Gauntlgrym

THE TIME TO ACT

COMING HOME TO MENZOBERRANZAN AFTER YEARS ON THE SURFACE always surprised Jarlaxle, for though the World Above had changed dramatically in the past seven decades, the City of Spiders seemed locked in time-a better time, as far as Jarlaxle was concerned. The Spellplague had caused a bit of an uproar there, much like the War of the Spider Queen and the Time of Troubles before it, but when the lightning bolts and fireballs had settled, when the screaming of wizards and priests made insane by the shattering of the Weave and the fall of gods had died away, Menzoberranzan remained the same.

House Baenre, Jarlaxle’s birthplace and blood family, still reigned as First House, and it was there the drow mercenary ventured, to meet with the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, his oldest brother, Gromph.

Jarlaxle lifted his hand to knock on Gromph’s door, but before he even managed that, he heard, “I’ve been expecting you,” and the door magically swung open.

“Your scouts are efficient,” Jarlaxle said, stepping into the room. Gromph sat off to the side and across the way, peering through a magical lens at a parchment unrolled on one of his desks.

“No scouts,” the archmage said without looking up. “We have felt the tremors trembling in the west. You fear that your profitable city of Luskan will be the target of the wakening primordial this time, no doubt.”

“Rumors speak of an ash field outside of the last line of devastation.”

Gromph looked up at him with impatience. “Such a field would have been the obvious result of the eruption.”

“Not from the eruption,” the mercenary clarified. “A field of magical ash.”

“Ah yes, the Dread Ring of this Sylora Salm creature, then,” said Gromph. He shook his head and gave a wicked little laugh. “A wretched thing.”

“Even by drow standards.”

That remark caught Gromph off guard. He tilted his head and it took him a long while to manage a smile at the observation.

“An efficient way to raise an army, though,” Jarlaxle added.

Gromph shook his head again and turned back to his work, an opened spellbook into which he had been transcribing a newly learned spell.

“The reawakening of the beast could prove costly to Bregan D’aerthe,” Jarlaxle admitted. “And as such, I would pay well to keep the primordial in its hole.”

Gromph looked up, and Jarlaxle felt as if his older brother was looking right through him-a sensation Jarlaxle Baenre hadn’t often felt in his long life.

“You’re angry,” the archmage said. “You wish to repay the Thayan for making you one of her lackeys. You speak of profit, Jarlaxle, but your desires serve your pride.”

“You’re a better mage than philosopher, Brother.”

“I told you how to entrap the primordial, years ago.”

“The bowls, yes,” Jarlaxle replied. “And the lever. But I am no wizard.”

“Nor are you a Delzoun dwarf,” Gromph said with a chuckle. “Yet there are few in the world more adept with magical implements than you. These bowls should pose little challenge to one of your skill.”

Jarlaxle stared at him doubtfully, and it took the wizard some time to catch on.

“Ah,” Gromph said at long last. “You have no desire to return to Gauntlgrym, yourself.”

Jarlaxle half-shrugged, but otherwise didn’t respond.

“Doesn’t Bregan D’aerthe have a few soldiers to spare?”

Jarlaxle continued to stare at his brother.

“I see,” said Gromph. “So you do not wish to risk your own assets in this endeavor. As I said, it is a matter of pride, not expense.”

Jarlaxle could only smile. Gromph, among all drow, was not one Jarlaxle thought it wise to try to deceive. “Both, perhaps,” he admitted.

“Good, now that we’ve taken care of that bit of nonsense, what do you wish of me? Surely you do not believe I will go to this Gauntlgrym place and do battle on your behalf against a primordial.” His smirk reinforced his remark. “Do you expect I’ve managed to survive these centuries because I’m foolish enough to allow any amount of gold to tempt me into battle against such a creature?”

“You indicated that the creature need not be faced directly.”

“You would need a primordial of water to do it for you, or a god, if you could find one available.”

Jarlaxle bowed, conceding the point. “I wish only to put the primordial back in its hole-back to sleep, if you will, as it was before that Thayan witch and her vampire lackey coerced Athrogate into releasing it.”

