Chapter 6 THE PATHS OF DOOM
Le'lorinel worked defensively, as always, letting the opponent take the lead, his twin scimitars weaving a furious dance. The elf parried and backed, dodged easily and twirled aside, letting Tunevec's furious charge go right past.
Tunevec stumbled, and cursed under his breath, thinking the fight lost, thinking Le'lorinel would surely complain and moan about his deficiencies. He closed his eyes, waiting for the slap of a sword across his back, or his rump if Le'lorinel was feeling particularly petty this day.
No blow came.
Tunevec turned about to see the bald elf leaning against the wall, weapons put away.
“You do not even bother to finish the fight?” Tunevec asked.
Le'lorinel regarded him absently, as if it didn't matter. The elf stared up at the lone window on this side of the tower, the one to Mahskevic's study. Behind that window, Le'lorinel knew, the wizard was getting some more answers.
“Come!” Tunevec bade, and he clapped his scimitars in the air before him. “You paid me for one last fight, so let us fight!”
Le'lorinel eventually got around to looking at the impatient warrior. “We are done, now and forever.”
“You paid for the last fight, and the last fight is not finished,” Tunevec protested.
“But it is. Take your coins and be gone. I have no further need of your services.”
Tunevec stared at the elf in abject disbelief. They had been sparring together for many months, and now to be dismissed so casually, so callously!
“Keep the scimitars,” Le'lorinel remarked, not even looking at Tunevec anymore, but rather, staring up at that window.
Tunevec stood there for a long while, staring at the elf incredulously. Finally, having sorted it all out, the reality of the dismissal leaving a foul taste in his mouth, he tossed the scimitars to the ground at Le'lorinel's feet, turned about, and stormed off, muttering curses.
Le'lorinel didn't even bother to retrieve the scimitars or to glance Tunevec's way. The fighter had done his job—not very well, but he had served a useful purpose—and now that job was done.
In a matter of moments, Le'lorinel stood before the door of Mahskevic's study, hand up to knock, but hesitating. Mahskevic wasn't pleased by all of this, Le'lorinel knew, and had seemed quite sullen since the elf s return from E'kressa.
Before Le'lorinel could find the nerve to knock, the door swung open, as if of its own accord, affording the elf a view of Mahskevic sitting behind his desk, his tall and pointy blue wizard's cap bent halfway up and leaning to the left, several large tomes open on the oaken desk before him, including one penned by Talasay, the bard of Silverymoon, detailing the recent events of Mithral Hall, including the reclamation of the dwarves' homeland from the duergar and the shadow dragon Shimmergloom, the anointing of Bruenor as King, the coming of the dark elves bearing Gandalug Battlehammer—Bruenor's grandfather—and finally, after the great victory over the forces of the Underdark, Bruenor's abdication of the throne to Gandalug and his reputed return to Icewind Dale. Le'lorinel had paid dearly for that tome and knew every word in it very well.
Between the books on the wizard's desk, and partially beneath one of them, was spread a parchment that Le'lorinel had written put for the wizard, recounting the exact words E'kressa had used in his divination.
“I told you that I would call to you when I was done,” Mahskevic, who seemed very surly this day, remarked without looking up. “Can you not find a bit of patience after all of these years?”
“Tunevec is gone,” Le'lorinel answered. “Dismissed and departed.”
Now Mahskevic did look up, his face a mask of concern. “You did not kill him?” the wizard asked.
Le'lorinel smiled. “Do you believe me to be such an evil creature?”
“I believe that you are obsessed beyond reason,” the wizard answered bluntly. “Perhaps you fear to leave witnesses behind, that one might alert Drizzt Do'Urden of the pursuit.”
“Then E'kressa would be dead, would he not?”
Mahskevic considered the words for a moment, then shrugged in acceptance of the simple logic. “But Tunevec has left?”
Le'lorinel nodded.
“A pity. I was just growing fond of the young and able warrior. As were you, I had thought.”
“Not so fine a fighter,” the elf answered, as if that was all that truly mattered.
“Not up to the standards you demanded of your sparring partner who was meant to emulate this notable dark elf,” Mahskevic replied immediately. “But then, who would be?”
“What have you learned?” Le'lorinel asked.
“Intertwined symbols of Dumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets under the Mountain, and of Clangeddin, dwarf god of battle,” the wizard explained. “E'kressa was correct.”
“The symbol of Bruenor Battlehammer,” Le'lorinel stated.
“Not really,” Mahskevic answered. “A symbol used only once by Bruenor, as far as I can tell. He was quite an accomplished smith, you know.”
As he spoke, he waved Le'lorinel over to his side, and when the elf arrived, he pointed out a few drawings in Talasay's work: unremarkable weapons and a breastplate.
“Bruenor's work,” Mahskevic remarked, and indeed, the picture captions indicated that very thing. “Yet I see no marking similar to the one E'kressa gave to you. There,” he explained, pointing to a small mark on the bottom corner of the breastplate. “There is Bruenor's mark, the mark of Clan Battlehammer with Bruenor's double 'B' on the mug.”
Le'lorinel bent in low to regard the drawing and saw the foaming mug standard of the dwarven clan and Bruenor's particular brand, as Mahskevic had declared. Of course, the elf had already reviewed all of this, though it seemed Mahskevic was drawing clues where Le'lorinel had not.
“As far as I can tell, Bruenor used this common brand for all his work,” the wizard explained.
“That is not what the seer told to me.”
“Ah,” the wizard remarked, holding up one crooked and bony finger, “but then there is this.” As he finished, he flipped to a different page in the large tome, to another drawing, this one depicting in great detail a fabulous warhammer, Aegis-fang, set upon a pedestal.
“The artist copying the image was remarkable,” Mahskevic explained. “Very detail-minded, that one!”
He lifted a circular glass about four inches in diameter and laid it upon the image, magnifying the warhammer. There, unmistakably, was the mark E'kressa had given to Le'lorinel.
“Aegis-fang,” the elf said quietly.
“Made by Bruenor for one of his two adopted children,” Mahskevic remarked, and that declaration made E'kressa's cryptic remarks come into clearer focus and seemed to give credence to the overblown and showy seer.
“Find the dwarf’s most prized creation of his hands to find the dwarf’s most prized creation of the flesh,” the gnome diviner had said, and he had admitted that he was referring to one of two creations of the flesh, or, it now seemed obvious, children.
“Find Aegis-fang to find Wulfgar?” Le'lorinel asked skeptically, for as far as both of them knew, as far as the tome indicated, Wulfgar, the young man for whom Bruenor had created Aegis-fang, was dead, killed by a handmaiden of Lolth, a yochlol, when the drow elves had attacked Mithral Hall.
“E'kressa did not name Wulfgar,” Mahskevic replied. “Perhaps he was referring to Catti-brie.”
“Find the hammer to find Catti-brie, to find Bruenor Battle-hammer, to find Drizzt Do'Urden,” Le'lorinel said with a frustrated sigh.
“Difficult crew to be fighting,” Mahskevic said, and he gave a sly smile. “I would enjoy your continued company,” he explained. “I have so much work yet to be done, and I am not a young man. I could use an apprentice, and you have shown remarkable insight and intelligence.”