Gauntlgrym (54 page)

But Dor’crae was still shaking his head.

“They have a dragon,” he explained. “A
red
dragon.”

With a stomp of his clawed foot that gouged the floor and shook the walls of the corridor, the pit fiend stormed away, and how the cultists scrambled to get out of his path. And when one was too slow, the devil swatted her aside with
his great fiery mace, mulching her shoulder, igniting her leathers and hair, and throwing her into the wall with a sickening crunch of her every bone.

She slumped into an almost formless mass of blood and burning flesh.

And the Ashmadai cheered.

JOSI … JOSI PUDDLES

D
AHLIA GRIPPED HER TRI-STAFF TIGHTLY, READY TO SPRING OUT AND
throttle whomever or whatever approached the small room in which she waited with the dwarves.

She relaxed when Drizzt came through the archway.

“Our enemies are close,” he warned her. “Ahead of us in every corridor and chamber.”

From just outside the room’s other door, the one through which the five had entered, Jarlaxle replied, “And they’re not far behind, as well.”

“We’re to be fighting again, then,” said Dahlia, and she didn’t show a hint of regret or fear at that thought. She nodded to Drizzt, who returned her confident look.

“All the way to the Forge o’ Gauntlgrym,” Athrogate agreed. “If a hunnerd lizard boys stand in me way, a hunnerd lizard boys’ll die! Eh, King Bruenor?” he added, and he turned and slapped Bruenor on the shoulder.

Bruenor, busy inspecting the wall, just grunted.

“We should move on swiftly,” Drizzt said. “We’ll not want those behind catching us while we’re fighting those ahead.”

He moved back to the archway, Dahlia right behind him. Jarlaxle entered from across the way and moved to join them, then Athrogate joined as well, after another clap on Bruenor’s shoulder.

But Bruenor didn’t even grunt in response, one hand lifted to feel the texture of the carved relief on the chamber’s stone wall.

“Bruenor,” Drizzt called. “We must move.”

The dwarf waved his hand at them dismissively, and studied the wall more intently. His mind drifted back across the centuries, to the revelations of the magical throne.

This is the room, he thought. It has to be the room. If I can only find the catch!

Noise from the tunnel they had just descended entered the hall.

“Bruenor,” Drizzt said, but more quietly. He rushed over to join the dwarf. “Come,” he bade his friend, and he put his hand on Bruenor’s strong shoulder. “Our enemies near. We must be gone.”

“Aye, be gone,” the irritated dwarf grumbled back. He pressed his hand more strongly on the wall, hoping he wasn’t about to spring a deadly trap.

Was it possible that the centuries of idleness had ruined the mechanisms? The thought rattled Bruenor. It was Gauntlgrym, after all, the pinnacle of dwarven civilization.

“Dwarves build things to last,” he said aloud.

“Build what?”

Finally Bruenor did look up at Drizzt, and he motioned his chin back to the wall and stepped aside. Drizzt moved in quickly. He wasn’t exactly sure what he might be looking for. Bruenor had revealed nothing of the reasons for his interest in that particular bas relief, and Gauntlgrym teemed with such carvings.

The drow stared at the carving for a few heartbeats. The others soon came over, pleading with the pair to lead the way out of the small chamber, which was seeming more and more like a trap—or a tomb—than anything else.

Drizzt shook his head, not to answer those complaints, but simply because he saw no anomalies in the relief, not a hint of anything out of place. He closed his eyes, spread both his hands up in front of him, and gently ran his fingers along the wall. The drow opened his eyes and a curious grin came upon him.

“What d’ye know?” Bruenor asked.

Drizzt removed one hand from the wall, then all but one finger of his other hand. He moved the remaining contact up a bit, then slowly slid it back to its original place, and his smile grew with confidence.

Bruenor lifted his hand and Drizzt moved his own aside.

The dwarf closed his eyes and felt for the spot. “Clever dwarf,” he whispered, referring to the craftsman who had constructed that particular mechanism.

There was no seam. There was no mark of color or shape. In that one spot, at one point no bigger than the tip of a stubby dwarf finger, the wall was not made of stone, but of metal.

