Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  Drizzt knew this type of demon quite well, for he had battled them, and one in particular, Errtu, on several occasions. He knew their flame shields rolling out from their massive bodies, curling and puffing with every stamp of the monster’s foot. He knew their terrible whips.

  He knew.

  But this particular balor didn’t know him, it seemed, for he could hear its victorious laughter as he rolled and squirmed through the flames.

  Because if the demon did know who it was dealing with, it would know those flames couldn’t touch Drizzt Do’Urden, not while he was holding Icingdeath, a blade that hungered for the very life force of these beings of fire.

  He didn’t want the balor to figure that out, though, because he understood balors. Such cruel beings would play with their prey before the slaughter.

  So, Drizzt rolled and screamed. The whip cracked very near and really did sting him, so he screamed again, then curled up. Knees, elbows. And face on the hot floor. He heard the monster’s approach—so confident, the great demon didn’t even try to mask it. Up went its huge foot to smash down on Drizzt . . .

  . . . and the drow ranger swiftly rolled to his back and planted the pommel of Icingdeath against the floor, holding on to it with all his strength and determination when the fiery demon stomped upon it.

  How the balor roared!

  How the balor thrashed!

  It hopped, howling as Icingdeath ate at its life essence, and kicked out with all of its gigantic strength, sending Drizzt spinning across the floor.

  The drow rolled, contorting his body perfectly to take the momentum of that throw and transfer it as he came up, leaping high and spinning a circle kick that drove his foot into the face of the pursuing behemoth.

  A balor would normally walk right through such a kick from a puny elf, but this was no ordinary strike. Drizzt’s training with Grandmaster Kane had taught him to harness his own life energy and guide it through his limbs to devastating effect. So when his foot hit the demon’s face, it snapped its head back, sending it staggering backward a limping step, its red eyes unfocused, its tongue lolling out between jagged knifelike teeth.

  Drizzt would have liked nothing more than to charge in and engage, but the demon was not alone, far from it, and so many others appeared not so far away.

  His hesitation cost him.

  The balor extended its giant bat wings and puffed up its chest, throwing forward one arm, reaching to full length with that awful whip. Drizzt felt the sting as he fled, sharp and full of fire, and full of poison.

  Bruenor watched nervously from the right-hand side of the defensive outer wall, far down from the tram station and above the gates Ivan had designated. A large group of fleeing dwarves came into view, running hard and with a horde of monsters close behind. The dwarf king winced every time a straggler got pulled down, to be devoured by the demons.

  “Ye give ’em cover,” he shouted to the archers. “Shoot higher than a dwarf and lower than a demon! And kill them damned overgrown houseflies!”

  Crossbows began to sing out from the wall, but the volley seemed a pitiful thing against the sheer volume of the demonic press.

  “Run, me boys!” Bruenor shouted at the retreating forces, banging his many-notched axe against his shining shield. “To me! To me! For all yer lives, to me!”

  A chasme demon, ahead of the horde and ahead of the fleeing dwarves, dove down from the darkness above at the dwarven king.

  But Bruenor saw it. With pure nerve, he held his posture, seeming oblivious, until the last second, then exploded in a fast turn, right arm coming about with all the speed and power the dwarf king could muster. And his axe, that legendary weapon, enchanted anew in the fire of the Great Forge of Gauntlgrym, sheared right through the demon, human face to insect arse, splitting it neatly down the middle.

  The dwarves cheered. The crossbows fired anew.

  “Run, Battlehammers!” a score of voices, then a hundred voices, implored their fleeing kin.

  Bruenor glanced below inside the wall, noting a team in place to swing wide those doors. He looked back a bit from the wall to see Pikel Bouldershoulder standing resolutely, eyes closed and muttering something. “Trust the fool doo-dad,” Bruenor quietly reminded himself.

  The retreating dwarves neared the gates, and the crossbow volleys became more pointed and devastating, several archers working together to send a barrage into any major demons they could pick out among the charging monsters.

  “Gates!” Bruenor yelled, but no sooner had the word escaped him than a cry came out from way down at the other end of the wall, far to the left, warning of a second horde of demons coming in strong.

