Don't go to Sleep
by Iliana Maura
Note: doubles over, panting for breath takes a puff from her inhaler okay, almost there, almost done--we're on the last lap! By the way, almost everything about the Bregan D'aerthe compound is made up--there's really no information (to my knowledge) about its actual layout.
Chapter Eighteen : Harl'il'cikin ulu elghinn
For the first few second, Jarlaxle did not realize what he was hearing; all his soldiers had been trained both how to use it and what to do when it was heard; but no one, not even Jarlaxle himself, had ever really expected to hear it.
The alarm.
The low sound moaned through the stone wall of the Clawrift compound, almost more felt than heard. The mercenary sat at his desk, feet still propped on its smooth surface, and observed his own reactions with a strange sense of detachment; his heart stuttered inside his chest, and for a long, long moment his lungs did not draw any air.
Someone burst through the door without knocking. Jarlaxle sucked in a breath and chased the spots from eyes, wishing he could do the same with the fear rising in his breast.
"We're under attack!" the other drow cried. It was Say'evett, Jarlaxle noted without any interest; he seemed caught between wild panic and uncaring apathy; the combination frightened the small part of him that clung to sanity.
"Yes, I'd heard the alarms," the mercenary leader commented. He was amazed at how casual, even dryly humorous, his voice sounded. As though acting of its own accord, his body swung out of his chair and walked around his desk. Outside the door, he found his personal guard had gathered, as they were ordered to do if the compound was ever attacked.
Unsure of what to do, Jarlaxle studied their faces, trying to seem as though he were confident and in control. The drow who looked back at him showed fear and uncertainty across their faces, reflecting the emotions he himself felt; he wasn't sure whether that made him feel better or worse.
"Down," he said at last. "Down to the Phalar."
The Phalar was the deepest level of the Clawrift compound, and the most defensible. Full of traps, labyrinths, and places to set ambushes, it was the place Jarlaxle had planned to retreat to if the compound should ever be under attack.
There was, in fact, another office within the Phalar, much smaller than his regular one. The entire level was covered with dust; the only reason why someone should go down there being to check that the traps were still set or replenish things like potions and poisons, which grew weaker with age.
Jarlaxle sneezed as he settled into the chair, grimacing at the dust that coated his clothing. There was no one else in the room, for the moment, and he took the opportunity to run through his thoughts. The hesitation he had displayed, not to mention both the panic and the apathy, disturbed him. But then, he had never really imagined that anything like this would happen; he couldn't really be blamed.
Over the next hour, reports filtered through, spies and scouts returning from the battle. The attackers were, as Jarlaxle had expected, Veldrin soldiers; from the reports of their numbers, the mercenary leader suspected Eliek had turned out his entire band for the attack.
Several times, Jarlaxle could hear fighting from where he sat, but it always faded away and never drew closer; the enemy soldiers were attacking in groups of ten or twenty, easily crushed by Bregan D'aerthe whenever one managed to reach the Phalar.
After many nerve-wracking minutes, Say'evett burst through the door, grinning. "They're out of the compound!" he exulted. "There's still fighting, but it's all on the streets now; the compound is closed and is being searched."
Jarlaxle grinned, then flung back his head and laughed out of pure joy; Say'evett joined him. The mercenary rose to his feet and began to head back towards his main office. "Send orders to make sure none of the Veldrin soldiers live, unless they join our ranks; they know where out compound is, and we can't allow them to spread that knowledge."
Say'evett, still grinning, gave a short bow and started away. Jarlaxle's personal guard gathered around him, and they began their silent trek back to the upper levels. They encountered a few scattered groups of enemy soldiers, who either died or came over, but more often found other Bregan D'aerthe members, cleansing the compound of any attackers still left.
There was a lull, during which no drow of either side were spotted, and the group moved on unmolested. Jarlaxle was just beginning to think they might reach the main level without any serious damage when there was a signal from the point.
Enemy force, came the message, coded in flashes of heat-light. Very large.
Before any return message could be sent, the "very large" force came into view, the main body of it attacking head-on, while others ambushed from the ceiling or walls. An oath burst from Jarlaxle's lips. He was safe within the center of his guards, but the Veldrin soldiers outnumbered his own; it was not going to be a pretty fight.
There was no more time for speculation; the two forces collided with a clash of mithral and steel. At first there was no sound from the drow themselves; then, as the fighters had time to wound each other, grunts and small cries of pain rose up. Small screams were quickly smothered by blood-warmed metal.
