Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(125)

“Do we?” Jearth replied before Berellip could chime in. “The Shadovar ranks include many wizards—not to match the power of your spellspinners, likely,” he quickly added, seeing Ravel’s scowl. “But enough to wipe out our goblinkin allies, and we’ll need them to secure the complex when the Netherese depart or are dispatched.”

“And Menzoberranzan won’t send us any more of the vermin anytime soon,” Berellip added evenly, and undeniably threateningly, Ravel understood.

Ravel rubbed his eyes, trying to sort it all out. What had brought this new force to Gauntlgrym, and why now, at this precise moment? He had been so close to his ultimate triumph! The whole of Gauntlgrym was soon to be his, a city for House Xorlarrin, blessed by House Baenre. Matron Zeerith would hold him in highest standard and no more would Berellip or Saribel or any of his other sisters dare lift a snake whip his way.

Berellip had moved away by this time, no doubt confident that Tiago Baenre would heed her command and not his, Ravel realized. And he didn’t disagree with that conclusion, for in truth, Berellip’s order to stand down was by far the wiser course. Let the Shadovar move forward. Lead them down the long tunnels of the Underdark, the haunt of the drow.

And why were they fighting against the Netherese, anyway, he wondered? Perhaps there was no love between the denizens of the Shadowfell and those of the Underdark, but neither, to Ravel’s knowledge, were there any avowed hostilities.

“We must discern why they have come, and why they are attacking us,” he said, drawing the attention of Berellip and Jearth and the others in the room, including Tiago, who hadn’t yet departed and was watching the play quite attentively. Ravel looked to Jearth and asked, “Who started the fighting in the upper halls?”

“When two such forces come together unexpectedly in a dark and dangerous place. . . .” Jearth remarked, as if that should explain everything. “And it appears that the Shadovar were already engaged against Kimmuriel’s scouting band, in any case.”

“Perhaps they’re our enemies, then,” Ravel said. “Perhaps not.”

Berellip took a step toward him.

“In either case, we’ll not share Gauntlgrym,” the Xorlarrin spellspinner decreed. “This is our complex now, and the Shadovar will accept that, or they will feel the sting of drow metal.”

“Should we assemble in the great stair cavern for your magnificent battle, then?” Berellip asked with dripping sarcasm.

Ravel knew better than to take that bait. “No, dear sister,” he said. “You were correct in your assessment. Forgive me my anger, but understand it in the context that we are so close to that which our family has wanted for millennia. It is not so easy for me to give it away.”

Berellip scowled and Ravel quickly added, “Even temporarily. But indeed, you are correct. Let us stretch their lines into corridors of our choosing. If they are foolish enough to pursue, let us fight them with proper drow tactics, on proper drow battlefields.”

Berellip stared at him for a while longer, then nodded slightly—and it seemed to Ravel as if she and he had made some progress in resolving their unspoken rivalry. He wanted to lash out at her for publicly slapping him, of course, for ever had he been a prideful male. But no, he would do no such thing. He needed her, more now than ever.

“Go to Yerrininae,” he instructed Jearth. “The fierce driders will be hungry for battle, but I’ll not lose them, even if it meant a hundred dead Shadovar for every slain drider.”

“Let the goblins engage them as we stretch back our lines?” he asked, and pointedly did not instruct, Berellip.

She slowly shook her head.

Not even the fodder.

Ravel’s face brightened suddenly with an idea. “Brack’thal, then,” he said. “Let our brother strike at the invaders with his fiery pets. Surely the Shadovar will not even be able to place the blame upon us should we come to negotiations, given the current lord of these halls.”

Berellip stared hard for many heartbeats, but eventually she nodded her agreement, and even managed a congratulatory smile for her brother.

“I will instruct him,” Tiago said, and with a nod, he jumped astride Byok and headed for the forge.

Ravel watched him go suspiciously. He alone knew of the treasure Tiago sought in the forge, the sword and shield Gol’fanin was even then creating, and he wondered if the Baenre would be patient enough to surrender the forge to the Netherese, even temporarily. He shook the thought away, though, for wasn’t Ravel’s own stake here at least as great? When he turned back to Berellip, he was glad of his sister’s expression indeed, but whatever gains in understanding he and Berellip had made to diminish their personal squabbling seemed a minor victory next to the new threat that had interrupted their plans.

This was to be Xorlarrin’s city. They were not about to let a group of Shadovar chase them off . . . for long.

“So they came here to join in with the drow’s friends,” Glorfathel remarked glumly, shaking his head. “Our task just got much more difficult.”

“Nah,” Ambergris replied, but Alegni’s voice spoke over her.

“The drow risk war with Netheril, then,” he said. “Do they understand that?”

“We cannot know, but perhaps a parley,” Glorfathel started to answer, but Ambergris interrupted.