The team that returned to Gauntlgrym had no trouble rejoining the main group less than three days later, even though Jarlaxle’s primary band had made fine progress and had encountered almost no resistance or monsters. Now at full strength, Jarlaxle’s group of skilled and veteran rogues moved with great speed into the deeper tunnels.
On three occasions over the next few days, they encountered drow scouts from Menzoberranzan—or at least, Kimmuriel did, sending his thoughts ahead and understanding the allegiance and strength of every group before those sentries even knew the Bregan D’aerthe force was approaching.
Even without that advantage the psionicist afforded, none of the small groups would have offered much of a challenge to Jarlaxle’s band. Every skirmish played out the same: a sudden and overwhelming appearance of Bregan D’aerthe, Dab’nay and her cohorts casting their spells to silence the enemy wizards and priestesses, the warriors there to end things quickly.
Drizzt and Guenhwyvar led the way in each time, once from the side through a stone wall as with the first fight, once from behind their enemies, and in the last fight, one very near to Menzoberranzan, in a straightforward charge right down the hallway, with Drizzt dodging arrows, catching more than one before tossing it aside, and breaching the front rank with a mighty and high-flying leap and kick—one, he knew, that would have made Grandmaster Kane quite proud.
Guenhwyvar barreled through, scattering drow or running them over, and so fast and disciplined was the teamwork of the drow and his longtime panther companion that they got right through the small chamber that was housing the enemy force and into the lone tunnel leading out the other way.
None of these enemies were getting back to Menzoberranzan to warn Matron Zhindia and her allies of the new force that had joined the battle.
The way to the northeastern entrances of the city, the tunnels called the Masterways, were now before them, clear to the gates.
But now, too, they were among corridors that Jarlaxle and his band knew so well. Instead of going straight into Menzoberranzan—and using Jarlaxle’s portable hole to get through thin walls into more secret, parallel tunnels—they made their way to the east and the south, circling outside of Menzoberranzan’s huge cavern past the Braeryn, along the Wanderways and around the less populated eastern reaches that housed the lake of Donigarten and the Isle of Rothe. Then back to the west, they went, again through little-used, little-known tunnels, Jarlaxle leading the troupe into the city right upon the raised southern stretch, the Qu’ellarz’orl, which housed the major clans of Menzoberranzan, including, most prominently, House Baenre.
“Who knows of your arrival?” Matron Mother Quenthel asked Jarlaxle soon after, when he and Drizzt were announced to her in the main audience hall. She hardly looked at Jarlaxle as she spoke, for she couldn’t take her gaze off Drizzt, or more pointedly, off the massive black panther that licked its paws as it sat comfortably at the famous heretic’s side.
“The twenty-three prisoners I turned over to your house guards and those allies we left behind in your courtyard,” Jarlaxle answered. “No others.”
“In my courtyard? All of them?”
Jarlaxle gave a little grin. “Well, not all, for of course, we have begun our reconnoiter.”
“Of course,” Quenthel said dryly.
“I thought you would be glad to see us.”
“Our enemies control the gates to the city—for now,” Quenthel explained, not affording him the appreciation he had just requested. “We have heard that they have many groups out in the tunnels to make sure the armies of King Bruenor do not come here.”
“Or to intercept and take any supplies and weapons that might be coming from our dwarf friends up above,” said Yvonnel, standing beside the seated Quenthel. She, too, wasn’t really looking at Jarlaxle, but neither at Guenhwyvar, her gaze blatantly locked squarely upon this man, Drizzt, who so intrigued her.
“We encountered a couple of such outposts,” Jarlaxle replied. “They are deserted now, and the only ones left alive other than the prisoners I brought to you are the prisoners from the initial group, who are now under the care of King Bruenor.”
“There were other patrols about, easily avoided,” Drizzt added.
“Because you have that cursed Oblodran creature with you, no doubt,” said Quenthel.
“You will understand the value of Kimmuriel soon enough,” Jarlaxle assured her, but her sour expression remained—a leftover from the days known as the Time of Troubles, when the gods went silent. In their absence, the psionicists of House Oblodra had tried to take over Menzoberranzan and unseat the Baenres.
