Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)

Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3) Page 60

Off they ran, Drizzt sealing the end with a globe of magical darkness. Then he paused as Entreri and Dahlia spread out beyond, seeking the proper routes.

The drow held perfectly still, craning his neck in concentration. He heard the slightest of footfalls, and sent a line of arrows into and through the magical darkness.

He ducked out of sight around a corner, and not a heartbeat too soon as a Shadovar wizard responded with a stream of magic missiles, and a second mage added a line of biting fire.

On charged the shades, and Drizzt leaned out and drove them back once more, the Heartseeker’s arrows cutting holes through rank after rank, three shades dropping with the first shot alone.

Drizzt ran off.

Only a heartbeat later, the area where he had been crouching exploded in a fireball, then a second and third.

“Keep running,” he warned Entreri and Dahlia as he crossed by them, and he tossed something at Entreri.

The assassin caught it: his buckle knife.

On they ran.

Chapter 21: The Shifting Web of Allies and Enemies

Brack’thal stood in the orange-glowing chamber, staring down past the swirling water elementals to the bubbling lava maw of the primordial beast. The mage rubbed his thumb across the ruby band on his index finger, for through that ring, he could hear the call of the primordial, and could understand it.

Parts of it, at least, for this being was truly beyond Brack’thal’s comprehension, even with the assistance of the ring. This was a most ancient power, a god beast. Though it was quite above him, its primary call carried a simple enough message: the beast wanted to be freed.

Brack’thal looked down to his right, to the narrow mushroom stalk bridge that had been put in place to cross the pit.

His gaze moved out through the continual mist across the pit to the archway, barely visible through the fog, and the small antechamber beyond. He pictured the lever, and spoke the word for it—not in the drow tongue or in the common tongue of Faerûn, but in a language he knew from his ring, the language of creatures of the primal plane of fire.

The primordial roiled hopefully, far below.

Ambergris hustled to the door ahead of the rest of her hunting band. This portal opened into the main corridor, she knew, and knew, too, that her band of Shadovar hunters had arrived in time to intercept the trio. She didn’t waste any time, sprinkling some powdery substance down on the floor and drawing it into specific shapes as she quietly chanted her spell.

“What is it?” Afafrenfere said, coming in through the room’s other door.

“Keep yerself back,” the dwarf warned, holding up one hand. “There be a powerful ward placed on this portal.”

By the time she rose and turned around, several others had entered, including the sorcerer who had been designated as the patrol’s leader.

“Glyphed,” Ambergris explained, moving toward them.

The shade wizard looked at her curiously. “This one, you check?” he asked suspiciously, for they had come through a dozen such doors.

“I been checking most,” Ambergris replied, to a doubtful look.

“Check for yerself then, fool,” the dwarf said. “Meself ’s looking for another way about.”

“Go to the door,” the wizard ordered Afafrenfere.

“Don’t ye move,” Ambergris remarked, drawing the wizard’s icy stare.

The dwarf returned that with a grin, and looked knowingly to Afafrenfere, who indeed was making no movement toward the portal. The others didn’t know about Ambergris and Afafrenfere’s allegiance to Cavus Dun, but Afafrenfere had not forgotten it, nor the fact that such affiliation superseded any orders he might be given here, other than those coming directly from Lord Alegni himself.

“Dwarf says it’s glyphed,” the monk replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Do not delay!” the wizard commanded, turning all around. He focused on another of the shades, a female standing beside him, and threw the woman forward. “Go! Go! Before they pass us by!”

The woman glanced at Ambergris only momentarily before easing toward the door. She neared tentatively, sliding one foot before the other.

She almost made it, and was even reaching for the door handle, when the glyph of lightning exploded, throwing the poor shade through the air, the thunderous retort shaking the floor and walls.

“Well done!” Ambergris congratulated the sorcerer, and the others fell back, except for the poor victim, of course, who went crashing aside, her hair dancing, her teeth chattering, blood running from her eyes.

The sorcerer stared at the dwarf hatefully.

“Our enemies know we’re here now, I’m guessing,” the dwarf taunted. “But if ye’re not sure, ye might want to set off another alarm or two.”

“Now we go through!” the sorcerer demanded.

Ambergris huffed at that. “Another glyph or two remaining,” she warned with a shake of her hairy head, and she walked past the sorcerer, muttering, “Idiot,” as she went.

That proved more than he could tolerate, and he reached out and shoved the dwarf . . . who didn’t budge. Ambergris did move, though, sweeping her large mace across and swatting the sorcerer aside. The shocked mage grunted as he slammed into the side wall, then groaned and slumped to the floor.

“Gather the idiot,” Ambergris instructed Afafrenfere and one other. “We got to backtrack and with all speed if we’re hoping to catch them three afore they get on much more.”

Ambergris, of course, was hoping for no such thing.

She turned to another pair of shades. “The two o’ ye bring her along,” she ordered, pointing to the lightning-wounded woman. “Might be that I can save her. Might not.”

