“It would seem that the sword does not agree,” put in Kimmuriel.
Jarlaxle looked at Kimmuriel and noted that he had his eyes closed. He was intercepting the telepathic protests the sword was launching at Gromph, Jarlaxle realized.
“Truly?” Gromph said with a snort, and he was clearly talking to the sword then, as he lifted it higher in front of his sparkling eyes. He studied the pommel, shaped so beautifully into the likeness of a curled and sleeping pegasus. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That will not do.”
Gromph pressed the pommel against his forehead, closed his eyes and scrunched up his face.
Jarlaxle looked to Kimmuriel, who glanced back and nodded, clearly impressed—impressed by the psionic assault that Gromph was leveling at Khazid’hea.
And Jarlaxle, too, was impressed, as he watched the pommel of Khazid’hea shift and change, going black, then adding red speckles. Jarlaxle barely contained a laugh as he considered it more closely. Gromph had turned the pommel of mighty Khazid’hea into the likeness of a mushroom!
The archmage moved the sword back to arm’s length, gave a nod at his handiwork, and said, “Better.”
“Not very appropriate for a Baenre blade,” Kimmuriel remarked. “But a proper insult to such a crude instrument as a sword.”
“And so I doubt that Khazid’hea will try to impose its will upon you again,” Jarlaxle remarked.
“It is a minor item,” said Gromph. With a look from the sword to the mercenary leader, he casually tossed the sword to Jarlaxle, who caught it easily.
“It is a Baenre blade,” Gromph explained. “And you are a Baenre. And a Baenre warrior, at that. Fitting that you carry the sword, if you are strong enough of will to control it.”
Jarlaxle returned an amused, if somewhat bored stare at the open challenge. He could hear the frustration of Khazid’hea in his thoughts, but only if he concentrated on the very distant murmur, and blocking it out entirely was no more a challenge for him than it had been for Gromph. Even without his magical eye patch, which prevented psionic intrusions and commands, Jarlaxle held no fear whatsoever regarding the sword’s willpower and ego against his own.
He nodded to his brother, offering a look of appreciation—and one that was only half-feigned. Jarlaxle loved his magical toys and knew that he had a powerful one in hand with Khazid’hea.
“Where is the half-drow girl?” Jarlaxle asked, sliding the sword into his belt loop. “The daughter of Tos’un Armgo?”
“Why do you care?”
Jarlaxle shrugged. “Perhaps I do not, not excessively at least. It is my curiosity, nothing more.”
“I honestly do not know,” said Gromph. “Freezing to death on a cold mountainside … somewhere. The Spine of the World, I expect, and likely somewhere near to the lair of Arauthator. Why do you wish to know? Do you intend to fetch her?”
Again Jarlaxle shrugged. “She might prove useful at some point.”
“If I ever lay eyes on that half-iblith, half-Armgo creature again, I will transform her into a jelly and serve her at the next feast I attend,” Gromph said, and there wasn’t the slightest hint in his tone to suggest that he was exaggerating.
“Fortunately, I am in the possession of many things you will never see, then,” Jarlaxle replied with a tip of his great-brimmed hat. He turned to Kimmuriel. “To Luskan,” he instructed. “I have no desire to be discovered by the matron mother here in the city.”
“But the streets need cleaning, brother,” Gromph said.
“That is why the gods gave us magic, brother,” Jarlaxle replied in the same smug tone. “To perform the mundane tasks of life.”
Wisely, Kimmuriel didn’t hesitate, and a moment later, he and Jarlaxle stepped into the Bregan D’aerthe audience hall in Illusk, the undercity of Luskan.
SHE LIFTED HER wet face, trying to regain her wits and strength after the spinning, flying ride through the archmage’s rough portal. She didn’t note the cold at first, not until she managed to pull open her eyes to realize that she was facedown in deep snow.
Doum’wielle knew the season, knew that the snows had not yet started to fall anywhere but in the high mountains.
She propped herself up on straight arms and slowly swiveled her head about, taking in the grandeur of the scene in front of her. Mountains, huge and tall, with dark rocky spurs prodding forth from the thick blanket of snow, loomed before her—she realized from her posture that her head was higher up the mountain than her feet.
