Relentless

by R. A. Salvatore

  On the far end, he spotted the black form of Guenhwyvar, crouched and looking farther along, her back hunched, rear legs tamping.

  The dwarf shook his head and harrumphed.

  “To the throne room?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “Can’t think of a better place for me to be,” Bruenor answered. On they charged, now led by Guen. Overrunning pockets of demons. Soon enough, they were met by more and more dwarf strike teams coming out of the side corridors, almost all showing signs of recent battle.

  For all of their success, it had not been easy. Clan Battlehammer had more than a few fallen heroes that day, and a lot more than a few wounded, but now the goal was in sight and the dwarven army rolled on eagerly, accepting the losses knowing they were for the greater good.

  There were fewer side chambers up here, fewer alternate corridor routes, and the progress increased into a focused, roaring, shield-thumping charge.

  The dwarves banged their swords, their axes, their maces, their hammers, and stomped their boots, many with soles misshapen from the heat of the lower corridors.

  They sang, they banged, they cheered, they fought, they died.

  But on they rolled.

  Into the throne room, they rolled, right into the arms of a demon horde.

  But they did not waver and they did not falter.

  And as dawn broke on the surface, now not so far above, King Bruenor Battlehammer once more sat on the Throne of the Dwarven Gods.

  “Give me yer strength, Clanggedin Silverbeard,” he called to the god of war.

  “Give me your whispers of hidden truths,” he implored Dumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets Under the Mountain.

  “Give me your heart and let me boys know ye’re with me,” he prayed to Moradin, the All-Father.

  The great entry hall loomed right outside.

  The drow and demons and abominable driders held it.

  Bruenor wanted it back.

  He felt the answer of his gods, all three, in the form of strength flowing into his limbs, and the dwarf king who leaped from the Throne of the Dwarven Gods was much larger than the one who had sat upon it.

  “Forward!” Bruenor yelled in a voice blessed by his gods.

  The others knew it, and how they cheered, and how they charged, swarming out into the entry cavern of Gauntlgrym, taking the beach on the near side of the pond, taking the bridge in short order, driving the demons back, back.

  Back.

  He had to tell Bruenor of the happenings outside of Gauntlgrym. Thibbledorf Pwent focused on that thought, that duty, as he floated back among the corridors held by dwarves, a gaseous cloud hiding in cracks and staying flat against the ceiling, seeming no more than some residual smoke of the burning furnaces or of the perpetual steam from the primordial chasm.

  Many times did the dwarf pause on his journey, or retreat or throw himself through a crack into another side chamber, for nearly every dwarf he saw, and surely those he recognized, called to him, to his loneliness, to his hunger. It would be so easy for him to create companions.

  He had to tell Bruenor of the happenings outside of Gauntlgrym, of the gathering drow!

  In the forge room at last, Pwent was glad to see Catti-brie, thinking he was must therefore be close to Bruenor. He looked around, noting the dwarven priests and priestesses, noting the drow woman, Yvonnel.

  One priestess in particular caught his eye, a striking woman named Copetta.

  Copperhead, the vampire thought, for that was the nickname Pwent had given her years before because of her long and thick golden-red hair, and also because she could strike as swiftly as a snake whenever the battlerager got out of line with her. The other dwarves called her Penny, a common old Delzoun name for the copper bit coins. To Pwent, though, she would always be Copperhead. Long had Pwent fancied this lass. Seeing her now was almost more than he could take . . . nay, perhaps it was more than he could take, and the vampire began plotting. If she walked out of the room, or even out of sight of the main gathering, he would transform and sink his fangs into her neck.

  He would take her hand and fly away.

  She would be like him.

  They would be together forevermore.

  Copperhead.

  Pwent could feel her soft touch, could hear again her sharp wit, could smell the blood—yes, most of all he could smell the blood. Her blood, he believed, waiting for his kiss.

  He felt himself descending from the ceiling, out of the smoke of the forges. The smell of blood grew thicker, calling to him, telling him that it was time for him to surrender at long last, to accept his fate, to take a companion.

  Or many companions.

  The blood . . . so sweet . . .

