Gauntlgrym (37 page)

“The lich would help.”

“Valindra stays with me. She has almost fully regained her wits, but her power has not yet returned. She is not expendable.”

That last line hit Dahlia like a bolt of lightning. “But I am?”

Sylora laughed at her and turned her attention back to the dwarf ghost in the lava rock. Its face had appeared, a desperate grimace, and quite pleasing to the Thayan.

“And so is Dor’crae?” Dahlia pressed, only because she spotted the vampire not so far away and knew he’d heard the last exchange.

“Dor’crae is nimble enough to escape, should that be necessary,” Sylora answered without missing a beat.

She always seemed one step ahead of Dahlia. The elf knew it was her own weakness, her own inability to recover from the humiliation of her failure at Gauntlgrym, that put her behind. Ever since she’d returned from that place, Dahlia had walked a less steady path. Where once she’d been aggressive, she had become … reactive. And creatures like Sylora preyed on that indecisiveness.

“Find them and learn if they’re returning to Gauntlgrym,” Sylora ordered.

“I doubt they’re even in Luskan. It’s been a decade—”

“Learn!” Sylora snapped at her. “If they are there, if they are returning to Gauntlgrym, then stop them. If not, then learn if any others intend to take up the call of the dwarf ghosts. I should not have to explain this to you.”

“You don’t,” Dahlia replied, quietly but steadily. “I understand what must be done.”

“Have you yet met this champion of Shade Enclave who haunts Neverwinter Wood?”

“I have. He’s human, but with something of the shade about him.”

“And you fought him?”

Dahlia nodded, and an impatient Sylora motioned for her to elaborate.

“He ran away,” Dahlia lied. “He’s better at hiding than he is at fighting, though he’s fine with the blade as well. I suspect his kills have come by surprise, mostly.”

Sylora seemed a bit confused at that moment, glancing back over her shoulder into Neverwinter Wood.

“I’ll not likely find him again anytime soon,” Dahlia said. She didn’t want Sylora to reconsider her priorities, rather fancying the opportunity to be gone from that creature’s side for some time at least, and also seeking no second encounter with the Gray.

“Magic will flush him, then,” Sylora said, and Dahlia did well to suppress her sigh of relief.

“To Luskan with you, in all haste,” the Thayan sorceress went on. “Find your old companions and ensure that neither they nor anyone else slows the fury of our fiery pet.”

Dahlia nodded and turned away.

“Do not fail me in this,” Sylora said after her, her tone making clear the dire consequences of failure.

Guenhwyvar’s ears flattened and a low growl escaped the panther. She went into a crouch, her hind paws tamping down as if she anticipated springing away.

Drizzt nodded when he noted the pose, a confirmation of the same sensation that had just washed over him, like an otherworldly chill that had the hair on his neck and arms standing up. He sensed that something was about, and that perhaps it was from the Shadowfell or at least Shade Enclave, but that was all he could guess.

He moved slowly, not wanting to provoke an attack from some being or force he couldn’t see. Hands on his scimitar hilts, he circled behind Guenhwyvar, and holding all confidence that she would intercept any attack from the front or sides, the drow focused his attention the other way.

He felt more at ease then, his senses telling him that whatever had passed nearby had moved off. He started to relax, just a bit.

Bruenor’s scream abruptly ended that respite.

Drizzt sprinted to the shallow cave serving as their encampment, Guenhwyvar close behind. By the time the drow reached the entrance, his scimitars were in hand, and he came up fast, ready to rush in and fight beside his friend.

But Bruenor wasn’t fighting. Far from it. He had his back up against the rear wall of the cave, his open hands out before him as if in surrender. He was breathing shallowly, gasping almost, and his face was locked somewhere between fear and.…

And what? Drizzt wondered.

“Bruenor?” he whispered, for though he too could sense something in there, as he had outside, some chill and otherworldly presence, he saw nothing that could so terrify the dwarf.

Bruenor didn’t seem to even register his presence.

“Bruenor?” he asked again, more loudly.

“They want me help,” the dwarf explained. “And I can’no’ know what help they’re wanting!”

“They?”

“Don’t ye see ’em, elf?” Bruenor asked.

Drizzt squinted and peered more closely into the dimly lit cave.

“Ghosts,” Bruenor whispered. “Dwarf ghosts. Askin’ me to help.”

“Help with what?”

“I’m a bearded gnome if I know.” Bruenor’s voice trailed off as he finished that thought, a confused look coming over him.

Then his eyes widened so much Drizzt thought they would pop out of their sockets.

“Elf,” Bruenor muttered as if he had to force the sound past a huge lump in his throat. “Elf,” he said again, and Drizzt noticed that he was leaning more heavily on the stone wall then, and recognized that if the wall hadn’t been there, Bruenor would have likely fallen over. Beside Drizzt, Guenhwyvar growled and crouched again, clearly agitated.

Bruenor gasped for breath. Drizzt drew his blades and waded in, moving across the floor in practiced steps, each leaving him more than ready to strike hard if need be. Bruenor was mouthing something then, but he couldn’t hear until he came right up near his friend.

“Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor whispered.

Drizzt’s eyes widened, as well. “What?”

“Ghosts,” Bruenor sputtered. “Gauntlgrym’s ghosts. Asking for me help. Talking of a beast waking up once more.”

Drizzt looked all around. He felt the chill, surely, but he saw and heard nothing. “Ask them where,” he told Bruenor. “Perhaps they can guide us.”

But Bruenor began shaking his head, and he even stood up straight once more, and it wasn’t until Drizzt saw that motion that he came to realize that the sensation had passed, that the ghosts were gone.