To the left and right, the mountains went on beyond her sight. The Spine of the World, she realized. Though she didn’t recognize any specific peaks from this different perspective, she knew of no other mountain ranges in Faerûn of this magnitude and majesty.
She lay in the snow, the cold beginning to creep in.
The weight of her troubles only then began to creep in with it.
Doum’wielle looked around. She slapped at the snow desperately, shoving it aside, throwing it far from her. She jabbed her hands down through it, grabbing, grasping, looking for something to catch onto, and only after she began to tire did she take a heartbeat and remember that for which she was searching.
Her movements slowed then, and she was relieved to know that she still had all of her fingers, for if she had plunged her hand through the snow to strike against the impossibly sharp blade of Khazid’hea, then surely she would have left some fingers behind.
She pulled herself up to a kneeling position and took a different tack, calling out telepathically for her missing sword, pleading with Khazid’hea to guide her search.
She heard nothing.
Panic swept over her. She cried out audibly now, screaming “Cutter!” repeatedly. She forced herself to her feet and staggered about.
“Cutter!”
Her cries echoed back to her from the mountainsides, and those echoes brought her desperate, pathetic tone to her ears and mocked her. The vastness of the Spine of the World laughed at Little Doe.
The sun shined brilliantly upon her, bright in the snow, but the air was cold up here in the vast white sheets.
Doum’wielle had not often been in the mountains. Where could she go? How could she protect herself from the cold and the wet?
And the prowling monsters? Yes, she knew enough of the environment to realize that the cold might be the least of her problems.
Khazid’hea! Doum’wielle’s thoughts cried out once more, one last time.
The sword was lost.
She was lost.
“WHEN YOU ARE of the mind to taunt the archmage, I would prefer you do so after a proper warning to me, that I can be far away,” Kimmuriel scolded his dangerous companion.
Jarlaxle drew out Khazid’hea and turned it over to examine the pommel. “An impressive feat,” he asked as much as stated.
“More so than you understand,” Kimmuriel replied. “The sword tried to dominate him. A sewer rat would have a better chance at ordering about the matron mother.”
Jarlaxle nodded and stared at the mushroom-shaped and speckled pommel, muttering, “Impressive,” and he was talking more about Gromph in general than about this particular feat of willpower.
Khazid’hea was no minor magic item, after all. It was possessed of its own sentience and a great ego. The sword had dominated powerful warriors in the past, even Catti-brie, and even, albeit only for a very short time and only until he had properly understood the threat, Artemis Entreri.
The mercenary considered Gromph’s words when he had given Jarlaxle the prize. He was reminding Jarlaxle of his heritage, and openly, in front of Kimmuriel. Jarlaxle began to nod, sorting it out. Despite the insulting look of the pommel, this sword wasn’t a gift for Jarlaxle as much as an offer. Gromph knew that he was walking on dangerous ground back in Menzoberranzan. It didn’t take one of Jarlaxle’s perception to recognize the archmage’s outrage over Lolth’s loss of the Weave, and worse, over her continuing disrespect to the male wizards, even to Gromph, when all believed that she would come to incl
ude the Web of Magic in her domain and should respect its users.
Gromph had given Jarlaxle the sword to buy an out for himself, should that necessity come to pass.
The—former—Archmage of Menzoberranzan as a member of Bregan D’aerthe? Jarlaxle’s eyes widened at the possibilities.
Possibilities that Jarlaxle subsequently dismissed, for in that circumstance, did he really believe that Gromph Baenre would serve him and Kimmuriel? More likely, he knew, Gromph would demand servitude of them.
Gromph Baenre did not make offers that one could refuse.
Kimmuriel walked off to see to some other matters, and Jarlaxle wasted no time. He removed his eye patch to better communicate with the sword, then nodded as the pommel went fully black and became feline in form—a panther. For a moment, Jarlaxle almost abandoned his course and thought to make it look like Guenhwyvar—perhaps he could use it as a gift back to Drizzt. But no, he decided, and said, “It is a Baenre blade.”
