It never ceased to amaze Entreri how easily these dark elves fought so well with two weapons of equal length. He whipped his thin leather belt from his breeches and looped it double in his free left hand, waving it and his sword out in front to keep his opponent at bay.
"You side with Drizzt Do'Urden!" the drow accused.
"I do not side with you," Entreri corrected. The drow came at him hard, swords crossing, going back out wide, then crossing in close again, forcing Entreri to bat them with his own sword, then promptly retreat. The attack was skilled and deceptively quick,
but Entreri immediately recognized the primary difference between this drow and Drizzt, the subtle level of skill that elevated Drizzt-and Entreri, for that matter-from these other fighters. The double crossing attack had been launched as finely as any Entreri had ever seen, but during the few seconds he had taken to execute the maneuver, the dark elf's defenses had not been aligned. Like so many other fine fighters, this drow was a one-way warrior, perfect on the attack, perfect on defense, but not perfect on both at the same time.
It was a minor thing; the drow's quickness compensated so well that most fighters would never have noticed the apparent weakness. But Entreri was not like most fighters.
Again the drow pressed the attack. One sword darted straight for Entreri's face, only to be swatted aside at the last moment. The second sword came in low, right behind, but Entreri reversed his weapon's momentum and batted the thrusting tip to the ground.
Furiously the drow came on, swords flying, diving for any apparent opening, only to be intercepted by Entreri's sword or hooked and pulled wide by the leather belt.
And all the while the assassin willingly retreated, bided his time, waited for the sure kill.
The swords crossed, went out wide, and crossed again as they charged for Entreri's midsection, the dark elf repeating his initial attack.
The defense had changed, the assassin moving with sudden, terrifying speed.
Entreri's belt looped around the tip of the sword in the drow's right hand, which was crossed under the other, and then the assassin jerked back to his left, pulling the swords tightly together and forcing them both to the side.
The doomed dark elf started backing at once, and both swords easily came free of the awkward belt, but the drow, his defensive balance forfeited in the offensive routine, needed a split second to recover his posture.
Entreri's flashing sword didn't take that split second. It dove hungrily into the drow's exposed left flank, tip twist ing as it weaved its way into the soft flesh beneath the rib cage.
The wounded warrior fell back, his belly wickedly torn, and Entreri did not pursue, instead falling into his balanced battle stance.
"You are dead," he said matter-of-factly as the drow struggled to stand and keep his swords level.
The drow could not dispute the claim, and could not hope, through the blinding and burning agony, to stop the assassin's impending attack. He dropped his weapons to the floor and announced, "I yield."
"Well spoken, Entreri congratulated him, then the assassin drove his sword into the foolish dark elf's heart.
He cleaned the blade on his victim's piwafwi, retrieved his precious dagger, then turned to regard the empty tunnel, running fairly straight both ways beyond the range of his somewhat limited infravision. "Now, dear Drizzt," he said loudly, "things are as I had planned." Entreri smiled, congratulating himself for so perfectly manipulating such a dangerous situation.
"I have not forgotten the sewers of Calimport, Drizzt Do'Urden!" he shouted, his anger suddenly boiling over. "Nor have I forgiven!"
Entreri calmed at once, reminding himself that his rage had been his weakness on that occasion when he had battled Drizzt in the southern city.
"Take heart, my respected friend," he said quietly, "for now we can begin our play, as it was always meant to be."
Drizzt circled back to the chute area soon after Entreri had departed. He knew at once what had transpired when he saw the two new corpses, and he realized that none of this had occurred by accident. Drizzt had baited Entreri in the chamber above, had refused to play the game the way the assassin had desired. But Entreri apparently had anticipated Drizzt's reluctance and had prepared, or impro vised, an alternative plan. Now he had Drizzt, just Drizzt, in the lower tunnels, one against one. Now, too, if it came to combat, Drizzt would fight with all his heart, knowing that to win was to at least have some chance of freedom. Drizzt nodded his head, silently congratulating his opportunistic enemy. But Drizzt's priorities were not akin to Entreri's. The dark elf's main concern was to find his way through, to circle back around, that he might rejoin his friends and aid them in their peril. To Drizzt, Entreri was no more than another piece of the larger threat.
