Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(103)

“We were able to salvage more of the original stair than we believed,” Brack’thal explained, and Ravel started to nod to his older brother, until he realized that the mage was addressing Berellip, who was standing behind him, and not him.

“Finally,” Ravel intervened, with a tone reflecting as much disgust as relief. He knew that this, like the battles with the elementals in the forge room, would serve his brother’s reputation dangerously well, and so he wanted to establish himself as the leader here, and not let Brack’thal and Berellip speak around him.

Brack’thal stared at him incredulously and started to respond—some impertinent insult, no doubt—when a brilliant flash to the side caught the attention of all, and a resounding retort shook the stones beneath their feet. Following that came a cacophony of avian shrieks of the type one might hear when trying to steal from the nest of a crow.

“The spellspinners engage the dire corbies,” Ravel said, glad that his clique was proving valuable, when indeed much of the stair’s repair had to be credited to the efforts and magic of Brack’thal.

“Now!” Brack’thal cried out, demanding the attention of all, as across the way, bugbears swung heavy axes at the ropes. Magical lights appeared far above, illuminating the ceiling of the great chamber, and showing the suspended section of stairs clearly as its supports broke free. With worker goblins clambering all around it, down it fell a few feet into the waiting arms of the highest reconstructed section. The momentum of the fall drove the stairwell perfectly into place, pushing the joining pins in solidly and deep.

With a great groan, it set there and toppled forward, where the hooked tip of its high end slammed in with a resounding thud and found a secure grasp on the ledge above. Dust and stones fell down from on high, spattering the wide floor, and for a moment, all held their collective breath, fearing that the whole of the top landing would collapse. But it did not and the stairwell held.

A great cheer arose from below, from drow and goblins and bugbears alike.

The poor goblins riding the stair bounced all around, some flipping over the side to grab on desperately or to pitch over and tumble down to their deaths.

Those splattering goblins, too, were cheered, just for the joy of the gruesome spectacle.

“And now we can travel in force to the higher complex,” Brack’thal announced with a victorious bow.

“And enemies can come down from above,” Ravel remarked.

“Not so,” said Brack’thal. “The stair is hinged. We can retract it, by half, and raise it back as needed.”

Another flash off to the side showed that the battle with the dire corbies was hardly at its end.

“How many?” Ravel asked, nodding that way and desperately wanting to change the subject before his clever brother gained too much of an upper hand.

“They are thick in the tunnels,” one of the other nearby drow answered.

Ravel paused to consider that, and behind him, Berellip warned, “If we press on too far and too quickly, we will invite them and other monsters around this complex to slide in behind us and cut our forces in two.”

The spellspinner turned an unappreciative glare on her, and her warning only prompted him to push along more boldly, out of spite if not good tactics.

“Take a sizable force—six hands,” Ravel instructed Jearth, a “hand” being a patrol of five dark elves, “and half of Yerrininae’s driders, Yerrininae included, and go up to map the higher chambers.”

“Spellspinners?” Jearth asked.

“One for every hand,” Ravel replied. He looked to Berellip and Saribel as he added, “And a priestess for every two hands—Saribel will surely enjoy the adventure.”

“As will I,” Brack’thal put in.

Ravel didn’t turn to look at him, but kept staring at his sisters, measuring their intent and curious as to whether Berellip would try to overrule him so openly.

“Since I was instrumental in repairing the staircase,” Brack’thal added.

Ravel turned on him sharply. “You will return to the forge,” he instructed.

Brack’thal’s eyes narrowed, full of hate.

“Any craftsman commoner could have overseen the repair of the stairwell,” Ravel stated. “Your singular talent lies in your strange affinity to these fire elementals, and so the forge, and the forge alone, is where you are needed.”

For a moment, all about Ravel, his sisters, Brack’thal, Tiago and even the other drow, who surely were not as attuned to the power struggles, but obviously understood that something was amiss, stood tense, most hands shifting nearer to weapons or magical implements.

“And what of the iblith?” Jearth said.

Ravel appreciated that reminder of the fodder they had brought along—for himself and mostly for those who would oppose him. For more than any dark elves, more than any dark elven power, in this chamber loomed the hulking specter of the slave multitude, so thick in rank. Ravel controlled them, as Jearth had just subtly, and wisely, reminded them all.

“Take as many goblins and orcs as you deem necessary,” the spellspinner offered.

“Bugbears would move more stealthily through the upper tunnels,” Jearth countered.

“They remain here, to secure the stairwell.”

Jearth nodded and looked to Tiago.

“I believe that I will stand beside Ravel for now,” the Baenre answered that look, and his words resonated on many levels.