Quenthel’s reaction didn’t surprise Jarlaxle, but as he considered it more, it did unnerve him a bit. The Oblodran advantage in that distant time was the absence of Lolth, and now, wasn’t Quenthel trying to be rid of the Spider Queen from Menzoberranzan once and for all? Shouldn’t she now see the Oblodran usurpation attempt as a kindred cause to her own?
No matter, he figured.
And hoped.
“Do you need guidance in where best to deploy your forces?” Quenthel asked.
“I suspect that Jarlaxle will be offering guidance to us on the same very soon,” Yvonnel remarked before Jarlaxle could answer.
“I have eyes in the city,” he admitted. “And have for some tendays now. I would, however, like us to discuss my role in these events. Me and mine are suited for . . . different sorts of operations, of course.”
“At this point, it is simply a matter of skirmishes, mostly in the Braeryn, and one near-continual battle before the gates of House Do’Urden. We expect Zhindia to make a greater move soon to gain some visible victory,” the Matron Mother explained. “Her demons enter the city by the heartbeat now and openly walk the streets everywhere but the Qu’ellarz’orl. She has not been that bold as of yet.”
“Have we any demon allies in the city?” Jarlaxle asked.
“We have no demon allies,” Quenthel said flatly. “Never again.”
That sounded as sweet music to Drizzt’s ears.
“Then Bregan D’aerthe will use our wiles and find our places in the fight,” Jarlaxle said.
“And thin the ranks of Zhindia’s demon army faster than she can thicken them,” Drizzt Do’Urden promised.
Drizzt dismissed Guenhwyvar back to her Astral home as soon as he left the audience chamber, then followed Jarlaxle out of the main building of Menzoberranzan’s great First House. He wanted to make sure Matron Quenthel saw the panther, but otherwise didn’t want to waste her time until he needed her again.
“You go back to Kimmuriel and the others,” Jarlaxle told him, pointing to the barracks they had been given. “I’m going to meet these Blaspheme warriors. Perhaps I’ll gain some insights.” He paused for just a moment, considering, then added, “Send Kimmuriel to me, to the barracks in the northwest corner of the compound.”
Drizzt nodded and headed on his way. He had to go around the back of the nobles’ compound to get to the appointed housing for Bregan D’aerthe, and there ran into an unexpected encounter.
“Well met again, Drizzt,” Yvonnel said to him.
It was clear that she had left the audience chamber right after them, moving out a back door to intercept. She moved to him and wrapped him in a great hug, one he gladly returned.
“I hoped that Jarlaxle would wander off,” she said, pulling away after a long while. “I wished a few moments alone with you.”
“It is good to see you,” Drizzt agreed. “I’m glad you’re on our side.”
“And the same to you. How fares King Bruenor? How fares Regis and Artemis Entreri and the giant Wulfgar—has he settled with Penelope Harpell yet, or does he remain a free wanderer?”
Her concern for his companions surprised Drizzt, but as he considered it, he understood. In the short time Yvonnel had been around Drizzt and his friends, she had fit in more easily than he ever would have expected. She was quite an extraordinary person, one who saw the world differently than anyone he had ever met.
“Wulfgar and Penelope take their joy where they find it,” Drizzt replied. “And however they find it.”
“They are wise.”
“The others are well. They hope for the best down here and look forward to a future that is better than the present and far better than the past.”
“And Catti-brie and your little girl?”
“We call her Brie.”
“Her full name is quite a mouthful,” Yvonnel said with a laugh.
Drizzt smiled and nodded. “Indeed.”
“Catti-brie must be devastated that you are here and she is not.”
Drizzt’s expression was all the answer that was needed.
“She is a wonderful person,” Yvonnel said with complete sincerity. “Formidable, dedicated, desiring to do well, loyal. You are a very lucky man, Drizzt Do’Urden.”
“I am, indeed. I only hope that I am able to return to her soon.”
“If ever you and Catti-brie entertain thoughts of adding a third in your marriage . . .” Yvonnel said, and Drizzt could tell that she was only partly joking.
He snorted. “That would be more an offer for Wulfgar and Penelope, I think.”
