5. Ashes

The room was empty, the fire burning low. The figure knew that there were gray dwarves, duergar, in the side chamber, through the partly opened door, but he had to chance it. This section of the complex was too full of the scum for him to continue along the tunnels without his disguise.

He slipped in from the main corridor and tiptoed past the side door to get to the hearth. He knelt before it and laid his fine mithril axe at his side. The glow of the embers made him flinch instinctively, though he felt no pain as he dipped his finger into the ash.

He heard the side door swing open a few seconds later and rubbed a final handful of the ash over his face, hoping that he had properly covered his telltale red beard and the pale flesh of his long nose all the length to its tip.

“What ye be doin’?” came a croak behind him.

The ash-covered dwarf blew into the embers, and a small flame came to life. “Bit o’ chill,” he answered. “Be needin’ rest.” He rose and turned, lifting the mithril axe beside him.

Two gray dwarves walked across the room to stand before him, their weapons securely sheathed. “Who ye be?” one asked. “Not o’ Clan McUduck, an’ not belongin’ in these tunnels!”

“Tooktook o’ Clan Trilk,” the dwarf lied, using the name of a gray dwarf he had chopped down just the morning before. “Been patrollin’, and been lost! Glad I be to find a room with a hearth!”

The two gray dwarves looked at each other, and then back to the stranger suspiciously. They had heard the reports over the last few weeks—since Shimmergloom, the shadow dragon that had been their god-figure, had fallen—tales of slaughtered duergar, often beheaded, found in the outer tunnels. And why was this one alone? Where was the rest of his patrol? Surely Clan Trilk knew enough to keep out of the tunnels of Clan McUduck.

And, why, one of them noticed, was there a patch of red on this one’s beard?

The dwarf realized their suspicion immediately and knew that he could not keep this charade going for long. “Lost two o’ me kin,” he said. “To a drow.” He smiled when he saw the duergar’s eyes go wide. The mere mention of a drow elf always sent gray dwarves rocking back on their heels—and bought the dwarf a few extra seconds. “But worth it, it were!” he proclaimed, holding the mithril axe up beside his head. “Found me a wicked blade! See?”

Even as one of the duergar leaned forward, awed by the shining weapon, the red-bearded dwarf gave him a closer look, putting the cruel blade deep into his face. The other duergar just managed to get a hand to his sword hilt when he got hit with a backhand blow that drove the butt of the axe handle into his eye. He stumbled back, reeling, but knew through the blur of pain that he was finished a full second before the mithril axe sliced the side of his neck.

Two more duergar burst in from the anteroom, their weapons drawn. “Get help!” one of them screamed, leaping into the fight. The other bolted for the door.

Again, luck was with the red-bearded dwarf. He kicked hard at an object on the floor, launching it toward the fleeing duergar, while parrying the first blow of his newest opponent with his golden shield.

The fleeing duergar was only a couple of strides from the corridor when something rolled between his feet, tripping him up and sending him sprawling to the floor. He got back to his knees quickly but hesitated, fighting back a gush of bile, when he saw what he had stumbled over.

The head of his kin.

The red-bearded dwarf danced away from another strike, rushing across the room to shield-slam the now-kneeling duergar, smashing the unfortunate creature into the stone wall.

But the dwarf, overbalanced in the fury of his rush, was down on one knee when the remaining duergar caught up to him. The intruder swung his shield back above him to block a downward thrust of the duergar’s sword, and countered with a low sweep of his axe, aiming for the knees.

The duergar sprang back just in time, taking a nick on one leg, and before he could fully recover and come back with a counter, the red-bearded dwarf was up and at the ready.

“Yer bones are for carrion-eaters!” the dwarf growled.

“Who ye be?” the duergar demanded. “Not o’ me kin, fer sure!”

A white smile spread across the dwarf’s ash-covered face. “Battlehammer’s me name,” he growled, displaying the standard emblazoned upon his shield—the foaming mug emblem of Clan Battlehammer. “Bruenor Battlehammer, rightful king of Mithril Hall!”

Bruenor chuckled softly to see the gray dwarf’s face blanch to white. The duergar stumbled back toward the door of the anteroom, understanding now that he was no match for this mighty foe. In desperation, he spun and fled, trying to slam the door shut behind him.

But Bruenor guessed what the duergar had in mind, and he got his heavy boot through the door before it could close. The mighty dwarf slammed his shoulder into the hard wood, sending the duergar flying back into the small room and knocking aside a table and chair.

Bruenor strode in confidently, never fearing even odds.

With no escape, the gray dwarf rushed back at him wildly, his shield leading and his sword above his head. Bruenor easily blocked the downward thrust, then smashed his axe into the duergar’s shield. It, too, was of mithril, and the axe could not cut into it. But so great was Bruenor’s blow that the leather strappings snapped apart and the duergar’s arm went numb and drooped helplessly. The duergar screamed in terror and brought his short sword across his chest to protect his opened flank.

Bruenor followed the duergar’s sword arm with a shield-rush, shoving into his opponent’s elbow and causing the duergar to overbalance. In a lightning combination with his axe, Bruenor slipped the deadly blade over the duergar’s dipped shoulder.

A second head dropped free to the floor.

Bruenor grunted at the job well done and moved back into the larger room. The duergar beside the door was just regaining consciousness when Bruenor came up to him and shield-slammed him back into the wall. “Twenty-two,” he mumbled to himself, keeping count of the number of gray dwarves he had cut down during these last few weeks.

Bruenor peeked out into the dark corridor. All was clear. He closed the door softly and went back to the hearth to touch up his disguise.

Following the wild descent to the bottom of Garumn’s Gorge on the back of a flaming dragon, Bruenor had lost consciousness. Truly he was amazed when he managed to open his eyes. He knew the dragon to be dead as soon as he looked around, but he couldn’t understand why he, still lying atop the smoldering form, had not been burned.

The gorge had been quiet and dark around him; he could not begin to guess how long he had remained unconscious. He knew, though, that his friends, if they had escaped, would probably have made their way out through the back door, to the safety of the surface.

And Drizzt was alive! The image of the drow’s lavender eyes staring at him from the wall of the gorge as the dragon had glided past in its descent remained firmly etched in Bruenor’s mind. Even now, weeks later as far as he could figure, he used that image of the indomitable Drizzt Do’Urden as a litany against the hopelessness of his own situation. For Bruenor could not climb from the bottom of the gorge, where the walls rose straight and sheer. His only option had been to slip into the sole tunnel running off the chasm’s base and make his way though the lower mines.

And through an army of gray dwarves—duergar even more alert, for the dragon Bruenor had killed, Shimmergloom, had been their leader.

He had come far, and each step he took brought him a little closer to the freedom of the surface. But each step also brought him closer to the main host of the duergar. Even now he could hear the thrumming of the furnaces of the great undercity, no doubt teeming with the gray scum. Bruenor knew that he had to pass through there to get to the tunnels connecting the higher levels.