Archmage (38 page)

“Cousin!” Faelas then added vocally, though breathlessly, as he noted the newcomer to the battle, a scimitar-wielding dark elf who set upon Marilith with wild and brilliant abandon. Her six weapons spun and stabbed and swept all around her, but always a scimitar was there to block, or the agile drow warrior was quick enough to dodge, and quick enough in behind the attack—impossibly quick!—to riposte.

“By Lolth’s eight legs . . .” Jaemas agreed.

“That’s the Do’Urden rogue!” Faelas realized even as he began readying a spell, turning his sights on the grand trophy that had come unto them. He noted, though, that Jaemas wasn’t similarly focusing, and indeed, was shaking his head. “Cousin?”

Don’t strike out at him,
Jaemas replied—or more accurately, Jaemas relayed, for a voice in his head warned him against any such actions.

“Let Marilith have the kill?” Faelas asked, clearly confused.

“We must be gone from this place,” Jaemas said.

“The dwarves will not win,” Faelas replied.

“It matters not,” said Jaemas. “We must be gone. All of House Xorlarrin, and now!”

“Why?”

Jaemas could only shake his head. He wasn’t sure who was in his thoughts, but the telepathically imparted suggestions were undeniably powerful and beyond debate. If they stayed, they would die, and horribly, the inner voice promised.

“I do not understand!” Faelas scolded.

And neither did Jaemas, who could only shake his head.

“Why must we be gone?” Faelas demanded.

“Because this is quite beyond you now,” came a voice behind him, and he and his cousin turned to see Jarlaxle, sitting comfortably on a ledge above the nearby tunnel exit.

“Where did you . . . ?” Faelas asked.

“How?” Jaemas asked at the same time.

But Jarlaxle merely turned and motioned for them to follow, and indeed, they saw that others of their family were coming to them then, looking as confused as they.

Faelas glanced back at Marilith and the warrior he knew to be Drizzt, and gasped aloud to see that rogue drow in full fight now, running to the side of Marilith, easily leaping the sweeping tail of the naga-like creature, ducking the sweep of one long sword, sidestepping the downward stab of a spear, throwing himself back from the sweep of a second sword.

But in behind that sword he came, with a sudden burst of speed that stole Faelas’s breath, too quick for the turning Marilith to bring her other three arms and weapons to bear.

He ran his blade right up her torso and slashed her hard, then vaulted over her shoulder, landing with amazing grace, and leaped again above the sweep of that deadly tail.

Faelas swallowed hard, Jarlaxle’s advice suddenly sounding so much wiser.

The magic lashing out at them from the shadows slowed greatly. The dwarves didn’t know why, but the battered, bearded folk were surely glad of it. When they came to trust that the diminishment of drow magic was real, the three Harpells turned their focus more directly to the grotesque chasme above, lighting bolts and fireballs brightening the air above the battle.

And the frontlines of the dwarves were holding their own again. It seemed as if the demons pressing them were no longer covering for each other or working in unison. It didn’t take long for the dwarves of Felbarr to understand why, and their cries of “Drizzt!” were taken up by the Adbarrim, and echoed all the way to the other end of the line, to Bruenor’s clan.

Every dwarf tried to get a glance at the brilliant battle, at Drizzt and the six-armed she-demon, eight weapons ringing in a continual song.

Or to the side of that titanic battle, to get a glance at the legendary black panther, raking and biting, taking brutal hits from the huge demon and tearing its gray skin into loose flaps in reply.

“Huzzah and heigh-ho!” became the call once more as the dwarves rallied, and none greater than Bruenor Battlehammer and his entourage of three, leaping about each other and swatting at a glabrezu, determined to clear the way and get to the side of the dark elf ranger.

Drizzt saw none of that, heard none of the cheers, and didn’t even register the battle right beside him, where Guenhwyvar and Nalfeshnee traded such brutal strikes. His focus was narrow and fully on the six-armed demon. He was not unfamiliar with this particular type of beast, for he had battled a marilith before, in another time and place.

