He had done those exercises for almost all of his life, learned while training with his father Zaknafein in the Underdark city of Menzoberranzan, then in the drow academy of Melee-Magthere. They had followed him along the entirety of his life’s journey. The movements were a part of him, a measure of his discipline, a sharpening of his skills, an affirmation of his purpose.
So attuned was Drizzt to his practice that he hadn’t even noticed the subtle internal shifts he’d undergone when executing the routines. The exercises were mostly about muscle memory and balance, of course, and in the routine, blocks and turns, stabs and spins were designed to counter the attacks of imaginary opponents.
But in the last several years, those imagined opponents had become far more vivid to Drizzt. He didn’t even remember that when he’d first begun those routines, and for all his life to the time of the Spellplague, he’d visualized his opponents only as weapons. He would turn and lift Twinkle vertically to block an imagined sword, and whip Icingdeath across down low the other way to deflect a thrusting spear.
Since that dark time, though, and particularly since he, Bruenor, Jessa, Pwent, and Nanfoodle had taken to the road, his imagined opponents became much more than simple weapons. Drizzt saw the face of an orc or the grin of an ogre, or the eyes of a human, drow, elf, dwarf, or halfling—it didn’t matter! As long as some bandit was there, or some monster, ready to scream in pain as Twinkle drove hard for its heart, or gurgle in its own blood as Icingdeath swept across its throat.…
Furiously, the drow attacked his demons. He sprinted ahead and leaped, spinning over and coming back to his feet in such a tilt as to propel him farther ahead with sudden fury, legs speeded by magical anklets, scimitars reaching ahead to skewer. Another dart, another leaping somersault, landing unbalanced to the right then throwing himself that way with a devastating spin, a whirlwind of slashing blades.
Ahead again, up and over, and out to the left, whirling fury, abruptly halted in a sudden and brutal reverse-grip, behind-the-back stab.
Drizzt could feel the added weight on his blade as it impaled a pursuing orc. He could imagine the warmth of blood spilling down on his hand.
So deeply was he into the moment, the fantasy, that he actually turned, thinking to wipe the blood from Icingdeath on the fallen opponent’s jerkin.
He stared at Icingdeath, clean and shining, and noted the sweat glistening on his forearm. He looked back toward the oak, scores and scores of running strides away.
Somewhere deep inside, Drizzt Do’Urden knew he used the daily regimen—and actual battles when he could find them—to deny the truth of his loss and pain. He hid in his fighting, and forgot the pain only in those moments of brutal battle, real or imagined. But he did well to keep it inside, to keep it hidden from his conscious thoughts, to bury it under the other truth, after all, that he needed to practice.
And he did well to pretend that all of the many fights he had found on the road those last decades had been unavoidable, after all.
“Two Ashmadai tieflings taken in a matter of a few heartbeats,” Herzgo Alegni congratulated Barrabus that night on the outskirts of Neverwinter, at the edge of the forest with the city in clear sight.
“They were surprised, and focused on you,” Barrabus replied. “They had no idea I was there.”
“Can you not simply accept the compliment?” Herzgo scolded with a little laugh.
From you? Barrabus thought but didn’t say, particularly in the dismissive and sarcastic manner in which it no doubt would have come forth. Still, his sour expression spoke volumes.
“Oh, be not so surprised,” Alegni scolded. “If I saw no value in your skills, do you think I would keep you alive?”
Barrabus didn’t bother to answer, other than to smirk and glance at Alegni’s hip and the red-bladed sword.
“Of course, you believe I would do so simply to torment you,” Alegni reasoned. “No, my small friend. While I’ll not deny that I do take great pleasure in your frustration, it alone would not be worth the trouble. You’re alive because you are of value. The Herzgo Alegni Bridge in Neverwinter is a testament to that, as is your work here in the forest—a complete and competent minion. And such competence is hard to find these dark days, and harder to control when it is found.” He smiled as he said that and gripped the sword hilt as he added, “Though, fortunately, such is not the case with you.”
“It pleasures me greatly to be of such use,” Barrabus said with unrelenting sarcasm.
“Indeed, you serve as diplomat with Hugo Babris, as warrior against the Ashmadai, as assassin against the agents of our enemies, and as spy when called upon.”
Barrabus put his hands on his hips and waited, knowing then that some new mission was about to be presented.
“The arrival of these Ashmadai fanatics is not coincidence, I am sure,” Alegni said on cue. “There is word of Thayan agents in the North, likely in Luskan.”
Barrabus winced at the mention of the City of Sails, having no desire to go anywhere near it.
“I wish to know who they are, why they’ve come, and what further trouble they will attempt against our work here,” Alegni finished.
“Luskan …” the assassin said, as if repeating the name might remind Alegni that sending Barrabus the Gray to Luskan might not be such a good idea.
“You are a master of stealth, are you not?”
“And Luskan is thick with those who mock the supposed stealth of humans, even Shadovar. Is it not?”
“Few drow have been seen in the city of late.”
