Gauntlgrym (27 page)

Dahlia mulled on the offer for a few heartbeats. She knew Sylora would make her life miserable, of course, but at least she might have a chance.

“Come,” Sylora bade her. “Reconsider. There is heated battle joined in the south. With the Netherese, no less. You would enjoy killing Shadovar, would you not?”

Dahlia felt the defiance draining out of her so completely she wondered if Sylora had enacted an enchantment upon her. The worry was fleeting, though, for she knew the source of her melting resolve. Was there anything in the world Dahlia hated more than the Netherese?

She looked at Sylora, hardly trusting the Thayan.

“My dear, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead already,” Sylora replied to that suspicious expression. “I could have filled this alley with killing magic, or with murderous Ashmadai.” She held out her hand. “Our road is to the south, to battle the Netherese. I will count you among my lieutenants, and as long as you fight well, I will trouble you little.”

“I am to trust Sylora Salm?”

“Hardly. But I serve Szass Tam, and he holds hope for you. When the beast comes forth, I claim the credit for the catastrophe, as it is mine to take. Your role will be seen as minor—an agent gathering information, and in the critical moment, failing. But you’re young still, and will redeem yourself with every Netherese beast you slay.”

Dahlia stopped her end-poles from spinning, clicked the staff back whole, and broke it into a four-foot walking stick once more. She bent and picked up the brooch, holding it in front of her eyes for just a few moments before fastening it once more to her blouse.

On the other side of the wooden fence, Barrabus the Gray listened to every word. Of particular concern, despite the obvious gravity of the conversation, was the reference to a drow and a dwarf, connected somehow to this elf warrior,
Dahlia. He had learned little in his short time in Luskan, though he’d traveled to the undercity and had seen and spoken with the phylactery that held the spirit of Arklem Greeth.

He couldn’t yet put all the pieces together, but he felt he had enough to satisfy that wretch Alegni.

He was on the road soon after, riding hard to the south on a summoned nightmare that didn’t tire, and watching, every stride, the line of smoke rising into the clear late-summer sky far to the southeast.

Parallel to Barrabus, but many miles away, Drizzt Do’Urden, too, rode a magical mount and watched that same plume. He had left Bruenor at their latest camp, a small village where they had bartered work for food and shelter, the first afternoon of the smoke’s appearance.

Andahar’s great strides carried him swiftly, the unicorn charging across the woodland, hilly terrain with ease. Drizzt let the bells of the barding sing for the run, welcoming the diversion of the song.

It had been a difficult and frustrating summer for the drow and his dwarf friend. The continuing disappointments of one dead end after another had started to wear on Bruenor. Drizzt recognized that the former king missed his rugged, rough friend Pwent, though of course Bruenor would never admit any such thing.

There was a restlessness growing in Drizzt, too, but he did well to keep it from Bruenor. How many years could he spend hunting in holes for some sign of an ancient dwarven kingdom? He loved Bruenor as much as any friend he had ever known, but it had been just the two of them for a long time. Their parting a couple days before had been of mutual agreement.

The drow rode Andahar hard, and when he at last found a trade road, Drizzt didn’t stay to the side of it, as prudence always demanded in those times of banditry in the wild Crags.

He didn’t think of it openly, didn’t admit it to himself, but Drizzt Do’Urden would have liked nothing more at that time than to be confronted by highwaymen, and hopefully a sizable band. Too long had his blades sat in their scabbards, too long had Taulmaril the Heartseeker sat quiet across his back.

He rode for the smoke, hoping that it signaled something amiss, some battle waiting to be joined or already joined.

As long as there remained enemies worth fighting.…

He continued on a southerly route, not going straight for the plume. He knew the ground fairly well, and noted that the smoke was coming from Mount Hotenow—one of the few hills in the Crags tall enough to rightfully be called a mountain. It had two peaks, the lower one to the north, the taller south-southeast of that, and both of bald stone the result of some long-ago fire that had burned the trees away, and had allowed erosion to wash away most of the soil.

