Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  The wild dwarf vampire gave a profound, feral growl, pushed himself off the wall, and started his run once more, away from the dwarves and toward the drow. When he saw their first ranks, he thought to crash through, to kill as many as he could and keep fighting until a priestess called upon the powers of her wretched demon queen and blasted him into oblivion.

  But no, even there he failed. When the first alarms were raised, the vampire within Thibbledorf Pwent would not allow the suicide run. The curse within him overruled his determination, and he became, once more, a cloud of gas, rising up to the ceiling, finding a crack, and disappearing therein.

  Sometime later, he became corporeal once more. He slumped down onto the floor, trying to sort it all out, and recited a litany that had become his primary prayer: “Take me home, Moradin. Ye got me caught here twixt me heart and me hunger, and I canno’. I canno’.”

  It didn’t seem like divine guidance to him then, but even as he spoke the words, Thibbledorf Pwent found what seemed to be middle ground.

  He decided to shadow the drow, to strike where and when he could do the most damage. Perhaps to somehow relay tactical information about their movements back to the guardians of Gauntlgrym.

  Determined now, he became a bat, and with those heightened senses, the vampire was soon enough back near the vast drow force.

  “How many dwarves were killed?” Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre asked the drow who had come with reports of the skirmish.

  The two young drow women glanced to each other with obvious concern, Quenthel recognized. They were surrounded by the greatest matrons of the greatest houses of Menzoberranzan, the valsharessi, who were more queens of the city than mere leaders of individual houses. And the Matron Mother herself was addressing them directly!

  “We thought we had one killed,” the taller of the pair began.

  “We wounded them all,” the other, seeming suddenly nervous and alarmed, quickly interjected.

  The first looked to her and caught on, clearly. “Yes, Matron Mother, and there were but a few drow there, and only sargtlin, along with goblins and bugbears. Even a pathetic battle dwarf can defeat those goblinkin.”

  “A pathetic battle dwarf?” echoed Quenthel. “Do you know who wielded the axe that cleaved the head of Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre?”

  Both young women shrank back, now completely off-balance.

  “Only sargtlin?” asked Matron Zeerith Do’Urden. “Why only warriors? Where were the wizards and priestesses?”

  “This was a small scouting party, and moving off to the side of the main corridors,” Matron Mez’Barris Armgo answered before the couriers could.

  “We must not underestimate these dwarves,” said Matron Zeerith. “Particularly not now, when we must carefully pick our battles and even more carefully make sure that none of them lead to something unfortunate, and irreversible.”

  “Let the wizards scout with their magics,” Matron Mother Quenthel decided. “Risk no drow, risk no dwarves. And do not let the vicious slaves out there at all. They do nothing to bolster our cause in this time, and everything to destroy it.”

  The two young women glanced at each other again.

  “Go!” Quenthel demanded. “Go and spread my decree and tighten the ranks. There will be no skirmishes at all, unless I deem otherwise.”

  “You do not truly think that King Bruenor Battlehammer will parlay with us?” Mez’Barris asked after the Matron Mother dismissed the gathering, with only the valsharessi and Sos’Umptu Baenre, who was considered among that elite group by most in the city, remaining.

  “They are bloodthirsty beasts, little more,” offered Matron Byrtyn Fey of House Fey-Branche, a notable ally of House Baenre. Indeed, Byrtyn’s daughter, Minolin Fey, was now a high priestess in House Baenre, and was the wife of Gromph and the mother of Yvonnel, Quenthel’s expected successor to the title of Matron Mother. It was certainly notable to the other valsharessi that Byrtyn, of all of them, had spoken in some contradiction to Matron Mother Quenthel.

  Quenthel noted it, too, a reminder that her decisions here could make or break her reign.

  “If we must battle our way through the dwarven city, then let us be quick about it,” the ever-vicious Mez’Barris Armgo said with a rather wicked chuckle.

  “We have been down that deadly road before,” Matron Zeerith countered.

  “Some of us more than others,” retorted Mez’Barris.