“As it was before? You do realize, I hope, that even before your smelly little companion pulled the lever and freed the water elementals, thus freeing the primordial, the magic was waning. The fall of the Hosttower of the Arcane cannot be undone by any magic known in this day.”

“I understand,” Jarlaxle replied. “But I would accept even that weakened prison if it would delay the beast’s release long enough to bleed the rest of what I can from Luskan.”

“Really? Or long enough to spite the Thayan witch by denying her her Dread Ring.”

“We’ll call that an added benefit.”

Gromph laughed-not a wicked chuckle, but an actual burst of laughter, and that was something rarely heard in Menzoberranzan.

“I told you how to do it,” the archmage said. “Ten bowls, no less, and their slaves re-gathered. When that is done, seal them with the lever.”

“I don’t know where to place them,” Jarlaxle admitted.

“But you have them?”

“I do.”

“I’m not going with you, nor do I have the minions to spare to accompany you on your journey. I value them more than you value the fodder of your mercenary army. By Lolth, have that wretched psionic creature of yours carry this out. He walks through stone as easily as you move through water.”

“Kimmuriel is unavailable,” Jarlaxle explained.

Gromph looked at him curiously, and soon enough a grin widened on the archmage’s face. “You haven’t told them, have you?” he asked. “None of them.”

“Bregan D’aerthe is rarely in Luskan anymore,” Jarlaxle replied. “With the coming of the Spellplague, there are so many other-”

“None of them!” Gromph roared, seeming quite pleased with himself, and he snickered all the more.

Jarlaxle could only sigh and take it, for the wise old mage had of course guessed the truth of it. Jarlaxle had not told Kimmuriel or any of his lieutenants of Bregan D’aerthe, had told no one other than Gromph himself, what had transpired in Gauntlgrym.

“Ah, your pride, Jarlaxle,” the archmage scolded, and he kept laughing but then stopped abruptly and added, “But I’m still not going to Gauntlgrym, nor do I have any soldiers to lend to you.”

Jarlaxle didn’t respond, but didn’t turn to leave, even though Gromph lowered his eyes to the glass and parchment and resumed his work. Only after many heartbeats did the archmage look up again. “What is it?”

Jarlaxle reached into a pouch and produced the skull gem.

“You brought that idiot back here?” asked an annoyed Gromph, who recognized the phylactery of Arklem Greeth. Gromph had interviewed the insane lich at great lengths over the course of many months back when Jarlaxle had first come to him to try to garner information about the freed primordial and the diminishing magic of the Hosttower.

“The primordial awakens,” Jarlaxle said, and he seemed back in control then, back on balance after Gromph’s biting observations. “I’ll not have it. Speak to Greeth again, I pray you-and yes, I will pay you, too. I would know the best way to find Gauntlgrym again, and of how to proceed once I do.”

“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 roth? 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.”

Dahlia did as asked, and almost immediately felt the words Help us! form in her mind.

“They wish to be freed of the ring,” she reasoned, but Sylora shook her head.

Again Dahlia focused on the telepathic keen of the dwarf spirits. Help us, she heard again. The beast awakens. Help us!

Dahlia’s eyes popped open wide and she gawked at Sylora. “They come out of Gauntlgrym with a warning of the reawakening primordial?”

“So it would appear,” Sylora replied. “And if they came here, then it is likely they’ve traveled to other places as well. Who will heed their call, I wonder?”

“None,” Dahlia was quick to respond. “And could any even find Gauntlgrym again should they care to try?”

“I know of one, perhaps two, who could,” Sylora replied.

Dahlia mulled that over for a few moments before nodding in agreement. “Some ghosts might have found their way to Luskan’s undercity. The Hosttower’s tendrils lead there.”

“And what are we going to do about this?”

The leading manner of Sylora’s question left no doubt in Dahlia’s mind as to the Thayan woman’s intentions.

