Kiriy turned slowly to regard her and looked her up and down. If she was impressed at all, she surely didn’t show it. “House Do’Urden . . .” she whispered quietly and dismissively.
“It was a terrible fight?” Saribel probed, trying to find the root of her sister’s anger.
Kiriy looked at her with puzzlement.
“In Q’Xorlarrin,” Saribel clarified.
“Hardly a fight,” the older sister replied. She looked back to the distant ceremony. “More like a whimper and a retreat.”
“Do you think Matron Mother Zeerith erred in surrendering the—”
“I think that if all the Xorlarrin nobles were in Q’Xorlarrin, as they should have been, and if Menzoberranzan had offered proper support instead of sending an army of demon beasts, too busy chewing the flesh of each other to understand our enemy, then you and I would not be having this conversation.”
The blunt words and determined tone set Saribel back on her heels.
“So now here we are,” Kiriy went on, “anointed nobles of the wicked joke that is named House Do’Urden.”
“Whose matron mother sits on the Ruling Council,” Saribel reminded her, and Kiriy snorted.
“Matron Mother Darthiir’s reign will be short,” Saribel added.
“Oh indeed,” said Kiriy. She backed away a step and looked Saribel up and down, smiling as if she knew something her sister did not. “And you are First Priestess Saribel, whose tenure will be long, if you are wise.”
Saribel felt very small suddenly, and very vulnerable. Her thoughts went back to her childhood, when Kiriy used to discipline her mightily and mercilessly and often—so often! Under Kiriy’s stern guidance even the slightest infraction of etiquette would get the child Saribel beaten to unconsciousness, or bitten by a snake-headed scourge.
Just looking at Kiriy then made Saribel’s blood burn with the memories of that awful poison, made her throat dry at the feeling of the fiery vomit burning all the way up her throat.
“Whose
tenure
,” Kiriy had said, and not “whose reign.”
Saribel’s thoughts whirled in a hundred different directions. She wanted to speak with Matron Mother Zeerith, but she knew Zeerith would be secretly out of the city that same day and might not return for years, or decades even.
She thought she should go to the matron mother, but realized that Quenthel Baenre would more likely murder her than aid her.
Tiago might be the answer, she realized, and that thought troubled her more than any other. Her only path to the throne of House Do’Urden would be beside Tiago, and he, not she, would have to forge the trail. Saribel hated that thought, hated the notion that Tiago would hold sway over her even if she realized her highest ambition and became Matron Mother Do’Urden.
How many years would she have to suffer him beside her?
A loud boom shook the balcony, and the whole of the city, the final burst of celebratory fireworks for the appointment of Archmage Tsabrak Xorlarrin.
Saribel again glanced at Kiriy, whose eyes gleamed as she fixed them upon the distant ceremony. Saribel was not close to her brother Tsabrak in any way. He was older, the eldest of the Xorlarrin children, but only a few years senior to Kiriy. The two of them had been more parent than sibling to Saribel and Ravel, with Berellip in the middle, always pitting the older Xorlarrin children against the younger two, particularly against Saribel.
It occurred to Saribel only then that with Tsabrak’s ascension and Matron Mother Zeerith’s expected long absence, Kiriy had just gained a mighty ally.
Perhaps, Saribel thought, she would be wise not to covet the untimely demise of Matron Mother Darthiir Do’Urden.
T
hey were of Clan Battlehammer. This he knew as he silently slipped past the torn dwarf body. Stokely Silverstream had warned of this. They had found some of the Icewind Dale dwarves battered but alive in the tunnels immediately around the Forge Room and the chambers the drow House had taken as its home.
But for those deeper in the mines . . .
The Hunter looked at the ankle cuff binding the dwarf to the stone. The poor fellow had nearly torn his foot off trying to slip free of it. Because he had known, as the Hunter knew now.
The tunnels were thick with demons.
Around a corner in the low lichen glow, the Hunter saw another dwarf victim, or pieces of the poor lass, at least. He slid Taulmaril back over his shoulder and drew out his scimitars. He wanted to see the beasts up close. He wanted to feel the heat of their spilling blood.
