“YE HOLD THE line,” Bruenor told Bungalow Thump. “Whate’er ye do, ye keep the flank solid!”
“Aye!” the Gutbuster replied, nodding. He, like all the others around, saw the gleam in Bruenor’s eye and understood what the dwarf meant to do.
When Obould’s minions had descended upon Mithral Hall a century before, King Bruenor had left his bed and charged out into Keeper’s Dale. Atop a stone that long-ago day, Bruenor had been the guidepost, the rallying point, the immovable object that would not allow the orcs passage. So it would be again. With these greater demons on the scene, the dwarves would be overwhelmed, would die here by the thousands.
The reclamation of Gauntlgrym would die here, too. Perhaps forevermore.
“Pwent!” he called to the specter he had sent out from the ranks, thinking to bring the spectral warrior along for the fun. But Bruenor then realized his error in calling in Thibbledorf Pwent too soon in the battle. The dwarf was nowhere to be found, and very likely the spirit had been defeated, and so sent back into the enchanted horn. Bruenor growled and shook his head.
“Come on, then,” Bruenor told Mallabritches, Athrogate, and Ambergris, and off they ran, Catti-brie close behind.
“Crossbows up!” Bruenor ordered as he made his way down the ranks, pointing at the chasme and leaving no doubt about the first order of business for every crossbowdwarf. Along with those missiles went lightning bolts, the Harpells trying to blow the ugly creatures out of the air.
By the time Bruenor’s entourage made it past the Adbar contingent, they found King Emerus lying in the arms of a sobbing Ragged Dain. The wall of fire was down, and the Felbarr dwarves were into the battle with the demons once more—but not with the demon leaders, Bruenor noted, for those two giants remained in the back, directing the fight from behind a shield wall of vrocks and glabrezu and other hulking and ugly beasts.
Bruenor was fast to the spot of the fallen king, sliding down beside Ragged Dain. He was surprised to find Emerus still alive.
“Girl!” he called to Catti-brie. “Put yer healin’ on him!”
Emerus reached up and grabbed Bruenor’s forearm. “I tried,” he whispered.
“We’re all knowin’,” Bruenor assured him.
“Ye kill her,” Emerus said with a bloody gasp. “Ye kill ’em both dead. Head o’ the snake.”
Bruenor bent low and kissed his old friend on the forehead, then leaped to his feet, shouted for Catti-brie once more, and charged for the front of the dwarven line, his three battle companions close beside him.
“Get me to ’em!” Bruenor yelled. He leaped upon a giant vulture demon, his axe working furiously, pounding the creature down. He felt the strength of Clangeddin, the wisdom of Moradin, the whispers of Dumathoin. When desperation reared up around him, so, too, did the spirits of the dwarf gods, and his final swat sent the vrock tumbling aside.
The dwarves around him rallied greatly, none more powerfully than Athrogate, with devastating swings of his enchanted morningstars.
But the shell around Marilith and Nalfeshnee was solid, with ranks of mighty creatures, and fight as they may, with the king lying near death, the Felbarrans and Bruenor’s group could not make much headway.
Drow lightning and fire reached out at the mass of dwarves. Chasme rained death from above. All along the line, the demons moved in coordination to Marilith’s buzzing call.
And for all his power and all his strength, for all the spirits of the dwarf gods within him, this time, Bruenor came to realize, it would not be enough. Soon he and those around him were being driven back, and he saw the six-armed demon note him and grin wickedly.
She knew.
And she knew that he knew.
It would not be enough.
CATTI-BRIE WORKED FURIOUSLY over King Emerus, the blue magical mist pouring from her sleeve, the divine healing bathing the fallen king. The whole time, though, Catti-brie was shaking her head, fearing that the wounds were too deep and too wicked.
Shouts around her, not from the fighting up front, but from behind, demanded her attention, and even Ragged Dain looked up.
The dwarves in the back were diving aside every which way, some screaming “Poison!” others warning of some Abyssal beast about to materialize in their midst.
Ragged Dain saw it first, a concentrated gray fog sliding through the ranks, coming straight for him, and with a gasp he fell away, throwing his hands up defensively.
