THE FOOTHOLD
They owned the forge.
That stunning notion hovered around Ravel Xorlarrin’s shoulders as he made his way to his scheduled meeting with his sisters and some of the other leaders of the expedition.
They owned the forge.
The other chambers they had taken since entering the Gauntlgrym complex had offered them hope, both in the joyous shock of realizing their destination in the first place and in coming to know that they could build some measure of security and defense against the stubborn ghostly guardians of the ancient dwarf homeland. But none of that would have mattered one bit without the grand prize.
They owned the forge.
Ravel had to hold back his elation as he entered that very room, the ancient forge of Gauntlgrym, to face the gathering. He met the eyes of each, starting with Berellip, who sat grim-faced, and moving quickly to Saribel, whose clear uneasiness showed the cracks in their meaner sister’s unrelenting glare. Saribel understood the gravity of this moment, and she understood, obviously, that the victory was Ravel’s most of all.
The poor priestess didn’t seem to know how to react, and she was simply not as skilled as Berellip in covering everything up with anger.
Emboldened by Saribel’s quandary, Ravel glanced at Tiago, who sat beside Jearth, and there he found allies. Tiago even nodded and smiled.
If his sisters’ unease had bolstered him, the salute from House Baenre had him standing even taller.
Behind the two weapons masters, the drider Yerrininae squatted on eight bent legs, and he, too, seemed eager—and why wouldn’t he be, for this was the promise to an existence with dignity and possibility.
They owned the forge.
Ravel paced slowly past the group, including the other House wizards and a few of the more important melee squad leaders, on his way to the nearest in the line of actual forges, a large firebrick oven, taller than Ravel. To the drow warrior, it looked like any other forge, but he had been told differently, and he understood now as he examined the oven.
There was no place to load fuel to burn.
Behind the forge loomed what seemed like a chimney, stretching floor to ceiling, of thick bricks, mortared with workmanship so amazing that the centuries seemed to not have touched them. After a cursory glance at the loading and cooling trays, Ravel found himself drawn to this chimney. He ran his hands along the stone, feeling the integrity.
He looked down the length of the large chamber, the row of similar forges, the line of similar chimneys.
“Untouched by the millennia,” he said, coming around to face the group once more.
“They will need minor repairs, likely,” Yerrininae replied. “But yes.”
“Where is Brack’thal?” Berellip interjected, her tone sharp, unyielding and prideful, as always.
Ravel smiled, the look of a displacer beast as it closed in on its prey, and moved toward the group, looking to his fellow wizards.
“Have you figured out the workings?” he asked.
“We’ve found the source,” the spellspinner started to reply, but was cut short by Berellip.
“Where is Brack’thal?” she demanded.
“He is doing his job,” Ravel curtly replied.
“He should be among us.”
“The perimeter chambers must be secured before our work begins in earnest,” Ravel countered. “That is no small task.”
“It is a task for that one,” Berellip replied, pointing to Jearth. “And his Baenre friend. And the driders—why are they even here?”
Tiago laughed aloud at the priestess’s flustered pronouncements, and Ravel understood that he had done so for Ravel’s benefit. Yes, the Xorlarrin son had a powerful ally here, and one who would not blink before Berellip’s intimidating glare.
“My dear sister, I am Xorlarrin,” Ravel replied. He looked to Jearth and bowed in what seemed like an apology as he finished, “I would not trust such a critical duty to a mere warrior.”
For a moment, he thought Berellip might swallow her lips, so tight did her face become.
“Nor would I trouble you and your priestesses, who have far more important duties in ensuring that this place, this city of Xorlarrin, will prove suitable to the goddess we all hold dear,” he added, looking more to Tiago, who nodded his approval.
For the time being, Ravel had disarmed his sister.
“We have much to do,” Jearth interjected. “My scouts have assured me that this complex is huge, even without the miles and miles of mines running beneath and beside it. There are other groups here in addition to our forces and the stubborn dwarf ghosts. We have found dire corbies—they will need to be cleaned out.”
“Seems a minor distraction,” said the usually quiet Saribel, and her look to Berellip as she spoke tipped Ravel off to her true purpose, that of pleasing their dominant sister.
