Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(68)

He headed back toward the nearest Netherese encampment, to be rid of the trophies. And with every step, Barrabus considered the insanity of this macabre form of soldier swapping. Had he not despoiled the bodies, the Thayans would have fed them to the growing Dread Ring, to add to its strength and to animate the dead into zombie warriors they could send once more after the Netherese. The living Ashmadai apparently considered that to be the greatest gift they could offer.

But since Barrabus had infused the corpses with the stuff of shadow, their fate would be the same, save for their masters. The Netherese would collect the bodies and send them to some arcane laboratory somewhere in conquered Sembia, where they would be fully infused with the very stuff of the Shadowfell and rise as shadow zombies, creatures of the night that would be turned against their former allies.

“Ridiculous,” Barrabus the Gray whispered to the uncaring wood.





CRIES FROM THE DISTANT PAST


MELNIK BRAWNANVIL HOOKED HIS PICKAXE ON A STUBBORN JAG OF STONE and twisted and yanked with all his strength. “Come on, ye piece o’ goblin snot,” he growled, putting everything into it. He could see the shining silvery metal behind it and wanted to get at that vein.

“Bah, but goblin snot’d’ve busted yer pick by now,” said another miner, Quentin Stonebreaker, working the other side of the tunnel.

Melnik grunted and pressed on.

“Here now, did ye bring me me lunch?” Quentin asked, but Melnik noted that he was looking down the tunnel and not at him, so he just continued with his work. Finally, the offending stone broke free.

Melnik didn’t celebrate, though, confused as to who his partner down the tunnel—not up the tunnel, toward the more inhabited regions of the mines beneath Kelvin’s Cairn in Icewind Dale, but down the tunnel—could be speaking to. They worked the end of the mine, and there were no other dwarves farther down the tunnel.

“Well, what do ye say, then—?” Quentin asked, or started to. He cut off his words with a gasp and stumbled backward.

And when Melnik came away from the wall to look down the curving corridor, he too sucked in his breath.

Dwarves approached toward them, but like no dwarves the pair had ever before seen.

“They ain’t livin’! Run!” Melnik yelled, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow his own advice, and neither could his partner.

Help us, he heard in his mind. Help us, kin o’Delzoun.

“Did ye hear that?” Quentin asked, even as he started backing away.

“I heared somethin’!”

With a shriek, Quentin turned and ran away.

The ghosts, several of them, came very near to Melnik, and he felt every hair on his shaggy body stand up with fright. But he held his ground, and even put his hands on his hips, spreading his legs wide in a solid stance.

“What do ye want, now?” he demanded.

Kin of Delzoun … Melnik heard in his head, along with a jumble of words: beast awakened … lava flowing … Gauntlgrym besieged …

They might as well have said nothing other than that one word, Gauntlgrym, for Melnik, like every dwarf of Delzoun heritage, knew that name. Staggering, stumbling with his feet and his words, the dwarf backed away. The ghosts followed, filling his head with pleas for help, though of course he had no idea what to do.

“Stokely Silverstream!” Melnik called, though of course he was a long, long way from the inhabited reaches of the complex.

The ghosts seemed more than willing to follow him, though. Indeed, when he turned and started to run, he kept glancing back to make sure he wasn’t too greatly outdistancing them, only to find that they were pacing him with ease.

The realization that he couldn’t escape them if he wanted to unnerved Melnik more than a little, but the ghosts had spoken the name of the ancient homeland, and Stokely Silverstream needed to hear it, too.



“Just keep fillin’ her, or I’ll put me fist into yer eye so hard, I’ll wiggle me fingers out the back o’ yer head,” Athrogate said, and all around him, particularly Genesay the barmaid, knew he wasn’t likely talking lightly. She moved fast to refill the dwarf’s glass.

“Here now, don’t you go talking such to Genesay,” a man sitting next to Athrogate said.

“It’s all the fine, Murley,” the bartender said, and with every word, she kept her focus on Athrogate, who sat there simmering with rage.

The dwarf took a long and deep draw, draining his flagon again, and he looked at Genesay and pointed to the mug, then slowly turned to regard the man at his side.

“Ye wouldn’t be flappin’ yer jaw at me, now, would ye?” he asked.

“Show some manners to Genesay,” Murley insisted as he stood up and squared his shoulders to the dwarf.

“Or?”

“Or I’ll …” Murley began, but he trailed off as a couple of his friends moved up to flank him, both grabbing him by an arm.

“Let it go, Mur,” one said.

“Aye, don’t you be playing with this one,” said the other. “Mighty friends he’s got. Black-skinned friends.”

That took a bit of bluster from Murley, and Athrogate realized that everyone in the tavern was looking at them then.

“What’ve me friends got to do with anything?” the dwarf asked. “Ye think I’d be needin’ help in putting the three o’ ye to the ground?”