Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  First things first.

  From the high deck of the tram station across the underground pond, Bruenor watched the unfolding battle in the huge and high-ceilinged cave. At this point, the action was all far in the back, with flames exploding and lightning bolts flashing, the bits of sudden light inevitably showing the misshapen forms of demonic foot soldiers. Horns blew notes of coordinated defense for the dwarven strategic positions, and shouts echoed, begging reinforcements at one stalagmite or another, or calls for retreat at positions sure to be quickly overrun.

  Bruenor tried hard to put those horns and shouts out of his mind. His forces had practiced and practiced for this day. They knew their roles, when to fight, how to fight, when to fall back, which positions to let go and which to hold to the last dwarf.

  Bruenor, too, had a role, right here, at the last line of defense before the wall of Gauntlgrym itself.

  Thibbledorf Pwent was lost to him. Athrogate and Ambergris were lost to him. Dagnabbet was queen of Mithral Hall and could not get to his side until those magical gates were at last opened.

  Drizzt was out there, somewhere. Wulfgar wasn’t here but in Luskan. Nor was Regis, who had ridden for Waterdeep. Nor Catti-brie, very pregnant and home in Longsaddle. The dwarf king felt very much alone.

  He glanced to his right, where Jarlaxle and Zaknafein had gone over the wall.

  “So it’s come to this,” he muttered, but he didn’t let any doubts diminish his stubborn and unyielding determination. He was Bruenor, King Bruenor, who had gone forth into Keeper’s Dale to turn back an army.

  He was King Bruenor, who had reclaimed Mithral Hall and brought it to new heights of prosperity and acclaim, who had reclaimed Gauntlgrym and control of the godlike primordial, which powered the most magical forge in Faerun.

  He was King Bruenor, who had united, or would soon unite, the Delzoun dwarves into a singular force.

  Unbeatable.

  Still, he felt much better when two old friends rushed up to join him on that tram platform centered on the outer wall, across the small pond from Gauntlgrym proper.

  “Dere! Dere!” Pikel implored his brother, pointing to a patch of ground between the tram wall and the lake, over to the right, near where the two drow had gone out.

  “Me brother wants ye to . . .” Ivan began, but stopped as Pikel interrupted with “Me brudder!”

  “Aye, he wants ye to bring in yer dwarfs through the gate to the right,” Ivan finished, pointing to the spot Pikel had indicated. “He’s got a bit o’ surprise to hold any demons chasing them in, one that’ll serve ’em up for yer crossbows and catapults.”

  Bruenor looked from one Bouldershoulder to the other, finally nodding to assure them that he trusted them.

  “And here, if I might,” said Ivan, hoisting a large bandolier full of heavy crossbow quarrels of unusual design. He pulled one from the chain and held it up for Bruenor to see. “Old design,” he explained. “One made by Cadderly.”

  “Cadderly! Boom!” said Pikel.

  “Aye, boom,” Ivan agreed, pointing to the open center of the large bolt, which held a tiny flask filled with some liquid and supported only by thin lines of metal from the front half to the back. “When it hits, it folds. When it folds . . .”

  “Boom!” Pikel happily explained.

  “Oil of impact,” Ivan remarked. “Sure that it’ll be leavin’ a mark.”

  “Spread them around, good dwarf,” Bruenor told Ivan.

  “Dere! Dere!” Pikel reiterated, pointing his one arm frantically at the spot to the right.

  “Aye, dere,” Bruenor played along, using the dwarf’s own word.

  “Hee-hee-hee.”

  “Look for the light!” Bruenor shouted to his commanders along the wall. “Tell yer boys all about the cavern that we got friends directing their fire!”

  “Where’re ye needin’ us, me king?” came a call from behind, a woman’s voice, and Bruenor spun about to see his two queens, aptly nicknamed Fist and Fury, hustling up to join him on the platform. Battle-scarred and full of as much fight as Thibbledorf Pwent at a goblin inn, the powerful and battle-ready sister queens surely bolstered Bruenor’s spirits.

  “Right with meself,” he told them, and indeed he needed them, and the Bouldershoulders as well.

