Gauntlgrym

ALL ROADS LEAD TO LUSKAN

WITH A PILE OF SMALL, SMOOTH STONES BESIDE HIM, BRUENOR WENT TO work. One by one, he pulled the parchment maps from his pack, gently unrolling them and placing them on the mossy ground, securing each corner with a stone.

He tried to categorize them by region first, searching for the ones that seemed to place Gauntlgrym nearest the volcano that had erupted. The dwarf leaned back, kneeling, scratched his head repeatedly, and kept thinking about those ghosts that had come to him, pleading for his help.

Gauntlgrym. It was real. It still existed.

Anyone looking at Bruenor Battlehammer at that moment would have thought him a hundred and fifty years younger, a feisty young dwarf eager for adventure. The years didn’t bend his strong shoulders, and rarely had Bruenor’s eyes sparkled as they did just then, full of promise and hope.

And indeed, someone was watching him. Someone with coal black skin. Someone lithe and swift, and deadly. And it was not Drizzt.

Bruenor thought he’d suddenly been blinded. Everything just went black. He yelped and fell back, rolling down to his hip and lifting one arm defensively in front of him while fumbling around on the ground with his other hand, trying to find his axe.

A small pop sounded beside him and a sharp jolt stung his arm. Then another and another, a series of tiny explosions disorienting him, biting at him.

“Elf!” he yelled out, hoping Drizzt was near, and despite the discomfort, he continued furiously searching for his weapon.

At last he grabbed it, and only then, the popping sounds continuing, did he also notice the sound of parchment rustling.

“Elf!” he yelled again, and realizing his error in falling backward, the dwarf scrambled the other way.

He came out of the strange globe of impenetrable darkness in short order, crawling, stumbling onto the mossy patch where he’d placed the maps.

They were gone.

The horrified dwarf looked to the forest and the rustling brush. He scrambled up to his feet and flung himself forward in pursuit, but as soon as he caught a glimpse of the thief, his heart sank and his legs slowed. It was a dark elf, and one he couldn’t hope to catch.

“Elf!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, and he took up the chase anyway, trying at least to keep in sight of the fleeing drow. “Call yer damned cat, elf!” Bruenor yelled. “Call yer cat!”

He continued the chase over a ridge and down into a tree-filled dell, and he kept on running right up the far ridge, though he had lost all sight of the thief. Over that ridge, the underbrush was light, the field of view clear, but the thief was nowhere to be seen.

Bruenor skidded to a stop, hopping about, craning his stocky neck, but with the growing realization that he had lost his treasured maps. Gasping for breath, he ran back the way he’d come, veering to the right, the southeast, hoping against hope that he could make that ridge and catch sight of the thief once more.

He didn’t.

Bruenor howled for Drizzt again, repeatedly, as he ran to the western ridge then back to the north and to the east, and finally to the west once more.

Some time later, Bruenor caught a sign of movement to one side of his camp. He took up his axe, hoping the thief had returned, but the dark form showed herself more clearly. Guenhwyvar bounded up to him, her ears flattened, her lips curled back.

“Find him, cat!” Bruenor implored her. “A damned drow elf stole me maps!”

Guenhwyvar’s ears came up and she turned her head left and right, taking in the wider view.

“Go! Go!” the dwarf yelled at her, and with a roar that reverberated all around them, Guenhwyvar leaped away, straight to the west.

Moments later, with Bruenor nodding enthusiastically at the departing panther, Drizzt rushed up beside him, scimitars in hand.

“An elf took me maps!” Bruenor cried at him. “Drow elf!”

“Where did he run?”

The dwarf glanced all around, but threw his axe down, sticking it into the ground, and helplessly lifted his empty, trembling hands.

“Which way?” Drizzt prompted.

Bruenor waved his hands and head in despair.

“Where were you when he struck?” Drizzt asked, and for a moment, the flustered dwarf even seemed to be confused about that.

