Gauntlgrym

BATTLING THE DARKNESS

The Year of the Elves’ Weeping (1462 DR) HERE THEY COME! OH, BE BRAVE BOYS AND HOLD THE TEAMS!” THE CARAVAN boss cried out to the men and women crouched in and around the wagons, weapons in hand. Off to the side of the road, the thicket shook with the approaching storm of enemies.

“Scrabblers,” one man said, his nickname for the agile and swift undead humanoids that had infested the region.

“Dustwalkers,” corrected another, and that name seemed equally fitting, for those marauders, undead monsters, left rails of gray powder in their wake, as if every step they took was their first out of the ashes of a burned out hearth-and indeed, the rumors said that the monsters were the animated corpses of those who had been buried beneath the volcanic ash a decade before.

“Guard!” the boss called out after a few more tense moments passed, without any clear sight of the enemy. “Go and scout the tree line.”

The hired guard, a stocky old dwarf with a beard of silver and orange, a shield emblazoned with the crest of the foaming mug, a many-notched axe, and a one-horned helmet, turned a wary eye on the leader.

The man swallowed hard under that withering gaze, but to his credit, managed to summon enough courage to once again motion toward the trees.

“I telled ye when ye hired me,” the dwarf warned. “Ye might be telling me what to fight, but ye ain’t telling me how to fight.”

“We cannot just sit here while they plot!”

“Plot?” the dwarf echoed with a belly laugh. “They’re dumb dead, ye dolt. They ain’t plottin’.”

“Then where are they?” another man cried, who seemed on the verge of desperation.

“Maybe they aren’t out there. Maybe it’s just the wind,” said a woman from a wagon near the back.

“Ye all ready for a fight?” the dwarf asked. “Ye got yer weapons in hand?” He looked at the boss, who stood tall, scanned the five wagons, and nodded.

Bruenor stood up, stuck his thumbs in this mouth, and blew a loud whistle.

Everyone but the dwarf reflexively ducked then as a shot of lightning creased the air to the side of the caravan, emanating from somewhere behind and streaking horizontally across the way to disappear into the trees. A horrid shriek came back, and a rustle of branches.

A second bolt knifed into the trees.

The branches began to rustle again.

“Here they come now,” the dwarf said, loud enough for all to hear. “Ye fight well and die better!”

Across the way, the scrabblers, the dustwalkers, the ash zombies-whatever name anyone wanted to put on the small, shriveled gray humanoids-came forth in a sudden rush, leaping from branches or running out of the tree line, some upright and swaying back and forth as if they might tip over with every stride, others hunched and scrambling on all fours.

And the other way, behind the crouching drivers and caravanners, came the sound of bells singing sweetly, and the pounding of hooves.

Another streaking arrow shot past from a magical bow, blinding and devastating as it exploded into the head of the nearest monster, blasting it apart in a puff of gray ash.

The caravan’s horses neighed as mighty Andahar approached, and one team reared when the magnificent unicorn cleared a wagon in one great leap, landing clean on the other side with Drizzt already readying another arrow.

He shot dead a pair of zombies, the bolt blasting through one and into the other, and in one fluid motion he shouldered the bow, drew out his scimitars, and rolled off the side of the galloping mount.

Andahar continued on, lowered his head, and plowed through the nearest monsters, impaling one on his spiral horn and blasting aside the other.

Drizzt hit the ground in a controlled roll, turning right back up to his feet and charging along as smoothly as if he’d been running the whole time. He rushed between a pair of zombies, scimitars slashing out to either side, cutting them down. He skidded to a stop before a third, bringing his blades up in a circling maneuver over his head, back to front, the blades sliding past each other above and in front of him as he brought them forward. He drove his left arm out straight, blade horizontal and at eye level to block the wild overhead swings of a charging zombie-and the creature showed no sign of pain at all as its forearms dived into a solid defensive block, as its ashen skin gashed on the fine edge of Twinkle.

In the same movement Drizzt executed the block with Twinkle, he cocked his right elbow back behind him, and as he turned his leading blade off to the side, further skinning the zombie’s arms, he stepped forward and thrust Icingdeath hard into the monster’s chest. The scimitar blasted through with such force that Drizzt noted a puff of ash behind the zombie.