  King Bruenor Battlehammer nodded and puffed out his muscular chest. He was not alone.

  Flipping and spinning, wall to floor, floor to wall, Jarlaxle and Zaknafein crossed paths with every dart and tumble, the swords of one always covering for the movements of the other. They passed demons large and small, scored hits big and little, and were always gone before anything could touch them, running free, as Zaknafein put it, around the next stalagmite, somersaulting, vaulting, flipping, and sprinting, a growing horde of angry demons in hot pursuit.

  “Bleeding line,” Jarlaxle called, coming down one expanse, a straight and wide run culminating in a pair of thick stalagmites with walkways built up high.

  Zaknafein reached into his pouch and produced a handful of pellets, ceramic balls specially coated with enchanted oil to harness the energy within. He dropped them behind him, confident one of the horde not far behind would crush the casing, releasing the magic.

  Up to the right he ran, gaining height on the slope of a mound, then leaping and spinning from it to land in a dead run, crossing Jarlaxle’s path as the mercenary leader similarly rushed the other way.

  That avenue behind them lit up as the pursuing demon horde trampled the pellets, releasing the brilliant magical light enclosed within. The response was almost instantaneous, dwarven side-slinger catapults letting fly and ballista bolts vibrating the air above the heads of the leading drow pair.

  Behind the companions, demon minions died by the score under the barrage.

  Around a huge mound the drow pair went, then across a side channel, and around another, turning now and heading generally back toward Gauntlgrym, looking for another suitable causeway for carnage.

  From a side position, not far from the running pair, Drizzt watched his father and friend with mounting admiration and joy—joy to see his father so willingly risking his life for the cause of the goodly folk of the Crags!

  With Taulmaril the Heartseeker in hand, the ranger measured the progress of the two running drow, marveling at their coordination and movements, immediately deciphering the elements inciting their seemingly random flips and crosses. Drizzt passed behind a stalagmite mound, the pair coming into view as they rounded a wider turn before him, then noticed an intercepting group of flying chasme demons.

  Away went his arrows, streaking silver with the power of magical lightning, skimming just behind Zaknafein and Jarlaxle to catch the distracted demons right in their bulbous faces.

  Down went the chasmes, spinning and crashing, one after another. And as the last of his barrage flew away, Drizzt turned and twisted the magical bow, breaking it down once more so that it would fit into his belt buckle as he sprinted away.

  Around another bend came Jarlaxle and Zaknafein, and this time, a third companion jumped into their midst, twirling past Zaknafein as he leaped, landing right before Jarlaxle, and sprinting along to keep up with the running pair.

  “Orbs!” Jarlaxle called as they rounded another bend, coming in sight of the outer defensive wall, to the left of the tram station. He and Zaknafein somersaulted past each other, both pulling forth handfuls of the light-encasing ceramic balls, while Drizzt rushed off to the side, finding a shadowed cubby along a stalagmite mound and drawing forth his magical bow from the buckle of his belt once more.

  On came the pursuing demons, ravenously, too focused to realize that they were once again crushing light pellets, revealing their position.

  Catapult balls and ballista bolts charged down the avenue at them, laying waste, melting and impaling, and the carnage was made worse by the drow ranger with the recurved bow off to the side, as Drizzt Do’Urden let fly arrow after arrow, missiles made all the more powerful by the stalled horde of demons, for the arro
ws of Taulmaril blew through their first targets to score deadly hits on the next in line, and even the third on many occasions.

  Demons melted under that withering barrage, and it took a long while for them to catch on to the presence of Drizzt and his bow.

  When they did, the chase took on a new dimension, but Drizzt was ready for them.

  “Guenhwyvar, I need you,” he beckoned to his magical statuette, and the gray mist collected behind him as the loyal panther came to his call, forming right before a charging vrock and taking down the vulture-like demon as easily as a real leopard might take down a rooster.

  On ran Drizzt, scimitars drawn. He noted another area lit up by magical ceramic balls, and the whole of the cavern then shook with the booming resonance of side-slinger catapults. He jumped to the top of a low wall, noted a marilith demon—six-armed, and with each hand holding a sword—and moved to intercept.

