“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
