R.A. Salvatore - The Icewind Dale Trilogy - 2 - Streams of Silver

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We've dug our holes and hallowed caves

Put goblin foes in shallow graves

This day our work is just begun

In the mines where silver rivers run

Beneath the stone the metal gleams

Torches shine on silver streams

Beyond the eyes of the spying sun

In the mines where silver rivers run

The hammers chime on Mithril pure

As dwarven mines in days of yore

A craftsman's work is never done
In the mines where silver rivers run
To dwarven gods we sing our praise
Put another orc in a shallow grave
We know our work has just begun
In the land where silver rivers run
As with everything I do,
To my wife, Diane
And to the most important people
in our lives
Bryan, Geno, and Caitlin
 
    Prelude
    Maps
    Book 1: Searches
    Chapter 1     A Dagger at Their Backs
    Chapter 2     City of Sails
    Chapter 3     Night Life
    Chapter 4     The Conjuring
    Chapter 5     The Crags
    Chapter 6     Sky Ponies
    Chapter 7     Dagger and Staff
    Book 2: Allies
    Chapter 8     To the Peril of Low-Flying Birds
    Chapter 9     There is No Honor
    Chapter 10     Bonds of Reputation
    Chapter 11     Silverymoon
    Chapter 12     The Trollmoors
    Chapter 13     The Last Run
    Chapter 14     Star Light, Star Bright
    Chapter 15     The Golem's Eyes
    Book 3: Trails Anew
    Chapter 16     Days of Old
    Chapter 17     The Challenge
    Chapter 18     The Secret of Keeper's Dale
    Chapter 19     Shadows
    Chapter 20     End of a Dream
    Chapter 21     Silver in the Shadows
    Chapter 22     The Dragon of Darkness
    Chapter 23     The Broken Helm

Chapter 24 Eulogy for Mithril Hall

Epilogue

About the Author

Prelude

On a dark throne in a dark place perched the dragon of shadow: Not a very large worm,

but foulest of the foul, its mere presence, blackness; its talons, swords worn from a thousand

thousand kills; its maw ever warm with the blood of victims; its black breath, despair.

A raven's coat was its tested scales, so rich in their blackness that they shimmered in

colors, a scintillating facade of beauty for a soulless monster. Its minions named it

Shimmergloom and paid it all honor.

Gathering its strength over the course of centuries, as dragons do, Shimmergloom kept its

wings folded back and moved not at all, except to swallow a sacrifice or to punish an

insolent underling. It had done its part to secure this place, routing the bulk of the dwarven

army that stood to face its allies.

How well the dragon had eaten that day! The hides of dwarves were tough and muscled,

but a razor-toothed maw was well suited to such a meal.

And now the dragon's many slaves did all the work, bringing it food and heeding to its

every desire. The day would come when they would need the power of the dragon again, and

Shimmergloom would be ready. The huge mound of plundered treasures beneath it fueled

the dragon's strength, and in this respect, Shimmergloom was surpassed by none of its kind,

possessing a hoard beyond the imagination of the richest kings.

And a host of loyal minions, willing slaves to the dragon of darkness.

* * * * *

The chill wind that gave Icewind Dale its name whistled across their ears, its incessant

groan eliminating the casual conversation the four friends usually enjoyed. They moved west

across the barren tundra, and the wind, as always, came from the east, behind them,

quickening their already strong pace.

Their posture and the determined drive of their strides reflected the eagerness of a newly

begun quest, but the set of each adventurer's face revealed a different perspective of the

journey.

The dwarf, Bruenor Battlehammer, leaned forward from his waist, his stocky legs

pumping mightily beneath him, and his pointed nose, poking out above the shag of his

wagging red beard, led the way. He seemed set in stone, apart from his legs and beard, with

his many-notched axe held firmly before him in his gnarled hands, his shield, emblazoned

with the standard of the foaming mug, strapped tightly on the back of his overstuffed pack,

and his head, adorned in a many-dented horned helm, never turning to either side. Neither

did his eyes deviate from the path and rarely did they blink. Bruenor had initiated this

journey to find the ancient homeland of Clan Battlehammer, and though he fully realized that

the silvery halls of his childhood were hundreds of miles away, he stomped along with the

fervor of one whose long-awaited goal is clearly in sight.

