“How long do we have?” Berellip asked Tiago, and not Ravel. “They will find another way down, if they haven’t already,” Tiago replied.

“The Shadovar have sorcerers among their ranks and will not be deterred by the absence of a stairway. And sorcerers can surely sense the magic of the primordial. They will find the forge in short order, I would expect.”

“We must defend the forge,” Ravel insisted, coming back to stand before his sister.

“No open battles,” Berellip declared. “I’ll not lose Xorlarrin drow to the likes of the Netherese. Why are we even fighting the minions of the Shadowfell?”

“Mostly we have been running, not fighting,” Tiago remarked.

“It’s possible that Bregan D’aerthe is hovering about,” Jearth interjected. “Kimmuriel’s scouting party came into Gauntlgrym ahead of the Shadovar, it would seem.”

“They would be a great asset,” Berellip remarked. “But at what cost?”

“Who can know?” Tiago asked, and started away. “I am off to the forge. Do I organize a defense or a retreat?”

“We don’t know how many of the Netherese have come,” Jearth warned before Berellip could decide.

“Both,” the priestess demanded of Tiago, at the same moment that Ravel said, “Defense.”

Ravel looked past Berellip as he spoke, though, to see Jearth shaking his head at Ravel, warning him to back down.

“Shut down the forges and prepare a retreat,” Berellip then added, staring hatefully at Ravel the whole while.

“The narrow and dark tunnels will favor us, should we need to continue any fighting with the Shadovar,” Jearth put in. “We would err in standing against this unexpected enemy in pitched battle.”

“We have ample fodder for that,” said Ravel.

“Do we?” Jearth replied before Berellip could chime in. “The Shadovar ranks include many wizards—not to match the power of your spellspinners, likely,” he quickly added, seeing Ravel’s scowl. “But enough to wipe out our goblinkin allies, and we’ll need them to secure the complex when the Netherese depart or are dispatched.”

“And Menzoberranzan won’t send us any more of the vermin anytime soon,” Berellip added evenly, and undeniably threateningly, Ravel understood.

Ravel rubbed his eyes, trying to sort it all out. What had brought this new force to Gauntlgrym, and why now, at this precise moment? He had been so close to his ultimate triumph! The whole of Gauntlgrym was soon to be his, a city for House Xorlarrin, blessed by House Baenre. Matron Zeerith would hold him in highest standard and no more would Berellip or Saribel or any of his other sisters dare lift a snake whip his way.

Berellip had moved away by this time, no doubt confident that Tiago Baenre would heed her command and not his, Ravel realized. And he didn’t disagree with that conclusion, for in truth, Berellip’s order to stand down was by far the wiser course. Let the Shadovar move forward. Lead them down the long tunnels of the Underdark, the haunt of the drow.

And why were they fighting against the Netherese, anyway, he wondered? Perhaps there was no love between the denizens of the Shadowfell and those of the Underdark, but neither, to Ravel’s knowledge, were there any avowed hostilities.

“We must discern why they have come, and why they are attacking us,” he said, drawing the attention of Berellip and Jearth and the others in the room, including Tiago, who hadn’t yet departed and was watching the play quite attentively. Ravel looked to Jearth and asked, “Who started the fighting in the upper halls?”

“When two such forces come together unexpectedly in a dark and dangerous place. . . .” Jearth remarked, as if that should explain everything. “And it appears that the Shadovar were already engaged against Kimmuriel’s scouting band, in any case.”

“Perhaps they’re our enemies, then,” Ravel said. “Perhaps not.”

Berellip took a step toward him.

“In either case, we’ll not share Gauntlgrym,” the Xorlarrin spellspinner decreed. “This is our complex now, and the Shadovar will accept that, or they will feel the sting of drow metal.”

“Should we assemble in the great stair cavern for your magnificent battle, then?” Berellip asked with dripping sarcasm.

Ravel knew better than to take that bait. “No, dear sister,” he said. “You were correct in your assessment. Forgive me my anger, but understand it in the context that we are so close to that which our family has wanted for millennia. It is not so easy for me to give it away.”

Berellip scowled and Ravel quickly added, “Even temporarily. But indeed, you are correct. Let us stretch their lines into corridors of our choosing. If they are foolish enough to pursue, let us fight them with proper drow tactics, on proper drow battlefields.”

Berellip stared at him for a while longer, then nodded slightly—and it seemed to Ravel as if she and he had made some progress in resolving their unspoken rivalry. He wanted to lash out at her for publicly slapping him, of course, for ever had he been a prideful male. But no, he would do no such thing. He needed her, more now than ever.

“Go to Yerrininae,” he instructed Jearth. “The fierce driders will be hungry for battle, but I’ll not lose them, even if it meant a hundred dead Shadovar for every slain drider.”

“Let the goblins engage them as we stretch back our lines?” he asked, and pointedly did not instruct, Berellip.