Catti-brie, too, let out a gasp, but as it passed them by, the fog didn’t leave her and Ragged Dain on the floor writhing, nor did it pause as it continued its apparently focused sweep beyond them.
The woman leaped to her feet and followed it as it closed on Bruenor and the others. Behind her, Ragged Dain shouted out a warning to the last standing king. Bruenor turned, Ambergris began a spell, and Athrogate took a wild and futile swing at the fog as it went past.
Still it did not stop. And it crossed through the glabrezu and the vrocks, who seemed not to notice.
Then it stopped, hovering for just a moment before it became a swirling vortex of gray mist right in front of the demonic commanders.
And from that swirl came Guenhwyvar, leaping far and high upon Nalfeshnee even as she materialized.
And from that swirling mist came Drizzt Do’Urden, scimitars in hand.
I STILL HOPE they kill Marilith, at least, the fingers of Jaemas Xorlarrin signaled to his cousin Faelas in the silent hand code of the drow, as if he was too fearful to speak those words aloud—and indeed, he was.
The more demons who fall now, the better, Faelas agreed. The drow wizards were thrilled at the turn of the battle, of course, for now it seemed clear that the dwarves would be driven back, perhaps slaughtered to a one. But if that victory came with the added benefit of thinning the demonic ranks enough to ensure that Matron Mother Zeerith could properly control the remaining horde, then all the better.
“Cousin!” Faelas then added vocally, though breathlessly, as he noted the newcomer to the battle, a scimitar-wielding dark elf who set upon Marilith with wild and brilliant abandon. Her six weapons spun and stabbed and swept all around her, but always a scimitar was there to block, or the agile drow warrior was quick enough to dodge, and quick enough in behind the attack—impossibly quick!—to riposte.
“By Lolth’s eight legs …” Jaemas agreed.
“That’s the Do’Urden rogue!” Faelas realized even as he began readying a spell, turning his sights on the grand trophy that had come unto them. He noted, though, that Jaemas wasn’t similarly focusing, and indeed, was shaking his head. “Cousin?”
Don’t strike out at him, Jaemas replied—or more accurately, Jaemas relayed, for a voice in his head warned him against any such actions.
“Let Marilith have the kill?” Faelas asked, clearly confused.
“We must be gone from this place,” Jaemas said.
“The dwarves will not win,” Faelas replied.
“It matters not,” said Jaemas. “We must be gone. All of House Xorlarrin, and now!”
“Why?”
Jaemas could only shake his head. He wasn’t sure who was in his thoughts, but the telepathically imparted suggestions were undeniably powerful and beyond debate. If they stayed, they would die, and horribly, the inner voice promised.
“I do not understand!” Faelas scolded.
And neither did Jaemas, who could only shake his head.
“Why must we be gone?” Faelas demanded.
“Because this is quite beyond you now,” came a voice behind him, and he and his cousin turned to see Jarlaxle, sitting comfortably on a ledge above the nearby tunnel exit.
“Where did you …?” Faelas asked.
“How?” Jaemas asked at the same time.
But Jarlaxle merely turned and motioned for them to follow, and indeed, they saw that others of their family were coming to them then, looking as confused as they.
Faelas glanced back at Marilith and the warrior he knew to be Drizzt, and gasped aloud to see tha
t rogue drow in full fight now, running to the side of Marilith, easily leaping the sweeping tail of the naga-like creature, ducking the sweep of one long sword, sidestepping the downward stab of a spear, throwing himself back from the sweep of a second sword.
But in behind that sword he came, with a sudden burst of speed that stole Faelas’s breath, too quick for the turning Marilith to bring her other three arms and weapons to bear.
He ran his blade right up her torso and slashed her hard, then vaulted over her shoulder, landing with amazing grace, and leaped again above the sweep of that deadly tail.
Faelas swallowed hard, Jarlaxle’s advice suddenly sounding so much wiser.
THE MAGIC LASHING out at them from the shadows slowed greatly. The dwarves didn’t know why, but the battered, bearded folk were surely glad of it.
