AFTERSHOCK
DRIZZT WAITED, CROUCHED DEFENSIVELY, UNSURE OF HIS SITUATION. THE room had shaken violently—the drow couldn’t imagine what had caused such a rumble. His thoughts shot back to the cataclysm that had flattened the city of Neverwinter, the volcano that had thrown him from his feet with its incredible shockwave.
Was this, then, some similar natural, or primordial, disaster?
Drizzt stayed on his toes, listening, watching, knowing that he might have to spring away on an instant’s notice. Perhaps another earthquake would split the wall asunder and drop the ceiling. Would he be quick enough to get free of the crash? And perhaps such a leap and sprint would garner him his freedom beyond Draygo Quick’s crumbling walls.
But then what?
Soon after, the drow heard running outside his door, and shouts of protest, followed swiftly by grunts and groans and the all-too familiar thud of a body collapsing to the hard floor.
“An attack,” he whispered, and no sooner had the words escaped his lips than his room’s door swung in.
Drizzt tensed, ready to attack. Then he gasped, his thoughts spinning in a jumbled swirl, so much so that he tried to speak out a name, but barely made a squeak.
“Wonderful to see you again, as well,” Jarlaxle replied with a wry grin. “I have missed you, my old friend.”
“What? How?” Drizzt sputtered. Aside from all the implications of this unexpected encounter, Drizzt had thought Jarlaxle killed in Gauntlgrym. The sight of this one, another tie to a long-lost time, overwhelmed him and he simply could not contain his relief. He leaped across and wrapped Jarlaxle in a great hug.
“Ambergris,” Jarlaxle explained. “She alone escaped the castle of Draygo Quick, and she guided me back to this place.”
“But you died in Gauntlgrym!”
“I did?” Jarlaxle stepped back and looked at his arms and torso. “I fear I must disagree.”
Now Drizzt eyed him suspiciously. “This is a trick of Draygo Qui—”
Jarlaxle’s laughter cut him short. “My suspicious friend, be at ease. Recall the day of your escape from Menzoberranzan those decades ago, after you and Catti-brie dropped a stalactite through the roof of House Baenre’s chapel. Did I not show you then that I am a friend full of surprises? I will tell you all about the events of Gauntlgrym and beyond, but at another time. For now, let us leave this place.”
Drizzt mulled that over for a few moments and knew then that this was indeed Jarlaxle, the real, living Jarlaxle, come to rescue him.
“The earthquake? You caused it?”
“You will see, soon enough,” Jarlaxle promised. “But here.” He pulled a pouch from his belt and upended it, and all sorts of items—a bow and quiver, a pair of scimitars and a belt to hold them, boots, a mithral shirt, a unicorn pendant, a pair of magical bracers—tumbled forth, though few of those could have even fit in the small belt pouch had it not been powerfully enchanted. “I believe this is all of your gear, but my many companions are searching in case we have missed anything.”
Drizzt looked at the pile incredulously, but knew with only that cursory glance, of course, that something was indeed missing.
“And there is this,” Jarlaxle said, and Drizzt snapped his gaze back up, to see the drow mercenary holding forth the ring fashioned of pure ruby that Drizzt had taken from the Xorlarrin wizard. “Do you know what this is?”
“A mage’s bauble, I would expect.”
Jarlaxle nodded. “And of no small power. Keep it safe.” He flipped it to Drizzt, who caught it and slipped it upon his finger.
“And this,” Jarlaxle added, and when Drizzt looked up, the smiling mercenary held that which he wanted above all else, the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar. He handed it over to Drizzt’s trembling hands.
“She is free now,” Jarlaxle explained. “Draygo Quick’s bondage of her to this plane is no more, and she rests comfortably in her Astral home, recovering, and awaiting your call.”
Drizzt felt his knees going weak beneath him, and he stumbled back and fell into a chair, thoroughly overwhelmed. “Thank you,” he mouthed, over and over again.
“We’re not done,” Jarlaxle explained. “We must be gone from this place.”
“Effron—” Drizzt started to reply.
“Our next stop,” Jarlaxle assured him, patting a pouch on his other hip, one similar to that which had held Drizzt’s possessions. “Gather your gear and come along. Dress as we go and be prepared for battle, for the fight might not yet be fully won.”
By the time the pair reached Effron’s room, which was guarded now by Bregan D’aerthe warriors, Drizzt had his bow in hand, and all of his gear back in place. It was all he could manage to resist blowing the whistle to summon Andahar, so badly did he wish to see his unicorn steed once more. A sense of normalcy leaped at his heart and mind, and yet, at the same time, it all seemed even more strange now, like knowing the roads that would lead to a place where you had once lived, only to discover that it is no longer your home.
He just wasn’t sure. More than anything, he wanted to bring in Guenhwyvar, wanted to find the constancy of her thick fur and muscular flank, but he knew that he should not. He recalled the last time he had seen her, so haggard and appearing near death, and decided that he would let a tenday pass, or more even, before he called to her.
He glanced up at the sound of a crash, and saw Effron’s gear lying on the floor before the obviously-startled tiefling warlock.
“You killed Draygo Quick?” Effron breathlessly asked.
“You would like that?” Jarlaxle replied.
Effron looked at him curiously for just a moment, then admitted, “No.”
Jarlaxle’s smile and nod caught Drizzt by surprise, making him suspect that the drow’s question might have been some kind of test. He let it go, however, for they obviously had more to do.
And indeed, Jarlaxle led them off immediately, back the way he had come, and soon to enter the grand entry hall. Drizzt and Effron could only stare in disbelief at the new addition of an adamantine tower, standing amidst the crumbled floor and wall as if some giant had thrown it like a spear into the structure.
“Well met again, elf!” Athrogate the dwarf roared, bounding over to properly greet Drizzt.
“You fell into the pit, in Gauntlgrym,” Drizzt said. “Both of you.”
“Aye, and taked me a year to grow back me beard, durned fire beast, bwahahaha!” Athrogate replied.
“I foresee many nights about the hearth, drink in hand,” Jarlaxle said. “But those are for another world, not this one.” He swept his arm out toward the open tower door. “Athrogate will show you to the gate.”
“Gate?” Effron asked.
“To Luskan,” Jarlaxle explained, and he pushed Drizzt and Effron along. “Keep beside them,” he instructed Athrogate. “I will be along presently.”
“Only if the elf puts in a good word for meself with that pretty young Ambergris,” Athrogate said, and he tossed an exaggerated wink Drizzt’s way.
Overwhelmed again—or still, actually—Drizzt could only nod stupidly and follow along. He put his hand on his own belt pouch then slipped it inside, needing to feel the contours of the Guenhwyvar figurine and the promise of a true friend recovered.