Bruenor tried to stand straight, but the pain of his broken arm had him constantly twitching and lowering his left shoulder. Directly across from him, King Obould stared hard, the fingers of his hand kneading the hilt of his gigantic sword. Gradually that blade inched down toward the ground, and Obould dismissed its magical flames.

"Well, what of it, then?" Bruenor asked, feeling the eyes of orcs boring into him from all around.

Obould let his gaze sweep across the crowd, holding them all at bay. "You came to me," he reminded the dwarf.

"I heared ye wanted to talk, so I come to talk."

Obould's expression showed him to be less than convinced. He glanced up the hill, motioning to Nukkels the priest, the emissary, who had never made it near to Bruenor's court.

Bruenor, too, looked up at the battered shaman, and the dwarf's eyes widened indeed when Nukkels was joined by another orc, dressed in decorated military garb, who carried a bundle of great interest to Bruenor. The two orcs walked down to stand beside their king, and the second, General Dukka, dropped his cargo, a bloody and limp halfling, at Obould's feet.

All around them, the orcs stirred, expecting the fight to erupt anew.

But Obould silenced them with an upraised hand, as he looked Bruenor in the eye. Before him, Regis stirred, and Obould reached down and with surprising gentleness, lifted the halfling to his feet.

Regis could not stand on his own, though, his knees buckling. But Obould held him upright and motioned to Nukkels. Immediately, the shaman cast a spell of healing over the halfling, and though it only marginally helped, it was enough for Regis to stand at least. Obould pushed him toward Bruenor, but again, without any evident malice.

"Grguch is dead," Obould proclaimed to all around, ending as he locked stares with Bruenor. "Grguch's path is not the way."

Beside Obould, General Dukka stood firm and nodded, and Bruenor and Obould both understood that the orc king had all the support he needed, and more.

"What are you wantin', orc?" Bruenor asked, and he held his hand up as he finished, looking past Obould.

Many orcs turned, Obould, Dukka, and Nukkels included, to see Drizzt Do'Urden standing calmly, Taulmaril in hand, arrow resting at ease on its string, and with Guenhwyvar beside him.

"What are ye wanting?" Bruenor asked again as Obould turned back.

The dwarf already knew, of course, and the answer was one that filled him with both hope and dread.

Not that he was in any position to bargain.

"It won't make her more than a surcoat, elf," Bruenor said as Drizzt folded up the fabulous garment of Jack the Gnome, wrapping it over a few rings and other trinkets he had taken from the body.

"Give it to Rumblebelly," said Bruenor, and he propped Regis up a bit more, for the halfling leaned on him heavily.

"A wizard's...robe," the still-groggy Regis slurred. "Not for me."

"Not for me girl, neither," Bruenor declared.

But Drizzt only smiled and tucked the fairly won gains into his pack.

Somewhere in the east, fighting erupted again, a reminder to them all that not everything was settled quite yet, with remnants of Clan Karuck still to be rooted out. The distant battle sounds also reminded them that their friends were still out there, and though Obould, after conferring with Dukka, had assured them that four dwarves, an elf, and a drow had gone back over the southern ridge when Dukka's force had sent Wolf Jaw running, the relief of the companions showed clearly on their faces when they came in sight of the bedraggled, battered, and bloody sextet.

Cordio and Shingles ran to take Regis off of Bruenor's hands, while Pwent fell all over himself, hopping around Bruenor with unbridled glee.

"Thought ye was sure'n dead," Torgar said. "Thought we were suren dead, to boot. But them orcs held back and let us run south. I'm not for knowin' why."

Bruenor looked at Drizzt then at Torgar and the others. "Not sure that I'm knowin' why, meself," he said, and he shook his head helplessly, as if none of it made any sense to him. "Just get me home. Get us all home, and we'll figure it out."

It sounded good, of course, except that one of the group had no home to speak of, none in the area, at least. Drizzt stepped past Bruenor and the others and motioned for Tos'un and Hralien to join him off to the side.

