“I am certain that is north, but it cannot be,” Jarlaxle said, obviously sharing her confusion.
“No, it is,” Catti-brie told him.
“But the sun . . .”
“I think we’re looking right over the top of the world,” Catti-brie explained.
“But—”
A cough from Artemis Entreri cut short Jarlaxle’s reply, and the three rushed to get near to the man. Entreri rubbed his face and with great effort managed to prop himself up on one elbow.
“Bad choice, that drop,” he said, his voice weak.
“The choice saved your life,” Jarlaxle replied. “The whole of the mountainside rolled down and would have buried you and carried you all the way to the bottom, where we would likely never have found you.” He looked at Catti-brie. “Even there beneath the ridge I was afraid we would not find you. Quick thinking, good lady, in bringing Guenhwyvar to your rescue.”
“But where were you?” Catti-brie asked. “Why weren’t you buried with us?”
“Because he’s Jarlaxle,” Entreri said.
“Because we’re drow,” Zaknafein corrected.
“How are you feeling?” Catti-brie asked, slowly kneeling again as Entreri managed to sit up.
“Like a horse kicked my head and the Hosttower fell on my back.” He stopped short and looked all about. “Where’s my hat?”
“Probably under the snow,” Zak said.
“We have to go get it.”
Zak scoffed. “That mountain is miles from here. And uphill.”
Before Entreri could argue, Jarlaxle produced the chapeau and handed it to him. “I thought you might want it.” He looked to Catti-brie, smiled, and produced another item that had been left behind in the snowpack: the figurine of Guenhwyvar. “Exhaust this day’s healing power,” he told her. “On yourself and on Artemis. Let us rest while the fire burns.”
“In here?” she asked. “The cave goes very far back. In a land like this, I doubt many caves are uninhabited.”
“Neither you nor Artemis is fit to travel, I fear. Don’t worry. Zaknafein and I will take turns on watch,” Jarlaxle said. “You two need the rest more than we. And I’ll make a fine meal for when you wake. Zaknafein is a maestro with the blade, to be sure, but merely a novice with the ladle.”
“I’ve seen him fight,” Entreri said. “He could probably beat you with a ladle.” He sucked in his breath, then let out a relieved sigh as Catti-brie sent a wave of healing magic through him.
She used most of her spells, and the effort exhausted her more than it should have, reminding her that she, too, had suffered some grave injuries. So she pulled out her bedroll, set it very near the blazing fire, and crawled in.
She was soon fast asleep.
Zaknafein crept along the winding, now descending tunnel. When he had left his companions, with Catti-brie and Entreri fast asleep, he had promised Jarlaxle that he wouldn’t go far, but he wasn’t about to consider their cave camp secured until they learned if this was someone, or more importantly, something, else’s home.
He looked back the way he had come, much farther than he had intended. He couldn’t ignore the smell, though. There was something more in here than the stone and ice of the floor and walls. He scanned back around, wishing there were more glowworms than the few that offered only a bit of light. Directly across from him, he noted the green eyes of his scouting partner, Guenhwyvar. He could still see the way despite the meager glow with his drow lowlight vision, but a little bit of illumination would help a lot.
Before them was a flight of descending stairs, crudely hewn but certainly crafted by tools, although, by the look of them, that might have been many centuries before. Since each step was almost half Zak’s height, he hoped that to be the case.
Beyond the long descent, the wide passage leveled, then forked, although it seemed that after only a short way, both corridors emptied into the same room, which was lit by a soft red glow.
Zak motioned for Guen to go left, while he moved right.
He slipped into the chamber down low and along the left-hand wall, guessing correctly that the room opened wider to his left than to the right. He peered in and paused, trying to digest the curious sight before him.
The room was noticeably warmer, and Zak figured the heat to be coming from a large globe suspended from the ceiling, which was also providing the red glow. He gave it only a glance, though, too mesmerized by the rest of the chamber. The walls were natural and uneven, but had huge shelves cut into them at various heights, and on each shelf were bundles that looked like bedrolls, perhaps, or large piles of clothing.