If he happened to encounter Entreri on his way, though, Drizzt Do'Urden meant to finish the game.
Chapter 16 Drawing Lines
"I am not pleased," Vierna remarked, standing | with Jarlaxle in the tunnel near the conjured iron wall, with poor Cobble's squashed body I underneath.
"Did you believe it would be so easy?" the mercenary replied. "We have entered the runnels of a fortified dwar ven complex with a contingent of barely fifty soldiers. Fifty against thousands.
"You will recapture your brother," Jarlaxle added, not wanting Vierna to get overly anxious. "My troops are well— trained. Already I have dispatched nearly three dozen, the entire Baenre complement, to the single corridor leading out of Mithril Hall proper. None of Drizzt's allies shall enter that way, and his trapped friends shall not escape." "When the dwarves learn we are about, they will send an army," Vierna reasoned grimly.
"If they learn," Jarlaxle corrected. "The tunnels of Mithril Hall are long. It will take our adversaries some time to muster a significant force-days perhaps. We will be halfway to Menzoberranzan, with Drizzt, before the dwarves are organized."
Vierna paused for a long while, considering her next course of action. There were only two ways up from the bottom level: the chute in the nearby room and winding tunnels some distance to the north. She looked to the room and moved into it to regard
the chute, wondering if she had done wrong in sending only three after Drizzt. She considered ordering her entire force-a dozen drow and the drider-down in pursuit.
"The human will get him," Jarlaxle said to her, as though he had read her mind. "Artemis Entreri knows our enemy better than we; he has battled Drizzt across the wide expanses of the surface world. Also, he wears still the earring, that you might track his progress. Up here we have Drizzt's friends, only a handful by my scouts' reckoning, to deal with."
"And if Drizzt eludes Entreri?" Vierna asked.
"There are only two ways up," Jarlaxle reminded her again.
Vierna nodded, her decision made, and walked across to the chute. She took a small wand out of a fold in her orna mental robes and closed her eyes, beginning a soft chant. Slowly and deliberately, Vierna traced precise lines across the opening, the tip of the wand spewing sticky filament. Perfectly, the priestess outlined a spiderweb of thin strands, covering the opening. Vierna stepped back to examine her work. From a pouch she produced a packet of fine dust, and, beginning a second chant, she sprinkled it over the web. Immediately the strands thickened and took on a black and silvery luster. Then the shine faded and the warmth of the enchantment's energy cooled to room temperature, leaving the strands practically invisible.
"Now there is one way up," Vierna announced to Jar laxle. "No weapon can cut the strands."
"To the north, then," Jarlaxle agreed. "I have sent a handful of runners ahead to guard the lower tunnels."
"Drizzt and his friends must not join," Vierna instructed.
"If Drizzt sees his friends again, they will already be dead," the cocky mercenary replied with all confidence.
"There may be another way into the room," Wulfgar offered. "If we could strike at them from both sides-"
"Drizzt is gone from the place," Bruenor interrupted, the dwarf fingering the m
agical locket and looking to the floor, sensing that his friend was somewhere below them.
"When we've killed all our enemies, yer friend'll find us," Pwent reasoned.
Wulfgar, still holding the battlerager off the ground by his helmet spike, gave him a little shake.
"I've no heart for fighting drow," Bruenor replied, and he gave both Catti-brie and Wulfgar concerned sidelong glances, "not like this. We're to keep away from them if we can, hit at 'em only when we find the need."
"We could go back and get Dagna," Wulfgar offered, "and sweep the tunnels clean of dark elves."
Bruenor looked to the maze of corridors that would bring him back to the dwarven complex, considering the path. He and his friends could lose perhaps an hour in working their roundabout way to Mithril Hall, and several hours more in rounding up a sizable force. Those were several hours that Drizzt probably didn't have to spare.
"We go for Drizzt," Catti-brie decided firmly. "We got yer locket to point us right, and Guenhwyvar will take us to him."
