R. Salvatore - Archmage

And the prowling monsters? Yes, she knew enough of the environment to realize that the cold might be the least of her problems.

Khazid’ hea! Doum’wielle’s thoughts cried out once more, one last time.

The sword was lost.

She was lost.

“When you are of the mind to taunt the archmage, I would prefer you do so after a proper warning to me, that I can be far away,” Kimmuriel scolded his dangerous companion.

Jarlaxle drew out Khazid’hea and turned it over to examine the pommel. “An impressive feat,” he asked as much as stated.

“More so than you understand,” Kimmuriel replied. “The sword tried to dominate him. A sewer rat would have a better chance at ordering about the matron mother.”

Jarlaxle nodded and stared at the mushroom-shaped and speckled pommel, muttering, “Impressive,” and he was talking more about Gromph in general than about this particular feat of willpower.

Khazid’hea was no minor magic item, after all. It was possessed of its own sentience and a great ego. The sword had dominated powerful warriors in the past, even Catti-brie, and even, albeit only for a very short time and only until he had properly understood the threat, Artemis Entreri.

The mercenary considered Gromph’s words when he had given Jarlaxle the prize. He was reminding Jarlaxle of his heritage, and openly, in front of Kimmuriel. Jarlaxle began to nod, sorting it out. Despite the insulting look of the pommel, this sword wasn’t a gift for Jarlaxle as much as an offer. Gromph knew that he was walking on dangerous ground back in Menzoberranzan. It didn’t take one of Jarlaxle’s perception to recognize the archmage’s outrage over Lolth’s loss of the Weave, and worse, over her continuing disrespect to the male wizards, even to Gromph, when all believed that she would come to include the Web of Magic in her domain and should respect its users.

Gromph had given Jarlaxle the sword to buy an out for himself, should that necessity come to pass.

The-former-Archmage of Menzoberranzan as a member of Bregan D’aerthe? Jarlaxle’s eyes widened at the possibilities.

Possibilities that Jarlaxle subsequently dismissed, for in that circumstance, did he really believe that Gromph Baenre would serve him and Kimmuriel? More likely, he knew, Gromph would demand servitude of them.

Gromph Baenre did not make offers that one could refuse.

Kimmuriel walked off to see to some other matters, and Jarlaxle wasted no time. He removed his eye patch to better communicate with the sword, then nodded as the pommel went fully black and became feline in form-a panther. For a moment, Jarlaxle almost abandoned his course and thought to make it look like Guenhwyvar-perhaps he could use it as a gift back to Drizzt. But no, he decided, and said, “It is a Baenre blade.”

A pair of tentacles sprouted from the panther’s shoulders, transforming the figure from that of a great cat of the World Above to an Underdark displacer beast, a formidable foe indeed, and a symbol worthy of a blade hanging in the belt loop of Jarlaxle.

Those tentacles seemed to come to life for just a moment, magically wrapping around Jarlaxle’s hand, securing his grip.

In his mind, Jarlaxle could feel Khazid’hea’s appreciation.

Yes, they would get along splendidly.

Bruenor flung himself through the opened doorway and nearly pitched headlong to the floor in surprise, realizing that he had caught up to Guenhwyvar. The great panther stood there in the room in front of him, staring at the wall-and what a curious sight that was.

“By the gods, but them drow’ve come,” Bruenor muttered under his breath, staring at the swirling, cloud-like vortex spinning against the wall, or within the wall, as if the very stones were malleable and part of the sidelong tornado.

The other dwarves bobbed in behind Bruenor, bumping into him in their rush, but held their ground. All of the four started to ask what was what, and all of them bit back the words even as they started to utter them, caught by the same incredible sight that held Bruenor and Guenhwyvar.

The vortex spun tighter and tighter, the wall seeming to solidify around its retreating edges. And then it was gone, and the room went perfectly silent.

A low growl from Guenhwyvar broke that stillness.

Bruenor moved past the panther, on edge, glancing all about. “What d’ye know?” Tannabritches asked.

“Been a fight in here,” Athrogate said. The black-bearded dwarf motioned for the Fellhammer sisters to fan out to the right, then nodded to Ambergris to go with him to the left flank.

“I’m smellin’ the blood, or I’m a pretty goblin,” Athrogate added.

Bruenor smelled it too, more so because he was closer to the center of the battle, where blood stained the floor. And as he was drawn to that, he found something else besides.

“Elf?” he asked weakly, lifting a very familiar blade-not the whole scimitar, but just the broken blade of Twinkle-from the floor.

“That cyclone!” Ambergris cried, rushing over. “They taked Drizzt!”

Bruenor started for the wall, thinking to shoulder right through it if need be, but Mallabritches’s cry of “No, here!” spun him back the other way. He looked curiously at the sisters, who stood in front of some discoloration on the wall, some malformation that Bruenor couldn’t quite make out. He moved closer, scanning.

The dwarf’s eyes went wide when he glanced at the bottom of that malformation, to see familiar boots hanging below it.

“Drizzt!” he cried. “Oh, me elf!” And he leaped forward at the viscous goo, reaching with his axe as if to cut at it, retracting, dropping the weapon, grabbing at the substance-he didn’t know what to do!

“His nose! His nose!” Tannabritches said, hopping up and down and pointing to a place just above, where it looked as if someone had pulled the slime away from Drizzt’s face, clearing his nose, at least, that he could draw breath.

Bruenor threw down his shield beside his axe and leaped for the spot. “Peel him out!” he shouted, and he began clawing at the glob which had pinned Drizzt against the stone. It came free, but grabbed at Bruenor’s hands so hard that he could barely shake it from his fingers, one stubborn piece at a time, and even then only after rolling it in on itself repeatedly. With Fist and Fury’s help, though, he soon had Drizzt’s head cleared, and the drow’s face lolled forward, Drizzt clearly not hearing the dwarf’s frantic calls, and not reacting at all when a desperate Bruenor slapped him across the face.

“Come on, elf!” Bruenor yelled, cradling the drow’s face, looking at him closely, pleading with him to open his eyes.

Tannabritches and Mallabritches bore on, tearing free the goo, and Athrogate joined in, but Ambergris came up more cautiously. She carried the broken blade of Twinkle, alternately examining the cut along the base of the severed scimitar blade and staring at Drizzt, shaking her head.

It went on for a long while, when finally Tannabritches said, “Oooo,” and stepped back. She had peeled the goo down over Drizzt’s collarbone, down to his chest, and blood poured out.

“What?” Mallabritches demanded.

Tannabritches held up her bloodied hands.

“Stop! Stop!” Ambergris cried, leaping forward to grab at Athrogate and pull him back. “Stop!”

“What, girl?” Athrogate demanded, and all eyes turned to the priestess.

“The glob,” she said, “it’s holding Drizzt together. Keepin’ his blood in! Ye pull it down and he’ll spill all over ye-all over the floor!”

“Like a bandage?” Mallabritches asked.

Bruenor, verging on panic, for it seemed very much to him that Drizzt was already dead, looked from Drizzt to the cleric and back again. Ambergris walked past him to press her hand against the exposed portion of the dark elf’s garish wound. She felt around, put on a pained expression, then said to Bruenor, “It’s a deep one.”