Will you grow beyond me? Khazid’hea asked.
“I cannot,” she said, and the words were from Doum’wielle’s own heart then. “I will grow with you, and you with me.”
I will not dominate you, Little Doe, the sword promised.
Doum’wielle slowly shook her head. Nor I you, she thought, and she believed. She stroked the pegasus sculpture lovingly. “You know my heart.”
Soon after, they went back to their practice, and Doum’wielle’s movements came more easily and fluidly, and she fought better than she ever had before.
Khazid’hea was pleased.
Even by dwarf standards, the squat stone buildings tickling the skyline above the tall gray wall of the city of Mirabar could not be considered beautiful. They spoke of utility and efficiency, and that was no small bonus to the dwarf mind-set, but even Bruenor, glancing upon them again from afar, from the field beyond Mirabar’s closed gates, could not begin to feel the lift of his heart he might know when standing outside of the cross-walls and angled towers of Citadel Adbar. Even the city of Silverymoon, so reminiscent of elves, could stir a dwarf’s heart more than this block of boredom.
But that was Mirabar, where the marchion and the great lords hoarded wealth in personal coffers instead of financing any gaudy displays of aesthetic pleasure. Mirabar was the richest city north of Waterdeep, famously thick in the spoils of vast mining operations. The overcity, what they saw now peeking above the wall, was but a fraction of the marchion’s holdings, with a vast array of subterranean housing and mining operations.
“Bah, but we should no’ have come here,” Emerus said to Bruenor as they looked across the fields to the place-and could see already that the guards of Mirabar had grown animated, running all about.
“Are our brothers in there not Delzoun, then?” Bruenor answered calmly. “Mirabarran first, I’m thinking, and few friends in there o’ Clan Battlehammer and Mithral Hall,” said Emerus, and Bruenor knew it was true enough. The marchion and his city had not been thrilled when the mines of Mithral Hall had reopened, nor had they been the best of hosts when King Bruenor had passed through this place on his return to Mithral Hall with the news of King Gandalug’s death, more than a century before in 1370 DR.
Bruenor sighed as he thought of the good friends he had made here, though, of Torgar Delzoun Hammerstriker and Shingles McRuff, who had led four hundred Mirabarran dwarves to the cause of Mithral Hall in the first war with King Obould. And the Mirabarran survivors of that war had stayed and pledged fealty to Clan Battlehammer. Many of their descendants-none of whom had ever returned to Mirabar-were on the road now with Bruenor. He thought of Shoudra Stargleam, the human woman, Sceptrana of Mirabar in those long-ago days, who had come to Mithral Hall to fight Obould, who had given her life for the cause.
He thought of Nanfoodle the gnome, and he could not hide his smile as the memories of his dear little friend flooded his thoughts. He remembered Nanfoodle blowing up the entire ridge north of Keeper’s Dale, launching frost giants and their war machines into the air in a blast that would have shown a bit of humility to Elminster himself.
Nanfoodle had gone on the road with Bruenor in his search for Gauntlgrym, and had served the dwarf as friend and ally throughout decades of dangerous searching. Many tears had slipped down the cheeks of Bruenor Battlehammer when he had knelt before the grave of Nanfoodle the gnome.
Nanfoodle of Mirabar.
“All them dwarfs o’ Mirabar who put their Delzoun blood afore Mirabar came to yer side in the Obould War,” Emerus said. “Them that stayed here stayed in fealty to the marchion o’ Mirabar.”
“That was a hunnerd years ago.”
“Aye, and so ye’re more removed from them than e’er,” said Emerus. “Mirabar’s ne’er been friend to the citadels o’ the Silver Marches. She’s held her love o’ trade with the Sword Coast above any loyalty to fellow dwarfs!”
“Bah, they were just knowin’ that our weapons and armor were better than they could be makin’,” said Bruenor. “And our mithral bars more pure. If them lords o’ Waterdeep got a gander o’ Adbar mail or Felbarr swords, or the purest mithral that gived me own hall her name, then Mirabar’d become no more than a trading post where east’d be meetin’ west!”
“Aye, me friend,” Emerus said, and he clapped Bruenor on the shoulder. His smile didn’t last, though, and he quickly grew more somber.
“They’ve not changed their song about ye,” he said. “We might still be turning aside, tellin’ ’em that our road’s to the north and Icewind Dale.”
“The dwarfs o’ Mirabar’re Delzoun,” Bruenor said. “They got a right to know. They got a right to come along and fight for our home, for the Throne o’ the Dwarf Gods and the ancient Forge that burns with the power of a primordial beast o’ fire. A fine Delzoun leader I’m being if I walk aside this place without leavin’ the truth!”
His mounting speech fell off when he noted the approach of Drizzt, Catti-brie, Ragged Dain, and Connerad Brawnanvil.
“If ye’re tellin’ the dwarfs o’ Mirabar, ye’re tellin’ the marchion and all the rest,” Emerus reminded. “Them humans in Mirabar ain’t much for likin’ Mithral Hall or yerself, even if they’re not believin’ ye’re who ye say ye be. They owe ye no loyalty and so ye should be expectin’ none.”
“I ain’t.”
“And where’re ye thinkin’ the news’ll go?” Emerus said.
“Right to the Sword Coast,” Drizzt interjected.
“Aye,” said Emerus. “To Waterdeep and to Neverwinter, and no doubt them dark elves in Gauntlgrym’ve got spies all about, and agents in Neverwinter. And so if ye go into Mirabar and tell the dwarfs the truth o’ yer-of our march, then ye’re likely tellin’ them drow that we’re coming for ’em!”
“Aye, and so be it,” said Bruenor, and he strode forward to step up a low bluff and better view the distant city. “We got four thousand Delzoun dwarfs standing behind us. Them drow’ll know we’re comin’ long afore we’re crossin’ the underground lake to Gauntlgrym’s top door. And so be it. Once we got the top floor and the throne, we’ll chase them into the Underdark.”
“It is one drow House,” Drizzt said to Emerus. “Powerful with magic, but not numerous.”
“How many?”
“They will have slaves to fight for them-goblins and. .”
“How many drow?” Emerus pressed. “Not much worried for goblins and the like.”
“I have not been to Menzoberranzan in more than a century, but from what I knew, perhaps two hundred drow in House Xorlarrin, perhaps three hundred. Many are wizards, though, and no minor practitioners of the Art.”
“Couple hundred,” Emerus mulled, and he looked to Ragged Dain and chuckled. “Go to Mirabar, Bruenor,” he said. “Come on then, I’ll be right aside ye.”
He waved to the others to follow, but Drizzt stepped back.
“Mirabar will not have him,” Catti-brie explained. “Or they would not when last he passed this way.”
“Bah, been a hunnerd years!” said Bruenor.
But Drizzt was shaking his head, for it had not been a hundred years since he had last futilely approached Mirabar’s imposing, and closed, gates. But it didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t about to put his pride and stubbornness ahead of the good of the expedition. “Better that I remain here,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll scout ahead along the western road while you finish your business.”
Bruenor and Drizzt shared a long look of complete understanding, both ways, the dwarf nodding his agreement, the drow responding in kind.
“I’ll go with you,” Catti-brie said, but Drizzt shook his head.
“Bruenor will need you.”
The woman agreed with a sigh. She missed Wulfgar and Regis then- they all did. She didn’t like having to leave Drizzt alone with the harsh reality of the prejudiced world lifting its dark wings once more, and she couldn’t argue the truth of his statement that Bruenor would need her.