Charon's claw

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 Faerun, 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.

“How long do we have?” Berellip asked Tiago, and not Ravel. “They will find another way down, if they haven’t already,” Tiago replied.

“The Shadovar have sorcerers among their ranks and will not be deterred by the absence of a stairway. And sorcerers can surely sense the magic of the primordial. They will find the forge in short order, I would expect.”

“We must defend the forge,” Ravel insisted, coming back to stand before his sister.

“No open battles,” Berellip declared. “I’ll not lose Xorlarrin drow to the likes of the Netherese. Why are we even fighting the minions of the Shadowfell?”

“Mostly we have been running, not fighting,” Tiago remarked.

“It’s possible that Bregan D’aerthe is hovering about,” Jearth interjected. “Kimmuriel’s scouting party came into Gauntlgrym ahead of the Shadovar, it would seem.”

“They would be a great asset,” Berellip remarked. “But at what cost?”

“Who can know?” Tiago asked, and started away. “I am off to the forge. Do I organize a defense or a retreat?”

“We don’t know how many of the Netherese have come,” Jearth warned before Berellip could decide.

“Both,” the priestess demanded of Tiago, at the same moment that Ravel said, “Defense.”

Ravel looked past Berellip as he spoke, though, to see Jearth shaking his head at Ravel, warning him to back down.

“Shut down the forges and prepare a retreat,” Berellip then added, staring hatefully at Ravel the whole while.

“The narrow and dark tunnels will favor us, should we need to continue any fighting with the Shadovar,” Jearth put in. “We would err in standing against this unexpected enemy in pitched battle.”

“We have ample fodder for that,” said Ravel.

“Do we?” Jearth replied before Berellip could chime in. “The Shadovar ranks include many wizards-not to match the power of your spellspinners, likely,” he quickly added, seeing Ravel’s scowl. “But enough to wipe out our goblinkin allies, and we’ll need them to secure the complex when the Netherese depart or are dispatched.”

“And Menzoberranzan won’t send us any more of the vermin anytime soon,” Berellip added evenly, and undeniably threateningly, Ravel understood.

Ravel rubbed his eyes, trying to sort it all out. What had brought this new force to Gauntlgrym, and why now, at this precise moment? He had been so close to his ultimate triumph! The whole of Gauntlgrym was soon to be his, a city for House Xorlarrin, blessed by House Baenre. Matron Zeerith would hold him in highest standard and no more would Berellip or Saribel or any of his other sisters dare lift a snake whip his way.

Berellip had moved away by this time, no doubt confident that Tiago Baenre would heed her command and not his, Ravel realized. And he didn’t disagree with that conclusion, for in truth, Berellip’s order to stand down was by far the wiser course. Let the Shadovar move forward. Lead them down the long tunnels of the Underdark, the haunt of the drow.

And why were they fighting against the Netherese, anyway, he wondered? Perhaps there was no love between the denizens of the Shadowfell and those of the Underdark, but neither, to Ravel’s knowledge, were there any avowed hostilities.

“We must discern why they have come, and why they are attacking us,” he said, drawing the attention of Berellip and Jearth and the others in the room, including Tiago, who hadn’t yet departed and was watching the play quite attentively. Ravel looked to Jearth and asked, “Who started the fighting in the upper halls?”

“When two such forces come together unexpectedly in a dark and dangerous place…” Jearth remarked, as if that should explain everything. “And it appears that the Shadovar were already engaged against Kimmuriel’s scouting band, in any case.”

“Perhaps they’re our enemies, then,” Ravel said. “Perhaps not.”

Berellip took a step toward him.

“In either case, we’ll not share Gauntlgrym,” the Xorlarrin spellspinner decreed. “This is our complex now, and the Shadovar will accept that, or they will feel the sting of drow metal.”

“Should we assemble in the great stair cavern for your magnificent battle, then?” Berellip asked with dripping sarcasm.

Ravel knew better than to take that bait. “No, dear sister,” he said. “You were correct in your assessment. Forgive me my anger, but understand it in the context that we are so close to that which our family has wanted for millennia. It is not so easy for me to give it away.”

Berellip scowled and Ravel quickly added, “Even temporarily. But indeed, you are correct. Let us stretch their lines into corridors of our choosing. If they are foolish enough to pursue, let us fight them with proper drow tactics, on proper drow battlefields.”

Berellip stared at him for a while longer, then nodded slightly-and it seemed to Ravel as if she and he had made some progress in resolving their unspoken rivalry. He wanted to lash out at her for publicly slapping him, of course, for ever had he been a prideful male. But no, he would do no such thing. He needed her, more now than ever.

“Go to Yerrininae,” he instructed Jearth. “The fierce driders will be hungry for battle, but I’ll not lose them, even if it meant a hundred dead Shadovar for every slain drider.”

“Let the goblins engage them as we stretch back our lines?” he asked, and pointedly did not instruct, Berellip.

She slowly shook her head.

Not even the fodder.

Ravel’s face brightened suddenly with an idea. “Brack’thal, then,” he said. “Let our brother strike at the invaders with his fiery pets. Surely the Shadovar will not even be able to place the blame upon us should we come to negotiations, given the current lord of these halls.”

