Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(46)

“Heat that could bake a dragon?” Jarlaxle asked with a wry grin.

“There are crawl tunnels down from the parapet,” the vampire explained. “But they’re all blocked.”

“Ye said ye been inside.”

“I have my ways, dwarf,” Dor’crae replied. “But I expect we’ll need to do some tunneling of our own if you are to gain entrance.”

“Bah!” Athrogate snorted. He turned and walked up to the gates. “By Moradin’s arm and Clangeddin’s horn, by Dumathoin’s tricks and Delzoun true born, open I tell ye, open yer gates! Me name’s Athrogate, me blood’s Delzoun, and I’m told me home awaits!”

Illuminations of shining silver appeared on the door, runes and images of ancient dwarven crests, and like a great exhale from some sleeping mountain giant, the doors cracked open. Then, without a whisper of sound, they drifted apart, sweeping wide to reveal a narrow, low tunnel beyond, lined with murder holes.

“By the bearded gods,” Athrogate muttered. He looked back at the others in amazement.

“A rhyme told to every dwarfling?” Jarlaxle asked with a grin.

“Telled ye it was Gauntlgrym!” he snapped his stubby fingers at them and started in.

Dor’crae rushed to him and grabbed him by the shoulder. “Likely trapped!” he warned. “Heavily guarded by ancient wards and mechanical springs that I assure you still operate.”

“Bah!” Athrogate snorted, tearing away. “Ain’t no Delzoun trap or ward to hit a Delzoun dwarf, ye dolt!”

Without hesitation, Athrogate started into the complex and the others were quick to follow—and quicker still when Jarlaxle warned them that perhaps it would be a good idea for them to stay very close to the dwarf.

Halfway in, Dahlia brought up the sparking blue light on her walking stick. Not to be outdone, Jarlaxle flicked his wrist, producing a dagger from a magical bracer, then flicked it again to elongate that dagger into a fine sword. He whispered something into the hilt and the sword glowed white, illuminating the area as well as a bright lantern.

Only then did they see the forms ahead, shuffling to escape the light.

“Me brothers?” Athrogate asked, clearly at a loss.

“Ghosts,” Dor’crae whispered. “The place is thick with them.”

They soon came into a huge chamber, circular and crossed by rail tracks, one from each of the three other exits. Along the curving wall of the chamber were building facades, and many with shingles hanging to describe the place therein—an armor merchant, a weaponsmith, a barracks, a tavern (of course), another tavern (of course), and on and on.

“Like Mirabar’s Undercity,” Jarlaxle remarked, though on a grander scale by far.

As they moved out toward the middle of the chamber, Athrogate grabbed Jarlaxle’s arm and pulled it lower so that the sword would illuminate the floor. It was a mosaic, a great mural, and they had to scurry about with the light for a while before they realized that it depicted the three dwarf gods of old: Moradin, Clangeddin, and Dumathoin.

In the very center of the floor was a raised circular dais, a singular throne atop it, and the sparkles as they approached marked it as no ordinary seat. Gem-studded and grand, with sweeping arms and a high, wide back of mithral, silver, and gold, it was the throne of a great king. Even the dais was no ordinary block of stone, but a composite design of those same precious metals, and set with lines of glittering jewels.

Jarlaxle waved his glowing sword near it, showing the rich purple fabric still intact. “Mighty magic,” he remarked.

“Undo it, that we might pilfer the gems,” Dor’crae insisted.

That brought him a hateful glare from Athrogate. “Ye pluck one stone from that chair and know that I’m filling the hole with yer black heart, vampire,” the dwarf warned.

“Did we come here as mere visitors, then?” Dor’crae retorted. “To gasp and fawn over its beauties?”

“I’m bettin’ ye’ll find plenty o’ treasures—more than we can carry—layin’ about,” Athrogate answered. “But some things ye’re not defiling.”

“Enough,” said Dahlia. “Let us not presume, and not quarrel. We are merely at the entrance. There is so much more we need learn about this place.”

Athrogate moved as if to do exactly that. He stepped tentatively toward the throne and turned to sit down. He paused there, not quite sitting, his hands not yet even touching the carved, jeweled arms of the great seat.

“Take care with that,” Jarlaxle warned. He pulled forth a wand, pointed it at the chair, and spoke a command word. His eyes popped open wide when he sensed the strength of the magic in that throne—ancient magic, powerful magic, as mighty as anything Jarlaxle had ever encountered before.

“Athrogate, no,” he said, his voice raspy and breathless.

“A dwarf seat!” Athrogate argued and before Jarlaxle could stop him, he sat down.

The dwarf’s eyes opened wide, and his mouth opened wider in a silent scream as he glanced all around.

“Not a king,” he gasped, but he didn’t even know he was saying it.

Athrogate was thrown from the throne, sent flying a dozen feet to skid down on the mosaic floor. He lay there for a long while, trembling and covering his face, until Jarlaxle finally coxed him up to his knees.