Gauntlgrym (20 page)

His thoughts spinning in a hundred different directions, and none of them leading to a pleasant conclusion, Barrabus the Gray walked toward the city. He’d made a point of staying far afield of Luskan for years—one did not double-cross a character like Jarlaxle Baenre without consequences, after all.

He thought back to that fight in Memnon those decades before, when agents of Bregan D’aerthe had paraded his lover before him, taunting him and warning him of the consequences should he reject their offer to rejoin with them. He saw again the three dead drow, but he dismissed the image, focusing instead on the few tendays he had subsequently known with his lover.

Those had been among the best days of his life, but alas, she had run off, or disappeared—had the dark elves taken her again? Had they killed her as payback for his violence?

Or was it that infernal sword? He almost glanced back at Herzgo Alegni as that unsettling thought bubbled up. Very soon after his loss, the Shadovar had come into his life, had taken his freedom.

Had taken everything.

That last thought brought a self-deprecating smile to the lips of Barrabus the Gray. “Had taken everything?” he whispered aloud. “And what was there to take?”

By the time he reached Neverwinter’s gate, Barrabus had let all those memories fly away. He had to look ahead, his focus tight and complete. If any drow remained in Luskan, the slightest error would likely cost him his life.

GAUNTLGRYM

J
ARLAXLE KEPT HIMSELF IN THE REAR OF THE GROUP OF FIVE
. T
HE TUNNELS
underneath Luskan were long natural corridors that reached out to the southeast and the Crags. Korvin Dor’crae led the group and served as its scout, often moving off ahead of the others. Next came Athrogate, eager to see the place Dahlia had described, and always ready to serve as point-dwarf of any patrol—he always wanted to be the first into any fight. Dahlia and Valindra formed the third rank. The elf walked with a measure of calm and patience Jarlaxle would have expected in a much older and more seasoned warrior, and Valindra glided along as if in a daze, with hardly the presence—of mind or body—one would expect of a creature as powerful as a lich.

Not that Jarlaxle was complaining. Valindra Shadowmantle had been no minor spellcaster in life, commanding an entire wing of the powerful Hosttower of the Arcane. Should she ever regain her acuity and confidence, she would only prove more formidable in undeath—and thinking straight, honestly reflecting on the events of the last days of her living existence, she wouldn’t likely be too pleased with the meddling drow.

They moved easily for more than a day, and though they heard the shuffling and scratching of ghouls and other lesser undead echo all around them, they never actually encountered any. Jarlaxle found that confusing. After all, ghouls feared nothing, their hunger for living flesh insatiable, and their ability to smell and track living flesh quite keen. Why didn’t they approach? But soon he came to recognize the true nature of one of his companions.

“We been lucky,” Athrogate said to him during a break the next day. “Lots o’ side tunnels, and full o’ ghouls and such.”

“No luck,” Jarlaxle replied. He nodded ahead, drawing Athrogate’s attention to Dahlia and Dor’crae, who were discussing their next move. The tunnel forked, and Dor’crae reported that each of those tunnels split again, not much far away. Both Dahlia and Dor’crae kept pointing to the ceiling and tunnel walls, where the glistening tendrils reflected a wet, shiny green in the torchlight.

“What’re ye meaning?” Athrogate asked. “A magic tunnel?”

“Come along,” Jarlaxle instructed, and he rose and moved toward Dahlia as Dor’crae started off along the left-hand divide.

“We will solve it quickly,” Dahlia promised as the pair neared.

Jarlaxle motioned for Athrogate to keep walking, along the same path Dor’crae had taken. “I have no doubt of that, dear lady,” he said, drawing out a wand and pointing it down the tunnel.

Dahlia’s expression changed to one of shock and trepidation, but Jarlaxle spoke the command word before she could react, and the tunnel brightened with magical light.

“What the—?” Athrogate yelped in surprise, for the light stung his eyes. As his temporary blindness subsided, though, the dwarf caught a glimpse of Dor’crae—or at least it should have been Dor’crae. Instead, a large bat fluttered away, out of the light and down the tunnel.

“Why did you do that?” Dahlia scolded.

“To mark Dor’crae’s return,” Jarlaxle replied, moving toward the conjured light. “And to better view these strange veins along the tunnel walls. I had thought it a vein of gemstone—perhaps some variant of bloodstone—at first.” He kept walking, Dahlia hustling to catch up. “But now I see them differently,” Jarlaxle said as he came into the light and peered closer at a nearby vein. “They appear almost as hollow tubes, and full of some liquid.” He drew out another wand, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply, and pointed it at the tendril.

Dahlia grabbed the wand. “Take great care!” she warned in no uncertain terms. “Do not break the tendril.”

“The what?” asked Athrogate.

Jarlaxle pulled the wand away and executed its dweomer, which detected the presence of magic. He appeared quite impressed as he turned back to Dahlia and said, “Powerful magic.”

“Residual magic,” she replied.

“Well, obviously you know more of this than I do,” Jarlaxle said.

Dahlia started to answer, but then caught on to the ruse and put her hands on her hips, glaring at the drow. “You knew the undercity of Luskan well,” she said.

“Not so well.”

“Enough to know that these are not gemstone veins.”

“What’s she babbling about?” Athrogate demanded.

“They are the roots of the fallen Hosttower,” Jarlaxle explained, “sapping the strength of the sea and the earth, so we thought, though never did we imagine they spread so far from the city.”

Dahlia offered up a wry grin.

“And they follow the left fork here, but not the right,” Jarlaxle went on.

Dahlia shrugged.

“We’re following them,” the drow said, and he let a bit of suspicion creep into his voice.

