Even now, her hold on life seemed tenuous indeed, her breathing shallow and raspy, her only sounds profound groans that came without conscious thought.
Bruenor pulled a chair in from the hallway outside the room, placing it right beside the chair holding Mallabritches, the two of them close enough to Tannabritches as she lay on the small bed to hear her labored breathing and the quiet, pained sounds.
“Not wantin’ to lose her,” Mallabritches said quietly past the obvious lump in her throat. “All me life, been me and her, Fist’n’Fury. Not wantin’ one without th’ other.”
“Aye, girl, but she can’t be leaving,” Bruenor said, and he snorted as he did, his emotions pouring forth. He couldn’t stand seeing Tannabritches like this. His head and heart careened back to Citadel Felbarr, to the early days of his second life when he had trained beside the wild Fellhammer duo, when he had served beside them, when he had fought beside them—beside Tannabritches in particular, in one wild battle in the Rauvin Mountains.
Tannabritches had been badly wounded in that fight, too, struck in the chest by an orc spear. All she had thought about as she fell was the safety of the others, of Bruenor, whom she knew as her friend Little Arr Arr. She had told him to get the others and run away, to leave her to her grim fate.
“Bah, but I didn’t save ye then to watch ye die now, girl,” Bruenor growled in a harsh whisper. “Ye don’t be leavin’ me, ye hear?”
Mallabritches took his hand and squeezed it tightly.
He looked up at her, meeting her gaze, and tears streamed from his eyes.
Mallabritches shook her head, overwhelmed.
“I can’t be lettin’ her go,” Bruenor gasped, and surely he was overwhelmed then, with Tannabritches lying here and Drizzt in the room next door. He was as surprised by his reaction as was Mallabritches, for the depth of his pain cut straight to his heart. He really could not stand the thought of losing Tannabritches now!
When Emerus had given over the Fellhammer sisters to serve as part of Bruenor’s elite guard, the red-bearded dwarf’s heart had leaped—more than he had truly understood. But now, seeing Tannabritches lying there, so pale and near to death, he did understand, and surely his heart broke as he came to believe that she was slipping away from him forever.
“Ye got yer Gutbusters,” Mallabritches said, but in a leading way that told Bruenor she was fishing deeper. “King Bruenor’s to be surrounded by fighters, eh?”
“Not about that!” Bruenor snapped. He sucked in his breath to steady himself, shook his head ferociously, and leaned forward, staring at the wounded lass, silently imploring her to live. “Not about fightin’,” he said. “About needin’ her aside me when the fightin’s done.”
“When ye take the throne, ye mean?”
The shock of Mallabritches’ words jolted Bruenor upright, and he turned to regard her curiously.
“It’ll be yerself,” she said. “Aye, but ye’re the proper choice, I’m sayin’. The great Emerus is so old, and even if ye gived him the throne, he’d not hold it for long. We’ll be rid o’ the damned drow, don’t ye doubt, and Bruenor’ll be King o’ Gauntlgrym one day not far along.”
Bruenor didn’t respond, but neither did he blink.
“Ye’re thinkin’ her yer queen, ain’t ye?” the Fellhammer girl asked.
Again, her words shocked Bruenor, for he hadn’t carried his thoughts and his pain that far along. His initial reaction was to shake his head in denial. The whole proposition sounded ridiculous to him. He was a long way from claiming Gauntlgrym’s throne, after all.
But as he considered Mallabritches’s question, which sounded more like an accusation, Bruenor’s biggest surprise was that he came to recognize that she wasn’t wrong. He stammered something undecipherable under his breath and his head swiveled back to consider the poor lass lying on the bed.
“Do ye love her, Arr Arr?” Mallabritches asked.
“Aye,” Bruenor said, surprised by his honest answer.
“And yer heart’s breaking in seein’ her in the bed like that, eh?”
“Aye,” he weakly answered.
Mallabritches grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him around, forcing him to look her in the eye once more. “And ye tell me true, me friend, what if it was meself in that bed, and me sister sittin’ here with ye? Where might Arr Arr … where might Bruenor Battlehammer be then, I’m askin’?”
