The Crystal Shard (19 page)

The first real test of the dwarf’s expertise came when he overlaid the rune carvings with the gem inside the mountain symbol of Dumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets. The lines of the god’s symbol aligned perfectly with those of the runes, obscuring the secret tracings of power.

Bruenor knew then that his work was nearly complete. He removed the heavy warhammer from its clamp and took out the small leather bag. He had to take several deep breaths to steady himself, for this was the final and most decisive test of his skill. He loosened the cord at the top of the bag and marveled at the gentle shimmering of the diamond dust in the soft light of the moon.

From behind the ridge, Drizzt Do’Urden tensed in anticipation, but he was careful not to disturb his friend’s complete concentration.

Bruenor steadied himself again, then suddenly snapped the bag into the air, releasing its contents high into the night. He tossed the bag aside, grasped the warhammer in both hands, and raised it above his head. The dwarf felt his very strength being sucked from him as he uttered the words of power, but he would not truly know how well he had performed until his work was complete. The level of perfection of his carvings determined the success of his intonations,
for as he had etched the runes onto the weapon, their strength had flowed into his heart. This power then drew the magical dust to the weapon and its power, in turn, could be measured by the amount of shimmering diamond dust it captured.

A fit of blackness fell over the dwarf. His head spun, and he did not understand what kept him from toppling. But the consuming power of the words had gone beyond him. Though he wasn’t even conscious of them, the words continued to flow from his lips in an undeniable stream, sapping more and more of his strength. Then, mercifully, he was falling, though the void of unconsciousness took him long before his head hit the ground.

Drizzt turned away and slumped back against the rocky ridge; he, too, was exhausted from the spectacle. He didn’t know if his friend would survive this night’s ordeal, yet he was thrilled for Bruenor. For he had witnessed the dwarf’s most triumphant moment, even if Bruenor had not, as the hammer’s mithral head flared with the life of magic and pulled in the shower of diamond.

And not a single speck of the glittering dust had escaped Bruenor’s beckon.

ulfgar sat high up on the northern face of Bruenor’s Climb, his eyes trained on the expanse of the rocky valley below, intently seeking any movement that might indicate the dwarf’s return. The barbarian came to this spot often to be alone with his thoughts and the mourn of the wind. Directly before him, across the dwarven vale, were Kelvin’s Cairn and the northern section of Lac Dinneshere. Between them lay the flat stretch of ground known as Icewind Pass that led to the northeast and the open plain. And for the barbarian, the pass that led to his homeland. Bruenor had explained that he would be gone for a few days, and at first Wulfgar was happy for the relief from the dwarf’s constant grumbling and criticism. But he found his relief short-lived.

“Worried for him, are you?” came a voice behind him. He didn’t have to turn to know that it was Catti-brie.

He left the question unanswered, figuring that she had asked it rhetorically anyway and would not believe him if he denied it.

“He’ll be back,” Catti-brie said with a shrug in her voice. “Bruenor’s as hard as mountain stone, and there is nothing on the
tundra that can stop him.”

Now the young barbarian did turn to consider the girl. Long ago, when a comfortable level of trust had been reached between Bruenor and Wulfgar, the dwarf had introduced the young barbarian to his “daughter,” a human girl the barbarian’s own age.

She was an outwardly calm girl, but packed with an inner fire and spirit that Wulfgar had been unaccustomed to in a woman. Barbarian girls were raised to keep their thoughts and opinions, unimportant by the standards of men, to themselves. Like her mentor, Catti-brie said exactly what was on her mind and left little doubt as to how she felt about a situation. The verbal sparring between her and Wulfgar was nearly constant and often heated, but still, Wulfgar was glad to have a companion his own age, someone who didn’t look down at him from a pedestal of experience.

Catti-brie had helped him through the difficult first year of his indenture, treating him with respect (although she rarely agreed with him) when he had none for himself. Wulfgar even had the feeling that she had something indirectly to do with Bruenor’s decision to take Wulfgar under his tutorship.

She was his own age, but in many ways Catti-brie seemed much older, with a solid inner sense of reality that kept her temperament on an even level. In other ways, however, such as the skipping spring in her step, Catti-brie would forever be a child. This unusual balance of spirit and calm, of serenity and unbridled joy, intrigued Wulfgar and kept him off-balance whenever he spoke with the girl.

Of course, there were other emotions that put Wulfgar at a disadvantage when he was with Catti-brie. Undeniably, she was beautiful, with thick waves of rich, auburn hair rolling down over her shoulders and the darkest blue, penetrating eyes that would make any suitor blush under their knowing scrutiny. Still, there was something beyond any physical attraction that interested Wulfgar. Catti-brie was beyond his experience, a young woman who did not fit the role as it had been defined to him on the tundra. He wasn’t sure if he liked this independence or not. But he found himself unable to deny the attraction that he felt for her.

“You come up here often, do you not?” Catti-brie asked. “What is it you look for?”