This was the darkness of the Underdark, where Abyssal creatures were surely at home. But this was the home of the drow, too, and the Hunter was their perfect incarnation.
He caught a snuffling sound up ahead, around a left-hand corner, and recognized that some beast had caught his scent. The corridor ended at that corner, but went to the right as well, so going fast around it would expose his back to any allies of the creature.
He glanced back at the torn dwarf, and he cared.
He glanced ahead at the intersection, imagined the potential trap, and the Hunter did not care.
He went around the corner in a blur, hands working furiously before he ever came in sight of the creature, scoring a first hit before he realized the identity of this demon, a balgura, a dwarf-like thug two feet taller than the Hunter and thrice his girth, and that bulk all muscle and heavy bone. Icingdeath dug into the demon’s shoulder, and the brute howled when the scimitar bit at its Abyssal core. Around came the beast, a huge hammer swinging, and the Hunter dived back into a roll, disengaging his blade. The corridor shook violently under the weight of that blow. Stones and dirt tumbled from above.
And the Hunter realized the trap as he came around, noting a trio of emaciated manes ambling in at him. He started for the balgura but cut back fast, spinning and slashing, then boring ahead, his blades tearing and chopping with every step, sending bits of these least demons flying.
He went through them like a mole through soft dirt, burrowing and chopping and shoving aside the dying husks. He heard the heavy footsteps of the balgura behind him and thought to dive into a roll and bring forth his bow.
But no, this was personal.
He wanted to feel the heat of its spilling blood.
He stopped and spun, ducking so low that his bum touched the stone floor, the heavy hammer sweeping over his head to smash into the corridor wall once more.
Up came the Hunter, flipping his scimitars in his hands and digging their tips into the heavyset demon with overhand chops, walking them up the way he might use them to climb an ice sheet.
On pure instinct, before he was even consciously aware of the move, he threw his legs out behind him and up high, his form parallel to the floor, and the backhand swing of the lumbering demon swiped harmlessly below him.
His feet touched down and he quick-stepped forward, but threw his shoulders back tearing free the blades and rolling straight back to avoid another corridor-rattling swing.
The opponents paused and squared off and the Hunter saw pain in the balgura’s black eyes, and saw the lines of blood streaming from the wounds, particularly the deep shoulder cuts. And the Hunter felt that blood on his own bare forearms, and he was glad.
In he charged as the balgura brought its heavy hammer behind it for an overhead chop. The Hunter’s blades worked a dizzying blur, stabbing and slashing, and into the air he went, diving forward, scimitars crossed. He passed over the squat creature and tucked fast, setting the crook of his blades against the rising warhammer.
He lifted over the warhammer, twisting and pressing, and only finally releasing it as he spun to land lightly. Not so agile was the balgura, caught by surprise by the bold and speedy move, its balance and weight all askew. It hopped weirdly, barely able to still bring the hammer over its head, and it stumbled as it did, crashing shoulder-first into the corridor wall.
With a roar of protest, the demon bounced off that stone and whirled about.
“I wear no shackles!” proclaimed the Hunter, who was too close by then. In bore his blades, and this time, when Icingdeath found the Abyssal creature’s throat, the Hunter did not retract. He pressed in all the harder, Twinkle working independently to keep the demon’s grasping hand aside, and to repeatedly dart under the extended Icingdeath to stab at the arm that still held the warhammer.
Like a trained fighting dog, the Hunter would not let go. Icingdeath feasted, and the balgura howled.
And the balgura died.
With an angry twist of his wrist, the Hunter cut the demon’s throat as it slumped to the floor.
A roar from behind, from the corridor where he had first turned, and the Hunter had his bow in hand, fitting an arrow so fluidly that it would have appeared to any onlookers that the missile had been set on the bowstring all along.
A second balgura bore down on him, crossing the perpendicular corridor.