Finally, Bruenor collected himself enough to lead Drizzt back to the mossy patch. The darkness enchantment was gone by then, revealing the pile of stones, a few of them scattered about on the moss. But no maps were to be seen, nor the pack Bruenor had used to carry them.

“He put a damned darkness globe over me,” Bruenor grumbled, stamping his foot in outrage. “Blinded me and hit me with…”

Drizzt leaned in, prompting the dwarf to explain in detail, but all Bruenor could offer was, “Bees.”

“Bees?”

“Felt like bees,” Bruenor tried to explain. “Bitin’ at me, stingin’ me. Something…” He shook his hairy head and held forth one arm, and indeed, between his heavy bracer and short sleeve, his bare skin showed many small welts. “Kept me back while he swooped through, taking me maps.”

“You’re sure it was a drow?”

“I seen him when I came out o’ the darkness,” Bruenor asserted.

“Where?”

Bruenor led him to the spot and pointed to the ridge leading back to the dell, and Drizzt dropped to his knees, examining the shrubs and the dirt. An expert tracker, Drizzt easily found the trail-surprisingly easily, given Bruenor’s description of the robber as a dark elf. He followed that trail into the dell, and there it got far more confusing, for any tracks or bent fronds had been muddled by the tumultuous traffic the low ground had seen, a dwarf running back and forth.

Finally, though, Drizzt did rediscover the trail, and found it to lead out to the northwest. He and Bruenor ascended the ridge there, peering out.

“The road is that way,” Drizzt remarked.

“Road?”

“The road to Port Llast.”

Bruenor turned his eyes to the west more directly. “Cat went that way. She might’ve found him.”

Off they went, Drizzt easily following the trail-again, too easily.

They had barely gone a hundred yards when they heard a growl up ahead.

“Damned good cat!” Bruenor yelped and charged on, expecting to find Guenhwyvar standing atop the thief.

They did find Guenhwyvar, standing in a small lea, her fur all rumpled, teeth bared, growling angrily.

“Well?” the dwarf called out. “Where in the Nine Hells…?”

Drizzt put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to silence him. “The ground,” he said softly, walking past the dwarf toward the cat.

“Eh?”

Bruenor soon understood.

Guenhwyvar was standing in the grass, but the ground beneath the grass was not dark like soil, but white. The cat’s muscles flexed and she leaned to the side, trying to pull up her paw, but alas, she was fully stuck in place.

“Like fly glue,” Drizzt remarked, coming to the edge of the strange, magical patch. “Guen?”

The panther growled unhappily in reply.

“He sticked her to the ground?” Bruenor asked, coming up to Drizzt’s side. “He catched yer cat?”

Drizzt had no answer, other than a concerned sigh. He took out the onyx figurine and bade the cat to be gone. She couldn’t pace, as she usually did when she was slipping from her corporeal form into the gray mist that ushered her to her home on the Astral Plane, but she did diminish to nothingness soon after, leaving Drizzt and Bruenor standing in the lea.

“He got me maps, elf,” the dejected dwarf remarked.

“We’ll find him,” Drizzt promised.

He didn’t tell his friend that the path the drow thief had left was too clear to miss, that it had to have been purposely left, but he decided not to. They were being led for a reason, and Drizzt was fairly confident of where they were being led and who was leading them.

The drow flipped the satchel off his shoulder, dropping it on the table between himself and Jarlaxle.

“I think I got them all,” he said.

“Ye’re not sure?” Athrogate asked from the side of the room. “We’re talkin’ important work here, and ye think ye got ’em?”

Jarlaxle flashed a disarming smile at the dwarf then turned back to Valas Hune, one of his most experienced scouts. “I’m sure you liberated the important ones.”

“Bruenor was laying them out on the ground,” Valas answered. “All of those are in there, and what the dwarf had not yet removed from the satchel. Perhaps he has other maps hidden elsewhere. I cannot be certain-”

“Ain’t ye a scout?”

“Forgive my friend,” Jarlaxle remarked. “This mission has special importance to him.”