  Drizzt veered right for her, leaping to a low stone, flipping from it to drive in hard at the creature, his blades neatly ringing against her multipronged attack. Out went his right-hand blade, Icingdeath, driving wide three of the marilith demon’s swords, then past them and back again, picking off the attacks as the demon swept its various weapons back in.

  Down and over went the scimitar, and Drizzt turned and kicked out, high and fast, his foot slamming the demon in the face, dazing it.

  With a hiss of protest the marilith lifted all six arms high and wide, like a crowning eagle about to devour its prey.

  But then the creature was flying backward, hit by a living missile of muscle, claws, and fangs.

  Drizzt couldn’t wait, and on he ran, firing shot after shot to light up the path before him and clear it of demons, and soon enough, Guenhwyvar was running beside him. He was separated again from Jarlaxle and his father, but they didn’t need him, and indeed, in watching their precision, he feared that his presence might trip them all up.

  They knew he was here, too, now, running and shooting, leaping along the stalagmite mounds and turning too often and too fast for any of the invaders to take up a serious chase.

  And if they did, Drizzt knew this cavern better than any. He knew where the dwarven crossbowmen perched, and knew, too, the lanes for the catapults and ballista.

  The demons were about to pay a steep price for chasing him.

  Demon fire roared through the cavern. Formations of chasmes flew for the stalactites, many hollowed and set with crossbowmen and spotters. Rushing at them, demons faced withering fire, bolt after bolt taking the flying monsters down.

  But there were too many, and for all the carnage in the hall, almost all of it inflicted upon the invaders, the dwarves were forced back, again and again, scrambling along ceiling tunnels to the next defensive position, and as those positions tightened, more dwarves were forced all the way back beyond the tram wall, sliding down smooth poles within constructed chutes.

  “Farthest third’s lost,” McCorbis Gemcutter told his king and two queens up on that wall.

  “Did they all get out?” Bruenor asked.

  The dwarf, bleeding from a host of scratches and bruises from scrambling fast along the tight stone tunnels, offered only a shrug. “Didn’t see none die, but I heared some screams. Dwarf screams.”

  Bruenor nodded grimly and patted the dwarf on the shoulder, then looked out at the cavern as the battle inched closer.

  “We’ll be holdin’ them here, don’t ye doubt,” Queen Tannabritches said.

  “Aye, and then we’ll drive ’em back across the hall and up the tunnel and might that I’ll run a tram over ’em in the Causeway just for the fun of it!”

  From somewhere not far to the side, a crossbow clicked.

  “Hold yer shots, boys!” Bruenor yelled, then added to those near, “Might be more of our own coming in.” He looked to his queens and nodded, and the two darted away to spread the word.

  They had barely gone a running stride, though, when there came a blinding flash followed by a thunderous retort out in the cavern, up high along the ceiling. Stones fell and dwarves fell behind them from on high.

  “They’re findin’ the crawl tunnels!” Bruenor cried. “Get yer bows up and ready! Ivan!” He looked back and to the side to see the Bouldershoulder brothers standing by the dark pond between the tram platform and the right-hand wall.

  “We’ll have boys comin’ in fast,” Bruenor shouted to them.

  Ivan pointed straight ahead to the gates on that side of the wall, before which he and Pikel had just been walking. “Them,” the old yellowbeard yelled back to Bruenor. “Bring ’em in through them doors!”

  Ivan spun and gave a shrill whistle and Bruenor looked back across the small pond to see dozens of dwarves readying heavy crossbows.

  Another huge explosion rocked the cavern, and fires blew out from one hollowed stalagmite mound, side-slinger catapults falling from its sides in flames.

  “Juicers!” Bruenor called.

  His well-trained forces were already on it, rolling the heavy crushing machines over the pond’s bridge, then down a forking trail to the main gate’s doors. The machines were nothing more than huge flat-nosed rams, with long poles extending out the back to be held by a team of running dwarves. It was hard to get one of those things rolling with any speed, but harder still to stop it once one had.

  “Yer brothers and sisters’ll be coming fast,” Bruenor shouted to the dwarves lining the parapets. “With demons right behind and demons flying above. Ye give them dogs a fast trip to the hell what spawned ’em!”

