“You have a great tale to tell!” Penelope argued. “Of Harkle and Bidderdoo and Mithral Hall and Delly Curtie. I wish to hear—”
“A tale for another day,” Catti-brie interrupted. “And that is my promise. I shall return to Longsaddle one day and repay all of your generosity with tales that will make you smile. I know that is meager payment for the training you have offered.”
“It was an arrangement of mutual benefit,” Dowell said. “Your unique skills with the old ways served us as well as we served you.”
“It is generous of you to say so,” said Catti-brie. “Then I am free to leave?”
“Of course,” said Penelope. “Ever so, though we would prefer that you remain.”
“I will return,” Catti-brie said, looking her in the eye, meaning every word. “But may I indulge one more favor?” She looked to Kipper, the most skilled of the bunch. “Magical transport?”
The old man raised a bushy eyebrow.
“And secrecy,” Catti-brie added. “I will tell you alone my destination, and you will divulge it to no one, not even your Harpell colleagues, on your word.”
“And we do not even know your name,” Penelope remarked.
Catti-brie turned to her and shrugged, then wrapped her in a warm hug.
After gathering up items for the road and doing a bit of research on the current geography of the region west of Longsaddle, Catti-brie settled on a location that seemed as if it would prove hospitable enough, and within reach of her ultimate goal. She would not bid Kipper to put her down in Icewind Dale, for she did not want him or anyone else to know her final destination.
She stepped out of the old mage’s portal onto a mountain pass overlooking a small town nestled in the westernmost reaches of the Spine of the World, a town called Auckney, that traced its line of lords back to days before the Spellplague, and so in the line of Meralda and Colson, the little girl Wulfgar had taken in as his own child for a short period of time, in days long past.
CHAPTER 25
FIDELITY
The Year of the Tasked Weasel (1483 DR) Gauntlgrym
WITH ALL THE STUBBORNNESS OF A DWARF, BRUENOR IGNORED THE reaching monsters and fought against the press of the boot, driving himself with every ounce of his strength toward the many-notched axe. If he could just get his hand around it …
But he could not, and he let out a little grunt as the boot crushed down harder, pressing him with supernatural strength, grinding his arm into the stone. Clawed hands tore at his clothing and skin, and the otherworldly shrieks of hungry undead dark elves echoed off the cavern walls.
“Get ye back!” Bruenor heard, and the gruff voice and accent gave him pause. The hands stopped clawing at him then, but the boot held him fast. He managed to turn enough to get a glimpse of his captor, and he gasped in shock and was too numb from that shock to resist as a thick hand reached down and grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him roughly, and so very easily, to his feet.
“Ye’re breathin’ still only because ye’re a dwarf, thief, but know that ye’re not long to be breathin’!” the vampire, an undead dwarf in ridged armor, said. “I’m wantin’ ye to know the grave ye’re robbing afore I break yer neck.”
“The cairn of King Bruenor,” Bruenor breathed, and he added, his voice thin from absolute shock, “Pwent.”
The vampire gave him a quick shake, so roughly that it rattled his bones. “What’d ye call me?”
“Pwent … oh, me Pwent, what’ve ye become then?”
The vampire dwarf, Thibbledorf Pwent, stared hard at this young dwarf, looking him up and down, then settling on his eyes. They locked gazes and stared silently through many heartbeats—heartbeats from Bruenor, and not from the dead battlerager.
“Me king?” Thibbledorf Pwent asked. He let go of Bruenor’s collar then, his hand visibly trembling as he retracted it. “Me king?”
All around, the drow vampires hissed and shuffled uneasily, clearly wanting to leap back in at the living dwarf and tear him apart.
“Bah! Get ye gone!” Pwent demanded, shouting at them and waving his arm menacingly. The group retreated into the darkness, falling back, hissing in protest, and soon falling on Bruenor’s three companions to feast on their still-warm blood.
“What are ye doing?” Bruenor asked incredulously, looking around in obvious horror. “Pwent, what—?”
“Ye died pulling the lever,” Pwent replied, and there seemed to Bruenor to be a bit of resentment in his tone. “Meself did’no. Aye, but that damned vampire friend o’ Dahlia’s got me on the neck and put his curse into me.”
