That blast of godlike power proved the end of the assault, with the salamanders rushing for any exit they could find as fast as they could find them, leaving fiery trails in their wakes.
Bruenor chased one group, leaping high and fully thirty feet across the stones to land in their midst, his axe chopping them down viciously, one after another. The dwarf seemed to get stabbed several times in that mad rush, each drawing a cry of pain from Drizzt, who rushed to join him.
And Bruenor seemed not to notice any of the strikes.
By the time the four others arrived by his side, the dwarf king stood amidst half a dozen slain creatures. The rest of the beasts had fled the room, and the dwarf ghosts had given chase.
Bruenor blinked repeatedly as he considered his friends.
“What did you do?” Jarlaxle asked.
Bruenor could only shrug.
Drizzt studied his friend more closely, even pulling aside Bruenor’s collar, but he could find no wound.
“How did you do that?” Dahlia asked. “Stomping your foot as if you were a god of lightning?”
Bruenor shrugged and shook his head. He seemed quite perplexed for a few moments, but then just shook his head again and let it all go, turning to Jarlaxle instead.
“I know where to put yer bowls,” he said to Jarlaxle.
“How could you know?”
Bruenor considered that for a short while. How indeed?
“Gauntlgrym telled me,” he said with a grin.
POWERS OLDER, POWERS DEEPER
THE ASHMADAI CAME INTO THE CIRCULAR CHAMBER WITH TENTATIVE STEPS, though the echoes of battle had long since faded. Valindra Shadowmantle led the way, flanked by two score of Sylora’s best warriors. The lich focused almost immediately on the throne, and she drifted that way, floating, not walking, while her minions spread out to examine the corpses scattered about the floor.
She stopped in front of the throne, sensing its great magic. Valindra had spent her life studying the Art, as a wizard in the famed Hosttower of the Arcane. Before the Spellplague, and before she had fallen into death then undeath at the hand of Arklem Greeth, Valindra had been a wizard of great power, impeccable scholarship, and considerable renown.
As a lich, Valindra had survived the Spellplague, though it had surely harmed her mind. But at long last, she was returning to her senses, and gathering her newfound powers in the unfamiliar energies of post-Spellplague arcana.
Its powers having transcended even the dramatic changes that had been visited upon Faer?n, the throne knocked her back to that time before. The magic in it was ancient, and reverberated within Valindra, taking her to a place of familiar comfort she had not known in decades.
She “cooed” and “ahh’d” before the throne, her emaciated, pale hands reaching out but never quite touching the powerful artifact. Lost in her thoughts and memories, in the better times she had known as a living wizard, Valindra failed even to notice when a pair of her Ashmadai commanders came up beside her.
“Lady Valindra,” one, a large male tiefling, said.
When she didn’t respond, he repeated the words much more loudly.
Valindra started and turned on him, her ghostly eyes flickering with threatening red flames.
“The dead are of the Plane of Fire, we believe,” the tiefling explained. “Minions of the primordial?”
Valindra’s perplexed expression conveyed that she hadn’t even really heard the question, let alone digested it.
“Yes,” another voice answered, and the two Ashmadai commanders and Valindra turned just as a bat fluttering up behind the throne seemed to fall over itself and take humanoid form.
“Minions of the primordial—worshipers, really,” Dor’crae explained. “These salamanders, and large red lizards deeper in the complex, even a small red dragon, have come to the call of the volcano.”
“There are more?” the male Ashmadai asked.
“They are many,” Dor’crae replied, walking around the dais to join the trio.
“Perhaps they will do our job for us, then,” said the Ashmadai. “Perhaps they already have.”
Dor’crae laughed at that notion, and waved out his arm, inviting the others to take another look at the result of the battle—a battle he had watched from the shadows of the room’s high ceiling.
“I would not …” he started to say, but he paused as he noticed that Valindra paid him no heed, that she had turned her attention back to the throne.
“I wouldn’t count on the inhabitants of the complex to defeat the likes of Jarlaxle and his mighty dwarf,” Dor’crae told the Ashmadai, “or of Dahlia and Drizzt Do’Urden.” He glanced at Valindra again, watching as she ascended the dais, still staring at the throne as if in a trance. “They are formidable enough, or were, but now are even more so. I watched them in this very room, and the other dwarf with them, a king of the dwarves it would seem, has somehow been magically … enhanced.”
The two Ashmadai scrunched up their faces, glanced at each other, then turned back to Dor’crae with obvious confusion.
“Through the power in that very throne,” Dor’crae explained, turning to Valindra as he spoke.
The lich didn’t seem to hear him.
“There is some ancient magic there that empowered him,” Dor’crae warned them all.
“Magic, yes,” Valindra cooed, her hand waving over the arm of the throne. Then, suddenly, the lich slapped her hand down and grabbed the throne.
Her eyes went wide and she issued a hiss of protest. It was clear that she was struggling mightily to hold onto the throne, as if it was trying to throw her aside. Stubbornly, the lich growled and fought back, then she turned and sat down on the throne, grasping the arms with both hands.