“Many of the interesting chambers we have discovered are unsound,” Jearth went on with hesitation, for he, like Ravel, had perfected the art of ignoring the annoying Saribel. “This place was wracked by the cataclysm of recent years. There may be untold treasures and secrets lying around, defenses we might put to our use, side chambers that will provide better quarters for the nobles.”
Saribel moved as if to interject, but Jearth pressed on before her. “There may be a source for these bothersome ghosts, as well, a temple to a dwarf god, and that we cannot abide in any place House Xorlarrin might come to call home.”
The younger of the Xorlarrin sisters slumped back at that remark.
“We have much to do,” Jearth reiterated, and there would be no arguments coming forth in reply.
“Yes, much,” Ravel agreed, and he glanced down the line of forges to the great and huge oven that centered the room’s rear wall. “And first we must discover how to fire these ovens.” He wore a sly look as he made the comment, hinting that he knew more than he was letting on, which, of course, he did.
“The source is nearby,” Berellip said. “It must be, along with the fuel . . .”
“The source is there,” Ravel said, pointing to the wall near the large forge, to an archway which they had not explored, as the passage it indicated had been bricked up and sealed.
“How can you know?”
“I am a spellspinner,” Ravel replied. “You do not believe that a pile of stones could block my way, do you?”
He focused on Tiago, the most important one in his audience, and watched the young Baenre warrior, obviously intrigued, glance from the archway back to him and back again.
“Are you to keep us waiting?” Berellip asked angrily after many heartbeats slipped past in silence.
“To explain what lies beyond would not do it justice, I fear,” said Ravel. “Assemble a team of goblin diggers to clear the tunnel—it is not long—and let us travel together to better appreciate our good fortune.” He glanced at Jearth and nodded, and the weapons master moved off immediately to gather some slaves.
As the informal meeting disbanded, Tiago found his way to Ravel’s side. “You have raised expectations,” he said quietly. “Do not disappoint, lest you return the upper hand to your sister. And that, we cannot have.”
“Disappoint?” Ravel echoed incredulously. “Behind that wall lies a god. A trapped god. The power of Gauntlgrym.”
Tiago grinned. “The fire beast?”
“The primordial,” Ravel confirmed. “The fire beast my matron mother determined as the source of the cataclysm. Indeed it exists, right before us, trapped as it has been for millennia.” He paused as his grin widened even more. “So near the magical forge.”
Tiago’s look, his responding smile as he stared at the distant archway, showed his appreciation of this moment. Across Faer?n, the weapons of ancient Gauntlgrym had remained legendary for their craftsmanship and imbued powers; even those who refused to admit the existence of this rumored dwarf homeland could only dispute the origin, and not the wonder, of those ancient artifacts.
“I will have the first two master items created when the forges are re-fired,” Tiago said.
“That was part of our deal, so you have informed me,” Ravel replied with only a hint of sarcasm. “Your servants have brought the needed materials, I assume.”
Still looking at the archway, at the promise, the young Baenre nodded. “If one would consider Gol’fanin a servant.”
That had Ravel back on his heels! “Gol’fanin?”
“You have traveled from Menzoberranzan to one of the most famed forges of the ancient world. Please do tell me that you, a mage of high reputation, are too intelligent to be surprised by this revelation.”
Put that way, of course, Tiago was right. But Ravel found himself indeed surprised, more by the planning that had gone into this expedition from the Baenre side than by the secret accompaniment by one of Menzoberranzan’s most accomplished blacksmiths. Suddenly the spellspinner found himself doubting every detail of this expedition, even that it was an undertaking of House Xorlarrin. How much influence, how much subterfuge, had House Baenre exerted here?
“You understand that this part of my bargain with you will come at a great cost to me,” Ravel said when he managed to properly compose himself. “With Jearth, I mean.”
“You understand that I don’t care,” came the instant response, a reply surely worthy of a Baenre.
The chamber thrummed with energy and waves of heat rose from the oblong pit that dominated the room. That heat was overwhelmed, however, by the mist in the air, and the low fog that clung to the stones.
