sort.
Strangely, Drizzt had a feeling that such a crude revelation might have stung less profoundly.
For he knew now what he had long suspected: Artemis Entreri knew something of Dahlia, understood something of Dahlia, which he did not and could not. Some cord wound between them. In her tears and in her quiet chuckle, Dahlia had shared more with Artemis Entreri then she had with Drizzt in all their nights of lovemaking.
How could it be that this quiet conversation about a campfire in the nighttime forest felt more intimate than making love?
It made no sense.
But there it was before him.
WHERE THE SHADOWS NEVER END
The wounds were considerable,” the shade priest explained. “He will be many tendays in repair.”
“Then get more priests to tend him,” Draygo Quick answered sharply. “He does not have tendays.”
The priest rocked back, surprised, obviously, at being treated so. He and his brethren had just pulled the tiefling from the very edge of the grave, after all.
“Few had thought that Lord Alegni would survive, though your great action in destroying the vicious feline was brilliantly performed,” the priest replied, a stinging rebuttal, though one couched, prudently, with proper compliment to the powerful Netherese lord.
The words were true enough-regarding Alegni at least, Draygo Quick had to admit. The tiefling’s skin had been hanging in tatters, after all, and one of his eyes had been plucked from its socket, left hanging by a cord on his cheek.
And those had been the least of his wounds.
“I need him, quickly,” Draygo Quick demanded.
“He will live,” was all the priest could respond.
“He must do more than live,” the warlock warned. “He must return to Faerun in mere days to retrieve that which he has lost.”
“The sword.”
“Our sword,” the withered old warlock replied.
“You could send others…”
“It is not my responsibility. It is Herzgo Alegni’s. Summon other priests-as many as you can find. Mend every wound and stand him up.”
The priest looked at him doubtfully.
“For his own sake,” Draygo Quick answered that stare. “Now be gone.”
The priest knew better than to argue with the likes of Draygo Quick, and he bowed curtly and hustled away.
Draygo Quick took a wheezing breath. He had sponsored Herzgo Alegni to a position of great power in Netherese society. He was not responsible for the tiefling, of course, but Alegni’s actions-his victories and his failures-surely played upon the well-guarded reputation of Draygo Quick.
Herzgo Alegni had lost a Netherese artifact, a powerful and prized sword, and one that Draygo Quick had given to him. Herzgo Alegni had to get it back. That would always be the case in Netherese custom and law, but it was even more poignant this time, Draygo Quick knew, for the recent history of Alegni had not been one of shining triumph. His expedition to the region known as Neverwinter should have been secured years before. True, the unexpected cataclysm of the volcanic eruption had occurred at a terrible time, but excuses could only carry one so far among the strict and demanding Netheril Empire.
Now the loss of the sword seemed even more profound, because it had come at a time of even higher expectation and because it had not been the only loss. Despite Draygo Quick’s controversial decision to send scores of reinforcements to Alegni’s Neverwinter garrison, the city of Neverwinter itself had been lost to the Netherese.
Even with the Thayans in disarray and on the run, the city had been lost.
Draygo Quick had heard the whispers that morning, hints that he had given too much-in terms of gifts and responsibilities-to a failed leader. He had even overheard a pair of powerful nobles questioning his own abilities, wondering if perhaps age had dulled his mind, for would Draygo Quick had ever made such a terrible misjudgment in his earlier days?
They had to get Herzgo Alegni on his feet, and Alegni had to go and retrieve that sword in short order. Neverwinter was lost to them, but so be it.
The loss of Charon’s Claw was another matter entirely.
The long room glowed with firelight and teemed with magical, primal energy, as two-score primordial- powered forges glowed with hot life. The sound of hammers rang clear, echoing about the stones.
“Thinking in the past?” Tiago Baenre remarked when he caught up to Ravel, who stood with eyes closed, as if basking in the more subtle sensations. “Or considering the potential, perhaps?”
“Both,” the spellspinner admitted. “This is how Gauntlgrym must have sounded and smelled and seemed at the height of dwarven power.”
“You approve of the height of dwarven power?” Tiago asked with sly grin.
“I can appreciate it,” Ravel admitted. “Particularly now that said power works for me.”
That drew an awkward look from Tiago, and he directed Ravel’s gaze to the main forge, the central oven, where a drow bent over a silvery blade lying on a table, a large backpack of ingredients-magical powders and elixirs-close at hand. Not far to the side rested a djinni bottle. Looking at it, Tiago couldn’t help but lick his lips eagerly. What blades might Gol’fanin create for him with such implements, and in such a forge as this magnificent creation?
“Now that it works for House Xorlarrin,” Ravel corrected, but not correct enough for Tiago, who nodded again toward that particular drow, Gol’fanin, Tiago’s own assistant in this journey.
“Perhaps I consider you an honorary member of my family,” the spellspinner offered.
“Would that not be a tremendous step down?”
Ravel’s smile disappeared in the blink of an eye, but Tiago’s laughter diffused the tension before it could truly begin to mount.
“How goes the fight for the outer halls?” Ravel asked.
“Your older brother and his pet elementals are proving quite effective,” Tiago answered. “They drive the critters, the corbies, and even the dwarf ghosts, before them. We have found a pocket of orcs, as well, and are… negotiating.”
“Do we really need more slaves?”
Tiago shrugged as if it did not matter. “The more hands who serve us, the more quickly the corridors will be bolstered and secured.” As he finished, he glanced over at the outer forges, both ends, where goblins and orcs and even bugbears worked the metal hard, building crude beam supports and thick iron doors, and most importantly, new rail lines and long pegs for the ore carts. Other slaves carried the finished products from the room to the appointed corridors and chambers.
Nearer in toward the central forge, drow craftsmen worked the fires, creating the finer items necessary for refurbishing the infrastructure of the vast complex. Sensitive drow fingers sheared at hot metal to create intricate locks and delicatelooking but strong sections of stairway they could assemble in the larger chambers above, where the previous stairs had been destroyed by the rage of the rampaging primordial.
Tiago’s words resonated with Ravel, the young Baenre could clearly see. It would take years to restore Gauntlgrym, and to secure the chambers, and that was assuming an ample supply of metal. The forges needed no fuel, and that was a tremendous advantage indeed, but the raw materials were not so easily found in tunnels teeming with dwarf ghosts or dire corbies or other untamed monsters.
“Patience, my friend,” Tiago said. “You have exceeded even your own wildest hopes thus far.”
“True enough,” Ravel admitted.
