The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(111)

“Aye, but I ain’t been no lower on the Sword Coast,” Ambergris lied. “But I’m hopin’ to see the deserts o’ Calimport.”

Both McWindingbrooks crinkled their faces in disgust at that.

“Still!” Ambergris said with a laugh into their doubting expressions. “Ye can act like that because ye’ve seen it. But for meself, I ain’t seen nothing but the halls o’ Citadel Adbar, the road to Waterdeep, and the ports o’ Luskan and Baldur’s Gate. And I’m wanting to see more. Aye, so much more!”

“It’d be good to have another kin and kind aboard,” Deamus admitted.

“Aye, and better that she’s a she, and a pretty lass at that!” Stuvie added, and lifted his mug in toast.

Ambergris was quick to clap her mug against his, enjoying the compliment, the sentiment, and the possibilities.

She had to build her life anew. She had to escape all that was behind her, both emotionally and in practical terms. She had thought to return to Citadel Adbar, but given the news she would have to deliver, she realized that she wouldn’t be well-received, and particularly not if the leaders of that dwarven complex came to realize that she might be leading a hostile Netherese lord their way!

This was the better route, and one she intended to make much more enjoyable.

She drained her mug and hoisted a second one, empty, up high, waving for the barmaid to bring another pitcher to the table.

The McWindingbrooks were paying, after all.





Hours later, two dwarves bobbed out of the tavern, walking shakily, laughing heartily, grabbing generously and both obviously quite drunk.

“That one?” Tiago asked his companions.

“That one,” Saribel Xorlarrin replied, nodding. “Ambergris, by name. She sailed with Drizzt, and rode with him to Luskan from Port Llast.”

The dwarves shambled past, not even noticing the dark figures in the deeper shadows of the alleyway.

“Here ’ere for swimmin’ with bowlegged women!” the male said.

“And to sailin’ with tall-masted lads!” the female lewdly added, and they rolled along, laughing and groping liberally. So enmeshed and enamored with each other were they that they clearly didn’t even notice the three forms moving out of the darkness behind them.

Ravel glanced around, and seeing few others, began casting a spell. Tiago, Saribel right behind him, hoisted Orbcress, his spider web shield, and quick-stepped to close the gap.

“Ah, but ye do me well, me lady—” the male started to say, but he cut it short and began spitting instead, for he had walked into some sort of cobweb, the filaments filling his mouth. Indeed, both had walked into Ravel’s web, the female more fully than he, and the magical creation, stretching from the building to their left to the street post to their right, grabbed on stubbornly.

Still spitting, the male dwarf pulled back and broke free, turning as he stumbled, and only then taking note of the fast-approaching dark elf warrior.





With a yelp of surprise, the dwarf drew a long and wicked knife from his belt. Having sailed the Sword Coast for most of his life, and having been trained by his father from childhood, Stuvie McWindingbrook was surely no novice to battle. He saw the approaching drow and his thoughts cleared immediately—almost, at least. He instinctively reached behind him with his free hand and shoved Windy defensively back, and thus, further into the web.

Then Stuvie executed a wonderful forward dive and roll, popping up to his feet and striking hard and fast and true.

The long knife struck the drow’s shield, but if did not scrap or chime as it would have against a metal buckler, nor did it make a thunk sound as if it had knocked against wood. Rather, a muffled sound came forth, as if he had struck a thick blanket.

Stuvie hadn’t expected the first strike to win out, but wanted to use it to merely bring that shield out to the side a bit, and in that regard, he succeeded. He retracted fast … or tried to.

His knife stuck to that curious shield.

“What?” the dwarf asked incredulously, and he yanked with all of his considerable strength, and did indeed tug free the blade. But as he fell back, he felt the bite of a fine drow sword.

It wasn’t a mortal wound, surely, but still a painful one, a burning cut across his left shoulder.

Painful and burning.





Burning with poison.

Vidrinath, Tiago’s sword was called, or Lullaby in the Common Tongue, for it was infused with the infamous drow sleep poison. The dwarf spun away. He called for his companion to flee, but his words were slurred. He lifted his long knife to defend or to strike, but his movement proved sluggish.

Tiago bull-rushed, shield leading, and the dwarf swung desperately. At the last moment, the drow leaped up high, but kept his shield down low, picking off the feeble stab. Up in the air, the drow reversed his hold on Lullaby and plunged the sword straight down as he descended.

The fine blade, nearly translucent, but sparkling with the power of inner diamonds and flashing reflections of the street lamps, drove home just beside the dwarf sailor’s neck, clicking off his collarbone and sinking deeper, easily piercing muscle and gristle.

Down the street, having plowed through the thin webs of Ravel’s spell, Ambergris shrieked in horror and ran off.

“Get her,” Tiago scolded his companions. “Stop her!”