Charon's Claw
Page 28

Tiago followed soon after, motioning for Gol’fanin to follow, and casting a stern and threatening glance Ravel’s way as he went.
“Cursed Baenres,” Saribel muttered with open contempt when he was out of the primordial chamber.
In his thoughts, Ravel Xorlarrin felt the floor shift under his feet just a little bit more.
They found the second room soon after, as Brack’thal had predicted, beneath a secret panel in the flooring of one of the forges in the line. This particular forge was not a forge at all, but a clever disguise to hide the sub-chamber.
It didn’t take the skilled blacksmith, Gol’fanin, long to decipher the multitude of levers, cranks, and wheels in the steamy room. Each group of three led to one of the forges in the long line, and a combination of throwing a lever switch and turning the crank and wheel would determine how much of the primordial’s heat and sheer energy would be allowed into the respective forge. A double set of larger controls across from the others was obviously for the main forge.
“Fire up the minor ovens first,” Gol’fanin advised Ravel, who joined him, Jearth and Tiago in the lower chamber. “One at a time and slowly. That will reveal to us how contained the primordial beast truly might be.”
Ravel looked to Jearth first, his grin telling, and Jearth, after a brief shake of his head, could only return the look.
“No,” the spellspinner said. “The main forge will be the first fired.”
“We do not know if the chimney to that forge and through that forge is intact,” Gol’fanin argued. “It would be best to allow any escape of primordial power through a narrower chamber, would it not?”
“In the short term, perhaps,” said Ravel. “But I prefer to gain an advantage where I find it.”
“And if a substantial portion of primordial energy is released to wreak havoc?” Tiago asked.
“We blame Brack’thal,” Ravel replied without hesitation.
“He takes the blame, but you take the credit,” Tiago remarked.
“As it should be,” said Ravel, and he started for the metal ladder leading back to the forge room. He paused before the first rung, though, and turned back on the others. “Not a word of this,” he said.
“I like you more than I like Berellip, though that bar is, admittedly, low,” Tiago replied.
“And I need the main forge,” Gol’fanin added.
They all assembled in the forge room soon after, more than a hundred dark elves and even a few of the driders.
Ravel nodded to Gol’fanin, having decided to let the blacksmith have the honors, though few knew the true identity of Tiago’s “servant.” The older drow stooped low, entered the oven of the false forge, and climbed down the ladder.
Moments later, the forge room reverberated with a series of bangs and even small explosions, and the sound of heavy stones sliding across each other.
A gasp beside Ravel turned his gaze to the main forge, and the sudden glow that shined deep in its thick recesses. The spellspinner licked his lips and moved closer as the flames within began to mount. He bent low, but stood up straight in surprise when he noted several small, impish creatures of pure fire begin dancing within the forge.
And several became a score, and a score became a thousand, and all the room gasped loudly as the light and warmth poured forth, many drow shielding their sensitive eyes. And it was more than the light and the strength of the flames that had brought the response, for Ravel felt it clearly: There was magical energy in there. It wasn’t just a fire that needed no fuel, wasn’t just a hotter fire that could better melt all alloys. No, this fire was different. This fire was truly alive, magically alive, with a thousand elementals ready to lend their magical energies to any implements created within.
Returned from the sub-chamber, Tiago Baenre came up beside the mesmerized spellspinner, Gol’fanin close behind.
“Is it what you expected?” Ravel managed to ask Gol’fanin.
“Beyond,” the old blacksmith breathed.
“My weapons will be the envy of Menzoberranzan,” Tiago remarked, and Ravel glanced at him, then at Gol’fanin, whose awe-stricken expression showed that he did not disagree with that statement.
Ravel instinctively glanced across the way, to Jearth, and wondered what price he might have to pay for his bargain with Tiago.
“This is working as designed,” Gol’fanin said, drawing him back. “Quite ingenious and perfect in its simplicity. The primordial hungers to be free, and so it embraces these channels, these little specks of freedom. It gives a bit of its life to those pieces that escape to the forge oven, and look how they dance!”
“And the lines are holding?” Ravel asked.
Gol’fanin gave a noncommittal shrug. “The valves are open, though not fully. If the primordial could break free, it would do so—would likely have already done so.”
“And the other forges,” Ravel prompted. “We must fire them.”
“One at a time until we are certain of their integrity,” the blacksmith advised.
“See to it,” Ravel answered. He waved Jearth over to join them. Brack’thal came, too, which Ravel did not question. Indeed, at that time and with what was before them, perhaps even his idiot brother might prove of some worth.
“Explain to them what they might need do if any of the forges fail,” Ravel instructed Tiago, though both knew he was really addressing Gol’fanin, who seemed to understand what was going on better than anyone.