But the Hunter held his shot. Out of that corridor came another form, a lithe form not unlike his own.
A slender blade led, plunging through the balgura’s side. The demon howled and threw itself against the far wall, trying to turn and keep up as the second drow sped behind it, the blade working fast, thrust and retract, thrust and retract, and so cleanly and smoothly did it travel, deep into the demon’s muscle and gristle with every plunge, that the Hunter could only watch in appreciation.
With undeniable skill and perfect aim, the drow drove the deadly weapon home again and again, and always was he one stride ahead of the turning, dying demon.
When at last it crumbled in death, the second drow was once more between the Hunter and the newest kill, and Drizzt recognized him by his outrageous hat before he even turned about and dipped a polite bow.
“Well met again, my old friend,” Jarlaxle said, and he saluted with a sword Drizzt knew well: Khazid’hea, the sword more commonly known as “Cutter.”
Curiously, though, another blade rested on Jarlaxle’s hip where he would normally sheathe Cutter.
“I have searched long for you,” Jarlaxle said. “Though not as long as I might have feared,” he added with a chuckle, kicking at the balgura Drizzt had killed. “You do leave a trail of easily followed crumbs.”
“As bait for the other demons,” Drizzt explained. “Let them find me and make my hunt easier.”
“There are some powerful foes down here,” Jarlaxle warned.
“I have not yet even brought Guenhwyvar to my side. I will save her until I find another marilith, perhaps.”
Bigger foes, Jarlaxle thought but did not say. He had been apprised of the events in full and believed that several of the demon lords had come into the Underdark, with hosts of major demons with them.
“You came to join in my hunt, then,” Drizzt said. “I am glad for the company.”
“You came to find any more survivors from Icewind Dale.”
Drizzt solemnly shook his head, certain that none would be found alive.
“So you stay to exact vengeance.”
“To clear the corridors for King Bruenor’s people,” Drizzt corrected, though the thoughts were not mutually exclusive, and both were true.
“I will join in your hunt, then, if you will have me,” said Jarlaxle. “But that is not why I have come, my friend.”
Drizzt looked at him curiously, not sure what to expect.
“I have tidings, many, both dark and hopeful, from the lower tunnels,” Jarlaxle explained. “Come, let us be gone from this fetid place. I will set us a fine dinner.”
“A dinner? Down here?”
“The growl you hear is no demon, but my belly, and I am sure I will die of starvation before I find my way back to Bruenor’s halls, even if my path is clear all the way. Come.”
Drizzt shook his head, reminding himself never to be surprised by Jarlaxle—and found himself, yet again, quite astonished. As Jarlaxle turned, Drizzt caught a better view of the sword that hung on his belt. It was a sword Drizzt knew well: Charon’s Claw, the blade Drizzt had watched Artemis Entreri throw into the primordial pit.
“How?” he blurted, and Jarlaxle swung back, then followed Drizzt’s gaze down to the distinctive skeletal hilt and red blade of that most wicked weapon.
“Surely you know me better than to expect me to leave such a treasure as Charon’s Claw lying in the hot stones of a pit,” Jarlaxle innocently replied.
“You went down there to retrieve . . .”
“No,” Jarlaxle said casually, and he turned back and started away, “your wife did.”
Drizzt stood there stunned for a few moments. He scrambled and caught up to Jarlaxle around a bend in the corridor and into a side chamber, where the mercenary was already preparing his banquet. From a magical pouch came a table, cleverly folded so that it opened, again and again, to become a rectangular table as long as Drizzt was tall, and half that width. Chairs followed and a fine linen tablecloth as well, with plates and fine silver, large drinking goblets, and all from a pouch barely larger than the one Drizzt wore to hold the onyx figurine that summoned Guenhwyvar.
From some secret pocket inside his cloak, Jarlaxle produced a wand, and from it came a meal fit for Bruenor’s table on the highest holiday of the dwarven year.
“Sit,” Jarlaxle bade Drizzt. “And eat. We have much to talk about.”