But not Marilith herself, not this creature, so huge and powerful. He had come in with the element of surprise, had been upon the demon before she even knew he was there, had struck hard and true with both his blades, the repaired Twinkle, and Icingdeath, the frostbrand, which feasted on the flesh of creatures of fire and the lower planes.

That advantage had proven short-lived, however, and now Drizzt found himself in the fight of his life against a foe mighty and indomitable and unshakable. His focus was perfect because it had to be perfect, because anything less than that would get him cut down in short order.

His body moved somewhere beyond simple consciousness, in some almost ethereal state where conscious thought simply could not keep up. He was the Hunter, because to be anything less was to be dead.

His blades moved as they had to move to intercept and deflect deadly strikes. His legs propelled him to and fro, just ahead of strikes. It was all a blur to him, and to those watching, surely, as he just let himself flow with the battle, let the sounds and movements, the smells and the rush of air even, guide him along. Conscious thought was his enemy—even considering the motions and consciously trying to anticipate the next, would get him killed.

He just let the battle flow, trusting his instincts and reactions without thinking of them at all.

Somehow he had not been hit, though a hundred strikes had come his way. Somehow, he did not tire.

Because he could not tire.

Somehow.

The bulky winged demon could not begin to keep up with the sheer speed of Guenhwyvar’s movements, and even the beast’s thick hide could only partly deter those incessantly raking claws. Again and again, Nalfeshnee slapped a huge hand to try to catch the cat, and almost always wound up just hitting himself. And on those few occasions when the demon managed to get some grasp on the elusive panther, quick as lightning, Guenhwyvar spun about and bit a demon finger hard.

But these two demon leaders were not mere warriors, brilliant as they were in combat, and for all the tribulations of the early battle, Nalfeshnee was more frustrated than worried.

And so the Abyssal behemoth drew a symbol in the air, chanting guttural sounds to enact the magic.

The glowing symbol hung in front of the beast, and even those dwarves battling the demon line, and those in the ranks behind, had to shy and squint, the unholy power of the magical symbol stinging them and burning them.

For Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, the effect was more pronounced, and the panther issued an agonized growl, and the drow ranger fell back from Marilith and lurched over in pain. So it was that both personal battles would have ended right there, with the major demons crushing their puny enemies.

But in just a few heartbeats, a shimmering wave rolled back and forth around the combatants and the demonic symbol sparked and disappeared. One woman stood tall against the unholy power.

Behind the initial dwarven shield wall, behind her adoptive father and his battling entourage, Catti-brie would not be bowed by demonic magic. She stood with her silvery staff upraised, the blue sapphire glowing fiercely, throwing forth disenchanting waves, inhibiting the Abyssal magic.

And so when Nalfeshnee paused to consider her, a relieved Guenhwyvar leaped upon the beast’s massive shoulder and bit down hard, igniting a fountain of demon blood.

And when Marilith moved forward fast to bury the lurching Drizzt, he came up straight in front of her, and fast turned the tables, driving her back yet again with flashing ripostes.

“Ah, good girl!” Bruenor congratulated her, and he and Athrogate worked in powerful unison to topple yet another vrock, the black-bearded dwarf hardly pausing to consider the win before sweeping out his morningstars to swat away another trio of manes.

“Bwahaha!” he roared happily. “We’re coming Drizzle-Elf! Ye just hold yer ground!”

Bruenor looked to Catti-brie, thinking to ask her for some evocations of her own to help blast clear the way to the drow and his cat, but he found the woman fully engaged, looking at Drizzt, her stare purely focused as if she were expecting some signal.

Catti-brie knew her husband better than any, and understood the flow of the battle he now waged, and so indeed, she was looking for a specific cue.

Drizzt had battled a marilith before, and knew one great trick this demon could play: a quick teleport spell to land her behind her opponent. He knew, too, the disenchantment that had come over the area, and understood the source of it. So when Marilith came at him only to find him relieved of his pain and ready to counter, then found herself in a desperate backslide, Drizzt guessed what to expect.

The huge demon hissed and brought all of her blades in for complete parries, then threw them out wide, rearing away from Drizzt—and thinking to teleport behind him.

But she could not, and so he got her with a sudden leap and thrust, Icingdeath puncturing her belly.