When they came to trust that the diminishment of drow magic was real, the three Harpells turned their focus more directly to the grotesque chasme above, lighting bolts and fireballs brightening the air above the battle.
And the frontlines of the dwarves were holding their own again. It seemed as if the demons pressing them were no longer covering for each other or working in unison. It didn’t take long for the dwarves of Felbarr to understand why, and their cries of “Drizzt!” were taken up by the Adbarrim, and echoed all the way to the other end of the line, to Bruenor’s clan.
Every dwarf tried to get a glance at the brilliant battle, at Drizzt and the six-armed she-demon, eight weapons ringing in a continual song.
Or to the side of that titanic battle, to get a glance at the legendary black panther, raking and biting, taking brutal hits from the huge demon and tearing its gray skin into loose flaps in reply.
“Huzzah and heigh-ho!” became the call once more as the dwarves rallied, and none greater than Bruenor Battlehammer and his entourage of three, leaping about each other and swatting at a glabrezu, determined to clear the way and get to the side of the dark elf ranger.
DRIZZT SAW NONE of that, heard none of the cheers, and didn’t even register the battle right beside him, where Guenhwyvar and Nalfeshnee traded such brutal strikes. His focus was narrow and fully on the six-armed demon. He was not unfamiliar with this particular type of beast, for he had battled a marilith before, in another time and place.
But not Marilith herself, not this creature, so huge and powerful.
He had come in with the element of surprise, had been upon the demon before she even knew he was there, had struck hard and true with both his blades, the repaired Twinkle, and Icingdeath, the frostbrand, which feasted on the flesh of creatures of fire and the lower planes.
That advantage had proven short-lived, however, and now Drizzt found himself in the fight of his life against a foe mighty and indomitable and unshakable. His focus was perfect because it had to be perfect, because anything less than that would get him cut down in short order.
His body moved somewhere beyond simple consciousness, in some almost ethereal state where conscious thought simply could not keep up. He was the Hunter, because to be anything less was to be dead.
His blades moved as they had to move to intercept and deflect deadly strikes. His legs propelled him to and fro, just ahead of strikes. It was all a blur to him, and to those watching, surely, as he just let himself flow with the battle, let the sounds and movements, the smells and the rush of air even, guide him along. Conscious thought was his enemy—even considering the motions and consciously trying to anticipate the next, would get him killed.
He just let the battle flow, trusting his instincts and reactions without thinking of them at all.
Somehow he had not been hit, though a hundred strikes had come his way. Somehow, he did not tire.
Because he could not tire.
Somehow.
THE BULKY WINGED demon could not begin to keep up with the sheer speed of Guenhwyvar’s movements, and even the beast’s thick hide could only partly deter those incessantly raking claws. Again and again, Nalfeshnee slapped a huge hand to try to catch the cat, and almost always wound up just hitting himself. And on those few occasions when the demon managed to get some grasp on the elusive panther, quick as lightning, Guenhwyvar spun about and bit a demon finger hard.
But these two demon leaders were not mere warriors, brilliant as they were in combat, and for all the tribulations of the early battle, Nalfeshnee was more frustrated than worried.
And so the Abyssal behemoth drew a symbol in the air, chanting guttural sounds to enact the magic.
The glowing symbol hung in front of the beast, and even those dwarves battling the demon line, and those in the ranks behind, had to shy and squint, the unholy power of the magical symbol stinging them and burning them.
For Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, the effect was more pronounced, and the panther issued an agonized growl, and the drow ranger fell back from Marilith and lurched over in pain. So it was that both personal battles would have ended right there, with the major demons crushing their puny enemies.
But in just a few heartbeats, a shimmering wave rolled back and forth around the combatants and the demonic symbol sparked and disappeared. One woman stood tall against the unholy power.
Behind the initial dwarven shield wall, behind her adoptive father and his battling entourage, Catti-brie would not be bowed by demonic magic. She stood with her silvery staff upraised, the blue sapphire glowing fiercely, throwing forth disenchanting waves, inhibiting the Abyssal magic.