“Few?” Barrabus echoed, as if that fact should hardly matter.
“I’m willing to risk it.”
“How big of you.”
“Indeed. I am willing to risk the loss of one of my … of you,” the tiefling remarked. “It would be a pity, but my options are few, for you are one of the few of my band who can still pass for human. I trust you will take care to garner little notice, and that there are few enough dark elves in the City of Sails to trouble you.”
“You have secured my passage?”
“Not by sea. You will accompany a caravan to Port Llast. Begin your investigation there. Then, when you have learned what you may, you’re on your own to Luskan.”
“That will take longer.”
“The road, too, is worth study.”
“And the road will close behind me, perhaps not to open again until next spring.”
Herzgo Alegni laughed at that. “I know Barrabus the Gray better than to think a bit of snow could stop his travels. Your time in Port Llast will be short, I’m sure. There are few people there of interest to us, so you’ll be in Luskan before the autumn equinox. Be quick about your duties and return to me before the snows block the passes.”
“I haven’t been in Luskan in … forty years,” Barrabus protested. “I have no contacts there, no network.”
“Most of the city has remained intact since the fall of the Hosttower. Five High Captains rule from their various—”
“And they are ruled by the mercenary dark elves,” Barrabus finished. “And if the talk is of fewer of them seen in the city now, you can bet those accounts were sent forth by the dark elves themselves, so that people like you, and the lords of Waterdeep, can nod and turn their eyes elsewhere.”
“Well, you will find out the truth for me, then.”
“If the reports you claim are not true, I won’t likely be coming back. Do not underestimate the memory of a dark elf.”
“Why, dear Barrabus, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you scared before.”
Barrabus straightened at that and glowered at the tiefling.
“Before winter,” Herzgo Alegni told him. He glanced toward Neverwinter and motioned with his chin. “The caravan leaves in the morning.”
His thoughts spinning in a hundred different directions, and none of them leading to a pleasant conclusion, Barrabus the Gray walked toward the city. He’d made a point of staying far afield of Luskan for years—one did not double-cross a character like Jarlaxle Baenre without consequences, after all.
He thought back to that fight in Memnon those decades before, when agents of Bregan D’aerthe had paraded his lover before him, taunting him and warning him of the consequences should he reject their offer to rejoin with them. He saw again the three dead drow, but he dismissed the image, focusing instead on the few tendays he had subsequently known with his lover.
Those had been among the best days of his life, but alas, she had run off, or disappeared—had the dark elves taken her again? Had they killed her as payback for his violence?
Or was it that infernal sword? He almost glanced back at Herzgo Alegni as that unsettling thought bubbled up. Very soon after his loss, the Shadovar had come into his life, had taken his freedom.
Had taken everything.
That last thought brought a self-deprecating smile to the lips of Barrabus the Gray. “Had taken everything?” he whispered aloud. “And what was there to take?”
By the time he reached Neverwinter’s gate, Barrabus had let all those memories fly away. He had to look ahead, his focus tight and complete. If any drow remained in Luskan, the slightest error would likely cost him his life.
Chapter 7 - Gauntlgrym
JARLAXLE KEPT HIMSELF IN THE REAR OF THE GROUP OF FIVE. THE TUNNELS underneath Luskan were long natural corridors that reached out to the southeast and the Crags. Korvin Dor’crae led the group and served as its scout, often moving off ahead of the others. Next came Athrogate, eager to see the place Dahlia had described, and always ready to serve as point-dwarf of any patrol—he always wanted to be the first into any fight. Dahlia and Valindra formed the third rank. The elf walked with a measure of calm and patience Jarlaxle would have expected in a much older and more seasoned warrior, and Valindra glided along as if in a daze, with hardly the presence—of mind or body—one would expect of a creature as powerful as a lich.
Not that Jarlaxle was complaining. Valindra Shadowmantle had been no minor spellcaster in life, commanding an entire wing of the powerful Hosttower of the Arcane. Should she ever regain her acuity and confidence, she would only prove more formidable in undeath—and thinking straight, honestly reflecting on the events of the last days of her living existence, she wouldn’t likely be too pleased with the meddling drow.
They moved easily for more than a day, and though they heard the shuffling and scratching of ghouls and other lesser undead echo all around them, they never actually encountered any. Jarlaxle found that confusing. After all, ghouls feared nothing, their hunger for living flesh insatiable, and their ability to smell and track living flesh quite keen. Why didn’t they approach? But soon he came to recognize the true nature of one of his companions.
“We been lucky,” Athrogate said to him during a break the next day. “Lots o’ side tunnels, and full o’ ghouls and such.”
“No luck,” Jarlaxle replied. He nodded ahead, drawing Athrogate’s attention to Dahlia and Dor’crae, who were discussing their next move. The tunnel forked, and Dor’crae reported that each of those tunnels split again, not much far away. Both Dahlia and Dor’crae kept pointing to the ceiling and tunnel walls, where the glistening tendrils reflected a wet, shiny green in the torchlight.