She slowly shook her head.

Not even the fodder.

Ravel’s face brightened suddenly with an idea. “Brack’thal, then,” he said. “Let our brother strike at the invaders with his fiery pets. Surely the Shadovar will not even be able to place the blame upon us should we come to negotiations, given the current lord of these halls.”

Berellip stared hard for many heartbeats, but eventually she nodded her agreement, and even managed a congratulatory smile for her brother.

“I will instruct him,” Tiago said, and with a nod, he jumped astride Byok and headed for the forge.

Ravel watched him go suspiciously. He alone knew of the treasure Tiago sought in the forge, the sword and shield Gol’fanin was even then creating, and he wondered if the Baenre would be patient enough to surrender the forge to the Netherese, even temporarily. He shook the thought away, though, for wasn’t Ravel’s own stake here at least as great? When he turned back to Berellip, he was glad of his sister’s expression indeed, but whatever gains in understanding he and Berellip had made to diminish their personal squabbling seemed a minor victory next to the new threat that had interrupted their plans.

This was to be Xorlarrin’s city. They were not about to let a group of Shadovar chase them off . . . for long.

“So they came here to join in with the drow’s friends,” Glorfathel remarked glumly, shaking his head. “Our task just got much more difficult.”

“Nah,” Ambergris replied, but Alegni’s voice spoke over her.

“The drow risk war with Netheril, then,” he said. “Do they understand that?”

“We cannot know, but perhaps a parley,” Glorfathel started to answer, but Ambergris interrupted.

“Ain’t no drow friend o’ Drizzt Do’Urden,” she said. “If they runned into a drow patrol, then that one’s likely dead already.”

“How do you know that?” Alegni asked suspiciously.

“Amber Gristle O’Maul, o’ the Adbar O’Mauls,” Ambergris answered with a bow. “The name o’ Drizzt Do’Urden’s well known in Citadel Adbar, don’t ye doubt. And he ain’t no friend of his kin. They come to catch him afore. They started a war about him. Nah, Warlord, if Drizzt runned into them drow, and them drow figured out ’twas Drizzt, then Drizzt is caught or dead, don’t ye doubt.”

“Then the other drow might not even know what they have,” Glorfathel offered. “Perhaps there is hope for a parley.”

“We don’t even know if they have him, or the sword,” Effron argued.

Herzgo Alegni closed his eyes and listened for that silent call once more, listened for the telepathic voice of Claw, his beloved sword.

“They may still be in the upper levels,” Effron went on, speaking to him directly and drawing him from his contemplations.

The warlord shook his head confidently. “It does not matter,” he said.

“If we wish to catch them . . .” Effron started.

“We wish to stop them first,” Alegni declared, and all four looked at him curiously. “They seek the primordial,” he explained. “They look to destroy Claw. That is why they have come,” he added, looking at Ambergris, who had first posited such an opinion.

“You cannot know that,” Effron replied, even as Ambergris nodded her agreement with Alegni.

Alegni’s glare came as a clear warning to the twisted warlock. “The sword calls to me. Press on with all speed. We must find the beast quickly and secure the area around it. They will come to us, or they will flee and the threat to the sword will be diminished.”

“There are other drow about,” Glorfathel reminded him.

“If we encounter them, and they have captured or allied with our enemies, let us tell them what they have and who they have,” Alegni replied. “If they cooperate, then the fighting in the tunnels above will be forgiven. If not, then let us pay them back for those we lost. In the aftermath of such a battle, so will be declared war between Netheril and the drow, and the Empire will send us an endless line of soldiers.”

“I can find the primordial,” Glorfathel assured him. “Its magic resonates all around us.”

Alegni nodded and motioned to his nearby commanders to tighten up the ranks, that they could press on with all speed.

The giant crow swooped down from on high, one end of a fine elven rope in her beak. She alighted atop the highest remaining stair, near the hinge that had allowed the clever denizens below to fold half the stairwell down over the lower half. It was a marvelous design, but Dahlia had no time to consider it at length then. She reverted to her elf form and tied off the rope as tightly as she could, then waited as the two up on the landing pulled it even tighter and tied it securely above.

Drizzt went first, sliding down under the line, a leather belt pouch looped over the cord as a makeshift handle. Entreri came close behind, and even as he started, and before Drizzt had set down on the stairs, Dahlia became a crow again and flew back up.

She understood Entreri’s impatience when she arrived at the landing, given the unmistakable sounds of an approaching force. She didn’t even revert from the crow form, using her beak to pull free the knots.

And quickly she was gone, swooping again from on high, soaring past her two friends as they scrambled along the stair, and down to the bottom to ensure that the large chamber was indeed empty.

The three companions entered the tunnels quickly and made for the forge, and for the pit of the great beast. Dahlia couldn’t help but notice that Drizzt grew quite agitated. He kept dropping his hand into his belt pouch—where he kept the panther figurine, she knew.