  Bruenor chewed his lip, thinking that it had to be Jarlaxle and Zaknafein bringing the monsters to slaughter. But he couldn’t be there, not now with a large group of fleeing Battlehammers about to be overrun. He nodded as he reminded himself once more to trust in his forces, for that far end of the wall, left of the tram station, was the most fortified position of all, thick with artillery and commanded by capable generals.

  Below him, the gates swung open and in swarmed the fleeing Battlehammers. The archers leaned over the parapets, plunking the leading demon pursuers, desperate to give some daylight. Still, they’d never get the gates closed in time, and many a dwarf cried out in concern.

  But Bruenor just smiled, readied his axe and shield, and watched the first foray. He glanced at Pikel, who had his eyes opened wide now, his one arm up and fingers waggling. He watched the plants sprouting from the sand and through cracks in the stones, coming out to the call of the powerful and unusual dwarven druid.

  Those plants surprised the fleeing dwarves but did not trip them up.

  Those plants weren’t even noticed by the ravenous horde—until they began to grab at demon legs, holding fast.

  “Well, get ’em!” Bruenor heard Ivan Bouldershoulder yell, and the air filled with the clanking of a hundred heavy crossbows, launching large and very special quarrels at the slowed demons.

  Every bolt that hit—and almost all did—collapsed upon itself, the center vial shattering in the impact, the two heavy ends crashing together with the magical oil in between.

  A hundred thunderous explosions sent demon bits flying and blew the front ends of the quarrels right through the struck beast, usually to take down a second, third, or even fourth behind it.

  Again those crossbows sang, and unearthly howls and shrieks filled the cavern, and the smoke of melting demon corpses filled Bruenor’s nostrils.

  Such a beautiful, awful smell, at once the sweetest and most horrid stench in all the world.

  The fleeing Battlehammers turned as one, Ivan’s brigades rushing to join, archers reloading for a third devastating volley.

  “Close the gates!” yelled Mallabritches when that third went off, cutting into the horde outside and thinning those demons inside so much that there was little doubt that Ivan and the others could tear them apart in short order.

  So yes, the logical move was to close the gates, secure the wall, put the horde back outside and cut them down from the parapets.

  But King Bruenor had another idea.

  “Battlehammer!” he yelled, and to the surprise of all, mighty King Bruenor leaped down from the wall—not inside to join with Ivan Bouldershoulder, but outside, among the disoriented and blasted demons.

  Despite the unexpected move, Queens Fist and Fury were quickly down to flank him, demon body parts flying every which way from each swing of that mighty axe. A score of shield dwarves, Gutbusters all, the elite guard of King Bruenor, rushed over the wall and surrounded their rulers, hungry for battle.

  And Ivan Bouldershoulder and his boys ran over those demons caught inside the wall, and didn’t slow in coming through the gates, old Ivan himself the tip of that flying wedge of destruction.

  At the opened gates, Ivan’s archers trained their crossbows and explosive quarrels higher, and soon enough, shattered chasmes and other winged menaces swirled down like the whipping sno
ws of an Icewind Dale blizzard.

  Jarlaxle leaned far to the left, hooked his fingers on a jag in the stone, and pulled himself around the base of a mound, rolling his feet and flipping over to keep his momentum as he cut the sharp turn. He had not time to slow, nor did Zaknafein, who cut in behind the nearly horizontal Jarlaxle, leaped up upon the wide base of the stalagmite, kicked a forward flip to a higher spot, then a second, coming over the edge, straightening his legs to catch the downward slope and running down it with that same amazing agility that had marked his son’s reputation.

  He hit the floor behind the rising and running Jarlaxle, but with more momentum behind him, enough so that he was quickly sprinting beside the rogue.

  Now they were in the last stretch of their run, the outer wall of Gauntlgrym in sight, with explosions and the screams and shrieks of battle echoing before them and to the left.

  Jarlaxle wondered if the dwarves had been pressed too hard in other areas—was the coordinated defense that had been promised on this side of the tram already compromised? The mercenary put it out of his thoughts. He had no time for that. He had no time for anything but moving forward.

