I ain’t for taking that from ye.”
“Been all me life here in the Hall,” said Connerad, and with that, Bruenor nodded his agreement.
“With half that life havin’ yer arse on the throne,” said Bruenor.
“Weighin’ on ye, is it? Aye, I know, lad.”
“Weighed on yer own arse when ye left,” said Dagnabbet, and there was an unmistakable edge in her voice that gave Bruenor, and some others, pause. “Suren that ye’re not for thinking that King Bruenor owed the hall more,” Connerad scolded the general.
“Never said that,” she replied.
“Then what?”
“Aye,” Bruenor agreed. “What?”
General Dagnabbet swallowed hard, her deep breaths showing that she was at a crossroads and trying to find her heart. “Was me grandfather that chased the gray dwarfs from Mithral Hall,” she said. “Was me grandfather and me Da that readied the throne for King Bruenor’s return from Calimport, and was them that served well aside ye.”
“Aye, as was me own Da,” Connerad Brawnanvil said. “Served King Bruenor and the king afore him.”
“Aye, and yer legacy’s no greater than me own,” General Dagnabbet blurted, drawing gasps from everyone else.
“Careful lass, he’s yer king,” Bungalow Thump warned. “Me king who’s wantin’ to leave, he just said,” Dagnabbet pressed. “As yerself’s leaving to serve as Bruenor’s shield.”
Off to the side, Catti-brie chuckled, and when Bruenor looked from Dagnabbet to his adopted daughter, he noted Catti-brie nodding in approval to Dagnabbet.
“What’re ye sayin’, girl?” Bruenor demanded of the young but capable general. “Just speak it!”
“Me own claim on Mithral Hall’s throne’s no less than Connerad’s, except that ye gived the throne to his Da, Banak,” she said bluntly.
Bungalow Thump wailed, but Connerad calmed him with an upraised hand. “And I’m not doubtin’ yer pick o’ Banak, as me own Da and Grandda were dead under the stones.”
“But?” Drizzt prompted again.
“But me friend’s not thinkin’ Mithral Hall’s needing a steward on her throne when I’m aside ye on the road to Gauntlgrym, King Bruenor,”
Connerad explained. “She’s thinkin’ Mithral Hall’s needin’ a queen.” Bruenor stared hard at General Dagnabbet, who matched his look without blinking, not backing away a finger’s breadth from the accusation. “Throne’s not me own to give,” he said at length, and both turned to Connerad.
“Queen Dagnabbet?” the young Brawnanvil mused aloud, and he chuckled and nodded. He and Dagnabbet had been dear friends for all their lives, military nobility in Mithral Hall’s proud ranks.
He turned to Bruenor. “She’s speakin’ truly,” he admitted. “None’re more distinguished, none more deservin’. If me own father’d had been killed to death in the Obould war, who’d Bruenor’ve chosen, meself or Dagnabbet?”
Bruenor shrugged, not willing to go there.
“If ye’d choosed meself, then me friend Dagnabbet would serve ye well, as she’s served me well,” said Connerad. “And if ye’d choosed to make a Queen Dagnabbet, then know she’d’ve had no more loyal friend and general than meself.”
“And now ye’re leavin’,” said Bruenor. He turned to Dagnabbet. “And yerself’s stayin’.”
“Then Queen Dagnabbet,” Connerad said to Bruenor, and he wasn’t asking, for in truth, it wasn’t Bruenor’s-or anyone else’s-place to offer an opinion. Succession was the choice of the king of Mithral Hall, and Connerad was the king of Mithral Hall.
“Are ye askin’ or tellin’?” Bruenor did reply.
“Both.”
“Then aye, and aye!” said Bruenor.
“Queen Dagnabbet!” Bungalow Thump shouted, and the huzzahs and heigh-ho’s filled the audience chamber and exploded out to echo down the corridors of Mithral Hall.
