R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“Get me something big to hit!” Bruenor cried, and no sooner had he spoken the words than it seemed as if his wish would be granted, as a quartet of monstrous driders came onto the battlefield. They seemed to want nothing to do with Pwent and his vampire minions, and rushed past that skirmish, heading straight for the Companions of the Hall.

“Well now!” Bruenor said, enthusiastically.

When magical darkness countered the light of his thrown pellet, Drizzt knew that his position had been compromised. He got off one last aimed shot, the arrow screeching across the metal mail of the dark elf standing before Bruenor, then turned to the middle of the battlefield, the drow and goblin position between Pwent’s force and the advancing companions, and let fly a barrage of bolts, one after another.

He took no pause to aim, though more than one goblin and even another drow went down under his explosive assault. He was more interested in causing confusion, preventing any coordinated movements by the enemy.

Somewhere in the background of the thunderous battle sounds, the ranger heard the click of hand crossbows and he reflexively covered, and just in time against a concerted volley aimed his way.

Still, Drizzt felt the sting of a quarrel, then another, and a third, finding seams in his armor and crouch to bite at his flesh. The wounds were not serious, nor, Drizzt hoped, would be the poison.

He silently thanked Regis when his arms did not go heavy. The halfling had given them all potions to drink before entering this room, magical elixirs that would counter drow poison, so Regis believed, and so they all had hoped.

Drizzt broke from his crouch and came up strong, scimitars flashing into his hands to meet the charge of a pair of dark elves, and he felt no sluggishness, no weight of sleep poison at all, as his blades worked in and out, ringing with parries against all four swords that came in at him.

He ducked fast before he had even disengaged to avoid a javelin flying between his foes and straight for his face.

“Guen!” he called as that drow woman behind the fray lifted another javelin his way.

Her arm went back to throw, but did not come forward. Nay, it went fast to the side instead, as she went fast to the side instead, buried under the raking claws of six hundred pounds of fighting panther.

Drizzt had no time to watch that show, his scimitars snapping all around, working across before him and back out wide on sudden backhands. He tried to take a measure of his opponents, to see which was the weaker, the more vulnerable. But these drow were not strangers to battle, he soon realized, and had fought side-by-side before, likely many times, and it was all Drizzt could do to keep them at bay.

He needed help to break away, he realized, and he looked to Guenhwyvar and started to call out for her to be quick to his side.

But then he saw the driders, one in particular rushing for Guenhwyvar, and his call transformed into one of warning.

The chamber door banged open, startling the drow females inside. As one they jumped and turned around, spells already begun, but they saw that it was one of their own, the priestess they had sent scouting. “The Forge, lady!” that young drow cried to Berellip.

Berellip Xorlarrin chewed her lip and silently cursed her ambitious brother and that fool Tiago. They had taken too many on their hunt. They had left Q’Xorlarrin vulnerable.

“Gather the guards from the mines and all the goblin workers,” she ordered. “Where is Yerrininae?”

“He has gone to the fight with his driders,” the young priestess reported, and Berellip nodded.

Berellip started to respond, ready to order her sisters into a proper fighting group that they could charge in to support their allies. But before she could even get started, she noted the young cleric’s lips moving, as if she were struggling to convey something.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“The rogue,” the young priestess explained. “It is Drizzt Do’Urden, come to Q’Xorlarrin!”

Berellip’s eyes went wide as she sucked in her breath, nearly knocked from her feet by the startling news. She looked around at her sister priestesses and saw them equally at a loss.

She could claim the prize, she dared to think, and would not Tiago Baenre suffer then for his choice of Saribel?

“Gather the guards!” she started to yell, but a sharp intrusion stung her brain, a watery voice sounding in her thoughts.

They are beyond you , the voice warned, and Berellip looked all around in confusion. Do not engage the rogue, daughter of House Xorlarrin. He is beyond you .

“Methil,” Berellip whispered.

“Lady?” the young priestess and another of the clerics asked in unison.

Berellip blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on the room once more. She wanted to argue with the illithid, but had no idea of how to even return his communication-and it was him, she knew, and his warning echoed in her thoughts.

“We go,” Berellip said to the others.

“To war!” one cried.

“No!” Berellip cut her short. She turned to the oldest and most powerful of the bunch. “Gather back whatever of our soldiers you can find,” she ordered, and to the others, she said, “To the mines, all of us. To the mines and below.”

“You are fleeing the apostate?” one priestess dared to argue.

But at the same time in Berellip’s head, the illithid’s watery voice warned, They will win the room before you arrive. They are beyond you .

“He has come alone?” Berellip asked the young priestess, her voice halting as she considered Methil’s assertions.

She shook her head. “With-with allies,” she stammered. “And Mistress, our missing kin are there in the battle, fighting on the side of Drizzt!” She lowered her voice. “They are undead, Mistress, and being led by a vampire dwarf who controls them.”

Berellip silently cursed her brother and Tiago again, although it occurred to her that perhaps the hunting army had indeed come upon Drizzt and had been defeated. Had the rogue arrived in Q’Xorlarrin through Tiago’s march? It was too much for her to comprehend, and she could not make sense of it without more information, clearly.

And whether that was the case or not, Berellip’s duty now was to the city, to the Xorlarrin forces still within Q’Xorlarrin. What would be left of her family if she stayed and fought, and lost, as the illithid had assured her would be the case? What would Matron Zeerith find upon her arrival to the lost chambers, to the ruin of all her dreams?

Berellip sucked in her breath hard. If she went to the battle and lost, Matron Zeerith would likely walk right into a trap!

Nay, she had to survive, had to warn Matron Zeerith, had to warn Menzoberranzan.

“To the mines,” Berellip said again, and she swiftly led the way out of her private chambers.

Madness, Entreri thought, looking left at the advancing companions and the drider trio rushing to intercept them.

But even that word seemed too trite somehow, somehow unworthy of the chaos to the assassin’s left, where drow undead battle living drow and goblins, and where that wild dwarf-it was Bruenor’s former shield-dwarf, Entreri believed-continued to wash in the blood of enemies.

And if that weren’t enough to scramble Entreri’s sensibilities, out of the air, from a cloud of smoke that rolled in the reverberations of the winding horn, appeared a contingent of new warriors, barbarian warriors, leaping down or falling down from above, to hit the floor running into battle.

Any battle, it seemed.

They each carried a pair of hand axes, and put them to use wherever they could, whether on a goblin or a drow-alive or dead-it seemed not to matter.

Berserkers, Entreri realized, and perhaps they had come from Warrior’s Rest, indeed.