A pair of tentacles sprouted from the panther’s shoulders, transforming the figure from that of a great cat of the World Above to an Underdark displacer beast, a formidable foe indeed, and a symbol worthy of a blade hanging in the belt loop of Jarlaxle.
Those tentacles seemed to come to life for just a moment, magically wrapping around Jarlaxle’s hand, securing his grip.
In his mind, Jarlaxle could feel Khazid’hea’s appreciation.
Yes, they would get along splendidly.
CHAPTER 17
The Lonely Cadence
BRUENOR FLUNG HIMSELF THROUGH THE OPENED DOORWAY AND nearly pitched headlong to the floor in surprise, realizing that he had caught up to Guenhwyvar. The great panther stood there in the room in front of him, staring at the wall—and what a curious sight that was.
“By the gods, but them drow’ve come,” Bruenor muttered under his breath, staring at the swirling, cloud-like vortex spinning against the wall, or within the wall, as if the very stones were malleable and part of the sidelong tornado.
The other dwarves bobbed in behind Bruenor, bumping into him in their rush, but held their ground. All of the four started to ask what was what, and all of them bit back the words even as they started to utter them, caught by the same incredible sight that held Bruenor and Guenhwyvar.
The vortex spun tighter and tighter, the wall seeming to solidify around its retreating edges. And then it was gone, and the room went perfectly silent.
A low growl from Guenhwyvar broke that stillness.
Bruenor moved past the panther, on edge, glancing all about.
“What d’ye know?” Tannabritches asked.
“Been a fight in here,” Athrogate said. The black-bearded dwarf motioned for the Fellhammer sisters to fan out to the right, then nodded to Ambergris to go with him to the left flank.
“I’m smellin’ the blood, or I’m a pretty goblin,” Athrogate added.
Bruenor smelled it too, more so because he was closer to the center of the battle, where blood stained the floor. And as he was drawn to that, he found something else besides.
“Elf?” he asked weakly, lifting a very familiar blade—not the whole scimitar, but just the broken blade of Twinkle—from the floor.
“That cyclone!” Ambergris cried, rushing over. “They taked Drizzt!”
Bruenor started for the wall, thinking to shoulder right through it if need be, but Mallabritches’s cry of “No, here!” spun him back the other way. He looked curiously at the sisters, who stood in front of some discoloration on the wall, some malformation that Bruenor couldn’t quite make out. He moved closer, scanning.
The dwarf’s eyes went wide when he glanced at the bottom of that malformation, to see familiar boots hanging below it.
“Drizzt!” he cried. “Oh, me elf!” And he leaped forward at the viscous goo, reaching with his axe as if to cut at it, retracting, dropping the weapon, grabbing at the substance—he didn’t know what to do!
“His nose! His nose!” Tannabritches said, hopping up and down and pointing to a place just above, where it looked as if someone had pulled the slime away from Drizzt’s face, clearing his nose, at least, that he could draw breath.
Bruenor threw down his shield beside his axe and leaped for the spot. “Peel him out!” he shouted, and he began clawing at the glob which had pinned Drizzt against the stone. It came free, but grabbed at Bruenor’s hands so hard that he could barely shake it from his fingers, one stubborn piece at a time, and even then only after rolling it in on itself repeatedly. With Fist and Fury’s help, though, he soon had Drizzt’s head cleared, and the drow’s face lolled forward, Drizzt clearly not hearing the dwarf’s frantic calls, and not reacting at all when a desperate Bruenor slapped him across the face.
“Come on, elf!” Bruenor yelled, cradling the drow’s face, looking at him closely, pleading with him to open his eyes.
Tannabritches and Mallabritches bore on, tearing free the goo, and Athrogate joined in, but Ambergris came up more cautiously. She carried the broken blade of Twinkle, alternately examining the cut along the base of the severed scimitar blade and staring at Drizzt, shaking her head.
It went on for a long while, when finally Tannabritches said, “Oooo,” and stepped back. She had peeled the goo down over Drizzt’s collarbone, down to his chest, and blood poured out.
“What?” Mallabritches demanded.
Tannabritches held up her bloodied hands.
“Stop! Stop!” Ambergris cried, leaping forward to grab at Athrogate and pull him back. “Stop!”
