“Do you claim no baubles?” an increasingly-agitated Tiago countered.
“Won in fair combat,” taunted Drizzt. “Can you say the same?”
On came Tiago with a wild sweep of his sword, and Drizzt sucked in his belly and leaped back out of range.
But in came the growling Baenre, throwing himself into Drizzt, shield leading. Drizzt struck down hard with both his blades to break the rush and keep the fierce warrior at bay.
And Orbbcress caught both of Drizzt’s scimitars, hilt to tip.
Drizzt couldn’t press forward this time. He had no altar behind him to bring him up high and grant him overpowering leverage. He tugged back, but futilely.
Tiago had his feet under him, and had both of those blades captured. He rolled his chest down and to his right, turning his shield, driving Drizzt over, and flipped a reverse grip on Vidrinath as he went.
If Drizzt let go of his caught blades and tried to grapple, Tiago would simply continue the turn and put a backhanded strike through the fool’s chest.
But Drizzt didn’t let go and was pulled with him.
Tiago stepped forward with his left foot and jerked back strongly to the right, eyes sparkling as both blades were pulled from Drizzt’s grasp.
He must have seen Drizzt’s feet beneath his moving shield, the unarmed heretic trying to get away-but even with his magical enhancements, Drizzt could not get out of range.
The moment of glory was upon him. With his legs properly placed under him, with all of his core strength driving up against the overbalanced drow, Drizzt had to stumble backward as Tiago whipped his shield back around to the left, arm going out wide while he flipped Vidrinath in his right hand for a brutal slash.
Tiago opened his shoulders-his entire body moved in perfect balance and perfect harmony, the power of the mighty swing coming from the strength of his legs, from the turning of his hips.
Undeniable.
Deadly.
“Brilliant!” Yvonnel gasped as she saw Tiago executing that turn and swing, as she noted Drizzt without his scimitars, fighting for balance.
“A champion is crowned,” said Yiccardaria.
CHAPTER 20
Athrogate stood by the stem of the new Hosttower of the Arcane, hands on hips and a continual sigh blowing from his mouth.
Ambergris was there with him, moving about the recently constructed trunk of the planned tower, examining the joints between the fitted pieces, casting a spell here or there, but ultimately shaking her head.
“It ain’t workin’,” Athrogate explained to Catti-brie, when she and the other magic-using architects of the project arrived to his summons. A swarm of dwarves was gathering as well.
“The progress seems remarkable,” Lord Parise Ulfbinder replied, nodding as he worked, his eyes up the ten-foot-tall trunk of the structure. “Better than I would have ever imagined!”
Athrogate snorted derisively.
“Can you not find enough pieces?” Ilnezhara put in, and she looked from Athrogate to Lady Avelyere, who was leading the search for shards from the original Hosttower.
“We’ll never find them all,” Lady Avelyere replied, “but surely a substantial portion will be recovered.”
“Won’t matter,” Athrogate told them. “Ain’t workin’!” He moved over to the structure and Ambergris, and motioned for Skullbreaker, her two-handed mace. He spit into his hands, hoisted the weapon, and to the shock of all watching, slammed it against the side of the tower.
The stone disintegrated beneath the weight of the blow, and large cracks ran out from the spot of impact.
“Wouldn’t hold a twig for long, ne’er mind a branch big enough to hold rooms and such,” the dwarf explained.
“If we thicken the walls, we might be goin’ up higher,” Ambergris agreed. “But we’ll not e’er replicate them tree branches that made for the first tower.”
“We’ll need to find different spells to strengthen the bends and joints,” Catti-brie suggested.
“Or better builders,” Gromph remarked.
“No designs to support a one-armed arch, ye durned elf,” Athrogate argued, and others, wizard and dwarf alike, took up the debate.
“Or our puzzle approach is errant,” one giant voice yelled above them, drawing the attention of all.
“This was my fear,” the cloud giant, Caecilia went on. “We have approached the reconstruction as a matter of collecting the old pieces and then weaving dwarven masonry and magical spells to put the puzzle back together. I was doubtful from the start.”
“Ye got a better idea?” Athrogate asked skeptically, hands on hips and a scowl on his face. “We got no design prints.”
“We’re not even for knowin’ what them pieces are made of,” Ambergris added. “Seem to be crystal, mostly, aye, but there’s more.”
“The lack of a design rendering is damaging,” Caecilia admitted.
“Because it was constructed wholly of magic,” Gromph argued.
“Puzzling, as well,” said Lord Parise. “Surely they worked with a plan.”
“Surely they did not,” argued Gromph. “The Hosttower was a magical artwork, not a dwarven construct.”
“We’re knowing that dwarfs were a part of it,” Athrogate protested.
“So were mules, likely,” Gromph retorted.
“Bah, as ye wish,” said Athrogate, “and ye’re knowin’ the spells that might paint her anew, are ye?”
Gromph scowled at the sarcasm.
“We’ve no hint of any such thing,” Tazmikella put in. “Whatever magic that might have built the Hosttower is not revealed among the ancient knowledge of dragonkind.”
“Or you simply haven’t found it yet,” Lord Parise replied, and both Tazmikella and Ilnezhara looked at each other and shrugged.
“Then might we all go back to our libraries, or repositories, our most learned scholars, and delve deeper into the magic,” Caecilia said, and others nodded.
Gromph stared hard at the two dwarves standing by the trunk, as if judging them for this failure.
Many whispered conversations erupted all around the field on Cutlass Island, not in disagreement with Caecilia’s last advice, but neither in support. They reflected the pall that Athrogate’s undeniable observations had so abruptly thrown over the progress they had been making these tendays.
Indeed, the whole field around the structure became a cacophony of groans and muttering.
Gromph Baenre wasn’t listening, though, nor was he including his own voice in the arguments. He noted that Catti-brie, too, had tuned all of it out. She walked slowly to the pile of shards that lay to the side of the tower, picked up a small one in one hand, then conjured a ball of flame in her other hand.
She examined the shard, then put it, her hand, and that curious ruby ring she wore into the summoned flame. Then, to Gromph’s surprise, stuck her face into the flame as well.
And there she remained, and many began to take note, and so the murmurs quieted, until the only sound on the field was the hissing burn of Catti-brie’s summoned flame, a hiss that grew louder as the flames intensified, shifting to a more furious orange, then to a bluish white, and finally just a pure white. Those nearest the woman had to step back from the intense radiation of heat.
But Catti-brie kept her hand and face in the fire.
With his shield arm swinging out wide to the left, Tiago could feel the two scimitars trapped, and no more in the grasp of Drizzt Do’Urden. That arm led the turn, the rising twist lifting up from his feet, his legs, his hips, his chest, his entire spine rotating in a beautiful and deadly dance.
The proud young Baenre roared in anticipation of his ultimate victory as his head came around, leading the way for his swinging sword arm.
And that roar became something very different when Tiago saw his target clearly, standing exactly where he had expected, easily in range.