“We will learn much when we arrive in Gauntlgrym, of that I hold faith,” Jarlaxle replied, and he privately recalled the words of Gromph, relayed from the dwarf ghost trapped in Arklem Greeth’s phylactery: Seat a king in the throne of Gauntlgrym. “Time will work against us now, my friend,” he went on. “There are many who would see the primordial awaken and explode once more, for their own nefarious gains.”
“Is Bregan D’aerthe about?” Drizzt asked. “Ready for the road?”
Jarlaxle seemed put on his heels a bit by that, and his lips went tight.
“Just we four?” Drizzt asked.
“Nay, five,” Jarlaxle replied, and he turned to the open door and motioned with his hand. In walked Dahlia.
“Ain’t she the girl in the goo?” Bruenor asked.
“It was a trick, so that she could flee her foul companions under the guise of death,” Jarlaxle explained.
“Companions she brought with her the first time we went there,” Athrogate protested. “Was her that bringed us there to free the beast!”
“And ye’re thinkin’ we’re to trust her?” Bruenor argued, hands on hips, nostrils flaring.
“Dahlia was deceived on that long-ago day,” Jarlaxle replied. He looked at Athrogate and added, “As were we.”
“Bah!” the dwarf snorted. “She took us there, tricked us there, to free the beast!”
“I tried to stop you,” Dahlia reminded him.
“So ye’re sayin’ now.”
“I speak the truth and you know it,” Dahlia said, turning to regard Drizzt and Bruenor—particularly Drizzt—more directly. “I have an interest no less than your own in securing the primordial once more.”
“Rooted in conscience or revenge?” Drizzt asked with a wry grin.
Dahlia stared at him hard.
Bruenor started to argue, but Drizzt put his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to quiet him, then nodded for Dahlia to continue.
“I have paid for my disobedience to my masters—my former masters—every day since,” she said. “And I pay doubly, because I see the result of my failure. Once I believed Szass Tam to be …”
“Szass what?” Bruenor asked, glancing at Drizzt, who shrugged, equally at a loss.
“The lord and master of the realm of Thay,” Dahlia explained, “whose minions control the Dread Ring in Neverwinter Wood, and the ash-covered zombies who roam the region.”
Both dwarf and drow nodded, remembering the tall tales of the powerful lich.
“Once I believed Szass Tam to be a prophet,” Dahlia went on. “A great man of glorious designs. But when I came to understand the price of those designs, I felt quite the fool.”
“Revenge, then,” said Drizzt, and his elimination of any element of morality from Dahlia’s change of heart had the elf staring at him once again, her lips tight, her eyes narrowed.
“I been callin’ ye that for ten years now,” Athrogate chimed in. “A fool, I mean.”
Dahlia just snorted at him. “The minions of Szass Tam, the zealot Ashmadai and Sylora Salm, and even my old companion Dor’crae—”
“The vampire,” Athrogate muttered.
Bruenor looked at him, then at Dahlia, with disgust. “Ye keep fine friends,” he said.
“Some would say the same of a dwarf and a drow,” Dahlia replied, but when Bruenor’s eyes narrowed dangerously at that, she could only hold her hands up, admitting that she was guilty as charged. “They will try to stop you … us,” she said. “I know them. I know their tactics and their powers. You will find me to be a valuable ally.”
“Or a dangerous spy,” said Bruenor.
Drizzt glanced from his friend to the elf warrior, but his gaze finally settled upon Jarlaxle. Few understood those conflicting gray areas of morality and pragmatism better than the leader of Bregan D’aerthe, after all. Noting Drizzt’s questioning stare, Jarlaxle replied with a slight nod.
“The five of us, then,” Drizzt said.
“And straightaway to Gauntlgrym,” Jarlaxle agreed.
Hands still on his hips, Bruenor seemed less than convinced. He started to argue, but Drizzt leaned in low and whispered, “Gauntlgrym,” reminding the dwarf that he was but days from realizing a goal he had spent decades chasing.
“Aye,” Bruenor said. He took up his axe, eyed Dahlia suspiciously for good measure, and motioned for Jarlaxle to lead on.
Chapter 18 - A Dark Road to a Darker Place
BAH, I LET IT OUT AND I’LL PUT IT BACK!” ATHROGATE GRUMBLED AS HE roughly collected the plates from their breakfast.
Three days out from Luskan and moving swiftly, Jarlaxle was certain they would arrive at their destination—the cave that would lead them to Gauntlgrym, at least—before the sun set.
The night had been punctuated by occasional tremors, but more ominous still, Mount Hotenow—the mountain’s second peak, blown away in the first explosion years before—was once again visible. And it grew by the day, swelling under the mounting pressure of the awakening primordial.
“Are ye to beat yerself up on that every heartbeat o’ every day?” Bruenor asked Athrogate, helping break the camp.
Athrogate looked at him with an expression somewhere between wounded and self-loathing.
“What?” Bruenor growled at him.
“Ye’re a Delzoun king,” Athrogate said. “I know I’ve spent most o’ me life pretending that don’t matter nothing to me, and most times it don’t … beggin’ yer pardon.”
Bruenor offered a slight tip of his head in forgiveness.
