Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(95)

“I’m knowing yer history, Athrogate. What with Adbar and all.”

“Aye, and I’m thinking that when me time’s done here in this world—if it e’er happens with this damned curse on me head—that Moradin’s going to want to be talking to me, and not all he’s got to say’s to be friendly.”

“I ain’t a priest,” Bruenor reminded him.

“Aye, but ye’re a king, a Delzoun king, with royal blood back to Gauntlgrym. I’m thinking that’s to mean something. And so ye’re the best I got to help me keep me promise. I let the damned thing out, and I’ll put it back. I can’t be fixin’ what I done, but I can be making it hurt the less.”

Bruenor considered the tough, black-bearded dwarf for a bit, taking a measure of the sincere pain that shone in Athrogate’s eyes—something so unusual for that particular dwarf. The dwarf king nodded and put the plates back on the ground, then stepped over and patted Athrogate on the shoulder.

“Ye hear me good,” Bruenor said. “I know yer tale o’ Gauntlgrym, and if I weren’t believing that ye was tricked to pull that lever, then know that I’d’ve split yer head wide with me axe already.”

“I ain’t the best o’ dwarfs, but I ain’t the worst.”

“I know,” said Bruenor. “And I know that no Delzoun, not a highwayman, not a thief, not a killer’d be wanting to wreck Gauntlgrym. So ye quit beating yerself up on it. Ye did right in having Jarlaxle get me and Drizzt, and did right in vowing to go back and put the beast away. That’s all Moradin can ask of ye, and more’n meself’s asking o’ ye.” He patted Athrogate’s strong shoulder again. “But know that I’m glad to have ye with me. Just meself and three elfs and I’m thinking I’d throw meself into a chasm if we found one!”

Athrogate looked at Bruenor for just a moment, then, as the words digested, burst out in a great “Bwahaha!” He patted Bruenor hard on the shoulder, and explained, “Not afore this and not after it, I’m thinking, but know that for this journey, me life’s for ye.”

Now it was Bruenor’s turn to once more put on a puzzled expression.

“For this trip, to Gauntlgrym, to the home of our father’s father’s father, then ye’re me king.”

“Yerself follows Jarlaxle.”

“I walk aside Jarlaxle,” Athrogate corrected. “Athrogate follows Athrogate, and none else. Except this time, just this time, when Athrogate follows King Bruenor.”

It took Bruenor a while to digest that, but he found himself nodding in appreciation.

“Like ye’re other friend o’ old,” Athrogate went on. “The one what throws himself on anything he can eat and half o’ what he can’t.”

“Pwent,” Bruenor said, trying hard to make sure his voice didn’t crack, for he hated to admit it, even to himself, but he sorely missed the battlerager.

“Aye, the Pwent!” said Athrogate. “When we fought them crawly things up by Cadderly’s place, when we fought the Ghost King, cursed be the name, ’twas the Pwent aside me. Might a king be knowin’ a better shield dwarf?”

“No,” Bruenor said without the slightest hesitation.

Athrogate nodded and let it go at that, managing a grin as he went back to packing up the camp.

Bruenor, too, went to his chores, feeling a bit lighter in the heart. The conversation with Athrogate had reminded him how sorely he missed Thibbledorf Pwent, and it occurred to the old dwarf king that he might have been kinder to Pwent in all those years of loyal service. How much had he taken the tough and loyal dwarf for granted!

He looked at Athrogate now in that light, and scolded himself for his sentimentality. He wasn’t Thibbledorf Pwent, Bruenor told himself. Thibbledorf Pwent would have died for him, would have happily thrown himself in the path of a spear flying for Bruenor’s chest. Bruenor remembered the look on Pwent’s face when he’d left his friend in Icewind Dale, the abject despair and helplessness at the realization that there had been no way for him to continue beside his king.

Athrogate would never, could never, wear such an expression. The dwarf was sincere enough in his expression of regret for the events at Gauntlgrym, and likely meant every word in his pledge of fealty to Bruenor—for that one mission. But he was no Thibbledorf Pwent. And if it came to that moment of crisis, that ultimate sacrifice, could Bruenor trust Athrogate to give his life for the cause? Or for his king?

Bruenor’s thoughts were interrupted by some movement off to the side of the camp, and through the trees, he saw Jarlaxle and Dahlia talking and pointing to the south.

“Eh, Athrogate,” he said when the other dwarf moved near him. When Athrogate looked his way, Bruenor nodded his chin toward the couple. “That elf there with Jarlaxle.”

“Dahlia.”

“Ye trust her?”

Athrogate came up beside Bruenor and replied, “Jarlaxle trusts her.”

“Ain’t what I asked.”

Athrogate sighed. “I’d be trustin’ her a lot more if she weren’t so damned mean with that stick o’ hers,” he admitted. When Bruenor looked at him curiously, he clarified. “Ah, but don’t ye doubt that she’s a mean one. That stick o’ hers breaks all different ways, into weapons I ain’t ne’er seen afore. She’s fast, and with both hands. Meself, I can swing me flails pretty good, left and right, but she’s more’n that. More akin to yer dark friend, in that her hands work as if they’re two different fighters, if ye get me meanin’.”