Back with the others, Cordio tended to Bruenor's broken arm, which of course had Bruenor cursing him profusely, while Torgar and Shingles tried to figure out the best way to repair the king's broken shield, an artifact that could not be left in two pieces.

"Is it in your heart, or in your mind?" Drizzt asked his fellow drow when the three of them were far enough away.

"Your change, I mean," Drizzt explained when Tos'un did not immediately answer. "This new demeanor you wear, these possibilities you see before you - are they in your heart, or in your mind? Are they born of feelings, or is it pragmatism that guides your actions?"

"He was dismissed and running free," Hralien said. "Yet he came back to save me, perhaps to save us all."

Drizzt nodded his acceptance of that fact, but it didn't change his posture as he continued to stare at Tos'un.

"I do not know," Tos'un admitted. "I prefer the elves of the Moon-wood to Obould's orcs. That much I can tell you. And I will not go against the Moonwood elves, on my word."

"The word of a drow," Drizzt remarked, and Hralien snorted at the absurdity of the statement, given the speaker.

Drizzt held his hand out, and motioned toward the sentient sword belted on Tos'un's hip. With only a moment's hesitation, Tos'un drew the blade and handed it over.

"I cannot allow him to keep it," Drizzt explained to Hralien.

"It is Catti-brie's sword," the elf agreed, but Drizzt shook his head.

"It is a corrupting, evil, sentient being," Drizzt said. "It will feed the doubts of Tos'un and play into his fears, hoping to incite him to spill blood." To Hralien's surprise, Drizzt handed it over to him. "Nor does Catti-brie wish it returned to Mithral Hall. Take it to the Moonwood, I beg, for your wizards and priests are better able to deal with such weapons."

"Tos'un will be there," Hralien warned, and he glanced at the wandering drow and nodded, and relief showed clearly on Tos'un's face.

"Perhaps your wizards and priests will be better able to discern the heart and mind of the dark elf, too," said Drizzt. "If trust is gained then return the sword to him. It is a choice beyond my judgment."

"Elf! Ye done jabberin'?" Bruenor called. "I'm wanting to go see me girl."

Drizzt looked to Hralien and Tos'un in turn. "Indeed," he offered. "Let us all go home."

The wind howled out its singular, mournful note, a constant blow that sounded to Wulfgar of home.

He stood on the northeastern slopes of Kelvin's Cairn, not far below the remnants of the high ridge once known as Bruenor's Climb, looking out over the vast tundra, where the snows had receded once more.

Slanting light crossed the flat ground, the last rays of day sparkling in the many puddles dotting the landscape.

Wulfgar stayed there, unmoving, as the last lights faded, as the stars began to twinkle overhead, and his heart leaped again when a distant campfire appeared out in the north.

His people.

His heart was full. This was his place, his home, the land where he would build his legacy. He would assume his rightful place among the Tribe of the Elk, would take a wife and live as his father, his grandfather, and all of his ancestors had lived. The simplicity of it, the lack of the deceitful trappings of civilization, welcomed him, heart and soul.

His heart was full.

The son of Beornegar had come home.

The dwarven hall in the great chamber known as Garumn's Gorge, with its gently arcing stone bridge and the new statue of Shimmergloom the shadow dragon, ridden to the bottom of the gorge to its death by heroic King Bruenor, had never looked so wondrous. Torches burned throughout the hall, lining the gorge and the bridge, their firelight changing through the spectrum of colors due to the enchantments of Lady Alustriel's wizards.

On the western side of the gorge before the bridge stood hundreds of Battlehammer dwarves, all dressed in their full, shining armor, pennants flying, spear tips gleaming in the magical light. Across from them stood a contingent of orc warriors, not nearly as well-outfitted, but standing with equal discipline and pride.

Dwarf masons had constructed a platform at the center of the long bridge, and on it had built a three-tiered fountain. Nanfoodle's alchemy and Alustriel's wizards had done their work there, as well, for the water danced to the sound of haunting music, its flowing streams glowing brightly and changing colors.