Yvonnel smiled widely and winked at him, and there it was, so clearly offered. He didn’t take offense and wasn’t really even shocked by her suggestions, nor would Catti-brie be, he knew. There was an honesty and openness to Yvonnel that made her as trustworthy in Catti-brie’s eyes as was Drizzt.
“What you and Quenthel did on the surface . . .” Drizzt began. “The defiance, the heresy, the complete rejection of Lolth and her ways . . .” He shook his head. “You are spoken of as a hero to all around me up there, and it is a title most deserved.”
It was the first time he ever saw Yvonnel blush, something he never expected to witness!
“It was the only choice,” she said.
“You could have sided with Zhindia and won the war with ease, and Gauntlgrym and most of the north would be yours.”
“It was the only choice,” she said again, more determinedly.
“Because you are possessed with decency.”
“Because I have a memory of that which was before Lolth. What you did in walking out of Menzoberranzan those many decades ago, what Jarlaxle has done recently with Luskan and his actions on the surface with the humans and dwarfs and halflings and elves . . . this is the future, Drizzt Do’Urden. This is who we must be to join the wider world, to the benefit of all.”
“We will win here,” Drizzt said.
“We have to,” Yvonnel replied. She glanced back. “I must go. The reports will be coming in from the Braeryn soon. The whispers claim that a great demon force is gathering in the streets this day and the fears are that they will go to challenge our hold on the region of Donigarten.” She turned back and gave Drizzt another hug, then kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “We will win. Now that you and Jarlaxle have come, I know we will. The city will look to you, and thus, wicked Zhindia will lose support.”
Drizzt watched her go, reminding himself of his earlier remark to her. Yes, he was very glad to have Yvonnel Baenre, the daughter of Gromph and Minolin Fey, the namesake of Yvonnel the Eternal and possessed of that Matron Mother’s vast experiences and memories, on his side.
Woe to Zhindia Melarn if she came against Yvonnel in battle.
The Bregan D’aerthe force moved quietly through the back alleys of the Stenchstreets. The main boulevards of this region of Menzoberranzan, the land of drow commoners and houseless rogues, showed the rubble and scorches of battles against demonic enemies.
Matron Zhindia’s Abyssal forces kept coming here, continually, though in small numbers, as she tried to convince those she could to join the cause of Lolth, and to punish those who would not come to heel.
Jarlaxle saw the tension in Drizzt. The mercenary leader understood that it was taking every measure of discipline Drizzt could muster for him to stay out of the battles, as Jarlaxle had demanded. They had traveled to this tumultuous section of the city, initially at least, for information that would be critical to the longer cause of the war. Still, many times in their skulk, Jarlaxle noted Drizzt’s hands on the hilts of Twinkle and Icingdeath. He wanted Jarlaxle to turn him loose on the demons, and in those battles, there would be no mercy.
But that would escalate too soon, and Jarlaxle was certain a bit more time—and a lot more information—would mean the biggest difference in the long run. To his relief, Drizzt, though virtually buzzing with a need for action, agreed.
When they came to the back wall of one building, Jarlaxle took out his portable hole and opened the way into the Oozing Myconid. He signaled for Drizzt and several others to go in, then waved the rest to take up strategic positions nearby, covering the streets and the rooftops, ready for a fight.
He brought Dab’nay to his side, his hand then signing to her, When the fighting starts, we should try to keep Drizzt on the demons alone, and not on any drow enemies.
She nodded her agreement and understanding, then went into the back hallway of the establishment right before Jarlaxle, who removed the magical portal, fitting the seemingly unremarkable black cloth into the chimney of his great hat. Seven were in there, including Drizzt, filling the small rear corridor. A set of stairs was to the right, leading up to the second floor and a door on the right-hand interior wall to the left, which, from the sound of many patrons beyond, seemed to lead directly into the common room.
There are three dozen and two in the place, beyond our four operatives, Drizzt and five others in the corridor heard in their minds as the seventh of their group, Kimmuriel, telepathically relayed his findings.
Probe each table. Find the commoners, find the nobles, Jarlaxle signed to the psionicist. Find the allies, find the enemies.
A short while later, Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel moved down by the stairs and quietly conferred.
There are enemies within, lying in wait for our arrival, Dab’nay’s fingers told Drizzt.
