Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(57)

A gasp beside Ravel turned his gaze to the main forge, and the sudden glow that shined deep in its thick recesses. The spellspinner licked his lips and moved closer as the flames within began to mount. He bent low, but stood up straight in surprise when he noted several small, impish creatures of pure fire begin dancing within the forge.

And several became a score, and a score became a thousand, and all the room gasped loudly as the light and warmth poured forth, many drow shielding their sensitive eyes. And it was more than the light and the strength of the flames that had brought the response, for Ravel felt it clearly: There was magical energy in there. It wasn’t just a fire that needed no fuel, wasn’t just a hotter fire that could better melt all alloys. No, this fire was different. This fire was truly alive, magically alive, with a thousand elementals ready to lend their magical energies to any implements created within.

Returned from the sub-chamber, Tiago Baenre came up beside the mesmerized spellspinner, Gol’fanin close behind.

“Is it what you expected?” Ravel managed to ask Gol’fanin.

“Beyond,” the old blacksmith breathed.

“My weapons will be the envy of Menzoberranzan,” Tiago remarked, and Ravel glanced at him, then at Gol’fanin, whose awe-stricken expression showed that he did not disagree with that statement.

Ravel instinctively glanced across the way, to Jearth, and wondered what price he might have to pay for his bargain with Tiago.

“This is working as designed,” Gol’fanin said, drawing him back. “Quite ingenious and perfect in its simplicity. The primordial hungers to be free, and so it embraces these channels, these little specks of freedom. It gives a bit of its life to those pieces that escape to the forge oven, and look how they dance!”

“And the lines are holding?” Ravel asked.

Gol’fanin gave a noncommittal shrug. “The valves are open, though not fully. If the primordial could break free, it would do so—would likely have already done so.”

“And the other forges,” Ravel prompted. “We must fire them.”

“One at a time until we are certain of their integrity,” the blacksmith advised.

“See to it,” Ravel answered. He waved Jearth over to join them. Brack’thal came, too, which Ravel did not question. Indeed, at that time and with what was before them, perhaps even his idiot brother might prove of some worth.

“Explain to them what they might need do if any of the forges fail,” Ravel instructed Tiago, though both knew he was really addressing Gol’fanin, who seemed to understand what was going on better than anyone.

Most of the drow and all of the driders were dismissed then, back to their work in the other halls, exploring, flushing out ghosts and other unwanted creatures, and fortifying the defenses, and throughout the rest of that long day, the forges of Gauntlgrym flickered to life, one after another. Only one of the two-score in the room had any problems initially, and a host of tiny elementals found their way into the room and caused quite a commotion, spitting stinging fireballs at any who ventured near and lighting lines of flame with sudden bursts as they ran this way and that.

But the drow wizards controlled it quickly, and particularly effective was Brack’thal, once a master of elemental summoning and control. While Tiago and Jearth and their charges destroyed the nasty little creatures, Brack’thal brought them to himself, and controlled them, and willed them to merge, and by the time Ravel, Berellip, and Saribel came back into the forge room, their planning session interrupted by shouts of the commotion echoing down the halls, Brack’thal had quite a formidable fire elemental standing beside him.

As expected, the stares of the two Xorlarrin spellspinners locked, and it occurred to Ravel that Brack’thal had gained a significant upper hand over him in that moment, just in that one moment. He pried his gaze away and noted particularly the wry grin on Berellip’s face, and knew that she agreed with that assessment, and seemed a bit too pleased with it for Ravel’s liking.

“Destroy it,” Ravel ordered his brother.

Brack’thal looked back at him skeptically.

“Put it in the main forge, then!” Ravel demanded.

“Yes, the main forge,” Brack’thal answered, and he turned to regard it. “I wonder what pets I might pull from there.”

“Brother,” Berellip warned.

Brack’thal turned back at the sound of Berellip’s voice. “It is an intriguing thought, you must admit,” he said, and he started to wave away his pet elemental, which stood as tall and twice as wide as he.

But he stopped short. “No,” he said, looking back to Ravel. “I think I will keep this one for now. It will be of great service in my duties in the outer halls.”

“Your duties are here now,” Ravel replied. “We have many more forges yet to light.”

“Then perhaps when I am done, I will have an even larger escort to the outer halls,” Brack’thal said slyly, and he walked off toward the as yet unlit forges. “Do tell your lackey to continue, young Baenre,” he said. “All is under control.”

Ravel’s eyes narrowed and he began whispering, as if in spellcasting, as if he meant to punish his obstinate brother then and there.

But a look from Berellip dispelled that foolish notion.

She wasn’t any more comfortable with Brack’thal playing with fire than Ravel was, the spellspinner understood, but he recognized, too, that Berellip was truly enjoying his discomfort.