Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(57)

Parallel to Barrabus, but many miles away, Drizzt Do’Urden, too, rode a magical mount and watched that same plume. He had left Bruenor at their latest camp, a small village where they had bartered work for food and shelter, the first afternoon of the smoke’s appearance.

Andahar’s great strides carried him swiftly, the unicorn charging across the woodland, hilly terrain with ease. Drizzt let the bells of the barding sing for the run, welcoming the diversion of the song.

It had been a difficult and frustrating summer for the drow and his dwarf friend. The continuing disappointments of one dead end after another had started to wear on Bruenor. Drizzt recognized that the former king missed his rugged, rough friend Pwent, though of course Bruenor would never admit any such thing.

There was a restlessness growing in Drizzt, too, but he did well to keep it from Bruenor. How many years could he spend hunting in holes for some sign of an ancient dwarven kingdom? He loved Bruenor as much as any friend he had ever known, but it had been just the two of them for a long time. Their parting a couple days before had been of mutual agreement.

The drow rode Andahar hard, and when he at last found a trade road, Drizzt didn’t stay to the side of it, as prudence always demanded in those times of banditry in the wild Crags.

He didn’t think of it openly, didn’t admit it to himself, but Drizzt Do’Urden would have liked nothing more at that time than to be confronted by highwaymen, and hopefully a sizable band. Too long had his blades sat in their scabbards, too long had Taulmaril the Heartseeker sat quiet across his back.

He rode for the smoke, hoping that it signaled something amiss, some battle waiting to be joined or already joined.

As long as there remained enemies worth fighting.…

He continued on a southerly route, not going straight for the plume. He knew the ground fairly well, and noted that the smoke was coming from Mount Hotenow—one of the few hills in the Crags tall enough to rightfully be called a mountain. It had two peaks, the lower one to the north, the taller south-southeast of that, and both of bald stone the result of some long-ago fire that had burned the trees away, and had allowed erosion to wash away most of the soil.

The best approach to the two-peaked mountain was from the southeast, Drizzt knew, where he could get a good look at the area before riding in. As he passed by the mountain, he veered even farther away, riding to the southeast and another tall hill from which he could gain a better vantage point. It seemed as if the smoke poured out of the top of the lower, northern peak.

Drizzt dismissed Andahar at the base of the steep, forested hill. Bow in hand, he scaled the mountainside, moving from tree to tree so he could brace himself before attempting to move any higher. At last he gained the top. Drizzt thought to climb a tree, but saw a better option in a rocky outcrop on the mound’s western side, directly facing the distant, twin-peaked mountain.

He came out into the open and cupped a hand over his eyes to gain a better view of the distant, smoking peak. He could see no armies moving about, and no dragons in the blue sky.

A bonfire from a barbarian encampment, perhaps? A giant’s forge?

None of it made sense to Drizzt. To sustain a fire of such magnitude for so long—the smoke plume had been visible for several days—would have taken a forest of lumber. Bruenor had, of course, claimed that it must be a dwarven forge, a dwarven fire, an ancient dwarven kingdom—but he always made that claim, at any sign.

Drizzt continued to stare into the distance for a long while, following the line as close to the mountain stones as he could make out. He noted, too, when a breeze temporarily cleared the opaque veil, some redness there, streaking the stones.

Then the world blew up.



Standing on the Herzgo Alegni Bridge in Neverwinter, Barrabus the Gray and Herzgo Alegni also noted the smoke plume, so clear in the sky from their nearer vantage point.

“A forest fire?” Barrabus guessed. “I never got too near to it, and the folk in Port Llast had no more insight into it than anyone here in Neverwinter, apparently.”

“You didn’t think it prudent to go and investigate?” Alegni scolded.

“I thought my information regarding the Thayans and this catastrophe they’re planning was more urgent.”

“And you haven’t thought that these events might be connected? Is there, perhaps, a red dragon just northeast of here, waiting to fly to this Sylora creature’s call?” As he spoke, the Netherese commander walked to the bridge’s edge closest the distant spectacle and locked his hands on the rail, peering to the north.

“And if I went there and couldn’t return to you in time, you would be even less prepared,” Barrabus argued.

Alegni didn’t look back at him.

“I grant you that,” the tiefling said after a short pause. “Go there now and learn what you may.” He glanced over his shoulder to see Barrabus scowling. “It’s not so far.”

“Difficult terrain, far from the road.”

“You speak as if I—“Alegni started to say, but he stopped when Barrabus’s eyes went wide with shock.

Herzgo Alegni spun back toward the plume, toward the low mountain——the low mountain that had leaped into the sky, it seemed, solid rock transforming into something more malleable, like a cloud of impossibly thick ash.



The Ashmadai in Neverwinter Wood fell to their knees in prayer and joy, overwhelmed at the sight of what they knew would be the beginning of a grand Dread Ring.