Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
A ball of flame appeared in the air, roiling for just a heartbeat before suddenly striking a line of killing blaze down in the midst of that group.
And on came Wulfgar and Regis from the south, and on came Bruenor and Drizzt, Catti-brie right behind them, from the north, the vice closing.
The goblins dying.
“What was that explosion?” Drizzt asked when they had joined together once more.
Wulfgar looked to Regis, who shrugged and replied, “Oil of impact. A healthy batch.”
“Ye shook the place to its roots,” Bruenor said, trying to sound stern, but unable to hide his grin. “Ye wantin’ to tell everythin’ in the place where we be?”
Somewhere back behind them, Guenhwyvar roared.
Drizzt motioned for Wulfgar and Regis to chase the goblins that had retreated through the door, then he and the other two sprinted back to the end of the corridor and disappeared to the right.
“Once I didn’t hit hard enough, and now, I fear, I hit too hard,” Regis lamented.
“Too hard?” Wulfgar laughed. “No such thing, my friend. No such thing!”
And off they went, side-by-side, a rambling catastrophe.
“Ye sure we’re meetin’ up with ’em, then?” Bruenor asked, and he lifted his axe up high, tucked his shoulder under his buckler, and charged at the next door in line.
“The two courses are side-by-side runs to the same corridor,” Drizzt assured him, and up came Taulmaril.
“Now, girl!” Bruenor roared, and even as he finished, the lightning bolt sizzled past him, cracking into the ancient wood, followed immediately by Drizzt’s lightning arrow, similarly driving against the door’s planks.
Bruenor hit the portal right behind the bolts, axe splintering wood and his lowered shoulder pounding through. He crashed down to the floor, by design, and the two enemies in the room, a pair of hobgoblins, eagerly leaped at the prone form.
Guenhwyvar leaped over him first, though, flying through the broken portal, touching down in the room just long enough to spring again into the face of one of the hobgoblins, sending it flying backward.
The other hobgoblin made the mistake of glancing back at its tumbling friend. It turned back just in time to see another enemy leap in over the dwarf, just in time to see the deadly drow touch down just a stride away, just in time to see a pair of magnificent scimitar cutting an X before its eyes, cutting an X across its face.
“I’m callin’ half that kill as me own!” Bruenor roared, running past Drizzt and sending a backhand chop into the hobgoblin’s side for good measure. He rambled up to the door directly across the room and kicked it open, revealing a long corridor, lined on the right side by a multitude of doors.
“Not liking that!” Bruenor declared. He glanced back to see Catti-brie close behind. She took a quick survey of the corridor, then began spellcasting, and Bruenor moved aside.
A wall of fire reached out from her, rushing down the corridor, splitting it down the middle. The flames roiled and roared, but all seemed to be biting out to the right, toward the doors.
“Stay left,” she explained.
Bruenor started in hesitantly, for even though the magical flames of the wall were directional, burning away from him, he couldn’t deny the heat.
“Liked ye better with the damned bow,” he muttered, sliding along the wall as quickly as he could.
The group eased its way along. At least one door did open, and a goblin shrieked and fell back when faced with Catti-brie’s fiery wall.
Drizzt turned and fired off a series of arrows into the roiling flames in the direction of the sound, and from a distant cry, it seemed clear that at least one had gone through the open door and struck home.
They reached the far end of the corridor, which forked right and turned left, and paused there, turning back.
Catti-brie dropped her wall of fire, and sure enough, stubborn goblinkin came rushing out, though many foolishly turning the other way, back the way the companions had come.
Drizzt put some shots down the corridor and Guenhwyvar roared.
Goblins turned and goblins died, Taulmaril’s arrows driving through them two or three at a time.
Some came on into the fury of Guenhwyvar and Bruenor, but most scrambled back into the side rooms. One goblin almost got a stab at Bruenor with its spear before Drizzt blew it dead and to the ground.
Almost.
Aegis-fang spun end-over-end, blasted through the bugbear’s shield and struck it dead, simply dead.
“Lots of fighting to the side,” Regis called to his companion.
Wulfgar nodded, for he, too, could hear the lightning strokes, and the roar of Guenhwyvar and of magical fires.
