R.A. Salvatore - Maestro

Dahlia leaped from the bed, flipping a somersault sidelong, and not at the priestess. Not yet. It would bring her too close to those biting serpents, and she wanted nothing to do with them. The ribs on her right side burned and she felt the dullness of the drow sleeping poison.

She slapped her flails together repeatedly, sparks flying with each metallic clang. Both arms rolled out wide, then came crashing back together, inner palm to inner palm, the collision resealing the ends of the flail together, combining the two weapons into one.

Dahlia leaped again, diving off to the side and only narrowly avoiding a magical hammer that appeared in the air and struck at her.

The priestess was casting again, and coming forward, the four snakes of her whip writhing and hissing, eager to bite.

Kozah’s Needle, now in its staff form again, kept the snakes and the priestess at bay, but, to Dahlia’s dismay, this one, like all the drow, was quite skilled at martial combat. She couldn’t get close enough to score a solid hit.

And the spell seemed nearly complete.

Dahlia didn’t want to do it. She knew the charge in her weapon wasn’t strong enough, but she had to interrupt that spell, so she stamped Kozah’s needle on the floor, releasing the lightning energy.

The priestess lifted off the floor and flew backward, her white hair dancing wildly, her spell scrambled and lost. But she wasn’t hurt, not badly at least, and she was right back to her feet, in a defensive crouch, and with another spell on her lips.

With a growl, fighting the interminable confusion, Dahlia came on. She found, though, that the turmoil in her mind was not her only unseen enemy. The wound in her side burned, slowing her.

Desperately, she thrust her staff ahead. She got inside the priestess’s reach, prodding the woman hard. But she was bitten on her forearm by two different snakes. She recoiled, gasping in pain, and overwhelmed with poison.

Dahlia stumbled across the room and fell back onto her bed. She tried to stand again, but her legs gave out beneath her and she crumpled to the floor.

Kiriy Xorlarrin gathered up her dagger, determined to kill this one slowly. She barely had the weapon in her hand, though, when the door burst open and her brother Ravel and that wretched Tiago Baenre charged in.

They surveyed the scene quickly, and Tiago’s face was a mask of outrage.

“You,” he said, shaking his head and coming forward. Behind him, an equally angry Ravel was casting a spell, and behind him, in the hall, Kiriy noted Saribel-no doubt the priestess these two males wanted to put on the throne of House Do’Urden.

Kiriy’s plan unwound right there, right then.

“Drizzt Do’Urden is in the city!” she cried the moment before Tiago leaped at her with that terrible sword of his.

Catti-Brie sat on her bed, heavier robes tight around her, and wrapped in her blankets as well, as if that extra fabric was somehow shielding her from the memory of her encounter with the insufferable Gromph.

She watched as the gray mist formed around her, as Guenhwyvar became substantial once more, returning at her call.

How glad she was when the panther appeared, unhurt, and hopped up on the bed beside her.

“Oh, Guen,” Catti-brie said, burying her face in the soft black fur. She wrapped her arms around the giant cat’s muscled shoulders and pressed her face in tighter, and her shoulders began to bob.

She had to give herself this moment, had to allow herself to break down and just melt.

But only for a moment, and then she sat back up and forced a wide smile on her face as she considered this wonderful feline friend.

“He’ll not ever be forgettin’ that meetin’,” she whispered, letting the dwarven brogue come back to her, using it to bring the strength and resolve of Clan Battlehammer. “We surprised him, we two, aye, and he’s knowing that his little tricks won’t be workin’.”

Guenhwyvar yawned hugely, those great teeth shining in the candlelight of Catti-brie’s tent, then slid down on the bed.

Catti-brie bent over the panther and nuzzled her, drawing strength from her, confident then that she had done the right thing, and that her confrontation with Archmage Gromph had put them back on proper footing. In the solidity of the black panther, so too did Catti-brie find solidity under her feet once more.

“Aye,” she said again to the cat, and to herself, and she closed her eyes and let herself fall into a restful and much-needed sleep.

The deadly blade, perfectly aimed for a quick kill, stopped short. There the scimitar held, and the wielder quivered.

His mind screamed at him that it was a trick, but his thoughts could not overrule his heart, and his heart showed him something he could not strike.

Because Drizzt could not strike Catti-brie.

He heard Jarlaxle and Entreri approaching from behind, and glanced to regard them. When he turned back, as they rushed up to join him, Matron Mother Zhindia was gone.

“Where is she?” Jarlaxle asked frantically.

“Did you wound her?” Entreri demanded.

Drizzt blinked and shook his head, though obviously not in response.

Jarlaxle pushed past him into the deep alcove, throwing glittering dust out in front of him, an enchanted spray that would reveal all the alcove’s secrets to him. He noted no traps, no more glyphs, but at the far end, the lines of a secret door were clear to see.

“Go!” Entreri bade him, but Jarlaxle shook his head and spun back.

“To Do’Urden,” he said, and tossed Twinkle, which he had recovered in the war room, back to Drizzt. “House Melarn is out of the war at least. Her priestesses are slain and Zhindia cannot replace them quickly enough to resume the fight.”

“She will likely resurrect them!” Entreri argued.

“And we will be long gone from this city by then,” Jarlaxle countered, pushing past and starting back the way they had come. He paused, though, and closed his eyes, considering the layout of the strange house and the forces they had left behind, trapped behind the magically stuck bronze doors.

He started off the other way, along the curving corridor.

Entreri snarled and spat, not thrilled with leaving a nearly-defeated Matron Mother Melarn behind, but he moved to follow. Then he paused long enough to grab Drizzt, who seemed almost incoherent in that strange moment, and drag him along.

Matron Mother Zhindia stumbled into her private chambers. Her sparkling red eyes aptly reflected the red wall of anger that coursed through her. “Sornafein!” she called, seeking her patron, her plaything, a handsome musician who would often help her sort through her volatile, careening thoughts and find a proper course.

And Matron Mother Zhindia had a lot to think about at that moment. Six of her priestesses were dead, and only she and Kyrnill had escaped. She flinched as she considered the image of Kyrnill so quickly departing the battle, then grimaced more as her memory took her to the other side of the table, where that human intruder had jammed a dagger into the eye of priestess Yazhin Melarn, Zhindia’s only daughter, whom Zhindia had recalled from her studies at Arach-Tinilith simply so that she could witness the glory of an inter-House war.

Zhindia had been trying to groom Yazhin to succeed her, perhaps even above Kyrnill, and certainly if Zhindia outlived the former Matron Mother of House Kenafin. She resolved to ask Lolth’s blessing in resurrecting Yazhin. She did not wish to begin anew her efforts.

“Sornafein!” she called again, growing angrier by the moment. What was taking him so long?

The handsome patron stumbled out of the side room then, and fell to his knees. He stayed there gasping, eyes far too wide, hands slapping at his throat as if he could not draw enough breath.