How do you know? he signaled back, though rather poorly, he realized, for he was out of practice with the subtle and intricate drow sign language.
Our enemies know this place, know it is Jarlaxle’s primary point of contact, and were certain that Bregan D’aerthe would make an appearance in the city eventually. Perhaps they have staked out the place for parlay, perhaps for ambush.
The sounds from the common room grew louder in the small corridor suddenly.
Jarlaxle waved for Drizzt and Dab’nay to join him and Kimmuriel. When they arrived, he showed them the alcove beneath the stairwell, led them to crouch down low so he could reveal the magical passage he had constructed with his portable hole, one that went into the common room, but was concealed from the main area because it was down low behind the bar.
If I call you in, Jarlaxle’s fingers flashed to Drizzt, enter prepared for a sudden and vicious fight. He paused and looked Drizzt in the eye, his expression deadly serious to emphasize his final signals: If you do not kill them, they will kill you.
Drizzt nodded.
Jarlaxle disappeared through the hole, Kimmuriel following.
Time seemed to pass very slowly for Drizzt as he stood in that corridor beside the magical opening. He considered the circles of his life’s journey, ones that kept bringing him back to this place of his birth, always, inevitably, to end in violence.
The first time he had returned to Menzoberranzan, he had come to surrender, foolishly thinking that his sacrifice would keep the drow from attacking the friends, the new family, he had made on the surface world.
Catti-brie had come after him and had saved him, along with Artemis Entreri, who was already here in this dark place, and was coincidentally seeking his own escape. That had been a long, long time ago, more than a century.
Much more recently, Drizzt had journeyed to Menzoberranzan beside Jarlaxle when the demons had gone out of control within the city, threatening all. Drizzt had been imprisoned by Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre, then had been freed and used as the living spear, the living bomb, of kinetic energy created by the combined power of a united Menzoberranzan. He had hurled himself from a ledge at the demon lord Demogorgon, the destructive magic flowing through him but not consuming him, saving Menzoberranzan from the monstrous beast. On that occasion, Drizzt had done battle here with these same Melarni forces. He had killed drow, as he knew he would again.
For the better, he had to tell himself over and over again.
He believed in this cause, believed that it might be the most important cause of his life. But he hated the prosecution of it.
It was the only way, though. Reason had failed. Violence alone could free the drow from Lolth and her loyal allies, her unreasonably zealous allies. Drizzt took out the onyx figurine and whispered a name.
Over the bar and to the left, came the telepathic instructions from Kimmuriel, accompanied by an image of a large round table with nearly a dozen drow sitting around it. Come in swinging heavy, on my call.
Heavy, Drizzt thought, and therefore replied. Blades drawn and ready to kill.
“We have to take them down, and fast, Guen,” Drizzt whispered to the giant panther he had just brought in to his side.
The signal came to his thoughts and the drow ranger rushed through the portable hole, stepping behind the bar and leaping atop it, then from it to the floor to the left.
A single spring from Guen had her past him before he landed, the panther barreling into the targeted drow group, sending the chairs, the table, and the Lolthians flying all about.
Drizzt flashed by the closest two as they scrambled to get up.
Too slow!
The two fell side by side facedown on the floor as the ranger rushed on.
Next was a wizard, fingers moving, arcs of lightning growing fast, but not fast enough to deter the charging Drizzt, who sent the man falling backward, crying in pain and clutching his suddenly fingerless hands to his chest.
Off to the side, an enemy priestess stood near the wall, filling the air around her with flying guardians of pure demonic magic.
The sight of her distracted Drizzt enough to slow his movement to deflect and dodge a flying javelin coming in from the side wall of the tavern. He did get the block, partially, but the tip of the missile gashed him painfully in the back of his shoulder and along his shoulder blade.
No matter, he had to get to the priestess, who was into her spellcasting yet again.
But then came a conjured floating spiritual warhammer, swinging mightily at his head . . .
Jarlaxle stood shoulder to shoulder with tavern keeper Azleah along the right-hand wall of the tavern, the mercenary leader using his enchanted bracer to summon one dagger after another into his hand with every fluid motion, forward to the throw and back to receive the next missile. The stream ran out at a dozen enemies who had come forth after posing as simple patrons in the establishment, as Azleah had fortunately noted and quietly passed along when Jarlaxle was still crouching behind the bar with Kimmuriel.
