Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(70)

Athrogate staggered forward but managed to turn as he did, to see the pirate advancing, a chair leg held as a club. The dwarf threw his helpless passenger at his friend, but the third rowdy proved nimble, and ducked. He didn’t even wince as his friend went crashing down into yet another table full of mugs and plates.

With a roar, the man continued on, launching a series of vicious swings as he bore into the dwarf. Athrogate got his arm up to block—and how that stung!—and continued forward as well, wanting to get inside the weight of that swing. He drove his shoulder into the man’s waist, grappling with the swinging club arm with one hand and locking his adversary in place with the other.

But the man managed to wriggle free enough to change from a swing to a straight downward stroke, repeatedly jamming the butt end of the table leg against the top of the dwarf’s head.

So Athrogate stopped even trying to block and brought his second arm around the man as well. He stood up straight, lifting the man from the floor, and he squeezed with all his might.

The man kept pumping his arm, and blood soon caked the dwarf’s black hair. But the blows grew weaker. The man was off balance, and Athrogate growled and crushed him tighter and tighter, stealing his breath and twisting his spine.

Athrogate began to whip him back and forth and his victim yelled out for help. The dwarf bit him on the stomach, shaking his head like a guard dog might, and the pirate howled out in pain.

Athrogate never saw the next strike coming and didn’t even know that it was from one of his own morningstars. All he knew was a sudden explosion of pain, a sudden sensation of weakness as he went over sideways, dragging his bitten victim with him to the floor. Then several others were on him, punching him and kicking him, blocking out the light while all the folk in the room around him shouted and screamed.

“Kill him dead!” cried some.

“Let the poor fellow go!” yelled others.

Then he was up to his feet again, though he knew not how. It took him a few moments to note, through swollen eyes, a tiefling holding him by one arm and a dwarf holding him by the other.

“Ye go sleep it off!” the dwarf yelled in his ear. “Ye don’t come back here unless ye’re in a better mood!”

Athrogate wanted to argue, and wanted to call for the return of his weapons, but he saw the door approaching—at least, that’s what it seemed like, and it took him a few heartbeats to realize that he was approaching the door, and swiftly. He crashed through and went tumbling out into the street.

Stubbornly, he climbed back to his feet and staggered around to regard the posse that stood on the tavern’s porch, staring at him.

“And know that ye’re paying for the door and the tables, and all that’s broken and all that’s spilled, Athrogate!” the dwarf yelled at him.

Athrogate brought a hand up to wipe the blood from his lips. “Get me me ’stars,” he said. He looked down at his shoulder, bloody and torn from one of those very weapons. “I dropped ’em out o’ good manners.”

“Get ’em,” the dwarf, who was one of the proprietors of the establishment, told the group behind him.

A couple disappeared into the tavern, but only to come back and report that the morningstars and their harness were nowhere to be found.

Thoroughly dejected, dazed, busted, and broken, Athrogate wandered down the streets of Luskan. That hadn’t been his first fight, of course, not even his first one that tenday, nor was it the first time he’d ended up face down in the street. Always he took comfort in knowing that he’d given out better than he had taken, but without the glassteel morningstars that had served him so well for all those decades, he found little comfort indeed. And he was hurt worse than any of the other times.

He thought to get back to his own bed, but he wasn’t even sure where he was. He looked around, confused, his brain not connecting with his vision or his footsteps. He kept staggering for some time before finally stumbling into an alleyway, where he slumped against a wall and slid to the ground.



“Oh, but we’ll get us some fine coin for these beauties,” one dirty pirate said to the other, alone in the hold of their docked ship. He held up the harness, holding one of Athrogate’s morningstars, the second weapon in his other hand. “What good luck for the dwarf to be so noble as to drop them, eh?”

“Eh!” his friend agreed. “I’m thinking we might be buying us our own boat. I’d like to be a captain.”

“What? Yerself the captain? Was myself that took the things!”

“And myself that whacked the dwarf good with one in the fight,” the other protested. “Bah, but let’s sell them first and see the coin, and see what we might be buying two boats!”

The first started to nod and laugh at that grand proposition. “What good luck!” he said again.

“You really think so?” came a third voice, from the bottom of the ladder, and both men looked that way. And both men blanched, turning as pale as the stranger was dark.

“W-we found ’em,” the second stuttered.

“Indeed, and here’s your finder’s fee,” the drow said.

He flipped a copper piece onto the floor between them.



Help us!

“Eh?” Athrogate replied, not sure what he’d just heard, or if he’d “heard” anything at all.