Bruenor knew Pwent would readily agree to anything that opened the possibility for a fight, and Guenhwyvar's fur was ruffled, the panther anxious, sleek muscles tense. The dwarf looked to Wulfgar and nearly spat at the lad for the worried, condescending expression splayed across his face as he studied Catti-brie.
Without warning, Guenhwyvar froze in place, issuing a low, quiet growl. Catti-brie immediately doused the low— burning torch and crouched low, using the red-glowing dots of dwarven eyes to keep her bearings.
The group came closer together, Bruenor whispering for the others to remain in the side chamber while he went out to see what the cat had sensed.
"Drow," he explained when he returned a moment later, Guenhwyvar at his side, "just a handful, moving fast and to the north."
"Handful o' dead drow," Pwent corrected. The others could hear the battlerager eagerly rubbing his hands together, the shoulder joints of his armor scraping too noisily.
"No fighting!" Bruenor whispered as loudly as he dared, and he grabbed Pwent's arms to stop the motion. "I'm thinking that this group might have an idea of where to find Drizzt, that they're out looking for him, but we got no chance of keeping up with them without light."
"And if we put up the torch, we'll find ourselves fighting soon enough," Catti-brie reasoned.
"Then light the damned torch!" Pwent said hopefully.
"Shut yer mouth," Bruenor answered. "We're going out slow and easy-and ye keep the torch, make it two torches, ready for lighting at the first signs of a fight," he told Wulf gar. Then he motioned to Guenhwyvar to lead them, bid ding the cat to keep the pace slow.
Pwent shoved his large flask into Catti-brie's hand as soon as they exited the tunnel. "Take a hit o' this," he instructed, "axvdpaa?. about."
Catti-brie blindly moved her hands about the item, finally discerning it to be a flask. She gingerly sniffed the foul-smelling liquid and started to hand it back.
"Ye'll think the better of it when a drow elf puts a poi soned dart into yer backside," the crude battlerager explained, patting Catti-brie on the rump. "With this stuff flowing about yer blood, no poison's got a chance!"
Reminding herself that Drizzt was in trouble, the young woman took a deep draw on the flask, then coughed and stumbled to the side. For a moment, she saw eight dwarf eyes and four cat eyes staring at her, but the double vision soon went away and she passed the flask on to Bruenor.
Bruenor handled it easily, offering a sigh and a profound, though quiet, belch when he had finished. "Warms yer toes," he explained to Wulfgar when he passed it along.
After Wulfgar had recovered, the group set off, Guen hwyvar's padded paws quietly marking the way, and Pwent's armor squealing noisily with every eager stride.
Forty battle-ready dwarves followed the stomping boots of General Dagna through the lower mines of Mithril Hall to the final guardroom.
"We'll make right for the goblin hall," the general explained to his charges, "and branch out from there." He went on to instruct the door guards, setting up a series of
tapping signals and leaving directions for any subsequent troops that came in, explicitly commanding that no dwarves in groups less than a dozen were to be allowed into the new sections.
Then stern Dagna put his soldiers in line, placed himself bravely and proudly at their lead, and moved through the opened door. Dagna really didn't believe that Bruenor was in peril, figured that perhaps a pocket of goblin resistance or some other minor inconvenience remained to be cleared. But the general was a conservative commander, preferring overkill to even odds, and he would take no chances where Bruenor's safety was concerned.
The heavy footsteps of hard boots, clanking armor, and even a grumbling war chant now and then heralded the approach of the force, and every third dwarf held a torch. Dagna had no reason to believe that this formidable force would need stealth, and hoped that Bruenor and any other allies who might be wandering about down here would be able to find the boisterous troupe.
Dagna didn't know about the dark elves.
The dwarves' rolling pace soon got them near the first intersection, in sight of the piled ettin bones from Brue nor's long-ago kill. Dagna called for "side watchers" and started forward, meaning to continue straight ahead, straight for the main chamber of the goblin battle. Before he even reached the side passage, Dagna slowed his troops and called for a measure of quiet.