That hole seemed barely to affect the monster, but it was hardly a surprise to the seasoned drow ranger. Even as he retracted Icingdeath, he brought Twinkle in with a downward slash, one that got tangled with the zombie’s arms and kept it off-balance and defenseless as Icingdeath went down, under and around and back in from the other side, connecting solidly across the monster’s neck and chopping it down.

All of it-the block, the stab, the two slashes-happened so quickly that Drizzt hardly slowed his forward progress, and he simply ran up and over the zombie as it tumbled backward. He managed to glance back, to see his mighty steed lift its hind quarters in a double kick and explode a zombie into a cloud of ash. Most of the other monsters chased after Andahar, with only a few continuing for the caravan.

Creatures turned in for Drizzt from left and right, moving with startling agility and speed for undead, and yet still not quickly enough to catch up to the blur that was Drizzt Do’Urden, his legs speeded by magical anklets, his balance always perfect, his strategy three steps ahead.

He veered left, blasting right into a group of zombies-so many that the caravan crew and Bruenor collectively gasped as he disappeared into a sea of gray ash. But so fast and perfect were his slashes, driving aside impediments, and so fast his stabs, to the side, in front of him, even a backhand to defeat pursuit, that he didn’t slow, and the collective gasp became a collective cheer when he reappeared out the other side, seemingly in the clear, but with a horde of zombies still in pursuit.

And behind the zombies, Drizzt knew, came Bruenor, cutting down the distracted undead as they chased the dark elf.

But the drow had to skid to a stop, surprised, when out of the thicket to the side charged another enemy, another zombie. The newcomer was not one of the humans, elves, or dwarves shriveled in the hot flow of the volcano, though, but a gigantic and formidable beast, one which in life would have challenged Drizzt and in undeath, feeling no pain, knowing no fear, and all but immune to minor wounds, was all the more formidable. It stood nearly twice Drizzt’s height and outweighed him at least four times over with giant pincers protruding from its face and long wiry arms ending in claws that could rend stone as easily as a man could dig in soft dirt. Drizzt had battled umber hulks before, as had so many of his kin, growing up in the Underdark, but in addition to the ashen gray look of those creatures killed by the hot volcanic flow, the hulk had about it a darker pall, a shadowy essence as though it had stepped out of the depths of the Shadowfell.

Drizzt managed to avert his eyes just in time to avoid the creature’s magical gaze, known to debilitate the finest warriors. He didn’t wait to look back before moving, guessing correctly that any delay would cost him dearly. He darted right at the monster, just within the sweeping reach of its powerful claws. The shadow hulk tried to stomp him as he skidded past, but Drizzt tucked into a roll and got out of the way in time, even managing to stab that stomping foot for good measure. He came up to his feet and darted straight behind the thing, keeping it turning, and landed several heavy slashes in the process.

But felling the monster would be like chopping down a thick oak, and an oak that savagely fought back.

“Keep it moving, elf!” he heard Bruenor yell from across the way, still back near the caravan wagons.

“Indeed,” the drow whispered in reply, having no intention of facing up squarely against that beast.

He got in one last slash and darted away, drawing forth an onyx figurine as soon as he put some space between himself and the shadow hulk.

“Come to me, Guenhwyvar,” Drizzt called softly. He hadn’t wanted to summon the panther, for she had fought beside him the night before and needed her rest in her Astral home.

He saw the gray mist appearing and ran beyond it, the shadow hulk in swift pursuit.

“Keep him moving, elf!” he heard Bruenor cry from the side.

Drizzt glanced that way to watch the dwarf rush out to the side of the wagons toward a large boulder flanked by a few birch trees. With a knowing nod, Drizzt spun, surprising the shadow hulk just enough so that he could again rush inside the deadly sweep of its clawing hands. He snapped off several stabs and left with a heavy slash-or feigned leaving. Again he spun, just outside the creature’s turn. He went past again with another flurry of stabs and slashes. He’d just started to run once more when he heard the growl then the impact as a leaping Guenhwyvar slammed against the shadow hulk’s back. Drizzt darted off to the side as the monster staggered under the weight of six hundred pounds of muscled panther.

“The little ones, Guen!” Drizzt yelled in alarm, seeing that many ash zombies still surrounded Andahar and more moved to press the caravan crew.

With a puff of smoky ash, the panther leaped away, even as Drizzt again came in at the shadow hulk. The creature foolishly turned as if to follow Guenhwyvar, allowing the ranger several heavy strikes.

