“And what are we going to do about this?”
The leading manner of Sylora’s question left no doubt in Dahlia’s mind as to the Thayan woman’s intentions.
“When the primordial awakens once again, its devastation will solidify our work, will create enough carnage to complete the Dread Ring, and that, in turn, will assure our victory over the Netherese. I’ll not have that prevented, or even delayed.”
“You wish me to go to Luskan to confront Jarlaxle and Athrogate?”
“Do you need to ask?”
“Do not underestimate those two,” Dahlia warned. “They are formidable on their own, and Jarlaxle is not without powerful friends.”
“Take a dozen Ashmadai—a score if you think it necessary,” Sylora replied. “And Dor’crae.”
“The lich would help.”
“Valindra stays with me. She has almost fully regained her wits, but her power has not yet returned. She is not expendable.”
That last line hit Dahlia like a bolt of lightning. “But I am?”
Sylora laughed at her and turned her attention back to the dwarf ghost in the lava rock. Its face had appeared, a desperate grimace, and quite pleasing to the Thayan.
“And so is Dor’crae?” Dahlia pressed, only because she spotted the vampire not so far away and knew he’d heard the last exchange.
“Dor’crae is nimble enough to escape, should that be necessary,” Sylora answered without missing a beat.
She always seemed one step ahead of Dahlia. The elf knew it was her own weakness, her own inability to recover from the humiliation of her failure at Gauntlgrym, that put her behind. Ever since she’d returned from that place, Dahlia had walked a less steady path. Where once she’d been aggressive, she had become … reactive. And creatures like Sylora preyed on that indecisiveness.
“Find them and learn if they’re returning to Gauntlgrym,” Sylora ordered.
“I doubt they’re even in Luskan. It’s been a decade—”
“Learn!” Sylora snapped at her. “If they are there, if they are returning to Gauntlgrym, then stop them. If not, then learn if any others intend to take up the call of the dwarf ghosts. I should not have to explain this to you.”
“You don’t,” Dahlia replied, quietly but steadily. “I understand what must be done.”
“Have you yet met this champion of Shade Enclave who haunts Neverwinter Wood?”
“I have. He’s human, but with something of the shade about him.”
“And you fought him?”
Dahlia nodded, and an impatient Sylora motioned for her to elaborate.
“He ran away,” Dahlia lied. “He’s better at hiding than he is at fighting, though he’s fine with the blade as well. I suspect his kills have come by surprise, mostly.”
Sylora seemed a bit confused at that moment, glancing back over her shoulder into Neverwinter Wood.
“I’ll not likely find him again anytime soon,” Dahlia said. She didn’t want Sylora to reconsider her priorities, rather fancying the opportunity to be gone from that creature’s side for some time at least, and also seeking no second encounter with the Gray.
“Magic will flush him, then,” Sylora said, and Dahlia did well to suppress her sigh of relief.
“To Luskan with you, in all haste,” the Thayan sorceress went on. “Find your old companions and ensure that neither they nor anyone else slows the fury of our fiery pet.”
Dahlia nodded and turned away.
“Do not fail me in this,” Sylora said after her, her tone making clear the dire consequences of failure.
Guenhwyvar’s ears flattened and a low growl escaped the panther. She went into a crouch, her hind paws tamping down as if she anticipated springing away.
Drizzt nodded when he noted the pose, a confirmation of the same sensation that had just washed over him, like an otherworldly chill that had the hair on his neck and arms standing up. He sensed that something was about, and that perhaps it was from the Shadowfell or at least Shade Enclave, but that was all he could guess.
He moved slowly, not wanting to provoke an attack from some being or force he couldn’t see. Hands on his scimitar hilts, he circled behind Guenhwyvar, and holding all confidence that she would intercept any attack from the front or sides, the drow focused his attention the other way.
He felt more at ease then, his senses telling him that whatever had passed nearby had moved off. He started to relax, just a bit.
Bruenor’s scream abruptly ended that respite.
Drizzt sprinted to the shallow cave serving as their encampment, Guenhwyvar close behind. By the time the drow reached the entrance, his scimitars were in hand, and he came up fast, ready to rush in and fight beside his friend.
But Bruenor wasn’t fighting. Far from it. He had his back up against the rear wall of the cave, his open hands out before him as if in surrender. He was breathing shallowly, gasping almost, and his face was locked somewhere between fear and.…
And what? Drizzt wondered.
“Bruenor?” he whispered, for though he too could sense something in there, as he had outside, some chill and otherworldly presence, he saw nothing that could so terrify the dwarf.
Bruenor didn’t seem to even register his presence.
“Bruenor?” he asked again, more loudly.
“They want me help,” the dwarf explained. “And I can’no’ know what help they’re wanting!”
“They?”