Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(51)

Jarlaxle went under, Dahlia right after him, and she coaxed the distracted Valindra in behind her.

“I’ll try to help,” Jarlaxle offered, moving up in front of Athrogate and grabbing at the bars, “but I haven’t your strength.”

Even as he finished talking, a clicking sound came from the stone surrounding the heavy portcullis, and both drow and dwarf backed off just enough to realize that the heavy grate had been set in place.

“A room to the side,” Dahlia explained, tipping her chin toward a door through which Dor’crae passed.

Athrogate hustled into the forge, stumbling as he moved near the central furnace, the largest of the many within. It had a wide, thick tray in front of the grate of the furnace, and in looking at that, Athrogate felt as if he was peering through the faceplate of the helmet of some great fire god.

Little did he know how close to right he was.

“Ye ever seen such power, elf?” he asked Jarlaxle when the drow moved up beside him.

“How can it still be fueled, after all these centuries?” Jarlaxle asked. On a whim, the drow brought forth a throwing dagger and flipped it through the grate.

It never even seemed to land against anything, just turned to liquid and fell away, dispersing into the flames.

“ ‘To bake the dragon,’ ” Athrogate muttered.

“Incredible,” the drow agreed.

They finally managed to move aside from the blinding image to study the decorated anvil on the other side of the tray, and to note a mithral door set against the wall at the side of the main forge.

“There is more to see back there,” Dor’crae explained, “but I couldn’t open that door when I was here before. I had to slip in around the hatch using other means.”

Athrogate was already at the door. He started his rhyme once more, but paused and just pushed on the hatch, which swung in easily, revealing a short passageway to another gleaming door.

Doubting eyes fixed on the vampire, who merely shrugged.

Dahlia led the way to the next door, but found that it would not open no matter how hard she shoved against it. Until Athrogate came up, that is, and merely touched it, and like the one before, it swung open easily.

“It would seem that these old dwarves were possessed of great magic, if their doors recognize one of their blood,” Jarlaxle remarked.

“And can tell a king from a peasant,” Athrogate added, remembering the throne above.

Athrogate led the way through another doorway then a fourth, and as that one opened, the group heard the sounds of a tremendous rush of water, like a waterfall, and the air grew moist and thick. The tunnel wound for a fair distance before emptying onto a ledge that ringed a steamy oblong chamber, centered by a very wide, very deep, deep pit. And there the riddle of Gauntlgrym took away the breath of dwarf, drow, elf, vampire, and lich alike.

Looking down that great shaft, they could hardly see the pit’s walls. A rushing swirl of water spun continuously, like the breaking wave of a hurricane’s tide, or a perpetual sidelong waterfall. All the way down the water spun, giving way at the bottom to a bubbling lake of lava. Water hissed loudly in the heat, steam forming and rushing up into chimneys far above.

And somehow, that orange-red glow seemed more than just molten rock, more than inanimate magma. It appeared almost like a great eye staring back at them … with hate.

“We’re below them steamy rooms,” Athrogate noted. “A chimney must be plugged up there.”

“Over there,” Dor’crae remarked, pointing to a narrow metal walkway, thankfully with railings, that spanned the pit and ended at a ledge across the way, with a wide, decorated archway leading to a small room, barely visible, beyond. “There’s more.”



Sylora and the Ashmadai could feel the hatred of the dwarf ghosts all around them, but the Thayan wizard held aloft the skull gem, shining with power, and it was great enough to keep the ancient defenders of Gauntlgrym at bay.

They passed by the foolish and eager Ashmadai woman who had entered the room before consulting with Sylora. She had been quickly and horribly torn limb from limb by the ghosts right before their eyes.

But so be it. They were Ashmadai, and the tiefling female had died in the service of her god. Each uttered a prayer to Asmodeus for their lost sister as they stepped over various severed body parts.



“I can’t touch it,” Dor’crae explained, standing in front of a large lever set in the floor of the room, barely more than an alcove, beyond the archway from the water-encircled lava pit. “When I tried, it threw me back. Some great magic wards it.”

“Only a dwarf could pull it, ye fool. Like them doors.”

“And don’t you dare,” said Jarlaxle, who stood a few steps away, studying the old runes inscribed on the archway’s curving top. He enacted one of the powers of his enchanted eyepatch, which could allow him to comprehend almost any known language, even many magical ones, but this writing was beyond even the eyepatch’s power. “We know not what it would unleash.”

He continued studying the runes—he understood that they were very ancient, some in an old Elvish tongue that had more than a little connection to Jarlaxle’s own drow tongue, and some in ancient Dwarvish. He couldn’t make out the exact wording, but thought it was a memoriam of sorts, a tribute, perhaps a celebratory accounting of something grand represented by this chamber.