Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(20)
“Eh? What’re ye saying?” Bruenor looked at Drizzt with puzzlement, but the drow deflected his gaze to Pwent.
“Ah, me king,” the battlerager said again. “I’m fearin’ that I can’no go. Me old knees.…” He sighed, his face long, like a dog that couldn’t head out on the hunt.
Thibbledorf Pwent wasn’t as old as ancient Bruenor Battlehammer, but the years, and thousands of particularly violent fights, had not been kind to the battlerager. The journey to Icewind Dale had taken a lot out of him, though of course Pwent had never complained. Pwent never complained at all, unless he was being excluded from a fight or an adventure, or told to take a bath.
Bruenor turned his stunned expression back to Drizzt, but the drow just nodded his agreement, for both knew that Thibbledorf Pwent would never have made such a claim unless he knew in his old heart that he simply couldn’t make the journey, that he had reached the end of his adventuring days.
“Bah, but ye’re just a child!” Bruenor said, more to boost the spirits of his friend than to try to change his mind.
“Ah, me king, forgive me,” Pwent said.
Bruenor considered him for a moment, then walked over and crushed Pwent in a great hug. “Ye been the best guard, the best friend an old dwarf could e’er know,” Bruenor said. “Ye been with me through it all, ye been, and how could ye even be thinking that ye’re needin’ me forgiving? I’m the one what’s should be asking! For all yer life—”
“No!” Pwent interrupted. “No! It’s been me joy, me king. It’s been me joy. And this isn’t how it’s supposed to end. Been waiting for that one great fight, that last fight. To die for me king …”
“Better in me own heart that ye live for me, ye dolt,” said Bruenor.
“So you mean to live out your days here in the dale?” Drizzt asked. “With Stokely and his clan?”
“Aye, if they’ll have me.”
“But they’d be fools not to, and Stokely ain’t no fool,” Bruenor assured him. He looked to Drizzt. “We go tomorrow, not today.”
The drow nodded.
“Today, tonight, we drink and talk o’ all the old times,” Bruenor said, looking back to Pwent. “Today, tonight, we toast every sip to Thibbledorf Pwent, the greatest warrior Mithral Hall’s e’er known!”
It may have been a bit of an exaggeration, for Mithral Hall had known many heroes of legend, not the least of whom was King Bruenor himself. But none who had ever battled Pwent would argue that claim, to be sure, what few who’d faced the rage of Thibbledorf Pwent were still around to argue anyway.
They spent all the day and night together, the three old friends, drinking and reminiscing. They talked of reclaiming Mithral Hall, of the coming of the drow, of their adventures on the road, to the dark days of Cadderly’s library, of the coming of Obould and three wars they had suffered and survived. They toasted to Wulfgar and Catti-brie and Regis, old friends lost, and to Nanfoodle and Jessa, new friends lost, and to a life well-lived and battles well-fought.
And most of all, Bruenor lifted his mug in toast to Thibbledorf Pwent, who, alongside Drizzt, had to be counted as his oldest and dearest friend. The old king was almost ashamed as he spoke words of gratitude and friendship, silently berating himself for all the times he had been embarrassed by the Gutbuster’s gruff demeanor and outrageous antics.
Under it all, Bruenor realized, none of that mattered. What mattered was the heart of Thibbledorf Pwent, a heart true and brave. Here was a dwarf who wouldn’t hesitate to leap in front of a ballista spear flying for a friend—any friend, not just his king. Here was a dwarf, Bruenor realized at long last, who truly understood what it was to be a dwarf, what it was to be of Clan Battlehammer.
He hugged his friend again the next morning, long and hard, and there was moisture in the eyes of King Bruenor as he and Drizzt walked out of Stokely Silverstream’s halls. And Pwent stood there at the exit, watching them go and quietly muttering, “Me king,” until they were long out of sight.
“A great dwarf is King Bruenor, eh?” Stokely Silverstream said, coming up to Pwent’s side.
The battlerager looked at him curiously, then widened his eyes in near panic as he feared that he’d just surrendered Bruenor’s identity with his foolish mumbling.
“I knowed from the moment ye arrived,” Stokely assured him. “What with Drizzt beside ye—could it be any but Bruenor himself?”
“Bruenor died many years ago,” Pwent said.
“Aye, and long live King Connerad!” Stokely replied, and he nodded and smiled. “And none need know otherwise, but don’t ye doubt, me new friend, that it does me heart good to know that he’s out there still, fightin’ the Battlehammer fight. Me only hope’s that we’ll see him again, that he’ll come back to Icewind Dale in his last days.”
Stokely put a hand on Pwent’s shoulder then, a shoulder bobbing with sobs.
SHADES OF GRAY
AS HE WALKED PAST THE GLASS, HERZGO ALEGNI COULDN’T HELP BUT utter a soft growl. His skin had once been so beautifully red, a shining tribute to his devilish bloodline, but the gray pall of the Shadovar had dulled it. His eyes had escaped that change, though, he noted with some satisfaction. The red irises remained in all their hellish splendor.