Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(89)

The drow darted away, and the Ashmadai turned to follow. One got pecked on the skull with bone-shattering force, and the other found himself flying in an unintended direction as a three-toed foot slammed him on the hip with tremendous force.

What had been twenty against two, then twenty against four—five with the diatryma—had turned much more even. And with their leader lost in a pile of whatever-that-was, the remaining Ashmadai suddenly seemed more intent on getting away to fight another day than in continuing along a losing course.

And Jarlaxle’s bird chased them right out of the Cutlass and down the street.

“Surrender!” Drizzt demanded of an enemy he cornered opposite the door.

He accentuated his demand with a devastating flurry that knocked her weapon left, right, and up in the blink of an eye. She was obviously overmatched, and easy to kill, should the drow choose that course.

But she was Ashmadai.

She moved as if to drop her weapon, her other hand held open before her—and she attacked instead.

Or tried to.

She leaped forward with a scream and a mighty thrust, but hit nothing but air, overbalancing and hardly even aware of the fact that the drow had sidestepped. The woman stiffened as a scimitar entered her side. It slid up toward her lung then stopped and twisted. Her scepter fell to the floor. She stood up on her toes, teeth clenched, hands grabbing at empty air.

Drizzt pulled his blade back out. The woman turned to regard him, grasping at her torn side. Her mouth moved as if she meant to curse him, but no sound came forth as she sank to one knee then eased herself down to the floor where she curled and clenched.

Drizzt scanned the room, just in time to see Bruenor and Athrogate slam into each other, shoulder to shoulder, as they tried to exit the tavern. They jostled for a moment before Athrogate demurred, shoving the dwarf king out first and quickly following.

Behind them came Jarlaxle, his expression deadly serious as he looked back at Drizzt.

“What?” Drizzt asked of him.

Jarlaxle’s eyes shifted just a bit to regard the woman who lay crumpled beside the ranger. He shook his head and sighed, but continued on. He didn’t follow the dwarves out of the tavern. Instead, he stood facing the goo planted on the wall just to the side of the door.

“She’s suffocating,” Drizzt said as he walked over. He had once been the victim of that oozing web, himself, and knew well its deadly effect.

“You would prefer to kill her with your blades, I suppose,” Jarlaxle flippantly replied, and Drizzt stared at him hard.

Jarlaxle brought his hands down with a snap, his magical bracers depositing a dagger in each. He looked at Drizzt, again grim-faced, and snapped his wrists again, elongating the daggers into long, narrow-bladed swords. With an uncharacteristic growl, he drove one sword into the goo and through it to hit the wall on the other side. He retracted the sword and studied its blade, still clean save a bit of the greenish substance no bigger than a fingernail.

“No blood,” Jarlaxle said, and shrugged at Drizzt. He lined up the blade again, this time more to the center of the mass, a certain hit. And again, he glanced at Drizzt with an eyebrow raised.

The ranger didn’t blink.

Jarlaxle sighed and lowered the blade. “Who are you?” he asked, staring at Drizzt.

Drizzt met his accusing glare with an impassive look.

“The Drizzt Do’Urden I know would have called for mercy,” Jarlaxle said. He pointed about the room with his sword, to the Ashmadai fallen to the drow’s scimitars. “Shall we call a priest?”

“That they will be healed and attack me once more?”

“Who are you?”

“No one who has ever made a difference,” Drizzt replied.

The apathy, the self-pity, and mostly the callousness hit Jarlaxle like a wall of foul acid. A sneer erupted on his face and he spun back to the glob on the wall and stabbed hard with his sword, then harder with the second, and back and forth in an outraged flurry, over and over, so that anyone caught behind it was surely dead.

“Impressive,” Drizzt said. He flipped his scimitars over in his hands, aligning them perfectly with their sheaths, and slid them away. “And you decry my lack of mercy?”

“Look at them!” an angry Jarlaxle shouted at Drizzt, presenting the bloodless blades before him.

“How did you know?” Drizzt asked.

“I know everything that goes on in Luskan.”

“Then ye’re knowing where me maps might be,” said Bruenor, coming back in through the door.

Jarlaxle acknowledged him with a nod then looked around at the fallen Ashmadai, some of whom were squirming and kneeling, and with more than one watching the trio at the door.

“We have a lot to discuss,” the drow mercenary said. “But not here.”

“I would know the fate of Shivanni Gardpeck before I leave,” Drizzt replied.

“She’s safe,” Jarlaxle assured him. “And will return soon with a host of soldiers.” He paused and eyed Drizzt. “And priests to tend to the wounded.”

“She knew there would be such a battle in her tavern this night?” Drizzt asked, looking around at the devastation.

“And with enough payment for her troubles to put things right, I promise,” said Jarlaxle.

“Put things right?” Drizzt retorted with a snicker to show how ridiculous he found that notion. He led Jarlaxle’s gaze across the room, over the destruction, the carnage, the wounded, and the dead.