“A vampire,” Bruenor muttered, trying to piece it all together, trying to make some sense of this craziness. Pwent was a vampire haunting the halls of Gauntlgrym, and with a drow troupe in support? “Pwent,” he said with sympathy and concern and clear confusion, “what are ye doing?”
“A pack of damned drow took home in this place,” the battlerager answered. His face turned into a fierce scowl and he issued a feral snarl, and Bruenor feared for a moment that Pwent would fall over him in murderous rage—and Bruenor knew in his heart that such fear was not unfounded. Thibbledorf Pwent was on the edge; the struggle showed clearly in his dead eyes.
“I’m holdin’ ’em. I’m fightin’ ’em!” Pwent said. “Aye, but that’s all I got left, me king. All that’s left o’ Pwent. And suren that it’s a sweet taste when I get me fangs in their skinny necks, don’t ye doubt. Aye, but that’s the joy, me king!”
As he said it, he advanced a step and flashed his elongated canines, and for a moment, Bruenor again expected him to leap for his king’s throat!
But Pwent pulled back, obviously with great effort.
“I’m yer king,” Bruenor stated. “I’m yer friend. E’er been yer friend, and yerself me own.”
The vampire managed a nod. “If ye was me friend, ye’d kill me,” he said. “Ah, but ye cannot, and I’m not about to let ye.” He glanced down at the cairn and kicked at it, and with his great strength sent a pile of large stones bouncing away.
Bruenor looked upon his own corpse, upon his many-notched axe, surviving the decades intact as if nary a day had passed. He noted his old armor, fit for a king, and a buckler set with the foaming mug of Clan Battlehammer, a shield that had turned the blows of a thousand enemies. He stared at the skull, at his skull, grayish white with flecks of discolored dried skin, and so shocking was the realization that he was looking at his own rotting head that it took Bruenor a long while to realize that his one-horned helm was missing. He tried to remember where he had lost it. Had it fallen into the primordial pit when he and Pwent had dragged themselves across the chasm, perhaps?
It didn’t matter, he tried to tell himself.
“Tried to kill meself,” Pwent went on, clearly oblivious to Bruenor’s inner turmoil. “Thought I could, ah, but when the sunlight came into that cave and burned at me … I runned off. Runned down here into the dark. Runned into the madness, I did, but meself’s not surrendering, me king. I be fightin’!”
Bruenor eased his trusty old weapon from the skeletal grip.
“But me king?” Pwent asked suddenly, and from the tone, Bruenor understood what was coming next.
“H-how?” Pwent stuttered. “Ye can’t be!”
Bruenor turned to regard his old friend. “Ah, but I be, and that’s the durned part of it. I got a tale to tell, me old friend, but it’s one that’s as dark as yer own, I’m fearin’.” As he finished, he looked at the throne of Gauntlgrym, the conduit to divine power that had so forcefully rejected him. He had come here all full of hope, and with renewed faith in Moradin, and admiration in the dwarf god’s clever ruse to use Mielikki.
But now, after the rejection, Bruenor didn’t know what to think.
“Help me get me armor and me shield,” Bruenor said.
Thibbledorf Pwent looked at him skeptically.
“It’s meself, ye dolt, and I don’t think I’ve seen such a look from ye since Nanfoodle poisoned me so’s I could get meself out o’ Mithr
al Hall.”
Pwent blinked in shock, sorting out the words. “Me king,” he said, nodding, and he moved to help Bruenor with the corpse.
As he donned his old outfit, Bruenor told Pwent the tale of Iruladoon, of the promise to Mielikki and the assigned rendezvous atop Kelvin’s Cairn. It occurred to him that the vampire wasn’t interjecting much, as he would have expected from Thibbledorf Pwent, who always had an opinion to share, but it wasn’t until he looked closely at his old friend that he understood the truth of it: Pwent wasn’t even really listening. Indeed, the way in which Pwent regarded Bruenor at that moment warned Bruenor that the vampire was struggling even then against the urges of his affliction. Bruenor could see that Pwent was thirsty for blood, any blood, even Bruenor’s blood.
“So now ye’re here killin’ drow, eh?” Bruenor said sharply to distract him.
