Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(116)

Drizzt shook his head, not to answer those complaints, but simply because he saw no anomalies in the relief, not a hint of anything out of place. He closed his eyes, spread both his hands up in front of him, and gently ran his fingers along the wall. The drow opened his eyes and a curious grin came upon him.

“What d’ye know?” Bruenor asked.

Drizzt removed one hand from the wall, then all but one finger of his other hand. He moved the remaining contact up a bit, then slowly slid it back to its original place, and his smile grew with confidence.

Bruenor lifted his hand and Drizzt moved his own aside.

The dwarf closed his eyes and felt for the spot. “Clever dwarf,” he whispered, referring to the craftsman who had constructed that particular mechanism.

There was no seam. There was no mark of color or shape. In that one spot, at one point no bigger than the tip of a stubby dwarf finger, the wall was not made of stone, but of metal.

Bruenor turned his finger to get his nail against the spot, and pushed hard.

“Lead,” he announced.

“It’s a cover plate,” said Drizzt.

“Aye, one to be melted.” They both turned to Jarlaxle, who always seemed to have all the answers.

“Melted?” Drizzt asked, skeptical. “We could build a fire and heat some makeshift poker, but we’ve not the time to bring something to that temperature.”

“What’s behind it?” asked Dahlia.

“Our escape, if I’m readin’ their faces right,” Athrogate said.

Bruenor looked at the wall, and at Drizzt, who seemed just as perplexed as to how they might get through it. Back in the hall, more sounds echoed, their enemies obviously nearing the chamber.

“Mark it,” Drizzt instructed. He stepped away, and as he did, he revealed his plan as he slid Taulmaril from his shoulder.

Bruenor glanced around, and patted his pockets and his pack, trying to figure out how he might do that. He produced one of his maps and tore a piece from its corner, plopping it into his mouth. He rushed back to the spot in front of the wall and gently felt the surface again, chewing all the while. When he had the spot, he spat the wet parchment into his hand, pressed it into place, and stepped aside.

Drizzt already had an arrow fitted to the bowstring. He drew level and took careful and steady aim.

He fired, and a flash of lightning illuminated the room. The enchanted missile hit the mark. It melted the paper first then drilled right through the lead cover and right into the catch behind, ruining it forever. Both drow and dwarf knew it to be a risk, for in doing that, had Drizzt also forever sealed the secret door?

They heard rocks sliding somewhere behind the wall, though whether that was a promising sign or a portent of doom, they couldn’t be sure.

But then the stone groaned before them as the counterweights took hold in some unseen mechanism. The hatch fell in slightly, revealing the outline of a dwarf-sized doorway. Dust slipped from all edges and a musty smell, an old smell, filled their nostrils. With a great groan of protest, the secret door slid aside, disappearing into the right-hand wall.

“How did you know?” Dahlia asked, breathless.

“Damn smart throne, eh?” Athrogate said with a giggle.

“Onward, and quickly,” Jarlaxle bade them.

Drizzt started for the opening, but Bruenor held out a strong arm and kept the drow at bay.

The dwarf king led the way into the deeper, long-unused corridor, a tunnel that became a steep staircase only a few feet inside.

Last in was Athrogate, who shoved the heavy stone door back in place behind them.

Down they went, Bruenor making a swift pace on the treacherous stone stair. He didn’t think of the danger of falling. He knew what was coming.

The stairs spilled out into a narrow corridor, and the narrow corridor spilled out into a wider chamber, lit in orange: the Forge of Gauntlgrym.

Bruenor skidded to a stop, eyes wide, mouth agape. “Ye see it, elf?” he managed to whisper.

“I see it, Bruenor,” Drizzt replied in hushed and reverent tones.

One did not have to be a Delzoun dwarf to understand the solemn significance of the place, and the majesty of it. As if being pulled by unseen forces, Bruenor drifted toward the large central forge, and the dwarf seemed to grow with every stride, as ancient magic and ancient strength swelled his corporeal form.

He came to a stop right in front of the open forge, staring into the blazing fires, which were fully alive since the primordial had first been released. His face fast reddened under that heat, but he didn’t mind.

He stood there for a long, long while.

“Bruenor?” Drizzt dared ask after many heartbeats. “Bruenor, we must be quick.”

If the dwarf even heard him, he didn’t show it.

Drizzt moved around to gain Bruenor’s stare, but he couldn’t. The dwarf stood with his eyes closed. And when he opened them after a bit, he still felt far away and hardly noticed Drizzt and the others at all.

He lifted his axe and stepped toward the open forge.

“Bruenor?”

He pulled off his shield and laid it on the small ledge in front of the fires, then laid the axe upon it.

“Bruenor?”

Not even using an implement, the dwarf grabbed the iron-bound edge of the shield and slid it into the open forge, chanting in a language he knew none of the others would understand, a language Bruenor didn’t even understand himself.