exclaimed. "So ready yerselves for a long walk."
"And then where?" Wulfgar asked, guessing, but not liking, the answer.
"Out!" Bruenor roared. "Quick as we can!" He glared at the barbarian,
daring him to argue.
"To return with the rest of your kin beside us?" Wulfgar pressed.
"Not to return," said Bruenor. "Never to return!"
"Then Drizzt has died in vain!" Wulfgar stated bluntly. "He sacrificed
his life for a vision that will never be fulfilled."
Bruenor paused to steady himself in the face of Wulfgar's sharp
perception. He hadn't looked at the tragedy in that cynical light, and he
didn't like the implications. "Not for nothing!" he growled at the
barbarian. "A warning it is to us all to be gone from the place. Evil's
here, thick as orcs on mutton! Don't ye smell it, boy? Don't yer eyes and
nose tell ye to be gone from here?"
"My eyes tell me of the danger," Wulfgar replied evenly. "As often they
have before. But I am a warrior and pay little heed to such warnings!"
"Then ye're sure to be a dead warrior," Catti-brie put in.
Wulfgar glared at her. "Drizzt came to help take back Mithril Hall, and
I shall see the deed done!"
"Ye'll die trying," muttered Bruenor, the anger off his voice now. "We
came to find me home, boy, but this is not the place. Me people once lived
here, 'tis true, but the darkness that creeped into Mithril Hall has put an
end to me claim on it. I've no wish to return once I'm clear of the stench
of the place, know that in yer stubborn head. It's for the shadows now, and
the gray ones, and may the whole stinkin' place fall in on their stinkin'
heads!"
Bruenor had said enough. He turned abruptly on his heel and stamped off
down the corridor, his heavy boots pounding into the stone with
uncompromising determination.
Regis and Catti-brie followed closely, and Wulfgar, after a moment to
consider the dwarf's resolve, trotted to catch up with them.
Sydney and Bok returned to the oval chamber as soon as the mage was
certain the companions had left. Like the friends before her, she made her
way to the ruined alcove and stood for a moment reflecting on the effect
this sudden turn of events would have on her mission. She was amazed at the
depth of her sorrow for the loss of Entreri, for though she didn't fully
trust the assassin and suspected that he might actually be searching for
the same powerful artifact she and Dendybar sought, she had come to respect
him. Could there have been a better ally when the fighting started?
Sydney didn't have a lot of time to mourn for Entreri, for the loss of
Drizzt Do'Urden conjured more immediate concerns for her own safety.
Dendybar wasn't likely to take the news lightly, and the mottled wizard's
talent at punishment was widely acknowledged in the Hosttower of the
Arcane.
Bok waited for a moment, expecting some command from the mage, but when
none was forthcoming, the golem stepped into the alcove and began removing
the mound of rubble.
"Stop," Sydney ordered.
Bok kept on with its chore, driven by its directive to continue its
pursuit of the drow.
"Stop!" Sydney said again, this time with more conviction. "The drow is
dead, you stupid thing!" The blunt statement forced her own acceptance of
the fact and set her thoughts into motion. Bok did stop and turn to her,
and she waited a moment to sort out the best course of action.
"We will go after the others," she said offhandedly, as much trying to
enlighten her own thoughts with the statement as to redirect the golem.
"Yes, perhaps, if we deliver the dwarf and the other companions to Dendybar
he will forgive our stupidity in allowing the drow to die."
She looked to the golem, but of course its expression had not changed
to offer any encouragement.
"It should have been you in the alcove," Sydney muttered, her sarcasm
wasted on the thing. "Entreri could at least offer some suggestions. But no
matter, I have decided. We shall follow the others and find the time when
we might take them. They will tell us what we need to know about the
Crystal Shard!"
Bok remained motionless, awaiting her signal. Even with its most basic
of thought patterns, the golem understood that Sydney best knew how they
could complete their mission.
