Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(102)

“Yes, my lady,” Dor’crae replied with another bow, though his tone seemed less than satisfied.

“And consider,” Sylora tossed out at him, just for the pleasure of it, “if Valindra can lead the assault against our enemies, then you might not have to do battle with Dahlia, though I know how dearly you wish to challenge her.”

The biting sarcasm, the bald expression of Dor’crae’s fear, wiped away any response from the vampire. His shoulders slumped, his entire form seemed to deflate.

He knew Sylora was right.



As with the cavern outside, the circular entry room had survived the cataclysm nearly intact. The throne still sat there, a silent testament to that which had come before, like a guardian of the past holding to its post.

The whole of the place had Drizzt staring wide-eyed and his jaw hanging slack, as it had done to Jarlaxle and Athrogate—and even Dahlia—when first they had passed through the audience chamber. Worse off than the drow, Bruenor nearly fell over, so overwhelmed was he.

Drizzt regained his composure by considering his friend—his beloved companion of so many decades who stood in the entry hall of the place that had been the focus of his life for more than half a century. Tears rimmed Bruenor’s eyes, and his breath came in uneven gasps, as if he kept forgetting to breathe, then had to force the air in and out.

“Elf,” he whispered. “Do ye see it, elf?”

“In all its glory, my friend,” Drizzt replied. He started to say something more, but Bruenor began drifting away from him, as if pulled by some unseen force.

The dwarf walked across the room, not looking left or right, his eyes fixated on his goal, as if it, the throne, was calling out to him. He stepped up to the small dais, the other four hustling to catch up

“Don’t ye do it!” Athrogate started to warn him, but Jarlaxle hushed the dwarf.

Bruenor tentatively reached out to touch the arm of the fabulous throne.

He retracted his hand immediately and leaped back, eyes wide. He hopped in circles, eyes darting to and fro, hands out wide as if he were uncertain whether to flee or fight.

The others rushed over, and Bruenor visibly relaxed then turned back to the throne.

“What happened?” Athrogate asked.

Bruenor pointed to the throne. “No regular chair.”

“Ye’re tellin’ me?” Athrogate, who had been thrown across the room by the power of that throne, replied.

Bruenor looked at him with a furrowed brow.

“Aye, she’s quite the fabulous work,” Athrogate agreed after a glance at Jarlaxle.

“More than that,” a breathless Bruenor said.

“Imbued with magic,” Dahlia reasoned.

“Thick with magic,” Jarlaxle assured her.

“Thick with memory,” Bruenor corrected.

Drizzt moved up beside Bruenor and slowly reached out toward the chair.

“Don’t ye do that,” Bruenor warned. “Not yerself and not him, most of all,” he added, indicating Jarlaxle. “Not any o’ ye. Just meself.”

Looking to Jarlaxle, who nodded, Drizzt demanded of his fellow Menzoberranyr, “What do you know?”

“Know?” Jarlaxle replied. “I know what I hoped. This place is full of ghosts, full of magic, and full of memory. My hope was that a Delzoun king—our friend Bruenor here—might find a way to tap into those memories.” He was looking at Bruenor by the time he finished, and Drizzt and the others, too, regarded the dwarf king.

Bruenor steadied himself. “Let’s see, then,” he declared.

He took a deep breath and boldly strode forward up onto the dais to stand before the throne. Hands on hips, he stared at it for a long while then nodded, turned, and plopped down on the chair, pointedly grabbing the arms as he did.

Athrogate gasped and ducked his head.



But Bruenor wasn’t rejected by the ancient throne. He stared back at his four friends for just a few heartbeats … then they were gone. Their forms shivered and wavered then dissipated into nothingness.

The dwarf was not alone. The room around him teemed with his kin and echoed with the whispers of a thousand conversations.

Bruenor steeled himself and did not panic. It was the magic of the throne, he told himself. He had not been taken from his friends, nor they from him, but his mind was looking backward across the centuries, back to the time of Gauntlgrym.

Before him stood a group of elves, most in the type of robes one would expect a wizard to wear, and beside them stood important-looking dwarves—clan leaders, obviously, given their regalia and posture.

Bruenor had to consciously force himself to breathe when he noted one wearing the foaming mug crest of Clan Battlehammer emblazoned on his breastplate. Gandalug! Was it Gandalug, the First and Ninth King of Mithral Hall? Could it be?

Certainly the dwarf resembled the founder of Mithral Hall, but more likely, it was Gandalug’s father, or his father’s father. Gandalug, after all, had never mentioned Gauntlgrym in the short time Bruenor had known him, after his escape from the drow time prison, and Gauntlgrym was too much older than Mithral Hall, by Bruenor’s understanding, for that to be Gandalug Battlehammer.

Bruenor knew then, though, that the symbol on the dwarf’s breastplate, the foaming mug crest, was not a coincidence. It was indeed the forefather of Mithral Hall standing before him, standing before the king of Gauntlgrym. A sense of community, of timelessness, and of being a part of something greater washed over Bruenor, flooding him with warmth and serenity.