“Gauntlgrym’s ghosts,” Bruenor said, his voice still very shaky.

“Did they tell you that? Or are you guessing?”

“They telled me, elf. It’s real.”

Those words struck Drizzt curiously, particularly coming from Bruenor, who had led him on a merry chase for Gauntlgrym for decades. But as he thought about it, he understood Bruenor’s surprise, for even when one believes strongly in something, the actual confirmation comes most often as a shock.

Bruenor looked away for a moment, staring off into the distance, then blinked his eyes as if some revelation had just come over him. “The beast, elf,” he said.

“What beast?”

“It’s wakin’ up … 
again.”

The emphasis on that last word was purposeful, Drizzt knew, but he still didn’t quite get where Bruenor might be going.

“And when it woke up last time, Neverwinter went away,” Bruenor clarified.

“The volcano?” Drizzt asked, and Bruenor kept nodding as if it was all coming clear to him.

“Aye, that’s it. That’s the beast.”

“They told you that?”

“No,” Bruenor readily admitted. “But that’s it.”

“You can’t know that.”

But Bruenor kept nodding. “Ye feel the earth moving beneath yer feet,” he said. “Ye seen the mountain growin’. It’s waking up. The beast. The beast o’ Gauntlgrym.” He looked Drizzt directly in the eye and nodded. “And they’re askin’ for me help, elf, and so they’re to get it, or I’m a bearded gnome!”

He nodded with even more determination then rushed for his pack, fumbling with his maps. “And now we’re knowing the general area o’ the place! It’s real, elf! Gauntlgrym is real!”

“So we’re going to go there?” Drizzt asked, and Bruenor looked at him as if the answer was so obvious that Drizzt must have lost his mind to even ask.

“And stop a volcano?” Drizzt explained.

Bruenor’s jaw hung open and he stopped fumbling with his maps.

After all, how did one stop a volcano?

ALL ROADS LEAD TO LUSKAN

W
ITH A PILE OF SMALL, SMOOTH STONES BESIDE HIM
, B
RUENOR WENT TO
work. One by one, he pulled the parchment maps from his pack, gently unrolling them and placing them on the mossy ground, securing each corner with a stone.

He tried to categorize them by region first, searching for the ones that seemed to place Gauntlgrym nearest the volcano that had erupted. The dwarf leaned back, kneeling, scratched his head repeatedly, and kept thinking about those ghosts that had come to him, pleading for his help.

Gauntlgrym. It was real. It still existed.

Anyone looking at Bruenor Battlehammer at that moment would have thought him a hundred and fifty years younger, a feisty young dwarf eager for adventure. The years didn’t bend his strong shoulders, and rarely had Bruenor’s eyes sparkled as they did just then, full of promise and hope.

And indeed, someone was watching him. Someone with coal black skin. Someone lithe and swift, and deadly. And it was not Drizzt.

Bruenor thought he’d suddenly been blinded. Everything just went black. He yelped and fell back, rolling down to his hip and lifting one arm defensively in front of him while fumbling around on the ground with his other hand, trying to find his axe.

A small
pop
sounded beside him and a sharp jolt stung his arm. Then another and another, a series of tiny explosions disorienting him, biting at him.

“Elf!” he yelled out, hoping Drizzt was near, and despite the discomfort, he continued furiously searching for his weapon.

At last he grabbed it, and only then, the popping sounds continuing, did he also notice the sound of parchment rustling.

“Elf!” he yelled again, and realizing his error in falling backward, the dwarf scrambled the other way.

He came out of the strange globe of impenetrable darkness in short order, crawling, stumbling onto the mossy patch where he’d placed the maps.

They were gone.

The horrified dwarf looked to the forest and the rustling brush. He scrambled up to his feet and flung himself forward in pursuit, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of the thief, his heart sank and his legs slowed. It was a dark elf, and one he couldn’t hope to catch.

“Elf!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, and he took up the chase anyway, trying at least to keep in sight of the fleeing drow. “Call yer damned cat, elf!” Bruenor yelled. “Call yer cat!”

He continued the chase over a ridge and down into a tree-filled dell, and he kept on running right up the far ridge, though he had lost all sight of the thief. Over that ridge, the underbrush was light, the field of view clear, but the thief was nowhere to be seen.

Bruenor skidded to a stop, hopping about, craning his stocky neck, but with the growing realization that he had lost his treasured maps. Gasping for breath, he ran back the way he’d come, veering to the right, the southeast, hoping against hope that he could make that ridge and catch sight of the thief once more.

He didn’t.

Bruenor howled for Drizzt again, repeatedly, as he ran to the western ridge then back to the north and to the east, and finally to the west once more.

Some time later, Bruenor caught a sign of movement to one side of his camp. He took up his axe, hoping the thief had returned, but the dark form showed herself more clearly. Guenhwyvar bounded up to him, her ears flattened, her lips curled back.

“Find him, cat!” Bruenor implored her. “A damned drow elf stole me maps!”

Guenhwyvar’s ears came up and she turned her head left and right, taking in the wider view.

“Go! Go!” the dwarf yelled at her, and with a roar that reverberated all around them, Guenhwyvar leaped away, straight to the west.

Moments later, with Bruenor nodding enthusiastically at the departing panther, Drizzt rushed up beside him, scimitars in hand.

“An elf took me maps!” Bruenor cried at him. “Drow elf!”

“Where did he run?”

The dwarf glanced all around, but threw his axe down, sticking it into the ground, and helplessly lifted his empty, trembling hands.