And chewing hungrily at her life-force.

The demon went into a berserk rage, driving Drizzt back, three arms sweeping across one way, then back again, followed by the other three with the cruel weapons they held. Around came her snakelike tail, trying to sweep the feet from the drow, and he only barely stayed ahead of the sudden, brutal assault.

And in one dodge, he glanced back and caught an opening in the demon-on-dwarf battle to catch a glimpse of Catti-brie. He found her staring back. He only had time to offer a slight nod, but that was all she needed.

Drizzt sped out to the side and reached into his innate drow magic. Purple flames of faerie fire covered the demon. Marilith’s own magic suppressed that almost immediately, but Drizzt hadn’t evoked the dweomer for any reason other than to verify that he could, that Catti-brie had correctly dismissed her disenchanting wave.

Marilith came on, and Drizzt stopped running away, turning back to her and charging abruptly.

He led with a globe of impenetrable darkness, covering the huge demon, and into it he sped. Even as his vision failed him, he heard the cries, the collective gasp, from his friends and allies behind.

It was a daring move, to be sure, and never in his life before had Drizzt put this much trust in his anticipation of his opponent’s actions—and in truth, he didn’t really know where that anticipation had come from. How could he know?

But yet again, this was not conscious thought guiding him, only instinct and confidence and trust.

He just knew that Marilith was already moving to counter. Perhaps it was the press of the air, the tiny currents from her arms and blades. She was leading with her left arms, and so her left hip was forward, and in that pose, her blades would come across up high.

And so Drizzt fell flat to the floor, and felt the rush of air above him.

He was up almost instantly and knew the backhand follow was coming fast, and from all the little things he had just subconsciously noted in the last back-and-forth of battle he knew, too, that Marilith would be shifting her left hip to an even posture, and as he understood her general positioning, so, too, must she know his.

So he leaped and turned horizontally in the air, and Marilith’s low blade went beneath him, scraping the floor. And her middle blade, too, was too low, but perilously close. The third blade slashed across so near to his face that if Drizzt hadn’t wisely turned his head, it would have taken his nose.

He rolled as he descended, even as the blades passed, twisting, driving his legs down, catching the floor in a crouch. Three more blades were right behind, but Drizzt went forward still, springing forth inside the demon’s reach.

Springing forth with one scimitar out in front of him, one blade hungry for demon flesh.

He felt Icingdeath enter the demon’s skin in the hollow between her breasts, and he kept going forward, and the material body of the Abyssal creature could not resist or repel the bite of the frostbrand.

The howl filled the vast cavern. From behind the dwarves, Catti-brie cried out in fear. On a ledge above Faelas and Jaemas, very near to the lower exit, Jarlaxle, too, cried out, seeing Drizzt leap into that darkened globe where Marilith surely waited.

“Elf!” Bruenor cried, and he and all around him held their collective breath in the agonizing heartbeat it took for the combatants to clear the darkness globe.

Marilith charged in a frenzy, Drizzt up against her. She bit at him and slapped at him, tried to turn her weapons and stab at him, and it seemed impossible that he had not been badly hit yet, and it was impossible that he would not soon be—particularly when Marilith threw aside a pair of her weapons and hugged him tight.

But Catti-brie didn’t need the prompt. With no other choice, she had already raised her staff to the demon and let fly a great forked lightning bolt, one that hit both Marilith and Drizzt, a stunning, jolting blast that rocked the demon back over her serpentine tail and sent Drizzt tumbling and flying from her grasp.

The agile drow hit the ground in a roll and came up spinning back in a defensive crouch to face the demon, neither of his blades in hand.

Icingdeath ate at the demon, but not quickly enough, and on she came.

But an axe, an old, many-notched axe, newly reforged in this very place and burning with the enchantment of flames, appeared spinning out of nowhere to embed itself deeply into the face of the great six-armed demon.

Marilith stared at Drizzt hatefully from either side of that battle-axe. She held there, leaning back over her snake tail, her other weapons falling from her grasp, her hands reaching for the hilt of the scimitar that was buried deep in her chest. She wanted to grab it and tear it free, but she simply could not.

Icingdeath ate.