Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(128)

“How long?” the eager young warrior asked.

“There is much yet to do,” Gol’fanin replied, and he took the handle back and gently replaced it on the tray. “More enchantments and more hardening, and then I must, of course, properly attach the handles.”

“How long?” Tiago asked more insistently.

“Another tenday.”

The Baenre warrior slumped at that news. A tenday if they remained in the forge, but alas, it was not to be.

“Could you finish your work in Menzoberranzan?” Tiago had to ask.

Gol’fanin looked at him incredulously, his expression full of horror, and that alone provided all the answer the young Baenre needed. He looked over his shoulder to the room’s main exit, trying to formulate some defensive plans to secure and hold this particular room that would convince the Xorlarrins to stand their ground.

But it was a fool’s errand, he knew. The room was too open. It would favor their enemies if those enemies managed to get in. The losses would prove too great to the drow expedition, even if they ultimately held the forge.

Tiago looked back to the implements, the sword and shield that would make him the envy of every weapons master in Menzoberranzan. Items that would strike terror into the heart of Andzrel, the pretender who held that coveted rank within the hierarchy of House Baenre. Tiago would replace him. With these weapons in his hands, he would cast Andzrel aside and take his rightful place.

But not quite yet.

Gol’fanin smiled at him and took up a handle. With a grin, he moved for the sword blade.

Brack’thal couldn’t begin to sort out the many valves and blocking pins and pipes lining the small chamber beneath the false forge. “Dwarven idiocy,” he muttered, trying to follow this line or that, trying to figure out which piping might lead him to the one furnace that had been shut down because the goblins hadn’t yet repaired the feeds.

He moved to a wall where a throng of pipes exited through the stone, the image making him think of a great organ lying sideways. Which forge in line was the broken one, he asked himself?

“Which forge?”

The mage tried to envision the room above him, counting back to the broken forge . . . or should he be counting forward?



He did not know whether the top pipe or the bottom connected to the next forge in line. He couldn’t even remember which forge in the line he had just climbed through to get there!

“The script,” he said, growing desperate, and he found some lettering—ancient Dwarvish lettering. He couldn’t begin to decipher it, but there were spells for such things.

Brack’thal stepped back and took a deep breath, trying to recall the spell for comprehending such languages. A heartbeat later, he gave a little whimper as he realized that he had not memorized that particular dweomer this day, nor did he have any such scrolls in his possession.

“By the gods,” the frustrated wizard said, and he slapped his hand against the pipe in pure exasperation.

And the fire within the pipe began to talk to him.

He held his hand in place, staring at the ruby band, his connection to the Plane of Fire, and to the primordial godlike being in the nearby pit. He didn’t need to understand the ancient Dwarvish language, he realized, and he didn’t need to count the pipes. For the god-beast understood the design, its living fiery tendrils weaving their way through the maze. Now it spoke to Brack’thal. Now it showed him the controls, the valves, the plugs . . . the plug sealing off the broken forge.

He saw it all, so clearly, all the channels and controls, all the valves to dampen the flow of pure fiery power. He rushed around, spinning those valves wide, freeing the beast!

So giddy with power was he that Brack’thal sang as he danced, and laughed as he twirled the valves. He could feel the energy mounting all around, the primal scream of a primal god.

The pipes clanged and banged as if tiny gnomes were within them, rapping metal hammers. Valves groaned and hissed in protest as too much energy pressed at their huge screw mechanisms.

And the building roar of the flames sounded to Brack’thal as a chant to the greatness that was magic before the Spellplague. Pure magic. Unblemished magic.

Power.

The pipes glowed angrily, bluish metal turning orange, but Brack’thal did not remove his hands from them. Had he not been wearing his ring, the skin would have melted from his fingers and palms, would have dripped to the floor as melted goo.

But this god-beast would not harm him. He understood and could trust in this most ancient power.

He felt the energy growing. Deeper along the channels, past the wall, a great roar began to mount, preternatural, like the scream of a world being born in fire.





“Be easy,” Gol’fanin warned. “It is not yet properly set.”

As he lifted the scimitar, Tiago Baenre hardly heard the blacksmith. The handle was loose but the grip superb, and even though it was not yet solidly set, Tiago could feel the perfect balance—perfect balance because it seemed to him that no blade was attached to the handle! He could see the translucent lines of the glowing scimitar, the sparkles of the diamond dust, but if he closed his eyes, his mind would tell him that he held an empty metal hilt and nothing more. With a slight twist of his wrist, the blade changed its angle, a wake of silvery blur behind it, and it took all the discipline Tiago could manage to stop from swinging it around—which would have likely launched the blade from the handle to fly across the room.