The three companions heard the thunderous report and moved with as much caution as they could muster. They soon slipped past the lightning-scarred door, then rushed away, Drizzt in the back, the Heartseeker trained on the hallway in case any enemies might come forth behind them.

Soon after, though, the drow took up the lead once more. “This way,” Drizzt instructed, for he recognized the area clearly, and knew they were nearing the great stairwell to the lower levels.

Indeed, a short while later, they entered the last expanse, the door that would take them to the stairwell landing visible down the corridor before them. As they approached, the door swung open, and Drizzt almost let fly an arrow—until he recognized a fellow drow coming through.

At the same time, movement from behind had the trio looking back over their shoulders, to see more dark elves moving toward them. And not just any drow, Drizzt understood as he regarded the male leading the small cavalry patrol, for this one rode astride a powerful lizard, and it and he were armored in the finest of drow materials and craftsmanship. This was no commoner drow, but a House noble, and likely from one of the greater Houses.

A second rider followed close behind, and Drizzt recognized Jearth as Jearth called out to him.

“Where are your forces, Masoj?” Jearth demanded, riding up beside his mounted companion. “Where is Kimmuriel, or Jarlaxle, at least?”

“These are the agents of Bregan D’aerthe?” the other rider asked, and he looked doubtfully at Drizzt, and became even more skeptical as he regarded Entreri, and nearly spat on the floor when his gaze fell over Dahlia.

“They are,” Jearth replied.

The other rider could barely contain a laugh. He focused on Drizzt once more, and looked at the drow curiously—so much so that Drizzt lowered his gaze. “Tell Jarlaxle that House Baenre wishes to speak with him,” he said, and he walked his strong lizard through the trio, forcing them aside and nearly trampling Dahlia. And when Byok, his lizard, tried to bite at the woman, the Baenre noble only barely held it back.

Other riders rumbled past in his wake, some taking their sticky-footed mounts up on the walls.

“Ride with me,” Jearth instructed Drizzt.

Drizzt looked at him curiously.

“The stairwell has been dropped to prevent the shades from getting below,” Jearth explained. “I will take you down.”

“What of my companions?”

Dahlia, who could not understand the drow language, slapped Entreri on the shoulder, and he leaned in, translating quietly.

“Iblith,” the weapons master said with a dismissive wave. “No proper mount would accept such a rider. Come along, we haven’t much time.”

Drizzt was shaking his head before he had even formulated a proper response. “Jarlaxle’s consort,” he said at last, motioning to Dahlia. “He will not be pleased if I abandon them.”

“That is Jarlaxle’s problem.”

“And mine,” said Drizzt. “I am tasked with protecting them.”

“They cannot get down through this route.”

“If Bregan D’aerthe arrives, it will be up here, in any case,” said Drizzt. “We can avoid the shades, and we will strike at them as they advance.”

Jearth looked at him incredulously, then stared at Dahlia and Entreri. “They are iblith,” he said with obvious disgust.

Drizzt shrugged sheepishly and reiterated, “Jarlaxle’s consort.”

Jearth shook his head, apparently accepting that reasoning as sound, which, of course, it would be to anyone who knew Jarlaxle. The weapons master of House Xorlarrin started off after the others, passing through the door and going over the lip of the landing without missing a stride.

“We can’t stay up here,” Entreri remarked as soon as the three were alone. He noticed that Drizzt was hardly listening, and prompted him, “Drizzt?”

“We saw him die,” Drizzt said to Dahlia. “Down below, in the primordial’s chamber.”

She looked at him curiously before asking, “Jarlaxle?”

Drizzt nodded. “Twice now, we have spoken his name openly to these dark elves, as if Jarlaxle was still alive.”

“Word has not reached other drow,” Dahlia reasoned. “It hasn’t been that long a time.”

“That first rider who passed you was a noble of House Baenre,” Drizzt said, and he shook his head to indicate that he couldn’t quite sort this out. “If Jarlaxle had fallen, House Baenre would certainly know.”

“We don’t have the time to discuss this,” Entreri warned. He looked back the way they had come, drawing the gazes of the other two. “We’re supposed to hide up here? We have to get from this tunnel and into some side chambers, then.”

“Of course not,” said Drizzt. “The primordial is below, so we need to get below. Let the drow clear out from the large chamber and we will descend.”

“They said that the stairwell to the lower level is broken. Do you know another way?”

“Dahlia the Crow can get us down,” Drizzt replied, but he said it absently, and was hardly thinking of that at the time, despite their precarious position.

House Baenre surely would know if Jarlaxle had met his demise.

“Do as I say,” Berellip said to her obstinate younger brother.

“It is my expedition,” Ravel countered.

Berellip slapped him so hard across the face that his legs nearly buckled beneath him. He staggered to the side a step, and came up staring not at Berellip, but at Tiago and Jearth, who had just returned from the upper levels.