He knew he couldn’t cut them all down, but he was doing a fine job of holding them back with the barrage while his operatives joined the fight.
The tavern door burst in, and Jarlaxle initially grinned, but no, it wasn’t his reinforcements, but a demon, a large one, and with a lot of smaller fiends close behind.
“Time to empty some wands,” said the woman standing beside him, who knew him all too well.
Jarlaxle sighed and reached under his cloak.
Guenhwyvar opened the path, leaping between Drizzt and the weapon, taking the hit of the spiritual warhammer and issuing a grunting growl in response.
Into the cloud of demonic guardians Drizzt went, accepting their bites and stinging horns and slapping limbs, taking only minor damage as he drove through to get to the priestess.
She went first, however, throwing forth her hand and uttering a series of sharp incantations, and when that wave of magic hit Drizzt, he felt as if he had walked into a diabolical disease of the lower planes. Pain washed through him, slowing him, nearly buckling his knees.
His pride had cost him, he knew. He had underestimated this priestess, who, he now realized, had to be a noble of some house, a high priestess of Lolth, for this spell was no minor dweomer!
By the time he reached her, he was coughing up phlegm and blood, and his flurry of attacks all seemed off, as if some divine, or in this case demonic, hand was slapping at his scimitars to lessen their precision.
He did score one minor hit, catching the priestess along her right side as she lifted a snake-headed scourge to respond.
Then he was backing up, trying to rebalance, as those four living serpents atop the scourge hissed and struck, two lashing out with hooked fangs, the other two spitting venom at Drizzt’s face.
He dodged deftly if slowly, his forearm scraped by the viper, the venom immediately burning like acid. Worse, a wash of spittle caught him as he fast turned his face. It seeped into his right eye, blurring, burning, blinding. He stumbled back another step to regroup, noting the priestess’s free hand waggling, the wound on her ribs healing almost fully.
Powerful was the only thought that crossed Drizzt’s mind in that moment.
These were not goblinkin, he reminded himself, were not peasants or minor fighters. These were drow of Menzoberranzan, seasoned in battle, trained from birth, powerful in their devotion to the Demon Queen of Spiders, and more than ready for battle.
Behind him, he heard Guen roar out in pain and rage. A quick glance showed him that his companion was battling a trio of drow warriors, dancing about, each with a pair of gleaming longswords.
The summoned guardians continued to nip at him.
He could feel the disease of the priestess’s mighty spell continuing to churn at his insides.
She raised her scourge and strode forward to strike again.
Jarlaxle hadn’t wanted to use one of his best tricks so early in his time here in the city, but this was no minor foe! The hulking glabrezu pointed the upper of its two sets of arms his way, menacingly clacking the giant claws at the ends of those limbs.
Those powerful and murderous limbs were still together before the huge fiend’s chest when Jarlaxle fired off his wand, a glob of goo flying fast to strike the demon right in those claws, then rolling back and spreading out over the monster. The goo dried as it spread, the viscous material hardening to restrain the demon and lock it in place.
Jarlaxle tipped his cap at the caught beast and drew out a second wand.
Before he could aim it, though, a beam of brilliant light shot down from the ceiling over the glabrezu, brighter than a light spell, as if some caster had stolen a ray of sunshine and thrown it down.
The demon howled in pain at the radiance of the beam, but it only lasted a few eyeblinks before winking away—and taking Jarlaxle’s entrapping magical goo with it.
And taking, too, any thoughts that the beam of daylight had come from a Bregan D’aerthe ally.
Jarlaxle was rarely surprised, but his jaw hung slack. They knew! How did they know?
“They expected—” he started to say as he turned toward Azleah, and bit off his sentence at his second surprise, at the woman’s long and tapering dagger stabbing in at his throat.
Drizzt fell into the lessons of Grandmaster Kane and used his mind to overrule the cries of his body, to block them out entirely and focus only on the present, the exact present, and what he must do to best guide the way forward.
He straightened against the priestess, but then lurched as if in pain, bending to the right.