  Zeerith Xorlarrin Do’Urden narrowed her eyes at the obvious slight. She and her powerful family, once the Third House of Menzoberranzan, had reclaimed the complex standing in their way now, naming it Q’Xorlarrin, as a satellite city to Menzoberranzan. But then King Bruenor had arrived with an army of Delzoun dwarves, and Zeerith’s family had been chased away, suffering many losses and much humiliation. Her seat on the Ruling Council had been saved only by Matron Mother Quenthel’s rather surprising decision to install the Xorlarrin survivors as replacements to House Do’Urden, with Zeerith becoming the new incarnation of Matron Do’Urden.

  “Send forth scouts, many scouts,” Matron Mother Quenthel ordered. “Wizard scouts weaving spells of divination. Find us other paths to circumvent. I’ll not put my trust in dwarves, of course, nor will I throw an army against fortified dwarven defenses at singular gates that have been hardened against an invasion such as our own.”

  Quenthel waved away all other questions. She needed to be alone. Something was not right here, was terribly wrong. She knew that within the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal, the blessing she had been given, lay the answers.

  But they eluded her. She couldn’t put it all together, and the result, she knew without doubt, would be the end.

  Of everything.

  “They are a diabolical enemy, well skilled in the ways of cruel murder,” Matron Zhindia Melarn told Kyrnill, the first priestess of House Melarn, who had herself once been a matron of a different drow house. Also, there in the vast entry cavern before the walls of Gauntlgrym was Charri Hunzrin.

  “Look at their weapons!” Zhindia continued, pointing up with a stalagmite mound to a hollowed-out, fortified bombardment emplacement, the side-slinger catapult cleverly situated so that it could be retracted and loaded under cover of the stalagmite’s thick stone, its throwing arm then sweeping out along trenches dug through the mound to deliver devastating missiles to its area of control. “Such vile little beasts!”

  “A balor told me that four thousand demons were destroyed in taking this cavern,” Charri said.

  “They will be replaced,” Zhindia assured her.

  “Some, but many major fiends met their destruction here, and so were banished to the Abyss for a century.”

  “They, too, will be replaced, if that is even necessary,” Zhindia answered, now with a bit of pique in her voice. “The cavern has fallen, has it not?”

  “The dwarves have been chased back within their walls, yes.”

  “And your mother, Matron Shakti, still has not arrived,” said Zhindia. “Do you not realize that her absence makes me believe that the alliance of House Hunzrin is not as complete as she insisted?”

  Charri cast a nervous glance Kyrnill’s way, but the former matron didn’t respond, and tried to pretend, Charri noted, that she hadn’t even noticed. “She is trying to bring House Faen Tlabbar into our conspiracy,” Charri answered Zhindia.

  Zhindia’s snort cut her short before she could elaborate.

  “Vadalma Tlabbar is a fool and a treacherous scalawag,” Zhindia said.

  The venom in Zhindia’s voice surprised Charri, but the enmity did not. Zhindia had tried hard to bring Matron Vadalma to her cause before she had decided to make an attempt at conquering these surface lands, and then again later on, so Charri had heard, after receiving the retrievers from Lolth’s handmaidens. Faen Tlabbar was no minor house in Menzoberranzan, ranked behind only Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo now, with the disaster that had befallen House Xorlarrin here in Gauntlgrym.

  Everyone believed that ranking to be a tempora
ry thing, however, and there was only one way for House Faen Tlabbar to go: down. They could not begin to challenge either of the top two houses, and once Matron Zeerith had fully integrated her powerful family into the remains of House Do’Urden, it was expected that she would soon enough climb back into that third ranking, where she had sat for many years as Matron of House Xorlarrin.

  Matron Zhindia took a deep breath. “Look around you,” she said, sweeping her arm out left and right.

  The other two priestesses followed that gesture, though they needn’t have to understand the point of Zhindia’s display. The cavern was full of driders, skittering all about the mounds, patrolling every inch to ensure the safety of this most important trio of women, particularly Zhindia, who commanded them.

  Charri understood the point completely. House Faen Tlabbar was noted as among the most devout of Menzoberranzan, but Matron Vadalma had once again rebuffed the conspiracy, even though Zhindia had proclaimed that Lolth’s blessing was upon this entire expedition. She had demons, after all. She had retrievers—retrievers!—which numbered among the most precious gifts Lolth could give to any of her servants.

