I watched the preparations unfolding at Mithril Hall, preparations for war, for, though we, especially Catti-brie, had dealtHouse Baenre a stinging defeat back in Menzoberranzan,none of us doubted that the dark elves might come our wayonce more. Above all else, Matron Baenre was likely angry, and havingspent my youth in Menzoberranzan, I knew it was not a good thing tomake an enemy of the first matron mother.

Still, I liked what I was seeing here in the dwarven stronghold. Most of all, I enjoyed the spectacle of Bruenor Battlehammer.

Bruenor! My dearest friend. The dwarf 1 had fought beside since mydays in Icewind Dale — days that seemed very long ago indeed! I had fearedBruenor's spirit forever broken when Wulfgar fell, that the fire that hadguided this most stubborn of dwarves through seemingly insurmountableobstacles in his quest to reclaim his lost homeland had been forever doused.Not so, Ilearned in those days of preparation. Bruenor's physical scarswere deeper now — his left eye was lost, and a bluish line ran diagonally across his face, from forehead to jawbone — but the flames of spirit had beenrekindled, burning bright behind his good eye.

Bruenor directed the preparations, from agreeing to the fortificationdesigns being constructed in the lowest tunnels to sending out emissariesto the neighboring settlements in search of allies. He asked for no help in the decision-making, and needed none, for this was Bruenor, Eighth King of Mithril Hall, a veteran of so many adventures, a dwarf who had earnedhis title.

Now his grief was gone; he was king again, to the joy of his friends andsubjects. "Let the damned drow come!" Bruenor growled quite often, and always he nodded in my direction if I was about, as if to remind me that hemeant no personal insult.