Directly across from Zak stood a solitary figure, humanoid but truly giant and hulking, four times his height, he guessed. Stripped to the waist, the behemoth seemed a mass of muscle—it looked to Zak as if King Bruenor or one of his powerful shield dwarfs had been enlarged many times over.
A gigantic double-bladed axe leaned against the wall beside the giant, its pointed tip resting on the behemoth’s shed heavy jerkin, beside a helm adorned with the antlers of a moose, and massive pauldrons fashioned of what looked like monstrous bear skulls.
Zak moved in a bit more to see the rest of the room, and to see if Guenhwyvar had exited the tunnel. He spotted her in the doorway, crouched and waiting, and motioned for her to hold.
The giant seemed to be fiddling with something, and finally turned enough for Zak to make it out.
At first he thought it a huge ball of snow or ice, but when he noted the loving care the brutish giant was showing it, Zak realized that it was an egg.
An egg as large as the ball of flame Catti-brie had produced on the mountainside. And there were more, many more, along the other shelves in the chamber.
The giant rolled the egg over in its hands, then lifted it up toward the glowing ball and peered at it intently.
That’s when Zak noted the giant’s face: shaggy, and with a beard that reached almost to its waist. He couldn’t really tell the behemoth’s skin color, as it was bathed in the red glow, but deep in his memories, all the way back to his studies at the drow Academy, whispers of frost giant entered his thoughts.
He was pondering that when the giant yelled, “Hey!” and put the egg back on the shelf and hoisted the massive axe.
Zak thought to run, even started to turn, but changed his mind and went into the chamber, standing upright and at ease, left hand open and raised. “Bror,” he said, a word he thought might mean “friend” in the ancient language of giants.
Didn’t work.
The giant roared and leaped for him. Zak’s right hand came up, holding a handcrossbow. He fired off a shot before leaping into a roll to his left, coming around to his feet expertly, Khazid’hea in one hand, the magical hilt in his other. Despite his clever evasion, he couldn’t help but grimace at the thunderous sound as the massive axe slammed the corner where he had been, taking stone from the wall.
He noted the small quarrel hanging from the giant’s chest as it turned to face him—the behemoth hadn’t even grunted at the impact—and doubted that any of the poison had gotten through this one’s thick hide.
The second missile to strike the behemoth was more effective, however, as a large black form flew over Zaknafein’s shoulder, lifting high into the air, claws raking ferociously. Lines of blood erupted on the giant’s chest, and Guen’s claws pulled clumps of hair from the great beard as well.
Zak called upon his magical hilt, bringing forth the bullwhip, and charged.
His opponent roared in anger and in pain and brought its right hand slamming onto the panther’s back, then pulled Guenhwyvar free—taking a fair amount of its own skin with her—and hurled her across the room with frightening ease.
The whip cracked at the giant’s shins, cutting lines of fire and lines of blood, and the brute howled all the louder, now obviously in pain, and clearly not much liking the fire. It stumbled for Zak, who rolled between its legs, cutting a backhand across the tree-sized left calf with the fine edge of
Cutter.
He saw Guen then, her haunches unsteady in the shadows, but stubbornly coming forth from the wall.
More importantly, though, he saw the giant, turning, roaring, coming on in measured, deliberate steps, cutting down the distance between them, boxing him in.
Zak backed slowly, trying to measure the room, trying to figure out his best escapes.
The giant charged suddenly, its huge axe sweeping large circles before it, its strides wide and balance steady, ready to spring out left or right as its puny opponent broke.
Zak noted all that instantly, and doubted he’d get far enough to the side in time to avoid being hit.
So, he turned and he ran—not to the side, but straight for the wall, floor shaking from the pursuit.
He reversed his grip on Cutter as he neared the wall, then leaped and stabbed the sword with all his strength and momentum right into the stone. The brilliant Khazid’hea plunged in deep—deep enough to provide a secure foothold as Zak pulled himself up, planting his foot upon the swaying hilt, then sprang from there, upward and turning. And as he came around, so too came the roll of his whip.
