And from that swirl came Guenhwyvar, leaping far and high upon Nalfeshnee even as she materialized.
And from that swirling mist came Drizzt Do’Urden, scimitars in hand.
i still hope they kill Marilith, at least, the fingers of Jaemas Xorlarrin signaled to his cousin Faelas in the silent hand code of the drow, as if he was too fearful to speak those words aloud-and indeed, he was.
The more demons who fall now, the better, Faelas agreed. The drow wizards were thrilled at the turn of the battle, of course, for now it seemed clear that the dwarves would be driven back, perhaps slaughtered to a one. But if that victory came with the added benefit of thinning the demonic ranks enough to ensure that Matron Mother Zeerith could properly control the remaining horde, then all the better.
“Cousin!” Faelas then added vocally, though breathlessly, as he noted the newcomer to the battle, a scimitar-wielding dark elf who set upon Marilith with wild and brilliant abandon. Her six weapons spun and stabbed and swept all around her, but always a scimitar was there to block, or the agile drow warrior was quick enough to dodge, and quick enough in behind the attack-impossibly quick! — to riposte.
“By Lolth’s eight legs. .” Jaemas agreed.
“That’s the Do’Urden rogue!” Faelas realized even as he began readying a spell, turning his sights on the grand trophy that had come unto them. He noted, though, that Jaemas wasn’t similarly focusing, and indeed, was shaking his head. “Cousin?”
Don’t strike out at him, Jaemas replied-or more accurately, Jaemas relayed, for a voice in his head warned him against any such actions.
“Let Marilith have the kill?” Faelas asked, clearly confused.
“We must be gone from this place,” Jaemas said.
“The dwarves will not win,” Faelas replied.
“It matters not,” said Jaemas. “We must be gone. All of House Xorlarrin, and now!”
“Why?”
Jaemas could only shake his head. He wasn’t sure who was in his thoughts, but the telepathically imparted suggestions were undeniably powerful and beyond debate. If they stayed, they would die, and horribly, the inner voice promised.
“I do not understand!” Faelas scolded.
And neither did Jaemas, who could only shake his head.
“Why must we be gone?” Faelas demanded.
“Because this is quite beyond you now,” came a voice behind him, and he and his cousin turned to see Jarlaxle, sitting comfortably on a ledge above the nearby tunnel exit.
“Where did you. .?” Faelas asked.
“How?” Jaemas asked at the same time.
But Jarlaxle merely turned and motioned for them to follow, and indeed, they saw that others of their family were coming to them then, looking as confused as they.
Faelas glanced back at Marilith and the warrior he knew to be Drizzt, and gasped aloud to see that rogue drow in full fight now, running to the side of Marilith, easily leaping the sweeping tail of the naga-like creature, ducking the sweep of one long sword, sidestepping the downward stab of a spear, throwing himself back from the sweep of a second sword.
But in behind that sword he came, with a sudden burst of speed that stole Faelas’s breath, too quick for the turning Marilith to bring her other three arms and weapons to bear.
He ran his blade right up her torso and slashed her hard, then vaulted over her shoulder, landing with amazing grace, and leaped again above the sweep of that deadly tail.
Faelas swallowed hard, Jarlaxle’s advice suddenly sounding so much wiser.
The magic lashing out at them from the shadows slowed greatly. The dwarves didn’t know why, but the battered, bearded folk were surely glad of it. When they came to trust that the diminishment of drow magic was real, the three Harpells turned their focus more directly to the grotesque chasme above, lighting bolts and fireballs brightening the air above the battle.
And the frontlines of the dwarves were holding their own again. It seemed as if the demons pressing them were no longer covering for each other or working in unison. It didn’t take long for the dwarves of Felbarr to understand why, and their cries of “Drizzt!” were taken up by the Adbarrim, and echoed all the way to the other end of the line, to Bruenor’s clan.
Every dwarf tried to get a glance at the brilliant battle, at Drizzt and the six-armed she-demon, eight weapons ringing in a continual song.
Or to the side of that titanic battle, to get a glance at the legendary black panther, raking and biting, taking brutal hits from the huge demon and tearing its gray skin into loose flaps in reply.
“Huzzah and heigh-ho!” became the call once more as the dwarves rallied, and none greater than Bruenor Battlehammer and his entourage of three, leaping about each other and swatting at a glabrezu, determined to clear the way and get to the side of the dark elf ranger.
Drizzt saw none of that, heard none of the cheers, and didn’t even register the battle right beside him, where Guenhwyvar and Nalfeshnee traded such brutal strikes. His focus was narrow and fully on the six-armed demon. He was not unfamiliar with this particular type of beast, for he had battled a marilith before, in another time and place.
But not Marilith herself, not this creature, so huge and powerful. He had come in with the element of surprise, had been upon the demon before she even knew he was there, had struck hard and true with both his blades, the repaired Twinkle, and Icingdeath, the frostbrand, which feasted on the flesh of creatures of fire and the lower planes.
That advantage had proven short-lived, however, and now Drizzt found himself in the fight of his life against a foe mighty and indomitable and unshakable. His focus was perfect because it had to be perfect, because anything less than that would get him cut down in short order.
His body moved somewhere beyond simple consciousness, in some almost ethereal state where conscious thought simply could not keep up. He was the Hunter, because to be anything less was to be dead.
His blades moved as they had to move to intercept and deflect deadly strikes. His legs propelled him to and fro, just ahead of strikes. It was all a blur to him, and to those watching, surely, as he just let himself flow with the battle, let the sounds and movements, the smells and the rush of air even, guide him along. Conscious thought was his enemy-even considering the motions and consciously trying to anticipate the next, would get him killed.
He just let the battle flow, trusting his instincts and reactions without thinking of them at all.
Somehow he had not been hit, though a hundred strikes had come his way. Somehow, he did not tire.
Because he could not tire.
Somehow.
The bulky winged demon could not begin to keep up with the sheer speed of Guenhwyvar’s movements, and even the beast’s thick hide could only partly deter those incessantly raking claws. Again and again, Nalfeshnee slapped a huge hand to try to catch the cat, and almost always wound up just hitting himself. And on those few occasions when the demon managed to get some grasp on the elusive panther, quick as lightning, Guenhwyvar spun about and bit a demon finger hard.
But these two demon leaders were not mere warriors, brilliant as they were in combat, and for all the tribulations of the early battle, Nalfeshnee was more frustrated than worried.
And so the Abyssal behemoth drew a symbol in the air, chanting guttural sounds to enact the magic.
The glowing symbol hung in front of the beast, and even those dwarves battling the demon line, and those in the ranks behind, had to shy and squint, the unholy power of the magical symbol stinging them and burning them.
For Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, the effect was more pronounced, and the panther issued an agonized growl, and the drow ranger fell back from Marilith and lurched over in pain. So it was that both personal battles would have ended right there, with the major demons crushing their puny enemies.