Bruenor’s face started to twist up in confusion, but his answer came from a place of clarity when he said, “Same place.”
His gray eyes opened wide as the weight of his words sank in, as he came to realize that he had just professed his love to Mallabritches—and to her sister.
Mallabritches yanked him closer then, and put her arm around his shoulders, lifting her hand to press Bruenor’s head onto her own strong shoulder for support.
“Don’t ye be worried, me friend,” she whispered in his ear. “Fist ain’t leavin’ us. She just ain’t.”
“I DONE ALL I could,” Bungalow Thump pleaded to the two dwarf kings and the others gathered in the throne room.
Word of the disaster in the lower chambers had preceded him, but few details had come forth, other than the deaths of a hundred Battlehammer warriors … and the Twelfth King of Mithral Hall.
Bungalow Thump, himself wounded and battered, had come to the throne room to offer a full recounting to the leaders. Toliver Harpell stood behind him, head bowed respectfully, with Penelope and Kipper beside him.
Bungalow Thump didn’t leave out any details. He glanced back at Toliver Harpell and offered an apologetic shrug before he told of the failure of the Field of Feather Fall, as he described poor dwarves bouncing onto the stone floor, or onto the bodies of their fallen comrades.
The dwarf’s voice soared as he recounted the heroics of those trapped on the ground, and again, he didn’t exclude the Harpells, taking great pains to accurately describe Kenneally’s brilliant improvisation.
“Aye, but she saved the lot of us,” Bungalow Thump said. “And gived her own life in doin’ it!”
“Huzzah for Kenneally Harpell, then!” Ragged Dain offered, drawing a stern look from Bruenor—but one that didn’t hold, and indeed, Bruenor joined in the cheer for Kenneally.
“It seems as if it was more demon than drow opposin’ ye,” Emerus Warcrown offered at that break.
“More demons and hordes o’ goblins and orcs,” Bungalow Thump confirmed. “Saw a drow or two from the shadows and throwing spells, but none other.”
“Goblins and orcs,” Bruenor muttered, for surely he had seen his fill of the wretched orcs in recent months. “Slaves o’ the damned drow!” As he said that aloud, he realized that much of it was likely true for the War of the Silver Marches, as well. His thoughts careened to Lorgru, of the line of Obould, and those orcs who once more rallied around that name and their professed desire to live in peace.
Might the treaty of Garumn’s Gorge have held if not for the damned drow?
Bruenor shook the thought away.
“And them demons?” Oretheo Spikes offered. “Demons in the entry hall, demons in the mines! Durned Gauntlgrym’s more full o’ demons than dwarfs and drow together!”
“I ain’t seeing much difference between demons and drow, meself,” Emerus growled.
“Aye, to the Abyss with ’em all!” Ragged Dain added, and a great cheer went up all around the throne room, one rolling from bravado to a muted confusion, it seemed.
The starkly mixed results of the three battles fought this same day had them all off balance. They had won in the entry hall, slaughtering demons by the score. Every defense had held strong and every plan had been executed to near perfection, and the hero of that battle, Oretheo Spikes, deserved every cheer and honor offered to him.
And Connerad Brawnanvil, too, would garner much of the credit for that battle in the entry cavern, for the defenses of that hall were his doing, offered with insight he had gained on the Throne of the Dwarf Gods.
But they had
been defeated badly in the lower chamber, and it simply could not continue that each side could hold its own ground. For the drow had the Great Forge.
That could not stand!
As the cheering died away, Bruenor rose and approached the throne, nodding, but with his expression grave.
“Ropes, I say!” Emerus called. “Yerselves should’ve used the rappel to the cavern floor and not some wild magic!”
“You cannot lay the blame with …” Penelope Harpell started to protest, but Bungalow Thump held up his hand to silence her, and did it for her.
“Nay, King Emerus, and sure to know that I’m yer loyal servant here, pledged in fealty and acceptin’ o’ yer judgments,” he said. “But I can’no agree—nay, for the plan was a good one, and oh, but we were hitting the floor in full charge.”