Berellip stared hard for many heartbeats, but eventually she nodded her agreement, and even managed a congratulatory smile for her brother.

“I will instruct him,” Tiago said, and with a nod, he jumped astride Byok and headed for the forge.

Ravel watched him go suspiciously. He alone knew of the treasure Tiago sought in the forge, the sword and shield Gol’fanin was even then creating, and he wondered if the Baenre would be patient enough to surrender the forge to the Netherese, even temporarily. He shook the thought away, though, for wasn’t Ravel’s own stake here at least as great? When he turned back to Berellip, he was glad of his sister’s expression indeed, but whatever gains in understanding he and Berellip had made to diminish their personal squabbling seemed a minor victory next to the new threat that had interrupted their plans.

This was to be Xorlarrin’s city. They were not about to let a group of Shadovar chase them off… for long.

“So they came here to join in with the drow’s friends,” Glorfathel remarked glumly, shaking his head. “Our task just got much more difficult.”

“Nah,” Ambergris replied, but Alegni’s voice spoke over her.

“The drow risk war with Netheril, then,” he said. “Do they understand that?”

“We cannot know, but perhaps a parley,” Glorfathel started to answer, but Ambergris interrupted.

“Ain’t no drow friend o’ Drizzt Do’Urden,” she said. “If they runned into a drow patrol, then that one’s likely dead already.”

“How do you know that?” Alegni asked suspiciously.

“Amber Gristle O’Maul, o’ the Adbar O’Mauls,” Ambergris answered with a bow. “The name o’ Drizzt Do’Urden’s well known in Citadel Adbar, don’t ye doubt. And he ain’t no friend of his kin. They come to catch him afore. They started a war about him. Nah, Warlord, if Drizzt runned into them drow, and them drow figured out ’twas Drizzt, then Drizzt is caught or dead, don’t ye doubt.”

“Then the other drow might not even know what they have,” Glorfathel offered. “Perhaps there is hope for a parley.”

“We don’t even know if they have him, or the sword,” Effron argued.

Herzgo Alegni closed his eyes and listened for that silent call once more, listened for the telepathic voice of Claw, his beloved sword.

“They may still be in the upper levels,” Effron went on, speaking to him directly and drawing him from his contemplations.

The warlord shook his head confidently. “It does not matter,” he said.

“If we wish to catch them…” Effron started.

“We wish to stop them first,” Alegni declared, and all four looked at him curiously. “They seek the primordial,” he explained. “They look to destroy Claw. That is why they have come,” he added, looking at Ambergris, who had first posited such an opinion.

“You cannot know that,” Effron replied, even as Ambergris nodded her agreement with Alegni.

Alegni’s glare came as a clear warning to the twisted warlock. “The sword calls to me. Press on with all speed. We must find the beast quickly and secure the area around it. They will come to us, or they will flee and the threat to the sword will be diminished.”

“There are other drow about,” Glorfathel reminded him.

“If we encounter them, and they have captured or allied with our enemies, let us tell them what they have and who they have,” Alegni replied. “If they cooperate, then the fighting in the tunnels above will be forgiven. If not, then let us pay them back for those we lost. In the aftermath of such a battle, so will be declared war between Netheril and the drow, and the Empire will send us an endless line of soldiers.”

“I can find the primordial,” Glorfathel assured him. “Its magic resonates all around us.”

Alegni nodded and motioned to his nearby commanders to tighten up the ranks, that they could press on with all speed.

The giant crow swooped down from on high, one end of a fine elven rope in her beak. She alighted atop the highest remaining stair, near the hinge that had allowed the clever denizens below to fold half the stairwell down over the lower half. It was a marvelous design, but Dahlia had no time to consider it at length then. She reverted to her elf form and tied off the rope as tightly as she could, then waited as the two up on the landing pulled it even tighter and tied it securely above.

Drizzt went first, sliding down under the line, a leather belt pouch looped over the cord as a makeshift handle. Entreri came close behind, and even as he started, and before Drizzt had set down on the stairs, Dahlia became a crow again and flew back up.

She understood Entreri’s impatience when she arrived at the landing, given the unmistakable sounds of an approaching force. She didn’t even revert from the crow form, using her beak to pull free the knots.

And quickly she was gone, swooping again from on high, soaring past her two friends as they scrambled along the stair, and down to the bottom to ensure that the large chamber was indeed empty.

The three companions entered the tunnels quickly and made for the forge, and for the pit of the great beast. Dahlia couldn’t help but notice that Drizzt grew quite agitated. He kept dropping his hand into his belt pouch-where he kept the panther figurine, she knew.

“What is it?” she quietly asked him as Entreri moved out ahead.

He looked at her curiously, but she grabbed his wrist, for his hand was again in that pouch.

Drizzt winced, his expression full of anger. “She is worth the lives of fifty Artemis Entreris,” he stated.

“What?”

He muttered something undecipherable and pushed past her to catch up to the assassin.

Hustling to be done with Entreri, once and for all, Dahlia presumed, and it struck her then how greatly, how viciously, her drow lover wanted Entreri to die. Perhaps it was the call of the sword again, or maybe, she mused, Drizzt simply hated Entreri that much.