Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(24)

“You moved more deeply in than we had agreed,” Drizzt remarked, dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor, rather than crouching low under the ceiling. “Deeper than we’d previously—”

“Bah, nothing’s in here,” said the dwarf. “Nothing big, anyway.”

“These tunnels are very old, and long unused,” Drizzt agreed and scolded all at once. “An old trap or a weak floor might have dropped you to the Middledark. I have warned you many times, my friend, do not underestimate the dangers of the Underdark.”

“Ye thinking there might be more tunnels below, are ye?”

“The possibility has entered my mind,” said Drizzt.

“Good!” said Bruenor, his face brightening. “Keep it there, and know it’s more than a possibility.” As he finished, he stepped aside and pointed to a crease in the apparently worked stone of the corner where he’d been working.

“More levels,” Bruenor said, pride clear in his tone. He reached over and pressed on the stone just to the side of the crease, and a sharp click came back in reply. As the dwarf moved his hand back, that portion of the wall popped out a bit, enough for Bruenor to grasp its edge and slide it farther out.

Drizzt crawled over, lifting his torch in front of him as he peered into the secret chamber. It wasn’t a large room, less than half the size of the outer one, and its floor was dominated by a small circle of rectangular stones—bricks?—forming a lip around a dark hole.

“Ye know what I be thinking,” Bruenor said.

“It’s not proof of anything more than … a well?” Drizzt replied.

“Something made that wall, made this room, and made that well,” said the dwarf.

“Something indeed, and there are many possibilities.”

“It’s dwarf work,” Bruenor insisted.

“And still that leaves many possibilities.”

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted and waved his hand dismissively at Drizzt.

Guenhwyvar jumped to her feet again and issued a long and low growl.

“Oh, shut yer maw!” Bruenor replied. “And don’t ye be threatenin’ me! Tell yer cat to shu—”

“Be silent!” Drizzt interrupted, waving his free hand, his eyes locked on Guenhwyvar, who continued to growl.

Bruenor glanced from drow to panther. “What d’ye know, elf?”

It arrived suddenly, a sharp roll of the floor, walls shaking, dust falling all around them.

“Quake!” Bruenor yelled, his voice tiny within the earthy rumble of grinding stones and falling blocks, and worse.

A second roll of the floor threw all of them into the air, Drizzt smacking hard against the doorjamb and Bruenor falling over backward.

“Come on, elf!” Bruenor yelled.

Drizzt was face down in the dirt and dust, his torch fallen aside. He started to pull himself to his hands and knees, but the blocks above him broke apart and tumbled down across his shoulders, laying him low.



Barrabus the Gray fished through the bag, tossing aside the various implements Herzgo Alegni had given him to “aid” in his craft. The assassin had to admit that the tiefling had some powerful friends and did indeed manage to gather many useful items—like the cloak Barrabus even then wore. Fine elven handiwork and enchantment were woven into every thread, and its dweomer aided in keeping the already stealthy Barrabus hidden from view. The same was true of the elven boots he wore and his ability to step silently in them, even through a field of dry leaves.

And of course, the belt-buckle dagger showed the very finest craftsmanship and enchantment. Never once had it failed to spring open to Barrabus’s command. Its poison delivery system, real human veins etched along the five-inch blade that pumped poison to the edges and the point, was one of the more remarkable weapons the assassin had ever carried. All Barrabus had to do was fill the “heart” of the knife, set in the hilt, and with the slightest of pressure, he could make that poison flow to its deadly blade.

Still, to Barrabus’s thinking, there was a danger to so many enhancements. His art, assassination, remained a test of skill, wisdom, and discipline. Reliance on too many magical aids could bring sloppiness, and sloppiness, he knew, would mean failure. Thus he had never worn the spider-climbing slippers Alegni had once offered him, nor the hat that allowed him to disguise himself nearly at will. And of course he had pushed aside the gender-altering girdle with a derisive snort.

He brought forth from the trunk a small coffer. The poisons inside it he had purchased himself; Barrabus would never allow a third party to deliver his most critical tools. He used only one poison merchant, an alchemist in Memnon he had known for many years, and who personally extracted the various toxins from desert snakes, spiders, lizards, and scorpions.

He lifted a small green phial before the candle and a wicked smile creased his face. It was a new one, and not of the desert. The toxin had come from the bay beyond Memnon’s docks, from a cleverly disguised, spiny fish. Woe to the fisherman who stepped on such a creature. Any who walked the beaches of the southern coastal regions had heard tales of the most exquisite screaming.

Barrabus held his knife hilt up. He flipped back the retractable bottom half of the ball counterweight at the base of the knife, revealing a hollow needle. Onto this he jabbed the rubber stopper of the phial. Barrabus’s eyes sparkled as he watched the translucent heart of the knife fill with the yellow liquid.