Tiago laughed aloud at the priestess’s flustered pronouncements, and Ravel understood that he had done so for Ravel’s benefit. Yes, the Xorlarrin son had a powerful ally here, and one who would not blink before Berellip’s intimidating glare.
“My dear sister, I am Xorlarrin,” Ravel replied. He looked to Jearth and bowed in what seemed like an apology as he finished, “I would not trust such a critical duty to a mere warrior.”
For a moment, he thought Berellip might swallow her lips, so tight did her face become.
“Nor would I trouble you and your priestesses, who have far more important duties in ensuring that this place, this city of Xorlarrin, will prove suitable to the goddess we all hold dear,” he added, looking more to Tiago, who nodded his approval.
For the time being, Ravel had disarmed his sister.
“We have much to do,” Jearth interjected. “My scouts have assured me that this complex is huge, even without the miles and miles of mines running beneath and beside it. There are other groups here in addition to our forces and the stubborn dwarf ghosts. We have found dire corbies—they will need to be cleaned out.”
“Seems a minor distraction,” said the usually quiet Saribel, and her look to Berellip as she spoke tipped Ravel off to her true purpose, that of pleasing their dominant sister.
“Many of the interesting chambers we have discovered are unsound,” Jearth went on with hesitation, for he, like Ravel, had perfected the art of ignoring the annoying Saribel. “This place was wracked by the cataclysm of recent years. There may be untold treasures and secrets lying around, defenses we might put to our use, side chambers that will provide better quarters for the nobles.”
Saribel moved as if to interject, but Jearth pressed on before her. “There may be a source for these bothersome ghosts, as well, a temple to a dwarf god, and that we cannot abide in any place House Xorlarrin might come to call home.”
The younger of the Xorlarrin sisters slumped back at that remark.
“We have much to do,” Jearth reiterated, and there would be no arguments coming forth in reply.
“Yes, much,” Ravel agreed, and he glanced down the line of forges to the great and huge oven that centered the room’s rear wall. “And first we must discover how to fire these ovens.” He wore a sly look as he made the comment, hinting that he knew more than he was letting on, which, of course, he did.
“The source is nearby,” Berellip said. “It must be, along with the fuel . . .”
“The source is there,” Ravel said, pointing to the wall near the large forge, to an archway which they had not explored, as the passage it indicated had been bricked up and sealed.
“How can you know?”
“I am a spellspinner,” Ravel replied. “You do not believe that a pile of stones could block my way, do you?”
He focused on Tiago, the most important one in his audience, and watched the young Baenre warrior, obviously intrigued, glance from the archway back to him and back again.
“Are you to keep us waiting?” Berellip asked angrily after many heartbeats slipped past in silence.
“To explain what lies beyond would not do it justice, I fear,” said Ravel. “Assemble a team of goblin diggers to clear the tunnel—it is not long—and let us travel together to better appreciate our good fortune.” He glanced at Jearth and nodded, and the weapons master moved off immediately to gather some slaves.
As the informal meeting disbanded, Tiago found his way to Ravel’s side. “You have raised expectations,” he said quietly. “Do not disappoint, lest you return the upper hand to your sister. And that, we cannot have.”
“Disappoint?” Ravel echoed incredulously. “Behind that wall lies a god. A trapped god. The power of Gauntlgrym.”
Tiago grinned. “The fire beast?”
“The primordial,” Ravel confirmed. “The fire beast my matron mother determined as the source of the cataclysm. Indeed it exists, right before us, trapped as it has been for millennia.” He paused as his grin widened even more. “So near the magical forge.”
Tiago’s look, his responding smile as he stared at the distant archway, showed his appreciation of this moment. Across Faerûn, the weapons of ancient Gauntlgrym had remained legendary for their craftsmanship and imbued powers; even those who refused to admit the existence of this rumored dwarf homeland could only dispute the origin, and not the wonder, of those ancient artifacts.
“I will have the first two master items created when the forges are re-fired,” Tiago said.
“That was part of our deal, so you have informed me,” Ravel replied with only a hint of sarcasm. “Your servants have brought the needed materials, I assume.”
Still looking at the archway, at the promise, the young Baenre nodded. “If one would consider Gol’fanin a servant.”
That had Ravel back on his heels! “Gol’fanin?”
“You have traveled from Menzoberranzan to one of the most famed forges of the ancient world. Please do tell me that you, a mage of high reputation, are too intelligent to be surprised by this revelation.”
Put that way, of course, Tiago was right. But Ravel found himself indeed surprised, more by the planning that had gone into this expedition from the Baenre side than by the secret accompaniment by one of Menzoberranzan’s most accomplished blacksmiths. Suddenly the spellspinner found himself doubting every detail of this expedition, even that it was an undertaking of House Xorlarrin. How much influence, how much subterfuge, had House Baenre exerted here?
