Gauntlgrym

Damn you to Lolth's web!" he said. "Don't you dare pretend if doesn't matter to you!" "Why do you care?" Drizzt growled back at him. "No one who has ever made a difference?" "Do you believe that?" "What do you want from me, son of Baenre?" "Just the truth-your truth. You believe that you have never made a difference?" "Perhaps there is no difference to be made," Drizzt replied. "Do not ever say that," Jarlaxle said to him. "Why do you care?" Drizzzt asked. "Because you were the one who escaped," Jarlaxle replied. "Don't you understand? Jarlaxle went on. "I watched you-we all watched you. Whenever a matron mother, or almost any female of Menzoberranzan was about, we spoke your name with vitriol, promising to avenge Lolth and kill you." "But whenever they were not around, the name of Drizzt Do'Urden was spoken with jealousy, often reverence. You do not understand, do you? You don't even recognize the difference you've made to so many of us in Menzoberranzan." "How? Why?" "Because you were the one who escaped!" "You are here with me!" Drizzt argued. "Are you bound to the City of Spiders by anything more than your own designs? By Bregan D'Aerthe?" "I'm not talking about the city, you obstinate fool," Jarlaxle replied, his voice lowering. Again Drizzt looked at him, at a loss. "The heritage," Jarlaxle explained. "The fate.

even the short-lived humans divide their lives into segments, though they rarely recognize the transient truth as they move through one or another stage of their existence.

Then his eyes widened so much Drizzt thought they would pop out of their sockets. “Elf,” Bruenor muttered as if he had to force the sound past a huge lump in his throat. “Elf,” he said again, and Drizzt noticed that he was leaning more heavily on the stone wall then, and recognized that if the wall hadn’t been there, Bruenor would have likely fallen over. Beside Drizzt, Guenhwyvar growled and crouched again, clearly agitated. Bruenor gasped for breath. Drizzt drew his blades and waded in, moving across the floor in practiced steps, each leaving him more than ready to strike hard if need be. Bruenor was mouthing something then, but he couldn’t hear until he came right up near his friend. “Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor whispered.

Barrabus shielded himself as much as he could, not even daring to look as the flow rushed beneath him, nearly reaching him. He felt the intense heat, as if he was sitting with his face inches from the hot fires of a blacksmith’s oven. The bridge shook, and he thought it would surely crumble to pieces and drop him to his death. On and on it went, the thunder and fire, the falling fireballs, the ultimate devastation of an entire city. Then, as instantly as the first wave of sound had roared in his ears, there was silence. A dead, muted silence. Not a scream, not a groan, not a wail. A bit of wind, but nothing more. After a long while, an hour or more, Barrabus the Gray dared crawl out from under the Herzgo Alegni Bridge. He had to put his cloak over his face as a filter against the burning ash that permeated the air. Everything was gray and deep, and dead. Neverwinter was dead.

A drow and a dwarf, a dwarf and a drow, a hunnerd times better’n a fox and a cow! Bwahaha!” Athrogate added with unbridled enthusiasm.

By Moradin’s arm and Clangeddin’s horn, by Dumathoin’s tricks and Delzoun true born, open I tell ye, open yer gates! Me name’s Athrogate, me blood’s Delzoun, and I’m told me home awaits!