Before the fountain, on a mosaic of intricate tiles fashioned to herald that very day, stood a mithral podium, and on it rested a pile of identical parchments, pinned by weights sculpted into the form of a dwarf, an elf, a human, and an orc. The bottom paper of that pile had been sealed atop the podium, to remain there throughout the coming decades.

Bruenor stepped out from his line and walked the ten strides to the podium. He looked back to his friends and kin, to Banak in his chair, sitting impassive and unconvinced, but unwilling to argue with Bruenor's decision. He matched stares with Regis, who solemnly nodded, as did Cordio. Beside the priest, Thibble dorf Pwent was too distracted to return Bruenor's look. The battle-rager, as clean as anyone in the hall had ever seen him, swiveled his head around, sizing up any threats that might materialize from the strange gathering - or maybe, Bruenor thought with a grin, looking for Alustriel's dwarf friend, Fret, who had forced a bath upon Pwent.

To the side lay Guenhwyvar, majestic and eternal, and beside her stood Drizzt, calm and smiling, his mithral shirt, his belted weapons, and Taulmaril over his shoulder, reminding Bruenor that no dwarf had ever known a better champion. In looking at him, Bruenor was amazed yet again at how much he had come to love and trust that dark elf.

Just as much, Bruenor knew, as his gaze slipped past Drizzt to Catti-brie, his beloved daughter, Drizzt's wife. Never had she looked as beautiful to Bruenor as she did just then, never more sure of herself and comfortable in her place. She wore her auburn hair up high on one side, hanging loosely on the other, and it caught the light of the fountain, reflected off the rich, silken colors of her blouse, the garment of the gnome wizard. It had been a full robe on the gnome, of course, but it reached only to mid-thigh on Catti-brie, and while the sleeves had nearly covered the gnome's hands, they flared halfway down Catti-brie's delicate forearms. She wore a dark blue dress under the blouse, a gift from Lady Alustriel, her new tutor - working through Nanfoodle - that reached to her knees and matched exactly the blue trim of her blouse. High boots of black leather completed the outfit, and seemed so appropriate for Catti-brie, as they were both delicate and sturdy all at once.

Bruenor chuckled, recalling so many images of Catti-brie covered in dirt and in the blood of her enemies, dressed in simple breeches and tunic, and fighting in the mud. Those times were gone, he knew, and he thought of Wulfgar.

So much had changed.

Bruenor looked back to the podium and the treaty, and the extent of the change weakened his knees beneath him.

Along the southern rim of the center platform stood the other dignitaries: Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon, Galen Firth of Nesme, King Emerus Warcrown of Citadel Felbarr - looking none too pleased, but accepting King Bruenor's decision - and Hralien of the Moonwood. More would join in, it was said, including the great human city of Sundabar and the largest of the dwarven cities in the region, Citadel Adbar.

If it held.

That thought made Bruenor look across the podium to the other principal, and he could not believe that he had allowed King Obould Many-Arrows to enter Mithral Hall. Yet there stood the orc, in all his terrible splendor, with his black armor, ridged and spiked, and his mighty greatsword strapped diagonally across his back.

Together they walked to opposite sides of the podium. Together they lifted their respective quills.

Obould leaned forward, but even though he was a foot and a half taller, his posture did not diminish the splendor and strength of King Bruenor Battlehammer.

"If ye're e'er to deceive..." Bruenor started to whisper, but he shook his head and let the thought drift away.

"It is no less bitter for me," Obould assured him.

And still they signed. For the good of their respective peoples, they put their names to the Treaty of Garumn's Gorge, recognizing the Kingdom of Many-Arrows and forever changing the face of the Silver Marches.

Calls went out from the gorge, and horns blew along the tunnels of Mithral Hall. And there came a greater blast, a rumble and resonance that vibrated through the stones of the hall and beyond, as the great horn once known as Kokto Gung Karuck, a gift from Obould to Bruenor, sounded from its new perch on the high lookout post above Mithral Hall's eastern door.

The world had changed, Bruenor knew.