R. Salvatore - The Companions

“Jarlaxle,” said Bruenor. “Me Da’s telled me much o’ that one. Strange dogs, them drow, and ye never can trust ’em.”

“Not true of Drizzt,” Jelvus Grinch was quick to reply. “By all accounts, there have been none of any race with a greater claim of loyalty.”

Bruenor couldn’t help but wince, stung by the reminder. Stung and shamed, given his present course and intentions.

“Here’s hopin’ that one’s still about,” Bruenor replied. He took his tenday pay from Jelvus Grinch and dropped the coins into a belt pouch. He gave the pouch a lift, feeling its heft, and nodded as he walked away, confident that he had sufficient funds now to close the deal.

The city of Neverwinter had still not fully recovered from the devastation of the volcanic eruption four decades previous. The area down near the river and the Winged Wyvern Bridge had been rebuilt and was thriving, but beyond the new walls there remained many ruins of the old city. Every night, lights would be spotted out there, among the ruins, as honest travelers and rogues alike took refuge in the unclaimed skeletons of houses long dead.

And every night, Bruenor was up on the wall, spying out those ruins, looking to one building in particular for signs of inhabitation. The night before, he had seen firelight in the empty window, and so it was again this night, the appointed night.

The dwarf went out from the wall, making his way through the desolate boulevards and past the black and empty portals. He knew that many eyes were upon him, from vermin to highwayman to innocent traveler and more. But he was known as a formal mercenary tied to the the Neverwinter garrison, and he carried an axe over his shoulder with practiced ease. Indeed, the frustrated and angry dwarf would almost welcome an ambush.

He made his way to the appointed building, paused before the broken doorway, and gave three sharp whistles. He didn’t even wait for the appropriate response, which came as he crossed the threshold into the place. Down the corridor and through a makeshift door, he found his associates, a pair of men, halfling and human, and an elf lass.

“Ah, but there’s young Bonnego with our coin,” said the human, Deventry, a thin man with a sharp face and a full beard marked by several angry scars. “Mayhaps we’ll be sleeping in a proper inn this night!”

“Waste of coin,” said Vestra, the elf. She wore a green hooded cloak, much like the one Drizzt used to wear, Bruenor recalled. Her long blonde hair was gathered in the hood, all in a tangle, and her delicate features showed the dirt of the road. But still, she was a pretty thing, Bruenor thought, at least for those who considered the lithe elves attractive.

“My back aches,” Deventry argued. “One night in a bed, I say.”

“Sharing the sheets with lice, no doubt,” Vestra replied with a chortle.

Deventry waved her to silence. “Twenty pieces of gold, then,” he said to Bruenor.

“When I see the map, ye’ll be seein’ the gold.”

Deventry smiled and nodded to the third of the group, the halfling they called Whisper, so named because, as far as Bruenor could tell at least, he never said a word.

Whisper produced a scroll tube while Deventry brushed aside the plates and remains of their recent meal, clearing aline-height: I, given the on spot between the three.

“There’s your map, as ordered,” Deventry said, helping Whisper unroll it.

Bruenor bent low, but the man leaned over to block his view. “Thinking to put it in your mind for free, are you?” Deventry scolded. “We spent half the summer building it, and on good faith!”

“Good faith and twenty pieces o’ gold already,” Bruenor reminded. “And no, don’t ye fear, I ain’t for puttin’ the whole of it in me head. Now move aside, for there’s one or two things that’ll tell me the truth of it, and when I see them where they should be, ye’ll get yer coin.”

Deventry looked to Vestra, who nodded. He slid back from over the map.

Bruenor noted immediately the rocky dell, and how that sent his thoughts careening back through the years. Drizzt and Dahlia had fought a rearguard action there against Ashmadai zealots, while Bruenor, Athrogate, and Jarlaxle-an unlikely trio! — had found the vale and the cave that had led them to the Underdark and Gauntlgrym. The dwarf’s scan of the map widened; it all seemed to fit together properly.

“Ye found the stony ravine,” he said.

“Aye,” Deventry replied.

“And what was beyond it, to the east?”

Deventry looked at him curiously, then glanced at Whisper, who pointed to the map.

“A wide dell,” Vestra answered.

“Full o’ rocks?”

“Aye, and full of caves.”

Bruenor nodded and couldn’t contain his grin. His scouts had succeeded. They had found the entrance to Gauntlgrym. He reached into his pouch and pulled forth a handful of assorted coins and sifted through them, counting out twenty pieces of gold, which was, in truth, the vast majority of his wealth. Indeed, when he removed the payment, he had only one remaining gold piece in his pouch, along with handful of silver and coppers.

He reached forth toward Deventry, who moved to take the coins, but Bruenor didn’t immediately let go. He locked stares with the man, weighing his options here, then offered, “More for ye if ye take me there.”

He handed the coins to the man, then glanced at all three alternately.

“Take you there and leave you?” Vestra asked.

Bruenor considered the possibilities before him. The journey to the caves might be perilous, and the journey into the Underdark even more so. Did he dare reveal the entrance to wondrous Gauntlgrym to these three?

He smiled and nodded as he considered the ghosts within the ancient city. Stokely Silverstream might even be in there now, he mused, along with a hundred dwarves from Icewind Dale-though none in Mithral Hall had known anything of Gauntlgrym other than the old tale of a battle when Bruenor had inquired of it in his time there.

Still, the dwarf understood that many had crossed into the place, no doubt. The Ashmadai zealots knew of it, surely, as did Stokely and his boys.

“Mayhaps,” he answered Vestra. “Or follow me into the tunnels. Ye’ll find the journey worth yer time, don’t ye doubt.”

“Fifty gold to take you,” said Deventry.

“Ye’ll get ten and not a copper more,” in his previous existence moment, given the on Bruenor replied, and he wished that he actually had ten to give! He couldn’t wait for the next tenday and next payday to pass, though.

“Twenty or nothing,” said Deventry.

Bruenor shrugged and retrieved the purchased map, rolling it back into the scroll tube and tucking it away inside his vest. “Then nothing,” he said, and he turned and walked out.

“Ten, then!” Deventry called after him.

Bruenor didn’t turn around. “Northwest gate at sunrise,” he said, then he departed. He had to find Durham Shaw, Captain of the Wall, and resign his commission. His time in Neverwinter was at its end, with Gauntlgrym before him and Mithral Hall after that.

King Bruenor Battlehammer had a war to fight.

The night breeze carried on it the unmistakable chill of late summer, a reminder to Bruenor that his window for traveling back to the Silver Marches was quickly closing. He wondered if he might go to Baldur’s Gate or Waterdeep instead, and employ a wizard to use a teleportation spell upon him. Or perhaps he could find a powerful enchantress to make him a flying chariot of living fire.

The dwarf shook his head at the notion, remembering all too well the last time he had tried something like that.

“Well, are you to share your insights, or will you just sit there grumbling the rest of the evening?” Vestra asked.