  He and Zaknafein ran on, a full sprint here, the last couple hundred strides to the wall.

  And then what? For there was no opened gate before them, no ropes or ladders hanging down to help them up to safety.

  Trap doors opened on the wall face, revealing the gleaming barbed tips of huge ballista bolts. Two other flaps of the wall fell away, showing side-slinger catapults stacked atop each other, ready to let fly.

  And dwarves appeared atop the wall, heavy crossbows leveling.

  “Don’t wait for us!” Zaknafein screamed, to which Jarlaxle gasped, “What?”

  Atop the wall, some dwarves let fly, aiming up high, quarrels whipping out, some hitting demons, others stalactites, and all collapsing and exploding, powerfully, beautifully.

  “Let ’em fly, boys!” came a cry from the wall.

  Zaknafein yelled, expecting to catch the coming barrage square in the face. He thought it ridiculous that he had returned to this life, to his son, only to be killed so quickly. And for dwarves? Still, these were Drizzt’s friends, he reminded himself. If his last act in this rebirth was to aid in that defense, then so be it—he would have to trust Jarlaxle and his son that the sacrifice would be worth it.

  He yelled again when he heard the crossbows and ballistae from the wall firing, expecting to die.

  But then, so suddenly, he was flying, falling, across a sudden pit, slamming into the other side and clawing at the floor to hold his precarious perch.

  “Let go, you fool!” Jarlaxle yelled behind him. Then Zaknafein understood, and as the ballista let fly, two huge spears soaring forth with a heavy and sharp chain bound between them, and as the side-slingers, one, two, three left, and one, two, three right, flung their payloads, Jarlaxle and Zaknafein fell into the magical hole, Jarlaxle taking the back lip of the hole with him, Zaknafein inadvertently taking the front lip with him, as they tumbled down together, turning the pit into an extradimensional space.

  They were away from the carnage, though they heard it, the demonic shrieks of surprise and pain. And they smelled it, as demon corpses melted to the abyssal fumes that would take the host’s life essence back to the lower planes.

  In the darkness, though, they couldn’t see it.

  The carnage and chaos intensified when the first juicers rolled across to that left-hand slaughter lane. The artillery and crossbow barrage had already destroyed so many demons, and had created confusion among the remaining fiends, which turned many of them upon each other.

  The juicers did good work taking care of the rest.

  But there were always more.

  With Bruenor, Fist, and Fury taking the lead, the dwarves weren’t about to surrender their advantage. They came on in perfect support and coordination, the juicers slicing lines through the demon block, the dwarven wedge formations catching the remnants and cutting them apart.

  And right there was the king, at the angle of one such wedge, willing his charges on behind him, his mighty axe, so steeped in the power of Gauntlgrym’s forge and with a wielder so steeped in the strength of the magical Throne of the Dwarven Gods, chopping through any defense the demons tried to offer.

  As the dwarves pressed down the lane, passing the unseen haven of the two drow, Jarlaxle peeked out of his portable hole. The demon horde had already been decimated, and those remaining, surprisingly, had turned tail and were fleeing back across the entry cavern, back the way they had come, the dwarven forces in hot pursuit.

  “When did demons learn to retreat?” Zaknafein asked, but Jarlaxle could only shrug.

  The balor’s laughter receded as the ranger sped away, winding through the stalagmite maze. It thought the poison would kill Drizzt, surely, and had Drizzt been a lesser being, had he not been trained by the Grandmaster of Flowers, it might well have done so. Even as he ran, the drow flexed and unclenched his muscles, feeling the poison in the wound, pushing it back out of his flesh. By the time he had made his third turn, the poison had been defeated, and on the ranger ran.

  When he reached the far edge of the cavern, Drizzt, too, was surprised by the sudden and violent turn of events over by the outer wall, by the sheer carnage so suddenly inflicted on the demon invaders. He moved off to the side as far as he could manage, finding a sheltered hole beside the entrance of the Causeway from which he could launch a barrage of lightning arrows. He let the first of the demons move past, minor fiends and mostly the misshapen, zombie-like manes.