And so when Nalfeshnee paused to consider her, a relieved Guenhwyvar leaped upon the beast’s massive shoulder and bit down hard, igniting a fountain of demon blood.
And when Marilith moved forward fast to bury the lurching Drizzt, he came up straight in front of her, and fast turned the tables, driving her back yet again with flashing ripostes.
“Ah, good girl!” Bruenor congratulated her, and he and Athrogate worked in powerful unison to topple yet another vrock, the black-bearded dwarf hardly pausing to consider the win before sweeping out his morningstars to swat away another trio of manes.
“Bwahaha!” he roared happily. “We’re coming Drizzle-Elf! Ye just hold yer ground!”
Bruenor looked to Catti-brie, thinking to ask her for some evocations of her own to help blast clear the way to the drow and his cat, but he found the woman fully engaged, looking at Drizzt, her stare purely focused as if she were expecting some signal.
Catti-brie knew her husband better than any, and understood the flow of the battle he now waged, and so indeed, she was looking for a specific cue.
DRIZZT HAD BATTLED a marilith before, and knew one great trick this demon could play: a quick teleport spell to land her behind her opponent.
He knew, too, the disenchantment that had come over the area, and understood the source of it. So when Marilith came at him only to find him relieved of his pain and ready to counter, then found herself in a desperate backslide, Drizzt guessed what to expect.
The huge demon hissed and brought all of her blades in for complete parries, then threw them out wide, rearing away from Drizzt—and thinking to teleport behind him.
But she could not, and so he got her with a sudden leap and thrust, Icingdeath puncturing her belly.
And chewing hungrily at her life-force.
The demon went into a berserk rage, driving Drizzt back, three arms sweeping across one way, then back again, followed by the other three with the cruel weapons they held. Around came her snakelike tail, trying to sweep the feet from the drow, and he only barely stayed ahead of the sudden, brutal assault.
And in one dodge, he glanced back and caught an opening in the demon-on-dwarf battle to catch a glimpse of Catti-brie. He found her staring back. He only had time to offer a slight nod, but that was all she needed.
Drizzt sped out to the side and reached into his innate drow magic. Purple flames of faerie fire covered the demon. Marilith’s own magic suppressed that almost immediately, but Drizzt hadn’t evoked the dweomer for any reason other than to verify that he could, that Catti-bri
e had correctly dismissed her disenchanting wave.
Marilith came on, and Drizzt stopped running away, turning back to her and charging abruptly.
He led with a globe of impenetrable darkness, covering the huge demon, and into it he sped. Even as his vision failed him, he heard the cries, the collective gasp, from his friends and allies behind.
It was a daring move, to be sure, and never in his life before had Drizzt put this much trust in his anticipation of his opponent’s actions—and in truth, he didn’t really know where that anticipation had come from. How could he know?
But yet again, this was not conscious thought guiding him, only instinct and confidence and trust.
He just knew that Marilith was already moving to counter. Perhaps it was the press of the air, the tiny currents from her arms and blades. She was leading with her left arms, and so her left hip was forward, and in that pose, her blades would come across up high.
And so Drizzt fell flat to the floor, and felt the rush of air above him.
He was up almost instantly and knew the backhand follow was coming fast, and from all the little things he had just subconsciously noted in the last back-and-forth of battle he knew, too, that Marilith would be shifting her left hip to an even posture, and as he understood her general positioning, so, too, must she know his.
So he leaped and turned horizontally in the air, and Marilith’s low blade went beneath him, scraping the floor. And her middle blade, too, was too low, but perilously close. The third blade slashed across so near to his face that if Drizzt hadn’t wisely turned his head, it would have taken his nose.
He rolled as he descended, even as the blades passed, twisting, driving his legs down, catching the floor in a crouch. Three more blades were right behind, but Drizzt went forward still, springing forth inside the demon’s reach.
Springing forth with one scimitar out in front of him, one blade hungry for demon flesh.
He felt Icingdeath enter the demon’s skin in the hollow between her breasts, and he kept going forward, and the material body of the Abyssal creature could not resist or repel the bite of the frostbrand.
Archmage Page 39