Drizzt had anticipated that his course would be through more populated areas of the goblin nest, which was why he kept the bulk of the force beside him. For Wulfgar and Regis, the run had been much clearer, with only a few enemies here and there, and most of those more intent on running away than in coming in to fight.
The pair weaved around the dead bugbear, Aegis-fang returning to Wulfgar’s hand. Under an archway, they came into a wide corridor, running diagonally back behind them to the left, or forward to the right, toward their friends.
They went right, trotting along, but a portion of the right-hand wall ahead of them slid aside and out scrambled a group of hobgoblins.
Wulfgar wasted no time in sending Aegis-fang flying devastatingly into their midst.
“Let them come to us,” Regis bade him, and he glanced at his halfling companion to see Regis with his hand crossbow leveled.
The hobgoblins regrouped and charged, the nearest catching a quarrel in the face. Regis dropped his bow and lifted a ceramic jar from his pouch.
“Let them come to us,” he reiterated, and he held his throw a bit longer, then flung the jug. It smashed to the floor at the feet of the charging monsters. Shards and liquid burst forth, splattering the stone and the feet of the hobgoblins.
And that liquid, Regis’s next trick, slicked the floor as surely as water thrown on stones on an Icewind Dale’s winter night. Like floating seaweed in an irresistible wave, the hobgoblins pitched and crashed, tangled into each other, and spilled to the floor.
Wulfgar went up to the edge of the greasy splash and pounded down at the tangle with heavy hits of Aegis-fang, the warhammer shattering shields and bones, crushing through feeble hobgoblin armor.
Regis rushed up beside him and seemed to simply disappear, warp-stepping across the slippery splash zone, stepping back securely and stabbing ahead before the surprised hobgoblins in the back of the tangle even realized he was there.
He scored a series of hits, most on one unfortunate creature that spun down spurting blood from a dozen holes.
The remaining creatures ran off, and Regis turned to follow.
He thought his friends had joined him when he saw that group of hobgoblins collectively shudder, one monster flying up to crunch heavily into the wall, another sailing back the way it had come, bowling aside its companions to fall in the middle of the corridor, only a few strides down from Regis, where it convulsed and twitched in its death throes.
With a glance back, confident that Wulfgar had the tangled enemies caught in the grease trap well in hand, Regis started along, taking only a couple of steps before he spotted the devastating dwarf among the hobgoblins.
“Bruenor!” he called, but even as he spoke the name, he realized that it was not Bruenor.
It was Thibbledorf Pwent.
The bone in Bruenor’s finger was surely broken, the digit sticking out at an odd angle.
“Clench your teeth,” Catti-brie instructed, and when the dwarf bit down, she popped the finger back into place, then immediately cast a minor healing spell, the blue mist of her magic rolling out of her sleeve and wrapping around the tough dwarf’s hand.
“My magic is nearly exhausted this day,” she told Bruenor and Drizzt. “Both arcane and divine.”
“Bah, but we got along in the l
In response, Catti-brie pressed just a bit on the wound she had healed in the dwarf’s back, where Bruenor had previously caught the bugbear’s spear. Bruenor grimaced and winced and pulled away, then glared at the girl, silently admitting that her point had been made.
“Give her the bow, elf.” Bruenor suggested.
Drizzt nodded and reached out with Taulmaril, but the woman recoiled.
“I don’t even know if I can wield it anymore,” she said. “I have never shot a bow in this new life. I have not trained my body …”
“Ye’ll get it back, then,” Bruenor insisted and he pulled the bow from Drizzt’s hand and gave it over to Catti-brie.
“I’ve some tricks left with my magic,” Catti-brie said, taking the weapon tentatively, and then slinging the offered quiver over her shoulder.
“Well use ’em as ye can, and use the bow when ye can’t,” said Bruenor, settling it, and the dwarf started off once more, shaking out his hand, then taking up his axe.
Drizzt looked to Catti-brie questioningly, and the woman just shrugged in reply. The drow pointed to the room’s door, broken in and hanging by one hinge.
Catti-brie lifted Taulmaril and set an arrow, leveling the bow. She took a deep breath to steady herself as she drew back, but then eased the string back to resting and offered a plaintive look at the drow.