Standing at the edge of that pit, Ravel and the others could not but appreciate the sheer power of the beast below: a frothing, roiling, primordial power chewing stones into lava and burping gouts of heavy slag upward.
But no less impressive was the containment of that volcanic monster, a cyclone of thick watery power spinning around the sides of the pit from the lip all the way down to the primordial. More water ran down continually from the high ceiling, thin lines, perhaps, but no doubt keeping the equilibrium of the room intact.
“Elementals,” Brack’thal Xorlarrin breathed. “Scores of them.”
Ravel looked at his older brother skeptically, but did not challenge his words. He knew better than to do so, for Brack’thal was a student of the old schools of magic, primarily engaged in summoning this very type of beast to his side. His powers had decreased tremendously with the Spellplague and the fall of Mystra’s Weave, but in his day, he had often been seen wandering the ways of Menzoberranzan, a watery or fiery companion at his side and leaving a trail of droplets or smoke through the streets.
The younger spellspinner looked to his sister as Brack’thal finished, and Berellip merely nodded, seeming unsurprised. Only then did Ravel come to fully comprehend why Matron Zeerith had insisted that he take Brack’thal along on the expedition, and why Berellip had recalled him from his other duties as the tunnel to this room was being cleared by the goblin slaves.
Once again, as with his last conversation with Tiago, the young spellspinner felt as if he were standing on sand rather than stone. So much of this expedition, his expedition, seemed to be comprised of people plotting around him and above him. Why hadn’t Matron Zeerith simply explained to him why she thought Brack’thal might prove to be a worthy addition? Why hadn’t Tiago Baenre simply explained to him the presence of Gol’fanin, so that the blacksmith might walk openly among the ranks, in a position of proper respect and station, instead of as a mere commoner?
Ravel looked into the pit, down through the cyclonic watery turmoil to the fiery eye of the godlike beast, and laughed at his own foolishness. Why? Because they were drow, after all, and knowledge was power, and power was not, was never, to be willingly shared!
“They are done,” he heard Berellip say, and when he looked up, he realized that she was speaking directly to him. She guided his gaze down to the right, where a stone bridge had once stood. With giant mushroom planks hauled along from the deeper Underdark, goblin and orc workers had already reconstructed a walkway across the pit. It was comprised only of four long and thick pieces, interlocked so that it was triple thick in the middle and singular at either end.
Saribel had overseen the project, along with Jearth, and now the two prodded a group of heavy bugbears across the walkway, testing its integrity. It didn’t even bow.
Tiago Baenre and one of his “servants,” who was, of course, really Gol’fanin, joined the Xorlarrins in their march across the way, to a low archway and a second, much smaller chamber set with a single large lever in its floor. Blood stains showed on the handle.
“These are not so old,” Saribel said of the stains after casting a minor divination.
“Someone put the primordial back in its hole,” Brack’thal announced, and all eyes turned his way.
He peered back under the archway and pointed up toward the high ceiling over the fiery pit, where water continued to flow into the primordial chamber. Then he pointed back at the lever. “This released the elementals into their guardian position.”
“You cannot know that,” Berellip said, but Brack’thal continued to nod against her doubts.
“I have already seen the channels that bring them in, like great roots throughout the tunnels of Gauntlgrym,” the elder wizard replied. He pointed to the lever again. “The primordial is contained. Someone has completed our major task for us.”
“Need we free the beast again to refire the forges, then?” asked Tiago.
Five sets of Xorlarrin eyes stared at him incredulously, and even his “servant,” old Gol’fanin, dared a bit of a laugh at his expense.
“If you intend to do so, then please alert me first,” Brack’thal said, “that I might be well on my way to Menzoberranzan to inform your Matron Mother Quenthel that we found Gauntlgrym, but you decided to blow it up.”
Tiago straightened. Tiago was not amused.
A sudden look of panic crossed Brack’thal Xorlarrin’s face, as he realized, as everyone around him realized, that he had gone too far in mocking the proud Baenre. “There will be another room, another control,” he stammered, “to channel power to the forges. For surely this beast is the source of their legendary powers—what else could it be?”
“Then find it,” Tiago said evenly, and he didn’t blink. Had he leaped over then and lopped off Brack’thal’s head, no one in the small room would have been the least bit surprised.