“Since he is the one who freed the primordial, you mean?” Valas said, offering a sly look at Athrogate.

His words caught the dwarf by surprise, for who knew of that journey to Gauntlgrym those years before? But then again, Jarlaxle didn’t seem the least bit surprised. Athrogate fixed a suspicious, you-told-them glare on Jarlaxle.

“There is little that escapes the notice of Valas Hune, my friend,” Jarlaxle explained to Athrogate. “Rest assured that he is among a very few who know of the disturbing events in Gauntlgrym.”

“Then why didn’t he make sure he got all the damned maps?”

“King Bruenor is not alone,” Valas Hune reminded. “I have little desire to try to explain my presence lurking about the camp to Drizzt Do’Urden.”

“He is a reasonable fellow,” Jarlaxle said.

“More than a few dead drow wouldn’t agree with that assessment,” Valas replied. “Besides, my friend, you know little of Drizzt of late. I have explored his exploits and talked to those who have traveled beside him, and ‘reasonable’ is not a word I often hear.”

Jarlaxle’s eyebrows betrayed a bit of surprise at that, but he quickly dismissed the look. “You could get to know him better, should you decide to accompany us to Gauntlgrym,” he reminded the scout.

Valas was shaking his head before Jarlaxle ever finished the thought. “A primordial?” he said. “Perhaps we can instead travel to a different plane to do battle with a true god, though I doubt we’d notice the difference in the few heartbeats of life we would have left.”

“I have no intention of doing battle with the primordial.”

“I’d be more concerned with its intentions, were I you. Which I am not, thankfully.” He motioned to the satchel. “There, you have your maps, as you asked.”

“And you have your gold, well-earned,” Jarlaxle replied, tossing him a small bag.

“There’s more,” said Valas Hune. “For no extra cost,” he added, seeing Jarlaxle’s suspicious look.

“They’re on your trail?”

“If not, then Drizzt is not nearly the tracker you claim him to be.”

“And?”

“There is much stirring in the south. The Netherese all but wage war with the Thayans in Neverwinter Wood.”

“Yes, yes, over the Dread Ring.”

“And more than that, the folk of the land grow alert to the awakening of the primordial, if that is what is indeed happening.”

“Folks should be scared!” Athrogate said. “Ground’s shakin’!”

“Some welcome it,” Valas Hune replied.

“And some want to stop it,” said Jarlaxle. “And those who would welcome it will no doubt try to stop those who mean to stop it.”

“There is always that possibility,” said the scout. “And to that point, a band entered Luskan only hours before me. They came into the city in small groups, but my contacts at the gate assure me that they were of singular purpose and origin. They wore the clothes of ordinary merchants, but my contacts are quite perceptive, and more than one of these newcomers, I’m told, hid an identical burn scar-a brand-under a collar, cloak, or whatnot.”

“Ashmadai,” Jarlaxle remarked.

“No small number,” Valas confirmed. “And there was a particular surface elf woman among them, stylish and alluring, and carrying a metal walking stick.”

Jarlaxle nodded, his expression showing that Valas need not continue. It made sense, of course, that the Thayans would send an expedition their way-as far as they knew, Luskan was the entrance to Gauntlgrym, and the likely starting point of any who would try to prevent the catastrophe that was no doubt well on its way.

“You have scouts in the city, monitoring them?” Jarlaxle asked.

“Some.”

“The usual crew?”

Valas nodded. “And they know to report directly to you, through our friend at the Cutlass.”

“Ye sound like ye’re leavin’,” Athrogate remarked.

“I am summoned to the Underdark, good dwarf. There are more troubles in the world than those before you.”

