girl!”
“But ye’re the king,” one of the dwarves cried.
“And the whole world is going mad,” Nanfoodle answered.
Bruenor simmered, on the edge of an explosion. “No,” he said finally, and with a nod to the gnome, who had become one of his most trusted and reliable advisors, he walked across the room to stand before Banak.
“No,” Bruenor said again. “I ain’t the king. Not now.”
A couple of dwarves gasped, but Banak Brawnanvil nodded solemnly, accepting the responsibility he knew to be coming.
“Ye’ve ruled the place before,” said Bruenor. “And I’m knowin’ ye can do it again. Been too long since I seen the road.”
“Ye save yer girl,” the old general replied.
“Can’t give ye Rumblebelly to help ye this time,” Bruenor went on, “but the gnome here’s clever enough.” He looked back at Nanfoodle, who couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected compliment and the trust Bruenor showed in him.
“We’ve many good hands,” Banak agreed.
“Now don’t ye be startin’ another war with Obould,” Bruenor instructed. “Not without me here to swat a few o’ his dogs.”
“Never.”
Bruenor clapped his friend on the shoulder, turned, and started to walk away. A large part of him knew that his responsibilities lay there, where Clan Battlehammer looked to him to lead, particularly in that suddenly troubling time. But a larger part of him denied that. He was the king of Mithral Hall, indeed, but he was the father of Catti-brie and the friend of Regis, as well.
And little else seemed to matter at that dark moment.
He found Drizzt at Garumn’s Gorge, along with as smelly and dirty a dwarf as had ever been known.
“Ready to go, me king!” Thibbledorf Pwent greeted him with enthusiasm. The grisly dwarf hopped to attention, his creased battle armor, all sharpened plates and jagged spikes, creaking and squealing with the sudden motion.
Bruenor looked at the drow, who just closed his eyes, long ago having quit arguing with the likes of the battlerager.
“Ready to go?” Bruenor asked. “With war brewing here?”
Pwent’s eyes flared a bit at that hopeful possibility, but he resolutely shook his head. “Me place is with me king!”
“Brawnanvil’s the Steward o’ Mithral Hall while I’m gone.”
A flash of confusion in the dwarf’s eyes couldn’t take hold. “With me King Bruenor!” Pwent argued. “If ye’re for the road, Pwent and his boys’re for the road!”
At that proclamation, a great cheer came up and several nearby doors banged open. The famed Gutbuster Brigade poured into the wide corridor.
“Oh no, no,” Bruenor scolded. “No, ye ain’t!”
“But me king!” twenty Gutbusters cried in unison.
“I ain’t taking the best brigade Faerûn’s e’er known away from Steward Brawnanvil in this troubled time,” said Bruenor. “No, but I can’t.” He looked Pwent straight in the eye. “None o’ ye. Ain’t got room in the wagon, neither.”
“Bah! We’ll run with ye!” Pwent insisted.
“We’re goin’ on magical shoes and we ain’t got no magical boots for the lot of ye to keep up,” Bruenor explained. “I ain’t doubtin’ that ye’d all run till ye drop dead, but that’d be the end of it. No, me friend, yer place is here, in case that Obould thinks it’s time again for war.” He gave a great sigh and looked to Drizzt for support, muttering, “Me own place is here.”
“And you’ll be back here swiftly,” the drow promised. “Your place now is on the road with me, with Catti-brie and Regis. We’ve no time for foolishness, I warn. Our wagon is waiting.”
“Me king!” Pwent cried. He waved his brigade away, but hustled after Drizzt and Bruenor as they quickly moved to the tunnels that would take them to their troubled friends.
In the end, only four of them left Mithral Hall in the wagon pulled by a team of the best mules that could be found. It wasn’t Pwent who stayed behind, but Regis.
The poor halfling wouldn’t
“But ye’re the king,” one of the dwarves cried.
“And the whole world is going mad,” Nanfoodle answered.
Bruenor simmered, on the edge of an explosion. “No,” he said finally, and with a nod to the gnome, who had become one of his most trusted and reliable advisors, he walked across the room to stand before Banak.
“No,” Bruenor said again. “I ain’t the king. Not now.”
A couple of dwarves gasped, but Banak Brawnanvil nodded solemnly, accepting the responsibility he knew to be coming.
“Ye’ve ruled the place before,” said Bruenor. “And I’m knowin’ ye can do it again. Been too long since I seen the road.”
“Ye save yer girl,” the old general replied.
“Can’t give ye Rumblebelly to help ye this time,” Bruenor went on, “but the gnome here’s clever enough.” He looked back at Nanfoodle, who couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected compliment and the trust Bruenor showed in him.
“We’ve many good hands,” Banak agreed.
“Now don’t ye be startin’ another war with Obould,” Bruenor instructed. “Not without me here to swat a few o’ his dogs.”
“Never.”
Bruenor clapped his friend on the shoulder, turned, and started to walk away. A large part of him knew that his responsibilities lay there, where Clan Battlehammer looked to him to lead, particularly in that suddenly troubling time. But a larger part of him denied that. He was the king of Mithral Hall, indeed, but he was the father of Catti-brie and the friend of Regis, as well.
And little else seemed to matter at that dark moment.
He found Drizzt at Garumn’s Gorge, along with as smelly and dirty a dwarf as had ever been known.
“Ready to go, me king!” Thibbledorf Pwent greeted him with enthusiasm. The grisly dwarf hopped to attention, his creased battle armor, all sharpened plates and jagged spikes, creaking and squealing with the sudden motion.
Bruenor looked at the drow, who just closed his eyes, long ago having quit arguing with the likes of the battlerager.
“Ready to go?” Bruenor asked. “With war brewing here?”
Pwent’s eyes flared a bit at that hopeful possibility, but he resolutely shook his head. “Me place is with me king!”
“Brawnanvil’s the Steward o’ Mithral Hall while I’m gone.”
A flash of confusion in the dwarf’s eyes couldn’t take hold. “With me King Bruenor!” Pwent argued. “If ye’re for the road, Pwent and his boys’re for the road!”
At that proclamation, a great cheer came up and several nearby doors banged open. The famed Gutbuster Brigade poured into the wide corridor.
“Oh no, no,” Bruenor scolded. “No, ye ain’t!”
“But me king!” twenty Gutbusters cried in unison.
“I ain’t taking the best brigade Faerûn’s e’er known away from Steward Brawnanvil in this troubled time,” said Bruenor. “No, but I can’t.” He looked Pwent straight in the eye. “None o’ ye. Ain’t got room in the wagon, neither.”
“Bah! We’ll run with ye!” Pwent insisted.
“We’re goin’ on magical shoes and we ain’t got no magical boots for the lot of ye to keep up,” Bruenor explained. “I ain’t doubtin’ that ye’d all run till ye drop dead, but that’d be the end of it. No, me friend, yer place is here, in case that Obould thinks it’s time again for war.” He gave a great sigh and looked to Drizzt for support, muttering, “Me own place is here.”
“And you’ll be back here swiftly,” the drow promised. “Your place now is on the road with me, with Catti-brie and Regis. We’ve no time for foolishness, I warn. Our wagon is waiting.”
“Me king!” Pwent cried. He waved his brigade away, but hustled after Drizzt and Bruenor as they quickly moved to the tunnels that would take them to their troubled friends.
In the end, only four of them left Mithral Hall in the wagon pulled by a team of the best mules that could be found. It wasn’t Pwent who stayed behind, but Regis.
The poor halfling wouldn’t
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