Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(105)

“For the glory of the city of Xorlarrin,” Jearth offered, and Saribel glanced back and nodded.

Jearth remained behind just long enough to take a deep breath, and once again he found himself quietly admiring Ravel. For this division of the sisters had been Ravel’s scheme, of course, all planned beforehand with both Tiago and Jearth.

It wasn’t always possible to plot steps ahead of drow females, but it was never very hard to get them to stab each other in the back.

Jearth drew his weapons and started away, now paying attention to these most interesting chambers and corridors around him. This had been the residence region of ancient Gauntlgrym, so who knew what treasures they might find?

It wasn’t often that Berellip Xorlarrin was left speechless, and Tiago Baenre was quite proud of himself for accomplishing that feat.

“There is more to Saribel than you assumed,” he said lightheartedly, to convey that this Xorlarrin intrigue was quite amusing to him. He had just assured her that her sister would not stand beside her against Ravel in the probable duel with Brack’thal, executing the second part of Ravel’s clever plan. Jearth divided the sisters and Tiago happily relayed that truth to the one separated.

“You presume that I will let Ravel and his spellspinners kill my brother?” she said. “You believe I have no choice or say in the matter?”

“I think the consequences give you pause. I think you’re quite intelligent.”

Berellip swept past him, out of the room and down the corridor to the forge area, which was glowing brightly in the distance. When they entered, they found that the anticipated fight might be farther along than they had expected, for Brack’thal stood in the center of the room, a gigantic fire elemental at his side, and several other smaller ones dancing in a circle around him.

Across the way, leaning easily on the cooling pool of an unfired forge, Ravel stood with his arms crossed over his thin chest, an amused expression clear on his face.

“Don’t you feel it, Secondboy?” Brack’thal called with obvious delight. “Of course you do, but you don’t want to admit it. You feel it and you fear it!”

None of the craftsmen, not goblin, bugbear, nor drow, were working, all eyes focused on these two principals in a conflict long-expected.

Berellip glanced around the room, and noted that more than a few of the blacksmiths weren’t craftsmen at all, but were Ravel’s spellspinners, strategically placed. Her young brother had planned well. He had seen this coming—likely had incited it—in a time and place of his own choosing.

But perhaps he had erred, it occurred to her as she noted another elemental burning a line out of a forge and rushing to Brack’thal’s side, for there was no denying that the older Xorlarrin son was finding impressive amounts of power and control. Just then, as if sensing her attention, Brack’thal turned to regard her and Tiago. “He feels it!” Brack’thal explained. “And he knows what it is. Don’t you, spellspinner?” he shouted, turning sharply back on Ravel.

“I feel that you have left your better judgment behind,” Ravel answered flippantly.

“My powers grow ascendant once more!” Brack’thal said. “Where will you be then, spellspinner?” He waved his arms and looked all around, focusing on Ravel’s spies. “Where will all of you be in that event?”

“Alive, at least,” Ravel replied, a clear threat.

Which was more than Brack’thal would be able to say, Berellip knew, for despite his fiery servants, she expected that Ravel and the others would make short work of him. She wondered how to proceed, for it didn’t seem like Brack’thal would listen to any reasoning, and she hated the thought of his demise at that time, both because of the implications to Ravel’s standing and because, on a practical level, Brack’thal’s work with the elementals, however the fool was managing it, was proving quite valuable here at the all-important forge.

Tiago Baenre stepped past her.

“Would that not be a wondrous thing?” he said loudly, commanding attention.

“Ah, Ravel’s rothé makes his appearance,” Brack’thal shouted back.

Tiago laughed it off, resisting the urge to fling his sword into the mage’s forehead—and it would not have been a difficult throw. He walked steadily toward Brack’thal. As he neared, so that only Brack’thal could hear, he whispered, “You cannot win.”

Brack’thal puffed his chest out defiantly.

“Berellip stands with Ravel,” Tiago said, and the mage deflated almost instantly. He looked past Tiago to Berellip, who, understanding what Tiago had just related, nodded solemnly to confirm it.

Brack’thal’s eye twitched, and he licked his lips as he turned his gaze from Berellip to Tiago and then to Ravel, who was slowly approaching, a smile slowly widening. Ravel nodded left and nodded right, and from the shadows came the spellspinners, staves and wands in hand, fingers rolling eagerly around them.

“Not one of those you thought your ally will stand with you against Berellip,” Tiago quietly informed Brack’thal.

The mage spun on Berellip. “Sister!” he implored her.

“Dismiss your pets back to the forges,” she ordered. “We have much work to do.”

“Sister!”

“It is ended!” Berellip roared at him, and she came forward forcefully, even throwing a spell before her, one that smote a minor elemental with a burst of water, and the creature dissipated into a blast of fog with an angry hiss.