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Chapter Thirty-Six – Shelter

The path led up between high cliff walls, and the sound of feet against rock was muffled by the roaring of water nearby. The air moved, carrying currents redolent more of the surface above than the unmoving stone below. Here, the darkness was almost absolute, and Imloth found himself almost unaccustomed to it. His drow eyes could still sweep the blackness, and he saw the shapes of the rock, and his soldiers behind him, but it seemed odd, that not one light banished the shadows.

The trek up towards the dungeons of Undermountain had proved grueling. With many of his soldiers tasked to ferrying the wounded on stretchers, he was left with a bare handful for patrols. As it was, they encountered little; a scattered group of runaways from the Valsharess' fortress, some undead, and an equally surprised contingent of goblins. Nevertheless, the sheer tension of moving so achingly slowly through the unending darkness chewed at Imloth's nerves.

Perhaps having all those lights in Lith My'athar was not such a good idea, he thought grumpily. The blackness seemed to suck and pull at his skin, and he wondered what Jaiyan must have thought, a surfacer amid such strangeness.

The dark halls of Halaster's maze were worryingly empty. Imloth scouted in first, accompanied by some scant few soldiers. The signs of recent battle remained; great swathes of blood, splashed across the walls; and the stink of burned flesh and melted metal hanging on the air. They discovered heaped bodies, mostly drow, with ogres and orcs littered among them.

Imloth knelt beside a dead drow, used the end of his bow to tip the corpse over. His breath hissed between his teeth. "This isn't right. I know him."

Beside him, a drow scout stared. "What?"

"His name was Nalros," Imloth said, blank-faced. "He was young. Had the makings of a good scout, but buckled in close combat with too many foes." And he was part of a stupid gang who decided to corner our rivvil saviour and try and bait her into a fight.

"But…" The other drow shook his head. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know what it means. But I know I saw Nalros die at the Valsharess' fortress." Struck by a grim, cold thought, he peeled back the collar of Nalros' leather tunic. Underneath, behind a slash in the fabric, he found a huge gash; result of the arbalest that he had seen slam into the drow and take him off his feet.

And yet here he lay, with his throat opened, and another large, lethal cut on the inside of his thigh.

This made no sense. Unless Mephistopheles owned the strength and terrible power to call the dead back into service.

"He uses our friends and allies," the Seer said behind him.

He swung round, glared at her. "I thought you were staying with the others."

"The death in these rooms is not natural," she said, quietly.

"When is death at the end of a sword ever natural?"

"When the one struck down is afforded a clean departure to the worlds beyond the veil," the Seer murmured. "The walls here scream with spirits tied to a second, terrible end."

Never one for the arcane, always more trusting in well-oiled weapons he could feel, Imloth shivered. "The arch-devil."

"Yes." The Seer's luminous eyes flickered. "He calls those who fell at the fortress, and perhaps the spirits of those cut down at Lith My'athar. Perhaps even those who once dwelled in whatever hell he was called from."

"That would mean…" Mephistopheles has an endless supply of battle fodder, willing or otherwise. And he's headed straight for the surface, and a city full of ignorant rivvil.

"Yes," the Seer said again, answering the thoughts that flickered across his face. "And what must we do about it?"

You know damn well, he thought. "We go up there."

"Yes. What else could we do?"

Go back down. Slink off into the darkness. Hope that after he reduces Waterdeep to a pile of bubbling ash he entertains himself long enough with the marvels of the surface world that he doesn't think to look to the Underdark.

And how long would that last? A month? Two? Six? And then what?

"Die later," he muttered. "I just hope the innkeeper in that tavern is still alive, and willing to listen."

"His name is Durnan," the Seer said. "And he knew Jaiyan well."

Imloth straightened up from Nalros' body. He wondered if the curious, empty sensation that had lodged in his chest since the fall of Lith My'athar was hopelessness. He had been brought up to believe in nothing past the fierce thrill of victory in battle and violence, and the quieter, cold success of brutal manipulation. He remembered his mother, remonstrating him for worrying for his brother after a bad injury in the arena. Was his brother not male and worthless, like him, and whyever would he dream to show such weakness?

He had been packed off to his weapon master, he recalled, and not allowed back within his mother's sight until he killed his opponents all the faster, and with no single flicker of emotion.