The companions moved through huge caverns, more natural formations than
dwarf-carved stone. High ceilings and walls stretched out into the
blackness, beyond the glow of the torches, leaving the friends dreadfully
aware of their vulnerability. They kept close together as they marched,
imagining a host of gray dwarves watching them from the unlit reaches of
the caverns, or expecting some horrid creature to swoop down upon them from
the darkness above.
The ever-present sound of dripping water paced them with its rhythm,
its "plip, plop" echoing through every hall, accentuating the emptiness of
the place.
Bruenor remembered this section of the complex well, and found himself
once again deluged by long-forgotten images of his past. These were the
Halls of Gathering, where all of Clan Battlehammer would come together to
hear the words of King Garumn, or to meet with important visitors. Battle
plans were laid here, and strategies set for commerce with the outside
world. Even the youngest dwarves were present at the meetings, and Bruenor
recalled fondly the many times he had sat beside his father, Bangor, behind
his grandfather, King Garumn, with Bangor pointing out the king's
techniques for capturing the audience, and instructing the young Bruenor in
the arts of leadership that he would one day need.
The day he became King of Mithril Hall.
The solitude of the caverns weighed heavily on the dwarf, who had heard
them ring out in the common cheering and chanting of ten-thousand dwarves.
Even if he were to return with all of the remaining members of the clan,
they would fill only a tiny corner of one chamber.
"Too many gone," Bruenor said into the emptiness, his soft whisper
louder than he had intended in the echoing stillness. Catti-brie and
Wulfgar, concerned for the dwarf and scrutinizing his every action, noted
the remark and could easily enough guess the memories and emotions that had
prompted it. They looked to each other and Catti-brie could see that the
edge of Wulfgar's anger at the dwarf had dissipated in a rush of sympathy.
Hall after great hall loomed up with only short corridors connecting
them. Turns and side exits broke off every few feet, but Bruenor felt
confident that he knew the way to the gorge. He knew, too, that anyone
below would have heard the crashing of the stonework trap and would be
coming to investigate. This section of the upper level, unlike the areas
they had left behind, had many connecting passages to the lower levels.
Wulfgar doused the torch and Bruenor led them on under the protective
dimness of the gloom.
Their caution soon proved prudent, for as they entered yet another
immense cavern, Regis grabbed Bruenor by the shoulder, stopping him, and
motioned for all of them to be silent. Bruenor almost burst out in rage,
but saw at once the sincere look of dread on Regis's face.
His hearing sharpened by years of listening for the click of a lock's
tumblers, the halfling had picked out a sound in the distance other than
the dripping of water. A moment later, the others caught it, too, and soon
they identified it as the marching steps, of many booted feet. Bruenor took
them into a dark recess where they watched and waited.
They never saw the passing host clearly enough to count its numbers or
identify its members, but they could tell by the number of torches crossing
the far end of the cavern that they were outnumbered by at least ten to
one, and they could guess the nature of the marchers.
"Gray ones, or me mother's a friend of orcs," Bruenor grumbled. He
looked at Wulfgar to see if the barbarian had any further complaints about
his decision to leave Mithril Hall.
Wulfgar accepted the stare with a conceding nod. "How far to Garumn's
Gorge?" he asked, fast becoming as resigned to leaving as the others. He
still felt as though he was deserting Drizzt, but he understood the wisdom
of Bruenor's choice. It grew obvious now that if they remained, Drizzt
Do'Urden would not be the only one of them to die in Mithril Hall.
"An hour to the last passage," Bruenor answered. "Another hour, no
more, from there."
The host of gray dwarves soon cleared the cavern and the companions
started off again, using even more caution and dreading each shuffling
footfall that thumped the floor harder than intended.
His memories coming clearer with each passing step, Bruenor knew
exactly where they were, and made for the most direct path to the gorge,
meaning to be out of the halls as quickly as possible. After many minutes
of walking, though, he came across a side passage that he simply could not
pass by. Every delay was a risk, he knew, but the temptation emanating from
the room at the end of this short corridor was too great for him to ignore.