The general glanced all about curiously, nervously, as he began to cross through the wider intersection. His warrior instincts, honed over three centuries of fighting, told him that something wasn't right; the thick layers of hair on the back of his neck tingled weirdly.
Then the lights went out.
At first, the dwarf general thought something had extinguished the torches, but he quickly realized, from the clamor arising behind him and from the fact that his infravision, when he was able to refocus his eyes, was utterly useless, that something more ominous had occurred.
"Darkness!" cried one dwarf.
"Wizards!" howled another.
Dagna heard his companions jostle about, heard some thing whistle by his ear, followed by the grunt of one of his undercommanders standing immediately behind him. Instinctively, the general began to backtrack, and, only a few short strides later, he emerged from the globe of conjured darkness to find his charges rushing all around. A second globe of darkness had split the dwarven force almost exactly in half, and those in front of the spell were calling out to those caught within it and to those behind, trying to muster some organization.
"Wedge up!" Dagna cried above the tumult, demanding the most basic of dwarven battle formations. "It's a spell of darkness, nothing more!" Beside the general, a dwarf clutched at his chest, pulled out some small type of dart that Dagna did not recognize, and tumbled to the ground, snoring before he ever hit the stone.
Something nicked at Dagna's shin, but he ignored it and continued his commands, trying to orient the group into a single and unified fighting unit. He sent five dwarves rushing out to the right flank, around the darkness globe and into the beginning of the intersecting passage.
"Find me that damned wizard!" he ordered them. "And find out what in the Nine Hells we're fighting against!"
Dagna's frustration only fueled his ire, and soon he had the remaining dwarven force in a tight wedge formation, ready to punch through the initial darkness globe.
The five flanking dwarves rambled into the side passage. Once convinced that no enemies lurked down that way, they quickly looped about the blackness globe, head ing for the narrow opening between the sphere and the entryway farther along the main corridor.
Two dark forms emerged from the shadows, dropping to one knee before the dwarves and leveling small cross bows.
The leading dwarf, hit twice, stumbled but still managed to call for the charge. He and his four companions launched themselves at their enemy in full flight, taking no notice until it was too late that other enemies, other dark elves, were levitating above an
d dropping down all about them.
"What the…" a dwarf gasped as a drow nimbly landed beside him, smashing in the side of his skull with a powerfully enchanted mace.
"Hey, yerself ain't Drizzt!" another dwarf managed to remark a split second before a drow sword sliced his throat.
The group leader wanted to call for a retreat, but even as he started to yell, the floor rushed up and swallowed him. It was a fine bed for a sleeping dwarf, but from this slum ber, the vulnerable soldier would never awaken.
In the span of five seconds, only two dwarves remained. "Drow! Drow!" they cried out in warning.
One went down heavily, three arrows in his back. He struggled to get back to his knees, but two dark elves fell over him, hacking with their swords.
The remaining dwarf, rushing back to rejoin Dagna, found himself facing only a single opponent. The drow poked forward with his slender sword; the dwarf accepted the hit and returned it with a vicious axe chop to the side, blasting the drow's arm and rending his fine suit of chain mail.
Past the falling drow and into the darkness the terrified dwarf ran, bursting out the other side of the enchanted globe, right into the front ranks of Dagna's slow-moving wedge.
"Drow!" the frightened dwarf cried once more.
A third globe of darkness came up, connecting the other two. A volley of handcrossbow bolts whipped through, and behind it came the dark elves, skilled at fighting with out the use of their eyes.
Dagna realized that clerics would be needed to battle this dark elven magic, but when he tried to call for a retreat, it came out instead as a most profound yawn.
Something hard hit him on the side of the head, and he felt himself falling.
Amidst the chaos and the impenetrable darkness, the wedge could not be maintained, and the surprised dwarves had little chance against a nearly even number of skilled and prepared dark elves. The dwarves wisely broke ranks, many keeping the presence of mind to reach down and grab a fallen kin, and rushed back the way they had come.
The Legacy Page 17