Imloth shook himself, and motioned his scouts back out into the corridor. A careful, meandering hike up high stairs and past cavernous rooms took them through the empty halls of Halaster's maze. They found more dead drow, stacked against the walls like broken toys in black armour. The floor was slicked crimson, and Imloth padded carefully past yet another corpse with a face he knew.

Do not react. Show no emotion. You're drow. He drew in a deep breath. The copper scent of spilled blood clouded the air. He stepped over a dead drow's clenched hand, and past another's twisted head, and tried not to look in the open, glazed eyes.

Taken from their first deaths, and made to maraud through Undermountain at the whim of an arch-devil.

In stark, poised silence, Imloth led through high archways, and finally out through burned gates that hung wide. Here, the caverns were high and echoing, with tall rock pillars and pools of blanketing shadow. A wide platform hung from the darkness above, balanced on both sides with thick ropes.

He tipped his head back and tasted cool, moving air. Up here, so close to the surface, it simply felt different. The darkness seemed softer somehow, the air cleaner. Brought up in an outpost far from the world above, he had never seen the surface, and some part of him was childishly excited.

Stop, he thought. This is the worst time to be getting giddy about seeing the surface. Besides, you're a drow. You're unlikely to be welcomed with open arms.

He shook his head and firmly pushed back all such foolish thoughts and turned to the Seer. "I want all of you to stay down here."

To his surprise, she did not argue. "Take a torch," the Seer said quietly. "Sheathe your weapons. But do not risk yourself."

Imloth gazed at her for a long moment. "I don't suppose you have a spell that would make me look anything other than like a drow?"

For he did, and almost ridiculously so. What rivvil innkeeper was going to talk to him rather than gut him on the spot? He wore the segmented, close-fitting leather armour of a drow warrior, spiked and whorled at elbows and collar and ankles. His hair was long and laced at the temples with leather braids, and his eyes were pale. Even his bow and sword bore the elegant, dark hallmarks of drow craftsmanship; all curving edges and spiraling designs worked on metal and leather.

"Sadly, I don't," the Seer answered. "Be safe, Imloth."

He opened his mouth to say something else, changed his mind, and shrugged. "Don't go anywhere."

He accepted a lit torch from Nathyrra, winced as the flames seared across his vision. Still blinking rapidly, he stepped onto the platform. His bow was across his back, along with his quiver, and sword was strapped at one hip, a short-bladed knife at the other. Armed to the teeth, but how else am I meant to do this?

He heaved on the ropes, and the platform slowly rose, lifting him into warmer air. He glanced down, and saw the Seer's upturned face. Written into every angle of her ebony features, he saw fear. He pulled back from the edge of the platform, and wondered if he should have said anything else, something more comforting.

If Valen was here, you could've asked him. Except…he was generally as hopeless around females as you are.

But you have the excuse of being drow.

Imloth raised the torch, and the light spilled across the narrowing stone roof above. He gulped down a steadying breath and tried not to think too hard about exactly what he was doing.

The platform ground to a swaying halt, and he was suddenly very aware of the empty air beneath. Ahead, stone steps led up to what looked like a trapdoor. Good luck if it's locked, he thought sourly. Bet they'll all scramble to meet a visitor from the Underdark.

He moved cautiously onto the steps, listened. His sensitive drow ears picked up moving feet against floorboards, and voices raised to shouting. But no steel.

Half-convinced he was about to meet a messy end at the hands of righteous surfacers, Imloth heaved up against the trapdoor.

It gave way, and bright light spilled down. He stumbled, and flinched as the torch in his hand painted odd, wheeling shadows across the floor. He looked up, saw first the shocked expressions on the faces of surfacers. He noticed drawn swords next, and raised his free hand.

"Wait," he said quickly. "Please wait. I'm not…I need to see Durnan."

The nearest surfacer regarded him. He was a tall male whose broad frame rivaled Valen's, and he had short-cropped, sandy hair. "Drow? On your own?"

"Yes." Imloth lowered the torch. His heart hammered, fast enough he was sure they could hear it. "I need to see Durnan."

The man scowled. "Why?"

"I need to talk to him."

"Give us your weapons," the man snapped. "Then we'll see about it."

He did not want to shed his sword and bow, but he knew he had no choice. But what if they jump at you, unarmed drow? He studied the man's face a moment longer, and wondered what he thought. "Alright," he said slowly. "Then let me see Durnan."

"Just get those weapons off, drow."

