Which only adds to Bruenor’s responsibility, because when a frightened people put their faith in an individual, the ramifications of incompetence, recklessness, or malfeasance are multiplied many times over. And so becoming the focus of hope only adds to Bruenor’s tension. Because he knows that it is not true, and that their expectations may well be beyond him. He cannot convince Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon or any of the other leaders, not even King Emerus Warcrown of Citadel Felbarr, to march in force against Obould. And to go out alone with Mithral Hall’s own forces would lead to the wholesale slaughter of Clan Battlehammer. Bruenor understands that he has to wear the mantle not only of hero, but of savior, and it is for him a terrible burden.
And so Bruenor, too, has engaged in deflection and wild expectation, has found a focal point on which to pin his hopes. The most common phrase he has spoken throughout this winter has been, “Gauntlgrym, elf.”
Gauntlgrym. It is a legend among Clan Battlehammer and all the Delzoun dwarves. It is the name of their common heritage, an immense city of splendor, wealth, and strength that represents to every descendant of the Delzoun tribes the apex of dwarven civilization. It is, perhaps, history wound with myth, a likely unintentional lionizing of that which once was. As heroes of old take on more gigantic proportions with each passing generation, so too does this other focal point of hope and pride expand.
“Gauntlgrym, elf,” Bruenor says with steady determination. All of his answers lie there, he is certain. In Gauntlgrym, Bruenor will find a path to unravel the doings of King Obould. In Gauntlgrym, he will discover how to put the orcs back in their holes, and more importantly, how to realign the races of the Silver Marches into proper position, into places that make sense to an old, immovable dwarf.
He believes that we found this magical kingdom on our journey here from the Sword Coast. He has to believe that this unremarkable sinkhole in a long-dead pass was really the entrance to a place where he can find his answers.
Otherwise he has to become the answer for his anxious people. And Bruenor knows that their faith is misplaced, for at present, he has no answer to the puzzle that is Obould.
Thus, he says, “Gauntlgrym, elf,” with the same conviction that a devout believer will utter the name of his savior god.
We will go to this place, this hole in the ground in a barren pass in the west. We will go and find Gauntlgrym, whatever that may truly mean. Perhaps Bruenor’s instincts are correct—could it be that Moradin told him of this in his days of near death? Perhaps we will find something entirely different, but that will still bring to us, to Bruenor, the clarity he needs to find the answers for Mithral Hall.
Fixated and desperate as he is, and as his people are, Bruenor doesn’t yet understand that the name he has affixed to our savior is not the point. The point is the search itself, for solutions and for the truth, and not the place he has determined as our goal.
“Gauntlgrym, elf.”
Indeed.
— Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 8
THE FIRST STRIDES HOME
The gates of Silverymoon, shining silver and with bars decorated like leafy vines, were closed, a clear signal that things were amiss in the Silver Marches. Stern-faced guards, elf and human, manned all posts along the city’s wall and around a series of small stone houses that served as checkpoints for approaching visitors.
Catti-brie—limping more profoundly from her days on the road—and Wulfgar noted the tense looks coming their way. The woman merely smiled, though, understanding that her companion, nearly seven feet tall and with shoulders broad and strong, could elicit such trepidation even in normal times. Predictably, those nervous guards relaxed and even offered waves as the pair neared, as they came to recognize the barbarian in his trademark wolf-skin cloak and the woman who had often served as liaison between Mithral Hall and Silverymoon.
There was no call for the pair to stop or even slow as they passed the stone structures, and the gate parted before them without request. Several of the sentries near that gate and atop the wall even began clapping for Wulfgar and Catti-brie and more than a few “huzzahs” were shouted as they passed.
“With official word or for pleasure alone?” the commander of the guard asked the couple inside the city gates. He looked at Catti-brie with obvious concern. “Milady, are you injured?”
Catti-brie replied with a dismissive look, as if it did not matter, but the guard continued, “I will provide a coach for you at once!”
“I have walked from Mithral Hall through snow and mud,” the woman replied. “I would not deny myself the joy of Silverymoon’s meandering ways.”
“But…”
“I will walk,” Catti-brie said. “Do not deny me this pleasure.”
The guard relented with a bow. “Lady Alustriel will be pleased by your arrival.”
“And we will be pleased to see her,” said Wulfgar.
“With official word from King Bruenor?” the commander asked again.
“With word more personal, but equally pressing,” the barbarian answered. “You will announce us?”
“The courier is already on his way to the palace.”
Wulfgar nodded his gratitude. “We will walk the ways of Silvery-moon, a course not direct, and will arrive at Lady Alustriel’s court before the sun has passed its zenith,” he explained. “Pleased we are to be here—truly Silverymoon is a welcomed sight and a welcoming city for road-weary travelers. Our business here might well include you and your men as well, commander….”
“Kenyon,” said Catti-brie, for she had met the man on many occasions, though briefly at each.
“I am honored that you remember me, Lady Catti-brie,” he said with another bow.
“We arrive in search of refugees who have come from Mithral Hall and may have crossed into your fairest of cities,” said Wulfgar.
“Many have come,” Kenyon admitted. “And many have left. But of course, we are at your disposal, son of Bruenor, on word of Lady Alustriel. Go and secure that word, I bid you.”
Wulfgar nodded, and he and Catti-brie moved past the guard station.
With their road-weathered clothes, one with a magical bow as a crutch and the other a giant of a man with a magnificent warhammer strapped across his back, the pair stood out in the city of philosophers and poets, and many a curious look turned their way as they walked the winding, seemingly aimless avenues of the decorated city. As with every visitor to Silverymoon, no matter how many times one traversed the place, their eyes were continually drawn upward, studying the intricate designs and artwork that covered the walls of every building, and upward still, to the tapering spires that topped every structure. Most communities were an expression of utility, with structures built suitable to the elements of their environment and the threats of regional monsters. Cities of commerce were built with wide avenues, port cities with fortified harbors and breakwaters, and frontier towns with thick walls. Silverymoon stood above all of these, for it was an expression of utility, of course, but more than that, an expression of spirit. Security and commerce were facilitated, but they were not paramount to the needs of the soul, where the library was grander than the barracks and the avenues were designed to turn visitors and residents to the most spectacular of views, rather than as efficient straight lines to the marketplace or the rows of houses and mercantiles.
It was hard to arrive in Silverymoon with urgent business, for few could walk swiftly through those streets, and fewer still could focus the mind sufficiently to defeat the intrusions of beauty.
Contrary to Wulfgar’s stated expectations, the sun had passed its zenith before Wulfgar and Catti-brie came in sight of Lady Alustriel’s wondrous palace, but that was all right, for the experienced guards had informed the Lady of Silverymoon that such would be the case.