“We intend to rebuild the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan,” Catti-brie stated.
“Aye, ye been whisperin’ as much,” Bruenor replied.
“Archmage Gromph has agreed to aid us,” Jarlaxle added.
Bruenor didn’t seem overly pleased by that. “Yer city,” he said. “Do what ye will. But be warned, drow, if ye’re thinking o’ rebuilding the tower as part o’ some plan to make me beholden …”
“We’re rebuilding it to save Gauntlgrym,” Catti-brie blurted. “Only for that.”
“Eh?” Bruenor and several others all said together.
“The power of the Hosttower brings forth the water elementals,” the woman explained. “Only their combined power keeps the beast in its pit.”
“Aye, and they’re swirling thick in there,” Bruenor replied.
“The residual magic is strong,” Catti-brie explained. “But it is only that, residual. And already it is thinning.”
“What’re ye saying?” Ragged Dain asked breathlessly.
Catti-brie took a deep breath and was glad indeed when Drizzt squeezed her hand. “If we canno’ rebuild the Hosttower and bring forth its magic once more, ye’re not to have many years in Gauntlgrym. The magic will diminish and the water elementals will sweep away.”
“And then the beast is free,” said Drizzt. “And we have seen that before.”
Bruenor grumbled indecipherably. He looked as if he was chewing on a pile of sharp rocks.
“How many years?” he finally asked, and all eyes turned to Catti-brie.
“I do’no know,” she replied. “Less than yer life, to be sure, and suren less than me own.”
“And ye know this?”
“Aye.”
“Because the beast telled ye?”
“More than just that, but aye.”
“And so ye’ll fix the durned tower,” Ragged Dain stated more than asked.
Catti-brie kept looking at Bruenor.
“Well?” the king of Gauntlgrym finally asked her.
“We are going to try, good King Bruenor,” Jarlaxle unexpectedly interjected. “Between your daughter and the Harpells, and all the forces I can muster, we will try.”
“And what’s yer play in this?” Bruenor demanded.
“You know my stake in Luskan. I have not hidden that from you.”
“So ye’re thinkin’ the volcano’d blow that way, are ye?”
“I have no idea, and suspect that Luskan is far enough out of its reach in any event,” Jarlaxle replied. “And no, I’ll not deny that rebuilding the Hosttower will be of great benefit to me, and in part because it will keep you here in Gauntlgrym, and that, good dwarf king, I prefer.”
Bruenor looked for a moment as if he would question that claim, but he rocked back on his heels and let it go with a nod.
“But to do this, we will need your help,” Jarlaxle added. “Send a thousand of your best builders to the City of Sails, I beg, that we can put them to use in physically reconstructing the Hosttower.”
“A thousand?” Bruenor balked.
“We got walls to build here,” Oretheo Spikes protested.
“Aye, and tunnels yet to secure,” added Ragged Dain.
“And to what point might we be doin’ that if the damned volcano’s to blow?” Mallabritches Fellhammer said above them all, and indeed, that quieted the ruckus before it could gather momentum.
“Ye’re askin’ me to walk a thousand o’ me boys into a city o’ pirates and drow?” Bruenor said.
“I will guarantee their safety, of course. Indeed, I will build barracks and all accommodations right there on Cutlass Island, which cannot be reached by land except by going through Closeguard Island, upon which sits the fortress of High Captain Kurth.”
“Yer boy?”
Jarlaxle confirmed that with a nod.
Bruenor looked around the room, and each dwarf in turn came to nod his or her agreement.
“And we might find that we will need more than a thousand,” Jarlaxle warned.
Bruenor’s nostrils flared, but Catti-brie interjected, “If we fail in this you will have no halls worth defending. Not here, at least.
“But if we succeed …” she added, as the dwarves began to grumble. “The primordial is secure and we will understand so much more of the magic that built Gauntlgrym. It might well be that the Hosttower’s the secret to getting the magical gates up and running, too.”
That ended the meeting on an upbeat note, as Catti-brie had hoped, but by the time Bruenor and the other dwarves emerged from the war room into the throne room for the ceremony committing Pwent’s statue, they wore dour expressions once again.
Bruenor went right to the throne and hopped upon it, settling back with his hairy chin in his hand as he stared at the sarcophagus of Thibbledorf Pwent being set in its final, heroic pose on the wall a dozen strides away, about ten feet above the floor on a shelf the dwarves had carved. From there, Pwent would look over the hall, a guardian just above the fray, overlooking and protecting his king.
King Bruenor did gain some comfort from that sight, and was comforted, too, by the sensations of the godly throne. He had the distinct feeling, as clear as a whisper in his ear, that the sentient spirits within the Throne of the Dwarven Gods agreed with his decision to aid in the reconstruction of the Hosttower.
Between that and looking at Pwent, Bruenor felt strangely calm, given the shock of this day’s news. He knew that he was not alone here, and that his friends, even including Jarlaxle, were no small matter.
He let other dwarves speak of Pwent at the dedication, and hardly listened. He did not need to hear tales of Thibbledorf Pwent to know the truth of that most wonderful shield dwarf. When they were done Bruenor brought the cracked silver horn up to his lips on impulse and blew a discordant note, summoning the battleraging specter of Pwent.
As always when there was no enemy apparent, the defending spirit hopped about wildly, scouring every shadow and nook.
The others thought nothing of it and turned their attention to Bruenor, who led them in a toast to Pwent.
Except for Jarlaxle, who watched the spirit and noted that this thing, supposedly unconnected to Thibbledorf Pwent’s actual spirit and soul, supposedly a simple and little-thinking manifestation of a bodyguard, paused and let its stare linger on the sarcophagus statue that had just been set on the wall.
And in those nearly translucent eyes, Jarlaxle noted something.
Recognition?
CHAPTER 2
Is she coming forth?” Saribel asked when Tiago returned from Matron Mother Darthiir Do’Urden’s private chambers.
“She is barely awake, as usual,” the warrior spat in reply, his voice full of contempt, as it always was now when he spoke to his wife. Saribel had become more resolute and forceful of late, particularly concerning Tiago’s disastrous obsession with the rogue Drizzt Do’Urden, and clearly that had not set well with Tiago.
Because he thought her his lesser, Saribel knew, despite the fact that she was a woman and a high priestess. She was not a Baenre by blood, and that, to Tiago, was all that mattered.
He would learn differently, Saribel mused.
“Ravel and the others await us in the chapel,” Saribel said. “We are quite tardy.”
“Is Braelin Janquay in attendance?” Tiago asked, referring to the newest noble of House Do’Urden, gifted by Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre to serve as the garrison commander.
It was not a gift that Tiago had appreciated, nor Saribel for that matter. Braelin had come to them from Bregan D’aerthe, reputedly as a stand-in for Jarlaxle himself, who was now nowhere to be found. Much of House Do’Urden’s cobbled-together garrison was composed of Bregan D’aerthe soldiers. In that reality, how much power might the newcomer wield?
Too much, likely, as far as Tiago and Saribel were concerned.