The Last Threshold tns-4

by R. A. Salvatore

  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.

  Chapter 24

  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.

  “We’re not done,” Jarlaxle explained. “We must be gone from this place.”

  “Effron-” Drizzt started to reply.

  “Our next stop,” Jarlaxle assured him, patting a pouch on his other hip, one similar to that which had held Drizzt’s possessions. “Gather your gear and come along. Dress as we go and be prepared for battle, for the fight might not yet be fully won.”

  By the time the pair reached Effron’s room, which was guarded now by Bregan D’aerthe warriors, Drizzt had his bow in hand, and all of his gear back in place. It was all he could manage to resist blowing the whistle to summon Andahar, so badly did he wish to see his unicorn steed once more. A sense of normalcy leaped at his heart and mind, and yet, at the same time, it all seemed even more strange now, like knowing the roads that would lead to a place where you had once lived, only to discover that it is no longer your home.

  He just wasn’t sure. More than anything, he wanted to bring in Guenhwyvar, wanted to find the constancy of her thick fur and muscular flank, but he knew that he should not. He recalled the last time he had seen her, so haggard and appearing near death, and decided that he would let a tenday pass, or more even, before he called to her.

  He glanced up at the sound of a crash, and saw Effron’s gear lying on the floor before the obviously-startled tiefling warlock.

  “You killed Draygo Quick?” Effron breathlessly asked.

  “You would like that?” Jarlaxle replied.

  Effron looked at him curiously for just a moment, then admitted, “No.”

  Jarlaxle’s smile and nod caught Drizzt by surprise, making him suspect that the drow’s question might have been some kind of test. He let it go, however, for they obviously had more to do.

  And indeed, Jarlaxle led them off immediately, back the way he had come, and soon to enter the grand entry hall. Drizzt and Effron could only stare in disbelief at the new addition of an adamantine tower, standing amidst the crumbled floor and wall as if some giant had thrown it like a spear into the structure.

  “Well met again, elf!” Athrogate the dwarf roared, bounding over to properly greet Drizzt.

  “You fell into the pit, in Gauntlgrym,” Drizzt said. “Both of you.”

  “Aye, and taked me a year to grow back me beard, durned fire beast, bwahahaha!” Athrogate replied.

  “I foresee many nights about the hearth, drink in hand,” Jarlaxle said. “But those are for another world, not this one.” He swept his arm out toward the open tower door. “Athrogate will show you to the gate.”

  “Gate?” Effron asked.

  “To Luskan,” Jarlaxle explained, and he pushed Drizzt and Effron along. “Keep beside them,” he instructed Athrogate. “I will be along presently.”

  “Only if the elf puts in a good word for meself with that pretty young Ambergris,” Athrogate said, and he tossed an exaggerated wink Drizzt’s way.

  Overwhelmed again-or still, actually-Drizzt could only nod stupidly and follow along. He put his hand on his own belt pouch then slipped it inside, needing to feel the contours of the Guenhwyvar figurine and the promise of a true friend recovered.

  Most of the drow were gone now, but Jarlaxle wasn’t finished. He kept the magical tower of Caer Gromph in place, and could only hope that Lord Draygo had taken Kimmuriel’s words to heart.

  Off Jarlaxle went through a series of small chambers in the back left corner of the grand entry. Kimmuriel had shown him the way and it seemed as if there would be few obstacles or sentries blocking him, but still he was nervous, more so than at any other point in this rescue mission.

  It wasn’t Draygo Quick causing the beads of sweat-so rare a sight! — on his forehead. It wasn’t the prospect of guards, or even facing a brutal enemy he knew to be around.

  No, it was the prospect of facing the one he hoped to save.

  He wound down to the castle’s substructure and moved along a long corridor to a trio of doors. Before them lay four more of Draygo Quick’s sentries, bound and gagged, two awake and the others still under the effects of the drow sleep poison.

  Jarlaxle tipped his hat to them as he stepped over them to the center door. He took a deep breath and he pushed through, taking care to softly close the door behind him. He had come into a large cellar full of low archways, connecting the massive stone supports for the c
astle. Fortunately, Caer Gromph hadn’t sunk its roots into this portion of the castle.

  Jarlaxle moved slowly, keeping close to the stone buttresses, trying to get a feel of the dusty and ancient catacombs. The smell of decay hung thick in here, and many crypts lined the walls, open to the main area, their skeletal remains lying in a state of eternal rest, many with arms crossed, others with bones fallen away. Rusty swords and tarnished crowns, tattered and decayed robes and crawly things flitted around the edges of Jarlaxle’s lowlight vision, but the gloom was too complete for him to get an accurate view of the place. He crouched beside one of the low archways and pulled a little ceramic ball out of his belt pouch. He brought it up to his lips and whispered the command, then tossed it deeper into the catacomb.

  The ball rolled and bounced and burst into flame as it settled, spitting sparks as it lit the dust around it, and flickering with the intensity of a torch, casting strange shadows all around.

  “Come and play, pretty lady,” Jarlaxle said quietly.

  He froze in place and listened, and thought something or someone had shuffled behind another low archway not so far from him.

  “Do be reasonable,” he said, moving that way, but his words were more of an afterthought, for his concentration surely lay elsewhere.

  He came up near that low archway and paused, shadows dancing.

  Suddenly, one of those shadows wasn’t a shadow, but the medusa leaping out at him as he spun around to meet the charge, her red eyes wide, her killing gaze falling over him.

  Jarlaxle saw her in all of her awful glory, and he knew without doubt that only his eyepatch had saved him in that instance, that without its powerful dweomer, his skin would already be turning to stone. He called upon his innate drow abilities, his affinity to the magical emanations of the Underdark, and brought forth a globe of impenetrable darkness around him and the medusa, stealing her most powerful weapon.

  At the same time, his left hand pumped, his bracer feeding him daggers to throw out at his foe, and he caught a dagger in his right hand as well, and snapped his wrist to elongate the weapon into a sword, which he put out before him, hoping to keep the medusa and her hair of living, poisonous snakes back from him.