He had to discover how far the despoilment of Mithril Hall had gone; he had
to learn if the most treasured room of the upper level had survived.
The friends followed him without question and soon found themselves
standing before a tall, ornate metal door inscribed with the hammer of
Moradin, the greatest of the dwarven gods, and a series of runes beneath
it. Bruenor's heavy breathing belied his calmness.
"Herein lie the gifts of our friends," Bruenor read solemnly, "and the
craftings of our kin. Know ye as ye enter this hallowed hall that ye look
upon the heritage of Clan Battlehammer. Friends be welcome, thieves
beware!" Bruenor turned to his companions, beads of nervous sweat on his
brow. "The Hall of Dumathoin," he explained.
"Two hundred years of your enemies in the halls," Wulfgar reasoned.
"Surely it has been pillaged."
"Not so," said Bruenor. "The door is magicked and would not open for
enemies of the clan. A hundred traps are inside to take the skin from a
gray one who was to get through!" He glared at Regis, his gray eyes
narrowed in a stern warning. "Watch to yer own hands, Rumblebelly. Mighten
be that a trap won't know ye to be a friendly thief!"
The advice seemed sound enough for Regis to ignore the dwarf's biting
sarcasm. Unconsciously admitting the truth of Bruenor's words, the halfling
slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Fetch a torch from the wall," Bruenor told Wulfgar. "Me thoughts tell
me that no lights burn within."
Before Wulfgar even returned to them, Bruenor began opening the huge
door. It swung easily under the push of the hands of a friend, swinging
wide into a short corridor that ended in a heavy black curtain. A pendulum
blade hung ominously in the center of the passage, a pile of bones beneath
it. -
"Thieving dog," Bruenor chuckled with grim satisfaction. He stepped by
the blade and moved to the curtain, waiting for all of his friends to join
him before he entered the chamber.
Bruenor paused, mustering the courage to open the last barrier to the
hall, sweat glistening on all the friends' faces now as the dwarf's anxiety
swept through them.
With a determined grunt, Bruenor pulled the curtain aside. "Behold the
Hall of Duma-" he began, but the words stuck in his throat as soon as he
looked beyond the opening. Of all the destruction they had witnessed in the
halls, none was more complete than this. Mounds of stone littered the
floor. Pedestals that had once held the finest works of the clan lay broken
apart, and others had been trampled into dust.
Bruenor stumbled in blindly, his hands shaking and a great scream of
outrage lumped in his throat. He knew before he even looked upon the
entirety of the chamber that the destruction was complete.
"How?" Bruenor gasped. Even as he asked, though, he saw the huge hole
in the wall. Not a tunnel carved, around the blocking door, but a gash in
the stone, as though some incredible ram had blasted through.
"What power could have done such a thing?" Wulfgar asked, following the
line of the dwarf's stare to the hole.
Bruenor moved over, searching for some clue, Catti-brie and Wulfgar
with him. Regis headed the other way, just to see if anything of value
remained.
Catti-brie caught a rainbowlike glitter on the floor and moved to what
she thought was a puddle of some dark liquid. Bending close, though, she
realized that it wasn't liquid at all, but a scale, blacker than the
blackest night and nearly the size of a man. Wulfgar and Bruenor rushed to
her side at the sound of her gasp.
"Dragon!" Wulfgar blurted, recognizing the distinctive shape. He
grasped the thing by its edge and hoisted it upright to better inspect it.
Then he and Catti-brie turned to Bruenor to see if he had any knowledge of
such a monster.
The dwarf's wide-eyed, terror-stricken stare answered their question
before it was asked.
"Blacker than the black," Bruenor whispered, speaking again the most
common words of that fateful day those two hundred years ago. "Me father
told me of the thing," he explained to Wulfgar and Catti-brie. "A
demon-spawned dragon, he called it, a darkness blacker than the black.
'Twas not the gray ones that routed us - we would've fought them head on to
the last. The dragon of darkness took our numbers and drove us from the
halls. Not one in ten remained to stand against its foul hordes in the