“Ah, but what’s yer game, then?” Athrogate demanded of the elf. “What of the dwarven city ye telled me to get me to come along? What o’ the treasures, elf, and ye best be telling me true!”

“The tendrils lead to the place I described,” Dahlia said. “Following them was how Dor’crae found the mines and the great forge and structures that will steal your breath, dwarf. Perhaps in an age long lost, the dwarves crafted more than weapons, perhaps they forged a pact with the great wizards of the Hosttower. Even dwarven-forged weapons needed a wizard’s enchantments, yes? And armor blessed by the magic of great mages can withstand much stronger blows.”

“Are ye sayin’ my own ancestors used these … these roots, so the wizards could send a bit o’ magic their way?”

“It is possible,” said Dahlia. “That is one—and one likely—explanation.”

“And what are the others, I wonder?” Jarlaxle asked with unmasked suspicion.

Dahlia offered no answer.

“We’ll know soon enough, then,” said Athrogate. “What, right?”

Dahlia replied with a disarming smile and a nod. “Dor’crae thinks there may be a shortcut. Perhaps you’ll find your treasures sooner than we expected, good dwarf.”

She smiled again and walked back the other way, to where Valindra stood, eyes closed and singing some strange song. Every so often, the lich stopped singing and scolded herself, “No, that’s not right, oh, I’ve forgotten. That’s not right. It’s not right, you know. No, that’s not right,” and all without ever opening her eyes, before launching back into a voice-lifting refrain of, “Ara … Arabeth …”

“You saw Dor’crae?” Jarlaxle asked the dwarf when they were alone.

“Was him, eh? Good cloak he’s got there.”

“It wasn’t his cloak.”

Athrogate eyed him. “What do ye know?”

“It’s his nature, not a magic item,” Jarlaxle explained.

Athrogate mulled on that for just a moment, before his eyes went wide and he slapped his hands onto his hips. “Ye ain’t sayin’ …”

“I just did.”

“Elf …?”

“Fear not, my friend. Some of my best friends were vampires.” Jarlaxle patted Athrogate on the shoulder and moved back toward Dahlia and Valindra.

“ ‘Were?’ ” Athrogate remarked, trying to sort out that bit of information. He realized then that he was standing alone, and with a vampire out there somewhere with him. He glanced over his shoulder and hurried to catch up to Jarlaxle.

“He knows the way,” Jarlaxle explained to Athrogate a couple of days later. “And he’s valuable in keeping the undead in check.”

“Bah, but there ain’t no more, and them what was would’ve kissed me morningstar balls,” the dwarf grumbled back.

Jarlaxle cringed and replied, “He moves swiftly, and silently, and again, he knows the way.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m knowin’,” Athrogate grumbled and waved the drow away.

Up ahead in the line, Valindra began to sing again, still questioning every line, scolding herself for getting it wrong before launching once more into “Ara … Arabeth … Arararar … Arabeth!”

“So I’m gettin’ why she bringed the bat-boy,” Athrogate said. “But why that idiot?”

“That idiot is not without power … great power.”

“I’m hardly waitin’ for her to blow us all up with a fireball.”

“Great power,” Jarlaxle said again. “And Dahlia can control it.”

“What? How’re ye knowing that?”

Jarlaxle just held up his hand and stared ahead at the two women. For years, Kimmuriel Oblodra, Jarlaxle’s lieutenant and the current leader of Bregan D’aerthe, had used his psionic abilities to scout Valindra’s mind. Only Kimmuriel
had kept Valindra from utter insanity in those first days after Arklem Greeth had converted her to her undead state. And in those sessions, Kimmuriel had assured Jarlaxle that within the trappings of apparent dementia, there remained the quite powerful, quite sinister, and quite cogent being who had once been Valindra Shadowmantle, Mistress of the North Tower of the Hosttower of the Arcane … not just a wizard, but an overwizard. That Valindra had begun to emerge again soon after.

And Dahlia was too careful to not know that. She would never have brought such an unpredictable and potent creature along if she wasn’t sure she could control her.

Jarlaxle considered the consequences if Dahlia somehow managed to return Valindra her full consciousness. Valindra Shadowmantle had been formidable in life, by all accounts. The drow could only imagine the trouble she might affect as a lich.

“If the vampire knows the way, and the lich is such a ‘great power,’ then what in all Nine Hells’re we doin’ here, elf?” Athrogate asked.

Jarlaxle scrutinized his friend, a formidable sight indeed in his heavy coat of chainmail links, his iron helmet, and those devastating morningstars crisscrossed on his back. He thought back to his original conversation with Dahlia, when she had explained why she needed them. Had he allowed his own hubris to take her at face value on that?

No, he reminded himself. Dahlia needed him, needed his connections so that she could dispense with the promised trove of artifacts and coins.

He looked again at Athrogate. Dahlia had specifically explained her need for the dwarf, of course, and perhaps gaining the services of Athrogate meant also bringing along Jarlaxle, as the two were inseparable.

Was Jarlaxle, then, just add-on baggage?

Jarlaxle never answered Athrogate’s question. A few moments later they caught up to Dahlia and the others, who stood at the edge of a deep pit, staring down.

“We’ve arrived,” Dahlia announced when they joined her at the edge.

“Not much of a city,” Athrogate grumbled.

“The shaft drops fifty feet,” Dahlia explained. “Then curves at a steep but traversable decline off to the left a bit. It winds in various directions for a few hundred feet beyond that, and ends at a … well, you’ll see soon enough.”

She turned to Valindra, and Jarlaxle noticed that Dahlia reached under the edge of her tunic to a strange brooch, touching her fingers to its onyx stone.