undercity became when the furnaces were burning. As with everyone else there,
streaks of sweat began to make their way down his face.
Bruenor thought nothing of the discomfort at first, but then the last of the
passing miners gave him a curious sidelong glance.
Bruenor hunched even lower and quickly stepped away, realizing the effect
his sweating would have on his feeble disguise. By the time he reached the first
stair on the other side of the chasm, his face was fully streaked and parts of
his whiskers were showing their true hue.
Still, he thought he might make it. But halfway up the stair, disaster
struck. Concentrating more on hiding his face, Bruenor stumbled and bumped into
a duergar soldier standing two steps above him. Reflexively Bruenor looked up,
and his eyes met with the duergar's.
The dumbfounded stare of the gray dwarf told Bruenor beyond any doubt that
the ploy was over. The gray dwarf went for his sword, but Bruenor didn't have
time for a pitched battle. He drove his head between the duergar's knees -
shattering one kneecap with the remaining horn of his helmet - and heaved the
duergar behind him and down the stairs.
Bruenor glanced around. Few had noticed, and fights were commonplace among
the duergar ranks. Casually he started again up the stairs.
But the soldier was still conscious after he crashed to the floor and still
coherent enough to point a finger up to the tier and shout, "Stop 'im!"
Bruenor lost all hope of remaining inconspicuous. He pulled out his mithril
axe and tore along the tier toward the next stair. Cries of alarm sprang up
throughout the chasm. A general commotion of spilled wheelbarrows, the clanging
of weapons being drawn, and the thumping of booted feet closed in around
Bruenor. Just as he was about to turn onto the next stairway, two guards leaped
down in front of him.
"What's the trouble?" one of them cried, confused and not understanding that
the dwarf they now faced had been the cause of the commotion. In horror, the two
guards recognized Bruenor for what he was just as his axe tore the face off one
and he shoulder-blocked the other off the tier.
Then up the stairs he sprinted, only to reverse his tracks as a patrol
appeared at the top. Hundreds of gray dwarves rushed all about the undercity,
their focus increasing on Bruenor.
Bruenor found another stair and got to the second tier.
But he stopped there, trapped. A dozen duergar soldiers came at him from
both directions, their weapons drawn.
Bruenor scanned the area desperately. The tumult had brought more than a
hundred of the gray dwarves on the floor rushing over to, and up, the original
stair he had climbed.
A broad smile found the dwarf's face as he considered a desperate plan. He
looked again at the charging soldiers and knew that he had no choice. He saluted
the groups, adjusted his helmet and dropped suddenly from the tier, crashing
down into the crowd that had assembled on the tier below him. Without losing his
momentum, Bruenor continued his roll to the ledge, dropping along with several
unfortunate gray dwarves, onto another group on the floor.
Bruenor was up in a flash, chopping his way through. The surprised duergar
in the crowd climbed over each other to get out of the way of the wild dwarf and
his deadly axe, and in seconds, Bruenor was sprinting unhindered across the
floor.
Bruenor stopped and looked all around. Where could he go now? Dozens of
duergar stood between him and any of the exits from the undercity, and they grew
more organized with every second.
One soldier charged him, only to be chopped down in a single blow. "Come on,
then!" Bruenor shouted defiantly, figuring to take a fair share and more of the
duergar down with him. "Come on, as many as will! Know the rage of the true king
o' Mithril Hall!"
A crossbow quarrel clanked into his shield, taking a bit of the bluster out
of his boastings. More on instinct than conscious thought, the dwarf darted
suddenly for the single unguarded path - the roaring furnaces. He dropped the
mithril axe into his belt loop and never slowed. Fire hadn't harmed him on the
back of the falling dragon, and the warmth of the ashes he'd rubbed on his face
never seemed to touch his skin.
And once again, standing in the center of the open furnace, Bruenor found
himself impervious to the flames. He didn't have time to ponder this mystery and
could only guess the protection from fire to be a property of the magical armor
he had donned when he had first entered Mithril Hall.
