But Wulfgar was stunned at the appearance of the tower. He clutched the reins of his horse even tighter, causing the beast to rear up and flatten its ears against its head.

“I thought you had overcome your suspicions of magic,” said Drizzt sarcastically. Truly Wulfgar, like all the barbarians of Icewind Dale, had been raised with the belief that wizards were weakling tricksters and not to be trusted. His people, proud warriors of the tundra, regarded strength of arm, not skill in the black arts of wizardry, as the measure of a true man. But in their many weeks on the road, Drizzt had seen Wulfgar overcome his upbringing and develop a tolerance, even a curiosity, for the practices of wizardry.

With a flex of his massive muscles, Wulfgar brought his horse under control. “I have,” he answered through gritted teeth. He slid from his seat. “It is Harpells that worry me!”

Drizzt’s smirk widened across his face as he suddenly came to understand his friend’s trepidations. He himself, who had been raised amidst many of the most powerful and frightening sorcerers in all the Realms, had shaken his head in disbelief many times when they were guests of the eccentric family in Longsaddle. The Harpells had a unique—and often disastrous—way of viewing the world, though no evil festered in their hearts, and they wove their magic in accord with their own perspectives—usually against the presumed logic of rational men.

“Malchor is unlike his kin,” Drizzt assured Wulfgar. “He does not reside in the Ivy Mansion and has played advisor to kings of the northland.”

“He is a Harpell,” Wulfgar stated with a finality that Drizzt could not dispute. With another shake of his head and a deep breath to steady himself, Wulfgar grabbed his horse’s bridle and started out across the bridge. Drizzt, still smiling, was quick to follow.