Night of the Hunter by R. A. Salvatore
But Wulfgar held on, and when Yerrininae jerked the mace back, the barbarian was ready, rolling around and leaping up, crashing against the drider’s drow torso.
Face-to-face the mighty warriors clenched and struggled.
Yerrininae bit down hard on Wulfgar’s left shoulder, digging in, and Wulfgar felt poison coming from that abomination’s deadly bite.
Regis’s potion had saved him again, he knew.
The duo wrestled and twisted. The drider lifted a spider leg and Wulfgar realized that it meant to stomp Regis. With a great, desperate twist, Wulfgar yanked the drider aside and the two nearly tumbled into the wall of fire.
Yerrininae bit down harder and pushed ahead, bending Wulfgar backward. The barbarian wedged the fingers of his free right hand in against the drider’s cheek.
Wulfgar tightened the muscles of his chest and shoulder, growling back against the bite, hardening the drider’s target and so weakening the drider’s hold.
The two stumbled around on eight spidery legs—they seemed like bipedal combatants fighting atop a giant spider. Back and forth they went, sometimes touching the wall, sometimes hovering dangerously around Regis.
Wulfgar slipped his little finger into the drider’s eye and pressed on, and Yerrininae had to relent.
“Tempus!” the barbarian roared, as much to infuse himself with heightened anger as to call to his god. He pushed out with all his strength, driving Yerrininae’s head to his left, the drider’s free hand tugging at his wrist.
Wulfgar let go of the face suddenly, snapping his arm back with the tug and at the same time replacing it with his left hand, clamping fully on Yerrininae’s face. The barbarian rolled his shoulders forward and bulled ahead and down.
The fire wall fell away then, showing the two dead driders on the other side, with Bruenor atop one, staring back slack-jawed at the titanic battle between Wulfgar and Yerrininae. Catti-brie watched, too, as did Drizzt and Entreri, all four stunned to inaction by the spectacle.
Wulfgar bulled and pushed, his muscles standing taut. Huge Yerrininae pushed back, cords of sinewy muscles straining and glistening with sweat.
The drider stumbled backward and nearly toppled, but kicked its rear legs out and planted them firmly.
Yerrininae had made a mistake. He should have rolled over.
He was locked in place, unable to give, forced to hold back Wulfgar’s push, which he could not. He bent over backward and the barbarian plowed on, driving his left hand forward, bending Yerrininae’s head back.
Down Wulfgar jerked with all his strength, and then again when Yerrininae stopped his press. And a third time and again after that, and the drider could not retreat and could not hold.
Again the barbarian bulled and now Yerrininae did give way, not by backing and not by rolling, but simply because Yerrininae’s muscle and bone could not resist the press.
The crack of Yerrininae’s shattering backbone sounded as loudly as the crash of Aegis-fang against Skullcrusher.
Wulfgar pushed once more, but it was done and he was done, his rage and stamina exhausted. He fell back and stumbled off the drider, who still stood on planted spidery legs, drow torso bobbing weirdly, fully broken.
The Forge was quiet then, and eerily so.
CHAPTER 25
THE CALL OF AN OLDER GOD
THE COMPANIONS AND ENTRERI WERE NOT THE ONLY ONES REMAINING in the room. Pwent was there, though only a few of his drow minions remained standing. Another crawled weirdly around the floor, relieved of its legs and one arm by drow swordsmen.
And a trio of summoned berserkers remained. The shocking sound and effect of the titanic struggle between Wulfgar and the drider gave them pause, but the berserkers had come in to the call of the horn for one reason alone: to fight against the enemies of the one who blew the horn.
The surreal stillness shattered as the berserkers threw themselves into battle against the undead, and Thibbledorf Pwent, a battlerager in heart and soul, was more than happy to engage.
He met the charge of a berserker, lowering his head at the last moment to drive his helmet spike right through the reckless fool. He snapped up straight as the spike plunged through, and held his hands out wide, laughing maniacally as if in expectation of a shower of blood.
But these manifestations didn’t bleed, and the corporeal form exploded into sweeping dust when Pwent struck the mortal blow, leaving the vampire standing alone, confused and hungry.