  Whenever a major demon approached, Drizzt noted its turn to the right, moving across the cavern to the exit Causeway, which made sense because just a few dozen strides in there, the creatures would be effectively running downhill, instead of making the steep climb all the way to the surface of this tunnel.

  They herded all of the minor demons, their fodder, into this uphill one, though, likely to split the dwarven pursuing force.

  A wise move, but Drizzt couldn’t quite understand it all. They were retreating. These were demons, and they were running away and taking their fodder, which they considered expendable, with them.

  The drow ranger eased out of his sheltered cubby, into view of the next approaching manes . . .

  . . . who seemed not to notice him and kept their course for the tunnel.

  Purely on a hunch, Drizzt took a chance, leveling Taulmaril and letting fly at the group, blasting a hole in one mane, and then the second behind it, both falling to smoking husks.

  Even with this attack, the rest kept up their determined march for the Causeway entrance and the rising tunnel beyond. Drizzt’s immediate reaction was to take advantage of this unusual and unexpected circumstance, and he put Taulmaril to devastating effect, blasting away at the moving horde. Manes fell two or three at a time; chasmes spun down from above, shattered by the enchanted missiles of the bow known as the Heartseeker.

  Drizzt kept firing, and even moved into the cavern’s tram entry tunnel, climbing up behind the manes and other minor demons, throwing lightning arrow after lightning arrow through their ranks, expecting them to turn.

  But they still did not.

  Something was very wrong here.

  He came back out of the tunnel into the cavern to see another group of demons approaching, and with fierce fighting—no, not fighting, but slaughter—close behind, the dwarves rolling out in pursuit, chopping the monsters down.

  Across the way seemed quieter now, but a second group of dwarves was coming on strong, Drizzt noted, mostly from the explosive crossbow quarrels blasting off stones and through the straggler demons.

  The fact that he couldn’t figure out why they were retreating chilled Drizzt.

  He knew it was reckless, but he blew the whistle hanging about his neck to summon Andahar anyway. He leaped up and the unicorn sprang away, up the tram tunnel. Drizzt led the way with a barrage of arrows, then collapsed the bow back into his belt buckle and drew out b
oth scimitars. He did not need to guide Andahar with his hands, for the magical steed understood his telepathic commands. He closed on the back rows of fleeing demons, who remained heedless of his approach, and he urged Andahar right through them, trampling the monsters directly in line while Drizzt’s blades destroyed those to either side.

  He knew it was risky, perhaps even stupid—would the monsters suddenly turn on him and catch him in between two demon hordes?—but he had to find out what this was all about.

  Andahar charged up the slope. More demons fell to the horn and hooves and flashing scimitars. A commotion far up ahead had Drizzt squeezing his legs and leaning back while telepathically screaming at the mount to stop.

  With his keen vision, Drizzt could see that something was happening—he just wasn’t sure what. The manes and other minor fiends were now scrambling to the sides of the tunnel, but he couldn’t quite make out why.

  He pulled Taulmaril again and let fly a lightning arrow, straight up the tunnel, aiming for nothing but distance.

  Drizzt’s eyes widened, and he suddenly understood.

  For there, far ahead but coming down at him with speed, he saw the beast, a monstrous spider, skittering down the tunnel along the ceiling. He knew instinctively that this wasn’t merely a giant spider, or even one of the guardian jade spiders he had seen in Menzoberranzan. No, from the way the demons were avoiding this animated catastrophe, he knew. This was a demon lord, likely, or some other horror from the lower planes.

  He let fly another arrow, then a third, aiming higher. The first hit the ceiling just before the charging monster, which didn’t slow, while the second caught the spider right in the face, or seemed to by the flash of explosive lightning. But again the spider didn’t slow, and if the magical arrow had done it any harm at all, Drizzt couldn’t see it.

  “What monster is this?” he whispered, and he let fly again and again, the arrows rushing up the tunnel to score two more hits.

  Or maybe not. He couldn’t tell, and the creature never slowed.