“A strange choice of celebratory drink,” Tiago remarked, holding his hand out to refuse Ravel’s offer of a cup. So as not to be rude, the young Baenre drew a small flask from under his coat, unscrewed the top, and took a small swig.
“Why did I let him live?” Ravel asked before Tiago could.
“That is the question most formed by drow fingers at this time, yes,” Tiago replied.
Ravel looked aside, his expression very somber and very sober, despite the libations.
Tiago caught the significance of that look and suppressed the burning urge to prompt the spellspinner as his own curiosity began to bubble.
“Brack’thal’s claims,” Ravel said, shaking his head.
“What of them?”
Ravel looked his Baenre friend directly in the eye. “He was not wrong.”
Tiago tried hard not to reveal his shock, but still he fell back a step.
“I feel it,” Ravel explained.
Tiago shook his head, too emphatically, perhaps. “There is some trick at play here with Brack’thal, some secret item or one old spell returned. His work with the elementals…”
“Impressive work,” Ravel said.
“And you’re fooled by it.”
Ravel took another gulp of Slow Spout. “Let us hope that is the case,” the spellspinner said, and he sounded less than convinced.
A COMPANION'S TRUST
Herzgo Alegni stepped through the shadow gate, arriving in a small chamber built into a stalactite hanging above a vast underground cavern. It had been only two days since the disastrous fight in the forest, but the tiefling warlord was feeling much better. He had used Draygo Quick’s failure to force the withered old warlock into redoubling the efforts to heal him, and to give him more reinforcements.
Herzgo Alegni knew they couldn’t fail again. Not now. Not here. Too much was at stake, and this time, failure would mean the end of his coveted sword and the end of his reputation.
Effron was already in the portal chamber, staring out a small window beside the chamber’s one exit, an open door leading to a landing and a circular stair that ran around the rock mound.
Alegni walked up beside the twisted warlock and pushed him aside. Effron stuck his face into the window opening and tried to hide his surprise.
There before Alegni, across a dark underground pool, loomed the front wall of the ancient dwarven complex of Gauntlgrym, like the facade of a surface fortress, but tucked into the back of the cavern, the castle wall coming up right near to the ceiling. There were parapets up there, Alegni could see; that wall, this whole cavern, including the stalactite in which he stood, had been prepared for defense of the complex.
“Directly below,” Effron said, and Alegni leaned out and looked down, to see another landing just below his position, an ancient war engine set upon it.
“Ballista?” he asked, not quite sure of what he was viewing. It looked like a great mounted crossbow, a ballista, except that it was covered on top with a large fanlike box. A pair of Shadovar moved around down there, working on the contraption.
“An unusual design,” Effron explained. “They are set all around the cavern. Balogoth the historian called them volley guns.”
Alegni looked back from Effron to the ballista, and held up his hand as Effron started to explain what he had meant by that title. For there was no need-the name alone described the purpose of that fanlike box all too well.
“Will it throw?” he called down to the Shadovar on the ledge below.
The pair looked up and fell back a step at the unexpected sight of their warlord.
“Will it throw?” Alegni demanded again when neither answered.
“We do not know, my Lord Alegni,” one replied. “We have replaced the bowstring, but the arms are so ancient, they likely have little tension left in them.”
“Attempt it.”
The two looked at each other, then scrambled to a crate lying nearby-one they had brought from the Shadowfell-and began pulling forth long arrows. One by one, they loaded the fanlike box, sliding the bolts in from behind. Then one shade grabbed the huge crank and slowly pulled back the string.
The throw arms creaked in protest.
“It won’t work,” Effron said, but Alegni didn’t even bother to glance back to look at him.
When the crank was set, the second shade took hold of a lever. This one didn’t move easily, and it took him a long while of trying before he looked to his companion helplessly, and obviously desperately afraid.
They wouldn’t want to fail their warlord, Herzgo Alegni understood, and he liked that show of fear.
After much tinkering, with one shade even crawling under the edge of the box and digging at the wooden catches with a small blade, they finally managed to ease the cartridge into place.
Herzgo Alegni held back a mocking chuckle when they fired the ballista, for only one side, one throwing arm, moved with the release. Out the front came the arrows, barely thrown, more falling off to tumble straight down than actually flying free. And those that did come forth barely cleared the stalactite-the shades could have hand-thrown them farther.
Down below on the cavern floor came a couple of curses and shouts of protest.
“The wood is too old,” Effron said.
“I know that,” Alegni replied. “It is an interesting design.”
“In their day, the many ballistae set in these towers could have filled the air with swarms of arrows,” Effron explained. “It is a design worth copying, I believe, as does Balogoth, who is hard at work in diagramming the crossbows and those curious hoppers.”
Herzgo Alegni swept his gaze around the cavern. “We do not have enough soldiers,” he surmised. “It is too large, and too filled with cover. They will slip through our ranks.”
“There is only one door, as far as we can determine,” Effron replied.
Alegni looked to the vast wall and the single opening in its center. Rails came through that door and a couple of carts, ore carts likely, lay discarded in the sand before the cavern pool.
