The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(42)

A few months’ respite, possibly,” Dorwyllan said. “But they will come on relentlessly in the spring. We haven’t the bodies to hold this farther wall against that assault, I fear.”

But to this, too, Drizzt Do’Urden had an answer. He nodded to Dorwyllan and promised, “You will.”





DROW WEBS



YOU DON’T LIKE WHAT YOU SEE?” THE DROW SAID TO HIS DWARF COMPANION.

The sturdy dwarf, his black beard wrapped into two dung-tipped braids down the front of his muscled chest, his powerful morningstars strapped diagonally across his back with their adamantine heads bouncing at the ends of their chains around his shoulders, had to take a deep breath and stroke his hairy face. He couldn’t quite find his voice. Athrogate didn’t hate the dark elves the way most Delzoun dwarves would—his closest friend in the world was one, after all, and standing right beside him. And indeed, Athrogate was now a formal member of Bregan D’aerthe, a mercenary band from the dark elf city of Menzoberranzan—the clerics of that almost exclusively drow organization had nursed him back to health after his near-fatal fall in Gauntlgrym.

Still, the dwarf couldn’t quite find his voice to respond, given the sights around him. The battle-hardened dwarf had been close to death before in his long, long life, but never in the manner he had found in this dark place, and never against an enemy so completely overpowering. He had fallen over the rim of the primordial pit, plummeting for the fiery maw of the preternatural and unstoppable beast. Good luck alone had landed him on a ledge, and his companion, Jarlaxle, had saved him, pushing him to the back of a cubby and summoning water elementals to ward off the biting flames of the primordial. Even still, Athrogate had nearly died and had known pain beyond anything he had ever imagined, his burned skin slipping off his bones.

And more than anything else, brave and mighty Athrogate had felt … insignificant and helpless. These were not emotions that sat well with the proud dwarf.

Now they were in Gauntlgrym again, descending a great spiral stairway to the lower levels of the complex, a stairway that had recently been repaired, and by craftsmen with a different and more delicate style than the original dwarven work.

They knew what they would find in the ancient complex, for they had been sent here—Jarlaxle had been sent here—by Kimmuriel Oblodra, the acting head of Bregan D’aerthe, executing an order from a much more powerful entity, the matron mother of Menzoberranzan’s ruling House.

“Well?” Jarlaxle prodded as they continued down, crossing from the newer drow work to the remnants of the original dwarven stair. “Speak honestly. I’ll take no offense, I promise.”

Athrogate was almost always blunt, and particularly so concerning issues of dwarven importance, and certainly the disposition of Gauntlgrym fit that description. But the dwarf could only grunt and shake his hairy head as images of his fall to the ledge and memories of profound agony filled his thoughts.

And now his emotions were even more roiled. He didn’t like these developments. Not at all. The aura and aroma of this drow settlement seemed an absolute desecration of Gauntlgrym. It didn’t confound him on a logical level. It made perfect sense, after all. Why wouldn’t the drow, or some other race, come back to this place and try to rebuild it?

And better the drow than goblins, he tried to tell himself.

But in his gut, the notion of a drow city growing amidst the ruins of the most ancient dwarven homeland seemed like a tragic loss, or a great theft, for and from his people—even though his people had long-ago rejected him and the dark elves had taken him in.

Jarlaxle patted him on the shoulder, and when he looked up, the drow winked at him with his one eye that wasn’t covered by that strange magical eyepatch, signaling that he truly understood the turmoil swirling within Athrogate.

“You would do well to keep your doubts well-hidden,” Jarlaxle quietly advised as they moved lower on the stair, low enough now to see that a group of drow astride subterranean lizards awaited them on the floor below. “House Xorlarrin is here, whether you or I or anyone else likes it or not, and if they perceive your distaste as a threat, they will deal with it in their particularly efficient and permanent fashion.”

“Bah, but ain’t that what I got Bregan D’aerthe backing me for?” Athrogate replied.

“Do you see the one astride the largest lizard, with the glowing shield on his arm?” Jarlaxle asked, motioning his chin toward the floor. Following that movement, Athrogate easily discerned the indicated drow.

“He is a Baenre,” Jarlaxle explained. “A very well-loved and important Baenre.”

“The First House?”

“If House Baenre objects to your attitude, Bregan D’aerthe cannot help you. In truth, we would deliver you to Matron Mother Quenthel as quickly as possible to avoid any complicity in your idiocy.”

Athrogate smiled widely at the threat for he knew that Jarlaxle would do no such thing. Kimmuriel would, of course, and so would the rest of the Bregan D’aerthe crew. But Jarlaxle wouldn’t, and indeed, Jarlaxle admitted as much implicitly when he returned the dwarf’s knowing smile.

“At last, Jarlaxle,” greeted the drow astride the great lizard. “It has been far too long since last I saw you.”

“Were I to know your name, I am sure I would return the compliment,” Jarlaxle replied with a gracious bow.