“Aye, but not much killin’ now that them below’re knowin’ o’ me,” Pwent replied. “Got me a few, as ye seen, and a few more killed to death, but most o’ me time’s in th’upper halls now and not near the Forge and them damned drow elfs.”
“The Forge?”
“Aye, they be usin’ it.”
Bruenor winced at the thought of the Forge of Gauntlgrym, among the most hallowed workshops in his Delzoun heritage, in the hands of dark elves.
“Ye should be going,” Pwent said, and he seemed to be struggling with every word. “I failed ye, me king, don’t ye make me fail ye more.”
“But ye still guard this room,” Bruenor replied, and he moved closer and put a hand on his friend’s sturdy shoulder. “Even as ye are, ye guard this room, me grave and the throne.”
“It’s all I got,” Pwent answered, his voice thin. “Last thread holding …” His voice trailed away.
Bruenor patted him and nodded, understanding. “Me loyal Pwent,” he reassured the dwarf. “To the end, ye hold true.”
Pwent started to shake his head.
“All any dwarf’s got,” said Bruenor. “Loyalty. All honor’s in loyalty, to yer word and to yer friends. Ain’t nothing more to give and ain’t nothing more asked of us.”
As he heard those last words escape his lips, Bruenor glanced over at the throne and considered his rejection. “Drizzt,” he said, more to himself than to Pwent.
“Aye, seen him in me early days of affliction,” Pwent answered unexpectedly, and Bruenor turned back to regard him. “Was him that left me in the cave with the risin’ sun, but he thought better o’ me than me was.” He shook his hairy head and looked down at the floor dejectedly.
Bruenor tried to sort it out, but other thoughts pressed in on him. “He’d’ve been a good dwarf, eh? That Drizzt.”
“Too skinny,” Pwent replied. “But aye, in heart. Ain’t none more loyal to ye except meself.”
“Loyalty unrepaid,” Bruenor muttered under his breath, suddenly feeling quite ashamed. He looked back at the throne. “A good friend,” he added more loudly.
“Aye, but if he was, then he’d’ve killed me to death in that cave,” Pwent said, his inflection suddenly strong once more. “Ye can’t be trustin’ the heart of a vampire.”
The words hit Bruenor hard, and as he sorted them out, he understood completely. He spun around, axe at the ready.
But Thibbledorf Pwent was nowhere to be seen.
Bruenor hopped all around. “Pwent!” he called. “Ye huntin’ me, dwarf? Pwent!”
No answer.
Bruenor banged his axe against his shield. “Pwent?”
He heard something over by the throne and leaped around just in time to see a dwarf-sized fog floating away from it, then seeping into the cracks in the floor. Bruenor ran to the spot, but Pwent was not to be found. He looked at the throne, the seat of it now in view, and there upon it sat his one-horned helm.
“Ah, Pwent, me Pwent,” Bruenor whispered, a tear in his eye. He rested his axe against the front of the throne and reached for the helm, the only crown he ever wore, with trembling hands.
“Loyal Pwent,” he whispered, thinking that even under the affliction, the curse of vampirism, Thibbledorf Pwent had shamed him about what a dwarf was supposed to be.
Fidelity.
And then Bruenor understood, more clearly than he had since the day he had walked out of Iruladoon. All thoughts of Moradin tricking Mielikki flew from him. He, Bruenor, had given his oath in exchange for rebirth, and that oath to go to the aid of as loyal a friend as he had ever known. Drizzt Do’Urden had fought for Mithral Hall, for Bruenor, as fiercely as any.
“The Companions o’ the Hall,” he said. “What I fool I been.”
He put the helm upon his head, took up his axe, and with a determined growl, leaped up to sit again on the throne of Gauntlgrym.
“The wisdom o’ Moradin,” he recited. “The secrets o’ Dumathoin. The strength o’ Clangeddin. And all for them dwarves that’s loyal. Ain’t nothing more for a dwarf than honor. Me word and me heart. Fidelity!”
He sat back and closed his eyes, and felt his wounds beginning to heal.
He thought of Catti-brie and Regis, and of course, of Drizzt. He thought of his boy, Wulfgar, and wished him unending peace in the Halls of Tempus. He considered poor Pwent and knew he must return here to put his friend to rest.
But not alone.
The Companions of the Hall would grant peace to Thibbledorf Pwent. Aye, and then they’d go east to Mithral Hall, and fight the war that needed fighting.