Then Drizzt was running again, the shadow hulk in close pursuit. He glanced in the direction of the caravan, nodding in satisfaction to see that Guenhwyvar was already rounding up the zombies and shredding them with her powerful claws.

Drizzt kept just ahead of the shadow hulk-dangerously close. He wanted the creature’s focus on him alone as he ran in a loop, bringing it right in front of the boulder where Bruenor had disappeared. He rushed out only a few strides from the stone then spun back to squarely face the monster.

A clawed hand swung down from on high, too powerfully for Drizzt to even dare attempt a block. He dodged aside and the arm crashed down against the ground, the monster’s three claws digging deep gashes in earth and stone alike.

Drizzt stabbed and dodged, whirled to one side then the other, striking where he could find an opening, but fighting defensively, just trying to keep the shadow hulk engaged and distracted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Bruenor again, running to the top of the boulder and beyond, descending from on high with a great leap, his many-notched axe up high over his head and held in both hands. The dwarf’s whole body seemed to bend and snap forward, like the jaws of a giant wolf, his muscles only adding to his momentum as he drove the axe home.

A weird grunt came forth from the shadow hulk, sounding far more surprised, even curious, than pained. The creature took a step toward Drizzt, its expression somewhat pensive, as if it were only then grasping the reality of its sudden end.

Drizzt stared at that curious expression for many heartbeats-so many that he had to dive aside to avoid being buried by the falling monster.

Despite the many undead still left to be dealt with, Drizzt couldn’t suppress a smile as he watched Bruenor ride the shadow hulk the last couple of feet to the ground. His shield hand still gripping his axe, his free hand up behind him, it looked as though the dwarf was breaking a wild horse.

“Elf, I’m thinking of a yeti on the tundra,” the dwarf said, tearing his axe free. “Always seems as if ye’re needin’ saving!”

“So, as you did with the yeti, will you try to cook this one’s brains?” Drizzt asked, spinning away and heading for the nearest monster.

“Bah!” the dwarf snorted. “Tastin’ like dust or I’m a bearded gnome!”

For all the years and all the battles, for all the loss and all the strange roads, there was nothing Bruenor might have said to better comfort Drizzt just then, and to better launch him into the next fight, and the one after that.

With Andahar and Guenhwyvar, and some small assistance from the caravanners, the attack was beaten back in short order, leaving only minor wounds for a few of the merchants and guards, and no real damage to any of the wagons or horse teams. They were on their way in short order, with Drizzt riding flank.

By dawn, the road had turned directly west and they broke out of the woodland and onto an open plain. The sea flanked them on the left, and with so much open ground to their right, most of the crew settled in for some sleep.

Drizzt dismissed his magical mount and climbed aboard the jockey seat of the last wagon, Bruenor beside him. They would make Neverwinter by noon, so the boss informed them, and even though so many were weary, they wouldn’t stop the caravan.

“A fine, well-paying journey,” Drizzt remarked to Bruenor, speaking as much to keep himself alert as for any desire for conversation.

“Not that ye’re caring,” a sleepy Bruenor replied.

Drizzt cocked an eyebrow the dwarf’s way.

“Bah, but ye only did this for the fightin’!” Bruenor accused.

“We need the coin,” Drizzt replied.

“Ye’d do it for free. Anything to sing yer blades.”

“Our funds are not inexhaustible, my friend. You paid good gold for that last map you acquired.”

“An investment, I tell ye! Think o’ the treasures Gauntlgrym’ll give us!” Bruenor insisted.

“And that map will lead us there?”

“Not for knowing,” Bruenor admitted. “But one o’ them will.”

“That map, scrawled by a Calishite sailor, a pirate no less, will lead us to our destination, which a thousand-thousand dwarves have not found in a thousand years of searching?”

“Ah, shut yer mouth.”

Drizzt grinned at him.

“Ye hide in yer blades,” Bruenor said more seriously.

Drizzt didn’t answer, just looked straight ahead at the road and the wagons in front of them.

“Ye always did. I know,” the dwarf continued, “I seen it in Icewind Dale when first we met. I remember me boy shaking his head and callin’ ye crazy when ye took him into the lair o’ that giant, Biggrin. But never like this, elf. I’m thinking that if ye had a choice o’ two roads, one safe and one thick with monsters, ye’d take the thick one.”