  Then he saw. No, it was not Copperhead’s blood at all. It was Catti-brie’s, between her feet, running down the insides of her legs!

  Catti-brie fell to the floor. Blood soaked into her gown about her crotch.

  The drow ran to her. The dwarves ran to her.

  Yvonnel began yelling orders, but Pwent couldn’t hear. Not then. Not watching his dear princess of Mithral Hall falling.

  Not smelling the blood.

  The blood.

  They carried Catti-brie away.

  Pwent hovered there above the red puddle, not knowing what to do, not knowing right from wrong. Perhaps he should go to Catti-brie and take her into undeath, to save her. Yes, to save her!

  But no, that could not be right, the confused dwarf insisted. Did he even know right from wrong anymore? Did he know where Pwent ended and the vampire began? Where duty and honor ended and desire demanded?

  The notion that he had even truly considered inflicting his curse upon dear Catti-brie shamed the dwarf. He flew from the forge room, down the small side corridor and into the great steamy chamber that held the primordial chasm. Once before, he had thrown himself into that chasm along with the giant spider construct, thinking to save his beloved King Bruenor and end his torment all at once. But he had flown back out, and now again, he failed.

  The vampire curse would not let him destroy himself.

  Every passing day made it stronger.

  He had thought to bite Catti-brie! The daughter of King Bruenor!

  He flew from the chamber, through the forge room and along the halls. He knew where they were going, knew Catti-brie’s chambers, and there he found the woman in her bed, surrounded by clerics, Copperhead among them, the drow Yvonnel among them.

  He watched as they worked frantically, many casting spells upon the woman, who seemed so near to death. Yvonnel, too, cast, but it wasn’t a spell of healing, more of divination, and the vampire Pwent could sense the strength of her magic and he recoiled, fearing that she was magically searching for him.

  But no, she rushed to Catti-brie and took up the woman’s hand and began tugging insistently, violently even. She fell back a step, holding up a ring, Catti-brie’s ring, which she slipped upon her own finger.

  Yvonnel closed her eyes and began chanting insistently in a language the vampire dwarf did not know, and one, judging from the looks of those around, foreign to the dwarven clerics, as well.

  When she finished, she moved through them back to Catti-brie and began spellcasting once more, waggling her fingers above the woman’s face, creating water that fell and splashed upon her, then leaning low and blowing a frosty breath behind the magical rain, as if she was trying to physically cool Catti-brie.

  Pwent didn’t understand, nor did those other dwarves about, clearly, but soon enough, the princess of Mithral Hall seemed to be resting more comfortably, and the dwarves sighed and nodded one after the other.

  Pwent simply hovered, fighting his compulsions, trying not to smell the blood, trying to not look at Copperhead, beautiful Copperhead.

  She could be like he was.

  Eternal.

  The vampire slipped out of the room.

  He had to tell Bruenor of the happenings outside of Gauntlgrym.

  But where was Bruenor?

  Pwent didn’t fly away.
He couldn’t fly away.

  Catti-brie . . . Copperhead . . . sweet, sweet blood.

  The malevolence she felt through the ring surprised Yvonnel, not because of the strength of it, but because of the manner. It wasn’t anger, but simply annoyance, a person slapping a bug that had stung it and nothing more. There was no sense of remorse, not a whit of conscience or regret.

  Maegera had slapped Catti-brie back for her trick. The beast had somehow put some of its very essence into the woman and created with that a fever of dramatic proportions. A fever strong enough to harm her child, perhaps, or to permanently damage Catti-brie. To kill them both, likely.

  Maegera was feeding it through the ring, and now, too, Yvonnel could feel herself growing warm.

  Yvonnel didn’t remove the ring, however, for she, unlike Catti-brie, was forewarned. She battled back and cooled the primordial warmth.

  “Will she live?” one of the dwarves asked Yvonnel.

  “Aye, and what of the baby, then?” asked another, a dwarf woman with striking reddish-brown hair.

  “Keep working over her” was all that Yvonnel could offer, for she really didn’t know.

