Gauntlgrym

The female Ashmadai, in the middle, gave a halting gurgle and broke off the charge, staggering backward with the knife deep in her throat.

The other two charged on, the one to Barrabus’s left thrusting his weapon like a spear, the other swinging his red-hued scepter as a club, both either not caring or not even realizing that their ranks had been thinned.

Barrabus’s main-gauche came free of its sheath and crossed back under his right arm, slower to draw the longer blade, to the left in time to slap against the Ashmadai’s thrusting spear, hooking the weapon between its central blade and the cunningly upturned hilt. Even as he drew forth his long sword, Barrabus ducked under the first swing of the club and rotated his left wrist, turning his main-gauche under and around the presented spear. The sword came back to the right to block the second club swing, up high then the third down lower, and all the while, he kept that left hand rotating, forcing the Ashmadai to keep adjusting his grip to prevent having the spear taken from his grasp.

Finally the Ashmadai disengaged the spear, but only by throwing it out wide to the side, and in that split second of opening, his sword still expertly picking off every furious swing by the other opponent, Barrabus rushed ahead and poked the spearman hard in the shoulder as he tried to duck away. The cultist yelped, but quickly regained his balance and re-oriented his weapon, though having staggered a few steps back.

Barrabus seemed not to notice him, his two weapons working in concert against a single enemy. He fought purely defensively, letting the Ashmadai’s rage play out, letting him make the one mistake that would allow Barrabus to hook his scepter with the main-gauche and clear the way for a killing sword strike.

The spearman recognized the tactic, and yelled out a warning as he launched his spear at Barrabus. From only a few feet away it seemed a sure strike, and would have been against almost any warrior in Faerûn.

But Barrabus the Gray wasn’t just any warrior.

It appeared as if he never even looked at the spearman, but his left hand retreated perfectly and he snapped his hand at just the right moment for his main-gauche to catch and redirect the missile, turning it out in front of him. And at the same time, the suddenly twisting Barrabus brought his sword over and down, behind the missile, and drove it out in front of him, throwing the spear forward.

It was an awkward launch, of course, and had little chance of hurting the Ashmadai with the scepter, but it caught him by surprise, and a moment of weakness against Barrabus the Gray was a moment too long. The man threw his arms up, his club up, batting the missile away, then howled and reversed, trying to slam down against the incoming enemy.

But the assassin’s main-gauche caught the descending club and turned it down and across to Barrabus’s right as he dropped his right foot back and pulled his right arm and the sword back to clear the way. Before the Ashmadai had even managed to stop the descent, Barrabus’s sword darted forth over his trapped weapon. The zealot tried to block with his hand, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, and he could only grimace as the thrusting sword drove into his chest.

He threw himself backward, staggering as blood began to stain his leather tunic. At first, he seemed relieved, as if thinking he had avoided a serious hit.

But Barrabus knew from the pumping blood that his fine sword had nicked the man’s heart, and he paid that one no more heed, turning instead to the unarmed Ashmadai, who stopped his charge abruptly when faced with those deadly blades.

“They’re both dead,” Barrabus assured him, “though neither likely knows it yet.”

The Ashmadai looked to his female companion, who still stood, gasping for breath and trying to grasp the knife hilt, trying to find the courage to pull the blade free.

“She’ll feel the poison soon,” Barrabus explained. “Better for her to just drive the blade in deeper and finish it quickly.”

Over to the side, the bleeding man called out, “Kill him!” but though the cry started strong, his words got crushed in a grimace of pain. As the remaining fighter looked at him, the warrior sank down to his knees, his right hand squeezing at the mortal wound in his chest, his left hand still stubbornly holding his scepter.

“Is he speaking to me or to you?” Barrabus teased.

He chuckled at the absurdity of it all as the remaining Ashmadai, perhaps not as devoted to his devil-god as he thought, turned and fled.

“I’m right behind you!” Barrabus yelled, though he made no move to follow. He turned to the kneeling man, who had bent over and had his hand on the ground as well, needing its support to keep from tumbling down.

A tinge of regret coursed through Barrabus as he walked past the dying man to the woman, who fell back from him, stumbling against a tree, the knife still in her throat.

“If I took you back as a captive, the Netherese would torture you in unspeakable ways before they killed you,” he said as he pulled the knife out and drove his sword through her heart in the same movement.

She grimaced and tensed, fighting the inevitable for just a moment before falling limp, and Barrabus retracted his sword and let her slide to the ground. He stepped back to the kneeling man and ended his struggle with a single blow to the head.

With a profound sigh, Barrabus sheathed his main-gauche and pulled forth a pair of the vials from the pouch Alegni had given him. They were made of some translucent metal he didn’t recognize, allowing him to view the black, smoky liquid contained within. With his foot, he rolled the male Ashmadai over, popped the stopper on one vial and poured its magical contents onto the dead man’s forehead.

He stepped back and turned away as the despoiling magic did its work, the dark gray pall spreading from the man’s forehead to all of his face, and continuing to spread, like a mold, it seemed, to cover all of his body.

