The behemoth threw its shoulders back in pain and surprise, its elbows tucked against its ribs, its forearms and long fingers flailing and grabbing at the empty air.
Drizzt’s charge became real, focused, and he went right for the giant’s most obviously injured leg, his scimitars digging many lines as he quick-stepped past.
The behemoth whirled to follow the movements of the drow, and Bruenor could not hold on. His axe remained deep into the giant’s back as the dwarf flew off down the stairs. He crashed in a twisted mess, but Cordio was there at once, infusing him with waves of magical healing.
The giant grimaced and staggered, and Drizzt easily got out of reach. He turned fast, thinking to charge right back in.
But he paused when he saw a tell-tale mist reappearing by the small figurine lying on the stairs.
The giant set itself again. It tried to reach back to extract the dwarf’s axe, but the placement prevented it from getting any grip. Down below, Torgar tried to join in, but his legs gave out and he slumped to the stone. No help would come soon from Bruenor, either, Drizzt could see, nor from Cordio, who attended the dwarf king. And Regis was nowhere to be seen.
Giving up on the axe, the behemoth turned its hateful glare at Drizzt. The drow felt a wave of energy flow forth, and for just an instant, he forgot where he was or what was happening. In that split second, he even thought about leaping down at the dwarves, somehow envisioning them as mortal enemies.
But the spell, a dizzying enchantment of confusion, could not take hold on the veteran dark elf the way it had so debilitated Regis, and Drizzt leaped down to the side, coming to the same level as the giant, surrendering the higher ground to limit the giant’s attack options. Better to force it to reach for him, he thought, and better still for it to try to stomp or kick at him.
The giant did just that, lifting its leg, and Guenhwyvar did just as Drizzt wanted and sprang upon the one planted leg, raking at the back of the behemoth’s knee.
In charged Drizzt, forcing the giant to twist, or try to twist, to keep pace. The drow’s magical anklets allowed him to accelerate suddenly past the stomping foot, and he reversed immediately, spinning and slashing at the back of the leading leg. The giant twisted and tried to kick, but Guenhwyvar clamped powerful jaws on the back of its knee, feline fangs tearing deep into dark muscle.
That leg buckled. Arms flailing, the giant fell over backward down the stairs, landing with a tremendous, stone-crunching crash, and just missing crushing poor unconscious Torgar.
Drizzt sprinted and leaped atop it, running down its length to reach its neck before it could bring its arms in to fend him off. Drizzt found less resistance than he expected, for the giant’s fall had driven Bruenor’s axe in all the deeper, severing its spine.
The behemoth was helpless, and Drizzt showed it no mercy. He crossed its massive chest. Its head was back due to the angle of the stairs, leaving its neck fully exposed.
He leaped from the gurgling, dying behemoth a moment later, landing gracefully on the stairs in full run, angling toward where the batlike creature and Pwent had tumbled. It was quiet there, the fight apparently ended, and Drizzt winced when he saw a leathery wing flop, thinking the monster still alive.
But it was just Pwent, he saw, grumbling as he extracted himself from the broken body.
Drizzt veered back the way they’d come, thinking to go after Regis, but before he could even begin, Regis appeared between the buildings, walking back swiftly toward the group, his mace in hand, his chubby cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“It took me strength, me king,” Torgar Hammerstriker was saying when Drizzt, Guenhwyvar in tow, moved back to the three dwarves. “Like it pulled me spine right out.”
“A wraith,” explained Cordio, who was still working on the battered Bruenor, bandaging a cut along the dwarf king’s scalp. “Their chilling touch steals yer inner strength—and it can suren kill ye to death if it gets enough o’ the stuff from ye! Take heart, for ye’ll be fine in a short bit.”
“As will me king?” Torgar asked.
“Bah!” Bruenor snorted. “Got me a bigger bounce fallin’ off me throne after a proper blessing to Moradin. A night o’ the holy mead’s hurtin’ me more than that thing e’er could!”
Torgar moved over to the dead giant and tried to lift its shoulder. He looked back at the others, shaking his head. “Gonna be a chore for ten in gettin’ back yer axe,” he said.
“Then take yer own and cut yer way through the durned thing,” Bruenor ordered.
Torgar considered the giant, then looked to his great-axe. He gave a “hmm” and a shrug, spat in both his hands, and hoisted the weapon. “Won’t take long,” he promised. “But take care with yer axe when I get it for ye, for the handle’s sure to be slick.”
“Nah, it crusts when it dries,” came a voice from the side, and the group turned to regard Thibble dorf Pwent, who certainly knew of what he spoke. For Pwent was covered in blood and gore from the thrashing he had given the batlike monster, and a piece of the creature’s skull was still stuck to his great head spike, with gobs of bloody brain sliding slowly down the spike’s stem. To emphasize his point, Pwent held up his hand and clenched and unclenched his fist, making sounds both sloppy wet and crunchy.
“And what happened to yerself?” Pwent demanded of Regis as the halfling approached. “Ye find something to hit back there, did ye?”
“I don’t know,” the halfling honestly answered.
“Bah, let off the little one,” Bruenor told Pwent, and he included all the others as he swept his gaze around. “Ain’t nothing chasing Rumblebelly off.”
“I don’t know what happened,” Regis said to Bruenor, and he looked at the dead giant and shrugged. “For any of it.”
“Magic,” said Drizzt. “The creatures were possessed of more than physical prowess, as is typical of extraplanar beings. One of those spells attacked the mind. A disorienting dweomer.”
“True enough, elf,” Cordio agreed. “It delayed me spellcasting.”
“Bah, but I didn’t feel nothing,” said Pwent.
“Attacked the mind,” Bruenor remarked. “Yerself was well defended.”
Pwent paused and pondered that for a few moments before bursting into laughter.
“What is this place?” Torgar asked at length, finding the strength to rise and walk, taking in the sights, the sculpture, the strange designs.
“Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor declared, his dark eyes gleaming with intensity.
“Then yer Gauntlgrym was a town above the ground,” said Torgar, and Bruenor glared at him.
“This place was above ground, me king,” Torgar answered that look. “All of it. This building and those, too. This plaza, set with stones to protect from the mud o’ the spring melt….” He looked at Cordio, then Drizzt, who nodded his agreement. “Something must’ve melted the tundra beneath the whole of it. Turned it all to mud and sank this place from sight.”
“And the melts bring water, every year,” Cordio added, pointing to the north. “Washing away the mud, bucket by bucket, but leaving the stones behind.”
“Yer answer’s in the ceiling,” Torgar explained, pointing up. “Can ye get a light up there, priest?”
Cordio nodded and moved away from Bruenor. He began casting again, gently waving his arms, creating a globe of light up at the cavern’s ceiling, right at the point where it joined in with the top of the great building before them. Some tell-tale signs were revealed with that light, confirming Torgar’s suspicions.
“Roots,” the Mirabarran dwarf explained. “Can’t be more than a few feet o’ ground between that roof and the surface. And these taller buildings’re acting like supports to keep that ceiling up. The tangle o’ roots and the frozen ground’re doin’ the rest. Whole place sank, I tell ye, for these buildings weren’t built for the Underdark.”