A groan back in the corridor alerted them that they were not alone. Drizzt turned and reached for his blades, but Jarlaxle held his hand up to stop him then reached his other hand to the huge feather stuck into the band of his grand hat. He threw it down, summoning a gigantic flightless bird—a diatryma—with a huge beak that could break through a skull with ease and massive legs that would make fine drumsticks for the gods of the giants.
Off it went with a squawk that echoed about the stones. Barely had it turned the corner into the corridor when the first demon manes let out a great gasp, a burst of air flying from its suddenly torn lungs.
Jarlaxle motioned for Drizzt to sit, and took his own seat opposite, carefully laying Khazid’hea onto the table.
Drizzt did likewise with his bow, and put the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar within easy reach as well.
Jarlaxle tore a leg from the beautifully browned turkey set on a silver platter, and hoisted his large mug, filled with fine ale, in toast. “To friends!” he said.
Drizzt lifted his own mug and nodded his agreement.
“You understand why the dwarves won so easily, do you not?” Jarlaxle asked. But then he paused, held up his hand to prevent a response, and shook his head, his expression one of disgust as he considered the tumult coming from the hallway. He reached for his belt pouch again, then reconsidered and went for a second pouch instead.
He brought out a tiny stringed instrument with an even smaller bow, and he tossed it into the air.
And there it hung, and it began to play.
“Much better!” Jarlaxle said when the music drowned out the noise of ripping and tearing flesh out in the corridor, and Drizzt could only shake his head helplessly and laugh.
“Now, to the point,” Jarlaxle went on. “You understand why the dwarves so easily won?”
“The hundreds of dead might not agree with that description of the victory.”
“True enough,” Jarlaxle conceded. “Nor do I mean to minimize your own struggles, particularly with the great demons you defeated in the main chamber of the lower level. Truly that was a fight to remember. I don’t know that I have ever seen you fight better, and I have witnessed many of your battles over the years.”
“I fought with grand allies,” said Drizzt. “And that is why the dwarves won.”
“Indeed, and they would have prevailed in any case.”
“But not as easily?”
“Must I remind you of the power of a drow noble House? Surely you remember, and this was House Xorlarrin, my friend, thick with deadly wizards more than ready to send a thousand of Bruenor’s kin to the grave in short order.”
“But they did not,” said Drizzt, catching on, “because of . . .”
Jarlaxle smiled.
“I have known Matron Mother Zeerith most of her life,” the mercenary explained. “She is a most reasonable creature. I know that’s hard for you to believe, but I ask that you trust me on this observation.”
“You convinced her to depart, and to surrender,” Drizzt replied. He knew much of this already, from the surrender of Matron Mother Zeerith in the primordial chamber, when she had returned the Harpell prisoners and Stokely Silverstream in exchange for her own exit into the Underdark.
“Have you seen any signs of them?” Jarlaxle asked. “Of any drow?”
Drizzt shook his head.
“Why not, do you suppose? The tunnels are thick with demons— surely a matron mother of a drow House and her high priestesses could convince more than a few to go and cause havoc among the dwarves as they settle into their new home.”
“How do I know they have not?” Drizzt replied. “Demons are all around, perhaps at Matron Mother Zeerith’s behest.”
“They have not,” Jarlaxle assured him. “House Xorlarrin is far removed from this place and will honor the terms of their surrender. And yes, my friend, because of my efforts.”
“Then I lift my flagon in honor of Jarlaxle,” Drizzt said, and he did just that.
“At great expense,” Jarlaxle added.
“No doubt.”
“And now I wish something from you.”
“You did this as a requisite for a favor?” Drizzt asked. “Then truly you wound me.”
“Why did you think I did it?”
“Out of respect and friendship, I dared to hope. Was I wrong?”
Jarlaxle laughed, and now it was his turn to salute Drizzt.
“Then I ask you as a friend, and because it is the right thing to do,” Jarlaxle said after a big gulp of ale and a large bite of delicious turkey. “I need you to come with me.”
“Where?”