Both illithids turned on Draygo Quick, and in the hands of the second, he saw the panther figurine. Both waved their ugly tentacles his way, and both similarly disappeared, into the ether.
Draygo Quick fell back, overwhelmed and terrified, full of fear and full of rage.
From the breaking railings came the dragonnettes, from the cracking ceiling came the castle gargoyles, and from the tower, in response, came a hail of drow fireballs, lightning bolts, magic missiles, and crossbow bolts.
Down below that level, the lightning missile slammed into Jarlaxle’s chest, the sparkling explosion lighting the room in a blinding flash, and before the drow’s vision had even recovered from that glare, a second hit right beside the first.
Jarlaxle looked down at his chest, then back at the archer, now with a third arrow leveled his way.
“You shoot well,” he congratulated, and the Shadovar, clearly confused and shocked and horrified, let fly again, and again his aim was true.
And again, Jarlaxle took the hit without any apparent ill effects. Indeed, he wasn’t even paying attention at that moment, reveling in the efficiency of his army, and the macabre beauty of smoking and burning forms of tiny dragons spinning down to the floor.
In leaped the swordsman, Twinkle up high and glowing fiercely. He brought it across in a powerful sweep, slashing the distracted Jarlaxle across the face.
But not a mark, not a speck of blood, showed in the blade’s deadly wake.
“Have you ever heard of a kinetic barrier?” the drow asked innocently.
The shade howled and lifted the blade to strike again, and Jarlaxle made no move to defend. The blade struck him just an instant after he merely touched the shade guard, and in that touch, he released all of the killing energy of the three bowshots and the first scimitar strike that had been captured by the kinetic barrier Kimmuriel had enacted over him.
The shade’s face fell in half. His chest exploded, once, twice, thrice, and he flew away behind a crimson cloud of his own spraying blood.
Twinkle did strike, but with minimal force, but still Jarlaxle was much relieved to realize that Kimmuriel still had his protective barrier in place.
The drow mercenary turned to the archer, a wry grin on his face. Jarlaxle dropped his levitation, touched down, leaped away and called forth the floating spell once more, his stride lifting him toward the distant balcony.
Frantically and foolishly, the archer fired off another shot, and another, and Jarlaxle felt the energy mounting around him once more.
A Shadovar body flew up out of the pit and plopped onto the floor. The second dead door guard followed closely, and both had been wrapped by one end of a fine elven cord.
Now the corpses served as anchors and out of the portable hole pit came Athrogate, no longer in the guise of a yochlol. The ferocious dwarf got his feet under him just as the castle’s outside door banged open and more guards charged in.
“Taked ye long enough!” the dwarf roared in glee, his morningstars sweeping across to send the nearest shade flying away.
Athrogate grunted a moment later, though, and looked down as his arm, and the handcrossbow bolt impaled there.
“Hmm,” he muttered. “Durned drow.”
The air around him buzzed with more such darts whipping all around, most striking home on those Shadovar standing before him.
“Poison,” slurred the closest, and Athrogate regarded him to see a bolt sticking out of the shade’s cheek, just under the poor fool’s left eye.
The dwarf reached up and tore the bolt free of the Shadovar’s face, flipped it over, and put it in his mouth, where he sucked on it hard. Wearing an inquisitive expression, he tossed the bolt aside to the floor and swirled the venom around in his mouth, nodding his agreement with the assessment.
“Aye,” he said after he spat out the poison and a wad of spittle. “And I’m bettin’ that one hurt.”
The Shadovar fell over to the floor, fast asleep. So did several others, but a few, at least, managed to fight through the waves of drow poison. Still, the poison slowed their movements and made their blocks and parries quite sluggish, and so Athrogate, who had of course built up a complete resistance to drow sleep poison in his decades beside Jarlaxle, waded through them with wild abandon, swatting them aside with his powerful morningstars.
Behind him, the drow warriors came forth from their fortress, though none moved to join the wild and unpredictable dwarf as he gleefully executed his own brand of carnage.
