Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  Telepathically, he gave them a visual image of the room where they would arrive in Ship Kurth and another more pointed warning that the place was likely occupied, perhaps even guarded.

  Barely had Wulfgar nodded to those imparted thoughts than Kimmuriel focused his mind keenly on that room, and in that focus, he pictured himself and these two humans in that room.

  And so they were.

  And, as expected, they were not alone.

  She was bluffing. She knew that as Matron Mother, she couldn’t show doubt—she was the voice of Lolth, after all. But Quenthel was full of doubt at that time. She wanted nothing more than to retire privately for a long rest, one in which she might yet again search the memories of her dead mother. Her previous meditation had led her to the one inescapable notion that she could not stop Zhindia’s victory, and thus, she had to find a way to share in it.

  But could she?

  And worse, and more baffling, did she really want to?

  Her alliance was falling apart—she knew that without doubt. She had strong-armed the others to join her in this campaign, but as a foil to Matron Zhindia Melarn. Her impetus was to make sure that Zhindia did not gain enough to threaten the order of the city. Few matrons would enjoy serving under the zealotry and viciousness of Zhindia Melarn, after all.

  But now Zhindia had been given an army of driders, brought back into existence by Lady Lolth. The retrievers had been a difficult enough sign for Quenthel to overcome—how could Zhindia have been given those if not for the favor of Lolth, after all—but this development had all the others, even her two closest allies on the Ruling Council, Matrons Byrtyn Fey and Zeerith Xorlarrin, glancing about nervously.

  The best Quenthel could hope for now, so it seemed, was to get them all in on a piece of the glory of this magnificent conquest. And it was indeed magnificent. As much as Quenthel wanted to deny that, she could not.

  There would be a reshuffling of powers back in Menzoberranzan when this was finished, she knew. If she was lucky, Matron Zhindia and House Melarn would leap to the third house of the city. That would outrage Matron Zeerith, of course, and it would shake those others loyal (or at least sufficiently cowed) toward House Baenre. Matron Mez’Barris would then no doubt quickly plot with Zhindia to build a new and formidable alliance, one intent on displacing House Baenre once and for all. Because if Zhindia Melarn became the most favored of Lady Lolth, how could Quenthel continue to claim the mantle of Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan?

  And that scenario was if Quenthel was lucky.

  If not, she would be the matron of the city’s second house the moment the drow returned to Menzoberranzan, simply because the other seven matrons on the Ruling Council would unanimously agree that Matron Zhindia’s successes, so beautifully blessed by the Spider Queen, had to be recognized with Zhindia seated at the head of the table.

  Could House Baenre withstand that demand?

  And could they remain as second house much longer after that?

  All of that was the reason Quenthel now led the army, some fifteen thousand drow soldiers, priestesses, wizards, and thrice that number of goblinkin slaves, to the highest levels of the Underdark, to a cave that opened on the wide world above.

  They waited until that infernal fiery ball set far below the ground before coming out from under the sheltering stone.

  “How far?” Quenthel asked Saribel Xorlarrin Do’Urden. She was keeping the two noble children of Matron Zeerith close to her side, and indeed, had put the whole of Zeerith’s house within the ranks of House Baenre. Zeerith had dozens of powerful wizards, after all, including the current archmage of Menzoberranzan, and Quenthel thought they might be needed, if for no other reason than to help expedite a hasty retreat for the two houses via teleport spells back into the city.

  Right behind that lead force came House Barrison Del’Armgo, with Matron Mez’Barris wearing a sour expression the whole way. For behind her came the other Baenre allies. She knew the truth, Quenthel understood: Quenthel was putting her in a box that could create havoc upon her ranks in the first exchange if things here turned into a civil war.

  But there was nothing she could do to protest it, and that meant Quenthel still held the power.

  For now.

  Such a scenario was Quenthel’s desperation play, though, and only in such dire need. She wasn’t even sure if those matrons behind the Armgos would join in such an ambush—she wasn’t even sure if Zeerith would.

  If she was being truthful, she wasn’t even sure if many of her own forces, particularly those under her sister Sos’Umptu would! Sos’Umptu, above all else, was devout to the Spider Queen, her loyalties more aligned with Lolth than with House Baenre.