The best approach to the two-peaked mountain was from the southeast, Drizzt knew, where he could get a good look at the area before riding in. As he passed by the mountain, he veered even farther away, riding to the southeast and another tall hill from which he could gain a better vantage point. It seemed as if the smoke poured out of the top of the lower, northern peak.

Drizzt dismissed Andahar at the base of the steep, forested hill. Bow in hand, he scaled the mountainside, moving from tree to tree so he could brace himself before attempting to move any higher. At last he gained the top. Drizzt thought to climb a tree, but saw a better option in a rocky outcrop on the mound’s western side, directly facing the distant, twin-peaked mountain.

He came out into the open and cupped a hand over his eyes to gain a better view of the distant, smoking peak. He could see no armies moving about, and no dragons in the blue sky.

A bonfire from a barbarian encampment, perhaps? A giant’s forge?

None of it made sense to Drizzt. To sustain a fire of such magnitude for so long—the smoke plume had been visible for several days—would have taken a forest of lumber. Bruenor had, of course, claimed that it must be a dwarven forge, a dwarven fire, an ancient dwarven kingdom—but he always made that claim, at any sign.

Drizzt continued to stare into the distance for a long while, following the line as close to the mountain stones as he could make out. He noted, too, when a breeze temporarily cleared the opaque veil, some redness there, streaking the stones.

Then the world blew up.

Standing on the Herzgo Alegni Bridge in Neverwinter, Barrabus the Gray and Herzgo Alegni also noted the smoke plume, so clear in the sky from their nearer vantage point.

“A forest fire?” Barrabus guessed. “I never got too near to it, and the folk in Port Llast had no more insight into it than anyone here in Neverwinter, apparently.”

“You didn’t think it prudent to go and investigate?” Alegni scolded.

“I thought my information regarding the Thayans and this catastrophe they’re planning was more urgent.”

“And you haven’t thought that these events might be connected? Is there, perhaps, a red dragon just northeast of here, waiting to fly to this Sylora creature’s call?” As he spoke, the Netherese commander walked to the bridge’s edge closest the distant spectacle and locked his hands on the rail, peering to the north.

“And if I went there and couldn’t return to you in time, you would be even less prepared,” Barrabus argued.

Alegni didn’t look back at him.

“I grant you that,” the tiefling said after a short pause. “Go there now and learn what you may.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Barrabus scowling. “It’s not so far.”

“Difficult terrain, far from the road.”

“You speak as if I—“Alegni started to say, but he stopped when Barrabus’s eyes went wide with shock.

Herzgo Alegni spun back toward the plume, toward the low mountain——the low mountain that had leaped into the sky, it seemed, solid rock transforming into something more malleable, like a cloud of impossibly thick ash.

The Ashmadai in Neverwinter Wood fell to their knees in prayer and joy, overwhelmed at the sight of what they knew would be the beginning of a grand Dread Ring.

“Oh, but the gods are with us!” Sylora cried as the mountain flew high, and she noted the angle of the blast. “If I had aimed it myself …”

The fall of the mountain seemed perfectly aimed at the city of Neverwinter—and indeed it was. Mount Hotenow had not simply erupted. The angry primordial sought carnage as hungrily as did Szass Tam.

Sylora dropped her arm across Dahlia’s shoulders and shook the elf with familiarity.

“We must take cover, quickly!” Sylora instructed her charges, and they were not unprepared. “The beast,
our
beast, has roared!”

All around Dahlia, Ashmadai rushed to and fro, gathering their belongings and running for the cave they had chosen as their shelter. Dor’crae and Valindra were already in there, shielded from the stinging daylight.

Dahlia didn’t move. She couldn’t move, frozen in awe, in horror, at the spectacle of the freed primordial, of the exploding volcano.

What had she done?

Drizzt watched the lower peak of the mountain as it seemed to simply come apart and leap skyward. He thought of a long-ago day on a beach outside of Waterdeep, a hot summer day. He and Catti-brie had been serving with Deudermont aboard
Sea Sprite
, and had put into port for supplies and respite. The couple had wandered down to the shore to spend a quiet afternoon.

He thought of that peaceful time in that most terrifying of moments, for he had played a game that day, burying Catti-brie’s legs under the wet beach sand.