“Truly?” Jarlaxle asked incredulously as the archer put up Taulmaril for a point blank shot at him. He had already absorbed three other arrows on his journey to face this shade and showed no ill-effects.
The poor shade trembled so badly that the arrow slipped off the bow.
“Just give it over,” Jarlaxle said, holding out his hand. He noted, then, that the Shadovar wore, too, a fabulous mithral shirt he had seen before. “Oh, and my friend’s shirt, as well.”
To emphasize his point, Jarlaxle turned to meet the swoop of a gargoyle, and released all of the stored kinetic energy into the creature, which verily exploded under the weight of the blow, leaving no more than a burst of tiny stones flying around to shower the balcony and the room below.
“Truly?” he again asked the shade, who desperately tried to set another arrow.
The fool finally caught on, and handed over the bow with a hand shaking so badly that Jarlaxle had to work hard to suppress a laugh.
“And the mithral shirt,” he instructed. “And anything else you might possess that belonged to my imprisoned friends! Indeed, strip yourself naked then run around and collect all of their items, and I warn you that if any are missing, you will follow the fate of the gargoyle!”
The shade let out a little whimper, tossed a ring and some bracers atop the pile of clothing, then shuffled away, bowing with every step.
“All of them!” Jarlaxle shouted after him.
“Well met, Lord Draygo,” the drow said to the startled warlock after he materialized in Draygo Quick’s private room, right near where the illithids had been standing.
Draygo Quick eyed him both studiously and incredulously. The warlock considered his options, wondering mostly if those dangerous illithids were still around. There weren’t many creatures in the known multiverse that could unnerve Draygo Quick, but he counted the octopus-headed mind flayers among that group, to be sure.
The door behind him opened and one of his students gasped.
Draygo Quick held up his hand to keep the young warlock at bay.
“Bid her to close the door and be gone,” the drow instructed. “My associates and I have little time, and I would speak with you alone.”
“Speak?” Draygo Quick replied suspiciously.
“Lord Draygo, be reasonable here,” said the drow. “We are both businessmen, in the end.”
“Kimmuriel,” Draygo Quick breathed, and it all made sense to him. Kimmuriel Oblodra of Bregan D’aerthe was rumored to be a psionicist of considerable power, and that would explain his association with the mind flayers, the most psionically-gifted creatures of all.
“At your service,” Kimmuriel confirmed.
“At your service, you mean,” Lord Draygo replied. “You dare attack a lord of Netheril with such impudence? You dare enter my private quarters and steal from me, before my very eyes?”
“Your minion,” Kimmuriel prompted, motioning to the door.
“And if I choose to allow her to stay, perhaps to call in others?”
“Then I will fade away from here, and you will have nothing to show for the losses you have suffered this day,” Kimmuriel answered, and he held up the onyx figurine of the now-freed Guenhwyvar. “Alas, the considerable losses.”
The implication that there might be some gain to be found here was hard to ignore. “Be gone!” Draygo Quick snapped at his acolyte after mulling it over. Should it come to a fight, that one wouldn’t be of much help against this drow of such reputation, or against the illithids in any
case, Draygo Quick knew.
“My lord!”
“Be gone!” Draygo Quick cried again.
“But the dark elves have taken the whole of the castle beyond this tower!” the woman cried. “And we are trapped here, blocked by an adamantine wall!”
Draygo Quick leaped up from his chair and spun angrily on the young female shade, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring. Rare were such outbursts from the composed and powerful lord, and this one had the desired effect, as the younger shade gave a squeal of terror and fled, slamming the door.
Draygo Quick took a few breaths to compose himself, then turned back to face Kimmuriel.
“How dare you?” he asked quietly.
“We have done you a favor, and the rewards will prove greater than the inconveniences we have caused,” Kimmuriel replied.
“By attacking my castle?”
“Indeed, to provide you proper cover to the lord of Gloomwrought and your peers for the loss of Drizzt and the others, for of course, that is why we have come. The damage to your abode is no doubt considerable—that is Jarlaxle’s way, I fear. His belief is that the best way to end any battle is to win it quickly, with overwhelming force, and so, as usual, he has.”