  “I think the muffin’s still kickin’!” said the priestess Copetta. Yvonnel offered a hopeful grin at that, and put her hand beside Copetta’s on the woman’s belly. Indeed, she felt a kick, and could only hope it was not one of distress.

  “I need to study more powerful spells of healing,” Yvonnel told the dwarf. “I wasn’t expecting anything like this today.”

  “Aye, just a bunch o’ livin’ flame balls to send rushing through the tunnels, eh?”

  “Eh,” Yvonnel answered.

  “We’ll be givin’ her plenty of the healing,” Copetta told her. “Good thinking on the water and cold. Seems her fever’s a lot down.”

  “Down, but not gone,” Yvonnel added, moving her hand up to Catti-brie’s sweaty and clammy forehead.

  “We might be needin’ to take the babe,” Copetta said.

  Yvonnel only had experience with such things through the memories of Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal, but she took some solace in the apparent confidence and competence of these very capable dwarves. She looked about the room for a place to take some rest, to regenerate her magical energy and to prepare some powerful spells. She had thought to go off in pursuit of the fight she and Catti-brie had started, to aid in driving the demons as far back as possible, but that wouldn’t take her from this woman right now.

  She moved into the anteroom and was surprised to find Artemis Entreri and Dahlia coming into the room through the opposite door.

  “The blood,” Entreri said, rushing up to the drow. “They say it was Catti-brie’s.”

  Yvonnel nodded. “She is resting.” She stepped back and took a long look at the human and his half-elven companion. Bother were battered, covered in demon gore and blood, likely their own. “You seem as if resting would do you some good, as well,” Yvonnel said.

  “We just left the upper corridors for exactly that,” Dahlia answered. “The demons are in retreat, the dwarves pressing for the throne room, perhaps already there.”

  “We were fighting through the day, before the firestorm,” Entreri explained. “Our enemies are infinite.”

  “We nearly walked into that firestorm,” Dahlia added. “We were returning through other tunnels and were not forewarned.”

  “The heat was enough of a warning,” Entreri quickly added. “Pray give me some healing,” he added. “And some magic to bolster my weary arms, I beg. I want to be with them when the fiends are driven from Gauntlgrym.”

  “With them?” Yvonnel asked.

  “With Jarlaxle and Zaknafein,” Entreri answered. “With Bruenor and Regis. With Catti-brie, too, so I thought.”

  “With your friends,” Yvonnel said.

  Entreri looked at her curiously.

  “Are you afraid to admit the truth of the word?” Yvonnel teased. “Or do you not understand the meaning?”

  That brought a laugh from Entreri, but a scowl from his companion.

  “It is a good word, Artemis Entreri,” Yvonnel said. “The more familiar you become with it, the greater the chances for you to escape the fate you were shown. More than that, familiarity with the word will enhance your life—something you deserve more than you’re ready to admit.” His face looked pained at that, but also held a sense of wonder, as if the thought had never dawned on him. Smiling gently, Yvonnel said, “If you will excuse me now, I must rest and prepare more spells to help Catti-brie. She is in distress. The primordial struck at her and brought a fever.”

  “How bad?” Entreri asked with obvious concern.

  “She is comfortable now. We don’t know the damage, but the priests are working tirelessly, as will I.”

  Entreri nodded. Yvonnel returned it, then moved for a cot in the far corner of the room, but paused, noting a strange steam-like cloud up in the corner rim of the ceiling, sliding through a crack from this anteroom into Catti-brie’s bedchamber. Most might have mistaken it for simple smoke or mist—certainly there was much of that floating about these reaches of Gauntlgrym, particularly after the efforts in the forge room.

  A quick minor dweomer, though, confirmed Yvonnel’s suspicions. She rushed past the two in the room with her and charged back through the door, Entreri and Dahlia close behind.

  “What is it? Catti-brie?” Entreri asked, nearly running over Yvonnel just inside the room.

  “Take form, vampire Pwent,” Yvonnel called up to the cloud.

  It shifted, then began to drift back toward the crack in the ceiling from which it had emerged.