But in truth, it was Drizzt's lost scimitar, neatly strapped under Bruenor's
pack and almost forgotten by the dwarf, that had once again saved him.
The fire hissed in protest and started to burn low when the magical blade
came in. But it roared back to life as Bruenor quickly started up the chimney.
He heard the shouts of the astonished duergar behind him, along with cries to
get the fire out. Then one voice rose above the others in a commanding tone.
"Smoke 'im!" it cried.
Rags were wetted and thrown into the blaze, and great bursts of billowing
gray smoke closed in around Bruenor. Soot filled his eyes and he could find no
breath, still he had no choice but to continue his ascent. Blindly he searched
for cracks into which he could wedge his stubby fingers and pulled himself along
with all of his strength.
He knew that he would surely die if he inhaled, but he had no breath left,
and his lungs cried out in pain.
Unexpectedly he found a hole in the wall and nearly fell in from his
momentum. A side tunnel? he wondered, astonished. He then remembered that all of
the chimneys of the undercity had been interconnected to aid in their cleaning.
Bruenor pulled himself away from the rush of smoke and curled up inside the
new passage. He tried to wipe the soot from his eyes as his lungs mercifully
took in a deep draft, but he only aggravated the sting with his soot-covered
sleeve. He couldn't see the blood flowing over his hands, but could guess at the
extent of his wounds from the sharp ache along his fingernails.
As exhausted as he was, he knew that he could afford no delays. He crawled
along the little tunnel, hoping that the furnace below the next chimney he came
to was not in use.
The floor dropped away in front of him, and Bruenor almost tumbled down
another shaft. No smoke, he noted, and with a wall as broken and climbable as
the first. He tightened down all of his equipment, adjusted his helmet one more
time, and inched out, blindly seeking a handhold and ignoring the aches in his
shoulders and fingers. Soon he was moving steadily again.
But seconds seemed like minutes, and minutes like hours, to the weary dwarf,
and he found himself resting as much as climbing, his breaths coming in heavy
labored gasps. During one such rest, Bruenor thought he heard a shuffle above
him. He paused to consider the sound. These shafts should not connect to any
higher side passages, or to the overcity, he thought. Their ascent is straight
to the open air of the surface. Bruenor strained to look upward through his
soot-filled eyes. He knew that he had heard a sound.
The riddle was solved suddenly, as a monstrous form shuffled down the shaft
beside Bruenor's precarious perch and great, hairy legs began flailing at him.
The dwarf knew his peril at once.
A giant spider.
Venom-dripping pincers tore a gash into Bruenor's forearm. He ignored the
pain and the possible implications of the wound and reacted with matched fury.
He drove himself up the shaft, butting his head into the bulbous body of the
wretched thing, and pushed off from the walls with all his strength.
The spider locked its deadly pincers onto a heavy boot and flailed with as
many legs as it could spare while holding its position.
Only one course of attack seemed feasible to the desperate dwarf: dislodge
the spider. He grasped at the hairy legs, twisting himself to snap them as he
caught them, or at least to pull them from their hold on the wall. His arm
burned with the sting of poison, and his foot, though his boot had repelled the
pincers, was twisted and probably broken.
But he had no time to think of the pain. With a growl, he grabbed another
leg and snapped it apart.
Then they were falling.
The spider - stupid thing - curled up as best it could and released its hold
on the dwarf. Bruenor felt the rush of air and the closeness of the wall as they
sped along. He could only hope that the shaft was straight enough to keep them
clear of any sharp edges. He climbed as far over the spider as he could, putting
the bulk of its body between himself and the coming impact.
They landed in a great splat. The air blasted from Bruenor's lungs, but with
the wet explosion of the spider beneath him, he sustained no serious wounds. He
still could not see, but he realized that he must again be on the floor level of
the undercity, though luckily - for he heard no cries of alarm - in a less busy
section. Dazed but undaunted, the stubborn dwarf picked himself up and wiped the
spider fluid from his hands.