  Zaknafein ran up high and leaped out, throwing his arms and legs wide to shorten the jump, which landed him several strides from a powerful boar-like demon. The ravenous beast leaped at him in blind fury, too hungry to even realize the second form, the one taking advantage of Zaknafein’s shortened leap.

  Jarlaxle flashed between the demon and Zaknafein, cutting from left to right before his friend, his swords working furiously as he crossed, and as soon as he went beyond weapon’s reach, he began pumping his arm, first throwing a sword, then creating dagger after dagger in his hand from his magical wrist pouch, a line of stinging missiles streaming out at the demon.

  The strange creature, which ran hunched, almost on all fours, squealed with each hit, but somehow managed to keep its focus on Zaknafein and charged ahead.

  But Zaknafein wasn’t there, flipping an easy cartwheel to his left but turning in midspin, landing, planting, and coming right back in. He caught the demonic beast as it turned, getting in behind its thrashing tusks, his fine swords quickly finishing the task Jarlaxle had started.

  As the demon fell aside, already melting and smoking as its vile life force sank back to the lower planes, Zaknafein noted that Jarlaxle’s expression was hardly one of victory.

  “Our game nears its end,” Jarlaxle said, nodding his chin over to the left, deeper into the cavern, behind Zaknafein.

  When the weapon master turned, he understood, for the demons were organizing well, driving the dwarves from one entrenchment after another.

  Crossbows clacked on the outer wall—the tram wall.

  “Left of the tram, Bruenor said,” Zaknafein reminded him. “Let’s bring the dwarves a host to slaughter.”

  “They’re already fighting at the wall,” Jarlaxle said. “The dwarves might be in full retreat.”

  “How much do you trust this King Bruenor?”

  Jarlaxle gave a little grin. “Let’s bring them a host.”

  Off the two ran, deeper into the cavern, a circling route that would turn them back to the tram wall, all the way over to the left side of the vast chamber. They took care not to fully engage any monsters anymore—their goal was to taunt, not to get bogged down in any fights.

  They cut fast corners and leaped up high. Zaknafein slid down on his knees under the wind-whipping cut of a giant hammer, wielded by the thickly muscled arms of a huge and squat beast that came out from one side alley swinging.

  Jarlaxle leaped instead, actually touching down briefly at
op that hammer and diving away into a somersault and roll that brought him right back to his feet in a dead run.

  “You have your toy?” Zaknafein cried when a host of chasmes and other flying fiends appeared overhead, diving at them.

  Down went Jarlaxle, tumbling and coming around with a strange-looking wheel-like object in his hand and a sly smile on his face. “Sometimes I have too many toys to remember,” he said, working fast to take four feathers off the object and stick the tips of their shafts into holes set equidistantly within the inner wheel of the object.

  “Akadi,” he said—the command word and also the name of a powerful aerial being—as he started to run off once more, Zaknafein pulling him along.

  Jarlaxle took care to hold the item far from him as the feathers spun faster and faster, creating a small vortex. He struggled to hold it, and seemed to struggle with something more, Zaknafein noted, as if Jarlaxle was afraid of the power he now held.

  “Do it!” the weapon master yelled, and Jarlaxle growled and clenched hard, yelling the command word more insistently, demanding everything the item could offer.

  Now he held the bottom tip of a tornado, and he swept it above and about, sending the aerial demons flying and spinning every which way. He lowered it back the way they had come, thinking to scatter the nearest pursuers, but as soon as the item went sidelong, the enchantment simply ceased. But it had been enough to gain them some time.

  “Run!” Zaknafein cried, and they did. A horde of demons, lesser fiends by the score and even a few powerful beings like vrock and glabrezu and other misshapen monsters huge and terrible, came on in thunderous pursuit.

  Drizzt dove to the floor and rolled, appearing desperate to get aside from the demonic flames flowing out from what seemed to be the powerful commander of this assault, a hulking bipedal monstrosity creating a field of flames about itself and wielding a shining red sword and a whip that crackled with lightning.

  A balor. The same balor he had fled outside the tram station up above.