The priestess struck, her arm coming forward, her four vipers coiling.
And Drizzt came out suddenly, with shocking speed, his left hand rising before him, holding Icingdeath horizontally to come up under the serpents, his right arm swinging out wide to the right, then up and around.
The vipers retracted behind the rising Icingdeath, coiling and striking as the blade went harmlessly up and out to the left.
But again, with quickness neither the vipers nor the scourge-holder could anticipate, Twinkle came over and down atop those serpents before they could fully extend. Two remained behind that chop, but the heads of the two that had struck at Drizzt fell free to the floor.
Drizzt came on, or started to, but a magical force sent him skidding back a few steps.
He had never seen such a spell from a priestess and wondered if she was something more—and that notion was confirmed when he noted her whispering, the words coming magically to his ears, barely audible, frustratingly indecipherable, truly terrible.
He felt those whispers stabbing into his mind, inflicting pain, and he knew that he had to flee.
But the seasoned warrior also realized that she was the one telling him that he must flee. He understood the illogical command for what it was, and he saw, too, the smug look on the priestess’s face.
Confident, so very assured, even though half of her living whip had been decapitated.
Now it was she who was underestimating her opponent, not Drizzt, and with that in mind, he turned and started to run away.
One step, two, then swinging back with a sudden pivot, he threw himself at her as she was again in the midst of spellcasting.
He stabbed left and right—and should have hit solidly twice, but did not, her protections coming up suddenly to deflect Icingdeath wholly, a second ward stealing most of the bite of Twinkle.
And meanwhile, those summoned demonic spirit guardians bit at him again, while the two remaining serpents coiled and struck out at him.
Enough of that, Drizzt demanded, with his foot and not his words. He leaned back out of reach of the vipers, tucking his right heel under his left foot and pulling his right foot right out of his low boot. Continuing the movement, he kicked his right foot up high. One serpent managed to nip him in the shin, but he didn’t care and drove through it before the priestess could enact further deflective shields.
He hit her squarely in the face, using the life energy of his ki to send a stunning wave through that foot. He knew that he had scored a crippling blow when the flapping and translucent guardian spirits all about him faded, the concentration of her spell thrown away.
On he came as the priestess fell back, stabbing Icingdeath hard into her belly, through her magical armor and any remaining wards, biting into her entrails.
Across came his right-hand blade to take her head from her neck.
But no, she uttered a word—a single curse—and was gone.
Drizzt stumbled forward. He balanced and leaped about, searching.
But no, she wasn’t invisible, nor had she blinked anywhere nearby.
She was simply gone.
He knew the spell of recall, for he had seen Catti-brie using it before, and had even gone along on the divine teleport with her on several occasions. Thus, he knew, too, that it was a dweomer only the most powerful of clerics could cast.
His opponent had been wearing the dress expected of a noble house, certainly, but she was not wearing the robes Drizzt would have thought to be of a high priestess of Lolth. How could anyone not of that rank perform the spells he had seen from this one?
The thought haunted him. He wanted to dismiss it as simply a matter of the woman not wearing the proper garb—perhaps she was trying to stay unnoticed.
But she was young, very young. Too young to have achieved such a rank?
Jarlaxle fought off his instincts to deflect as the tip of the dagger entered his flesh—he figured it would be more impressive if he just stared down at the traitorous Azleah.
Perhaps he had intimidated her, perhaps not, but either way, as Jarlaxle had known, the woman’s thrust stopped right there, before the blade could dig in and do any serious damage.
He saw the abject terror on Azleah’s face, felt a bit of a sting from her shaking dagger hand, and shook his head in both sympathy and disgust as that shaking hand retracted just a bit, the blade slowly turning about.
Jarlaxle spun back and put another glob of goo into the face of the glabrezu, which was very near to him now. Then, growling in frustration at having to use so many of his tricks, he sent yet another charge from his wand, this one at the hulking demon’s feet, locking it in place to the floor.
The mercenary leader winced when he heard the struggling yelp of pain from behind.
He knew that Kimmuriel was seeing through Azleah’s eyes—and that Kimmuriel would bring that needlepoint dagger right into one of those eyes. She would see it coming—and by her own hand!—and could not dodge or turn or even blink.
