They heard a growl, low and echoing, down the corridor.
'The torch,' Drizzt instructed, handing Regis a small tinderbox. 'Wait here with the light. Guenhwyvar and I will circle about.'
'Now I am bait?' the halfling asked.
Drizzt, his senses tuned outward for signs of danger, did not hear the question. One scimitar drawn, Twinkle and its telltale glow waiting poised in its sheath, he slipped silently ahead and disappeared into the gloom.
Regis, still grumbling, struck flint to steel and soon had the torch blazing. Drizzt was out of sight.
A growl spun the halfling about, mace at the ready, but it was only Guenhwyvar, ever alert, doubling back down a side passage. The panther padded past the halfling, following Drizzt's course, and Regis quickly shuffled behind, though he could not hope to keep pace with the beast.
He was alone again in seconds, his torch casting elongated, ominous shadows along the uneven walls. His back to the stone, Regis inched on, as quiet as death.
The black mouth of a side passage loomed just a few feel away. The halfling continued walking, holding the torch straight out behind him, his mace leading the way. He sensed a presence around that corner, something inching up to the edge at him from the other direction.
Regis carefully laid the torch on the stone and brought his mace in close to his chest, gently sliding his feet to perfectly balance his weight.
He went around the corner in a blinding rush, chopping with the mace. Something blue flashed to intercept; then came the ring of metal on metal. Regis instantly brought his weapon back and sent it whipping in sidelong, lower.
Again came the distinctive ring of a parry.
Out came the mace, and back in, deftly along the same course. The halfling's skilled adversary was not fooled though, and the blocking blade was still in place.
'Regis!'
The mace twirled above the halfling's head, ready to dart ahead, but Regis swung it down at arm's length instead, suddenly recognizing the voice.
'I told you to remain back there with the light,' Drizzt scolded him, stepping out of the shadow. 'You are fortunate I did not kill you.'
'Or that I did not kill you,' Regis replied without missing a beat, and his calm, cold tone made Drizzt's face contort with surprise. 'Have you found anything?' the halfling asked.
Drizzt shook his head. 'We are close,' he replied quietly 'Both Guenhwyvar and I are certain of that.'
Regis walked over and picked up his torch, then tucked his mace into his belt, within easy reach.
Guenhwyvar's sudden growl echoed at them from farther down the long corridor, launching them both into a run. 'Don't leave me behind!' Regis demanded, and he grabbed hold of Drizzt's cloak and would not let go, his furry feet skipping, jumping, even skidding along as he tried to keep pace.
Drizzt slowed when Guenhwyvar's yellow-green, glassy eyes reflected back at him from just beyond the leading edge of the torchlight, at a corner where the passageway turned sharply.
'I think we found the dwarves,' Regis muttered grimly. He handed Drizzt the torch and let go of the cloak, following the drow up to the bend.
Drizzt peeked around-Regis saw him wince-then brought the torch into the open, casting light on the dreadful scene.
They had indeed found the missing dwarves, sliced and slaughtered, some lying, some propped against the walls at irregular intervals along a short expanse of worked stone corridor.
'If ye're not for wearing the apron, then don't ye be wearing it!' Bruenor said in frustration. Catti-brie nodded, finally hearing the concession she had wanted from the beginning.
'But, me king,…' protested Cobble, the only other one in the private chamber with Bruenor and Catti-brie. Both he and Bruenor sported severe holy water headaches.
'Bah!' the dwarf king snorted to silence the good-intentioned cleric. 'Ye're not knowing me girl as well as meself. If she's saying she won't be wearing it, then all the giants o' the Spine of the World couldn't be changing her mind.'
'Bah yerself!' came an unexpected call from outside the room, followed by a tremendous knock. 'I know ye're in there, Bruenor Battlehammer, who calls himself king o' Mithril Hall! Now be opening yer door and meet your better!'
'Do we know that voice?' asked Cobble, he and Bruenor exchanging confused glances.
'Open it, says me!' came another cry, followed by a sharp rap. Wood splintered as a glove nail, a large spike set into the face of a specially constructed metal gauntlet, wedged itself through the thick door.
'Aw, sandstone,' came a quieter call.
Bruenor and Cobble looked to each other in disbelief. 'No,' they said in unison, wagging their heads back and forth.
'What is it?' Catti-brie asked, growing impatient.
'It cannot be,' Cobble replied, and it seemed to the young woman that he hoped with all his heart that his words were true.
A grunt signaled that the creature beyond the door had finally extracted his spike.
'What is it?' Catti-brie demanded of her father, her hands planted squarely on her hips.
The door burst open, and there stood the most curious-looking dwarf Catti-brie had ever seen. He wore a spiked steel gauntlet, open-fingered, on each hand, had similar spikes protruding from his elbows, knees, and the toes of his heavy boots, and wore armor (custom-fitted to his short, barrellike form) of parallel, horizontal metal ridges half an inch apart and ringing his body from neck to midhigh and his arms from shoulder to forearm. His gray helmet was open-faced, with thick leather straps disappearing under his monstrous black beard, and sported a gleaming spike atop it, nearly half again as tall as the four-foot-high dwarf.
'It,' Bruenor answered, his tone reflecting his obvious disdain, 'is a battlerager.'
'Not just 'a battlerager' the curious, black-bearded dwarf put in. 'The battlerager! The most wild battlerager!' He walked toward Catti-brie and smiled widely with his hand extended toward her. His armor, with every movement, issued grating, scraping noises that made the young woman's hair stand straight up on the back of her neck.
'Thibbledorf Pwent at yer service, me good lady!' the dwarf introduced himself grandly. 'First fighter o' Mithril Hall. Yerself must be this Catti-brie I've heared so much tell of back in Adbar. Bruenor's human daughter, so they telled me, though still I'm a bit shaken at seeing any Battle-hammer woman without a beard to tickle her toes!'
The smell of the creature nearly overwhelmed Catti-brie. Had he taken that armor off anytime this century? she had to wonder. 'I'll try to grow one,' she promised.
'See that ye do! See that ye do!' Thibbledorf hooted, and he hopped over to stand before Bruenor, the noise of his armor scraping at the marrow of Catti-brie's bones.
'Me king!' Thibbledorf bellowed. He fell to a bow-and nearly halved Bruenor's long, pointy nose with his helmet spike as he did.
'What in the Nine Hells is yerself doing here?' Bruenor demanded.
'Alive, anyway,' Cobble added, then he returned Bruenor's incredulous stare with a helpless shrug.
'It was me belief that ye fell when the dragon Shimmer-gloom took the lower halls,' Bruenor went on.
'His breath was death!' Thibbledorf shouted.
Look who's talking, Catti-brie thought, but she kept silent.
Pwent roared on, dramatically waving his arms about and turning a spin on the floor, his eyes staring at nothing in particular, as though he was recalling a scene from his distant past. 'Evil breath. A deep blackness that fell over me and stole the strength from me bones.
'But I got out and got away!' Thibbledorf cried suddenly, spinning at Catti-brie, one stubby finger pointing her way. 'Out a secret door in the lower tunnels. Even the likes o' that dragon couldn't stop the Pwent!'
'We held the halls for two more days afore Shimmer-gloom's minions drove us into Keeper's Dale,' Bruenor put in. 'I heared no words o' yer return to fight beside me father and his father, the then king o' Mithril Hall.'
'It was a week afore I got me strength back and got back around the mountain passes to the western door,' Pwent explained. 'By then the halls were lost.