“As far as we can determine,” he echoed. “Dahlia and her drow companion have been here before, have been inside the complex. If there are other entries, they will know of them.”
“I sent only a single patrol inside the door for that reason,” Effron replied. “Should our enemies get to the door, they will be held by our warriors that we can catch them from behind. The rest of the forces are scattering out among the cavern, trying to cover every angle of approach.”
Effron paused for just a moment as Alegni stared out the window, but there was something remaining, the warlord knew, and so he turned back on the twisted warlock.
“If they are even coming here,” Effron said.
“They are,” Alegni said without hesitation. He knew it to be true, and feared it to be true, for he knew, too, what primordial beast lurked in that ancient complex across the dark pond. “Do you doubt your own hirelings?”
Effron could only shrug at that, for indeed it had been Glorfathel, acting on information from Ambergris, who had informed Herzgo Alegni of the trio’s destination. The Shifter had confirmed to Effron that the three were in the outer tunnels of this region just a short while before, immediately after her failure to barter the panther for the sword, though that bit of information had not been disclosed to the warlord.
Herzgo Alegni scanned the vast cavern, picking out groups of his forces here or there setting positions for the ambush. He noted that all of them were on the near side of the dark pool, though, opposite Gauntlgrym’s wall.
The tiefling licked his lips. It seemed a solid enough plan, for even if the trio managed to get through to the lake, how would they cross and get into the complex before pursuit, in the form of javelins and arrows and magical spells, caught up to them? Still, the thought of them doing just that nagged at Alegni. He had underestimated these three before, to a disastrous outcome.
“Send more into the complex,” he said.
“We can barely keep watch over the
cavern approaches with our forces out here now,” Effron replied. “If we thin the ranks further…”
“If they get in ahead of us, or enter through another door we have not discovered, will we ever find them?” Alegni replied.
“How many?” Effron asked.
“What is inside the door?”
“A large audience hall with several tunnels, some to the mines far below, it would appear, for they have rails as if for ore carts. And some to the upper levels. We have not explored them in any depth.”
“Why not?” the aggravated tiefling demanded.
“My lord, we have been here for only a short while.”
Herzgo Alegni glared at the twisted little tiefling warlock. Effron was correct, of course, and Alegni had to admit that the fact that they had even located this place and had now spread out to put some semblance of an ambush posture into place was indeed impressive. He had to admit it, indeed, but not openly, and never to Effron.
“From where will they enter?”
“There are at least four entry tunnels opposite the wall,” Effron replied.
Alegni’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, his balled fists clenching at his sides.
“I have dispatched patrols along all four!” Effron quickly added, and he seemed to shrink before the specter of Alegni. “We are trying to discern which of them might lead to the surface.”
“Trying?”
Effron didn’t seem to know what to say, or how to react. He held his good hand up plaintively before him, then dropped it and shrugged and shook his head.
“I am not surprised,” Alegni said, turning away. “And I have not forgotten your failure on the bridge in Neverwinter, I assure you.”
“I battled the cat,” the twisted warlock replied, but softly, his voice lost as he tried to maintain some semblance of steady breathing.
“I am used to you disappointing me,” Alegni went on, ignoring his reply. He moved for the door to exit the chamber, but stopped just outside and turned back on Effron, just long enough to add, “You have disappointed me since the day I first saw you.”
Effron fell back as Alegni exited the chamber and, mercifully, moved out of sight-mercifully, because wouldn’t the hulking tiefling have driven his point home even more cruelly had he noted the moisture gathering around Effron’s curiously unmatched eyes?
The hand of Shadovar hunters moved with practiced precision, leap-frogging their way along the lichen-lit corridor. One strong young tiefling huntress rushed up to a jag in the wall, fell flat against it, and peered around and ahead, then held up her fingers-one, two, three-signaling the others.
Zingrawf Bourdadine, a burly male of considerable reputation, glided past her silently into the next position, followed closely by a sorcerer and another fighter, a halfling shade. As they got into their respective positions, they signaled back to the huntress, who held up her fourth finger, clearing the way for the last of the hand, another female tiefling, to move past her.
The huntress eagerly leaned out a bit more, waiting for her companions to call her into the lead. They weren’t ready for her yet, as the last of the band had barely caught up to the next position in line. She stood straighter once more, leaned back, and took a deep breath, preparing for her next dash.
It wasn’t until she put her head back that she realized that something was unusual, that this section of wall wasn’t quite what it had seemed, for it wasn’t just a jut in the wall, but an alcove behind it, one she hadn’t really noticed because it was… occupied.
A hand reached around her and slapped against her mouth. A second came around from the other side, holding a knife that went fast against, and across, her throat.
Artemis Entreri eased her down without a sound.
Alfwin the sorcerer crouched lower and peered ahead more intently, cursing the near absence of light. He had thought the next stretch of corridor clear, and had signaled as such, but now something had the hair on the back of his neck standing.
He focused his senses. Had he heard a slight sound? Had he caught a tiny flash of movement? His upraised hand became a fist, the signal to hold, but it was too late, for the last of this leapfrog cycle, the second tiefling female, was already too near to him, and without cover other than the rubble he had taken as his position.