“Done a lot o’ things I’m not thinking’d be seen as proper for a Delzoun dwarf, Moradin knows,” Athrogate went on. “Been a highwayman—err, highwaydwarf, and some o’ me own kin’ve felt the thump o’ me morningstars.”
“I’m knowing yer history, Athrogate. What with Adbar and all.”
“Aye, and I’m thinking that when me time’s done here in this world—if it e’er happens with this damned curse on me head—that Moradin’s going to want to be talking to me, and not all he’s got to say’s to be friendly.”
“I ain’t a priest,” Bruenor reminded him.
“Aye, but ye’re a king, a Delzoun king, with royal blood back to Gauntlgrym. I’m thinking that’s to mean something. And so ye’re the best I got to help me keep me promise. I let the damned thing out, and I’ll put it back. I can’t be fixin’ what I done, but I can be making it hurt the less.”
Bruenor considered the tough, black-bearded dwarf for a bit, taking a measure of the sincere pain that shone in Athrogate’s eyes—something so unusual for that particular dwarf. The dwarf king nodded and put the plates back on the ground, then stepped over and patted Athrogate on the shoulder.
“Ye hear me good,” Bruenor said. “I know yer tale o’ Gauntlgrym, and if I weren’t believing that ye was tricked to pull that lever, then know that I’d’ve split yer head wide with me axe already.”
“I ain’t the best o’ dwarfs, but I ain’t the worst.”
“I know,” said Bruenor. “And I know that no Delzoun, not a highwayman, not a thief, not a killer’d be wanting to wreck Gauntlgrym. So ye quit beating yerself up on it. Ye did right in having Jarlaxle get me and Drizzt, and did right in vowing to go back and put the beast away. That’s all Moradin can ask of ye, and more’n meself’s asking o’ ye.” He patted Athrogate’s strong shoulder again. “But know that I’m glad to have ye with me. Just meself and three elfs and I’m thinking I’d throw meself into a chasm if we found one!”
Athrogate looked at Bruenor for just a moment, then, as the words digested, burst out in a great “Bwahaha!” He patted Bruenor hard on the shoulder, and explained, “Not afore this and not after it, I’m thinking, but know that for this journey, me life’s for ye.”
Now it was Bruenor’s turn to once more put on a puzzled expression.
“For this trip, to Gauntlgrym, to the home of our father’s father’s father, then ye’re me king.”
“Yerself follows Jarlaxle.”
“I walk aside Jarlaxle,” Athrogate corrected. “Athrogate follows Athrogate, and none else. Except this time, just this time, when Athrogate follows King Bruenor.”
It took Bruenor a while to digest that, but he found himself nodding in appreciation.
“Like ye’re other friend o’ old,” Athrogate went on. “The one what throws himself on anything he can eat and half o’ what he can’t.”
“Pwent,” Bruenor said, trying hard to make sure his voice didn’t crack, for he hated to admit it, even to himself, but he sorely missed the battlerager.
“Aye, the Pwent!” said Athrogate. “When we fought them crawly things up by Cadderly’s place, when we fought the Ghost King, cursed be the name, ’twas the Pwent aside me. Might a king be knowin’ a better shield dwarf?”
“No,” Bruenor said without the slightest hesitation.
Athrogate nodded and let it go at that, managing a grin as he went back to packing up the camp.
Bruenor, too, went to his chores, feeling a bit lighter in the heart. The conversation with Athrogate had reminded him how sorely he missed Thibbledorf Pwent, and it occurred to the old dwarf king that he might have been kinder to Pwent in all those years of loyal service. How much had he taken the tough and loyal dwarf for granted!
He looked at Athrogate now in that light, and scolded himself for his sentimentality. He wasn’t Thibbledorf Pwent, Bruenor told himself. Thibbledorf Pwent would have died for him, would have happily thrown himself in the path of a spear flying for Bruenor’s chest. Bruenor remembered the look on Pwent’s face when he’d left his friend in Icewind Dale, the abject despair and helplessness at the realization that there had been no way for him to continue beside his king.
Athrogate would never, could never, wear such an expression. The dwarf was sincere enough in his expression of regret for the events at Gauntlgrym, and likely meant every word in his pledge of fealty to Bruenor—for that one mission. But he was no Thibbledorf Pwent. And if it came to that moment of crisis, that ultimate sacrifice, could Bruenor trust Athrogate to give his life for the cause? Or for his king?
Bruenor’s thoughts were interrupted by some movement off to the side of the camp, and through the trees, he saw Jarlaxle and Dahlia talking and pointing to the south.
“Eh, Athrogate,” he said when the other dwarf moved near him. When Athrogate looked his way, Bruenor nodded his chin toward the couple. “That elf there with Jarlaxle.”
“Dahlia.”
“Ye trust her?”
Athrogate came up beside Bruenor and replied, “Jarlaxle trusts her.”
“Ain’t what I asked.”
Athrogate sighed. “I’d be trustin’ her a lot more if she weren’t so damned mean with that stick o’ hers,” he admitted. When Bruenor looked at him curiously, he clarified. “Ah, but don’t ye doubt that she’s a mean one. That stick o’ hers breaks all different ways, into weapons I ain’t ne’er seen afore. She’s fast, and with both hands. Meself, I can swing me flails pretty good, left and right, but she’s more’n that. More akin to yer dark friend, in that her hands work as if they’re two different fighters, if ye get me meanin’.”