Drizzt regained his composure by considering his friend—his beloved companion of so many decades who stood in the entry hall of the place that had been the focus of his life for more than half a century. Tears rimmed Bruenor’s eyes, and his breath came in uneven gasps, as if he kept forgetting to breathe, then had to force the air in and out.

“Elf,” he whispered. “Do ye see it, elf?”

“In all its glory, my friend,” Drizzt replied. He started to say something more, but Bruenor began drifting away from him, as if pulled by some unseen force.

The dwarf walked across the room, not looking left or right, his eyes fixated on his goal, as if it, the throne, was calling out to him. He stepped up to the small dais, the other four hustling to catch up

“Don’t ye do it!” Athrogate started to warn him, but Jarlaxle hushed the dwarf.

Bruenor tentatively reached out to touch the arm of the fabulous throne.

He retracted his hand immediately and leaped back, eyes wide. He hopped in circles, eyes darting to and fro, hands out wide as if he were uncertain whether to flee or fight.

The others rushed over, and Bruenor visibly relaxed then turned back to the throne.

“What happened?” Athrogate asked.

Bruenor pointed to the throne. “No regular chair.”

“Ye’re tellin’ me?” Athrogate, who had been thrown across the room by the power of that throne, replied.

Bruenor looked at him with a furrowed brow.

“Aye, she’s quite the fabulous work,” Athrogate agreed after a glance at Jarlaxle.

“More than that,” a breathless Bruenor said.

“Imbued with magic,” Dahlia reasoned.

“Thick with magic,” Jarlaxle assured her.

“Thick with memory,” Bruenor corrected.

Drizzt moved up beside Bruenor and slowly reached out toward the chair.

“Don’t ye do that,” Bruenor warned. “Not yerself and not him, most of all,” he added, indicating Jarlaxle. “Not any o’ ye. Just meself.”

Looking to Jarlaxle, who nodded, Drizzt demanded of his fellow Menzoberranyr, “What do you know?”

“Know?” Jarlaxle replied. “I know what I hoped. This place is full of ghosts, full of magic, and full of memory. My hope was that a Delzoun king—our friend Bruenor here—might find a way to tap into those memories.” He was looking at Bruenor by the time he finished, and Drizzt and the others, too, regarded the dwarf king.

Bruenor steadied himself. “Let’s see, then,” he declared.

He took a deep breath and boldly strode forward up onto the dais to stand before the throne. Hands on hips, he stared at it for a long while then nodded, turned, and plopped down on the chair, pointedly grabbing the arms as he did.

Athrogate gasped and ducked his head.

But Bruenor wasn’t rejected by the ancient throne. He stared back at his four friends for just a few heartbeats … then they were gone. Their forms shivered and wavered then dissipated into nothingness.

The dwarf was not alone. The room around him teemed with his kin and echoed with the whispers of a thousand conversations.

Bruenor steeled himself and did not panic. It was the magic of the throne, he told himself. He had not been taken from his friends, nor they from him, but his mind was looking backward across the centuries, back to the time of Gauntlgrym.

Before him stood a group of elves, most in the type of robes one would expect a wizard to wear, and beside them stood important-looking dwarves—clan leaders, obviously, given their regalia and posture.

Bruenor had to consciously force himself to breathe when he noted one wearing the foaming mug crest of Clan Battlehammer emblazoned on his breastplate. Gandalug! Was it Gandalug, the First and Ninth King of Mithral Hall? Could it be?

Certainly the dwarf resembled the founder of Mithral Hall, but more likely, it was Gandalug’s father, or his father’s father. Gandalug, after all, had never mentioned Gauntlgrym in the short time Bruenor had known him, after his escape from the drow time prison, and Gauntlgrym was too much older than Mithral Hall, by Bruenor’s understanding, for that to be Gandalug Battlehammer.

Bruenor knew then, though, that the symbol on the dwarf’s breastplate, the foaming mug crest, was not a coincidence. It was indeed the forefather of Mithral Hall standing before him, standing before the king of Gauntlgrym. A sense of community, of timelessness, and of being a part of something greater washed over Bruenor, flooding him with warmth and serenity.

Bruenor forced himself to get past that tantalizing distraction and focus on the moment at hand. He came to know then that he was seeing through the eyes of the king of Gauntlgrym, as if his own consciousness had crossed the seas of time to be afforded a seat at a time long past. He worked hard to clear his mind, then, to let himself simply absorb what he saw and leave the interpretation of it for later on.

His other senses joined in, and soon he was hearing more clearly the conversations around him.

They were talking about the Hosttower of the Arcane. The elf visitors were from the Hosttower. They were talking about the tendrils of magic and trapping a primordial to fire the furnaces of Gauntlgrym.

Bruenor could hardly believe the scene unfolding before him. The elves were concerned that their gift to the dwarves would be stolen by their dark-skinned relatives, the drow, to wreak devastation on all of Faerûn. The dwarves argued strenuously. One pointed out that they had discussed all of that before the Delzoun Clan had helped build the Hosttower in the distant village.

Village … not city.

