Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(19)

“He fares well, I would hope,” Drizzt replied, not surprised that, four decades on, Connerad had succeeded his father, Banak. “Good blood.”

“Ye fought with his father.”

“Many the time,” Drizzt replied, accepting the mug and taking a welcomed swallow.

“And yer own salute?” Stokely asked.

“There can be only one,” Drizzt replied, and he lifted his mug high and waited until all the dwarves in the room turned to regard him.

“To King Bruenor Battlehammer!” Drizzt and Stokely said together, and a rousing cheer went up in the chamber. Every dwarf drank deep then scrambled to get their mugs refilled.

“I was but a dwarfling when me dad bringed us back to Icewind Dale,” Stokely explained. “But I’d’ve known him, and well, had I not been a fool and stayed so close to me home up here.”

“You served your own clan,” Drizzt replied. “Short are the times of respite in Icewind Dale. Could your father have fared as well, had you, and others with the wanderlust, traveled all the way to Mithral Hall?”

“Bah, but true enough! I’m guessin’ me and me boys’ll have to settle for yer tales, elf, and we’re holdin’ ye to that promise! Yerself and old Pwent and Bonnego Battle-axe, of the Adbar Battle-axes.”

“This very night,” Drizzt promised. He set his mug down and patted Stokely on the shoulder as he moved past him, heading for the lower tunnels, where he knew his friends to be.

“Well met, Bonnego,” he said to Bruenor when he entered the small side room, to find Bruenor, as always, spreading maps across the floor and taking notes.

“What do ye know, elf?” Bruenor replied a bit too hopefully.

Drizzt winced at the optimism, and let his expression convey the truth of the rumor.

“Just a few pines and a bit of scrag,” Bruenor said with a sigh and a shake of his head, for that was what they had heard of this supposedly enchanted forest from practically everyone in Icewind Dale they had asked.

“Ah, me king,” said Thibbledorf Pwent, limping into the room behind Drizzt.

“Shoosh, ye dolt!” Bruenor scolded.

“Perhaps there was once a forest there,” said Drizzt. “Perhaps enchanted in some way, and with a beautiful witch and halfling caretaker. The tale of Lathan mirrored that of Roundabout, and both I find credible.”

“Credible and wrong,” said Bruenor, “as I was knowin’ they’d be.”

“Ah, me king,” said Pwent.

“Ye quit calling me that!”

“Their words are no longer accurate,” Drizzt replied. “But that does not mean their memories are wrong. You saw the eyes of both men when they remembered that time, that encounter. Few could wear such expressions falsely, and fewer still could tell tales so aligned, separated by miles and decades.”

“Ye think they saw her?”

“I think they saw something. Something interesting.”

Bruenor growled and shoved a table over onto its side. “I should’ve come here, elf! Those years ago, when first we lost me girl. We sent that rat Jarlaxle on the hunt, but it was me own road to be walkin’.”

“And even Jarlaxle, with resources beyond any we could imagine, found no trail at all,” Drizzt reminded him. “We know not the truth or fancy of this forest called Iruladoon, my friend, and could not have found it in time in any case. You did as your station demanded, through two wars that would have grown to engulf the whole of the Silver Marches had wise King Bruenor not been there to end them. The whole of the North owes you its gratitude. We have seen the world beyond that land we once called home, and it’s a dark place indeed.”

Bruenor considered the words for a few heartbeats then nodded. “Bah!” he snorted, just because. “And I’m for seeing Gauntlgrym afore me old bones surrender to the years.” He indicated some maps on the far side of the floor. “One o’ them, I’m thinking, elf. One o’ them.”

“When’re ye thinking to be on the road?” Thibbledorf Pwent asked, and there was something in his voice that caught Drizzt off guard.

“It has to be soon, very soon,” the drow replied, studying Pwent through every word.

Always before, the battlerager had shown eagerness, a fanatical need, even, to march beside his King Bruenor. On many occasions, particularly their infrequent visits to Luskan, Bruenor had looked for ways to avoid taking Pwent along. The dirty dwarf was always a sight, of course, and always drew attention, and in the pirate-run City of Sails, such notice was not always a welcomed thing.

But there was something else in Pwent’s eye, in his posture, and in the timbre of his voice when he asked the question.

“We’ll be going right this day, then,” said Bruenor and he began rolling a parchment to stuff it back into his oversized pack.

Drizzt nodded and moved to help, but again he watched the hesitating battlerager.

“What do ye know?” Bruenor finally asked Pwent, noticing that the dwarf didn’t move to help with the packing.

“Ah, me king …” Pwent replied, voice full of regret.

“I telled ye not to call me—“Bruenor started to scold him, but Drizzt put his hand on Bruenor’s shoulder.

The drow locked stares with Pwent for a long while, then silently nodded his understanding. “He’s not coming,” Drizzt explained.