Angry, Barrabus spun back, hooked his sword under the collar of the man’s tunic, and tore the garment off the corpse. He didn’t savor the work of slicing off the patch of skin that held the Ashmadai brand, but he did it anyway, then he did the same to the woman, despoiling her with the second vial and taking her brand.

He headed back toward the nearest Netherese encampment, to be rid of the trophies. And with every step, Barrabus considered the insanity of this macabre form of soldier swapping. Had he not despoiled the bodies, the Thayans would have fed them to the growing Dread Ring, to add to its strength and to animate the dead into zombie warriors they could send once more after the Netherese. The living Ashmadai apparently considered that to be the greatest gift they could offer.

But since Barrabus had infused the corpses with the stuff of shadow, their fate would be the same, save for their masters. The Netherese would collect the bodies and send them to some arcane laboratory somewhere in conquered Sembia, where they would be fully infused with the very stuff of the Shadowfell and rise as shadow zombies, creatures of the night that would be turned against their former allies.

“Ridiculous,” Barrabus the Gray whispered to the uncaring wood.

Chapter 12 - Cries from the Distant Past

MELNIK BRAWNANVIL HOOKED HIS PICKAXE ON A STUBBORN JAG OF STONE and twisted and yanked with all his strength. “Come on, ye piece o’ goblin snot,” he growled, putting everything into it. He could see the shining silvery metal behind it and wanted to get at that vein.

“Bah, but goblin snot’d’ve busted yer pick by now,” said another miner, Quentin Stonebreaker, working the other side of the tunnel.

Melnik grunted and pressed on.

“Here now, did ye bring me me lunch?” Quentin asked, but Melnik noted that he was looking down the tunnel and not at him, so he just continued with his work. Finally, the offending stone broke free.

Melnik didn’t celebrate, though, confused as to who his partner down the tunnel—not up the tunnel, toward the more inhabited regions of the mines beneath Kelvin’s Cairn in Icewind Dale, but down the tunnel—could be speaking to. They worked the end of the mine, and there were no other dwarves farther down the tunnel.

“Well, what do ye say, then—?” Quentin asked, or started to. He cut off his words with a gasp and stumbled backward.

And when Melnik came away from the wall to look down the curving corridor, he too sucked in his breath.

Dwarves approached toward them, but like no dwarves the pair had ever before seen.

“They ain’t livin’! Run!” Melnik yelled, but he couldn’t bring himself to follow his own advice, and neither could his partner.

Help us, he heard in his mind. Help us, kin o’Delzoun.

“Did ye hear that?” Quentin asked, even as he started backing away.

“I heared somethin’!”

With a shriek, Quentin turned and ran away.

The ghosts, several of them, came very near to Melnik, and he felt every hair on his shaggy body stand up with fright. But he held his ground, and even put his hands on his hips, spreading his legs wide in a solid stance.

“What do ye want, now?” he demanded.

Kin of Delzoun … Melnik heard in his head, along with a jumble of words: beast awakened … lava flowing … Gauntlgrym besieged …

They might as well have said nothing other than that one word, Gauntlgrym, for Melnik, like every dwarf of Delzoun heritage, knew that name. Staggering, stumbling with his feet and his words, the dwarf backed away. The ghosts followed, filling his head with pleas for help, though of course he had no idea what to do.

“Stokely Silverstream!” Melnik called, though of course he was a long, long way from the inhabited reaches of the complex.

The ghosts seemed more than willing to follow him, though. Indeed, when he turned and started to run, he kept glancing back to make sure he wasn’t too greatly outdistancing them, only to find that they were pacing him with ease.

The realization that he couldn’t escape them if he wanted to unnerved Melnik more than a little, but the ghosts had spoken the name of the ancient homeland, and Stokely Silverstream needed to hear it, too.

“Just keep fillin’ her, or I’ll put me fist into yer eye so hard, I’ll wiggle me fingers out the back o’ yer head,” Athrogate said, and all around him, particularly Genesay the barmaid, knew he wasn’t likely talking lightly. She moved fast to refill the dwarf’s glass.

“Here now, don’t you go talking such to Genesay,” a man sitting next to Athrogate said.

“It’s all the fine, Murley,” the bartender said, and with every word, she kept her focus on Athrogate, who sat there simmering with rage.

The dwarf took a long and deep draw, draining his flagon again, and he looked at Genesay and pointed to the mug, then slowly turned to regard the man at his side.

“Ye wouldn’t be flappin’ yer jaw at me, now, would ye?” he asked.

“Show some manners to Genesay,” Murley insisted as he stood up and squared his shoulders to the dwarf.

“Or?”

“Or I’ll …” Murley began, but he trailed off as a couple of his friends moved up to flank him, both grabbing him by an arm.

“Let it go, Mur,” one said.

“Aye, don’t you be playing with this one,” said the other. “Mighty friends he’s got. Black-skinned friends.”