Whenever the chance arose, Jarlaxle used his magical bracers to cut down the enemy soldiers. It was a difficult task; much of the area was covered by globes of darkness, and the the mercenary was not fond of striking his own troops. Nonetheless, many of the Veldrin soldiers fell to his daggers, and his Bregan D'aerthe guards sent up small cheers every time.
Lost in the heat of battle, Jarlaxle had taken little notice of how his own force had fared, besides to notice who was winning. Now he paused, and realized with a shock that his guards had been over halved: they had gone from a little over fifty to barely twenty. Still, they had killed the enemies at a ratio of two to one: the Veldrin force had started at eighty, and was now only thirty. Jarlaxle grinned with pride and renewed his attack.
With the mercenary leader's murderous daggers, the enemy ranks diminished swiftly; they were unable to reach Jarlaxle, but he could easily hit them, especially with less of his own soldiers to get in the way. First one, then the rest, dropped their weapons and folded their arms across their chest, the Underdark symbol of surrender.
There was a small movement off to his right; Jarlaxle glanced over and spotted Minet Kor'tath leaning casually against the stone within a crevice. Several thoughts rushed through his mind at once, the foremost being to simply notify his soldiers and let them kill her. Reconsidering, he touched the brim of his hat with his fingertips and smiled, waiting to see what her reaction would be.
I told you this was not over, she said in the silent drow hand-speech. Her face was hard and unsmiling.
Making sure none of his soldiers were watching him, Jarlaxle signed back. You play a fruitless game; what do you think to win from it?
Your head.
Jarlaxle only raised an eyebrow. All of this, for my head? Or did you simply want the hat?
Minet's jaws clenched, and her eyes narrowed. You betrayed my family, her fingers snapped. You played both sides and my House was destroyed because of it!
Both of the mercenary's eyebrows were raised. That is the drow way, he countered. You shouldn't take it personally.
A wicked grin blossomed on her face; Jarlaxle did not like what the change in expression implied. Then you won't take it personally, she purred, amazing the mercenary with how sensuous her hands could be, if I tell you I was the one who suggested to Matron Malice Do'Urdan that she sacrifice Zaknafein?
Jarlaxle's hands stuttered. What?
Her smile widened, obviously knowing she had him trapped. Send your soldiers away, and I'll tell you.
The mercenary hesitated; he knew she wanted to get him alone so she could kill him and revenge her family, hopefully thereby regaining the favor of the Spider Queen. He knew that, and knew that everything she said was simply bait, trying to get him alone. But the bait was too tempting; he had to know.
"Help search the compound and ensure that it's clear," Jarlaxle ordered his captain, a very small, but lightning-quick male with a dark scar across his face. "When you're sure that all the attackers are neutralized, help with the fighting in the streets, if there still is any, or whatever else you feel is necessary. I have business to attend to."
The captain looked confused, but bowed anyway. "Yes, sir."
Jarlaxle mimicked Minet's pose on the other side of the passage until his guards were out of sight.
"You were saying?" he asked.
Minet laughed. "I was saying nothing. Matron Malice and I were good friends, it's true, but I certainly had nothing to do with your precious Zaknafein's death."
"I know a lot about it, though," she continued. "Maybe you'd like to hear."
A strange sort of anger had filled the mercenary, and he bared his teeth in a predatory smile. Minet took a startled step back.
"Maybe I would," he purred, pretending, for her sake, to be considering her offer. His expression hardened quickly. "Or maybe I wouldn't"
He produced a dagger from his bracer, and threw it at her face.
Catti-brie took a deep breath and knocked softly on Ivellios Amanodel's door. For a moment nothing happened, and she glanced around her, taking in one of the lesser-used sections of Mithral Hall, reserved for visitors.
She knocked again, but got no reply. Had he left? She tried the doorknob and found it unlocked. A strange feeling of deja vu washed over her--that she had done this before, and something bad had come of it--but she pushed open the door anyway.
Her gaze flew to the window--but there wasn't a window there. What are ye thinkin'? She chided herself. Ye're underground! She shook her head to clear and finally saw Ivellios, standing in the middle of the room with his sword bared.
Startled, the woman took a step back. "What are ye doin'?" she cried.
Calmly, the elf answered, "I'm going to kill myself."