“Go ahead,” Drizzt coaxed. “You have an unlimited supply of arrows.”
Catti-brie closed her eyes and drew back once more, took a deep breath and held it, set her sights, and let fly. The lightning arrow shot off, the bright streak lighting the room with its flash, and hit the door dead center, splintering the wood.
“Well then, lookin’ to me like y’ain’t lost a thing!” Bruenor cheered, and again he started off. “Right in the heart, as the bow’s name says!”
Drizzt, too, smiled and congratulated the woman, albeit silently.
Catti-brie just returned that look and nodded. She didn’t bother mentioning to either of her companions that she had aimed for the hinge, not the center.
Before they had even exited the room’s far door, the trio heard the sound of renewed fighting echoing along the corridors and knew that their companions had engaged goblins once more.
Guenhwyvar, who had gone out the other way in pursuit of one fleeing goblin, apparently heard it, too. The cat bounded back into the room and leaped over the dwarf to take the lead.
Regis grimaced in revulsion as he watched as Pwent bit out the throat of a hobgoblin. The dwarf glanced up at him, smiled weirdly, and tossed the convulsing monster aside—with ease.
With such ease! Pwent had hardly swung his arm out, it seemed, and just that one arm, yet the hobgoblin, thick and heavy, flew across the corridor to crunch into the wall with bone-shattering impact.
“Well met, Thibbledorf Pwent!” Regis announced as enthusiastically as he could manage past the lump of fear welling in his throat.
“ ’Ere, ye little rat thief,” the dwarf muttered, stalking forward slowly, casually even.
“Pwent, it’s me!” Regis cried. “Don’t you know me?”
“Oh, I’m knowin’ ye,” the dwarf said, but Regis got the feeling that the dwarf was not specifically referring to Regis, who was, of course, long-dead in Pwent’s thoughts.
The vampire walked forward. Regis lifted his rapier.
“Pwent!” he cried. “It’s me, Regis!”
He almost finished stating his name when the undead dwarf rushed up suddenly, so suddenly, seeming almost to warp-step himself, much as the specter of Ebonsoul had done. Regis cried out and dived aside, and still got clipped by a swinging arm and sent tumbling. As he fell aside, Regis reached back with his dirk hand to fend the dwarf away, but the dwarf’s spiked gauntlet dug a line across the back of that hand, and the halfling retracted with a yelp.
He pulled himself to his knees and wheeled back as quickly as he could, turning some semblance of a defensive posture at the closing Pwent—though what he might do against one so powerful and heavily armored as this, he did not know!
Pwent leaped at him, fangs bared, fists punching in from out wide, and Regis cried out, thinking himself surely doomed.
But Pwent never got there, intercepted in mid-leap by a spinning warhammer that drove him aside and sent him staggering back down the corridor. He turned immediately, though, his hateful gaze still focused squarely on Regis, and with a feral growl that froze the marrow in Regis’s bones, he charged.
The halfling yelped again and flung his remaining snake at the vampire. The living garrote did its magic, racing up and around the dwarf’s neck, and the sneering undead specter’s face appeared over Pwent’s shoulder, tugging hard.
But the vampire didn’t draw breath. The vampire didn’t even seem to notice.
Again the halfling was saved by a missile, this time a living one, as Wulfgar leaped past Regis to crash heavily into Pwent. The dwarf tried to hit him with a left hook, but Wulfgar caught him by the arm, then grabbed Pwent’s right arm as well, holding and twisting.
The two powerful combatants locked and strained. At first Pwent, with the lower center, seemed to gain the upper hand, with Wulfgar sliding backward under the dwarf’s ferocious press.
Wulfgar growled his god’s name and drove on with renewed strength, halting the momentum.
Pwent twisted to the side and Wulfgar had to turn with him, struggling to hang on as the dwarf tried to pull away.
But then Wulfgar leaped the same way as the pull, and Pwent overbalanced. Wulfgar let go of the dwarf’s left arm and chopped a short right cross into the dwarf’s face, but then grabbed back quickly before the dwarf could counter with a left.