“Now,” he added when Brack’thal hesitated and dared look away from him to Berellip.
Berellip wisely nodded, but Brack’thal was already moving anyway, out of the room and across the mushroom stalk bridge.
Tiago followed soon after, motioning for Gol’fanin to follow, and casting a stern and threatening glance Ravel’s way as he went.
“Cursed Baenres,” Saribel muttered with open contempt when he was out of the primordial chamber.
In his thoughts, Ravel Xorlarrin felt the floor shift under his feet just a little bit more.
They found the second room soon after, as Brack’thal had predicted, beneath a secret panel in the flooring of one of the forges in the line. This particular forge was not a forge at all, but a clever disguise to hide the sub-chamber.
It didn’t take the skilled blacksmith, Gol’fanin, long to decipher the multitude of levers, cranks, and wheels in the steamy room. Each group of three led to one of the forges in the long line, and a combination of throwing a lever switch and turning the crank and wheel would determine how much of the primordial’s heat and sheer energy would be allowed into the respective forge. A double set of larger controls across from the others was obviously for the main forge.
“Fire up the minor ovens first,” Gol’fanin advised Ravel, who joined him, Jearth and Tiago in the lower chamber. “One at a time and slowly. That will reveal to us how contained the primordial beast truly might be.”
Ravel looked to Jearth first, his grin telling, and Jearth, after a brief shake of his head, could only return the look.
“No,” the spellspinner said. “The main forge will be the first fired.”
“We do not know if the chimney to that forge and through that forge is intact,” Gol’fanin argued. “It would be best to allow any escape of primordial power through a narrower chamber, would it not?”
“In the short term, perhaps,” said Ravel. “But I prefer to gain an advantage where I find it.”
“And if a substantial portion of primordial energy is released to wreak havoc?” Tiago asked.
“We blame Brack’thal,” Ravel replied without hesitation.
“He takes the blame, but you take the credit,” Tiago remarked.
“As it should be,” said Ravel, and he started for the metal ladder leading back to the forge room. He paused before the first rung, though, and turned back on the others. “Not a word of this,” he said.
“I like you more than I like Berellip, though that bar is, admittedly, low,” Tiago replied.
“And I need the main forge,” Gol’fanin added.
They all assembled in the forge room soon after, more than a hundred dark elves and even a few of the driders.
Ravel nodded to Gol’fanin, having decided to let the blacksmith have the honors, though few knew the true identity of Tiago’s “servant.” The older drow stooped low, entered the oven of the false forge, and climbed down the ladder.
Moments later, the forge room reverberated with a series of bangs and even small explosions, and the sound of heavy stones sliding across each other.
A gasp beside Ravel turned his gaze to the main forge, and the sudden glow that shined deep in its thick recesses. The spellspinner licked his lips and moved closer as the flames within began to mount. He bent low, but stood up straight in surprise when he noted several small, impish creatures of pure fire begin dancing within the forge.
And several became a score, and a score became a thousand, and all the room gasped loudly as the light and warmth poured forth, many drow shielding their sensitive eyes. And it was more than the light and the strength of the flames that had brought the response, for Ravel felt it clearly: There was magical energy in there. It wasn’t just a fire that needed no fuel, wasn’t just a hotter fire that could better melt all alloys. No, this fire was different. This fire was truly alive, magically alive, with a thousand elementals ready to lend their magical energies to any implements created within.
Returned from the sub-chamber, Tiago Baenre came up beside the mesmerized spellspinner, Gol’fanin close behind.
“Is it what you expected?” Ravel managed to ask Gol’fanin.
“Beyond,” the old blacksmith breathed.
“My weapons will be the envy of Menzoberranzan,” Tiago remarked, and Ravel glanced at him, then at Gol’fanin, whose awe-stricken expression showed that he did not disagree with that statement.
Ravel instinctively glanced across the way, to Jearth, and wondered what price he might have to pay for his bargain with Tiago.
“This is working as designed,” Gol’fanin said, drawing him back. “Quite ingenious and perfect in its simplicity. The primordial hungers to be free, and so it embraces these channels, these little specks of freedom. It gives a bit of its life to those pieces that escape to the forge oven, and look how they dance!”
