Dahlia didn’t murder her lovers, however. No, she challenged them to a fair fight then utterly destroyed them. When Dor’crae had entered his tryst with the elf, he’d known that, and was confident in his power to defeat her, should it come to that. In fact, he’d entertained the notion of not only defeating her, but had fantasized about converting her into a servile vampire.
But he had come to know better. Dor’crae had mentally played a fight with Dahlia in his mind a thousand times. He had seen her training with Kozah’s Needle, and had witnessed two of the fights with her former lovers. And more than that, he had come to appreciate the elf warrior’s cunning.
He couldn’t beat her, and he knew it. When Dahlia had had her fill of him, when she decided to move along, for expediency, to make a point to Szass Tam, or for simple boredom or whim, he would face oblivion.
“Your friend is here again,” Valindra said, drawing Dor’crae from his thoughts.
He turned and looked at the doorway, expecting the lich referred to Dahlia. But seeing nothing there, he glanced back at Valindra, who redirected his attention to the empty skull gem, her own phylactery, which had come to serve Dor’crae in an entirely different manner.
The eyes of the gem flared red.
Nervous, Dor’crae glanced back at the door, and if he had any breath, he would have held it.
“She comes,” he whispered to the spirit in the skull gem, “with our allies for the journey to the source of power.”
The skull gem’s eyes flared. “Szass Tam watches,” a woman’s voice replied, and it sounded tinny and thin through the magical conduit. “He would not have this opportunity pass us by.”
“I understand,” Dor’crae assured her.
“He will blame one, I will blame the other,” the voice of Sylora assured him.
“I understand,” Dor’crae dutifully replied, and the flaming eyes went quiet.
Dahlia entered the chamber, and as soon as Dor’crae saw her, he noted the new ratio of her earrings, nine to one.
Valindra, too, noted the entrance of Dahlia, but more because of the drow and dwarf that followed not far behind her. The lich gave a little hiss as Athrogate showed himself, but managed enough of her composure to wish Jarlaxle well.
“It has been too long, Jarlaxle,” she said. “I am lonely.”
“Too long indeed, dear lady, but my business has kept me away from your fair city.”
“Always it is business.”
“Just lie down and die, ye rotten thing,” Athrogate muttered, the dwarf obviously having little regard for Valindra.
“Is this a problem?” Dahlia asked Jarlaxle. “You knew that Valindra would be accompanying us.”
“My little friend has a particular distaste for the walking dead,” Jarlaxle replied.
“It ain’t right,” muttered the dwarf.
Jarlaxle looked to Dor’crae and asked Dahlia, “This is your associate?”
“Korvin Dor’crae,” she replied.
Jarlaxle studied the vampire for just a moment before grinning in understanding. “And this is my associate, Athrogate,” he said to Dor’crae. “I expect you two will get along wonderfully.”
“Yeah, well met and all,” Athrogate added with a slight nod, though he glanced again Valindra’s way, his expression sour, revealing that he was, in all likelihood, oblivious to Dor’crae’s true nature.
“Let us be on our way,” Dahlia instructed. She moved to usher Valindra toward the other exit, waving for Jarlaxle and Athrogate to lead the way.
As soon as the four had moved out the door, the vampire began to follow, taking a roundabout course to pass the skull gem. He quietly dropped it into his pocket. The eyes flared as he did, showing that his unseen ally was still there, in the extra-dimensional pocket of the phylactery, and the vampire could have sworn the inanimate gem smiled at him as it disappeared into the folds of his clothing.
ANOTHER DROW AND HIS DWARF
BRUENOR STOOD THERE, STARING AT THE WELL, A STONE TAKEN FROM ITS base in his hand.
Drizzt didn’t know what to expect. Would Bruenor throw the stone in rage? Or would he insist that it didn’t matter and that they press on anyway, deeper into the unstable-and not as ancient as they’d first believed-underground complex.
The dwarf heaved a sigh and tossed the stone to the ground, its lettering-a human alphabet-clear to see. The well bore the signature of its all-too-human builder, and the mark of his barbarian clan. Bruenor had found the well before the earthquake had driven them out, and cost them days of digging to get back to the spot.
“Well, elf,” the dwarf remarked, “got us a hunnerd more maps to follow.”
He turned to face Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, hands on his hips, but there was no anger and little disappointment showing on his hairy face.
“What?” Bruenor added, seeing Drizzt’s obvious surprise at his measured reaction.
“You show great patience.”
Bruenor hunched his shoulders and snorted. “Ye remember when we was looking for Mithral Hall? Them months on the road, through Longsaddle, the Trollmoors, Silverymoon, and all?”
“Of course.”
“Ever knowing better months, elf?”
It was Drizzt’s turn to smile, and he conceded his friend’s point with a nod.
“Ye telled me a million times, it’s the journey and not the ending,” said Bruenor. “Might be that I’ve come to believe ye. Come on, then,” the dwarf added, and he walked between the pair, throwing a suspicious glance at the ever-troublesome panther. “I got more journeyin’ in me old legs yet.”
They came out of the cave under a perfect blue sky, with the rolling hillocks of the Crags tightening the horizon around them. It was late summer, almost fall, and the cool winds had been fairly comfortable of late. They figured they had about three more months of easy exploring before them until they had to retreat to a town for the winter-perhaps Port Llast, but Drizzt had suggested a journey out to Longsaddle to visit the Harpells. The strange clan of wizards had been decimated by the Spellplague, but after more than six decades they were finally rebuilding their ranks, their mansion on the hill, and the town beneath it.
That was a decision for another day, though, and the trio went back to their small encampment and Bruenor opened his pack and produced a pile of scroll tubes, parchment, and a mound of skins and tablets, all maps to the many known caves in the Sword Coast North. He also produced several ancient coins minted in the days of Delzoun, a very old smith hammer’s head, and some other suspicious and obviously ancient artifacts tumbled out as well. All had been procured across the North, from barbarian tribesmen or small villages, and the coins had come from Luskan. They were proof of nothing, of course. Luskan could trace her history as a trading port as far back as most dwarf scholars put the time of Gauntlgrym, and if that was the case, then one would expect a few Delzoun coins in the various coffers of the City of Sails.
To Bruenor, though, those artifacts represented confirmation, and a heartening lift to his tired old shoulders, so Drizzt didn’t dissuade him from that.
Not if it would make the journey more interesting, after all.
Bruenor sorted through the scroll tubes, one after another, reading the notes he had scribbled on their sides. He selected two and tossed them aside before stuffing the rest back into his pack. A similar pile of the parchment produced yet another promising map, before the rest of those, too, went into the pack.
“Them three’re closest to us,” the dwarf explained.
To Drizzt’s surprise and amusement, Bruenor finished filling his bag then slung it over his shoulder and started collecting the rest of his items, and breaking their camp.