Even though he was high off the ground, the giant still loomed above him. But Zak’s anticipated angle proved correct, and the whip snapped across his enemy’s eyes.
Zak dropped, hoping to land and roll out of harm’s way, but the giant just plowed forward into the wall, its leg smashing Zak into the stone, stealing his breath and, he was sure, cracking some ribs.
His whip became a blade of light, and he struck frantically, enough to loosen the dazed and blinded giant’s press and allow him to half run, half fall out to the side.
“Oh, run away, dear Guenhwyvar,” he said when he saw the wounded panther going in at the giant once more. He stumbled, leaning on the wall for support as he tried to catch his breath, and slipped, tumbling into a small alcove—or starting to, until a huge clawed hand smashed into his shoulder, throwing him out from the wall. As he flew away, he brought his sword across desperately, and in the flash of light he caught a brief glimpse of his new assailant.
It was mammoth, but not nearly as much so as the frost giant to the side, and surely not a giantkind or any other humanoid Zak had ever seen. Leaning forward as much on all fours as upright, neckless, it had a massive wide head that was all mouth, with more of a snout than a nose, and tiny, wideset eyes. Zak could barely comprehend it.
He looked into the stuff of nightmares.
And he wished that this was, indeed, just a nightmare.
Guenhwyvar flew above him, hurled again by the wounded giant, and slammed into the wall, where she dropped to the floor in a heap with one last squeal of pain. Zak took only a single step toward her before realizing the futility.
He turned for the hallway and he ran for all his life.
He heard the blinded giant flailing and screaming, then heard a second voice calling for the brute to calm, and in a language Zak understood.
Drow.
Catti-brie sat bolt upright, gasping, “Guenhwyvar.”
She let her eyes adjust to the dim light, the fire burning low beside her. She spotted Jarlaxle a bit farther into the cave, crouching, ready, and peering into the deeper gloom. She looked to Entreri’s bedroll, but he was not there, and she scanned all about for him, and for Zak. She did spot Entreri, moving toward Jarlaxle, but then, on the mercenary leader’s signal, rushing across the cave and disappearing into the shadows as surely as if he had turned invisible.
She pulled out the onyx figurine, holding it close and immediately recognizing that Guenhwyvar was gone, back to her Astral home. And it had been a painful departure, Catti-brie sensed, and feared.
Catti-brie spent a moment considering her magic, sorting her spells, then scrambled to her feet and flicked her belt buckle, bringing Taulmaril into her hand as she rushed to join Jarlaxle.
“What is it?” she whispered. “Where is Zaknafein?”
He held up his hand to urge silence and whispered, “Coming, I think.”
There was some sound deep down the tunnel. Catti-brie slipped to the side a few steps, near a protective jag in the wall. She nocked an arrow and went down to one knee, watching.
Zak came into view, running. Or, rather, stumbling. His right hand, in which he held his sun blade, was up against his left shoulder, while every step made his left arm bounce limply at his side. He started for Jarlaxle, but turned to Catti-brie as soon as he spotted her, and crumpled to the wall beside her.
She was with him immediately, her bow on the floor, her hands guiding her eyes as she tried to inspect his wounds. A deep and vicious gash had been torn right through his fine leather armor and the superb mithral shirt underneath, an ugly wound made by a powerful claw—Catti-brie had to wonder if he had somehow tangled with Guenhwyvar!
The woman dismissed the thought for now and closed her eyes, calling upon the divine powers of the goddess to bring forth a spell of healing. Then she inspected again and was dismayed, for the wound seemed no less foul.
She had to decide how much of her magical energy she would expend with potential enemies approaching, but it was clear to her that having Zaknafein back up and in the fight would be the greatest benefit of all. So she cast again, the most powerful healing she could offer.
The wound mended, though not as much as she would have liked or expected.
