have asked for more than that.

None were happy after leaving that meeting that day in Citadel Felbarr, but the whispering echoed in every hall in Felbarr soon after, as word that their own Little Arr Arr had returned with his spectacular announcement.

King Bruenor? Could it be?

Uween Roundshield was hard at work at her blacksmithing when she heard the whispers. She wasted no time in closing down her forge and heading back to her home. Overwhelmed and confused, she didn?t want to discuss the startling news. She really had no idea how she actually felt about it. If the whispers were true, she was the Queen Mother of Mithral Hall, a place she had never even visited and of which she knew almost nothing.

Whatever excitement that strange and unexpected title might inspire was surely tempered, though: If this was King Bruenor, then what of her Little Arr Arr? What of the child she had nurtured? For eighteen years, he had been her boy?not without trials, certainly, but not without love, either.

But how much of it was a lie?

She thought of the last month he had been in her home, itching to be on the road to Mithral Hall. So he knew then, she realized. Possibly, he had known for all his life.

And he hadn?t told her.

She dropped her thick apron on the counter in her entry hall and plopped down heavily on a chair at her dining table, feeling much older than her hundred and ten years. How she

missed her husband in this difficult moment. She needed someone to lean on, someone to help her sort through this ? insanity.

?I come home, Ma,? came a familiar voice from the hallway behind her. Uween froze in place, her thoughts whirling.

?I hope ye?re to forgive me for going to King Emerus first, but I seen the war, and it?s no pretty thing,? Bruenor said, moving slowly toward the woman.

Uween didn?t?couldn?t?look over at him. She kept her head bowed into her hands, trying to clear her mind, trying to throw aside her fears and grief and simply let her heart guide her. She heard her boy approaching, and couldn?t deny the flutter in her heart.

?Ma?? Bruenor said, dropping a hand on her shoulder.

Uween spun on him and leaped up from her seat, and even in the motion, she wasn?t sure whether she?d punch him or hug him. She went with the hug, crushing her boy tight against her.

He reciprocated, and Uween felt the warmth, the sincere love coming back at her. ?King Bruenor, they?re sayin?,? she whispered.

?Aye, ?tis true, but that?s a part o? me,? he whispered back. ?Uween?s boy, Reginald?s boy, I be, and proud of it, don?t ye doubt.?

?But ye?re this other one, too,? Uween said when she composed herself. She pulled back a bit to look her son in the eye.

?Aye, Bruenor Battlehammer, son o? Bangor and Caydia, and don?t ye know but that I?m shakin? me head every time I?m thinking about it!? Bruenor replied with a self-deprecating laugh. ?Two Mas, two Das, two lines o? blood.?

?And one?s royal.?

Bruenor nodded. ?Still got me royal blood. Been to Gauntlgrym, to the Throne o? the Dwarf Gods, and ye canno? sit on it if ?? His voice trailed away, and Uween blushed, recognizing that she hadn?t hid her disinterest well enough. She didn?t care about his other Ma and Da, or this whole King Bruenor business. Nay, this was her Little Arr Arr and not some Battlehammer!

?I?m not meanin? to hurt ye,? Bruenor said. ?It?s the last thing I?d be wanting to do.? ?Then what?s this craziness that?s come over ye??

?It?s not. Me name?s Bruenor?always been. By the grace of a goddess was I brought back from the grave.?

?So someone telled ye!?

?No,? Bruenor said somberly, shaking his head. ?No. It is not a tale needin? telling, for it?s one I?ve walked awake.?

?And what?s that meanin??? Uween started to ask, but Bruenor?s expression, deadly serious and certain, clued her to another direction. ?How long ye knowin? this??

?Whole time.?

?And what?s that to mean??

?Whole time,? Bruenor repeated. ?From me old life to me death, to the forest o? Catti-brie?s goddess, to the womb o? Uween. I knowed who I was.?

?From the moment ye was born again?? ?Before,? Bruenor said.

Uween fell back, overwhelmed, confused, and horrified to think that she held some

sentient, knowing adult creature in her womb! What was he claiming? What madness was this?

?Ye spent the better part of a year in me belly, ye?re sayin??? she gasped. ?No,? Bruenor replied. ?I come in as I was comin? out. At the time o? birth ?? ?Oh, but ye?re a fat liar!?

?No.?

?No babe?s to be knowin? that! No memories go that far back, for any of us!?

Bruenor shrugged. ?I can tell ye every bit o? the day yer husband, me Da, did no? come back. When Parson Glaive and King Emerus come to yer door.?

Before she could even think of the motion, Uween slugged him in the face. She gasped and brought her hands to her mouth, tears flowing freely. ?Ye knew in the crib?? she asked breathlessly. ?Ye knew and ye did no? tell me? What ? what madness??

?I could no?, and ye?d not have believed me,? Bruenor said. He gave a little snort. ?Are ye even believin? me now, I?m wonderin?? It was me own secret and me own burden, and why I had to go.?

?To Mithral Hall?? She tried to sound understanding, now that her anger had manifested itself with the strike. She had let her horror overtake her, but only briefly, she decided. Only briefly.

?Through Mithral Hall,? Bruenor answered. ?And all the way to the Sword Coast.? ?Did ye tell ?em? Them boys from Mithral Hall??

?Nah,? Bruenor said, shaking his head. ?Not till I come back now with me friends aside me ?and some o? them went through death, too. That was the deal with the goddess, and I was oath-bound. And oh, don?t ye doubt that the throne of our gods let me know their anger when I was thinkin? o? breakin? that oath!?

?Ye keep claimin? the gods?re on yer side then.?

?I know what I know, and I know who I be. And I be Bruenor, and remember all o? that other life I knew. The life afore I died.?

Uween nodded, beginning to digest it all, and telling herself that she had no choice but to accept it.

?And ye?re still me Ma, I?m hopin?, but course the call?s yer own to make.? Uween started to nod?how could she not love this one, even if he wasn?t ?

The woman froze, her face locking into an expression of pure shock. ?Me own boy,? she finally managed to whisper after a long, long pause. ?Me own boy ??

?Aye, if ye?ll have me.?

?Not yerself! Me boy what was in there,? she said, and rubbed her belly. ?What?d ye do to him then? Where?s me boy o? Reginald?s seed??

Bruenor sucked in his breath and held up his hands helplessly, clearly at a loss.

Uween be

Date: 2016-06-13; view: 176