She growled and snarled, thrashing about, hissing, and sputtering a stream of curses. Her back arched as if some unseen force lifted her free, and she growled again and uttered a curse at some dwarf king and forced herself back down. To the onlookers, the three before the throne and many others about the room, she seemed like a halfling trying to hold back the charge of an umber hulk.
The struggle intensified. Flashes of lightning, blue-white and black, shot from the chair, and Dor’crae and the Ashmadai commanders fell back.
The throne of Gauntlgrym was clearly and violently rejecting Valindra, but the lich would not accept that.
But at last, with a rumble that shook the chamber, and indeed reverberated deep into the complex of Gauntlgrym, the throne expelled her, hurling Valindra through the air. She magically caught herself in mid-descent, and came down gently to her normal stance, floating just a few inches above the floor.
“Valindra?” Dor’crae asked, but the lich didn’t hear him.
She swept back in at the throne, hands extended like killing claws. With a wicked hiss, she shot fingers of lightning from her hands. When the bolts merely disappeared into the magical throne, the outraged Valindra summoned instead a pea of fire, which she threw onto the seat.
“Run!” the Ashmadai commander yelled, and the warriors scrambled all over each other to get away from the throne.
Valindra’s fireball engulfed the throne, the dais, and a good portion of the floor around it. The angry flames reached right up to the lich herself, who seemed not to care. None of the Ashmadai were caught in the blast, though one found his weathercloak aflame and had to roll about frantically on the floor to douse it.
When the flames and smoke cleared, there sat the throne, unbothered, unmarred, impervious.
Valindra shrieked and hissed and charged it, again throwing bolts of lightning into it as she rushed in, then clawed at it and punched it.
“She is powerful, no doubt,” the Ashmadai leader whispered as he walked up beside Dor’crae. “But I fear her presence here.”
“Sylora Salm decided that she should come,” Dor’crae reminded him. “That is not without reason, and it is not your place to question.”
“Of course,” the man said, lowering his gaze.
Dor’crae glared at him a bit longer, making sure he knew his place. They couldn’t afford such intemperate and mutinous whispers, not with powerful enemies just ahead. Truthfully, though, when Dor’crae looked back at the throne and the thrashing, insane Valindra, he found it hard to disagree with the zealot’s words.
They couldn’t begin to control the lich, and he knew without a doubt that if she saw a target for a fireball and the entire squad of Ashmadai happened to be in the blast area, she wouldn’t even care.
The tremor grumbled through the stone floor, giving all five a bit of a shake. It seemed nothing too much to Drizzt, but when he looked at Bruenor, the drow had second thoughts.
“What do you know?” Jarlaxle asked Bruenor before Drizzt could.
“Bah, the beast belched, and nothin’ more,” said Athrogate, but Bruenor’s expression told a different story.
“Weren’t the beast,” he said, shaking his head. “Our enemies have entered behind us. They fight the ancient ones.”
“The ancient ones?” Drizzt and Dahlia asked together, and they looked at each other in surprise.
“The dwarves of Gauntlgrym,” Jarlaxle explained.
“The throne,” Bruenor corrected. “They struck at the throne.
“To what end?
Bruenor shook his head, his expression revealing confidence that the throne was in no real danger. He glanced all around then, however, and added, “The ghosts’re gone.”
The others all looked around as well, and sure enough, they saw no ghosts in the wide corridor, though there had been some there only a few moments earlier.
“Gone back to fight for the throne o’ Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor explained.
“And what now for us?” Drizzt asked.
Jarlaxle seemed as if he was about to answer, but like all the others, he deferred to Bruenor.
“We go on,” Bruenor said, and marched ahead, Athrogate hustling to keep beside him.
“He seems very sure of himself,” Dahlia remarked to Drizzt and Jarlaxle as the dwarves stomped off. “With every turn and every side passage.”
It was true enough, and while Drizzt held faith in his friend—and really, what choice did they have?—he was more than a bit concerned. Near to the audience chamber, the passages had been clear and undamaged—or no more so than Jarlaxle, Athrogate, and Dahlia had remembered them—but soon after the five companions had descended the first long stairwell, they had found more ruin and rubble. Corridors had twisted and cracked apart, and the second stair Bruenor had led them to had proven impassable.
But the dwarf remained undaunted and took them off on an alternate route.
Drizzt didn’t know what magic might have been in that throne, but he hoped it truly was a memory of Gauntlgrym, not some deception placed in his mind by their enemies—as had been done to Athrogate.
Jarlaxle moved ahead to watch over the dwarves.
“You fought well in that canyon,” Drizzt remarked quietly.
Dahlia arched her eyebrow at him. “I always fight well. It is why I am alive.”
“You fight often, then,” Drizzt said with a slight smirk.
“When I have to.”
“Perhaps you’re not as charming as you believe.”
“I don’t have to be,” Dahlia replied without missing a beat. “I fight well.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“With yourself as the evidence, I am sure,” Dahlia replied.
She pressed on faster, leaving an amused Drizzt in her wake.