And behind the zombies, Drizzt knew, came Bruenor, cutting down the distracted undead as they chased the dark elf.

But the drow had to skid to a stop, surprised, when out of the thicket to the side charged another enemy, another zombie. The newcomer was not one of the humans, elves, or dwarves shriveled in the hot flow of the volcano, though, but a gigantic and formidable beast, one which in life would have challenged Drizzt and in undeath, feeling no pain, knowing no fear, and all but immune to minor wounds, was all the more formidable. It stood nearly twice Drizzt’s height and outweighed him at least four times over with giant pincers protruding from its face and long wiry arms ending in claws that could rend stone as easily as a man could dig in soft dirt. Drizzt had battled umber hulks before, as had so many of his kin, growing up in the Underdark, but in addition to the ashen gray look of those creatures killed by the hot volcanic flow, the hulk had about it a darker pall, a shadowy essence as though it had stepped out of the depths of the Shadowfell.

Drizzt managed to avert his eyes just in time to avoid the creature’s magical gaze, known to debilitate the finest warriors. He didn’t wait to look back before moving, guessing correctly that any delay would cost him dearly. He darted right at the monster, just within the sweeping reach of its powerful claws. The shadow hulk tried to stomp him as he skidded past, but Drizzt tucked into a roll and got out of the way in time, even managing to stab that stomping foot for good measure. He came up to his feet and darted straight behind the thing, keeping it turning, and landed several heavy slashes in the process.

But felling the monster would be like chopping down a thick oak, and an oak that savagely fought back.

“Keep it moving, elf!” he heard Bruenor yell from across the way, still back near the caravan wagons.

“Indeed,” the drow whispered in reply, having no intention of facing up squarely against that beast.

He got in one last slash and darted away, drawing forth an onyx figurine as soon as he put some space between himself and the shadow hulk.

“Come to me, Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt called softly. He hadn’t wanted to summon the panther, for she had fought beside him the night before and needed her rest in her Astral home.

He saw the gray mist appearing and ran beyond it, the shadow hulk in swift pursuit.

“Keep him moving, elf!” he heard Bruenor cry from the side.

Drizzt glanced that way to watch the dwarf rush out to the side of the wagons toward a large boulder flanked by a few birch trees. With a knowing nod, Drizzt spun, surprising the shadow hulk just enough so that he could again rush inside the deadly sweep of its clawing hands. He snapped off several stabs and left with a heavy slash—or feigned leaving. Again he spun, just outside the creature’s turn. He went past again with another flurry of stabs and slashes. He’d just started to run once more when he heard the growl then the impact as a leaping Guenhwyvar slammed against the shadow hulk’s back. Drizzt darted off to the side as the monster staggered under the weight of six hundred pounds of muscled panther.

“The little ones, Guen!” Drizzt yelled in alarm, seeing that many ash zombies still surrounded Andahar and more moved to press the caravan crew.

With a puff of smoky ash, the panther leaped away, even as Drizzt again came in at the shadow hulk. The creature foolishly turned as if to follow Guenhwyvar, allowing the ranger several heavy strikes.

Then Drizzt was running again, the shadow hulk in close pursuit. He glanced in the direction of the caravan, nodding in satisfaction to see that Guenhwyvar was already rounding up the zombies and shredding them with her powerful claws.

Drizzt kept just ahead of the shadow hulk—dangerously close. He wanted the creature’s focus on him alone as he ran in a loop, bringing it right in front of the boulder where Bruenor had disappeared. He rushed out only a few strides from the stone then spun back to squarely face the monster.

A clawed hand swung down from on high, too powerfully for Drizzt to even dare attempt a block. He dodged aside and the arm crashed down against the ground, the monster’s three claws digging deep gashes in earth and stone alike.

Drizzt stabbed and dodged, whirled to one side then the other, striking where he could find an opening, but fighting defensively, just trying to keep the shadow hulk engaged and distracted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Bruenor again, running to the top of the boulder and beyond, descending from on high with a great leap, his many-notched axe up high over his head and held in both hands. The dwarf’s whole body seemed to bend and snap forward, like the jaws of a giant wolf, his muscles only adding to his momentum as he drove the axe home.

A weird grunt came forth from the shadow hulk, sounding far more surprised, even curious, than pained. The creature took a step toward Drizzt, its expression somewhat pensive, as if it were only then grasping the reality of its sudden end.

Drizzt stared at that curious expression for many heartbeats—so many that he had to dive aside to avoid being buried by the falling monster.

Despite the many undead still left to be dealt with, Drizzt couldn’t suppress a smile as he watched Bruenor ride the shadow hulk the last couple of feet to the ground. His shield hand still gripping his axe, his free hand up behind him, it looked as though the dwarf was breaking a wild horse.

“Elf, I’m thinking of a yeti on the tundra,” the dwarf said, tearing his axe free. “Always seems as if ye’re needin’ saving!”

“So, as you did with the yeti, will you try to cook this one’s brains?” Drizzt asked, spinning away and heading for the nearest monster.