  She was a true believer.

  Just like Zhindia Melarn.

  Saribel conferred with her brother Ravel for a moment before pointing to the southwest. “The destroyed village is less than a day’s easy march,” she replied. “We could make it before the dawn if we hurry.”

  Quenthel nodded but gave no such order. She needed to buy time here, to sort it all out, to weigh the mood of so many of her fellow matrons, women who had spent their lives perfecting deception and duplicity.

  “Go to Matron Zeerith,” she instructed the two nobles. “And to Matron Mez’Barris. Tell them that we will set a wide perimeter out on the surface. They can choose among their ranks no more than fifty soldiers, two priestesses, and one wizard. The rest of the sentry force will come from the other ruling houses.”

  The two bowed and rushed away, and were replaced almost immediately by Sos’Umptu, Minolin Fey, and Myrineyl.

  “Matron Mez’Barris will send her weapon master,” Sos’Umptu said.

  “No,” Quenthel disagreed. “Not here. She doesn’t fear for Malagdorl in battle, but he is too dim-witted to be the one to represent her if Matron Zhindia learns of our position and comes to parlay.”

  “Perhaps,” High Priestess Sos’Umptu conceded. “I am to represent House Baenre on the front line?”

  “No,” Quenthel said, and Sos’Umptu stiffened as if she had been slapped.

  Quenthel quickly continued, diverting the truth of her denial of such an honor. “No, I need you now. You speak with Lolth as clearly as any, save myself, and your counsel will be greatly valued as we walk the webs that have been woven here.”

  “Perhaps Matron Zhindia speaks to Lolth most clearly of all,” Sos’Umptu returned, and it was Quenthel’s turn to be startled.

  This was the first hint of her fears coming to fruition.

  Quenthel tightened her face into a determined scowl and stared at her, trying to back her down, but Sos’Umptu was no minor player here, not even in the face of the Matron Mother of House Baenre and of all Menzoberranzan. Sos’Umptu was mistress of Arach-Tinilith, high priestess of the Fane of the Goddess, and held a seat on the Ruling Council. Quenthel had given her that seat, adding a ninth to the table, to bolster the power of House Baenre.

  But now?

  Matron Zhindia had been given two retrievers and hundreds of mighty drider abominations.

  Did Quenthel dare to force the most devout Sos’Umptu to choose between her and the Spider Queen, the secular and the divine?

  Was blood thicker than soul?

  The room they appeared in revealed to Wulfgar how very confident Kimmuriel had been in Bregan D’aerthe’s hold on Luskan. Normally, wizards (and Wulfgar assumed the same for Kimmuriel) would set their prepared magical teleports, rooms speckled with dweomers to make the journey more secure, off to the side. Small rooms, from which they could come forth from the disorienting instant transportation in private and in safety.

  Not here, though. Despite some recent remodeling, Wulfgar knew this room, the large side hall of the main ballroom of the great Ship Kurth. Now it was a bedroom, a barracks, and the three intruders hardly arrived in private.

  A table upended and a trio of gnolls leaped to their feet, reaching for their weapons. On beds lining the perimeter of the place, more dog-faced villains s
tirred.

  Without hesitation, Wulfgar rushed toward the table. A small dagger flew past him, embedding into a gnoll’s hand as the creature reacted to block. It howled and ran for the door.

  A second missile chased it, a much larger missile, and the gnoll, even had it been looking, would find no defense against spinning Aegis-fang. It struck the fleeing gnoll square in the back, lifting it from its feet and throwing it forward and to the floor, where it lay groaning.

  The two at the table lifted their weapons, short sword and cudgel, and grinned wickedly at the suddenly unarmed human charging in at them, any feeling they might have had for their friend behind them inconsequential in the face of what seemed an easy kill.

  Wulfgar didn’t slow.

  He also grinned back at them, which startled the gnolls.

  He went for the one with the sword, calling Aegis-fang back into his hands just before he reached his target.

  The gnoll stabbed ahead, not even realizing that its attacker had produced another warhammer.