  And now, delivered again by the handmaidens of the Spider Queen, Zhindia had driders, so many monstrous, huge, and powerful driders.

  “Perhaps Matron Shakti will convince her, Matron,” Charri offered. “The evidence of Lolth’s favor upon you cannot be missed or understated.”

  Zhindia just snorted and waved her hand dismissively.

  She knew that she didn’t need House Faen Tlabbar now, Charri understood. Her army was sufficient in finishing her conquest, and the main goal, the destruction of Drizzt Do’Urden, had already been accomplished by one of the retrievers. What penalties might Matron Zhindia exact upon Matron Vadalma when she returned victorious to Menzoberranzan?

  “Vadalma will understand her foolishness and cowardice when faced with Lolth’s obvious desires,” Zhindia said, and Charri noted that Zhindia had excluded the matron’s proper title for the second time. “When we return to the City of Spiders with all the land from Luskan to Gauntlgrym under my control, only then will Vadalma understand her errant choice. Perhaps I will grant her another chance to join with me. Perhaps the elation of conquest will put me in a merciful mood.”

  Charri understood the subtext of these boasts well enough: on the heels of her great and sweeping victory over the dwarves, over Bregan D’aerthe’s hold on Luskan, and over the two heretics, Drizzt and Zaknafein, Zhindia meant to openly challenge Matron Mother Baenre for the prime seat at the table of the Ruling Council. Of course she would give Matron Vadalma a chance to again ally with her, and likely Matron Mez’Barris of the second house would be invited, as well.

  Because it wasn’t likely that Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre would simply step aside, and war with House Baenre was no small matter, even with the blessings of Lolth.

  Not for the first time, First Priestess Charri Hunzrin thought this whole expedition and Zhindia’s goals utterly absurd, but when she looked around at the hundreds of driders serving Matron Zhindia so obediently, she was reminded why her mother had decided to throw in with House Melarn.

  “Malfoosh!” Matron Zhindia shouted, and an enormous drider skidded to a stop, her hard legs scraping the stone. The powerful abomination turned, noted the speaker, and charged with all speed to stand before Matron Zhindia. This one had taken control of all the driders with sheer power. Even Matron Zhindia’s own driders were showing deference to this old being brought back from the dead. Zhindia didn’t mind that—quite the opposite, for Malfoosh was obedient, eagerly so.

  “What word from inside the wall?” Zhindia demanded.

  “The demons are hard-pressed,” Malfoosh replied, looking down from on high, but with her eyes averted in abject respect.

  It seemed so silly to Charri, for this one, with her huge trident, could almost certainly have struck Zhindia dead then and there. But like a fully broken lizard beneath the rider’s crop, there was only deference.

  “The greater fiends work tirelessly to gate in more soldiers from their abyssal home,” Malfoosh went on, “and send them straightaway into the dwarven tunnels to do battle.”

  “But they are being killed as fast as they are summoned,” Kyrnill Melarn dared to say, drawing a sharp look from Zhindia.

  “Yes,” Malfoosh confirmed. “But the dwarves are not demons. They grow tired, and then they make mistakes. When a minor fiend is killed, it is fast replaced, but when a dwarf is killed, it is simply dead.”

  “Well stated,” Zhindia congratulated the drider, her stern gaze never leaving Kyrnill.

  “When Matron Zhindia allows me to take my legions inside the wall, the dwarven defenses will crumble and they will die more quickly,” Malfoosh promised.

  “You may yet get your wish, mighty Malfoosh,” Zhindia said. “I grow impatient. This is the last fortress standing between me and my—our—glorious return to Menzoberranzan.”

  And then the driders will know battle, indeed, Charri Hunzrin thought, but wisely did not say.

  Chapter 8

  Purgatory or Hell?

  “You cannot think to go in there!” Regis exclaimed when Dahlia took the reins from him and veered the coach toward a side trail, from the main road known as the Trade Way, a side road that seemed to lead to the ruined keep of Thornhold down at the seashore, a fortress whose wall had just been scaled by a spider the size of a young dragon.