Wulfgar shrugged, not fully knowing the answer himself. “Your home?”

“That, and other things that a woman would not understand.”

Catti-brie smiled away the unintentional insult. “’Tell me, then,” she pressed, hints of sarcasm edging her tone. “Maybe my ignorance will bring a new perspective to these problems.” She hopped down the rock to circle the barbarian and take a seat on the ledge beside him.

Wulfgar marveled at her graceful movements. Like the polarity of her curious emotional blend, Catti-brie also proved an enigma physically. She was tall and slender, delicate by all appearances, but growing into womanhood in the caverns of the dwarves, she was accustomed to hard and heavy work.

“Of adventures and an unfulfilled vow,” Wulfgar said mysteriously, perhaps to impress the young girl, but moreso to reinforce his own opinion about what a woman should and should not care about.

“A vow you mean to fulfill,” Catti-brie reasoned, “as soon as you’re given the chance.”

Wulfgar nodded solemnly. “It is my heritage, a burden passed on to me when my father was killed. The day will come …” He let his voice trail away, and he looked back longingly to the emptiness of the open tundra beyond Kelvin’s Cairn.

Catti-brie shook her head, the auburn locks bouncing across her shoulders. She saw beyond Wulfgar’s mysterious facade enough to understand that he meant to undertake a very dangerous, probably suicidal, mission in the name of honor. “What drives you, I cannot tell. Luck to you on your adventure, but if you’re taking it for no better reason than you have named, you’re wasting your life.”

“What could a woman know of honor?” Wulfgar shot back angrily.

But Catti-brie was not intimidated and did not back down. “What indeed?” she echoed. “Do you think that you hold it all in your oversized hands for no better reason than what you hold in your pants?”

Wulfgar blushed a deep red and turned away, unable to come to terms with such nerve in a woman.

“Besides,” Catti-brie continued, “you can say what you want about why you have come up here this day. I know that you’re worried about Bruenor, and I’ll hear no denying.”

“You know only what you desire to know!”

“You are a lot like him,” Catti-brie said abruptly, shifting the subject and disregarding Wulfgar’s comments. “More akin to the dwarf than you’d ever admit.” She laughed. “Both stubborn, both proud, and neither about to admit an honest feeling for the other. Have it your own way, then, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale. To me you can lie, but to yourself…there’s a different tale!” She hopped from her perch and skipped down the rocks toward the dwarven caverns.

Wulfgar watched her go, admiring the sway of her slender hips and the graceful dance of her step, despite the anger that he felt. He didn’t stop to think of why he was so mad at Catti-brie.

He knew that if he did, he would find, as usual, that he was angry because her observations hit the mark.

Drizzt Do’Urden kept a stoic vigil over his unconscious friend for two long days. Worried as he was about Bruenor and curious about the wondrous warhammer, the drow remained a respectful distance from the secret forge.

Finally, as morning dawned on the third day, Bruenor stirred and stretched. Drizzt silently padded away, moving down the path he knew the dwarf would take. Finding an appropriate clearing, he hastily set up a small campsite.

The sunlight came to Bruenor as only a blur at first, and it took him several minutes to reorient himself to his surroundings. Then his returning vision focused on the shining glory of the warhammer.

Quickly, he glanced around him, looking for signs of the fallen dust. He found none, and his anticipation heightened. He was trembling once again as he lifted the magnificent weapon, turning it over in his hands, feeling its perfect balance and incredible strength. Bruenor’s
breath flew away when he saw the symbols of the three gods on the mithral, diamond dust magically fused into their deeply etched lines. Entranced by the apparent perfection of his work, Bruenor understood the emptiness his father had spoken of. He knew that he would never duplicate this level of his craft, and he wondered if, knowing this, he would ever be able to lift his smithy hammer again.

Trying to sort through his mixed emotions, the dwarf put the silver mallet and chisel back into their golden coffer and replaced the scroll in its tube, though the parchment was blank and the magical runes would never reappear. He realized that he hadn’t eaten in several days, and his strength hadn’t fully recovered from the drain of the magic. He collected as many things as he could carry, hoisted the huge war-hammer over his shoulder, and trudged off toward his home.

The sweet scent of roasting coney greeted him as he came upon Drizzt Do’Urden’s camp.

“So, yer back from yer travels,” he called in greeting to his friend.

Drizzt locked his eyes onto the dwarf’s, not wanting to give away his overwhelming curiosity for the warhammer. “At your request, good dwarf,” he said, bowing low. “Surely you had enough people looking for me to expect that I’d return.”

Bruenor conceded the point, though for the present he only offered absently, “I needed ye,” as an explanation. A more pressing need had come over him at the sight of the cooking meat.

Drizzt smiled knowingly. He had already eaten and had caught and cooked this coney especially for Bruenor. “Join me?” he asked.

Before he had even finished the offer, Bruenor was eagerly reaching for the rabbit. He stopped suddenly, though, and turned a suspicious eye upon the drow.