Athrogate started to protest, but Jarlaxle stopped him short with an upraised hand. The simple truth of the matter was that Bregan D’aerthe and Kimmuriel had lessened their presence in Luskan greatly in the last few years, and with good reason. With the fall of Neverwinter, Luskan had become far less profitable for the band, and indeed, while Jarlaxle had a vested personal interest in the endeavor, mostly out of spite against that witch Sylora Salm and her treachery, it was personal, not professional. A large part of the reason Jarlaxle had elevated Kimmuriel to a position nearly equal to his own was to allow them both to keep such things separate. Thus, Jarlaxle had hired Valas Hune and Gromph with his own funds, and had asked for no support from Kimmuriel and Bregan D’aerthe. The primordial, the Dread Ring, the skirmish between Thay and Netheril… none of that was of financial importance to Bregan D’aerthe, and Bregan D’aerthe remained, first and foremost, a for-profit enterprise.

Jarlaxle tossed Valas Hune another small bag of gold, which obviously caught the scout off guard. He looked at Jarlaxle with undisguised curiosity.

“For the extra information,” Jarlaxle explained. “And please do buy Kimmuriel the finest brandy, as repayment for him sparing his finest scout and thief.”

“ ‘His’?” Valas Hune said with a sly grin.

“For the time being,” Jarlaxle replied. “When I return to the Underdark and the matter of this new endeavor, I will reclaim that which is mine. Including the services of Valas Hune.”

The scout grinned and bowed. “I look forward to such a day, my friend,” he said, then was simply gone.

“Ye think it’s her?” Athrogate asked Jarlaxle.

“It would not surprise me, but of course I intend to find out,” Jarlaxle promised.

“Makes no sense, elf,” the dwarf replied. “Why would Dahlia walk into Luskan like that?”

“It’s been a decade.”

“To be sure, but who’d forget that one, even after ten years? She comes walkin’ into the city in that hat and with that staff o’ hers? How would we not know?”

“Why would she think we’re even still in the city?” Jarlaxle countered. “And truly, why would she care?”

“Wouldn’t we be the ones yer friend was speaking of? Ye know, them what’s wantin’ to put the primordial back in its cage?”

“Perhaps,” Jarlaxle said with a shrug, but he was already thinking along other lines. He had kept some tabs on Dahlia in the years since the eruption. He knew that she had been in Neverwinter Wood, serving Sylora and the creation of the Dread Ring, and harrying the Netherese. And he knew, simply from their encounter in Gauntlgrym, that such a station would not well suit the fiery and independent elf warrior. And there was the matter of her betrayal by Sylora in Gauntlgrym.

Dahlia could easily enough have entered Luskan in disguise, of course. In fact, for her, just wearing ordinary clothing could be considered a substantial disguise. But if Dahlia had come to the city so brazenly, was it because she feared nothing Jarlaxle could throw against her?

Or was it because she wanted Jarlaxle to find her?

The drow nodded, trying to play out all the many possibilities, and reminding himself that two other important visitors would soon enough enter the city.

“Where’re ye goin’?” Athrogate asked as Jarlaxle started for the door.

“To speak with Valas Hune’s contacts. And for yourself, the Cutlass. Send my love to Shivanni Gardpeck. Let her know of potential visitors.”

“Which?” Athrogate asked. “The cultists or Drizzt and Bruenor?”

Jarlaxle paused, mulled over the dwarf’s words, and replied, “Yes.”

“There are many people here,” said Devand, the commander of the Ashmadai squad that traveled to Luskan with Dahlia.

“It is a city.”

“I thought it would be more like Port Llast. Is Luskan not a pirate outpost?”

“Luskan is far more than that,” Dahlia replied. “At least it used to be.”

And indeed the city was noticeably diminished since last she’d been there. The streets were filthy, and vacant houses, some partially burned, seemed to be squeezing out the habitable dwellings. More shops were closed than open, and more than one pair of cold, ill-intentioned eyes tracked them from the shadows of alleys and vacant lots.

Dahlia turned her attention back to the cultists. “A drow and a dwarf,” she said. “We seek a drow and a dwarf. There are few dark elves in Luskan, certainly, and rest assured that any you find will know of the one we seek. Divide into small groups-three or four in each-and go out to the taverns and inns. There are many in Luskan, or there were, and those that remain should be easily found. Watch and listen. We will have a better understanding of the city in short order.