  The halfling couldn’t get the reins from her, so he leaned forward and grabbed them nearer the team and gave a great tug, abruptly stopping the carriage.

  “We have to see what that was!” Dahlia argued, and she reached to move the halfling’s meddling hands away, but then grimaced and dropped the reins altogether, clutching her broken arm against her chest and hissing in pain.

  “I already know what it was, and that’s why I have no desire—” Regis started to argue, but he saw a sudden look of surprise in Dahlia’s eyes and stopped, then followed her gaze to the south, along the Trade Way, behind them, where once more the curly-haired little girl, who by all appearances seemed a creepy little demon creature if Regis had ever seen one, was in view, floating after them, smiling that wicked smile. Regis thought it curious, though, for while this little one had the aspects he would expect from a demonic being, or an undead specter, for some reason he couldn’t yet comprehend, she wasn’t revolting to him.

  Still, it concerned him more than a little that the child had chased them all the way from Waterdeep, from House Margaster.

  “Go! Just go!” Dahlia cried, and Regis didn’t argue this time, snapping the reins, urging the team to leap ahead. He guided them back onto the main road, pushing them to a full gallop as soon as the ground smoothed beneath the carriage.

  “The world has gone mad,” Dahlia muttered, shaking her head, tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked back, not at the floating demon child, but into the passenger compartment of the coach, where her beloved Artemis Entreri lay, wrapped in a shroud of some unknown material. A death shroud, she was certain, and one that was every so often spitting vicious little wasps.

  Now a demon child chasing them, and a gigantic spider climbing a castle wall. It was all too much for her.

  Regis dropped a comforting hand on her leg and slowed the team just a bit, for the demon child was not moving swiftly and had already fallen far behind.

  “Hold hope,” he told her again. “We have nothing else.”

  “Then we have nothing,” Dahlia whispered, and Regis heard, and he couldn’t disagree.

  “Rumblebelly!” the halfling and Dahlia heard, above the clatter of the rolling coach and the stamp of horses’ hooves. Regis slowed the coach but did not dare stop, and turned back in the direction of the call.

  “Rumblebelly!” he heard again, and a dwarf crashed out of the brush at the side of the road, a broad fellow with black hair and a beard braided and tied with bits of dung.

  “Athrogate,” Regis breathed, leaning back and tugging the rein
s to halt the team.

  “What’s he doing out here?” Dahlia asked.

  “With her,” Regis explained, when another figure, a drow woman, stepped onto the road beside the dwarf. “They are the ones who got me to Waterdeep.”

  Regis didn’t try to turn the coach around on the narrow road, so he held the team steady and let the two trot up to them.

  “Climb up,” Dahlia told the two before they could even exchange greetings. “We’ve no time to tarry.”

  “Up or in, eh?” Athrogate asked.

  Regis noted that the dwarf was carrying a large sack over one shoulder, and sticking out from it was a pommel, one the halfling knew well. For its end was carved into the likeness of a panther, of Guenhwyvar. Before he could say anything about that, however, he noticed Yvonnel’s face crinkle with surprise, then settle into curiosity, as she stared through the window into the carriage’s passenger compartment.

  Dahlia started to say something, but Regis grabbed her good arm and squeezed, bidding her be silent, for he saw that Yvonnel was then whispering something, as if casting a spell.

  The drow woman’s face crinkled again with even greater surprise and apparent disgust. “What is this?” she demanded, turning to the two on the driver’s bench.

  “It is Entreri, trapped within,” said Dahlia.

  “Dead?”

  “No!” Dahlia said, too sharply, and Yvonnel and Athrogate stared at her.

  “Then what is it?” Yvonnel asked again, even more insistently.

  She knew something they did not, Regis surmised, and she didn’t look happy about it.

  “What?” she asked again.

  “You should ask her,” Regis remarked, looking past the drow and down the road, nodding his chin to turn Yvonnel.

  There came the little demon child, floating, smiling, always smiling.

  “We must go!” Dahlia said, but Yvonnel held up her hand and shook her head.

  “Athrogate, take the cocoon out of the carriage,” Yvonnel instructed. “Be ready to jump in fast if we must flee.”