“A primordial of fire, as old as the gods,” Jarlaxle replied.
“And as strong,” said Bruenor, but Jarlaxle shook his head.
“But without a god’s mind. It is catastrophe, devoid of malice. It is power, without intellect.”
“It won’t raise an army of fanatical cultists,” Drizzt added.
Jarlaxle’s expression on that point was less than reassuring.
Bruenor glanced over at the table that held the magical bowls they were to use to summon the water elementals, bowls they hoped would hold the monsters long enough for them to re-open the tendrils of the Hosttower of the Arcane, thus setting the old cage back in place. Bowls they had to place precisely, though they knew not precisely where…
“King Bruenor, it is an adventure!” Jarlaxle said, excited, bouncing from foot to foot. “King Bruenor, this is the way to Gauntlgrym! The real Gauntlgrym! Is that not what you sought when you abdicated the throne of Mithral Hall?”
“Bah!” Bruenor snorted and waved the drow away.
Jarlaxle grinned and tossed a wink at Drizzt. “We may have more options, more allies,” he said, taking up his wide-brimmed hat and plopping it on his head. “I will return presently.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving the three of them sitting in the apartment.
“Ye needed me maps,” Bruenor said to Athrogate.
The black-bearded dwarf shrugged and nodded. “The tunnels we walked to Gauntlgrym collapsed. Can’t go back that way.”
Bruenor turned a concerned look to Drizzt.
“Those tunnels carried these… tendrils, of the Hosttower, to the ancient dwarven city,” the drow added.
“Aye, that’s how we found the place.”
“And if those tendrils are damaged?”
Athrogate blew a heavy sigh, then looked directly at Bruenor, his expression very serious. “If ye ain’t for goin’, I ain’t for blamin’ ye. It’s all crazy, and sure that we’re to die-more sure than anything good, I mean. But for meself, there’s no choice to be found.” He sucked in his breath and visibly steadied himself in his chair. “’Twas meself, King Bruenor,” Athrogate admitted. “Jarlaxle didn’t tell ye that, bein’ me friend. But ’twas meself what pulled the lever and shut the tendrils’ flow, shut the tendrils’ magic, and freed the elementals what were holding the beast in its pit o’ lava. It was Athrogate that let the primordial roar. It was Athrogate that wrecked Gauntlgrym, and Athrogate that killed Neverwinter.”
Bruenor’s eyes opened wide and he turned to Drizzt to find the same incredulous expression on the face of the drow.
“It weren’t what I expected,” Athrogate went on, lowering his eyes in shame after his open admission. “I thinked meself to be re-firing the forge, and bringing the city back to life.”
“That is an incredibly daring move to take when you were not certain,” Drizzt remarked.
“Wasn’t in me own head,” the dwarf muttered. “Or more to the point, there was others in me head beside me! A vampire, for one, and that Thayan witch.”
“The one in the Cutlass, who somehow fled from under Jarlaxle’s glue?”
“Her boss. The one with the Dread Ring. I was tricked and I was pushed.” He paused and blew another sigh. “And I was weak.”
Bruenor looked to Drizzt again, who nodded back at him.
“So be it,” Bruenor said to Athrogate, his voice firm but in no way accusatory. “Ye can’t be changin’ what happened, but it might be that we can fix it now.”
“I got to try,” said Athrogate.
“So do we,” Bruenor agreed. “And not just try, but to do it. And know that any who get in me way’ll be feelin’ the bite o’ me axe!”
“Aye, but not afore they feel the thump o’ me morningstars!” Athrogate said.
He seemed rejuvenated by Bruenor’s cheer. Both dwarves looked at Drizzt, who just offered a wry little grin in response. He didn’t have to say it, because both dwarves knew already: Any enemies they encountered would feel the cut of Drizzt’s scimitars before either Bruenor’s axe or Athrogate’s morningstars.
Out on the balcony later on, alone with his thoughts, Bruenor Battlehammer considered what lay before him. He would see Gauntlgrym. His quest would be fulfilled, his vision confirmed, his dream realized. Then what? What road would inspire his steps after that? What would lend strength to his tired old limbs?
Or was this his last road, with the end in sight?
He was mulling that over, coming to accept the likelihood, when he spied a familiar face on the street below.
Shivanni Gardpeck hustled along and was met by Jarlaxle, who seemed to come out of nowhere. They exchanged words Bruenor could not hear, and Jarlaxle gave the woman a fairly hefty purse, as he had promised in the Cutlass earlier.
When Shivanni broke away, heading off into the night, and Jarlaxle turned toward Bruenor, the dwarf noticed more than a bit of concern and puzzlement on the dark elf’s face.
Jarlaxle came up the stairs to find Bruenor waiting for him.
“Has our friend crossed the line?” asked the drow.
The question caught Bruenor off guard and he crinkled his nose as he stared back at Jarlaxle.
“Drizzt,” the drow clarified, though of course that wasn’t what confused Bruenor.
“What line are ye talking about?”
“He fights with more… fury than I recall,” Jarlaxle said.
“Aye, been that way for a long time now.”
“Since the loss of Catti-brie and Regis.”
“Are ye blamin’ him?
Jarlaxle shook his head, and looked to the apartment’s closed door. “But has he crossed over that line?” he asked again, turning back to Bruenor. “Has he started a fight he shouldn’t have started? Has he shown no mercy to one deserving? Has he allowed his rage instead of his conscience to control his blades?”
Bruenor stared at him, still puzzled.
“Your hesitance frightens me,” the dark elf said.
“No,” Bruenor answered. “But might be that he’s come close. Why’re ye caring?”
“Curiosity.”
The dwarf didn’t buy that, of course. “Been other things, too,” Bruenor said. “Drizzt ain’t one for the towns anymore. When we’re settling for the winter, in Port Llast, or in Neverwinter afore she fell, or even with a barbarian tribe, he’s not one to stay about-uncomfortable in the company. Maybe now he’d be happy in Neverwinter.”
“Because there’s always someone, or something, to fight in the ruins,” Jarlaxle said.
“Aye.”
“He relishes battle.”
“Never shied from it. So speak it out, elf. What’s on yer mind about this?”
“I told you: curiosity,” Jarlaxle replied, and he looked at the apartment door once again.
“Then go ask him yerself, and ye might be gettin’ better answers,” the dwarf offered.
Jarlaxle shook his head. “I have other business to attend to this night,” he said.
The drow mercenary turned, shook his head, and skipped back down the stairs.
Bruenor moved to the railing and watched him go, though the crafty Jarlaxle was quickly out of sight. The dwarf found himself thinking about that conversation for a long while, though, and not so much about why Jarlaxle might have inquired in such a way about Drizzt, but the implications of the dark elf’s legitimate concerns.
He could hardly remember the old Drizzt anymore, Bruenor realized, the drow who took battle with a shrug of inevitability and a smile on his face, both in confidence and in the knowledge that he was acting in accord with his heart. He had seen the change in Drizzt. His smile had become something more… wicked, less an expression of the acceptance of the necessity of a fight but more a look of pure enjoyment.
And only then did Bruenor realize how many years had passed since he had seen the old Drizzt.
When he entered the subterranean chamber that had once belonged to Arklem Greeth and Valindra, Jarlaxle was not surprised to learn that he was not alone.
Dahlia sat comfortably in a chair, eyeing him.
“You did well with the ring,” the drow said with a bow.
“Its nature was revealed to me the moment I put it on.”
“Still, be not so humble. Few could use the projected image to such effectiveness. Your minions did not even suspect that it was not really you at the door.”