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.
CHAPTER 16
Doum’wielle stood there, staring blankly, shocked and not understanding.
Now! Khazid’hea screamed in her thoughts, but the poor young elf was too surprised, stupefied even, to begin to move.
Her golden hair swept out behind her as a sudden wind appeared from out of nowhere. She heard a groan behind her and managed to turn just a bit, just enough to see Tiago, struggling to rise and holding his bleeding side.
Her eyes widened in horror as she looked past him to the wall, where a swirling vortex had appeared, like a black tornado spinning on its side, black smoke roiling and twisting ominously.
“Doum’wielle!” Tiago cried desperately, reaching out for her. She grabbed at his hand, but a blast of wind rose up and slammed Tiago away, sending him tumbling, lifting him right off the stone floor, bouncing and rolling.
The vortex ate him, swallowing him into darkness.
Doum’wielle didn’t know how to react. She couldn’t understand the directional nature of the wind, and the. . purposefulness of it! Was this roiling vortex some living creature? Had it inhaled Tiago? Panicked, she spun, leaning against the wind that continued to buffet her, determined to run away.
And then she saw him, terrible and powerful, standing opposite the sidelong tornado, with her between him and it. She knew this one to be the source of that incredible power, knew then that the tornado was no living thing, but was, rather, a tool for the Archmage of Menzoberranzan.
Now! a desperate Khazid’hea implored her. The sentient sword found its plans unraveling, saw the target of its wrath slipping away. Hardly thinking of the movement, Doum’wielle lifted the blade, and Gromph lifted his hand.
A sharp burst of wind tore the sword from her grasp and sent it bouncing back, to disappear into the vortex.
“I killed. .” Doum’wielle started to say, but her words became a shriek as a blast of wind as tangible as a giant’s punching fist hurled her backward. Instinctively she braced, or tried to, certain she was about to collide with the stone wall.
But she did not.
She fell, instead, speeding along a tunnel of dark clouds, rolling and tumbling over and over.
Jarlaxle sighed.
“He must be the center of all creation,” he said with great lament, he and Kimmuriel watching Gromph’s victorious walk across the room, to his own enhanced dimensional tunnel. The archmage paused only briefly to consider the splatter on the far wall, the boots hanging, waggling a bit in the continuing wind from his spell.
He, too, sighed, and no doubt at his brother, Jarlaxle knew. Gromph stretched out his arms, his great robes flapping in his own magical wind, catching him like a kite and sending him into the tunnel. Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel followed, the mercenary pausing only to scrape some goo onto his hand. Kimmuriel went in first, Jarlaxle close behind. Jarlaxle was still wiping that sticky goo from his fingers when he passed through the dimensional tunnel to exit into the audience chamber of House Do’Urden right beside Kimmuriel, where Archmage Gromph held court. Ravel Xorlarrin and his sister Saribel were there as well, along with Dahlia, who sat on the throne looking very much like a mannequin-or a corpse, perhaps. The image pained Jarlaxle greatly, but alas, what was a rogue to do?