Regis wanted to cheer that strike, but like the garrote tugging around his neck, Pwent didn’t seem the least bit hurt or stunned or slowed. And it was Wulfgar showing the cost of their struggle, Regis saw, for the barbarian’s hands dripped blood, his flesh tearing against the dwarf’s ridged arm plates.
Pwent ducked his head, dipping his helmet spike, and bore forward, and Wulfgar barely avoided getting stabbed in the face. Then he, too, bowed forward, tucking his head against the dwarf’s helm to maintain the clench.
He had to keep Pwent in his grasp, he knew.
“Pwent! Thibbledorf Pwent! It’s Regis and Wulfgar! You know us!” the halfling cried, trying to reason with the snarling vampire. He rose as he shouted and ran around to the side, and when Pwent didn’t react at all to his call, Regis grimaced and stabbed hard.
The vampire howled, in pain or in anger, and went into a wild struggle, arms flailing, head whipping around. Wulfgar tried to hold on, tried to stay too close for Pwent to cause any real damage.
“Stab him!” the barbarian cried, his last word cut short as the dwarf managed to get his helm away from Wulfgar’s head just enough to butt it back in hard to the side, cracking against Wulfgar’s jaw.
Regis stuck Pwent again, but the dwarf growled it away and whipped around, sending Wulfgar skidding across between himself and the halfling to crash across Regis’s arms and drive him back. Wulfgar was out of the way immediately, but not of his own accord, for while the clench was tiring him, the vampire knew no such limitations. Suddenly Wulfgar went flying back the other way, Pwent turning to slam him hard into the wall, and then out Wulfgar flew back again, the furious dwarf throwing him at Regis.
Regis reflexively ducked and Wulfgar crashed into the wall behind him.
“Pwent!” came another shout, this time from Bruenor, who appeared farther along the corridor. “Ye know me, Pwent! Ye gived me back me helm!”
That gave the vampire pause, and so did Guenhwyvar, leaping over Bruenor and charging right in.
But Pwent became a cloud of gas and the panther skidded through, right past Regis, and Wulfgar behind him.
The gas reformed almost immediately, but now Drizzt came in, rushing past Bruenor. “I left you in a cave, brave friend!” the drow cried.
“Pwent!” Bruenor screamed.
Finally it seemed to get through to the vampire, a bit at least, and he abruptly disengaged from Drizzt and stepped back past Regis, who held his strike.
But Wulfgar did not. Aegis-fang back in his hand, the barbarian cried out and swept the weapon across, smashing Pwent in the chest and sending him skidding farther along. Wulfgar jumped out into the center of the corridor and pulled Regis defensively behind him.
Then Drizzt rushed up, shoulder-to-shoulder with the barbarian.
“Pwent, ye know us,” Bruenor said, rushing up beside Regis and behind Drizzt. “We come to help ye.”
The vampire growled.
Behind the vampire, Guenhwyvar growled.
“Pwent, my old friend, remember the fight in the primordial pit,” Drizzt coaxed. “You saved us that day. You saved all in the region from another cataclysm.”
The vampire looked at him, clearly struggling, memories battling demons within.
“Aye, and I damned meself,” he replied, his voice shaking with every syllable.
“In the cave,” Drizzt said. “The sun.”
“Couldn’t …” Pwent answered weakly, and he trembled, his eyes darting all around. He was thinking of escaping, they all realized, but only for a moment before he grunted and stood straight once more, glaring at them hatefully—and also, strangely, plaintively.
“Finish me, then!” he roared and he came forward a step as if to renew the fighting.
But he stopped short, a curious expression on his dead face. He looked at the companions, then past the companions, and shook his head.
That distant look made them all glance back, to see Catti-brie standing down the hall, one hand extended, palm up, balancing a sapphire as the woman, scroll in hand, continued a soft arcane chant.
“No!” Pwent growled, and it seemed as if he tried to come forward then, but could not, locked in place by the mounting dweomer of Catti-brie. “No, ye dogs!”
He leaned forward then, toward their line, and he seemed to elongate, then to become something less than substantial. And he floated past them suddenly and swiftly, stretched and insubstantial, flowing into Catti-brie’s waiting phylactery.