Bruenor turned his finger to get his nail against the spot, and pushed hard.

“Lead,” he announced.

“It’s a cover plate,” said Drizzt.

“Aye, one to be melted.” They both turned to Jarlaxle, who always seemed to have all the answers.

“Melted?” Drizzt asked, skeptical. “We could build a fire and heat some makeshift poker, but we’ve not the time to bring something to that temperature.”

“What’s behind it?” asked Dahlia.

“Our escape, if I’m readin’ their faces right,” Athrogate said.

Bruenor looked at the wall, and at Drizzt, who seemed just as perplexed as to how they might get through it. Back in the hall, more sounds echoed, their enemies obviously nearing the chamber.

“Mark it,” Drizzt instructed. He stepped away, and as he did, he revealed his plan as he slid Taulmaril from his shoulder.

Bruenor glanced around, and patted his pockets and his pack, trying to figure out how he might do that. He produced one of his maps and tore a piece from its corner, plopping it into his mouth. He rushed back to the spot in front of the wall and gently felt the surface again, chewing all the while. When he had the spot, he spat the wet parchment into his hand, pressed it into place, and stepped aside.

Drizzt already had an arrow fitted to the bowstring. He drew level and took careful and steady aim.

He fired, and a flash of lightning illuminated the room. The enchanted missile hit the mark. It melted the paper first then drilled right through the lead cover and right into the catch behind, ruining it forever. Both drow and dwarf knew it to be a risk, for in doing that, had Drizzt also forever sealed the secret door?

They heard rocks sliding somewhere behind the wall, though whether that was a promising sign or a portent of doom, they couldn’t be sure.

But then the stone groaned before them as the counterweights took hold in some unseen mechanism. The hatch fell in slightly, revealing the outline of a dwarf-sized doorway. Dust slipped from all edges and a musty smell, an old smell, filled their nostrils. With a great groan of protest, the secret door slid aside, disappearing into the right-hand wall.

“How did you know?” Dahlia asked, breathless.

“Damn smart throne, eh?” Athrogate said with a giggle.

“Onward, and quickly,” Jarlaxle bade them.

Drizzt started for the opening, but Bruenor held out a strong arm and kept the drow at bay.

The dwarf king led the way into the deeper, long-unused corridor, a tunnel that became a steep staircase only a few feet inside.

Last in was Athrogate, who shoved the heavy stone door back in place behind them.

Down they went, Bruenor making a swift pace on the treacherous stone stair. He didn’t think of the danger of falling. He knew what was coming.

The stairs spilled out into a narrow corridor, and the narrow corridor spilled out into a wider chamber, lit in orange: the Forge of Gauntlgrym.

Bruenor skidded to a stop, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Ye see it, elf?” he managed to whisper.

“I see it, Bruenor,” Drizzt replied in hushed and reverent tones.

One did not have to be a Delzoun dwarf to understand the solemn significance of the place, and the majesty of it. As if being pulled by unseen forces, Bruenor drifted toward the large central forge, and the dwarf seemed to grow with every stride, as ancient magic and ancient strength swelled his corporeal form.

He came to a stop right in front of the open forge, staring into the blazing fires, which were fully alive since the primordial had first been released. His face fast reddened under that heat, but he didn’t mind.

He stood there for a long, long while.

“Bruenor?” Drizzt dared ask after many heartbeats. “Bruenor, we must be quick.”

If the dwarf even heard him, he didn’t show it.

Drizzt moved around to gain Bruenor’s stare, but he couldn’t. The dwarf stood with his eyes closed. And when he opened them after a bit, he still felt far away and hardly noticed Drizzt and the others at all.

He lifted his axe and stepped toward the open forge.

“Bruenor?”

He pulled off his shield and laid it on the small ledge in front of the fires, then laid the axe upon it.

“Bruenor?”

Not even using an implement, the dwarf grabbed the iron-bound edge of the shield and slid it into the open forge, chanting in a language he knew none of the others would understand, a language Bruenor didn’t even understand himself.