“You understand that this part of my bargain with you will come at a great cost to me,” Ravel said when he managed to properly compose himself. “With Jearth, I mean.”
“You understand that I don’t care,” came the instant response, a reply surely worthy of a Baenre.
The chamber thrummed with energy and waves of heat rose from the oblong pit that dominated the room. That heat was overwhelmed, however, by the mist in the air, and the low fog that clung to the stones.
Standing at the edge of that pit, Ravel and the others could not but appreciate the sheer power of the beast below: a frothing, roiling, primordial power chewing stones into lava and burping gouts of heavy slag upward.
But no less impressive was the containment of that volcanic monster, a cyclone of thick watery power spinning around the sides of the pit from the lip all the way down to the primordial. More water ran down continually from the high ceiling, thin lines, perhaps, but no doubt keeping the equilibrium of the room intact.
“Elementals,” Brack’thal Xorlarrin breathed. “Scores of them.”
Ravel looked at his older brother skeptically, but did not challenge his words. He knew better than to do so, for Brack’thal was a student of the old schools of magic, primarily engaged in summoning this very type of beast to his side. His powers had decreased tremendously with the Spellplague and the fall of Mystra’s Weave, but in his day, he had often been seen wandering the ways of Menzoberranzan, a watery or fiery companion at his side and leaving a trail of droplets or smoke through the streets.
The younger spellspinner looked to his sister as Brack’thal finished, and Berellip merely nodded, seeming unsurprised. Only then did Ravel come to fully comprehend why Matron Zeerith had insisted that he take Brack’thal along on the expedition, and why Berellip had recalled him from his other duties as the tunnel to this room was being cleared by the goblin slaves.
Once again, as with his last conversation with Tiago, the young spellspinner felt as if he were standing on sand rather than stone. So much of this expedition, his expedition, seemed to be comprised of people plotting around him and above him. Why hadn’t Matron Zeerith simply explained to him why she thought Brack’thal might prove to be a worthy addition? Why hadn’t Tiago Baenre simply explained to him the presence of Gol’fanin, so that the blacksmith might walk openly among the ranks, in a position of proper respect and station, instead of as a mere commoner?
Ravel looked into the pit, down through the cyclonic watery turmoil to the fiery eye of the godlike beast, and laughed at his own foolishness. Why? Because they were drow, after all, and knowledge was power, and power was not, was never, to be willingly shared!
“They are done,” he heard Berellip say, and when he looked up, he realized that she was speaking directly to him. She guided his gaze down to the right, where a stone bridge had once stood. With giant mushroom planks hauled along from the deeper Underdark, goblin and orc workers had already reconstructed a walkway across the pit. It was comprised only of four long and thick pieces, interlocked so that it was triple thick in the middle and singular at either end.
Saribel had overseen the project, along with Jearth, and now the two prodded a group of heavy bugbears across the walkway, testing its integrity. It didn’t even bow.
Tiago Baenre and one of his “servants,” who was, of course, really Gol’fanin, joined the Xorlarrins in their march across the way, to a low archway and a second, much smaller chamber set with a single large lever in its floor. Blood stains showed on the handle.
“These are not so old,” Saribel said of the stains after casting a minor divination.
“Someone put the primordial back in its hole,” Brack’thal announced, and all eyes turned his way.
He peered back under the archway and pointed up toward the high ceiling over the fiery pit, where water continued to flow into the primordial chamber. Then he pointed back at the lever. “This released the elementals into their guardian position.”
“You cannot know that,” Berellip said, but Brack’thal continued to nod against her doubts.
“I have already seen the channels that bring them in, like great roots throughout the tunnels of Gauntlgrym,” the elder wizard replied. He pointed to the lever again. “The primordial is contained. Someone has completed our major task for us.”
“Need we free the beast again to refire the forges, then?” asked Tiago.
Five sets of Xorlarrin eyes stared at him incredulously, and even his “servant,” old Gol’fanin, dared a bit of a laugh at his expense.
“If you intend to do so, then please alert me first,” Brack’thal said, “that I might be well on my way to Menzoberranzan to inform your Matron Mother Quenthel that we found Gauntlgrym, but you decided to blow it up.”
Tiago straightened. Tiago was not amused.
A sudden look of panic crossed Brack’thal Xorlarrin’s face, as he realized, as everyone around him realized, that he had gone too far in mocking the proud Baenre. “There will be another room, another control,” he stammered, “to channel power to the forges. For surely this beast is the source of their legendary powers—what else could it be?”
“Then find it,” Tiago said evenly, and he didn’t blink. Had he leaped over then and lopped off Brack’thal’s head, no one in the small room would have been the least bit surprised.
“Now,” he added when Brack’thal hesitated and dared look away from him to Berellip.
Berellip wisely nodded, but Brack’thal was already moving anyway, out of the room and across the mushroom stalk bridge.