Very carefully, he unbuckled his swordbelt with one hand, let it and the accompanying knife drop. His bow and quiver came next, falling alongside. Another surfacer darted in, scooped up his weapons. A third wrenched the torch from his hands.

The sandy-haired man regarded him through green eyes. "So what do you want, drow?"

"I told you," he said evenly. "I need to see Durnan."

"Yes? Why would a drow need to see him?"

They're surfacers, some half-forgotten part of his mind bristled. Kill them all for their impertinence. "I need to talk to him. I know about Jaiyan, and what happened in the Underdark."

The sandy-haired man laughed. "You come up here asking for Durnan, and expect us to be all welcoming and happy? You step through that door and expect friendship? You've come up from the Underdark, drow, and too many of your kind have been doing that to Waterdeep recently."

Imloth swallowed. "I know, but this is different."

"Is it?" The man laughed again, edged with bleakness. "Waterdeep is on fire, and you say you're here just to talk? I don't think so."

"Please," he grated. "Just let me see Durnan."

The man loomed in close, and Imloth suddenly realized how big he was. How big they all are, he thought desperately. And how the light's stinging my eyes. And how I should've left myself at least one hidden blade.

Stupid, trusting drow.

"You'll see him," the man said coldly. "But not standing."

The man gestured, and three of his cronies launched at the drow. Imloth ducked the first, twisted away from the second, and tried to deflect the third without hurting him. His every instinct screamed at him to lash out, to snap the man's neck, or land the kind of kick on a cluster of nerves he knew would paralyse.

"Wait!" Imloth darted another lunge. "Stop, please!"

Thick, muscular arms locked around his chest, pinioning him. He should snap his head back, he knew, slam himself against the man's chin and kill him while he staggered.

But he could not. Not while the Seer waited below.

He thrashed, held fast against the surfacer's broad chest. "Wait, please! I just want to talk to Durnan!"

More hands descended, wrenching his arms behind his back. A hard kick knocked his knees out from under him, and he buckled. He heard them laughing, and some terrible part of him wanted to leap at them and claw their throats open. A fist crashed against his forehead, and he saw stars.

"That's better." The sandy-haired man gripped his chin. "You drow move like eels. Slippery bastards."

Imloth stared up into the man's narrowed green eyes. "I need to see Durnan."

"So you say."

Another punch landed against his jaw, and he tasted blood. Another followed, and another. His head reeled, and he held on as they tied his wrists and kicked his ankles apart. Someone else landed a blow to the small of his back, and he hissed. A hand locked in his long hair and yanked his head back, baring his face for another flurry.

"Keep his weapons," the sandy-haired man ordered. "Fetch a nice price."

Somewhere close by, a door opened. Through a haze of blood and sweat, Imloth heard running footsteps.

"What's going on?" A hard, clipped voice, underscored by weariness.

The hands at Imloth's back melted away. He strained against the binds on his wrists, and tried to shake his hair out of his eyes. His mouth throbbed, and both cheekbones ached. Blood snaked past his lips. He heard more voices, clamouring that he was just a drow, found sneaking in. Someone else chimed in that he knew Durnan's name, and that of Jaiyan, and how could he know these things?

Fingers touched his chin, lifted his head. When he flinched away, the voice returned, softer this time. "It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."

He opened his eyes properly. He was staring at an older man, with a craggy, lined face, and lowered grey brows. "Are you Durnan?"

"Yes," the man said. "You asked for me?"

"Yes." He spat blood from torn lips. "My name is Imloth. I…I knew Jaiyan."

Durnan frowned. "What? You met her?"

"Yes. When she came down into the Underdark, I met her."

Durnan glared at the other surfacers. "Get those ropes off him."

The sandy-haired man shifted. "What if he plans to kill you?"

"Look at him," Durnan snapped. "You lads did so well for him, he couldn't kill a gnat right now. Keep his weapons and get those ropes off him."

The other surfacers obeyed, and Imloth felt the blood rush back into his hands. Durnan reached out, hauled him to his feet. He took a wary step, and staggered as the pain swept over his battered frame. Durnan propped him up, and muttered, "Come on, lad. Keep on going. Just up here, and I'll have you sat down."

Leaning heavily on the innkeeper, and horribly aware of the wide-eyed surfacers following him, he made it through the doors, and into the tavern. Not a tavern, he thought wildly. Not anymore. A headquarters. An infirmary.