And angry.
He leaped to the side and dispatched a second berserker, even as his minions pulled down a third, tearing at flesh, then swiping futilely at flying dust.
“Pwent, no!” Drizzt screamed from the side of the room as the four undead charged at the foursome across the way, Pwent leading the way to Wulfgar, it seemed.
And over on that side, Wulfgar was clearly no less angry. He stood beside the broken drider, blood running freely down his muscular chest, leaning uneasily on his stabbed foot, and with every vampiric strike on one of Tempus’s warriors, he growled and limped forward.
“No, boy!” Drizzt heard Bruenor warn.
“Go,” Entreri told him, and shoved Drizzt into pursuit, and ran for Pwent right alongside him.
Then came the roar of “Tempus!” and Aegis-fang spun out from Wulfgar’s hands, flying into the approaching Pwent. The dwarf didn’t dematerialize at all, but took the ringing blow, one that sent him staggering and skidding backward several strides, one that actually seemed to hurt him.
Catti-brie moved up beside Wulfgar and held forth her hand, invoking the glory of Mielikki, the very name manifesting itself as a bright light upon the woman. The vampire minions staggered and turned away, hunched and cowering.
But not Pwent.
He focused on Wulfgar, seemingly oblivious to Drizzt and Entreri as they closed in fast from behind. Not fast enough, however, for the vampire executed that curious and devastating ghost-step to bring himself right in front of the man, fog trailing and swirling as he became solid once more, holding fast for just an instant before leaping onto Wulfgar, who caught the force fully and went flying away in a clench with the dwarf.
Pwent began to thrash and shake, but the sheer strength of Wulfgar matched the dwarf and kept him from ripping Wulfgar apart with his ridged armor. They rolled and struggled mightily, Bruenor trying vainly to intercede, Catti-brie beginning yet another spell.
On one roll, Pwent put his stout legs under him and regained his footing, driving Wulfgar back. But Wulfgar, as in his previous existence, was possessed of fine agility for one so large and he turned his torso and also got his feet planted, and so Pwent’s drive actually brought the barbarian upright as well.
Pwent tried to punch, but Wulfgar held him by the wrists. They struggled and twisted, the dwarf suddenly lowering his head to line up his helmet spike.
Wulfgar had to grab it to twist it aside, and he tried to twist further, to throw the dwarf off him.
He wasn’t fast enough, though, as Pwent’s freed hand immediately pounded against the barbarian’s massive chest, the gauntlet spike tearing through flesh and rib and lung alike, and Wulfgar went staggering back and to the ground.
“Pwent!” Bruenor screamed, finally catching up and throwing himself against the dwarf.
Pwent bounced aside and turned, ready to leap back in. He paused, though, and stood there staring at Bruenor, confused, trembling.
“Me king,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow, and he lowered his gaze in shame.
“Get aside, ye fool! By Moradin’s word, get aside!” Bruenor roared.
Pwent looked up at him and nodded. “Me king,” he said reverently, and seemed fully in control once more, and full of remorse and shame.
Drizzt and Entreri came running up, swords in hand, and skidded to a stop behind Bruenor, who lifted his hand to halt them.
“Ye do what I’m tellin’ ye, and ye do not-a-thing more,” the dwarf king said to Pwent, who nodded obediently.
But that nod transformed into a cu
“Girl?” Bruenor asked at the same time Pwent yelled, “No!” and leaped for the woman.
And again, this seemed a curious, supernatural stride, one elongated and too swift, and one full of spinning wisps of foggy trails.
But Pwent didn’t materialize from that step as before, and indeed became wholly insubstantial, mist or fog or dust, perhaps, right before all of it swept into the object Catti-brie held before her: Wulfgar’s horn.
The silver horn shuddered with the vampire dwarf’s entrance, and a strange low note came forth, spraying the dust of captured ancients, and ten berserkers appeared in the room before Catti-brie. They all looked around curiously, confused, and they all blew away to dust, then to nothingness altogether.
“Girl, what’d’ye do?” Bruenor asked, running up.
