He slipped in from the main corridor and tiptoed past the side door to get
to the hearth. He knelt before it and laid his fine mithril axe at his side. The
glow of the embers made him flinch instinctively, though he felt no pain as he
dipped his finger into the ash.
He heard the side door swing open a few seconds later and rubbed a final
handful of the ash over his face, hoping that he had properly covered his
telltale red beard and the pale flesh of his long nose all the length to its
tip.
"What ye be doin'?" came a croak behind him.
The ash-covered dwarf blew into the embers, and a small flame came to life.
"Bit o' chill," he answered. "Be needin' rest." He rose and turned, lifting the
mithril axe beside him.
Two gray dwarves walked across the room to stand before him, their weapons
securely sheathed. "Who ye be?" one asked. "Not o' Clan McUduck, an' not
belongin' in these tunnels!"
"Tooktook o' Clan Trilk," the dwarf lied, using the name of a gray dwarf he
had chopped down just the morning before. "Been patrollin', and been lost! Glad
I be to find a room with a hearth!"
The two gray dwarves looked at each other, and then back to the stranger
suspiciously. They had heard the reports over the last few weeks - since
Shimmergloom, the shadow dragon that had been their god-figure, had fallen -
tales of slaughtered duergar, often beheaded, found in the outer tunnels. And
why was this one alone? Where was the rest of his patrol? Surely Clan Trilk knew
enough to keep out of the tunnels of Clan McUduck.
And, why, one of them noticed, was there a patch of red on this one's beard?
The dwarf realized their suspicion immediately and knew that he could not
keep this charade going for long. "Lost two o' me kin," he said. "To a drow." He
smiled when he saw the duergar's eyes go wide. The mere mention of a drow elf
always sent gray dwarves rocking back on their heels - and bought the dwarf a
few extra seconds. "But worth it, it were!" he proclaimed, holding the mithril
axe up beside his head. "Found me a wicked blade! See?"
Even as one of the duergar leaned forward, awed by the shining weapon, the
red-bearded dwarf gave him a closer look, putting the cruel blade deep into his
face. The other duergar just managed to get a hand to his sword hilt when he got
hit with a backhand blow that drove the butt of the axe handle into his eye. He
stumbled back, reeling, but knew through the blur of pain that he was finished a
full second before the mithril axe sliced the side of his neck.
Two more duergar burst in from the anteroom, their weapons drawn. "Get
help!" one of them screamed, leaping into the fight. The other bolted for the
door.
Again, luck was with the red-bearded dwarf. He kicked hard at an object on
the floor, launching it toward the fleeing duergar, while parrying the first
blow of his newest opponent with his golden shield.
The fleeing duergar was only a couple of strides from the corridor when
something rolled between his feet, tripping him up and sending him sprawling to
the floor. He got back to his knees quickly but hesitated, fighting back a gush
of bile, when he saw what he had stumbled over.
The head of his kin.
The red-bearded dwarf danced away from another strike, rushing across the
room to shield-slam the now-kneeling duergar, smashing the unfortunate creature
into the stone wall.
But the dwarf, overbalanced in the fury of his rush, was down on one knee
when the remaining duergar caught up to him. The intruder swung his shield back
above him to block a downward thrust of the duergar's sword, and countered with
a low sweep of his axe, aiming for the knees.
The duergar sprang back just in time, taking a nick on one leg, and before
he could fully recover and come back with a counter, the red-bearded dwarf was
up and at the ready.
"Yer bones are for carrion-eaters!" the dwarf growled.
"Who ye be?" the duergar demanded. "Not o' me kin, fer sure!"
A white smile spread across the dwarf's ash-covered face. "Battlehammer's me
name," he growled, displaying the standard emblazoned upon his shield - the
foaming mug emblem of Clan Battlehammer. "Bruenor Battlehammer, rightful king of
Mithril Hall!"
Bruenor chuckled softly to see the gray dwarf's face blanch to white. The
duergar stumbled back toward the door of the anteroom, understanding now that he
was no match for this mighty foe. In desperation, he spun and fled, trying to
slam the door shut behind him.
But Bruenor guessed what the duergar had in mind, and he got his heavy boot
through the door before it could close. The mighty dwarf slammed his shoulder
into the hard wood, sending the duergar flying back into the small room and
knocking aside a table and chair.
Bruenor strode in confidently, never fearing even odds.
With no escape, the gray dwarf rushed back at him wildly, his shield leading
and his sword above his head. Bruenor easily blocked the downward thrust, then
smashed his axe into the duergar's shield. It, too, was of mithril, and the axe
could not cut into it. But so great was Bruenor's blow that the leather
strappings snapped apart and the duergar's arm went numb and drooped helplessly.
The duergar screamed in terror and brought his short sword across his chest to
protect his opened flank.
Bruenor followed the duergar's sword arm with a shield-rush, shoving into
his opponent's elbow and causing the duergar to overbalance. In a lightning
combination with his axe, Bruenor slipped the deadly blade over the duergar's
dipped shoulder.
A second head dropped free to the floor.
Bruenor grunted at the job well done and moved back into the larger room.
The duergar beside the door was just regaining consciousness when Bruenor came
up to him and shield-slammed him back into the wall. "Twenty-two," he mumbled to
himself, keeping count of the number of gray dwarves he had cut down during
these last few weeks.
Bruenor peeked out into the dark corridor. All was clear. He closed the door
softly and went back to the hearth to touch up his disguise.
Following the wild descent to the bottom of Garumn's Gorge on the back of a
flaming dragon, Bruenor had lost consciousness. Truly he was amazed when he
managed to open his eyes. He knew the dragon to be dead as soon as he looked
around, but he couldn't understand why he, still lying atop the smoldering form,
had not been burned.