“What, girl?” Athrogate demanded, and all eyes turned to the priestess.
“The glob,” she said, “it’s holding Drizzt together. Keepin’ his blood in! Ye pull it down and he’ll spill all over ye—all over the floor!”
“Like a bandage?” Mallabritches asked.
Bruenor, verging on panic, for it seemed very much to him that Drizzt was already dead, looked from Drizzt to the cleric and back again. Ambergris walked past him to press her hand against the exposed portion of the dark elf’s garish wound. She felt around, put on a pained expression, then said to Bruenor, “It’s a deep one.”
“Well heal him, ye dolt!” Bruenor finally shouted.
Ambergris nodded, but then shook her head and replied, “Ah, but this one’s beyond me.”
“Well try!” the frantic Bruenor screamed.
“Ye go and get his wife,” Ambergris told the Fellhammer sisters. “Go now, and quick.”
“We can’t wait!” Bruenor frantically shouted, but Ambergris was already beginning her first spell, and when he realized that, the dwarf calmed somewhat.
Ambergris pressed her hand in tighter against the drow’s torn chest and brought forth her healing magic. The blood flow slowed its trickle from that small, uncovered part of the wound, but the cleric looked to Bruenor and shook her head.
“Me spells won’t be enough for this one,” she lamented. “Be sure that he’s been killed to death in battle, and only the goo’s keeping him a bit alive.”
“Aye, and smotherin’ him at the same time!” Athrogate said.
Bruenor was shaking his head. Someone had cleared Drizzt’s nose, and Bruenor realized that it was probably the same person who had hit him with the syrupy glob in the first place. “Jarlaxle,” he muttered, nodding. He had seen this trick before from that one.
But why would Jarlaxle just leave Drizzt here like this? The dwarf looked to the wall, where the vortex had been. Another Jarlaxle trick, he wondered?
But had Drizzt and Jarlaxle battled? It didn’t seem possible to him. He could not begin to imagine those two going at each other with blades.
None of this made sense to him, but Bruenor figured that the only way he was going to get the answers was to get Drizzt healed.
He looked to Ambergris, who was deep into casting another spell, and this one elicited a groan from Drizzt as the healing waves entered his torn and battered body.
“Come on, girl,” Bruenor muttered, looking to the door.
�
��Come on, get his other leg, then,” Athrogate called to him, and Bruenor turned to see the black-bearded dwarf clearing the goo from Drizzt’s shin. “Just a bit at a time, so we’re not for opening any more cuts! Elf’s bled enough!”
“Too much,” Bruenor replied, going at the other leg. He winced as he did, wondering suddenly if this determined expedition was worth it to him. If he recovered Gauntlgrym, but at the price of Drizzt and Catti-brie’s lives, say, would he consider that a victory?
“Aye,” he said with determination, but without much conviction. And he added, “Come on, girl.”
MATRON MOTHER BAENRE sat quietly for a long while after Sos’Umptu’s prayer, which called the meeting of the Ruling Council to order. She let her gaze settle on each of the rival matron mothers, her withering look telling them that she understood well the true power behind the attack on the Do’Urden compound, and the coordination it had required. Even those matron mothers who had not participated directly shifted uncomfortably in their seats under the weight of that stare, for certainly all had known of the whispers, the shadowy nods and look-aways that had led to the coordinated assault.
And behind them, seated at the back leg of the table, Matron Darthiir Do’Urden sat impassively.
“Are we to believe this was anything less than an attempted assassination?” the matron mother asked. Several shifted uncomfortably, Matron Mother Mez’Barris let out a little growl, and other matron mothers nodded at the sentiment. Such accusations, if that indeed was where Matron Mother Baenre was going, were not acceptable in the city of backstabbing dark elves.
“Or the will of the goddess?” the matron mother continued, giving them an out for their protests, and turning away from the course that would have inexorably led to direct and violent confrontation.
“A signal, perhaps, that Matron Darthiir should not be seated here at the Ruling Council,” Matron Mother Zhindia Melarn offered.
“Or perhaps that she should not be a matron mother at all,” Mez’Barris added.
“Or that she should not be suffered to live,” said Zhindia.
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