'Sometime later,' Pwent continued, parting his impossibly thick beard with one of his glove nails, 'I heared that a bunch of the younger folk, yerself included, had gone to the west. Some said ye were to work the mines o' Mirabar, but when I got there, I heared not a word.'
'Two hunnerd years!' Bruenor growled in Pwenfs face, stealing his seemingly perpetual smile. 'Ye had two hunnerd years to find us, but not once did we hear a word that ye was even alive.'
'I came back to the east,' Pwent explained easily. 'Been living-living well, doing mercenary work, mostly-in Sundabar and for King Harbromme of Citadel Adbar. It was back there, three weeks past-I'd been off to the south for some time, ye see-that I first heared o' yer return, that a Battlehammer had taken back the halls!
'So here I be, me king,' he said, dipping to one knee. 'Point me at yer enemies.' He gave Catti-brie a garish wink and poked a dirty, stubby finger toward the tip of his helmet spike.
'Most wild?' Bruenor asked, somewhat derisively.
'Always been,' Thibbledorf replied.
'I'll call ye an escort,' Bruenor said, 'so ye can get yerself a bath and a meal.'
'I'll take the meal,' Pwent replied. 'Keep yer bath and yer escort. I know me way around these old halls as well as yerself, Bruenor Battlehammer. Better, I say, since ye was but a stubble-chinned dwarfling when we was pushed out.' He put his hand out to pinch Bruenor's chin and had it promptly slapped away. His shrieking laughter like a hawk's cry, his armor squealing like talons on slate, the battlerager stomped away.
'Pleasant sort,' Catti-brie remarked.
'Pwent alive,' Cobble mused, and Catti-brie could not tell if that was good news or not.
'Ye've never once mentioned that one,' Catti-brie said to Bruenor.
'Trust me, girl,' Bruenor replied. 'That one's not worth mentioning.'
Exhausted, the barbarian fell onto his cot and sought some needed sleep. He felt the dream returning before he had even closed his eyes. He bolted upright, not wanting to see again the images of his Catti-brie entwined with the likes of Drizzt Do'Urden.
They came to him anyway.
He saw a thousand sparkles, a million reflected fires, spiraling downward, inviting him along.
Wulfgar growled defiantly and tried to stand. It took him several moments to realize that the attempt had been futile, that he was still on his cot, and that he was descending, following the undeniable trail of glittering sparkles down to the images.
Cobble's forces joined the other dwarves two hours later, reporting the rear areas clear of enemies. The rout was complete, as far as Bruenor and his commanders could discern, with not a single enemy left alive.
None of the dwarven forces had noticed the slender, dark forms-dark elves, Jarlaxle's spies-floating among the stalactites near critical areas of battle, watching the dwarven movements and battle techniques with more than passing interest.
The goblin threat was ended, but that was the least of Bruenor Battlehammer's problems.
Chapter 9 Too Clean Cuts
'Goblins?' Regis asked. Drizzt bent low over one of the dwarven corpses, shaking his head even before he got close enough to fully inspect the wounds. Goblins would not likely have left the dwarves in this condition, the drow ranger knew, certainly not with all of their valuable armor and equipment intact. Besides, goblins never recovered the bodies of their own dead, yet the only kills in this corridor were dwarves. No matter how large the goblin force, and how great their advantage of surprise, Drizzt did not think it likely that they could have killed this sturdy party without a single loss.
The wounds on the nearest dwarf seemed to confirm the drow's instincts. Slender and precise, these cuts were not made by crude, jagged goblin weapons. A fine edge, razor sharp and probably enchanted, had sliced this particular dwarf's throat. The line was barely visible, even after Drizzt had wiped away the blood, but ultimately deadly.
'What killed them?' Regis asked, growing impatient. He shifted about from foot to foot, moving the torch alternately from one hand to the other.
Drizzt's mind refused to accept the obvious conclusion. How many times in his years in Menzoberranzan, fighting beside his drow kin, had Drizzt Do'Urden witnessed wounds similar to these? No other race in all the Realms, with the possible exception of the surface elves, used weapons so finely edged.
'What killed them?' Regis asked again, a notable tremor in his voice.
Drizzt shook his white locks. 'I do not know,' he replied honestly. He moved to the next body, this one slumped, half-sitting against the wall. Despite the abundance of blood, the only wound the drow found was a single clean, diagonal slash along the right side of the unfortunate dwarf's throat, a cut paper thin but very deep.
'It could be Duergar,' Drizzt said to Regis, referring to the evil race of gray dwarves. The thought made sense, since Duergar had served as minions to Shimmergloom the dragon, and had inhabited these halls until just a few months before, when Bruenor's forces had chased them out. Still, Drizzt knew that his reasoning was based more in hope than in truth. Greedy Duergar would have stripped these victims clean, particularly of the valuable mining equipment, and Duergar, like mountain dwarves, favored heavier weapons, such as the battle-axe. No such weapon had hit this dwarf.
'You don't believe that,' Regis said behind him. Drizzt didn't turn to regard the halfling; staying in a crouch, he shuffled over to the next unfortunate dwarf.
Regis's voice fell away behind him, but Drizzt heard the halfling's last statement as clearly as he had ever heard anything in his life.
'You think Entreri did it.'
Drizzt did not think that, did not think that any lone warrior, however skilled, could possibly have done such a complete and precise job. He glanced back at Regis, standing impassively under his upheld torch, his eyes searching Drizzt for some clue of a reaction. Drizzt thought the halfling's reasoning curious indeed, and the only explanation he could think of was that Regis was terribly frightened that Entreri had followed him out of Calimport.
Drizzt shook his head and turned back to his investigation. On the body of the third dwarf he found a clue that narrowed the list of potential killers to one race.
A tiny dart protruded from the body's side, under its cloak. Drizzt had to take a steadying breath before he mustered the nerve to pull it out, for he recognized it, and it
explained the ease with which these toughened dwarves had been slaughtered. The quarrel, made for a hand-held crossbow, undoubtedly had been coated with sleep poison and was a favored missile of dark elves.
Drizzt came up from his low crouch; his scimitars leaped into his slender hands. 'We must leave this place,' he whispered harshly.
'What is it?' Regis asked.
Drizzt, his keen senses attuned to the darkness farther along the corridor, did not answer.
From somewhere back behind the halfling, Guenhwyvar issued a low growl.
Drizzt eased one foot behind him and slid slowly backward, somehow understanding that any abrupt movement would trigger an attack. Dark elves in Mithril Hall! Of all the horrors Drizzt could think of-and in Faerun, these were countless-not one came near to the disaster of the drow.
'Which way?' Regis whispered.
Twinkle's blue light seemed to flare.
'Go!' Drizzt cried, understanding the scimitar's warning He spun about and saw Regis for just a moment, then the halfling disappeared under a ball of conjured darkness, the magic snuffing out the light of the halfling's torch in the blink of an eye.
Drizzt rolled to the side of the corridor and spun back around behind the propped body of a dead dwarf. He closed his eyes, forcing them into the infrared spectrum, and felt the dwarf's body jerk slightly, once and then again. Drizzt knew it had been hit with quarrels.
A black streak emerged from the globe of darkness behind him; the corridor brightened just a bit as Regis apparently went out the back side of the darkened area, his torch shedding some light around the edge of the unyielding globe.
