R. Salvatore - Archmage

And Athrogate seemed genuinely wounded. He stuttered about for a response for several heartbeats, then whispered, as he had in the Rite of Kith’n Kin, “Ar tariseachd, na daoine de a bheil mise, ar righ.”

“Ye’re here because Jarlaxle sent ye here, and no pretendin’ other,” said Bruenor. “Ye’re not serving me, Athrogate, and I’m not to hold any fancies on it. Ye serve Jarlaxle and his band o’ drow, and ye serve yerself, and so ye have since when first I met ye.”

That statement seemed perfectly logical, given the history, but it clearly caught Athrogate by surprise and rocked him back on his heels, and put on Athrogate’s face an expression caught somewhere between surprise and sadness.

“I’m not judgin’ ye,” Bruenor was quick to add. “I’ve had Jarlaxle aside meself, as well.”

Athrogate winced.

“What, then?” Bruenor asked.

“I came to Nesmé as Jarlaxle’s spy,” Athrogate answered. “I’m not for denyin’ that. Never did.” He paused and looked at Ambergris. “But me spyin’ showed me more than I was thinkin’.”

“Jarlaxle’s band’ll accept yer girl, if that’s yer worry,” Bruenor assured him.

“Nay,” Athrogate said. “Not me worry.”

“Then what?”

“Not a life for a dwarf,” Athrogate said, and he seemed genuinely choked up by then.

“What’re ye sayin’?” Bruenor prompted. “Speak it straight out.”

“I’m hopin’ to call ye me king. So’s Amber Gristle O’Maul o’ the Adbar O’Mauls.”

Now it was Bruenor’s turn to rock back on his heels. Despite the Rite of Kith’n Kin, despite even that the Throne of the Dwarf Gods had accepted Athrogate, Bruenor’s surprise at the level of Athrogate’s intensity and pleading here was genuine, his eyes wide, his jaw hanging slack until he could fumble around in his thoughts enough to find words for his shock. “Ye think Jarlaxle’s to just let ye go?” he said, because he had nothing else to say.

“Why’s it got to be one or th’ other?” Athrogate replied. “I. . we, me and me girl, will be Jarlaxle’s eyes, ears, and mouth in Gauntlgrym.”

“Serving both?” Bruenor asked, his tone showing that he was none too pleased by that prospect. Was Athrogate asking him to willingly accept a spy in Gauntlgrym’s midst?

“Serving the king o’ me clan,” Athrogate replied without hesitation, and with sincere conviction. “Tellin’ Jarlaxle only that what ye’re tellin’ me I can be tellin’ him! And I’ll be lettin’ him know that right up front, what, and if that’s not good enough for him, then good riddance to him!”

Bruenor stared at him hard, and found that he truly believed every word.

The other three came over then, Fist and Fury obviously eager to be on their way.

“More. .” Tannabritches began.

“. . to hit,” Mallabritches finished, and the two punched each other in the shoulder.

“Lot o’ trust, ye’re askin’,” Bruenor remarked.

Athrogate shrugged.

Bruenor nodded. For some reason he couldn’t quite sort out at that moment, it all seemed to fit. He had thought that Bungalow Thump would become his new Thibbledorf Pwent. Both had headed the Gutbuster Brigade, after all, and both could fight in the manner of a tornado.

But this seemed more appropriate to him. The fit was right. Other than Drizzt, and perhaps Pwent, Bruenor could not think of anyone above Athrogate he would rather have beside him when battle was at hand.

He had no reason to trust Athrogate now. The dwarf had been a fine fighting partner throughout the campaign, and particularly of late in Gauntlgrym, but asking Athrogate to fight well was like asking a fish to swim. If Athrogate’s loyalties remained with Jarlaxle, wouldn’t he have spoken the exact words Bruenor had just heard?

And yet, Bruenor knew better. Perhaps it had been the surprised expression, which appeared so genuine. Perhaps the hours of close-combat battle, joining these two as comrades.

Or perhaps because it just seemed to fit, and just seemed to make sense.

Bruenor silently cautioned himself against overthinking his feelings. He had led his people for centuries by relying on his gut, and his gut’s reaction to Athrogate now was clear.

“Welcome home, me friend,” he said quietly.

Athrogate grinned widely, so widely! But that was just to cover up the moisture that had come to his dark eyes, Bruenor realized. He could see that Athrogate wanted to respond verbally, but that he wouldn’t dare, afraid he would break out in an open sob.

“What’re we missin’?” Ambergris asked.

“Me axe ain’t missing nothing,” Bruenor replied. “So let’s find it something to hit!”

“Aye!” the Fellhammer sisters said together, with such enthusiasm that Bruenor almost expected them to launch into aerial somersaults.

Off went the one-hand catastrophe.

Sometime later, a scratching sound, like a spear tip against stone, alerted them that they were not alone, and a quick survey placed the sound behind a barred door in a perpendicular corridor.

Tannabritches slid past the door on her knees, skidding to a stop just to the far side of the jamb. Mallabritches came right behind, skidding up to the nearer edge.

“Might be a wizard,” Bruenor whispered to Ambergris, the two and Athrogate back at the corridor corner, just a few strides from the kneeling sisters. The priestess nodded and quietly began preparing a spell.

Bruenor motioned to Athrogate and the two moved up to stand in front of the portal and between the sisters. Tannabritches and Mallabritches slowly grasped the locking bar.

Bruenor glanced back to see if Ambergris was ready before he took up his shield and axe and motioned to the pair.

Off went the bar, thrown aside. Athrogate leaped up and kicked in the door.

Then he screamed in shock and fell away, a tumble of thick limbs and bouncing morningstars. Before they could begin to react, before they could properly fill the void left by the diving dwarf, the Fellhammer sisters, too, were knocked aside by a huge living missile. And they, too, screamed, or seemed as if they were crying out, but Bruenor couldn’t hear a sound.

Ambergris’s magical spell of silence filled the area.

So Bruenor’s scream, too, was no more than a facial expression. In front of him, the Fellhammers tumbled, but he hardly noticed, falling instead behind his shield to try to brace-futilely, though, as he was hit hard and sent flying into the wall across from the door, which smashed in and crushed down. He felt the huge claws scraping against him as his attacker set its powerful legs and sprang away.

Bruenor twisted and tried to unwind himself from the awkward position. He saw the blackness flying away, saw, but couldn’t hear, Ambergris crying out in surprise. The priestess fell to the floor as the missile-as Guenhwyvar -twisted and hit the wall beside her and hit it running, going around the corner right above her and speeding off down the hall.

The four dwarves fell all over each other trying to get back down the hall.

“. . th’ elf’s cat?” Bruenor heard Athrogate finish as he, too, came out of the area of silence. Bruenor turned the corner first, in a full run, extending his hand to Ambergris and yanking her upright as he stumbled past.

“Guenhwyvar!” he cried, but the cat was already out of sight, around a right turn up ahead.

The dwarves ran in swift pursuit, turning corners so fast that they rebounded off the far walls of the new passageways.

Guenhwyvar always seemed just ahead of them, enough for them to catch a glimpse of a black tail retreating around another bend.

Bruenor called out to her repeatedly, but she wasn’t slowing to his call. And when they finally caught up to her, a gasping, horrified Bruenor understood why.