  Yvonnel threw a spell at it, one to steal the magic of the shape-shifting, and sure enough, the cloud coalesced and Thibbledorf Pwent materialized in midair. He dropped like a stone halfway to the floor, before magically catching himself and slowing, turning weirdly in the air so that he touched down lightly upon the floor facing the drow woman.

  The others in the room all gasped, some calling to their old friend, one in particular even coming forward a step, until another warned her back with “Penny, no!”

  “Ye’re not wantin’ me here, lady,” Pwent warned, grinding his teeth with every word and displaying his long fangs prominently. “Not now, I tell ye.”

  “You came here uninvited,” Yvonnel reminded.

  “Got to see me king,” Pwent said to Yvonnel, but his eyes were not on the drow, she noted. No, he was staring across the room to the dwarf lass name Copetta.

  “Got to tell him,” Pwent went on, his voice fading in and out around several low growls, part feral, part pure desire.

  “Thibbledorf Pwent!” Yvonnel said, trying to make him focus.

  And he did focus, but not on her, launching himself across the room in a great spring, half leap and half flight, descending over poor Copetta and bearing her to the ground beneath him.

  The other dwarves presented their holy symbols, denying the vampire, trying to drive him off with their divine energy. But most prominent among those presentations was the simple force of Yvonnel. As much to her own surprise as to any other who might notice, Yvonnel did not lift the spider-shaped symbol of Lolth, but simply stabbed her pointed finger at the cursed, undead thing.

  Pwent looked over his shoulder at her, hissed, and showed his fangs, then spun back and opened wide his mouth, descending upon the neck of his helpless victim.

  No, not his victim! His lover!

  He noted Entreri drawing his red-bladed sword and that jeweled dagger, charging at him. Up he leaped to face the threat, but before Entreri got near, the drow priestess struck.

  “I deny you!” Yvonnel said. “You were not invited here!”

  If she had launched Pwent from a side-slinger catapult, he would not have flown more forcefully. He was thrown from his intended victim, smashing hard against the side wall of the room, halfway up.

  And there he held as if stuck, as if Yvonnel’s pointing finger was some kind of energy ray pressing him in place.

/>   Yvonnel recognized the magic she was enacting here, for it was the same as that of the dwarves. She was using the power of divinity to turn the undead creature.

  Yet she wasn’t.

  Because she wasn’t invoking the name or symbol of the Lady Lolth. She almost questioned that, given the effect on the vampire, paralyzed and being seared by holy energy against that wall.

  “Yield!” she demanded.

  Pwent growled at her.

  “Yield!” Yvonnel answered a continuing growl by reminding him, “You had news for your king. Your king, Thibbledorf Pwent!”

  The dwarf’s snarl melted. He turned his head and let Yvonnel’s divine power press it against the stone. “Aye,” he gasped, gaining some measure of control.

  Yvonnel let him go and he dropped hard to the floor, bouncing right back into a crouch and growling at her with unmasked hatred. But it was mixed with profound embarrassment, everyone in the room understood.

  “Thibbledorf Pwent,” she said to him, “remember where you are. Remember who you are!”

  The dwarf’s expression softened even more.

  “You need to see King Bruenor,” Yvonnel reminded.

  Pwent growled and gasped. “Me . . . king,” he managed to fight out through his wild desires and anger.

  “Why?” Yvonnel demanded. “Why do you need to see him? You must tell me.”

  “Me . . . king.”

  “The dark elves?” Yvonnel asked. “Is it about the dark elves?”

  Even Yvonnel was surprised of the effect of her guess, as if the reminder hit the mark perfectly on Pwent. He went from his crouch to a sitting position against the wall, lowered his arms and his gaze.

  “They’re outside, all o’ them,” a thoroughly defeated Pwent said. “They’re meanin’ to join together.”

  Yvonnel took a deep breath. This was her worst fear coming true. The battered dwarves would have no chance against the combined might of Menzoberranzan, not after the energy and blood they had already expended in battling the demons.

  Yvonnel had no idea of why the news surprised her, though. Of course Quenthel and the others had come to join in the glory Matron Zhindia Melarn was beginning to realize. What else could it have been?