The gorge had been quiet and dark around him; he could not begin to guess
how long he had remained unconscious. He knew, though, that his friends, if they
had escaped, would probably have made their way out through the back door, to
the safety of the surface.
And Drizzt was alive! The image of the drow's lavender eyes staring at him
from the wall of the gorge as the dragon had glided past in its descent remained
firmly etched in Bruenor's mind. Even now, weeks later as far as he could
figure, he used that image of the indomitable Drizzt Do'Urden as a litany
against the hopelessness of his own situation. For Bruenor could not climb from
the bottom of the gorge, where the walls rose straight and sheer. His only
option had been to slip into the sole tunnel running off the chasm's base and
make his way though the lower mines.
And through an army of gray dwarves - duergar even more alert, for the
dragon Bruenor had killed, Shimmergloom, had been their leader.
He had come far, and each step he took brought him a little closer to the
freedom of the surface. But each step also brought him closer to the main host
of the duergar. Even now he could hear the thrumming of the furnaces of the
great undercity, no doubt teeming with the gray scum. Bruenor knew that he had
to pass through there to get to the tunnels connecting the higher levels.
But even here, in the darkness of the mines, his disguise could not hold out
to close scrutiny. How would he fare in the glow of the undercity, with a
thousand gray dwarves milling all about him?
Bruenor shook away the thought and rubbed more ash onto his face. No need to
worry now; he'd find his way through. He gathered up his axe and shield and
headed for the door.
He shook his head and smiled as he approached, for the stubborn duergar
beside the door was awake again - barely - and struggling to find his feet.
Bruenor slammed him into the wall a third time and casually dropped the axe
blade onto his head as he slumped, this time never to awaken. "Twenty-two," the
mighty dwarf reiterated grimly as he stepped into the corridor.
The sound of the closing door echoed through the darkness, and when it died
away, Bruenor heard again the thrumming of the furnaces.
The undercity, his only chance.
He steadied himself with a deep breath, then slapped his axe determinedly
against his shield and started stomping along the corridor toward the beckoning
sound.
It was time to get things done.
The corridor twisted and turned, finally ending in a low archway that opened
into a brightly lit cavern.
For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Bruenor Battlehammer looked
down upon the great undercity of Mithril Hall. Set in a huge chasm, with walls
tiered into steps and lined with decorated doorways, this massive chamber had
once housed the entirety of Clan Battlehammer with many rooms to spare.
The place had remained exactly as the dwarf remembered it, and now, as in
those distant years of his youth, many of the furnaces were bright with fire and
the floor level teemed with the hunched forms of dwarven workers. How many times
had young Bruenor and his friends looked down upon the magnificence of this
place and heard the chiming of the smithies' hammers and the heavy sighing of
the huge bellows? he wondered.
Bruenor spat away the pleasant memories when he reminded himself that these
hunched workers were evil duergar, not his kin. He brought his mind back into
the present and the task at hand. Somehow he had to get across the open floor
and up the tiers on the far side, to a tunnel that would take him higher in the
complex.
A shuffle of boots sent Bruenor back into the shadows of the tunnel. He
gripped his axe tightly and didn't dare to breathe, wondering if the time of his
last glory had finally caught up to him. A patrol of heavily armed duergar
marched up to the archway then continued past, giving only a casual glance down
the tunnel.
Bruenor sighed deeply and scolded himself for his delay. He could not afford
to tarry; every moment he spent in this area was a dangerous gamble. Quickly he
searched for options. He was about halfway up one wall, five tiers from the
floor. One bridge, at the highest tier, traversed the chasm, but no doubt it
would be heavily guarded. Walking alone up there, away from the bustle of the
floor, would make him too conspicuous.
Across the busy floor seemed a better route. The tunnels halfway up the
other wall, almost directly across from where he now stood, would lead him to
the western end of the complex, back to the hall he had first entered on his
return to Mithril Hall, and to the open valley of Keeper's Dale beyond. It was
his best chance, by his estimation - if he could get across the open floor.
He peeked out under the archway for any signs of the returning patrol.
Satisfied that all was clear, he reminded himself that he was a king, the
rightful king of the complex, and boldly stepped out onto the tier. The closest
steps, down were to the right, but the patrol had headed that way and Bruenor
thought it wise to keep clear of them.
His confidence grew with each step. He passed a couple of gray dwarves,
answering their casual greetings with a quick nod and never slowing his stride.
He descended one tier and then another, and before he even had time to
consider his progress, Bruenor found himself bathed in the bright light of the
huge furnaces at the final descent, barely fifteen feet from the floor. He
crouched instinctively at the glow of the light, but he realized on a rational
level that the brightness was actually his ally. Duergar were creatures of the
dark, not accustomed to, nor liking, the light. Those on the floor kept their
hoods pulled low to shield their eyes, and Bruenor did likewise, only improving
his disguise. With the apparently unorganized movements on the floor, he began
to believe that the crossing would be easy.
He moved out slowly at first, gathering speed as he went, but staying in a
crouch, the collar of his cloak pulled up tightly around his cheeks, and his
battered, one-horned helmet dipped low over his brow. Trying to maintain an air
of easiness, Bruenor kept his shield arm at his side, but his other hand rested
comfortably on his belted axe. If it came to blows, Bruenor was determined to be
ready.
He passed by the three central forges - and the cluster of duergar they
attracted - without incident, then waited patiently as a small caravan of
ore-filled wheelbarrows were carted by. Bruenor, trying to keep the easy,
cordial atmosphere, nodded to the passing band, but bile rose in his throat as
he saw the mithril load in the carts and at the thought of the gray scum
extracting the precious metals from the walls of his hallowed homeland.
"Ye'll be paid for yer troubles," he mumbled under his breath. He rubbed a
sleeve over his brow. He had forgotten how very hot the bottom area of the