“If you think me defeated, you know little of Draygo Quick.”
“Please, Lord Draygo, remain reasonable,” Kimmuriel replied with clear condescension—or perhaps it was just supreme confidence, Draygo thought.
“Your castle can be repaired, and we will kill as few of the fools you employ as possible. So yes, there is a bit of inconvenience to you—but it need not be more than that, and surely not as tragic as it might become if you place your pride before your pragmatism.
“We have come at the behest of … well, let us just say that Lady Lolth will not be denied that which is hers. I doubt that you wish such a war as you might find if you follow the path of your pride.”
“Lady Lolth?” Draygo Quick asked, and he didn’t hide his intrigue. “For Drizzt?”
“It should not concern you,” Kimmuriel said.
“Then he is Chosen.”
Kimmuriel shook his head. “I make no such claim.”
“But Lady Lolth—”
“Has her own designs, and only a fool would pretend to understand those,” said Kimmuriel. “Nor does it matter. Here is my offer, and I will make it only this one time: Remain here in your private rooms while we finish our work. Stand down with your remaining forces—not that you have much choice in the matter, in any case. We will be gone soon enough.”
“With treasures,” Draygo Quick noted, and he nodded toward the onyx figurine.
Kimmuriel shrugged as if it should not matter.
“You wish to know whether Drizzt is favored by Mielikki or Lolth,” the drow said.
“You possess that knowledge?”
“I possess insights that go to the question you hope to clarify by garnering that knowledge,” Kimmuriel answered. “Indeed, I hold answers that will make the question of Drizzt Do’Urden’s allegiance or favor irrelevant to you.”
Draygo Quick swallowed hard.
“I have come from the hive mind of the illithids,” Kimmuriel explained, and Draygo swallowed hard again, for surely, if any creatures in the known multiverse had any answers to the fate of Abeir-Toril, it would be that group.
“So we have a deal?” Kimmuriel asked.
“You will finish and be gone? And what else?”
“You will hold to the agreement that Jarlaxle forged with Lord Parise Ulfbinder.”
“Nonsense!” Draygo Quick blurted. “You cannot wage war and smilingly sign a trade agreement in the same moment!”
“We did not wage war,” Kimmuriel corrected. “We came to retrieve that which does not belong to you—”
“Drizzt and his companions assaulted my castle! By my right of defense do I claim those spoils!”
“And in the process,” Kimmuriel continued, ignoring the rant, “we have saved you from the wrath of one far less merciful, or at least, of one far less interested in allowing you to continue to draw breath. This raid, Lord Draygo, has surely saved your life.”
Draygo Quick sputtered, unable to even find the words to strike back.
“But we do not expect your gratitude, just your good sense,” Kimmuriel continued. “We have provided you with cover, and I will offer to you an understanding of that which is happening between the Shadowfell and Toril beyond anything Drizzt Do’Urden might have provided.”
“So you have done me a favor, provided me cover and saved my life,” Draygo Quick said skeptically, “and you offer one more gift, and all in exchange for a few baubles and a prisoner?”
“I would hope for much more from you.”
“Do tell.”
“When I give to you my insights, you will understand that both of our respective groups, Bregan D’aerthe and you and your fellow lords of Netheril, will benefit greatly from our alliance.”
“How do I know you are not lying to me?”
Kimmuriel’s expression remained, as always, impassive. “Why would I need to do so? Your tower is full of unseen illithids, all eager to feast on the brains of shades. By my word alone are you and your acolytes protected.”
“The illithids answer to a dark elf?” the warlock asked doubtfully.
“In this instance, yes.”
The way Kimmuriel said it, so matter-of-factly, erased any doubts in Draygo Quick, and he realized that this offered deal was the best he was going to get.
“Good,” Kimmuriel answered, and only then did Draygo Quick realize that the drow psionicist was reading his thoughts.
“I will return to you within a tenday,” Kimmuriel promised. “For now, keep your minions in this tower if you wish to keep them safe.”
Draygo Quick started to protest, but Kimmuriel turned around and walked away, right through the tower wall.