“Bruenor!”

They must all have expected the shield, fashioned mostly of wood, to burst into flames, but it didn’t.

Bruenor kept up his chant for a short while then reached in and grasped the edge of the shield once more.

“Bruenor!” Drizzt went for him, perhaps thinking to push him aside. But the drow might as well have tried to move the forge itself. He hit Bruenor’s arm hard, his whole weight behind the charge, but didn’t move the dwarf’s arm at all. Bruenor hardly even noticed the collision. He just pulled out his shield, and on it, his many-notched axe.

He didn’t cool them in water, but just picked them up, sliding the shield into place and hoisting the axe. Then he stepped back and turned to the others, shaking his head, coming out of his trance.

“How are your arms not blistering to the bone?” Dahlia asked. “How is it the skin didn’t slough off your fingers like parchment?”

“Huh?” the dwarf replied. “What’re ye talking about?”

“The shield,” said Jarlaxle, and Athrogate began to giggle.

“Huh?” Bruenor asked again and he turned the shield to get a look.

The wood remained exactly as it had been, though perhaps a bit darker, burnished by the fires. The banding, though, once black iron, shone silver in hue, and showed not a dent, though it had been marked by many before. And most magnificent of all was the foaming mug set in the middle. It, too, shone silver, and the foam seemed almost real, white in hue and brilliant in design.

“The axe,” Jarlaxle added, and all had noticed that, for how could one miss the changes that had come over the weapon? The head gleamed silver, a sparkle running along its vicious edge. It still showed the notches of its many battles—no doubt, the dwarf gods would have thought it an insult to Bruenor to remove those badges of honor—but there was a strength about it that was visible to all, an inner power, glowing as if begging release.

“What have you done?” Jarlaxle asked.

Bruenor just muttered, “Talked to them what was,” and banged his axe against his shield.

A noise from the far end of the hall turned them all that way. Drizzt slid Taulmaril off his shoulder as Athrogate then Bruenor came up to flank him. Jarlaxle shrank back a few steps, drawing out a pair of wands.

“Here they come,” remarked Dahlia, standing right behind Drizzt. She used her staff to nudge him aside, and stepped up between him and Athrogate.

Drizzt looked over at Bruenor, who wore a curious expression. With only a cursory glance back at the drow, the dwarf put his axe in his shield hand and
brought that shield arm out in front of him. Staring at the shield’s backing, he grew even more curious and he brought his free hand forward, as if reaching right inside the shield.

How all their eyes widened when Bruenor retracted that arm, for he held a flagon, a great foamy head spilling over its side. He looked back at the shield, eyes widening once more. He handed the flagon to Drizzt then reached in again and produced a second one.

“Here now, one for meself?” Athrogate demanded.

Drizzt handed the first to the dwarf, and turned back just in time to get the second from Bruenor, who already produced the third and gave it to Drizzt as the second went to Dahlia. The fourth he gave to Jarlaxle, and Bruenor took up the fifth and final mug.

“Now there’s a shield worth wearin’!” said Athrogate.

“We got us some good gods,” Bruenor remarked, and Athrogate grinned.

“What is it?” Dahlia asked.

“Gutbuster, I’m hopin’!” said Athrogate.

The two drow and the elf looked to each other and at the drinks uncertainly, but Bruenor and Athrogate didn’t hesitate, lifting their flagons in toast then taking great swallows.

And both seemed to swell with power. Athrogate brought forth his empty metal flagon and crushed it in his hand, then threw it aside and took up his morningstars.

“By Moradin’s bum and Clangeddin’s beard, who’d ever be seein’ such a sight?” he recited. “A party o’ five with weapons in hand and ready to take up the fight. But me gods are all posin’ and scratching and shakin’ and got to be questionin’ theirself, to think a royal would be sharin’ their spoils with the likes o’ two drows and an elf!”

“Bwahaha!” It was Bruenor howling, not Athrogate.

“Drink it, ye fools!” Athrogate told the elves. “And feel the power o’ the dwarf gods flowing through yer limbs!”