She shook her head in frustration. Was there something strange here, magically amiss? Was this a Spellplague returning of sorts? She prayed that it wouldn’t be that, looked down to the tattoos on her forearms, and shook her head. She calmed by reminding herself that the magic had felt somewhat disjointed since they had arrived up here, like everything else. Was it now diminishing?
She put her arms around Zaknafein as he began to slump to the floor, guiding him down softly to a seated position. Then she rushed back to her bedroll and grabbed some bandages and salves, retuning immediately to her work on the weapon master.
His breathing seemed raspy. His entire side was soaked with his blood.
“Well met!” she heard, and it took her a moment to realize that it had been spoken in the Drow language. Not Common, not Undercommon, but decidedly Drow. She jumped up and turned back to Jarlaxle to see another figure approaching him: a woman, a drow.
She looked at Zak and went back to her bow.
The eye under Jarlaxle’s magical eyepatch flickered, and he knew at once both the truth of this visitor and the fact that she was trying to magically read his thoughts.
“Here,” the drow said to him, holding forth Khazid’hea. “I am sorry for the confusion. The giant didn’t know that you were not enemies. I hope your friend isn’t too badly injured. And the great feline—I don’t know where it ran off to.”
It took Jarlaxle a moment to sort through the statements, for while this woman was speaking Drow, little of what she had said would have been understood in Menzoberranzan. She was using an older version of the language, archaic in wording and in dialect. And very different in sentiment.
Ched Nasad. Jarlaxle filled his mind with images of the City of Shimmering Webs and let go of the protective magic of his eyepatch for just a moment, letting the newcomer hear those thoughts. He immediately brought the mental shield back up, however, for the eyepatch’s other property, truesight, had already shown him more than he needed to know.
“Ched Nasad,” he said aloud. “Your accent makes me think you’re from that city, or that your family came from there, at least.” He gave a polite bow, removing his hat for just a moment, which was all he needed.
“Indeed, and quite perceptive,” came the response. “And you’re from?”
“An area not far from you,” Jarlaxle said, and he used the more modern Drow language, hoping to give pause to one of those before him and a call to action to the other. “Near and behind you, if you’re looking south.”
Jarlaxle was looking south. He knew that Artemis Entreri, lost in the shadows of the cave, would understand.
The drow woman
looked at him curiously. “And where is that?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Jarlaxle replied sharply, and he began to monopolize the conversation, excitedly so. He spoke of the City of Shimmering Webs, retelling his journey with Zaknafein, or at least, using that long-ago journey as a basis for his ridiculous and nonsensical blather. He saw the woman narrow her eyes, focusing intently.
Yes, she was indeed trying to get into his thoughts.
Yes, he was holding her attention.
Finally, she held up her hands and bade him to stop, and he did stop.
Talking, at least.
For he began pumping his arms, his bracers putting daggers into his hands that flew off with every downstroke, a line of missiles streaming at the creature, which was not a drow at all.
The monster threw aside the illusion, growing in size, towering over Jarlaxle, and suddenly resembling more a bipedal frog than a drow, with mottled skin, clawed hands, and a huge head and mouth. It batted aside many of the daggers, accepted the hits of many more. A ball of flame came into its hand and it threw the fire at Jarlaxle, forcing the drow to hold and defend, then to fall aside with a yip of pain.
Up came those huge clawed hands and the creature started for the drow, but an arrow sparking with lightning slammed it in the chest and drove it back a step. Another arrow came in, and a third, and the monster threw its hand out toward Catti-brie, and projected a magical, glowing replica of that hand right before her, which grabbed at Taulmaril and held it tight. A second attack on the woman came almost immediately, a ray of fear that enveloped her and told her to run away.
She fought it, and struggled against the grasping magical hand, growing strong enough in defiance to push aside the dweomer of fear and consider her spells.
Jarlaxle caught his balance and brought forth two more daggers, snapping his hands repeatedly to elongate them into swords before turning back to meet the foe.
Starlight Enclave Page 18
