A howl, the call of a wolf, turned the pair’s attention to the side, to the forest.
To arms! Khazid’hea screamed in Doum’wielle’s thoughts, but even with that telepathic prodding, Doum’wielle did not draw her weapon before her companion had his own in hand, Tiago’s magnificent Vidrinath coming up so quickly that the blade seemed to be an extension of the drow’s arm. Even so, Tiago found himself immediately hard-pressed, and Doum’wielle nearly run over, when a group of strange hybrid creatures, half-man, half-wolf-werewolves! — leaped out of the brush upon them.
Doum’wielle reflexively pushed her sword ahead, and the fine blade impaled the nearest charging creature, sliding so easily through the werewolf’s flesh and even into the bone. With almost any other sword, Doum’wielle’s reaction would have spelled her doom. The werewolf kept coming, so hungry for her blood that it simply ignored the wound, and worse, a second creature was even then sweeping in to the side of the first.
But this was Khazid’hea, the blade rightly called “Cutter.” Doum’wielle yelped and started to fall back, and started, too, to try to get her sword in line with the second creature, simply by angling it out to her right.
With this sword, that instinctive action proved to be enough. Cutter slashed right through the side of the impaled werewolf, nearly cutting the beast in half, and as Doum’wielle continued across, the vorpal blade gashed the second creature from hip to mid-thigh. Back came Doum’wielle’s arm desperately, Khazid’hea cutting as if through air, though again drawing a deep line on the second werewolf, and speeding across to lop the head from the first.
Doum’wielle drew the blade in close, turning the tip down. She hopped back and to her left to avoid the stumbling second creature, and brought the sword across, gashing it across the spine as it stumbled to the ground. And there it writhed, broken beyond repair.
Doum’wielle felt Khazid’hea’s admiration and even awe. For a heartbeat, she thought the sword was complimenting her on her double-kill, but she understood differently when she backstepped a bit more and considered her companion.
She had never seen such grace and speed.
Tiago had been closer to the attackers, and so four of the six had leaped at him. One flopped on the ground, blood flying from its multiple wounds.
The other three looked little better.
Tiago went down low under a clawing swipe, his shield-huge now, as it had spiraled outward, widening to his call-going over his ducking head, his forearm braced against his skull. Down atop it slammed a werewolf, arm and shoulder driving, but any balance and leverage the lycanthrope might have had over Tiago was thrown away by a simple tilt of the shield Orbbcress, Spiderweb, and it grabbed the werewolf as it tilted. At Tiago’s call, the shield let go just as the creature tried to pull back against the stickiness.
And up came Tiago, now beside and behind the beast, and one stroke from the starlight blade of Vidrinath laid the werewolf low.
Already, Tiago was moving to his defensive stance, shield sweeping across to defeat the attacks of the remaining two werewolves.
Doum’wielle thought that she should go to him, but Khazid’hea hit her with a wall of countering demands, holding her in place to watch the spectacle. The veteran sword understood, if Doum’wielle did not, that Tiago was fully in control of this battle.
Behind the shield, the blade named Vidrinath stabbed out, once and again, small cuts on the two werewolves.
Tiago went into a spin, quick-stepping to the right, then back to the left as the werewolves pursued. He leaped into a back somersault, landing gracefully on his feet and in a run right back at the werewolves, but angled to the side.
He went by them to the left, his shield easily defeating the swing of the nearest as he ran past. Easily defeating, and catching with its magical filaments.
Tiago went down to one knee, his drop yanking the werewolf off balance, lurching over. Back the other way went the drow, releasing his shield’s grip, turning as he went to sweep his slightly curved sword across the lycanthrope’s face.
It howled and fell away as Tiago came together with the remaining creature.
Now one-against-one, Tiago didn’t bother with any of his twirling and ducking moves. He fought straight up, his sword and shield darting and sweeping, always ahead of the werewolf, finding its way past the feeble attempts at defense and increasingly putting the beast off balance.
Whenever his movements put him near one of the other beasts, Tiago worked a downward coup de grace into his dancing flow, so effortlessly, so gracefully that it seemed like part of a previously choreographed and rehearsed dance.
And always he was back up against the still-standing werewolf, blocking and stabbing. At first Doum’wielle thought that her drow companion was simply wearing the werewolf down. Its movements began to noticeably slow.
She remembered the name of Tiago’s sword. Vidrinath was the drow word for “lullaby,” or at least, the drow version of the word, which referred to a taunting melody sung to those struck and caught by the infamous drow sleeping poison.
The elf woman just shook her head as the fight continued, as Tiago increased his pace and the werewolf slowed.
An arm went flying, severed at the elbow. Then a hand from the beast’s other arm twirled into the air.
Tiago Baenre didn’t simply beat the werewolf, he dismembered it, disemboweled it, and ultimately decapitated it as it stood there flailing with stubby arms, ridiculously still trying to battle him.
From a balcony on the northern side of the Ivy Mansion, Catti-brie, Drizzt, and their hosts heard the cries of the werewolves.
“The Bidderdoos,” Penelope Harpell explained with a sad shake of her head. “They are so numerous, and so. .” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head again.
“I knew Bidderdoo Harpell,” said Drizzt. “He was a good man."
“A sad legacy he has left,” said Penelope.
“Is there nothing that can be done?” Catti-brie asked.
“You are a priestess-a Chosen, it is said,” Penelope answered. “Pray to your goddess for inspiration. Many in the Ivy Mansion work their spells and ply their alchemy in search of an antidote, but lycanthropy is a stubborn disease.”
“Regis,” Drizzt quietly muttered.
“The little one?” Penelope asked.
“An alchemist,” Catti-brie explained. “He carries an entire workbench in that magical pouch at his side.”
“I do remember,” said Penelope. “He showed me. I just assumed that he was out with the dwarves. . and Wulfgar.”
The telling hesitation before she mentioned the giant man had Catti-brie and Drizzt exchanging sly grins, and when their gazes turned back to Penelope, she merely shrugged and nearly giggled, not about to deny the rumors. “Neither are here, I fear,” Catti-brie explained, and Penelope’s expression soured just a bit.
“Not killed, I pray.”
“They are off in the east, to Aglarond to find Regis’s love,” Catti-brie explained. “An extraordinarily beautiful halfling, to hear him tell it.
Truly, our diminutive friend is smitten.”
“They will return, then?”
“We hope,” said Drizzt. “Every passing day, we look to the east, hoping to see them riding back to join us.”
Penelope sighed. “Well, perhaps they will, then, and perhaps we will find our cure for the poor Bidderdoos, or perhaps Regis will ride in and save the day.”
“He has become quite adept at that of late,” said Catti-brie, and they all shared a laugh.
“And of course, if there is anything we can do,” Drizzt offered. “We have a Bidderdoo in our dungeon,” Penelope explained, and she held up her hand when the others showed a bit of shock at the remark.