Jarlaxle reached for the feather in his cap, thinking to bring in the giant diatryma bird, but stopped when Bregan D’aerthe associates dropped down from the room above to land lightly on either side of him.
“It took you long enough,” Jarlaxle remarked.
“You gave all three of the potions of etherealness to D’fava,” the woman on his right said as the man on his left leaped forward to stab at the trapped glabrezu. “He used one on himself first, then, as he had become gaseous, had no way to pass the other two to us!”
“We had to cut our way through the ceiling,” the man said, dodging an awkwardly angled claw, then moving behind that lumbering swing from the off-balance demon and driving his fine sword into the side of the glabrezu’s chest. “And there’s a bigger fight outside.”
Jarlaxle began a stream of daggers again, throwing them past his two minions and their diabolical foe to strike at the lesser demons the glabrezu had brought with it. He noted movement to his left and saw Drizzt dart past, somersaulting into the battle with a rage that surprised him.
Until Guenhwyvar came loping behind the ranger, her shiny black coat torn in many places by drow blades.
Jarlaxle held his shots for a moment to look far over to the left, where Drizzt and Guen had been fighting.
Three drow lay dead across the floor and tables.
He glanced back at Drizzt, then raging through the ranks of lesser demons. He thought of the earlier fight where Drizzt had insisted on mercy. Not now, though, not even with the three across the room.
Jarlaxle wasn’t sure how he felt about that. His army was certainly bolstered by the deadly Drizzt. But, to his surprise, his sensibilities were stung.
The glabrezu went down in the green goo, hacked by Jarlaxle’s associates, who moved fast to support Drizzt in clearing the tavern.
Outside the Oozing Myconid came the screams of fury and pain, a larger battle joined in full. But a more lopsided contest than in here, as Bregan D’aerthe swept down from the rooftops and rushed in from the alleyways in greater numbers than the enemy forces had anticipated, clearly.
It was over quickly, indeed almost ended before Jarlaxle even made his way out the tavern door.
“Guenhwyvar will be gone for a bit,” Drizzt told him, dismissing the panther to her Astral home to recuperate.
“Take control out here and set a perimeter,” Jarlaxle told him. “If any more enemies come to the Braeryn, we will meet them and turn them back.”
Drizzt nodded and moved off.
With a signal of approval to Dab’nay, who was directing the priestesses tending the Bregan D’aerthe wounded, and triaging, too, the wounded enemies, Jarlaxle went back into the tavern.
To his surprise, he found that Azleah was still alive, though now with only one eye.
Kimmuriel crouched beside her.
“I expected to find that dagger sticking out the back of her head,” Jarlaxle said.
“She didn’t want to betray us,” the psionicist told him. “I felt her regret when I possessed her.”
“Whether she wanted to do it or not, she did it, or tried to,” Jarlaxle replied and reached up to rub the blood on the collar of his fine shirt. “If you hadn’t stopped her, I’d be dead, and would there be regrets then, I wonder?”
“Yes,” Kimmuriel answered without hesitation.
That surprised Jarlaxle again, and he looked down to the woman to demand an explanation. She was just sitting there shaking and rocking and holding her hand over her torn eye.
“She did it for Braelin,” Kimmuriel explained.
Jarlaxle snapped his stare up at his friend, trying to hide his confusion. Had Braelyn been in on a plot to kill him?
“They have him,” Kimmuriel explained.
“Zhindia has him?”
Kimmuriel nodded. “They will make a drider of him, publicly, so they promised Azleah, unless she killed one of us, you or I.”
“Pity for her that she went for the more difficult target, then,” Jarlaxle quipped.
“Only because you have me watching out for you, and I have only you watching out for me,” Kimmuriel replied.
“Now I’ve failed and Braelin is forever lost to me,” the distraught and wounded Azleah said, her voice trembling with the pain—even though a priestess had obviously done some healing to her.
“No, you fool,” Jarlaxle countered. He turned to stare at the tavern’s side wall, the one eye showing outside his eye patch becoming so intense suddenly that it almost seemed as if he was staring across the city and into House Melarn. “Because you failed, Braelin has a chance.”