She crawled up beside him and followed his gaze ahead, to where the corridor bent slightly to the left.
A few heartbeats passed.
The woman pointed to the left-hand wall, right where it curved, and a low overhang that might provide her with some cover. With practiced ease and perfect silence, the skilled warrior moved to that point, and the sorcerer came out behind her, easing along the right-hand wall, trying to get a view beyond his companion.
All seemed clear and quiet. He motioned for her to continue.
She crept beneath the overhang and turned the corner.
A movement farther to the left had her standing faster and turning to defend, but too late as the spinning weapon cracked her against the side of her head and sent her staggering into the middle of the corridor.
Alfwin called out for his trailing companions and stepped forward, wand extended. He tried to sort out the blur of shadowy movement before him, two forms of similar size entangled and crossing the corridor left to right.
He was about to shoot into that tangle, hoping he would hit the right target, when a third option showed, a bit farther along.
As he let fly, so too did his opponent, countering the warlock’s black bolt with a lightning strike.
No, not a bolt of lightning, but a missile sizzling with lightning energy, the sorcerer realized as the streaking arrow burrowed clear through his shoulder to explode against the wall behind him.
He yelped in pain and shock and leveled the wand again. Then he was blind.
The sorcerer’s fiery bolt had stung him, bubbling the skin of his leading forearm, but Drizzt held his ground without flinching and called on his innate drow powers, a remnant of magic from the emanations of the deep Underdark, to fill the corridor before him, the region around the warlock, with a globe of absolute darkness. He kept Taulmaril level, methodically setting a second arrow and letting fly, the glowing arrow seeming to blink out of existence as it disappeared into the darkness.
He had to win, and he had to win fast, he knew, for these tight confines could surely favor a wizard. His enemy might fill the whole of the corridor with a wall of biting flames, or send forth a plague of insects.
Drizzt wouldn’t give him the chance.
He drew back and fired again.
When the fighting broke out up ahead, Zingrawf and his halfling companion signaled back and called back for the tiefling huntress, then turned and advanced, seeing the form fast approaching.
They had no idea that the form was not their female companion, for she lay dead in an alcove.
Entreri rushed to catch up, and he, unlike the burly tiefling in front of him, didn’t hesitate when the corridor brightened suddenly in a flash of lightning.
The halfling warrior separated then, running ahead to join the duo up front, and almost caught up to the spellcaster when they both disappeared into absolute blackness.
Again the burly trailing tiefling stopped, and again Entreri did not, for he knew well the tricks of Drizzt Do’Urden and had seen similar globes of darkness many times in his battles beside and against the drow.
He could have simply skewered the bulky fighter with his sword then, but he saw little fun in that.
“Well met,” he said instead.
The burly male froze for a third heartbeat, then, finally figuring it out, it seemed, and spun around fiercely, sweeping the breadth of the corridor with his large battle-axe.
Entreri, far too clever to be caught by such a clumsy and obvious move, let the weapon harmlessly pass, then waded in behind and thrust his sword into the tiefling’s shoulder. Mocking the lumbering brute with laughter, the assassin easily stepped back to avoid the backhand slash.
Entr
eri could have gone in again-so many openings presented themselves in the tiefling’s awkward posture-but a streak of silver flashed over the tiefling’s shoulder and had Entreri ducking for his life.
He started to call out for Drizzt to cease, but another arrow cracked against the stone, showering Entreri and the tiefling in sparks. Entreri dived to the far side desperately, and knew he was vulnerable to the tiefling now, to that heavy axe.
But his opponent seemed no longer interested. The brute lurched forward and half-turned, showing Entreri a smoking hole in his back where an arrow had struck.
From the darkness globe came the other warrior, backstepping, arms up defensively, and futilely, before him.
A lightning arrow blew right through him and flew on to drive into the chest of the burly tiefling.
Drizzt’s right hand moved in a near-perfect circle, reaching back over his shoulder, accepting an arrow from his enchanted quiver, and coming around to nock, pull, and fire, before beginning its circuit anew.
A line of arrows streamed out, Drizzt swaying the bow, left to right and back again, shooting low and shooting high.
He glanced only once at Dahlia, who crouched atop the warrior she had felled.
An image flashed in Drizzt’s head then, of Dahlia reclining with Artemis Entreri, of Dahlia entwined with Artemis Entreri, locked in passionate play.
Drizzt’s face, so calm and determined until that moment, struck an angry grimace and he stepped forward.
“He is done,” he heard Dahlia say, but he kept firing.
The elf reached up to grab at his arm, but Drizzt pushed past her and increased the barrage, skipping arrows off the stone, left and right, and off the ceiling as well.
“He is done!” Dahlia insisted, but she was speaking of the sorcerer, and Drizzt was aiming past the sorcerer, to the other Shadovar enemies behind his darkness globe, and at a companion he knew to be there.
The corridor flashed like a raging thunderstorm, stone smoking and cracking, the air sizzling with lightning energy.
The burly tiefling warrior somehow continued to stand, though likely more because the repeated blows were holding him aloft than out of any sense of balance or even consciousness.
Charon's claw tns-3 Page 33