Aye.
“He thinks himself the only master,” came a voice, pulling Bruenor from his thoughts. He sat up and noted three forms approaching. Dark elves and vampires, he knew at once, for two walked stiffly. The third, though, in the middle, seemed more at ease, more natural, and Bruenor wondered for a moment if this one was still alive.
“Your dwarf friend, the master vampire,” that drow said in a halting command of the common tongue, his words uneven and stilted so that it took Bruenor a few moments to even decipher. “He thinks us his mere minions, but perhaps that is not true of all of us.”
Bruenor didn’t even have to fully decipher that claim to understand this one’s murderous intent.
Put me at ’em, he imparted to the throne, bracing himself, and much like before, but this time beneficially, the throne of Gauntlgrym expelled him forcefully, launching him through the air, flying and crying out with full throat and full heart, “Moradin!”
He crashed down into the two lesser vampires, sending them sprawling aside, and landed in full balance, using his momentum to heighten his swing. The drow vampire tried to scream out a protest, but before a single word left its mouth, its head left its shoulders, severed cleanly and spinning away into the darkness.
Bruenor roared and spun to his left to meet the charge of one of the lesser creatures. The strength of Clangeddin flowed through his arms—he could feel the gods within him, approving—as he brought his axe swinging mightily across.
The undead drow fell in half.
Around Bruenor went, to see the third of the group fleeing, leaping into the air to transform once more into a bat.
“No ye don’t!” he screamed and let fly, his axe spinning end over end, the missile flying true.
The vampire crashed to the floor, and when Bruenor arrived, he found it quite destroyed, caught halfway between drow form and that of the bat, one-armed, one-winged, its head a grotesque twist of bone.
The dwarf reached down, grabbed his axe handle, and ripped it free.
“Fidelity!” he yelled into the darkness. “Hold strong, me Pwent! I’ll be findin’ ye, don’t ye doubt, and I’ll be puttin’ ye in Dwarfhome where ye belong!”
But not then, he knew. The season was late already and the pass into Icewind Dale, at least a tenday’s journey north, would soon close. If he didn’t beat the first snows, he would not get to Ten-Towns for many months, and likely not in time to fulfill his oath.
He grabbed a torch from his pack and lit it off the low-burning one lying beside the ravaged corpse of Vestra. He said a quick
prayer to his fallen companions, all three, but he couldn’t pause to build them cairns and they didn’t deserve it anyway. The prayer was generous enough.
And off he went, in his one-horned helm and foaming mug shield, his many-notched axe over his shoulder, with the wisdom of Moradin, the secrets of Dumathoin, and the strength of Clangeddin flowing through him.
King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall.
But more importantly, he now understood, friend Bruenor Battlehammer of the Companions of the Hall.
CHAPTER 26
FANCY SPIDER
The Year of the Tasked Weasel (1483 DR) Luskan
THE SMALL FIGURE IN THE GRAY TRAVELING CLOAK LEANED LOW AGAINST the rain as he slowly walked his dark bay pony toward the distant gates of the City of Sails. Spider hadn’t looked back over the miles of road since he had split with the Grinning Ponies, with Doregardo taking the band back to their usual haunts in the south. His road lay before him now, he continually reminded himself, resisting the urge to turn around and ride hard to catch up with his fellow riders.
So much had he left behind him in the years of this young second life … friends, including a very special one in Delthuntle, friends along the Trade Way … He would see them all again, he vowed. But now his road lay before him, not behind.
“Speak your name and your business!” a guard called down from a squat tower beside Luskan’s closed southern gate.
The halfling looked up and pulled the hood of his cloak back, revealing his blue beret, which he wore slightly off kilter to the left and now fastened flat in the front with a golden button shaped like a running pony. His curly brown hair, wet with drizzle, hung to his shoulders and he had grown a thin mustache and a goatee that was little more than a line of hair from his bottom lip to the middle of his chin, so similar to the one his mentor, Pericolo Topolino, had worn.
“Spider Topolino,” he replied without hesitation, without even the urge to call himself Regis, a name he had long abandoned, “who rode with Doregardo and the Grinning Ponies.”
The Companions: The Sundering, Book I Page 37