“When the primordial awakens once again, its devastation will solidify our work, will create enough carnage to complete the Dread Ring, and that, in turn, will assure our victory over the Netherese. I’ll not have that prevented, or even delayed.”

“You wish me to go to Luskan to confront Jarlaxle and Athrogate?”

“Do you need to ask?”

“Do not underestimate those two,” Dahlia warned. “They are formidable on their own, and Jarlaxle is not without powerful friends.”

“Take a dozen Ashmadai-a score if you think it necessary,” Sylora replied. “And Dor’crae.”

“The lich would help.”

“Valindra stays with me. She has almost fully regained her wits, but her power has not yet returned. She is not expendable.”

That last line hit Dahlia like a bolt of lightning. “But I am?”

Sylora laughed at her and turned her attention back to the dwarf ghost in the lava rock. Its face had appeared, a desperate grimace, and quite pleasing to the Thayan.

“And so is Dor’crae?” Dahlia pressed, only because she spotted the vampire not so far away and knew he’d heard the last exchange.

“Dor’crae is nimble enough to escape, should that be necessary,” Sylora answered without missing a beat.

She always seemed one step ahead of Dahlia. The elf knew it was her own weakness, her own inability to recover from the humiliation of her failure at Gauntlgrym, that put her behind. Ever since she’d returned from that place, Dahlia had walked a less steady path. Where once she’d been aggressive, she had become… reactive. And creatures like Sylora preyed on that indecisiveness.

“Find them and learn if they’re returning to Gauntlgrym,” Sylora ordered.

“I doubt they’re even in Luskan. It’s been a decade-”

“Learn!” Sylora snapped at her. “If they are there, if they are returning to Gauntlgrym, then stop them. If not, then learn if any others intend to take up the call of the dwarf ghosts. I should not have to explain this to you.”

“You don’t,” Dahlia replied, quietly but steadily. “I understand what must be done.”

“Have you yet met this champion of Shade Enclave who haunts Neverwinter Wood?”

“I have. He’s human, but with something of the shade about him.”

“And you fought him?”

Dahlia nodded, and an impatient Sylora motioned for her to elaborate.

“He ran away,” Dahlia lied. “He’s better at hiding than he is at fighting, though he’s fine with the blade as well. I suspect his kills have come by surprise, mostly.”

Sylora seemed a bit confused at that moment, glancing back over her shoulder into Neverwinter Wood.

“I’ll not likely find him again anytime soon,” Dahlia said. She didn’t want Sylora to reconsider her priorities, rather fancying the opportunity to be gone from that creature’s side for some time at least, and also seeking no second encounter with the Gray.

“Magic will flush him, then,” Sylora said, and Dahlia did well to suppress her sigh of relief.

“To Luskan with you, in all haste,” the Thayan sorceress went on. “Find your old companions and ensure that neither they nor anyone else slows the fury of our fiery pet.”

Dahlia nodded and turned away.

“Do not fail me in this,” Sylora said after her, her tone making clear the dire consequences of failure.

Guenhwyvar’s ears flattened and a low growl escaped the panther. She went into a crouch, her hind paws tamping down as if she anticipated springing away.

Drizzt nodded when he noted the pose, a confirmation of the same sensation that had just washed over him, like an otherworldly chill that had the hair on his neck and arms standing up. He sensed that something was about, and that perhaps it was from the Shadowfell or at least Shade Enclave, but that was all he could guess.

He moved slowly, not wanting to provoke an attack from some being or force he couldn’t see. Hands on his scimitar hilts, he circled behind Guenhwyvar, and holding all confidence that she would intercept any attack from the front or sides, the drow focused his attention the other way.

He felt more at ease then, his senses telling him that whatever had passed nearby had moved off. He started to relax, just a bit.

Bruenor’s scream abruptly ended that respite.

Drizzt sprinted to the shallow cave serving as their encampment, Guenhwyvar close behind. By the time the drow reached the entrance, his scimitars were in hand, and he came up fast, ready to rush in and fight beside his friend.