“I didn’t pick this road, you did,” Drizzt replied.

“Nah, yerself signed us on as guards, ready for the fight.”

“We need the coin, O Great Cave Crawler.”

“Bah,” Bruenor grumbled, shaking his head.

They were indeed short of funds, but not destitute by any means, having taken a rather tidy sum along with them from Mithral Hall those many years ago, and really, other than Bruenor’s quest for maps and trinkets, they had little on which they needed to spend the coin.

The dwarf let it go at that, and drifted off to sleep, where he found comfortable dreams of yesteryear, of Kelvin’s Cairn in Icewind Dale, and the high perch upon it known as Bruenor’s Climb. Of running with the Companions of the Hall, him and the elf, and his boy and his girl and the halfling he so often found fishing on the banks of Maer Dualdon.

It had been a good life, Bruenor decided. Good and long, and full of fine friends and fine adventures.

They came in sight of Neverwinter soon after, and no one spoke a word of protest when the boss stopped the lead wagon on a high ridge overlooking the place, so that all could take in the sight. Once it had been a sprawling city, a great port, then, with the eruption of Mount Hotenow, it had been no more than a desolate, barren ruin of black stone and deep gray ash.

But the wounds in the land were healing, plants growing thick in the rich volcanic soil, and while many of the ruins of old Neverwinter were still visible, new structures had been built. Few in number, none approaching the grandeur of old Neverwinter as of yet, the small settlement seemed truly discordant. The most impressive structure to be seen, by far, was the old Winged Wyvern Bridge, which had briefly been called something else no one remembered. It had escaped the devastation nearly unscathed, with only one abutment taking any noticeable damage, and it had come to serve as the centerpiece, the promise, of what Neverwinter might become anew.

So entranced were Bruenor and Drizzt at the sight of the distant town, neither noticed the approach of the caravan boss.

“She’ll be rebuilt to all her glory,” the man said, drawing them from their personal contemplations. “Not to doubt the resilience of the folk of the Sword Coast. They’ll… we’ll make Neverwinter what she once was, and more.

“What do you say, lads and lasses?” he called, turning so all could hear. “Do you think we might convince the leaders of Neverwinter to name a bridge or some other new structure in honor of Drizzt Do’Urden or Bonnego Battle-axe?”

“O’ the Adbar Battle-axes, and don’t ye never forget it,” Bruenor shouted as cheers rose up.

“This caravan isn’t leaving Neverwinter until the spring, at least,” the boss informed the duo. “I’d be glad to have you along for that journey to Waterdeep.”

“If we’re about-” Drizzt started to reply.

“But we won’t be,” Bruenor cut in. “We got roads o’ our own to walk.”

“I understand,” the boss said. “The offer stands-at twice the pay.”

“It’s possible,” Drizzt said with a wry grin aimed at Bruenor. “My friend here has a fondness for maps… one that oft empties our purses.”

Bruenor’s responding look was not in jest, the dwarf upset with Drizzt for giving away so much information.

“Maps?” the boss asked. “We’ll be re-drawing the map of Neverwinter soon, to be sure, with such fine craftsmen and brave warriors who have come to rebuild and defend her. We’ll be battling the darkness, do not doubt, and in a way that will make all of Faer?n look to Neverwinter with hope.”

Cheers again erupted all around them.

“The city is always recruiting new guards and scouts,” the boss said, another offer.

Drizzt smiled, but wisely deferred to Bruenor, who repeated, “We got roads o’ our own to walk.”

“As you will,” the boss replied with a bow. “Though every road in these parts seems filled with danger now.” He shook his head and looked back in the general direction of their last fight. “What were those things?”

“What did they look like?” Drizzt replied.

“Like children buried under the ash of the rolling mountain.”

“Not children,” Bruenor explained. “Burned and shriveled by the hot ash, we’re fighting them that once lived in Neverwinter, and ye might be wise to take care to keep yer new buildings off any old spots that would’ve been filled with folk, if ye catch me meaning.”

“And they rise again from their natural tombs?” the boss said with a shake of his head. “Did the catastrophe carry such magic in its hot flow?”

Drizzt and Bruenor just shrugged, for no one had an answer yet about the recent turn of events, where undead monsters walked forth in such large numbers.

“Just zombies,” said Bruenor against the dispirited look on the face of the boss.

“Quicker, more agile, more fierce,” the drow added.