Already bathed in her ghostly blue mist, Catti-brie tossed him the horn and fell over Wulfgar, casting once more. Blue tendrils snaked out of her sleeves and rolled down over the prone form, warm healing to wash over the badly wounded Wulfgar.
“Girl?” Bruenor asked breathlessly a few moments later, Drizzt flanking him. Just to the side of them, Entreri helped Regis back to his feet, and they, too, looked on.
Catti-brie looked up and smiled, and below her, Wulfgar matter-of-factly remarked, “Ouch,” then with great difficulty propped himself up on his elbows.
Drizzt took the horn from Bruenor and held it up to examine it, and noted a crack running along its side.
“Ye breaked it, girl,” Bruenor remarked when Drizzt pointed it out.
“It will hold him.”
“I had him back to his senses,” Bruenor protested. “We ain’t done yet!”
“No, but Pwent is,” Catti-brie said, rising and coming over to take back the horn. She slung it over her shoulder, shaking her head to deny any forthcoming protests from the dwarf.
“We came for Pwent and we got him,” Regis interjected. He looked at the man standing beside him and added, “We came for Entreri and we got him.”
Entreri looked down at him curiously. “Who are you?” he asked, and in response, Regis held up his hand with the missing finger, a digit removed in the trauma of his near-catastrophic birth, but so eerily similar to the wound Entreri had put upon him in his previous existence.
Entreri turned his confused expression to Drizzt, who merely answered, “Are you really surprised by anything anymore?”
The assassin shrugged and glanced back the other way, where the vampire minions huddled together at the far end of the room, cowering from Catti-brie’s powerful invocation. He nodded to Drizzt and started off to dispose of them, but it was Regis who led the way.
“Ye sure it’ll hold him, then?” Bruenor quietly asked Catti-brie when the trio had gone off.
The woman inspected the horn and nodded.
Bruenor sighed.
“It is best,” Catti-brie said. “Pwent can’t control himself—not for long, and not for much longer at all. It’s a curse full of great powers, and surely not a blessing. We’ll find him his rest, the proper rest for Thibbledorf Pwent.”
“Ah, but I loved the dirty brawler.”
“And Moradin will enjoy him at the great feast,” Catti-brie replied, managing a smile, and Bruenor nodded again.
“Ouch,” Wulfgar said again from beside them, and with great effort, he rolled around and managed to sit up.
Bruenor pulled one of Regis’s healing potions from his belt, but Wulfgar waved him away. “We may need it later,” he said, his voice still a bit breathless.
They sent Regis to finish off the crawling beast, then Drizzt and Entreri waded into the trio of cowering undead with wild abandon, blades hacking the creatures apart before they ever knew they were being attacked.
“Is it really them?” Entreri asked quietly, and Drizzt nodded.
“Where is Dahlia?” Drizzt asked as they approached the hanging cages.
Entreri shook his head. “I haven’t seen her in more than a day—perhaps longer. I have little sense of the passage of time down here.”
“Effron?”
Entreri shook his head, and pointed to lead Drizzt’s gaze to the misshapen pile of splattered skull.
Drizzt gasped and averted his eyes.
“They tormented her with that, your fine kin,” Entreri said. “The sight of it … of him, broke her and left her vulnerable.”
Drizzt sighed. He could only imagine the pain such a loss would have inflicted on fragile Dahlia, and so soon after she had come to reconcile with her son, both in his forgiveness of her and her own forgiveness of herself. Effron had allowed Dahlia to come to terms with her own dark past, and had given her hope for the future.
And there it lay, splattered on the floor.
“How long since your capture, do you think?” Drizzt asked, needing to shift the subject.
“Several days—less than a tenday, I believe. They took us in Port Llast, and laid waste to much of the place.”
Drizzt looked around, his expression curious. “Not so many dark elves,” he remarked.
“Because Tiago led them off,” Entreri replied, “with an army at his heels—looking for you, I expect. That seems to be the driving desire in his life.”
Entreri climbed up the side of Afafrenfere’s cage and picked the lock quickly, then dropped down to help the drow ease the monk to the floor. Fortunately, this cage hadn’t been glyphed like Entreri’s.