Beside Bruenor, the huge barbarian, too, was anxious. Wulfgar loped along smoothly, the

great strides of his long legs easily matching the dwarf's rolling pace. There was a sense of

urgency about him, like a spirited horse on a short rein. Fires hungry for adventure burned in

his pale eyes as clearly as in Bruenor's, but unlike the dwarf, Wulfgar's gaze was not fixed

upon the straight road before them. He was a young man out to view the wide world for the

first time and he continually looked about, soaking up every sight and sensation that the

landscape had to offer.

He had come along to aid his friends on their adventure, but he had come, as well, to

expand the horizons of his own world. The entirety of his young life had been spent within

the isolating natural boundaries of lcewind Dale, limiting his experiences to the ancient ways

of his fellow barbarian tribesmen and the frontier peoples of Ten-Towns.

There was more out there, Wulfgar knew, and he was determined to grasp as much of it as

he possibly could.

Less interested was Drizzt Do'Urden, the cloaked figure trotting easily beside Wulfgar.

His floating gait showed him to be of elven heritage, but the shadows of his low-pulled cowl

suggested something else. Drizzt was a drow, a black elf, denizen of the lightless

underworld. He had spent several years on the surface, denying his heritage, yet had found

that he could not escape the aversion to the sun inherent in his people.

And so he sunk low within the shadow of his cowl, his stride nonchalant, even resigned,

this trip being merely a continuation of his existence, another adventure in a life-long string

of adventures. Forsaking his people in the dark city of Menzoberranzan, Drizzt Do'Urden

had willingly embarked upon the road of the nomad. He knew that he would never be truly

accepted anywhere on the surface; perceptions of his people were too vile (and rightly so) for

even the most tolerant of communities to take him in. The road was his home now, he was

always traveling to avoid the inevitable heartache of being forced from a place that he might

have come to love.

Ten-Towns had been a temporary sanctuary. The forlorn wilderness settlement housed a

large proportion of rogues and outcasts and, though Drizzt wasn't openly welcomed, his

hard-earned reputation as a guardian of the towns' borders had granted him a small measure

of respect and tolerance from many of the settlers. Bruenor named him a true friend, though,

and Drizzt had willingly set out beside the dwarf on the trek, despite his apprehension that

once he moved out beyond the influence of his reputation, the treatment he received would

be less than civil.

Every so often, Drizzt dropped back the dozen yards or so to check on the fourth member

of the party. Huffing and puffing, Regis the halfling brought up the rear of the troupe (and

not by choice) with a belly too round for the road and legs too short to match the pumping

strides of the dwarf. Paying now for the months of luxury he had enjoyed in the palatial

house in Bryn Shander, Regis cursed the turn of luck that had forced him to the road. His

greatest love was comfort and he worked at perfecting the arts of eating and sleeping as

diligently as a young lad with dreams of heroic deeds swung his first sword. His friends were

truly surprised when he joined them on the road, but they were happy to have him along, and

even Bruenor, so desperate to see his ancient homeland again, took care not to set the pace

too far beyond Regis's ability to keep up.

Certainly Regis pushed himself to his physical limits, and without his customary

complaining. Unlike his companions, though, whose eyes looked to the road up ahead, he

kept glancing back over his shoulder, back toward Ten-Towns and the home he had so

mysteriously abandoned to join in the journey.

Drizzt noted this with some concern.

Regis was running away from something.

The companions kept their westerly course for several days. To their south, the

snow-capped peaks of the jagged mountains, the Spine of the World, paralleled their

journey. This range marked the southern boundary to Icewind Dale and the companions kept

an eye out for its end. When the westernmost peaks died away to flat ground, they would

turn south, down the pass between the mountains and the sea, running out of the dale

altogether and down the last hundred mile stretch to the coastal city of Luskan.

Out on the trail each morning before the sun rose at their backs, they continued running

into the last pink lines of sunset, stopping to make camp at the very last opportunity before

the chill wind took on its icy nighttime demeanor.

Then they were back on the trail again before dawn, each running within the solitude of

his own perspectives and fears.

A silent journey, save the endless murmur of the eastern wind.

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R.A. Salvatore - The Icewind Dale Trilogy - 2 - Streams of Silver

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