  Wulfgar stabbed ahead, as well, punching out with the top of his hammer, the heavy weapon easily intercepting the sword and driving it aside. The barbarian took a long step forward, right foot leading, turning his right shoulder ahead, to further extend as he continued to stab, sending the gnoll skidding backward.

  He ducked his head in time, lifting his front shoulder to deflect the cudgel from the gnoll on his right. His arm went numb from the blow, but he fought through it and held on with that right hand, dropping his left as he turned behind the blow. As he went, he sent his numb right arm up and over the gnoll’s extended arms, sweeping Aegis-fang up and over as well. Wulfgar spun about, reversing his feet and hips with a short leap, then burrowing ahead before the gnoll could fully extract its arms from his clench.

  He hit the creature on the side of its snout with a vicious left hook and let go as it stumbled backward, enough to buy him enough room to finish the rotation with his right arm, bringing it up before him and letting fly the hammer in a short throw that caught the sword-wielder right in the chest as it finally managed to turn back to the fight.

  Wulfgar didn’t watch the impact and had to hope it bought him enough time. He leaped on the gnoll he had stunned with the punch, again wrapping it, more completely this time, with his right arm.

  His left hand went to work, jabbing and hooking, cracking the dog-faced monster’s jaw.

  It tried to pull back again, and Wulfgar let it, but only a bit, putting a clamp on its left wrist, the hand that held the cudgel. With a tug to pull the creature back at him—and as strong as it was, it couldn’t resist the power of that pull—Wulfgar rolled to his right, slamming the gnoll in the chest with his left shoulder. He knew he was vulnerable to a bite if that jaw still worked, but he was confident that he would be quicker here. He continued to tug the wrist, straightening the arm, and drove his left arm powerfully over the upper arm, hooking it, locking it.

  With a suddenness, a brutality, and sheer strength the gnoll could not comprehend from a human, Wulfgar turned farther to the right and punched out with the hand clamped on the gnoll’s wrist, bending the arm in a manner that arms simply shouldn’t bend.

  The gnoll’s elbow exploded. The gnoll howled in pain. The cudgel flew across the room.

  Before it even landed, Wulfgar released with his left arm, leaped high as he turned about, and came down from on high with a driving right hand, pounding the gnoll just under its left eye with such force that the creature seemed to shrink suddenly, as if its entire body simply contracted, and as Wulfgar landed and jumped back a step, that energy seemed to rebound weirdly, as if rising from the gnoll’s ankles.

  It hopped from the ground and tumbled backward, inadvertently, unconsciously, falling just out of reach of Wulfgar’s ensuing left hook.

  It hardly mattered. The gnoll wasn’t about to get back up anyway.

  But the other one proved a stubborn foe, and in it came again at the seemingly unarmed man. Obviously too stupid to expect the same trick twice, the gnoll came straight in for the kill, and if it became aware that the big man was once more holding his magical warhammer, it was only after it was too late to do anything about it.

  Both hands grasping the large hammer, Wulfgar brought it down from on high, cutting diagonally downward, crushing the gnoll’s shoulder and driving through to flip the beast into a weird roll. It barely hit the floor before Wulfgar clamped a hand on the collar of its tunic, and up into the air it went, but limply, already quite dead.

  Wulfgar dropped Aegis-fang to the floor and cupped his hand hard against the gnoll’s groin, then hoisted the heavy creature up over his head with ease as he turned, seeking a target.

  He noted a gnoll coming off its bunk—so fast and furious was his dispatching of the gnoll pair that this one had barely reacted to the unexpected intruders!

  Three strides toward it, Wulfgar used its companion as a missile, launching it hard, both target and missile tumbling back onto the cot.

  Wulfgar saw yet another gnoll coming in his direction. He thought to call his warhammer to his hand, but hesitated, noting Bonnie Charlee on this one’s back, one arm wrapped about its neck, the other pumping her dagger into the side of the bleating creature’s neck, covering it in red liquid and filling the air with its blood.

  Off to the side, another fight raged, gnoll against gnoll, which confused Wulfgar only for a moment until he noted Kimmuriel off to the side, calmly watching, controlling his dominated puppet.

