Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(31)

Dahlia looked to Dor’crae, who had no answers. “What do you know of the Hosttower?” she asked the lich.

“I lived there once, for a long time.”

“Yes, then it was destroyed.…”

The lich turned away, throwing her arm up across her eyes. “It fell! Oh, it fell!”

“And its magic was broken?” Dahlia pressed, moving near to the distraught woman. She asked again, and when Valindra looked at her blankly, she rephrased the question several different ways.

But it was soon obvious that the lich had no idea what she might be talking about, so Dahlia wisely shifted the conversation to other, more mundane things, then to the topic of Valindra’s beauty once more, something that seemed to calm the undead woman.

After some time, she asked, “May I visit you again, Valindra?”

“I do so enjoy company,” the lich replied. “But tell me before, that I might prepare …” She paused and looked around, and appeared increasingly distressed.

“I … where is my food?” Valindra asked, and she looked at Dahlia curiously. Then she threw her hands up over her face and fell back with a great wail.

Dahlia moved toward her, but the lich thrust one hand forward to keep the elf warrior away. “My food!” she said, then she began to laugh.

“I will bring you some food,” Dahlia promised, and Valindra laughed all the louder.

“I need no such sustenance,” the lich replied. “Not for so many years now. Not since the Hosttower fell.” She looked at Dahlia with a sad grin. “Not since I died.”

She seemed to calm then and Dahlia retreated to stand by Dor’crae.

“I forget sometimes,” Valindra explained, her voice sober once more. “It is so lonely.” She cast her longing gaze at the skull gem phylactery of her husband.

“Then you would welcome us back?” Dahlia asked.

Valindra nodded.

Dahlia motioned for Dor’crae to follow and started out of the room.

“But no food,” Valindra called after her.



“There are still answers to be found down here,” Dor’crae said when they were away. “In the roots of the Hosttower, if not in Valindra’s home.”

“There are answers to be found in there, as well.”

“I doubt she knows much of the Hosttower’s origins, or wards.”

“But Arklem Greeth may well know,” Dahlia assured him. “I would speak with him again.”

“You spoke with him? When you held the gem? It is not wise—”

“Short conversations,” Dahlia promised with a grin. “It’s near dawn now. I’m going back to the city—I have an audience with Borlann the Crow, one of the High Captains. Perhaps he will tell me more of these drow, this Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle.”

“And I?”

“Follow the inland root of the Hosttower,” Dahlia ordered. “I would know where it goes.”

Dor’crae nodded.

“I will return to Valindra tomorrow night, and every night thereafter. Join us as soon as you can.”

“Should I escort you up?” asked the vampire.

Dahlia just looked at him.

“Ghouls, ghasts, and other beasts …” Dor’crae started to explain.

He stopped when Dahlia stared at him as though he’d lost his mind at long last, and she took up her fighting staff.



Before the next dawn, Dahlia hung by one arm from the bottom lip of the uppermost well, peering into the chamber below. She slowly turned, scanning the room for the undead she knew were there, but knew she wouldn’t see.

They could see her, hanging up high, her walking stick sparking with blue light, but it didn’t matter. Even if she’d come down in complete darkness and as silent as a shadow, they would know. They would smell her. The aroma of her sweet, living flesh would almost overwhelm them.

Dahlia dropped to the floor below, springing open her staff as she descended. She landed in a crouch and hopped in circles.

There were too many.

Out they came in a swarm, from every exit and every shadow: ravenous ghouls, hunched low, running on all fours, their long nails scratching against the stone. They appeared as emaciated human corpses, gray skin stretched over skull and bones, but there was more to them than that: claws and teeth and a hatred for all things living, and a hunger for all flesh, alive or dead. There was a score of them at least, and Dahlia had nowhere to run to gain a more defensible position.

But neither did they.

She sprang straight up, inverting with her hands set firmly at the top of her planted staff. She straightened upside down, thrusting her legs back inside the well. She snapped her legs out wide to the sides, locking them against the sides of the well, and bent up, hand-walking her staff before her until she turned upright back in the well, with the swarm of ghouls below her.

“Enjoy this,” she whispered to the ghouls and she tugged a ruby gemstone free from her necklace and dropped it. It exploded the moment it hit the floor, flames rolling out in every direction, nearly reaching back up into the well with Dahlia.

With her legs still locking her firmly in place, the warrior clapped her hands over her ears to diminish the awful keening below.

The fireball lasted only a heartbeat, a single, devastating gout of flames, but the sting remained, fires clinging to the ghouls’ skin, eating hungrily. They shrieked and screamed in high-pitched, otherworldly voices, hellish calls befitting the Abyss itself. They ran about madly, arms flailing to chase the biting flames away, claws slashing to keep their insane companions at bay, for indeed some jumped upon others and began chewing and tearing at undead flesh, at any flesh, at anything that might make the pain stop.