Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(97)

“The thought has occurred to me.”

“And has it found root?”

Drizzt looked past her to Bruenor before offering a smile and answering, simply, “No.”

Dahlia’s stare grew intense, and Drizzt matched it. Once again, as it had just been with Bruenor, it seemed to her as if one of her companions was trying to see right through her. But she had her footing back—thanks to Drizzt’s last answer. She eased her walking staff down beside her and leaned on it, but didn’t relent with her stare, didn’t blink, didn’t allow the legendary warrior, Drizzt, any sense that he’d gained the upper hand.

But neither did Drizzt blink.

“We should be on our way,” Jarlaxle said from the side, and he pointedly walked between the two, breaking their line of vision.

“Did you notice our adversaries?” Jarlaxle asked Drizzt.

“Coming from the south,” the ranger replied. “I noted several groups.”

“Focused?”

“Searching,” Drizzt replied. “I doubt they know our exact location, and I’m certain they’re oblivious to the caves we sighted to the east.”

“But are those the right caves?” Jarlaxle asked. “Once we enter, we can expect our enemies to seal us off.”

A long and uncomfortable silence followed.

“We move quickly,” Dahlia said at length, and unexpectedly, for all thought that Drizzt, who had been extensively scouting the area, would make the call.

“Bah, but yer friends’re trying to flush us, and ye’re leaping from the grass afore their huntin’ dogs,” Bruenor argued.

But Dahlia was shaking her head with every word. “They’re not trying to flush us. They know for certain that we’re here,” she explained, turning back to Drizzt. “You said there were several groups.”

Drizzt nodded.

“Sylora Salm is in a desperate struggle with the Netherese in Neverwinter Wood,” Dahlia explained. “She has few Ashmadai to spare. If she’s sent more than a handful to the Crags, then she’s confident we’re here.”

“She wants us to lead her to the cave,” Bruenor grumbled.

“She would rather none of us even reach the cave,” Dahlia replied without turning back to him. “All she desires is that no one interfere with the primordial.”

“Would she not wish to aid in aiming the beast’s outburst?” Drizzt asked. “To ensure the catastrophe she craves.”

“There is malevolence in the primordial,” Dahlia replied. “It is not an entirely indifferent force, and not entirely unthinking.”

“There is some debate about that,” Jarlaxle replied, but again, Dahlia shook her head.

“How precise was its first attack? The easy and nearest target …” she reasoned. “Had it blown to either the west or the east, few would have been killed. No, it sensed the life in Neverwinter, and buried it.”

“There’s life in Neverwinter again,” Bruenor said.

“That would be a victory for Sylora,” Dahlia answered, finally turning to regard the dwarf. “But not her preferred outcome.”

“Luskan,” Jarlaxle reasoned.

“The primordial has had a decade to test its prison,” Dahlia said, “to recognize the magic that held it, to feel the residual power of the Hosttower, to perhaps send minions along the tendrils to better locate the city.”

“So Sylora believes that the beast will facilitate her goals without her aid,” Drizzt interjected, and when Dahlia and the others turned to regard him, he added, “The longer we delay, the more we play to her strength.”

Dahlia couldn’t suppress her grin, glad for the support—support that conveyed a measure of trust not only in her reasoning, but in her sincerity.

“Our best choice is to be aggressive,” Dahlia said, nodding.

So, too, did Drizzt nod, and so it was decided.



Dahlia sprinted down the side of a ravine, leaping from stone to stone. The ground was uneven and she realized she was moving dangerously fast—but he was beating her. And Dahlia didn’t like to lose. Particularly not with Ashmadai zealots down below in the small canyon, with battle waiting to be joined.

She and Drizzt had come over the high ridge after doubling back to flank the Ashmadai pursuit, their goal to sweep down on the distracted cultists from on high. To the northeast, the dwarves and Jarlaxle had dug in, and Drizzt and Dahlia had barely crested the canyon side when the shouts of the approaching devil-worshipers echoed off the stones.

Without hesitation, the pair had leaped away, but Drizzt had quickly outpaced Dahlia, sprinting ahead with amazing grace—grace Dahlia believed she could match—and even more amazing speed. His feet seemed a blur, fast-stepping forward, leaping from side to side, picking a path that Dahlia might follow, but certainly not at that pace.

So she had taken a steeper route, but still Drizzt moved ahead of her. She simply couldn’t believe it.

A silver streak flashed out of the brush down below and to the side. Not only was the drow running at an incredible pace, he was shooting that fabulous bow of his as he went.

Dahlia put her head down and ran on, concentrating on merely finding a solid place to put her feet as she quick-stepped through one particularly uneven stretch. She would get down there right beside him, if not ahead of him, she told herself.