Durnan guided him past a room given over to treating wounded, moaning surfacers, and through into what had once been the taproom. Ignoring the startled looks of a group of men at a table, the innkeeper propelled him into a small chamber and firmly closed the door.

"Now." Durnan folded brawny arms after he let Imloth collapse in the nearest chair. "I don't like what they did you, given as you seem to know Jaiyan, but you'd better give me something worth letting you live."

Imloth drew in an unsteady breath. "It's a long story."

Durnan busied himself finding a decanter and glasses. "I have time."

Haltingly, while the innkeeper poured him a generous measure of whiskey, Imloth explained. Recounted how their unwilling saviour had plummeted through Halaster's portal, locked into an unforgiving geas. How she had plunged out into the Underdark in search of allies, or enemies to cut down. How she had braved death and pain in Drearing's Deep, and Zorvak'mur. How she had stood beside them when the Valsharess sent her soldiers to destroy Lith My'athar. How she had been there, when they had taken what remained of their forces back to the Valsharess, in a ragged, last-gasp attempt to snatch some kind of victory from so much death. How the Valsharess had called upon the support of an arch-devil, and had been betrayed by her own overweening ambition.

"She's a stubborn one," Durnan said quietly. He topped up Imloth's glass. "And after she vanished inside?"

This part still stung; how he had hurtled into the fortress, to find nothing but blood, and the arch-devil unleashed.

"She's dead," he said, softly. "I'm so sorry."

Durnan stared at him for a long, uncertain moment. "Dead..?"

Imloth nodded, said nothing.

"I never thought…" Durnan sighed. "I never thought it'd be a drow telling me this. No offence."

Imloth shrugged. "I never thought I'd be beaten black and blue by surfacers."

Durnan's gaze sharpened. "Why were you? You drow are quick, agile and clever to boot. You let them do that."

"Not entirely." The whiskey slipped down his throat, burning and painful. "I needed to see you. To tell you what had happened to Jaiyan. And…and I have a favour to ask."

"You do?" Durnan blinked. "The city's on fire. There's creatures out there I doubt a bard could dream up. This place is as like as any to fall soon."

"I've already seen cities burn." The truth cut, that the rebels' survival might hinge on this innkeeper's choices. "I have more soldiers, and friends, waiting down in Undermountain. Could they…could you offer sanctuary?"

Durnan exhaled sharply. "Shelter? For a load of drow? You are joking."

Imloth said nothing.

"You're not joking. How many of you can still fight?"

"Enough. We have some wounded, but we have healers, also, and wizards. Provided your people don't try to hurt us, we'll aid you."

Durnan gulped down a good two inches of whiskey. "And if I say yes?"

"You have my soldiers, at your command." Imloth tipped his head to one side. "We know more than you, I'd wager, about facing fell creatures in the darkness."

"You have me there, lad." Durnan raked thick fingers through his hair. "Alright. This is how we do this. And only because you knew Jaiyan, you understand?"

Imloth heard the innkeeper's gruff tone, and hid his slight smile. "Understood."

"You bring your soldiers in. They stay with you, which means they stay with me as well – take them out of my sight, and I guarantee they'll be picking their own teeth up from the floor."

"Or your friends will be wondering where their heads went," Imloth muttered.

"Oh, I get it." Durnan glared. "Drow are faster than us. Doesn't matter right now, not with me having a tavern-full of men who want someone to blame. If this is going to work, we have to be damn careful. Agreed?"

Imloth nodded. "Agreed."

For a long moment, the innkeeper stared into his drink. "What was she like, the last time you saw her?"

Desperate. Almost weeping. Hunched over Valen and begging him to stay. "Brave," he half-lied. "Obstinate. Afraid but throwing it back in the teeth of the enemy."

"Silly girl." Durnan blinked rapidly. "I hope you told her so."

No, but I think Valen did. "She did everything she could. And that included being able to drink any drow under the table."

Durnan laughed. "That sounds about right." He scrubbed a hand roughly across his eyes. "Alright. Do you need a healer, lad?"

Don't call me that, Imloth thought, startled at how offended he felt. I'm close on two centuries, surfacer. "I'm fine."

"As you wish it." Durnan drained his glass, and some determined fire sparked in his eyes. "I'll go with you, then, and we'll get your people up here, and hope to the gods that arch-devil doesn't burn down the inn before we manage it."