“Bah!” the dwarf snorted. “Tastin’ like dust or I’m a bearded gnome!”

For all the years and all the battles, for all the loss and all the strange roads, there was nothing Bruenor might have said to better comfort Drizzt just then, and to better launch him into the next fight, and the one after that.

With Andahar and Guenhwyvar, and some small assistance from the caravanners, the attack was beaten back in short order, leaving only minor wounds for a few of the merchants and guards, and no real damage to any of the wagons or horse teams. They were on their way in short order, with Drizzt riding flank.

By dawn, the road had turned directly west and they broke out of the woodland and onto an open plain. The sea flanked them on the left, and with so much open ground to their right, most of the crew settled in for some sleep.

Drizzt dismissed his magical mount and climbed aboard the jockey seat of the last wagon, Bruenor beside him. They would make Neverwinter by noon, so the boss informed them, and even though so many were weary, they wouldn’t stop the caravan.

“A fine, well-paying journey,” Drizzt remarked to Bruenor, speaking as much to keep himself alert as for any desire for conversation.

“Not that ye’re caring,” a sleepy Bruenor replied.

Drizzt cocked an eyebrow the dwarf’s way.

“Bah, but ye only did this for the fightin’!” Bruenor accused.

“We need the coin,” Drizzt replied.

“Ye’d do it for free. Anything to sing yer blades.”

“Our funds are not inexhaustible, my friend. You paid good gold for that last map you acquired.”

“An investment, I tell ye! Think o’ the treasures Gauntlgrym’ll give us!” Bruenor insisted.

“And that map will lead us there?”

“Not for knowing,” Bruenor admitted. “But one o’ them will.”

“That map, scrawled by a Calishite sailor, a pirate no less, will lead us to our destination, which a thousand-thousand dwarves have not found in a thousand years of searching?”

“Ah, shut yer mouth.”

Drizzt grinned at him.

“Ye hide in yer blades,” Bruenor said more seriously.

Drizzt didn’t answer, just looked straight ahead at the road and the wagons in front of them.

“Ye always did. I know,” the dwarf continued, “I seen it in Icewind Dale when first we met. I remember me boy shaking his head and callin’ ye crazy when ye took him into the lair o’ that giant, Biggrin. But never like this, elf. I’m thinking that if ye had a choice o’ two roads, one safe and one thick with monsters, ye’d take the thick one.”

“I didn’t pick this road, you did,” Drizzt replied.

“Nah, yerself signed us on as guards, ready for the fight.”

“We need the coin, O Great Cave Crawler.”

“Bah,” Bruenor grumbled, shaking his head.

They were indeed short of funds, but not destitute by any means, having taken a rather tidy sum along with them from Mithral Hall those many years ago, and really, other than Bruenor’s quest for maps and trinkets, they had little on which they needed to spend the coin.

The dwarf let it go at that, and drifted off to sleep, where he found comfortable dreams of yesteryear, of Kelvin’s Cairn in Icewind Dale, and the high perch upon it known as Bruenor’s Climb. Of running with the Companions of the Hall, him and the elf, and his boy and his girl and the halfling he so often found fishing on the banks of Maer Dualdon.

It had been a good life, Bruenor decided. Good and long, and full of fine friends and fine adventures.

They came in sight of Neverwinter soon after, and no one spoke a word of protest when the boss stopped the lead wagon on a high ridge overlooking the place, so that all could take in the sight. Once it had been a sprawling city, a great port, then, with the eruption of Mount Hotenow, it had been no more than a desolate, barren ruin of black stone and deep gray ash.

But the wounds in the land were healing, plants growing thick in the rich volcanic soil, and while many of the ruins of old Neverwinter were still visible, new structures had been built. Few in number, none approaching the grandeur of old Neverwinter as of yet, the small settlement seemed truly discordant. The most impressive structure to be seen, by far, was the old Winged Wyvern Bridge, which had briefly been called something else no one remembered. It had escaped the devastation nearly unscathed, with only one abutment taking any noticeable damage, and it had come to serve as the centerpiece, the promise, of what Neverwinter might become anew.

So entranced were Bruenor and Drizzt at the sight of the distant town, neither noticed the approach of the caravan boss.

“She’ll be rebuilt to all her glory,” the man said, drawing them from their personal contemplations. “Not to doubt the resilience of the folk of the Sword Coast. They’ll … we’ll make Neverwinter what she once was, and more.

“What do you say, lads and lasses?” he called, turning so all could hear. “Do you think we might convince the leaders of Neverwinter to name a bridge or some other new structure in honor of Drizzt Do’Urden or Bonnego Battle-axe?”

“O’ the Adbar Battle-axes, and don’t ye never forget it,” Bruenor shouted as cheers rose up.

“This caravan isn’t leaving Neverwinter until the spring, at least,” the boss informed the duo. “I’d be glad to have you along for that journey to Waterdeep.”

“If we’re about—” Drizzt started to reply.

“But we won’t be,” Bruenor cut in. “We got roads o’ our own to walk.”