But Bruenor wasn’t fighting. Far from it. He had his back up against the rear wall of the cave, his open hands out before him as if in surrender. He was breathing shallowly, gasping almost, and his face was locked somewhere between fear and…

And what? Drizzt wondered.

“Bruenor?” he whispered, for though he too could sense something in there, as he had outside, some chill and otherworldly presence, he saw nothing that could so terrify the dwarf.

Bruenor didn’t seem to even register his presence.

“Bruenor?” he asked again, more loudly.

“They want me help,” the dwarf explained. “And I can’no’ know what help they’re wanting!”

“They?”

“Don’t ye see ’em, elf?” Bruenor asked.

Drizzt squinted and peered more closely into the dimly lit cave.

“Ghosts,” Bruenor whispered. “Dwarf ghosts. Askin’ me to help.”

“Help with what?”

“I’m a bearded gnome if I know.” Bruenor’s voice trailed off as he finished that thought, a confused look coming over him.

Then his eyes widened so much Drizzt thought they would pop out of their sockets.

“Elf,” Bruenor muttered as if he had to force the sound past a huge lump in his throat. “Elf,” he said again, and Drizzt noticed that he was leaning more heavily on the stone wall then, and recognized that if the wall hadn’t been there, Bruenor would have likely fallen over. Beside Drizzt, Guenhwyvar growled and crouched again, clearly agitated.

Bruenor gasped for breath. Drizzt drew his blades and waded in, moving across the floor in practiced steps, each leaving him more than ready to strike hard if need be. Bruenor was mouthing something then, but he couldn’t hear until he came right up near his friend.

“Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor whispered.

Drizzt’s eyes widened, as well. “What?”

“Ghosts,” Bruenor sputtered. “Gauntlgrym’s ghosts. Asking for me help. Talking of a beast waking up once more.”

Drizzt looked all around. He felt the chill, surely, but he saw and heard nothing. “Ask them where,” he told Bruenor. “Perhaps they can guide us.”

But Bruenor began shaking his head, and he even stood up straight once more, and it wasn’t until Drizzt saw that motion that he came to realize that the sensation had passed, that the ghosts were gone.

“Gauntlgrym’s ghosts,” Bruenor said, his voice still very shaky.

“Did they tell you that? Or are you guessing?”

“They telled me, elf. It’s real.”

Those words struck Drizzt curiously, particularly coming from Bruenor, who had led him on a merry chase for Gauntlgrym for decades. But as he thought about it, he understood Bruenor’s surprise, for even when one believes strongly in something, the actual confirmation comes most often as a shock.

Bruenor looked away for a moment, staring off into the distance, then blinked his eyes as if some revelation had just come over him. “The beast, elf,” he said.

“What beast?”

“It’s wakin’ up… again.”

The emphasis on that last word was purposeful, Drizzt knew, but he still didn’t quite get where Bruenor might be going.

“And when it woke up last time, Neverwinter went away,” Bruenor clarified.

“The volcano?” Drizzt asked, and Bruenor kept nodding as if it was all coming clear to him.

“Aye, that’s it. That’s the beast.”

“They told you that?”

“No,” Bruenor readily admitted. “But that’s it.”

“You can’t know that.”

But Bruenor kept nodding. “Ye feel the earth moving beneath yer feet,” he said. “Ye seen the mountain growin’. It’s waking up. The beast. The beast o’ Gauntlgrym.” He looked Drizzt directly in the eye and nodded. “And they’re askin’ for me help, elf, and so they’re to get it, or I’m a bearded gnome!”

He nodded with even more determination then rushed for his pack, fumbling with his maps. “And now we’re knowing the general area o’ the place! It’s real, elf! Gauntlgrym is real!”

“So we’re going to go there?” Drizzt asked, and Bruenor looked at him as if the answer was so obvious that Drizzt must have lost his mind to even ask.

“And stop a volcano?” Drizzt explained.

Bruenor’s jaw hung open and he stopped fumbling with his maps.

After all, how did one stop a volcano?