Charon's Claw - Page 44/72

Which would leave Entreri even more vulnerable to him, he realized. Another arrow skipped through the branches, narrowly missing Drizzt’s face, and stealing all thoughts of the battle below. He wheeled around to spot the archer, who was diving behind a fallen log, and drew back, but out of the corner of his eye, Drizzt noted the pesky sorcerer, casting yet another spell. Before he could train his bow on the shade, a pea of flame left the mage’s hand, soaring his way.

Drizzt knew all too well what that foretold.

He let fly the arrow, missing badly, for he was already moving, scrambling up from his perch, as he let go of the bowstring. In truth, he let fly the arrow as much to clear it from the bow as anything else.

He rushed out along the branch, nimbly balancing as he flipped the magical quiver and then the bow over his shoulders, and by the time he got out on the limb, the thinner wood beginning to bend under his weight, he had his scimitars in hand.

The tree exploded behind him, the mage’s fireball turning twilight into noontime. It was not a concussive blast, though Drizzt wished it had been, for the air around him instantly began to simmer and sting with licks of flame. Now he used the elasticity of the branch, springing up and away with abandon.

Only his magical anklets had saved him from grievous wounds from the intensity of the blast—no novice, this mage! Without the magic speeding his steps, that fireball would have caught him fully, to no good end.

Though he had escaped the bulk of that blast, he found himself more than twenty feet in the air, flying free and clear of the branches, with nothing to grasp and only the hard ground to cushion his fall.

He took some comfort, or enjoyment, in the look of horror upon the mage’s face as he descended from on high. He noted the terrain, and took heart that it was mostly clear before him.

The drow turned himself over in mid-air, landing in a forward roll, coming up with a desperate swing as he passed by the mage before going into another forward roll, and a third to absorb the momentum. He crashed through some brush, painfully, but managed to come up to his feet relatively unscathed.

The same could not be said of the mage, who spun around in circles with blood spurting from the gash Drizzt’s scimitar had sliced across his throat.

Drizzt tried to orient himself, to figure out where his companions might be. An image of his blades diving in at Entreri’s back flashed in his mind, and brought forth a surprising amount of anger—rage he quickly focused on the situation at hand. He charged off at full speed, moving from cover to cover, from tree to brush to boulder, then even up into the lower branches of another tree. Shouts rang up all around him as the enemy tried to get a bead on him, tried to coordinate against him.

He reversed his course, then cut out again, springing from the tree branch to a clearing behind some underbrush, then speeding through at full speed to surprise a pair of Shadovar who were still pointing at the tree he had climbed, yelling out directions.

They almost got their weapons up to block.

Drizzt ran on, leaving the two writhing on the ground. Anger grew with his speed, fueled by images of Entreri and Dahlia sharing that intimate moment.

He heard a cry from in front and knew he had been spotted, knew that those ahead would put up a better defense—against his scimitars, at least.

So he sheathed the blades as he sprinted and drew out his bow, and burst into sight of the trio. One, two, three went his arrows, blowing one shade away, lifting him into the air, cutting a second down with a glancing blow that still opened her skin from shoulder to shoulder, and sending the third diving away in panic.

Drizzt rushed through, crossing their position and disappearing into the brush so quickly that the unwounded shade wasn’t even sure where he had gone.

“We cannot catch him,” the Netheril commoner admitted to Lord Alegni when he rejoined the tiefling at the magical gate. “He moves like a ghost—into the trees as quickly as we run along the ground.”

“You have sorcerers,” Alegni replied, and he looked past the soldier to a few other shades now approaching, more than one of them glancing back over his shoulder with clear alarm.

“Two are dead, slain by the drow!” the shade replied, and as his voice rose, he could barely suppress his terror.

“What of the other two?” Alegni asked—asked all of them as the others came scurrying up. “Tell me that you fools have killed Dahlia or Barrabus!”

It was all bluster, for Herzgo Alegni didn’t believe any such thing, nor did he desire any such thing. Not here, in this time or place or manner. The tiefling found himself a bit surprised by his feelings concerning this obvious abject failure. The lords of Netheril, after all, were never easy or merciful regarding failure.

“Nay, my lord,” the commoner admitted. “I fear they have eluded us.”

“The sword,” Alegni asked. “Did Barrabus wield my sword?”

The commoner considered that for a moment. “The drow carried it, but on his back. He fought with smaller blades.”

Alegni didn’t quite know what to make of that. Why had the trio fled into the wilds? He looked to the northeast, toward a broken mountain, the same one that had blown up and buried the old city of Neverwinter a decade earlier. “Where are you going?” he quietly asked the empty air.

“My lord?” the commoner asked.

Alegni waved him to the portal. There was no use in trying to turn the Shadovar around for another futile fight. They had failed.

But this wasn’t his failure. He had argued loudly against this course of action, begging Draygo Quick and some others that they would do well to wait until he had recovered enough to personally see to this. He had argued, more subtly, that he would need many times this number, and in a place more of his choosing.