“And the lines are holding?” Ravel asked.
Gol’fanin gave a noncommittal shrug. “The valves are open, though not fully. If the primordial could break free, it would do so—would likely have already done so.”
“And the other forges,” Ravel prompted. “We must fire them.”
“One at a time until we are certain of their integrity,” the blacksmith advised.
“See to it,” Ravel answered. He waved Jearth over to join them. Brack’thal came, too, which Ravel did not question. Indeed, at that time and with what was before them, perhaps even his idiot brother might prove of some worth.
“Explain to them what they might need do if any of the forges fail,” Ravel instructed Tiago, though both knew he was really addressing Gol’fanin, who seemed to understand what was going on better than anyone.
Most of the drow and all of the driders were dismissed then, back to their work in the other halls, exploring, flushing out ghosts and other unwanted creatures, and fortifying the defenses, and throughout the rest of that long day, the forges of Gauntlgrym flickered to life, one after another. Only one of the two-score in the room had any problems initially, and a host of tiny elementals found their way into the room and caused quite a commotion, spitting stinging fireballs at any who ventured near and lighting lines of flame with sudden bursts as they ran this way and that.
But the drow wizards controlled it quickly, and particularly effective was Brack’thal, once a master of elemental summoning and control. While Tiago and Jearth and their charges destroyed the nasty little creatures, Brack’thal brought them to himself, and controlled them, and willed them to merge, and by the time Ravel, Berellip, and Saribel came back into the forge room, their planning session interrupted by shouts of the commotion echoing down the halls, Brack’thal had quite a formidable fire elemental standing beside him.
As expected, the stares of the two Xorlarrin spellspinners locked, and it occurred to Ravel that Brack’thal had gained a significant upper hand over him in that moment, just in that one moment. He pried his gaze away and noted particularly the wry grin on Berellip’s face, and knew that she agreed with that assessment, and seemed a bit too pleased with it for Ravel’s liking.
“Destroy it,” Ravel ordered his brother.
Brack’thal looked back at him skeptically.
“Put it in the main forge, then!” Ravel demanded.
“Yes, the main forge,” Brack’thal answered, and he turned to regard it. “I wonder what pets I might pull from there.”
“Brother,” Berellip warned.
Brack’thal turned back at the sound of Berellip’s voice. “It is an intriguing thought, you must admit,” he said, and he started to wave away his pet elemental, which stood as tall and twice as wide as he.
But he stopped short. “No,” he said, looking back to Ravel. “I think I will keep this one for now. It will be of great service in my duties in the outer halls.”
“Your duties are here now,” Ravel replied. “We have many more forges yet to light.”
“Then perhaps when I am done, I will have an even larger escort to the outer halls,” Brack’thal said slyly, and he walked off toward the as yet unlit forges. “Do tell your lackey to continue, young Baenre,” he said. “All is under control.”
Ravel’s eyes narrowed and he began whispering, as if in spellcasting, as if he meant to punish his obstinate brother then and there.
But a look from Berellip dispelled that foolish notion.
She wasn’t any more comfortable with Brack’thal playing with fire than Ravel was, the spellspinner understood, but he recognized, too, that Berellip was truly enjoying his discomfort.
With a wicked little laugh, Berellip signaled Saribel and Ravel back to their private meeting.
Ravel was the last of the three out of the room. He paused at the door to regard Brack’thal, to regard Brack’thal’s elemental. This day had been the pinnacle of his achievement to date, even greater than the initial discovery of Gauntlgrym. The promise of those forges, he knew, would stand as the cornerstone of House Xorlarrin’s plans, for they needed more than an empty dwarven complex if they truly wished to break free of the stifling ruling Houses of Menzoberranzan. They needed the magic of Gauntlgrym, the promise of magnificent arms and armor and implements. They needed Tiago to return to Menzoberranzan armed with swords that would make every drow warrior drool with envy.
But they were playing with fire, and so this day had also been the scariest of the journey thus far.
Much as he had done when the main forge had fired, Ravel licked his lips and went to his sister’s command.