Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(81)

Draygo Quick had heard the whispers that morning, hints that he had given too much—in terms of gifts and responsibilities—to a failed leader. He had even overheard a pair of powerful nobles questioning his own abilities, wondering if perhaps age had dulled his mind, for would Draygo Quick had ever made such a terrible misjudgment in his earlier days?

They had to get Herzgo Alegni on his feet, and Alegni had to go and retrieve that sword in short order. Neverwinter was lost to them, but so be it.

The loss of Charon’s Claw was another matter entirely.





The long room glowed with firelight and teemed with magical, primal energy, as two-score primordial-powered forges glowed with hot life. The sound of hammers rang clear, echoing about the stones.

“Thinking in the past?” Tiago Baenre remarked when he caught up to Ravel, who stood with eyes closed, as if basking in the more subtle sensations. “Or considering the potential, perhaps?”

“Both,” the spellspinner admitted. “This is how Gauntlgrym must have sounded and smelled and seemed at the height of dwarven power.”

“You approve of the height of dwarven power?” Tiago asked with sly grin.

“I can appreciate it,” Ravel admitted. “Particularly now that said power works for me.”

That drew an awkward look from Tiago, and he directed Ravel’s gaze to the main forge, the central oven, where a drow bent over a silvery blade lying on a table, a large backpack of ingredients—magical powders and elixirs—close at hand. Not far to the side rested a djinni bottle. Looking at it, Tiago couldn’t help but lick his lips eagerly. What blades might Gol’fanin create for him with such implements, and in such a forge as this magnificent creation?

“Now that it works for House Xorlarrin,” Ravel corrected, but not correct enough for Tiago, who nodded again toward that particular drow, Gol’fanin, Tiago’s own assistant in this journey.

“Perhaps I consider you an honorary member of my family,” the spellspinner offered.

“Would that not be a tremendous step down?”

Ravel’s smile disappeared in the blink of an eye, but Tiago’s laughter diffused the tension before it could truly begin to mount.

“How goes the fight for the outer halls?” Ravel asked.

“Your older brother and his pet elementals are proving quite effective,” Tiago answered. “They drive the critters, the corbies, and even the dwarf ghosts, before them. We have found a pocket of orcs, as well, and are . . . negotiating.”

“Do we really need more slaves?”

Tiago shrugged as if it did not matter. “The more hands who serve us, the more quickly the corridors will be bolstered and secured.” As he finished, he glanced over at the outer forges, both ends, where goblins and orcs and even bugbears worked the metal hard, building crude beam supports and thick iron doors, and most importantly, new rail lines and long pegs for the ore carts. Other slaves carried the finished products from the room to the appointed corridors and chambers.

Nearer in toward the central forge, drow craftsmen worked the fires, creating the finer items necessary for refurbishing the infrastructure of the vast complex. Sensitive drow fingers sheared at hot metal to create intricate locks and delicatelooking but strong sections of stairway they could assemble in the larger chambers above, where the previous stairs had been destroyed by the rage of the rampaging primordial.

Tiago’s words resonated with Ravel, the young Baenre could clearly see. It would take years to restore Gauntlgrym, and to secure the chambers, and that was assuming an ample supply of metal. The forges needed no fuel, and that was a tremendous advantage indeed, but the raw materials were not so easily found in tunnels teeming with dwarf ghosts or dire corbies or other untamed monsters.

“Patience, my friend,” Tiago said. “You have exceeded even your own wildest hopes thus far.”

“True enough,” Ravel admitted.

“And now you have something to lose, and so you tremble,” Tiago said, and Ravel nodded.

“Who trembles?” came another voice, and the pair turned to regard the approach of Berellip.

“I was speaking figuratively, priestess,” said Tiago.

Berellip gave Ravel a dismissive glance. “Were you?”

Tiago laughed, but Ravel didn’t follow his lead.

“We were discussing the slow work,” Tiago said. “The long process and road ahead for House Xorlarrin if you mean to proceed with your dreams of creating a city to rival Menzoberranzan.”

“Why would we ever think to do such a thing?” Berellip replied with feigned surprise. “A rival city? That would not please Lolth.”

“It would please Zeerith,” Tiago quipped, again purposely leaving off her title, daring either of the children of Xorlarrin to call him out on his indiscretion, which neither did, though Berellip narrowed her eyes and offered a quiet sneer.

“You know why we journeyed here,” Ravel remarked. “Matron Mother Quenthel knows, as well, as does Archmage Gromph.”

“Have you reservations now, young Baenre, since we have succeeded more than you could have imagined?” Berellip added.

“Nay,” Tiago replied easily. “Quite the contrary. I am pleased by what I have learned and seen. Your progress has been remarkable, and this place— these forges, this source of power, the resonating strength of this complex—is beyond anything I would have imagined. You have the beginnings of a proper sister city.”