“And you,” she said, aiming the remark directly at Devand, “gather your three best warriors. We will venture to the undercity, the place Valindra once called home. There lie the tendrils of the fallen Hosttower of the Arcane that first guided me to Gauntlgrym and the primordial, and there, too, lie the tunnels that will take us back to that place, should we need to give chase to our enemies.”

“We should have brought Valindra,” Devand remarked, but Dahlia shook her head.

“Sylora refused that request,” she said. “And I’m glad she did. The lich is not yet controllable, or even predictable.”

Devand gave a slight bow, lowering his eyes appropriately and letting the conversation go at that.

The Ashmadai leader chose their companions well and the skilled fighters didn’t slow Dahlia as she eagerly descended through Illusk and back to the bowels of Luskan. The Ashmadai scepters also contained a bit of magic in them that allowed them to glow like a low torch, and Devand’s was even more powerfully enchanted, illuminating as fully as a powerful lantern. Between that and their brooches, they found little trouble with the numerous ghouls and other undead things of that haunted land. They came upon the former chambers of Valindra in short order.

The place was exactly as Dahlia remembered, though more dusty. Otherwise, everything was the same: the furniture and old tomes, the various twisted and decorated candelabra…

Everything except that the other skull gem, Arklem Greeth’s phylactery, was gone.

Dahlia mused over that for a bit, wondering if it was a sign that the powerful lich had at last escaped his imprisonment. Or perhaps Jarlaxle had departed the city, taking Greeth’s prison with him. He wouldn’t leave a treasure like that behind, after all.

The elf did well to hide her disappointed sigh. She’d desperately hoped that Jarlaxle was still in Luskan.

“The tendrils!” she heard Devand call from outside the chamber, and she moved out to find him and the other Ashmadai inspecting the ceilings, following the green roots of the fallen Hosttower.

“The tendrils!” Devand announced again when she arrived, and she nodded.

“Down there,” she said, pointing to a tunnel that ran off to the southeast. “That is the route to Gauntlgrym. You two,” she said, pointing alternately to Devand and one other, “follow that trail and see if it remains open.”

“How far?” Devand asked.

“As far as you can. You remember the way back to the city?”

“Of course.”

“Then go. As far as you may, for the rest of the day and night. Search for signs of recent passage all along the way-a discarded waterskin or the soot of a torch, footprints… anything.”

With a bow, the pair rushed off.

Dahlia and the others returned to Luskan and the appointed rendezvous with the rest of the team, a shabby inn in the south end of the city, not far from Illusk. The smaller groups returned one by one, reporting on the progress of identifying the various inns and taverns scattered about the city. They were learning the ground, as ordered, but none reported any sign of dark elves as yet.

Dahlia took the news stoically, assuring them all that it was just a beginning, and a solid foundation for their designs. “Learn the city,” she bade them, “its ways and its denizens. Enlist the trust of some locals. You have coin. Let it flow freely to purchase drinks in exchange for information.”

Again, the elf secretly prayed that Jarlaxle had not left Luskan.

She was a bit less composed when Devand returned before the next dawn with news that the way to Gauntlgrym was no more.

“The tunnels have collapsed and are impassable,” he assured her.

“Take half the team with you after you’ve rested,” Dahlia commanded. “Search every tunnel to its end.”

“It’s a maze down there,” Devand protested, “and it’s filled with ghouls.”

“Every tunnel,” Dahlia reiterated, her tone leaving no room for debate. “This was the way to Gauntlgrym. If it is sealed from Luskan, then we can return to Sylora with our assurances that, from here at least, none will inhibit the awakening.”

Devand argued no more and departed to get some rest, leaving Dahlia alone in her small room at the inn. She paced about, moving to the one dirty window, and peered out over the City of Sails.

“Where are you, Jarlaxle?” she whispered.