Lord Draygo fell back into his chair, full of venom, but full, too, of intrigue.
AFTERSHOCK
DRIZZT WAITED, CROUCHED DEFENSIVELY, UNSURE OF HIS SITUATION. THE room had shaken violently—the drow couldn’t imagine what had caused such a rumble. His thoughts shot back to the cataclysm that had flattened the city of Neverwinter, the volcano that had thrown him from his feet with its incredible shockwave.
Was this, then, some similar natural, or primordial, disaster?
Drizzt stayed on his toes, listening, watching, knowing that he might have to spring away on an instant’s notice. Perhaps another earthquake would split the wall asunder and drop the ceiling. Would he be quick enough to get free of the crash? And perhaps such a leap and sprint would garner him his freedom beyond Draygo Quick’s crumbling walls.
But then what?
Soon after, the drow heard running outside his door, and shouts of protest, followed swiftly by grunts and groans and the all-too familiar thud of a body collapsing to the hard floor.
“An attack,” he whispered, and no sooner had the words escaped his lips than his room’s door swung in.
Drizzt tensed, ready to attack. Then he gasped, his thoughts spinning in a jumbled swirl, so much so that he tried to speak out a name, but barely made a squeak.
“Wonderful to see you again, as well,” Jarlaxle replied with a wry grin. “I have missed you, my old friend.”
“What? How?” Drizzt sputtered. Aside from all the implications of this unexpected encounter, Drizzt had thought Jarlaxle killed in Gauntlgrym. The sight of this one, another tie to a long-lost time, overwhelmed him and he simply could not contain his relief. He leaped across and wrapped Jarlaxle in a great hug.
“Ambergris,” Jarlaxle explained. “She alone escaped the castle of Draygo Quick, and she guided me back to this place.”
“But you died in Gauntlgrym!”
“I did?” Jarlaxle stepped back and looked at his arms and torso. “I fear I must disagree.”
Now Drizzt eyed him suspiciously. “This is a trick of Draygo Qui—”
Jarlaxle’s laughter cut him short. “
My suspicious friend, be at ease. Recall the day of your escape from Menzoberranzan those decades ago, after you and Catti-brie dropped a stalactite through the roof of House Baenre’s chapel. Did I not show you then that I am a friend full of surprises? I will tell you all about the events of Gauntlgrym and beyond, but at another time. For now, let us leave this place.”
Drizzt mulled that over for a few moments and knew then that this was indeed Jarlaxle, the real, living Jarlaxle, come to rescue him.
“The earthquake? You caused it?”
“You will see, soon enough,” Jarlaxle promised. “But here.” He pulled a pouch from his belt and upended it, and all sorts of items—a bow and quiver, a pair of scimitars and a belt to hold them, boots, a mithral shirt, a unicorn pendant, a pair of magical bracers—tumbled forth, though few of those could have even fit in the small belt pouch had it not been powerfully enchanted. “I believe this is all of your gear, but my many companions are searching in case we have missed anything.”
Drizzt looked at the pile incredulously, but knew with only that cursory glance, of course, that something was indeed missing.
“And there is this,” Jarlaxle said, and Drizzt snapped his gaze back up, to see the drow mercenary holding forth the ring fashioned of pure ruby that Drizzt had taken from the Xorlarrin wizard. “Do you know what this is?”
“A mage’s bauble, I would expect.”
Jarlaxle nodded. “And of no small power. Keep it safe.” He flipped it to Drizzt, who caught it and slipped it upon his finger.
“And this,” Jarlaxle added, and when Drizzt looked up, the smiling mercenary held that which he wanted above all else, the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar. He handed it over to Drizzt’s trembling hands.
“She is free now,” Jarlaxle explained. “Draygo Quick’s bondage of her to this plane is no more, and she rests comfortably in her Astral home, recovering, and awaiting your call.”
Drizzt felt his knees going weak beneath him, and he stumbled back and fell into a chair, thoroughly overwhelmed. “Thank you,” he mouthed, over and over again.
The Last Threshold: Neverwinter Saga, Book IV Page 37