“They been seen all about Neverwinter Wood,” a driver on the next wagon informed them.

Drizzt nodded. “So many killed in the cataclysm…” he lamented. “A feast for necromancers and carrion birds alike.”

“Consider my offer,” the boss said, turning to leave. “Both of them.”

When the caravan started moving again, Drizzt looked at Bruenor.

“Our own roads, elf,” the dwarf remarked.

Drizzt just smiled and let it go at that.

They arrived in Neverwinter soon after, to cheers and greetings from all in the camp, and even Drizzt’s dark skin and drow heritage did little to quell the enthusiasm toward the newcomers. The wagons were stripped in short order, craftsmen and merchants of all types rushing up to fill their orders then bustling back to work. The sound of hammers and saws filled the air, men and women rushing to and fro with purpose and good spirits.

It reminded Drizzt and Bruenor of Icewind Dale, of their earlier days. So full of hope. So full of purpose. So full of determination. Bruenor knew his current quest didn’t quite live up to that, by the drow’s estimation. He didn’t doubt that Drizzt would recommend that they remain in Neverwinter through the winter, that they should scout and fight for those good folk who were indeed battling the darkness to rebuild a city.

But Drizzt let it go, and as the pair departed the town early the next morning, they both took care to not even look back.

They traveled north along the road, thinking to stop in at Port Llast and strike out into the Crags again from there. When they sat at their midday meal, the conversation was one-sided. Bruenor could hear himself babbling on about his newest acquisition and where they might meet up with some of the landmarks mentioned on the map. Hardly listening in the first place, Drizzt appeared distracted by his water bottle, which the dwarf could see shivering-so much so that it seemed to be crawling across the ground, as if something alive was trapped within it.

“A water sprite?” the dwarf asked after a moment, but even as he spoke the words, the ground beneath them began to shake.

Both dropped low to secure themselves as the momentum of the quake grew, the ground jostling violently.

It passed quickly.

“Might be that they’re not so smart in putting Neverwinter back where it was,” Bruenor remarked. “Them quakes’re startin’ again.”

Indeed, after a decade of quiet, the last few months had brought several heavy tremors, as if some malevolent force was stirring once more.

Bruenor looked to the east, toward where the twin-peaked mountain had once stood, but only a single peak remained. It seemed to him that the mountain stood a bit larger than he remembered, as if it was some dwarf warrior puffing out his chest. He shook his head, thinking it to be his imagination, so soon after the recent tremor. Drizzt had traveled to that mountain soon after the destruction of Neverwinter, seeking some clue as to what had happened, but had found nothing beyond the cooling crater of Mount Hotenow. Bruenor’s observation was undeniable, though. The quakes were beginning again, though the ground had been silent soon after the eruption for ten years.

The dwarf glanced back the way they’d come, back to the fledgling city of Neverwinter. Perhaps it would be better if distant Waterdeep remained as the vanguard of the North, he thought.

But only briefly, for as he considered the determined looks on the faces of those he’d seen rebuilding Neverwinter, the dwarf couldn’t believe they were wasting their time.

Even if pursuing their purpose came at the price of their lives.

There was no real communication between them, no hierarchy, king, or government. The ghosts of Gauntlgrym had been trapped by the cataclysm that destroyed their ancient homeland in millennia past, events lost to the ages in Faer?n. But they did have purpose, to defend the halls against intruders. And they had regret. It had been a dwarf, a Delzoun dwarf and his companions, allowed passage by the defenders of the hall, who had released the primordial. Confused and saddened by the destruction the primordial had wrought, the ghosts had nevertheless continued their quiet vigil.

But the tremors had returned. The beast stirred once more.

There was no conversation, no directive, but even those pale spirits knew they couldn’t stop the coming storm, could not fulfill their purpose. It began with one defection, not so much a conscious thought as a desperate flight. Then out of Gauntlgrym went the spirits, drifting along the reaches of the Underdark, seeking aid.

Others followed, and many left, walking forlornly from their ancestral home, seeking Delzoun blood-living allies who could entrap the beast once more. Following the tendrils of the Hosttower, some were drawn toward Luskan. Others found darker roads, descending to the deeper Underdark, endless corridors few living dwarves would dare to walk.

They carried with them their sorrow for what once had been, their pain for what had recently been marred, and their fears for what would yet come when the primordial awakened in all its mad rage.