Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(85)

“Assuming there are any left, I’d kill every one of them if the opportunity presented itself—if they in any way resemble those who defeated Captain Deudermont, decades ago,” Drizzt admitted.

“I’m sure they’d be glad to hear that.”

“I don’t intend to tell them.”



“A dwarf an’ a drow, just like ye asked,” the guard said to the alluring woman who had hired him to watch for that very thing.

The woman, an Ashmadai serving in Dahlia’s band, nodded. “This very day?”

“Not an hour past.”

“You are certain?”

“A dwarf an’ a drow,” the guard deadpanned, for how could anyone get something like that wrong?

The woman licked her lips and pulled out a small purse. She turned as she opened it, shielding its contents from the guard’s eye, then turned back to toss him two pieces of gold.

“Which way did they go?”

The guard shrugged. “Didn’t bother to watch ’em.”

The Ashmadai sighed and gave a little growl of frustration. With a disgusted look and a shake of her head, she started away.

“Why would I, when I know right where they’re goin’?” the ruffian asked.

The woman spun, hands on hips, glowering at the grinning man. She waited a few heartbeats, but he said nothing. “Well?” she prompted.

“Ye paid me to watch the gate for a dwarf an’ a drow. I watched the gate and saw yer dwarf an’ drow.”

She narrowed her eyes threateningly, but the guard appeared unconcerned.

With another sigh, the woman grabbed up her purse.

“One piece o’ gold for the name o’ who they’re goin’ to see,” the guard said, grinning all the wider. “Two’ll get ye the name o’ the place. Three, how to get there.”

She tossed two gold coins at his feet. “All of it,” she said.

The guard considered the coins, shrugged, and accepted the bargain.



“The skinny one,” Bruenor prompted, leaning on the bar, his gray and orange beard lathered with foam.

Shivanni Gardpeck stood opposite him with one hand on her hip and the other tapping at her chin. She was an attractive woman, nearing forty, full-bodied with considerable curves and long dark brown hair that bunched thickly at her shoulders. She didn’t remind Drizzt of her distant uncle Arumn in her appearance, but her mannerisms bespoke a family resemblance.

“A long way removed, was Arumn,” she mumbled.

“A long time ago,” Bruenor agreed. “But the tales came down through yer family?”

“To be sure.”

“The tale o’ Wulfgar’s stolen hammer?”

Shivanni nodded and chewed her bottom lip as if the forgotten name was right there, begging release.

“Ah, by the beards o’ gnomes,” Bruenor lamented when the woman held up her hands in defeat. He lifted his flagon and drained it, belched for good measure, and nodded to Drizzt that he was ready to go to their room.

Halfway up the stairs, the pair were stopped by Shivanni’s call. “I’ll remember it, don’t you doubt!” she said.

“Rat-faced man with a hammer that weren’t his own,” Bruenor called back, a light tone in his voice as if the conversation had brought him back across the decades to a place he far preferred. Indeed, his voice was filled with relief, and he grinned widely and threw up his hands, as if all the world had been made right.

Two hours later, Bruenor was deeply sunk into a chair and snoring loudly. Drizzt contemplated whether or not he should disturb his friend, but he knew that if he let Bruenor sleep, the dwarf would likely awaken him in the middle of the night, grumping about a grumbling belly.

Bruenor stopped his snoring with a grunt and a chortle, and opened one lazy eye to regard the dark-skinned hand touching his shoulder.

“It’s time for evenfeast,” Drizzt said, quietly but forcefully, for it appeared to him that Bruenor was about to bite his hand.

The dwarf shrugged him away and closed his eyes again, smacking his lips as he settled down deeper into the chair.

Drizzt considered the slight for just a moment, then walked around to the other side of the chair, bent low, and whispered into the dwarf’s ear, “Orcs.”

Bruenor’s eyes opened wide and he hopped from his chair in a great explosion of movement, lifting right into the air before landing in a ready, fighting crouch.

“Where? What?”

“Forks,” Drizzt said. “It has been a long time since you’ve used one.”

Bruenor glowered at him.

“Evenfeast?” Drizzt suggested, motioning toward the door.

“Bah, but our talk earlier put some old thoughts in me mind, elf, thoughts what turned to dreams. And ye stole ’em.”

“Memories of Wulfgar?”

“Aye, me boy and me girl.”

Drizzt nodded, knowing full well the comfort such dreams could impart. He offered his friend a sympathetic smile, and bowed in apology. “Had I known, I would have gone for my meal without you.”

Bruenor waved that away with one hand and rubbed his grumbling belly with the other. He grabbed up his one-horned helm and plopped it on his head, slung his shield over his shoulder, and took up his axe.

“Don’t need no damned fork,” he said, showing Drizzt his axe, “and if it is an orc, we’ll chop it up to bite-sized pieces, don’t ye doubt.”