Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(109)

But Drizzt had never seen it glow while in its scabbard. He grasped the hilt and brought it forth just a bit, and his alcove was bathed in blue light.

He slid it back into the scabbard and took a deep breath, and told himself that it was just because of the nearness of the ultimate of fire creatures, the primordial.

He looked back at Dahlia and lifted his hand to respond, but before he did, he realized something quite amazing and unexpected: Dahlia had spoken to him in the intricate drow hand cant. Drizzt had never met anyone other than a drow who could use that sign language.

How do you know the cant? he flashed back at her.

Dahlia’s pretty face screwed up as she tried, unsuccessfully, it seemed, to follow his movements.

Slowly, Drizzt signed, You speak as a drow.

Dahlia held her hand out horizontally and waggled it back and forth, indicating that she had only a cursory knowledge of the language. She ended with a self-deprecating grin and shrug.

Drizzt was impressed anyway. Few who were not drow, who were not trained from their earliest days at the Academy, could form even the most rudimentary words in the intricately coded language.

Down in the corridor, a door banged open and Dahlia tightened against the wall, her hands wringing on her magical staff.

Drizzt slid an arrow out of his enchanted quiver and set it to Taulmaril’s string. He crouched down on one knee and peeked out into the corridor to see a host of red-skinned salamanders slithering down his way.



“Be quick, dwarf,” Jarlaxle said, glancing nervously at the hallway door. “I do believe our enemies are fast upon us.”

Bruenor gave a hearty “harrumph” and stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the chamber’s side wall. No less than ten metal placards lined that wall, with an equal number across the way.

“Just pull ’em all,” Athrogate prodded.

Bruenor shook his head. “Got to be the right one. Rest’re trapped and sure to kill ye dead.”

Athrogate had neared one of the plates as Bruenor spoke, and was even reaching out for one. He retracted his hand quickly, though, and sucked in his breath, turning to look back at Bruenor.

Bruenor pointed two placards down from where Athrogate stood. “That one.”

“Ye for certain?”

“Aye,” Bruenor said, and Athrogate moved that way. He hooked his fingers on the plate and pulled, but nothing happened.

Cries erupted out in the hallway.

Athrogate grabbed on harder and tugged with all his considerable strength, but the plate would not budge. He let go with a growl and hopped back, spat in both hands, and moved in again—or started to, until Bruenor intervened. The dwarf king walked up to the placard, reached up with one hand, and began talking in a language that sounded like Dwarvish—so much so that it took Athrogate several moments to realize that he couldn’t really understand a word Bruenor was saying.

Bruenor gave a slight tug and the placard, the door to the secret compartment, swung open.

“How in the Nine Hells?” Athrogate complained.

“Tied to the throne’s magic?” Jarlaxle wondered aloud. The drow was fast to Bruenor’s side, to set the bowl on the base of the deep, narrow compartment. He fumbled with his sack for just a moment before producing a small vial, which he handed to the dwarf.

“To enact the magic of the bowl …” the drow began, but Bruenor held up his hand to silence his companion.

He knew how to do it. Somehow, he knew the words. He pulled the stopper from the small vial and poured the magical water into the bowl, then gently began swishing it around and chanting softly.

The water seemed to multiply as it swirled around the shallow bowl, growing in volume and in shape. Its form rose up above the rim of the bowl, like a watery humanoid swelling with power, and for a moment, it seemed outraged at being called from its home plane.

It continued to swell until it was too large to fit in the alcove, growing out of the hole and towering over the dwarf. Jarlaxle walked back, and Athrogate called out a warning to Bruenor and pulled out his morningstars, though how they might do damage to such a creature, he did not know.

But Bruenor remained unbothered. He had brought this creature through the magic of the bowl, and he commanded it. He reached right past the elemental as if it were no more bothersome than a potted plant, and slid the bowl deeper into the alcove. He pointed down the narrow tunnel, willing the elemental to retreat into the darkness, for at the other end of that compartment lay an open tendril of the Hosttower, a place designed to be filled by just such a creature.

The elemental swelled in protest, and thick, armlike appendages reached out to either side, great watery fists ready to pound at Bruenor.

But the dwarf just growled and pointed, compelling the elemental to obey. As soon as it retreated into the hole, Bruenor grabbed for the placard. He paused for a moment to consider the sounds within the alcove, like the breaking waves of a seashore.

He took a deep breath then, revealing his relief that the creature had indeed followed his command, and he closed the placard and turned to find Jarlaxle guarding by the door.

“We must be on our way,” the drow called to him, but Bruenor shook his head.

“The second one’s in here,” the dwarf explained, pointing to the opposite wall.

Out in the hall, the tumult grew.

“Oh, good dwarf, do be quick,” Jarlaxle said, and he drew out a pair of slender wands and moved to the wall at the side of the door.