“Until the magic fell away,” Emerus reminded.
“Aye, but we could no’ know the power o’ the enemies below us,” Bungalow Thump replied. “Ah, but they were thick with wizards and thick with demons. Big demons by the score. By rope or by Harpell magic, we’d’ve lost many of our boys today, and we’d’ve ne’er gained the lower hall.”
“Well said, Master Thump, and I’d not expect less o’ ye than that,” Bruenor replied before Emerus could—and with almost exactly the same words Emerus would have used.
All eyes went to Bruenor and many bushy eyebrows, Emerus’s included, lifted in surprise to see him sitting on the throne once more, hands solidly on the burnished arms of the great chair, eyes closed, and his whole body slowly swaying back and forth.
And nodding, as if he was in a conversation with some unknown beings—given the throne upon which he sat, he likely was.
“But now we’re knowin’,” Bruenor said at length, his gray eyes popping open. “Aye and they be thick in the lower tunnels, eh, and with hordes of demons and a swarm o’ goblinkin.”
He swept his gaze across the room, a sly smile creasing his fiery red beard. That stare settled on Emerus, who nodded his approval then swerved to lock stares with Bungalow Thump.
“And we got an army o’ dwarves with blood kin to avenge,” Bruenor explained. “So tell me, me boys, which corner’s getting yer bettin’ pouch?”
That brought the biggest cheer of all, of course, and Penelope Harpell put her hand on Bungalow Thump’s shoulder, squeezing tight. For Bruenor had just absolved the Harpells and the force Connerad had led below of any blame for the defeat, accepting Bungalow’s explanation without question.
And now Bruenor had sworn vengeance, and woe to those below.
“Huzzah and heigh-ho!” the cheering went on, all in the room joining in exuberantly—save two.
Bruenor just sat there on the throne, listening to the whispers of Moradin carried in on the song of dwarven cheering, and Catti-brie stood off to the side, staring at her adoptive father, recognizing that Bruenor had turned the corner on his grief and worry.
The woman had worried that Drizzt would not return to her, but so, too, had she worried that Bruenor would not—not in time, at least. But now that latter fear washed away. There was her Da, King Bruenor Battlehammer, his eyes full of fight.
There was no time for moping about, not with an army of drow and demons and goblinkin lying in wait below.
No, now was the time for preparation, and for vengeance.
Catti-brie saw it clearly on Bruenor’s face. He meant to avenge Connerad and the Gutbusters. He meant to make them pay for the injury to Tannabritches Fellhammer.
And he meant to make them all pay dearly for the wounds they had inflicted upon his dearest friend.
“Woe to the drow,” Catti-brie whispered under her breath, and she ended with a knowing smile and a nod.
For King Bruenor Battlehammer was coming for them.
“SEEN HIM LIKE this before,” Emerus whispered to Ragged Dain as they made their way along the upper tunnels of Gauntlgrym, part of a grand procession, four thousand of the dwarves geared for battle. “Ain’t good for his enemies,” the old king said with a snort and a nod.
Ragged Dain couldn’t disagree. Bruenor led the procession, Mallabritches Fellhammer at his side, Athrogate and Ambergris close behind. The solid stride of the red-bearded dwarf bespoke his determination. He was angry—outraged, even—with his dear friends lying gravely wounded. But Bruenor hadn’t let that outrage take him to a place of recklessness by any means—his method for vengeance was clear-sighted and truly inspired. He had devised the plan of attacking the lower levels in careful consultation with King Emerus, Bungalow Thump, Oretheo Spikes, Catti-brie, and the three Harpells.
He had devised the plan while sitting on the Throne of the Dwarf Gods.
King Bruenor was purely focused and determined to get his revenge and to claim his prize, but every dwarf marching behind him went with full confidence that Bruenor would lead the army onto the battlefield of his proper choosing, giving them the best chance of a great victory.
The army divided into battle groups as they neared the last corridor, the same corridor that led to the landing where the first battle of the lower levels had gone disastrously wrong. Among all the ranks, clerics ran, casting spells of protection from fire and from cold, spells to mitigate wounds, and spells to bless the ranks.