  Bonnie Charlee and her impromptu mount went past him, then crashed to the ground, and Wulfgar turned and nodded approvingly as his companion pulled herself from the dying beast. Good fortune had pulled him from the mesmerizing dance of Kimmuriel’s surrogate fighter, he realized, for there was one more gnoll that he had not noted. It rushed out from behind a large footlocker, nearer to Bonnie Charlee than to Wulfgar, and charged at the woman, scooping up Aegis-fang as it went.

  Wulfgar yelled a warning and rushed to intercept, knowing he couldn’t get there in time.

  Knowing he didn’t have to.

  He waited until the very last moment, the aggressive gnoll bearing down on Bonnie Charlee, lifting the heavy warhammer over its head, then recalled Aegis-fang from the brute’s hand.

  The gnoll swung, suddenly empty-handed, and stumbled. To its credit, it rebalanced quickly enough to backpedal out of the reach of Bonnie Charlee’s slashing knife.

  Wulfgar roared when the gnoll started back at the woman, and it glanced his way and threw up its arms in panic.

  As if that would help.

  Aegis-fang hit it squarely in the face, throwing the gnoll high and far through the air, and leaving more of the creature’s head on the end of the warhammer than still on the gnoll.

  A yelp from behind told Wulfgar and Bonnie Charlee that Kimmuriel’s surrogate battle was over. They realized that the psionicist’s proxy had won, likely in no small part through the surprise its companion must have felt, for that victorious gnoll was limping back toward Kimmuriel, arms by its side.

  Wulfgar thought to hit it with a thrown warhammer, both because it was a gnoll, after all, and because the psionicist’s enslavement of it offended him profoundly.

  He didn’t make the throw, though, for the room’s door burst in at that moment, and there stood Brevindon.

  Or more accurately, Asbeel’s contortion of the Margaster’s body, muscles bulging, skin deep red, bat-like wings sprouting from its back.

  Braelin hand-signaled a companion down a side tunnel, confirming that he had seen the report of all clear along the way. It had been like that since they had run out of Illusk, moving through the same tunnels that carried the tendrils of the Hosttower to Gauntlgrym. They hadn’t encountered a single enemy, or anything else for that matter, and so they were making great progress to the south—progress aided by the enhancements of Bi’anza Dossouin, a wizard from a long-dead minor Menzoberranzan house, and the lone spellcaster in the group of four. The journey would normally take a
bout five to seven days at a swift pace, but because of the clear surroundings and the magical aid, Braelin’s band was more than two-thirds of the way there before the second day.

  He should have been thrilled by that, but the idea that these tunnels were so empty concerned the veteran scout as much as it pleased him. There had to be a reason.

  And so there was, as Braelin learned soon after when Bi’anza Dossouin caught up to him at a crossroad.

  “The tunnels ahead are thick with drow,” the wizard informed him. “I have cast my vision ahead.”

  “All the way to Gauntlgrym?”

  The wizard shrugged. “I know not where the Underdark ends and Gauntlgrym begins.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Braelin. “It is Matron Zhindia, and her, we must avoid. Find a way for us to get up to the surf—”

  He paused, for Bi’anza was waving his hands and shaking his head, trying to interrupt.

  “It is not House Melarn,” he said. “Nor House Hunzrin, their allies. I saw the banners.”

  “Which house, then?”

  “Far easier for me to name the major houses who were not represented by the banners.”

  “Name them,” a confused Braelin said.

  “Melarn and Hunzrin,” Bi’anza replied. “The others are all there, in full force.”

  “Baenre?”

  “Most prominent of all.”

  “Has the matron mother come forth?” Braelin asked, nearly choking from shock.

  “Do you think me fool enough to loiter, or to move closer in any form with that possibility?”

  “Of course not,” Braelin said, collecting himself. “No, you did well. Gather the others and let us keep close together now.”

  “To the surface?”

  Braelin paused, unsure. “We shall see” was all that he could answer at that time.

  Braelin’s hand reflexively moved to the magical whistle Kimmuriel had given to him. He dropped it almost immediately, though, for Kimmuriel unnerved him, truly, and he understood that he should learn more of the situation to avoid prematurely summoning the frightening psionicist.