Dagnabbet bowed respectfully, then stood up straight, seeming hardly shaken and looking every bit the ferocious leader of Mithral Hall. “Me first request’s an easy one,” she said to both Connerad and Bruenor. She smiled and turned to Bungalow Thump. “Once ye get done chasin’ the drow from Gauntlgrym, ye give me back me Bungalow Thump. Mithral Hall’s not to be without him.”
“Honored, me king!” Bungalow said, punching his fists together. It took him a while to realize why everyone in the room was staring at him then, and with expressions full of amusement.
“Honored, me queen!” the embarrassed Gutbuster corrected, and Dagnabbet led the ensuing laughter.
When the council of the three dwarven citadels convened in Citadel Felbarr in the second month of 1486, Queen Dagnabbet was announced formally as the ruler of Mithral Hall, and King Connerad, now shield general of Bruenor’s impending march, did not even make the trip to Felbarr, busy as he was organizing the warriors Mithral Hall would send to the west.
King Harnoth seemed stupefied by the action, incredulous that any dwarf would surrender a throne, perhaps. He was young, Bruenor knew, and still a novice in the ways of being a king. The burdens would weigh on him in another century, likely, if he managed to stay alive that long-something of which Bruenor could not be certain, given Harnoth’s recklessness in the war, and his stubbornness subsequently.
King Emerus, though, not only seemed less than surprised, his nod was one of approval.
A few moments later, when Emerus announced that he, too, would be abdicating his throne to join with his old friend Bruenor in the march to Gauntlgrym, the chorus of gasps were not enhanced by Bruenor.
“What am I hearin’?” Harnoth cried, in disbelief and clear dismay.
“That you are now the longest-serving dwarf king of the Silver Marches,” said Drizzt.
“Madness!” Harnoth fumed, and he slammed his fist down on the table. “All me life, me Da speaked o’ King Bruenor and King Emerus, and now ye’re both for leavin’? We won the war and all the land’s scarred, and now ye’re leavin’?”
“Scars’ll heal,” Emerus said solemnly, his resonant voice showing that he wasn’t taking this lightly. “With or without meself and Bruenor and Connerad. Felbarr’s got her succession as Mithral Hall’s got hers.” He leaned forward and looked down the length of the long table, and Parson Glaive nodded, showing his king, who was now his subject, great deference.
“Citadel Felbarr is mine,” the high cleric announced.
“Huzzah to King Parson Glaive o’ Felbarr!” Emerus toasted, rising up and lifting his flagon.
“Huzzah!” all replied.
“And huzzah to Queen Dagnabbet o’ Mithral Hall!” Bruenor cheered, and the boisterous shouts filled the hall once more.
Bruenor looked to Emerus and nodded, sincerely thrilled and grateful that his old and respected friend would be accompanying him on the journey to reclaim the most ancient Delzoun homeland.
“Mithral Hall on the first day of spring!” Ragged Dain added. “And let the ground shake under the fall o’ four thousand dwarf boots!”
“Eight thousand, ye dolt,” Bruenor corrected, hoisting his flagon so forcefully that half of the contents splashed out. “Most’ve got two legs!”
“Huzzah!” they cheered.
“I should destroy you for coming here,” the great white wyrm roared. “You should reconsider your dangerous impulses,” came a calm reply, and it was a sincere response from an archmage who had lived closer to two centuries than one, and who had come to the lair of Arauthator, the Old White Death, fully prepared to survive a dragon’s onslaught.
“The attempts to bring Tiamat to the Prime Material Plane have failed, and so I understand your frustrations, great wyrm,” Gromph added. “But so, too, has Lolth failed in her quest for the domain of magic. These are the provinces of the gods and we can do that which we may and little more. The world goes on, as does Arauthator, as do I.”
“The philosophy of a weakling,” the dragon replied. “To so dismiss failure.”
“To so dwell upon it, when time moves forward,” said Gromph, with a “tsk, tsk” and a shake of his head.
“You mock me?”
“I only mock those I consider pathetic,” the archmage answered. “I have never thought that of you, surely.”