Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(93)

HOPE FROM THE DAYS OF OLD





The ball of living fire charged at the trio of goblins, knocking one of the creatures flat and rolling over him, muffling his screams with the crackle of biting flames. The other two goblins shrieked and fell back. One threw its arms up in front of its face and the sleeve of its shirt burst into flame.

Cries echoed through the great forge area, and heightened when more of the little elementals appeared.

The first came off the goblin, unfolding, and rose upright, standing about half the height of the scrambling goblins, but with wide, flaming shoulders and arms that left a trail of flames in the air whenever it swung around. It focused on one of the standing goblins and charged, and with a scream, the goblin rushed away.

The elemental left a line of fire in its wake as it glided across the stone floor, angry little living and yapping flames sparking and biting at the air. Other elementals crisscrossed the path, creating a pattern of burning lines.

Goblins ran every which way and drow nimbly leaped atop the various forges, reacting far more calmly and reasonably in the face of this otherworldly threat.

For this was not the first time over the last few days that such outbursts of raging, free-running elementals had swarmed the forge area.

It was expected—this was the power of a primordial, after all, and the forges and supporting lines were old and often in need of repair, in ways that visual inspections could not reveal. The breaches revealed them, but only when pipes and joints had deteriorated enough to let the little beasts free. And in those instances, the elementals poured forth in a frenzy. The thing’s chaotic power strenuously resisted any attempts to harness it. From that fiery chaos of primordial belching came forth these pseudo-elementals, these fire-kin, unthinking, raging little expressions of freed fire.

“Spellspinners!” more than one drow craftsman yelled. These artisans were all more than capable of defending themselves, and whenever a fire-kin ventured too near, it was swatted away with a finely crafted, heavily enchanted weapon.

But the artisans didn’t prefer such tactics, for those elemental-kin were a part of the magic and pure energy of the primordial beast, and to strike at them was to assault the essence of creation itself.

“Spellspinners!” The call echoed throughout the large hall and down the myriad nearby tunnels and the main drow camps.





In one such camp, farther into the Underdark the way the expedition had come, Ravel Xorlarrin took note.

“Not again,” he muttered.

“Again,” Jearth remarked, coming up beside him.

“Where is Tiago?”

“In the upper halls, pressing to the top level.”

Ravel didn’t hide his disappointment in that news, giving a harsh snort and slapping a fist against the side of his leg. When he composed himself and regarded Jearth, and the weapons master’s amused grin, he realized that he was showing a bit too much petulance.

“I will need the two of you beside me to resolve this,” he explained.

“They are elementals, and stinging fiery little wretches,” Jearth replied. “More a play for the spellspinners than warriors.”

“For mages, you mean,” Ravel replied with obvious, unhidden frustration, and he let his sour expression remain for some time, that the other spellspinners, too, could view it.

They all understood the truth of it anyway: The breakdown of the forges and the multitude of dangerous elementals running free had come as a blessing for Elderboy Brack’thal, whose pre-Spellplague techniques were proving far more effective in dealing with the fire creatures than anything Ravel and his spellspinners could offer.

Berellip was taking note, they all knew, and Ravel, particularly, knew.

“I have put my trust in you and in Tiago,” Ravel remarked.

Jearth shrugged noncommittally.

Ravel’s expression became more sly as he continued to look at this drow he considered a friend, as he reminded himself that while Jearth might be exactly that, he was also drow, and also a weapons master. Jearth’s primary concern was Jearth, of course, else he would have long ago felt the bite of a drow blade as some younger warrior tried to steal his position in the House hierarchy.

Among the Xorlarrin, spellspinners were held in higher regard than warriors, many higher even than the weapons master, but they were all merely males. The priestesses, the sisters of Xorlarrin, still were held in the highest regard. So if Brack’thal climbed above Ravel in Berellip’s eyes, would it not follow that Jearth would make a new friend in Brack’thal at the earliest opportunity?

The thought unsettled Ravel for just a moment, then reminded him of who he was and to what he aspired.

Brack’thal’s outdated magical repertoire had served Ravel’s rise in status quite well, but Brack’thal was the Elderboy of House Xorlarrin, the first-born son of Matron Zeerith, and it was said that in the days before the Spellplague, he was held in highest regard throughout Menzoberranzan, even in the eyes of Archmage Gromph.

If Brack’thal could prove valuable, even heroic, along this most important mission, what might that mean for Ravel?

Nothing good.

“You cannot do it,” Jearth said, and Ravel looked at him with confusion.

“Goad your brother into an open battle,” Jearth clarified. “You cannot do it. Berellip would not tolerate it.”