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.
The rider, Tiago Baenre, bristled and glanced to his companions, left and right, an older weapons master Jarlaxle knew as Jearth Baenre, and a younger Xorlarrin wizard. Jarlaxle actually knew the Baenre, of course, and by name, for this was a name often spoken of late, in no small part because of the shield Tiago wore and the sword he carried on his hip, both wondrous new creations of old magic. Jarlaxle tried hard not to gawk when looking at that round shield now, for it appeared to be a truly remarkable item. It was nearly translucent, as if made of ice, and with diamond sparkles within. Despite his feigned indifference, Jarlaxle couldn’t help but look more closely, for within that glassteel were lines, connecting in a definite pattern. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if a brilliantly symmetrical spider web had been trapped within the ice.
Magnificent, Jarlaxle thought but did not say. It hardly mattered, though. His expression had revealed his feelings, he realized, when he tore his gaze away and looked at Tiago to find the young warrior brimming with pride.
“You have curious taste in companions,” Tiago said, noting Athrogate.
“Aye, but I can handle the smell,” the dwarf quipped.
Tiago’s eyes flared with anger. Jarlaxle wanted to silence his friend. He also wanted to laugh out loud. Neither seemed possible at that moment.
“I am Tiago Baenre,” the young warrior proclaimed. “Grandnephew of Matron Mother Quenthel and Grandson of Weapons Master Dantrag.”
“I knew him well,” Jarlaxle replied.
“You understand why we requested this meeting with Kimmuriel,” said the spellspinner, and the mere fact that he had dared to speak without being bade so by Tiago Baenre tipped Jarlaxle off to his identity. This was young Ravel Xorlarrin then, the mage credited with leading the expedition to Gauntlgrym.
The spellspinner whom Jarlaxle’s brother Gromph had coerced into “discovering” Gauntlgrym with information Gromph had garnered from the skull gem Jarlaxle had given him.
“We have many enterprises on the surface now, and this new … settlement is a likely way station between those enterprises and Menzoberranzan,” Jarlaxle replied. “Bregan D’aerthe would have reached out to you in any case.”
“Would have?” Tiago asked slyly. “Or already have?”
“Well, I am here now,” Jarlaxle replied, not understanding the cryptic reference.
“What about the trio from Bregan D’aerthe who were here previously? Just a few tendays ago, when first we ventured to Gauntlgrym?”
Jarlaxle held up his hands as if he had no idea what they might be talking about, and in truth, he did not. “I was asked to come and greet you, and so here I am.”
“There were three here earlier who claimed to be of Bregan D’aerthe, including one darthiir who named herself your mistress,” Ravel said, using the drow word for surface elves.
“Truly?” Jarlaxle tapped a finger to his lips. “Was she lovely?”
“Darthiir!” Tiago scolded. “That is disgusting.”
Jarlaxle laughed aloud. “Not the word I would use, but for a parochial sort who has rarely traveled outside of Menzoberranzan, such might be the belief.”
“Spare me your condescension,” said Tiago.
“Condescension?” Jarlaxle echoed with feigned innocence. “More relief than condescension. With so many of my kin sharing your expressed viewpoint regarding any who are not drow, there are more delicacies for me to enjoy.”
“She was with a drow, and a human, a small and gray-skinned man,” Ravel interjected, trying to keep the discussion on track.
“A human who came to Menzoberranzan beside you long ago, so claimed Berellip Xorlarrin,” Jearth put in.
Jarlaxle tried to hide his surprise, but unsuccessfully, he feared, and even if he had managed to do so, Athrogate gasped beside him.
“So you do know this human,” Tiago remarked.
“If it is who you say, he should be long dead,” said Jarlaxle. “Did you garner his name, any of their names?” he asked, though he thought he already knew the answer. But how Artemis Entreri, if it was indeed the assassin, came to be with Drizzt and Dahlia once more was quite beyond his understanding.
“Masoj Oblodra,” Tiago replied.
“Oblodra?”
“The drow,” the young Baenre clarified. “Kin to Kimmuriel, I expect. That was the name he used, at least.”
The way he said it revealed as much as the words themselves, Jarlaxle knew. Masoj, after all, had been the mage from whom Drizzt had taken Guenhwyvar many decades before, though Masoj was surely no Oblodran. He knew now, beyond any doubt that these fools had run up against Drizzt without even realizing it.
Tiago’s dead grandfather, dead by Drizzt’s hand, surely was somewhere in the Demonweb Pits, groaning in frustration!
“We did not care enough to ask the names of the other two,” Tiago added.
“Were they or were they not of Bregan D’aerthe?” Ravel asked pointedly.
“Who can say?” Jarlaxle bluffed, and he used a bit of magic from his eyepatch to carry some weight behind the words. “We have many independent agents moving along the Sword Coast. It is possible that one or another—”
“You would know if it was your consort, as was claimed, would you not?” Tiago asked, the sharp edge of his voice showing that he believed Jarlaxle to be cornered.
“One of how many dozen?” the sly mercenary shot right back. “As I told you, the fact that so many of my brethren are too foolish to appreciate physical beauty widens my garden of lovelies. Indeed, there are many in this area who could make that claim!”
Athrogate snorted.
“Where are these three of whom you speak?” Jarlaxle asked.
“Long gone,” said Jearth, “as are the Netherese they battled.”
“Then it is a discussion for another day,” Jarlaxle decided. “My time is short, and if these three are of no consequence—”
“They killed a Xorlarrin noble,” Tiago interrupted.
Jarlaxle nodded and spent a moment digesting the implications. “Then I will inform Kimmuriel and we will put all efforts into determining who they are and if there is any actual connection to our humble organization.” He bowed again, and in the movement, cast a private glance at Athrogate to warn the dwarf that their business here had just grown very serious.
“Are we to discuss our preliminary business arrangements here, among this small group?” Jarlaxle asked.
“It would be premature to formalize anything,” said the spellspinner. “But let us show you our efforts, and perhaps there are services and items Bregan D’aerthe can supply to us that will foster those later arrangements. Materials, for example, and formulas.” He looked right at Athrogate as he finished, “We have the Forge.”
“Lead on,” Jarlaxle bade, and he and Athrogate stepped forward.
“Not him,” Tiago insisted, pointing to the dwarf.
“He works for me.”
“Not him.” There was no room for debate in Tiago’s tone, and Jarlaxle was surprised that the brash young warrior was so openly challenging him. Given that, it wasn’t an argument Jarlaxle thought prudent to have, and besides, he knew that he could facilitate his own escape if necessary, but wouldn’t likely be able to help Athrogate get safely away. He turned to the dwarf and whispered, “Up above,” and Athrogate nodded his agreement and understanding. At the top of the ladder, Jarlaxle had enacted an enchantment from his wide-brimmed, hugely-plumed hat to create an extra-dimensional room as a safe haven.
Jarlaxle summoned his nightmare and rode off with the three lizard-riders, and Athrogate was fast indeed up the long stairwell to the safety of that secret room. Athrogate never shied from a fight, but these were, after all, dark elves.