Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(42)

Not that Jarlaxle was complaining. Valindra Shadowmantle had been no minor spellcaster in life, commanding an entire wing of the powerful Hosttower of the Arcane. Should she ever regain her acuity and confidence, she would only prove more formidable in undeath—and thinking straight, honestly reflecting on the events of the last days of her living existence, she wouldn’t likely be too pleased with the meddling drow.

They moved easily for more than a day, and though they heard the shuffling and scratching of ghouls and other lesser undead echo all around them, they never actually encountered any. Jarlaxle found that confusing. After all, ghouls feared nothing, their hunger for living flesh insatiable, and their ability to smell and track living flesh quite keen. Why didn’t they approach? But soon he came to recognize the true nature of one of his companions.

“We been lucky,” Athrogate said to him during a break the next day. “Lots o’ side tunnels, and full o’ ghouls and such.”

“No luck,” Jarlaxle replied. He nodded ahead, drawing Athrogate’s attention to Dahlia and Dor’crae, who were discussing their next move. The tunnel forked, and Dor’crae reported that each of those tunnels split again, not much far away. Both Dahlia and Dor’crae kept pointing to the ceiling and tunnel walls, where the glistening tendrils reflected a wet, shiny green in the torchlight.

“What’re ye meaning?” Athrogate asked. “A magic tunnel?”

“Come along,” Jarlaxle instructed, and he rose and moved toward Dahlia as Dor’crae started off along the left-hand divide.

“We will solve it quickly,” Dahlia promised as the pair neared.

Jarlaxle motioned for Athrogate to keep walking, along the same path Dor’crae had taken. “I have no doubt of that, dear lady,” he said, drawing out a wand and pointing it down the tunnel.

Dahlia’s expression changed to one of shock and trepidation, but Jarlaxle spoke the command word before she could react, and the tunnel brightened with magical light.

“What the—?” Athrogate yelped in surprise, for the light stung his eyes. As his temporary blindness subsided, though, the dwarf caught a glimpse of Dor’crae—or at least it should have been Dor’crae. Instead, a large bat fluttered away, out of the light and down the tunnel.

“Why did you do that?” Dahlia scolded.

“To mark Dor’crae’s return,” Jarlaxle replied, moving toward the conjured light. “And to better view these strange veins along the tunnel walls. I had thought it a vein of gemstone—perhaps some variant of bloodstone—at first.” He kept walking, Dahlia hustling to catch up. “But now I see them differently,” Jarlaxle said as he came into the light and peered closer at a nearby vein. “They appear almost as hollow tubes, and full of some liquid.” He drew out another wand, of which he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply, and pointed it at the tendril.

Dahlia grabbed the wand. “Take great care!” she warned in no uncertain terms. “Do not break the tendril.”

“The what?” asked Athrogate.

Jarlaxle pulled the wand away and executed its dweomer, which detected the presence of magic. He appeared quite impressed as he turned back to Dahlia and said, “Powerful magic.”

“Residual magic,” she replied.

“Well, obviously you know more of this than I do,” Jarlaxle said.

Dahlia started to answer, but then caught on to the ruse and put her hands on her hips, glaring at the drow. “You knew the undercity of Luskan well,” she said.

“Not so well.”

“Enough to know that these are not gemstone veins.”

“What’s she babbling about?” Athrogate demanded.

“They are the roots of the fallen Hosttower,” Jarlaxle explained, “sapping the strength of the sea and the earth, so we thought, though never did we imagine they spread so far from the city.”

Dahlia offered up a wry grin.

“And they follow the left fork here, but not the right,” Jarlaxle went on.

Dahlia shrugged.

“We’re following them,” the drow said, and he let a bit of suspicion creep into his voice.

“Ah, but what’s yer game, then?” Athrogate demanded of the elf. “What of the dwarven city ye telled me to get me to come along? What o’ the treasures, elf, and ye best be telling me true!”

“The tendrils lead to the place I described,” Dahlia said. “Following them was how Dor’crae found the mines and the great forge and structures that will steal your breath, dwarf. Perhaps in an age long lost, the dwarves crafted more than weapons, perhaps they forged a pact with the great wizards of the Hosttower. Even dwarven-forged weapons needed a wizard’s enchantments, yes? And armor blessed by the magic of great mages can withstand much stronger blows.”

“Are ye sayin’ my own ancestors used these … these roots, so the wizards could send a bit o’ magic their way?”

“It is possible,” said Dahlia. “That is one—and one likely—explanation.”

“And what are the others, I wonder?” Jarlaxle asked with unmasked suspicion.

Dahlia offered no answer.

“We’ll know soon enough, then,” said Athrogate. “What, right?”

Dahlia replied with a disarming smile and a nod. “Dor’crae thinks there may be a shortcut. Perhaps you’ll find your treasures sooner than we expected, good dwarf.”