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worry now; he'd find his way through. He gathered up his axe and shield and
headed for the door.
He shook his head and smiled as he approached, for the stubborn duergar
beside the door was awake again - barely - and struggling to find his feet.
Bruenor slammed him into the wall a third time and casually dropped the axe
blade onto his head as he slumped, this time never to awaken. "Twenty-two," the
mighty dwarf reiterated grimly as he stepped into the corridor.
The sound of the closing door echoed through the darkness, and when it died
away, Bruenor heard again the thrumming of the furnaces.
The undercity, his only chance.
He steadied himself with a deep breath, then slapped his axe determinedly
against his shield and started stomping along the corridor toward the beckoning
sound.
It was time to get things done.
The corridor twisted and turned, finally ending in a low archway that opened
into a brightly lit cavern.
For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Bruenor Battlehammer looked
down upon the great undercity of Mithril Hall. Set in a huge chasm, with walls
tiered into steps and lined with decorated doorways, this massive chamber had
once housed the entirety of Clan Battlehammer with many rooms to spare.
The place had remained exactly as the dwarf remembered it, and now, as in
those distant years of his youth, many of the furnaces were bright with fire and
the floor level teemed with the hunched forms of dwarven workers. How many times
had young Bruenor and his friends looked down upon the magnificence of this
place and heard the chiming of the smithies' hammers and the heavy sighing of
the huge bellows? he wondered.
Bruenor spat away the pleasant memories when he reminded himself that these
hunched workers were evil duergar, not his kin. He brought his mind back into
the present and the task at hand. Somehow he had to get across the open floor
and up the tiers on the far side, to a tunnel that would take him higher in the
complex.
A shuffle of boots sent Bruenor back into the shadows of the tunnel. He
gripped his axe tightly and didn't dare to breathe, wondering if the time of his
last glory had finally caught up to him. A patrol of heavily armed duergar
marched up to the archway then continued past, giving only a casual glance down
the tunnel.
Bruenor sighed deeply and scolded himself for his delay. He could not afford
to tarry; every moment he spent in this area was a dangerous gamble. Quickly he
searched for options. He was about halfway up one wall, five tiers from the
floor. One bridge, at the highest tier, traversed the chasm, but no doubt it
would be heavily guarded. Walking alone up there, away from the bustle of the
floor, would make him too conspicuous.
Across the busy floor seemed a better route. The tunnels halfway up the
other wall, almost directly across from where he now stood, would lead him to
the western end of the complex, back to the hall he had first entered on his
return to Mithril Hall, and to the open valley of Keeper's Dale beyond. It was
his best chance, by his estimation - if he could get across the open floor.
He peeked out under the archway for any signs of the returning patrol.
Satisfied that all was clear, he reminded himself that he was a king, the
rightful king of the complex, and boldly stepped out onto the tier. The closest
steps, down were to the right, but the patrol had headed that way and Bruenor
thought it wise to keep clear of them.
His confidence grew with each step. He passed a couple of gray dwarves,
answering their casual greetings with a quick nod and never slowing his stride.
He descended one tier and then another, and before he even had time to
consider his progress, Bruenor found himself bathed in the bright light of the
huge furnaces at the final descent, barely fifteen feet from the floor. He
crouched instinctively at the glow of the light, but he realized on a rational
level that the brightness was actually his ally. Duergar were creatures of the
dark, not accustomed to, nor liking, the light. Those on the floor kept their
hoods pulled low to shield their eyes, and Bruenor did likewise, only improving
his disguise. With the apparently unorganized movements on the floor, he began
to believe that the crossing would be easy.
He moved out slowly at first, gathering speed as he went, but staying in a
crouch, the collar of his cloak pulled up tightly around his cheeks, and his
battered, one-horned helmet dipped low over his brow. Trying to maintain an air
of easiness, Bruenor kept his shield arm at his side, but his other hand rested
comfortably on his belted axe. If it came to blows, Bruenor was determined to be
ready.
He passed by the three central forges - and the cluster of duergar they
attracted - without incident, then waited patiently as a small caravan of
ore-filled wheelbarrows were carted by. Bruenor, trying to keep the easy,
cordial atmosphere, nodded to the passing band, but bile rose in his throat as
he saw the mithril load in the carts and at the thought of the gray scum
extracting the precious metals from the walls of his hallowed homeland.
"Ye'll be paid for yer troubles," he mumbled under his breath. He rubbed a
sleeve over his brow. He had forgotten how very hot the bottom area of the
undercity became when the furnaces were burning. As with everyone else there,
streaks of sweat began to make their way down his face.
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