Bruenor and his battle group, made up mostly of the Mithral Hall dwarves, including the remaining Gutbusters, veered into a side corridor along with the three remaining Harpells and Catti-brie. All along the journey, the spellcasters remained busy creating small stones with enchantments of light. Now they went along the lines of Battlehammer dwarves, handing those light pellets out to every commander and with all the leftovers going to predetermined foot soldiers.
If all went as planned, this battle group would not begin the attack in the lower cavern, but would be the first to reach the floor of that battlefield chamber in any significant numbers.
Oretheo Spikes led the second group, the largest and most prominent force, fronted by the Wilddwarves of Citadel Adbar. They carried long lines of rope as they made for the main corridor and the landing, ready to rappel, six at a time, to the darkness below. Two thousand warriors and clerics formed this force, with more than a thousand ready to hit the floor below and the rest supporting the battle from the landing and the corridors above. If the drow or their demonic allies found a way to get up behind the dwarves in the lower chamber, they’d find nearly a thousand Adbarrim and Mirabarran warriors ready to show them the error of their ways.
King Emerus, Ragged Dain, and the third group held back. They would be the last to the fight, but perhaps the most important, and the most daring.
“There are a lot of them,” Kipper Harpell remarked to Bruenor and the others, looking at the mob of dwarves filling the side corridor and the antechambers that lined it. “How many will get through before the exit is dispelled, I wonder? Is this plan not simply going to trap you in the cavern as just happened with poor King Connerad?”
“Only way down,” Bruenor replied. “Our enemies are below and so we’re going below. We’re counting on yerself and th’ others to make sure it won’t happen.”
“But once you are on the floor—” Kipper started.
“No running from this fight,” Bruenor interrupted, and there was no debate to be found in his tone.
Kipper, with a glance at a shrugging Penelope, conceded the point. Kipper Harpell was the master of magical gates, dimensional doors, and the like, but Bruenor had several hundred dwarves with him, all trying to negotiate quickly through the tight quarters of this side corridor. Perhaps they should have done this part of the attack from the throne room after all, as had been suggested.
But no, despite his reservations and his very real fears that this fight would end up eerily similar to the one Kenneally and Tuckernuck’s magic had led, Kipper had to admit this tactic offered the best hope. He was close enough to the targeted area to use lesser spells to create his portal, and so he could quickly enact replacements if the initial one failed.
“Onc
e you’re down there, I won’t easily be able to get you out,” he reminded Bruenor.
“Once I’m down there, only ones who’ll be wantin’ me out’re the damned drow,” Bruenor replied without the slightest hesitation.
Kipper took his place at the end of the side corridor and rubbed his hands together, awaiting the signal. Similarly, Catti-brie and Penelope, both readying the same dimensional gate spell as the old Harpell, found appropriate locations nearby, where they could channel supporting lines of dwarves into the cavern.
Toliver Harpell, meanwhile, cast his own spell, and a disembodied wizard eye floated back out of the corridor and into the main passageway, flitting past the lines of Wilddwarves preparing their ropes and harnesses and out to the landing, where Oretheo Spikes and his best fighters stood ready.
The Adbarrim warrior nodded and grinned at the approach of Toliver’s enchanted orb. That wizard eye served as the “go” signal.
“For King Connerad, for Citadel Adbar, for the Silver Marches, for Gauntlgrym, for Delzoun!” Oretheo Spikes whispered, and so it began, with Oretheo and five others taking up their ropes and rolling off the landing, sliding down for the floor.
And six more dwarves went right behind them.
From the landing, the wizard eye went down alongside the dwarves, with Toliver noting the landmarks and locations. Kipper launched into his casting.
The first drow lightning bolt reached out to blast at the dwarves. The first demon howls echoed below as the lower level came awake to the threat.
Oretheo Spikes was the first dwarf to the floor, five others beside him, six more coming fast, and six more right behind them.
But on came the goblinkin and the demon hordes, ready for the expected battle, and surely expecting to overwhelm this puny force in short order.
Toliver called out to the others, “No surprise! Our enemies were waiting for us.”