Most of the drow and all of the driders were dismissed then, back to their work in the other halls, exploring, flushing out ghosts and other unwanted creatures, and fortifying the defenses, and throughout the rest of that long day, the forges of Gauntlgrym flickered to life, one after another. Only one of the two-score in the room had any problems initially, and a host of tiny elementals found their way into the room and caused quite a commotion, spitting stinging fireballs at any who ventured near and lighting lines of flame with sudden bursts as they ran this way and that.
But the drow wizards controlled it quickly, and particularly effective was Brack’thal, once a master of elemental summoning and control. While Tiago and Jearth and their charges destroyed the nasty little creatures, Brack’thal brought them to himself, and controlled them, and willed them to merge, and by the time Ravel, Berellip, and Saribel came back into the forge room, their planning session interrupted by shouts of the commotion echoing down the halls, Brack’thal had quite a formidable fire elemental standing beside him.
As expected, the stares of the two Xorlarrin spellspinners locked, and it occurred to Ravel that Brack’thal had gained a significant upper hand over him in that moment, just in that one moment. He pried his gaze away and noted particularly the wry grin on Berellip’s face, and knew that she agreed with that assessment, and seemed a bit too pleased with it for Ravel’s liking.
“Destroy it,” Ravel ordered his brother.
Brack’thal looked back at him skeptically.
“Put it in the main forge, then!” Ravel demanded.
“Yes, the main forge,” Brack’thal answered, and he turned to regard it. “I wonder what pets I might pull from there.”
“Brother,” Berellip warned.
Brack’thal turned back at the sound of Berellip’s voice. “It is an intriguing thought, you must admit,” he said, and he started to wave away his pet elemental, which stood as tall and twice as wide as he.
But he stopped short. “No,” he said, looking back to Ravel. “I think I will keep this one for now. It will be of great service in my duties in the outer halls.”
“Your duties are here now,” Ravel replied. “We have many more forges yet to light.”
“Then perhaps when I am done, I will have an even larger escort to the outer halls,” Brack’thal said slyly, and he walked off toward the as yet unlit forges. “Do tell your lackey to continue, young Baenre,” he said. “All is under control.”
Ravel’s eyes narrowed and he began whispering, as if in spellcasting, as if he meant to punish his obstinate brother then and there.
But a look from Berellip dispelled that foolish notion.
She wasn’t any more comfortable with Brack’thal playing with fire than Ravel was, the spellspinner understood, but he recognized, too, that Berellip was truly enjoying his discomfort.
With a wicked little laugh, Berellip signaled Saribel and Ravel back to their private meeting.
Ravel was the last of the three out of the room. He paused at the door to regard Brack’thal, to regard Brack’thal’s elemental. This day had been the pinnacle of his achievement to date, even greater than the initial discovery of Gauntlgrym. The promise of those forges, he knew, would stand as the cornerstone of House Xorlarrin’s plans, for they needed more than an empty dwarven complex if they truly wished to break free of the stifling ruling Houses of Menzoberranzan. They needed the magic of Gauntlgrym, the promise of magnificent arms and armor and implements. They needed Tiago to return to Menzoberranzan armed with swords that would make every drow warrior drool with envy.
But they were playing with fire, and so this day had also been the scariest of the journey thus far.
Much as he had done when the main forge had fired, Ravel licked his lips and went to his sister’s command.
Chapter 10: The Walk of Barrabus
He is down there,” the imp told Arunika.
“You’re certain?”
The petulant little creature gave a great harrumph and crossed its deceptively skinny arms over its scrawny chest, its barbed tail whipping back and forth behind it like a cat waiting for a cornered mouse to emerge from under a bureau.
“I know him,” the imp answered. “I smell him.”
“Drizzt Do’Urden?”
“In the sewers, moving to the bridge. Hunting Alegni, as I was hunting him, and where else, where else?”
“With his two companions?”
“The two the warlock hates, yes.”
“And have you told Effron that Dahlia and Barrabus have returned to Neverwinter, my dear little untrusted slave?” The succubus saw a look of curiosity on the little one’s face then that comforted her greatly. Effron had compromised Invidoo, she knew for certain—the wretched little fellow had even admitted it to her. But this was not Invidoo, after all, despite the remarkable physical similarities.
“I speak to you,” the imp said at length. “To you only in this world. I would be gone soon—poof! Now, I be gone, if you will let me.”
“Not yet, but perhaps indeed soon, my little pet,” Arunika promised. Her thoughts were spinning then. The trio had come for Alegni, as expected, and quite cleverly and efficiently, it would seem. And if they were heading for the bridge, they would probably find the tiefling warlord. He went there every morning, after all, and the sun was beginning to rise. Dare she hope that they would, perhaps, kill him?
Then what? She, they, had to be quick.
“Hide,” she instructed her minion. “Do not leave this room. I will return presently.” With that, Arunika grabbed her night coat and rushed out of her small cabin. She didn’t even worry about her disguise, spreading her devil wings and flying away with all speed, only folding them and taking her human disguise when she landed before the side doorway to the room of Brother Anthus’s in the large temple.