The wizard had more time to react and had already begun a quick spell when Regis came at him, but the halfling proved the quicker. He leaped up, putting two fingers into La Valle’s eyes, disrupting the spell, and sending the wizard stumbling backward.
As the wizard struggled to hold his balance, Regis jerked the pearl-tipped scepter away and ran up to the front of the Taros Hoop. He glanced around at the room a final time, wondering if he might find an easier way.
Pook dominated the vision. His face blood red and locked into a grimace, the guildmaster had recovered from the attack and now twirled his walking stick as a weapon, which Regis knew from experience to be deadly.
“Please give me this one,” Regis whispered to whatever god might be listening. He gritted his teeth and ducked his head, lurching forward and letting the scepter lead him into the Taros Hoop.
22. The Rift
Smoke, emanating from the very ground they stood upon, wafted by drearily and rolled around their feet. By the angle of its roll, the way it fell away below them only a foot or two off to either side, only to rise again in another cloud, the friends saw that they were on a narrow ledge, a bridge across some endless chasm.
Similar bridges, none more than a few feet wide, criss-crossed above and below them, and for what they could see, those were the only walkways in the entire plane. No solid land mass showed itself in any direction, only the twisting, spiraling bridges.
The friends’ movements were slow, dreamlike, fighting against the weight of the air. The place itself, a dim, oppressive world of foul smells and anguished cries, exuded evil. Vile, misshapen monsters swooped over their heads and around the gloomy emptiness, crying out in glee at the unexpected appearance of such tasty morsels. The four friends, so indomitable against the perils of their own world, found themselves without courage.
“The Nine Hells?” Catti-brie whispered in a tiny voice, afraid that her words might shatter the temporary inaction of the multitudes gathering in the ever-present shadows.
“Hades,” Drizzt guessed, more schooled in the known planes. “The domain of Chaos.” Though he was standing right beside his friends, his words rang out as distant, as had Catti-brie’s.
Bruenor started to growl out a retort, but his voice faded away when he looked at Catti-brie and Wulfgar, his children, or so he considered them. Now there was nothing he could possibly do to help them.
Wulfgar looked to Drizzt for answers. “How can we escape?” he pressed bluntly. “Is there a door? A window back to our own world?”
Drizzt shook his head. He wanted to reassure them, to keep their spirits up in the face of the danger. This time, though, the drow had no answers for them. He could see no escape, no hope.
A bat-winged creature, doglike, but with a face grotesquely and unmistakably human, dove at Wulfgar, putting a filthy talon in line with the barbarian’s shoulder.
“Drop!” Catti-brie yelled to Wulfgar at the last possible second. The barbarian didn’t question the command. He fell to his face, and the creature missed its mark. It swerved around in a loop and hung in midair for a split second as it made a tight turn, then it came back again, hungry for living flesh.
Catti-brie was ready for it this time, though, and as it neared the group, she loosed an arrow. It reached out lazily toward the monster, cutting a dull gray streak instead of the usual silver. The magic arrow blasted in with the customary strength, though, scorching a wicked hole in the dog fur and unbalancing the monster’s flight. It rolled in just above them, trying to right itself, and Bruenor chopped it down, dropping it in a spiraling descent into the gloom below them.
The friends could hardly be pleased with the minor victory. A hundred similar beasts flitted in and out of their vision above, below, and to the sides, many of them ten times larger than the one Bruenor and Catti-brie had felled.
“We can’t be staying here,” Bruenor muttered. “Where do we go, elf?”
Drizzt would have been just as content staying where they were, but he knew that marching out a course would comfort his friends and give them at least some feeling that they were making progress against their dilemma. Only the drow understood the depth of the horror they now faced. Only Drizzt knew that wherever they might travel on the dark plane, the situation would prove to be the same: no escape.
“This way,” he said after a moment of mock contemplation. “If there is a door, I sense that it is this way.” He took a step down the narrow bridge but stopped abruptly as the smoke heaved and swirled before him.
Then it rose in front of him.
Humanoid in shape, it was tall and slender, with a bulbous, froglike head and long, three-fingered hands that ended in claws. Taller even than Wulfgar, it towered over Drizzt. “Chaos, dark elf?” it lisped in a guttural, foreign voice. “Hades?”
Twinkle glowed eagerly in Drizzt’s hand, but his other blade, the one forged with ice-magic, nearly leaped out at the monster.
“Err, you do,” the creature croaked.
Bruenor rushed up beside Drizzt. “Get yerself back, demon,” he growled.
“Not demon,” said Drizzt, understanding the creature’s references and remembering more of the many lessons he had been taught about the Planes during his years in the city of drow. “Demodand.”
Bruenor looked up at him curiously.
“And not Hades,” Drizzt explained. “Tarterus.”
“Good, dark elf,” croaked the demodand. “Knowing of the lower planes are your people.”
“Then you understand of the power of my people,” Drizzt bluffed, “and you know how we repay even demon lords who cross us.”
The demodand laughed, if that’s what it was, for it sounded more like the dying gurgle of a drowning man. “Dead drow avenge do not. Far from home are you!” It reached a lazy hand toward Drizzt.
Bruenor rushed by his friend. “Moradin!” he cried, and he swiped at the demodand with his mithril axe. The demodand was faster than the dwarf had expected, though, and it easily dodged the blow, countering with a clubbing blow of its arm that sent Bruenor skidding on his face farther down the bridge.
The demodand reached down at the passing dwarf with its wicked claws.
Twinkle cut the hand in half before it ever reached Bruenor.
The demodand turned on Drizzt in amazement. “Hurt me you did, dark elf,” it croaked, though no hint of pain rang out in its voice, “but better you must do!” It snapped the wounded hand out at Drizzt, and as he reflexively dodged it, the demodand sent its second hand out to finish the task of the first, cutting a triple line of gashes down the sprawled dwarf’s shoulder.
“Blast and bebother!” Bruenor roared, getting back to his knees. “Ye filthy, slime-covered…” he grumbled, launching a second unsuccessful attack.
Behind Drizzt, Catti-brie bobbed and ducked, trying to get a clear shot with Taulmaril. Beside her, Wulfgar stood at the ready, having no room on the narrow bridge to move up beside the drow.
Drizzt moved sluggishly, his scimitars awkwardly twisting through an uneven sequence. Perhaps it was because of the weariness of a long night of fighting or the unusual weight of the air in the plane, but Catti-brie, looking on curiously, had never seen the drow so lackluster in his efforts.
Still on his knees farther down the bridge, Bruenor swiped more with frustration than his customary lust for battle.
Catti-brie understood. It wasn’t weariness or the heavy air. Hopelessness had befallen the friends.
She looked to Wulfgar, to beg him to intervene, but the sight of the barbarian beside her gave her no comfort. His wounded arm hung limply at his side, and the heavy head of Aegis-fang dipped below the low-riding smoke. How many more battles could he fight? How many of these wretched demodand would he be able to put down before he met his end?