He would likely be admonished for this failure, certainly, but not in any way that would damage his designs.

He would still be the one tasked with retrieving the sword, and he felt confident that he could convince Draygo Quick to let him do it his own way.

As these ragged and defeated shades returned to the magical portal emptyhanded, other than their dead comrades they couldn’t simply leave behind, Draygo Quick would find himself enmeshed in what had been wholly perceived as Herzgo Alegni’s failure.

Yes, the tiefling wasn’t upset as the rest of the defeated band returned to him, and he had to work hard to keep any measure of sarcasm or enjoyment out of his voice when he ordered them to return through the gate.

But he was worried, quite so, when he thought of that broken mountain and the beast he knew lurked beneath its battered slopes. He felt a silent call on an unseen breeze, as if Claw was reaching out to him, pleading with him. He didn’t know if that was actually the case, or if it was simply his imagination, but he suspected the former.

Claw was calling to him, because Claw was afraid.

With a last look to the north, the forest where Dahlia, Barrabus, and the drow had once again escaped, Herzgo Alegni, too, returned to the Shadowfell.

Taulmaril in hand, Drizzt rushed around a thick briar patch, cutting back between two wide-spreading elms. He knew that the shade fled before him, he could hear the panting, could smell the woman’s desperation. Confident that she would not turn back in ambush, Drizzt sprinted on almost recklessly, his focus purely on covering ground.

He crossed through a pair of large, half-buried boulders, like stone sentinels framing the entrance to a great building, that structure being a grassy ridge line. A great leap brought him atop that ridge, where he at last spotted his quarry.

He leveled the Heartseeker, his arms turning slowly to just lead her movement as she scrambled along, running and falling and crawling on all fours until she could regain her footing. She moved up the side of a hill and when Drizzt let his gaze move out to anticipate her course, he understood her route, for there sat a shimmering black sphere, lined in magical purple—a gate, he knew, and he could guess easily enough where it would lead.

Drizzt lowered Taulmaril, forgetting about the shade woman and staring at that portal.

Guenhwyvar had traveled through such a gate, and had then been lost to him. Might he go through? And if he did, would that re-establish the connection between the panther and the figurine?

Could he do it? Enemies would await him, in droves, likely. But might he rush through, summon Guen, and return at once with her at his side?

He was startled from his contemplations as the shade woman rushed into view, then was gone, diving through the shadow gate.

It was worth a chance, Drizzt decided, and he dropped a hand reflexively to the pouch that held the figurine and sprinted off for the hill. He had barely gone ten strides, though, when he pulled up, for he had lost sight of the gate. He stood there and glanced all around, wondering if the angle had changed.

But no, he recognized the tree beneath which the shadow gate had been.

He ran to the side to change his viewpoint, but there was nothing to be seen. He was too late—the gate had closed.

With a resigned groan, Drizzt closed his eyes and steadied himself, then started back the way he had come, glancing over his shoulder every few steps. His resolve to go through such a gate if one could be found again only grew as he continued on his way.

If Guenhwyvar couldn’t come to him, he would go to her. Would she do any less for him if the situation was reversed?

The words of Arunika rang in his ear, though. The red-haired clairvoyant had thought Guenhwyvar dead.

Drizzt glanced back one last time, staring up to where he had seen the magical gate. If he went through and there remained no connection to Guenhwyvar, then what?

Perhaps he wouldn’t go through.

Drizzt stopped and paused at that errant thought, and wound up laughing at himself. He had played such a fool’s game once before, when he was out in the wilds around Mithral Hall, not daring to return to the dwarf homeland because he was nearly certain that his friends had been killed in the collapse of a tower.

He would not make such a mistake ever again.

He picked up his pace, returning back near the tree where he had been perched. Smoke still poured from several spots along its blackened trunk, and orange embers glowed in more than one recess.

He heard voices and moved slowly through the fake encampment, and silently through the first bit of brush.

He recognized Entreri’s voice, speaking quietly, and he moved up beside a tree and peered around.

There stood the assassin, his back to Drizzt, Dahlia beyond him and to the side.

Drizzt clutched Taulmaril, his other hand going to an arrow in the magical quiver.

An easy shot, and one he could explain. All he need do was draw out that arrow and aim true. One shot, and Artemis Entreri would be no more, and the world would be a better place, and Dahlia . . .

Drizzt shook it all away, surprised by how his mind had wandered—yet again. If he meant to kill Entreri, then would it not be more honorable to challenge the man openly and be done with it?

He imagined that—and it was not an unpleasant thought—but as the battle played out in his mind’s eye, Dahlia intervened . . . on behalf of Entreri.

Drizzt grabbed an arrow and nearly drew it.

“Drizzt!” Dahlia called, noting him.

Artemis Entreri turned around and motioned to him, and the assassin and Dahlia walked over.