“We’ll throw him in the primordial pit,” Entreri offered. “So they can’t raise him and torment—”
“No,” came an interruption, a weak and parched whisper—from Afafrenfere!
Entreri jumped back and nearly jumped out of his boots, staring wide-eyed.
“We thought you were dead,” Drizzt cried.
“For all the days we’ve been here!” Entreri added.
The monk stiffly moved up to one elbow, swallowing repeatedly. “Fortunately,” he said, his voice a thin whisper, “so did our captors.”
“How?” Entreri cried. “What?”
“He faked his death,” Regis announced, rushing over to join them, having finally dispatched the crawling monstrosity. “Convincingly! He is a monk, after all.”
“Repeatedly,” Afafrenfere confirmed. “Whenever anyone was about.”
“You could have let me know,” said Entreri. “For all the days I hung beside you.”
“That the illithid might draw it from your thoughts?”
“You’re lucky we didn’t just leave you here,” Entreri grumped.
Afafrenfere started to rise and Drizzt and Entreri moved fast to help him up, but they found immediately that they would have to fully support him if he was to remain upright. They eased him to a sitting position instead, and Drizzt called out to Catti-brie.
“Now what?” Entreri asked Drizzt when the group, now seven strong, was all together.
“We should make for the exit quickly,” Catti-brie said, and nodded at Wulfgar and Afafrenfere, both sitting propped against the wall, both weak and weary and in no condition for another fight anytime soon.
But Drizzt answered by bringing forth the mace the largest of the driders had carried. “Amber is down here,” he said. “And Dahlia, likely.”
“Likely both dead or taken away by those who fled,” Entreri answered.
“Like Effron? So we should leave?” Drizzt asked, and it seemed more an accusation than an honest question.
“No,” Entreri answered. “You and I should go and find them. And quickly.”
Drizzt looked to Catti-brie, who nodded.
“Not without meself, ye don’t,” Bruenor grumbled.
“Or me,” said Regis.
“Aye,” Entreri sarcastically replied. “Because it would do well to leave our injured with the woman alone, to face the drow should they return
Bruenor made a noise that sounded remarkably like a growl.
But Entreri ignored him. “Stealth,” he said to Drizzt.
“I’m as quiet as any,” Regis protested.
“And speed,” Entreri added without missing a breath. He turned to Regis. “Then keep a silent watch,” he said and started off. Or tried to, but by that point, his adrenalin had played out and his knee buckled. He pulled himself straight immediately and stood very still, as if willing away the pain.
A tap on his side brought Entreri from his self-imposed meditation to find Regis standing beside him, holding forth a small potion bottle.
“Healing,” the halfling offered, and when Entreri took it, he handed him a second vial. “For the drow poison,” he explained.
Entreri settled comfortably as the first potion filled him with warmth, and he tipped a nod to Regis before quaffing the second. “Off,” he said to Drizzt, “with all speed.” And he started away once more.
Drizzt looked all around. He didn’t want to leave his friends in this dangerous place, not for a moment, but he knew that Entreri was right, and that Amber and hopefully Dahlia needed him. He dropped Taulmaril and the enchanted quiver at Catti-brie’s feet.
“You take it,” she said, but Drizzt just shook his head and sprinted away, hustling to catch up to Entreri.
Regis moved around the Forge, inspecting the work areas and pocketing more than a few items in that magical pouch he carried.
Bruenor went to the mithral door, nodding. He knew what lay behind it. It would not open, however, and he could find no handle to try to pull it in. He put his shoulder against it and pushed, but he might as well have been pushing against the mountain itself.
Drizzt and Entreri, too, had gone to that door first, then had rushed off to the far end of the room, angling down the corridor where some of the drow had run off.
Wulfgar, much-improved by Catti-brie’s healing, sat up against the wall, resting easily and with Aegis-fang close at hand. If the drow came in, he would stand against them. Beside him, Afafrenfere lay on his back, working his arms up into the air in small circles, and his hands working in circles of their own, fingers lifting and closing as he tried to reawaken muscles that had been dormant for days. His voice was still thin as he explained the monk technique of feigning death to Wulfgar and Catti-brie.