Bruenor could feel the tension of his host, the dwarf king who sat on the throne of Gauntlgrym. He could feel the king’s muscles clenching as surely as if they were his own, and indeed, he wondered if his friends were looking upon his own corporeal form in that distant future place, to see him grabbing the arms of the throne and squirming in growing anger.

An elf woman stepped forward—she reminded Bruenor very much of Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon. She spoke in a dialect Bruenor couldn’t easily understand, an ancient Dwarvish broken by her Elvish accent, but he figured out that she was promising the king that her people would abide by their agreement.

“Boot ye moost know ourne terrors on the beast bayin’ freyed,” she warbled. “Und te drow pushing fires to the Aboove.”

“Ain’t no drow fer to be in me kingdom,” the dwarf replied flatly.

“Ain’t be yer choosin,” she agreed.

“Ain’t to be!”

Bruenor’s head spun as they continued their discussion. It was the most critical moment of the Delzoun Clan, he realized. It was the critical moment of their bargain with the wizards, when the Hosttower of the Arcane had repaid them with the power to fashion the legendary weapons and armor of old. That bargain had given the Delzoun clan supremacy among their kin in the North, and had spawned the kingdoms that had survived to Bruenor’s day.

He was privy to, looked in upon, the greatest moment in his clan’s history, perhaps the greatest moment in the history of Faerûn’s dwarves.

“Ye’ll have yer fires,” the regal elf finished, and bowed.

The room blurred again, the images wavering like the rising air off hot stone on a blistering sunny day.

For a moment, Drizzt and the others began taking shape again before him, but the dwarf rejected that. Not now! He couldn’t return to them yet. There was too much yet to learn.

“Bruenor!” he heard Drizzt say, but the dwarf king let the drow’s voice slide past him, let it fall away to nothingness as he retreated across the centuries.

That image faded and another replaced it. He wasn’t in the audience chamber any longer. He saw a pair of elves holding hands and standing in front of an opened alcove in a wall. Within lay a bowl of water, not so different from those Jarlaxle had brought with them. The water in that bowl rotated as the elves chanted, calling it forth. It swirled into a mist, and that mist grew into a living form, somewhat humanoid in shape.

It stood tiny within the alcove at first. The water in the bowl was not the whole of the beast, but merely a conduit to bring it forth. And so it grew, soon filling the small alcove, and seemed as if it would burst out of that hole like a great breaking wave.

Something caught it and pulled it from inside the wall, and Bruenor watched as the elemental elongated upward and was swept up a chimney within the alcove hole. He understood then that a tendril from the Hosttower was at the top of that chimney, that the elemental had been swept into place as a living bar for the primordial’s cage.

And so it went, from spot to spot, the elves setting the magic bowls in place.

Bruenor lost track of time as the corridors of Gauntlgrym rolled past him. He saw, in his mind, through the eyes of Gauntlgrym’s king—whose name he still did not know—the great and legendary Forge of Gauntlgrym, and the image was tangible, as if he were actually there.

The whole of the complex became familiar to him, as if his Delzoun blood was imparting the memories from that unknown king unto him. He understood the role the dwarves had played in creating the Hosttower of the Arcane, and the responding gift the elves had given to Gauntlgrym.

He saw the forge room, the legendary Forge of Gauntlgrym, and he was inspired.

And he saw the primordial, freed of the great depths and trapped in the fire chamber beneath the forge, and he was afraid.

That was no orc king, no giant, no dragon even. It was an earth-bound godhead, a literal force of nature that could alter the shape of continents.

What could he do against that?

He witnessed the flood of water as the tendrils of the Hosttower were first activated, bringing nourishment and ocean power to the trapped elementals. He saw and heard the great rush of living water rumble into the critical chamber, dive over the rim, and spin powerfully around the shaft above the primordial forevermore—or so they all hoped.

He saw the Forge of Gauntlgrym light for the first time with primordial power, its glow reflecting on the awe-stricken faces of dwarf and elf alike, and he knew that he was at the moment of the greatest glory his people had ever known.

Then he was back in the audience chamber, a thousand dwarves hoisting foamy mugs high in celebration. Tears streaked the king’s face, and Bruenor knew not if they were his or those of his host.

The sound dulled, the image blurred, the forms wavered and lost all color. Then the sound around him was replaced by the din of battle, and the dwarves of old were ghosts, and nothing more.

And he was Bruenor Battlehammer again, just Bruenor, sitting on a throne in the middle of a circular room while his four companions fought for their lives against a swarm of tall, slender humanoid creatures, standing as men and holding spears and tridents as men might, but with fire flaring and bursting angrily around their feet—no, not feet, but tails. They were as men only from the waist up. The rest of them slithered across the rough stone like snakes. Long spikes of black bone bristled from their backs, and twisted antlers grew from their heads.

A vague old memory came to Bruenor then. He knew them—had heard tell of them. Elemental-kin. Salamanders.

Bruenor’s eyes opened wide, and with a roar he leaped from the throne, setting his shield and pulling forth his axe as he went. To those around him who turned at his yell, friend and foe alike, the dwarf seemed to swell with power and strength, his muscles thickening, his eyes flaring with an inner fire.