Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(76)

“I told you how to proceed.”

“I need details, Gromph,” Jarlaxle insisted. “Where to place the bowls, for instance?”

“If those places weren’t forever sealed with magma after the first rage of the primordial,” Gromph replied. “And I know not where to place them, in any case, nor will Greeth. You can only hope that Gauntlgrym itself shows you the way, if and when you find it once more.”

Jarlaxle shrugged. “And when you’re finished, I would have you expel Arklem Greeth from his phylactery, into a … separate place, that I might have control of the skull gem once more.”

“No.”

“No?”

“The magic of that gem is the only thing containing the lich.”

“Surely there are other phylacteries.”

“None that will hold him unless they’re properly enchanted, and how that might be accomplished, I do not know. When you bring me such a container, Jarlaxle, and I am convinced that it will hold him, I will place the spirit of Arklem Greeth within it. Until then, he remains in the skull gem. I hardly endeared him to me in those months of interrogation, and I’ll not have a powerful lich seeking me out. I have played such a game before, and it was not a pleasant experience.”

“My efforts against the primordial will be more difficult without the gem,” Jarlaxle explained. “Undead, the ghosts of Gauntlgrym, are thick about the place.”

“Then you have a problem,” said Gromph.

Jarlaxle stared at the indomitable wizard for a few heartbeats, then tossed him the skull gem that he could begin a new round of interrogation.

“A tenday,” Gromph said. “And bring your gold.”

Jarlaxle knew better than to ask that he take less time, so he bowed and took his leave.



Gromph smiled as he watched the mercenary depart. He placed the skull gem off to the side of his desk and went back to his scribing.

Only for a moment, though. He sensed something curious about the gem. He stared at it for a few moments then went to his bookcase to find the spellbook containing the proper incantations.

That very night, Gromph had Jarlaxle back before him.

“You have recently encountered a spirit of Gauntlgrym,” the archmage said to the surprised mercenary.

“In Luskan,” Jarlaxle confirmed. “Several sought out my associate, the dwarf Athrogate, begging his help in saving what remains of their homeland.”

Gromph Baenre held up the skull gem. “Your phylactery captured one of them.”

Jarlaxle’s eyes widened.

“Or perhaps it was Greeth reaching forth to grab a ghost to sate his loneliness.”

“Then Greeth is free?” an alarmed Jarlaxle asked, but Gromph’s grin dismissed that disturbing possibility before he even answered.

“He’s still in there, but so is the dwarf. Good fortune smiles upon you … as always.”

“Help us! Help us!” Gromph recited in a very old dialect of Dwarvish. “Seat a king in the throne of Gauntlgrym and harness the beast, we beg!”

“What does that mean?”

The archmage shrugged. “I can only relate to you that which the dwarf ghost told me. Many questions did I ask of him, and to each, a different variation of that same response.”

“Can the dwarf lead me back to Gauntlgrym?” Jarlaxle asked.

“Even now, that spirit is being consumed by Arklem Greeth,” Gromph explained. “He’s feeding on it, as you or I might devour a rothé steak. Arklem Greeth will never let it go, and I do not intend to go in there and fight him for the sake of a dwarf.

“You have the magical bowls,” Gromph went on. “You have the phials of pure water. You have been to Gauntlgrym.”

“Will it work? Does enough residual magic of the Hosttower remain?”

Gromph shrugged and was quite amused that he didn’t know the answer to that particular question. “How lucky does my dear brother feel?”



Dahlia rushed across the field and through the trees lining the most active section of the expanding Dread Ring. She took care to avoid the black necromantic ash itself, for though her brooch would protect her from its life-draining powers, she always felt as if her mere presence in a Dread Ring gave Szass Tam and his principal agents, including the hated Sylora, some power over her.

Or maybe just insight into her, and either way, Dahlia was not pleased by the possibilities.

She caught up to Sylora standing on the edge of the ring, where its leeching powers touched some of the volcanic rock. Following Sylora’s gaze, she noted a semi-translucent gray hand reaching out of the stone, clenching and unclenching as if the Dread Ring was causing the ghost great distress.

“Not a zombie,” Dahlia remarked. “Is this a sign that the Dread Ring is strengthening? Can it bring forth wights and wraiths, specters and ghosts?”

“This one was a ghost before it arrived here, and the Dread Ring caught it and held it,” Sylora explained. “There are others, too: ghosts, traveling in a pack, on a mission.” She looked directly at Dahlia and added, “Dwarf ghosts.”

“From Gauntlgrym,” Dahlia reasoned.

“Yes, apparently some of that complex survived the primordial’s awakening. Close your eyes and open your mind, and you will hear them.”