"Sure to be a mother's mother of a rainstorm tomorrow," he muttered,
remembering an old dwarven superstition against killing spiders. And he started
back up the shaft, dismissing the pain in his hands, the ache in his ribs and
foot, and the poisoned burn of his forearm.
And any thoughts of more spiders lurking up ahead.
He climbed for hours, stubbornly putting one hand over the other and pulling
himself up. The insidious spider venom swept through him with waves of nausea
and sapped the strength from his arms. But Bruenor was tougher than mountain
stone. He might die from his wound, but he was determined that it would happen
outside, in the free air, under the stars or the sun.
He would escape Mithril Hall.
A cold blast of wind shook the exhaustion from him. He looked up hopefully
but still could not see - perhaps it was nighttime outside. He studied the
whistle of the wind for a moment and knew that he was only yards from his goal.
A burst of adrenaline carried him to the chimney's exit - and the iron grate
that blocked it.
"Damn ye by Moradin's hammer!" Bruenor spat. He leaped from the walls and
grasped the bars of the grate with his bloodied fingers. The bars bent under his
weight but held fast.
"Wulfgar could break it," Bruenor said, half in exhausted delirium. "Lend me
yer strength, me big friend," he called out to the darkness as he began tugging
and twisting.
Hundreds of miles away, caught up in nightmares of his lost mentor, Bruenor,
Wulfgar tossed uneasily in his bunk on the Sea Sprite. Perhaps the spirit of the
young barbarian did come to Bruenor's aid at that desperate moment, but more
likely the dwarf's unvielding stubbornness proved stronger than the iron. A bar
of the grate bent low enough to slip out of the stone wall, and Bruenor held it
free.
Hanging by one hand, Bruenor dropped the bar into the emptiness below him.
With a wicked smile he hoped that some duergar scum might, at that instant, be
at the bottom of the chimney, inspecting the dead spider and looking upward to
find the cause.
Bruenor pulled himself halfway through the small hole he had opened, but had
not the strength to squeeze his hips and belt through. Thoroughly drained, he
accepted the perch, though his legs were dangling freely over a thousand-foot
drop.
He put his head on the iron bars and knew no more.
6
Baldur's Gate
"To de rail! To de rail!" cried one voice.
"Toss 'em over!" agreed another. The mob of sailors crowded closer,
brandishing curved swords and clubs.
Entreri stood calmly in the midst of the storm, Regis nervously beside him.
The assassin did not understand the crew's sudden fit of anger, but he guessed
that the sneaky halfling was somehow behind it. He hadn't drawn weapons; he knew
he could have his saber and dagger readied whenever he needed them, and none of
the sailors, for all their bluster and threats, had yet come within ten feet of
him.
The captain of the ship, a squat, waddling man with stiff gray bristles,
pearly white teeth, and eyes tightened in a perpetual squint, made his way out
from his cabin to investigate the ruckus.
"To me, Redeye," he beckoned the grimy sailor who had first brought to his
ears the rumor that the passengers were infected with a horrible disease - and
who had obviously spread the tale to the other members of the crew. Redeye
obeyed at once, following his captain through the parting mob to stand before
Entreri and Regis.
The captain slowly took out his pipe and tamped down the weed, his eyes
never releasing Entreri's from a penetrating gaze.
"Send 'em over!" came an occasional cry, but each time, the captain silenced
the speaker with a wave of his hand. He wanted a full measure of these strangers
before he acted, and he patiently let the moments pass as he lit the pipe and
took a long drag.
Entreri never blinked and never looked away from the captain. He brought his
cloak back behind the scabbards on his belt and crossed his arms, the calm and
confident action conveniently putting each of his hands in position barely an
inch from the hilts of his weapons.
"Ye should have told me, sir," the captain said at length.
"Your words are as unexpected as the actions of your crew," Entreri replied
evenly.
"Indeed," the captain answered, drawing another puff.