Thoughts tumbled aimlessly through the woman's mind. "Why?" she demanded at last.
Ivellios flung back his head and laughed madly. "Why?" he echoed. "This is why!"
With speed to almost rival Drizzt's, the elf lunged at Catti-brie, his sword extended.
Minet simply batted away the blade with her mace, and before Jarlaxle could produce another, she used her sword arm to throw something on the ground. It shattered, and the mercenary instinctively produced a globe of darkness, thinking the object contained a light spell. To his surprise, no light appeared--but neither did any darkness.
Not a light spell, he realized with a silent curse, an anti-magic spell; all his charms and defenses were useless, while Minet, no longer able to call on Lolth, would only lose her innate abilities.
She grinned at him. "Weren't expecting that, were you?" she taunted.
Her tease about Zak had angered him, and he was in no mood to play games. Silently thanking whatever god was listening that he had chosen to wear his swords today, he drew the fine blades and settled into a relaxed fighting stance.
"A warrior!" Minet laughed. "Why, I half expected you to be a wizard under all those charms. Ah, well; it only makes my job a little harder."
"So cheerful now," Jarlaxle returned. "Does that mean you were afraid before you used your spell? I wouldn't think that I am any diminished, if I were you."
Minet did not falter. "If you think you're going to cow me into giving up, think again; I won't flee from you."
Jarlaxle feigned an unconcerned shrug. "I don't see why you shouldn't. You mother did; I would think those things run in families."
The former noble gave an inarticulate cry of rage and rushed the mercenary. Thinking of Zak, Jarlaxle only grinned and held his ground. Her first strike had too much force to stop, so he caught it with his left blade while predictably moving forward with his right. She blocked with her shield and swung her mace again.
Catti-brie drew her sword and fell back several more steps, passing into the corridor. Ivellios's lunge brought him into the doorway, where he paused.
"What are you doing?" Catti-brie demanded, bringing her sword up in front of her.
The elf gave a low chuckle. "Arvylyn asked that, as well," he said, as though to himself. "But then, you've all been tricked by the same person, and in the same way; it only makes sense that you'd ask the same questions."
Catti-brie's eyes widened. "You killed Arvylyn!" she gasped. "Why?"
Ivellios shrugged, as though it meant nothing. "He would have warned the drow."
"The drow--" Catti-brie's sword dipped as the full implications of what he was saying his her. Not missing the opening, Ivellios dived forward.
Something angry stirred beneath Catti-brie's stomach. Instead of retreating, she parried his strike and waded forward, forcing him back into the room. Keeping within the doorway, she fixed a cold glare on the elf.
"You created a magical illness to kill drow--and especially Drizzt--and killed Arvylyn Quenvath to keep him from spreading that knowledge."
Ivellios returned her stare without flinching. "You really don't understand, do you?" he asked, only somewhat mockingly. "You really believe that Drizzt Do'Urdan is a 'good drow'." He shook his head in pity. "You're wrong. There is no such thing as a good drow."
"No," Catti-brie retorted, with equal confidence. "You're wrong. You simply refuse to see what's right in front of you."
The elf raised an eyebrow. "What's right in front of me is you," he snarled. "A foolish girl who has been tricked by the most evil race on Toril."
The woman opened her mouth to reply, but Ivellios was done with words; he stepped forward and slashed at her face.
Jarlaxle ducked easily under the blow, and aimed one of his own, high at her face, which she instinctively covered with her shield. While her eyes were hidden, he stepped lightly to the side and thrust at her legs.
Anticipating his move, she tried to step out of the way, but was too slow; the tip of his sword pierced her right knee. She cried out and fell, but at the last moment threw her weight on top of him. Jarlaxle rolled to the side, but he didn't see her mace, and its spiked head crashed into his ribs.
An involuntary cry of pain was torn from his lips, and he collapsed on the floor beside Minet. She grinned hatefully at him, a grin of half-victory, of victory that comes with death.
"I won," she gasped.
Jarlaxle could feel the strength bleeding out of his body, his chest could not lift to breathe and sharp pains lanced through his lungs. I'm dying, he thought, and for some reason his mind found memories of Zak: Zak being so serious, so grim, yet sometimes, when it was just him and Jarlaxle, he would smile and laugh. Zak, so quiet and dependable, always there for him in a way no drow ever had been before.
No, he thought. No, I won't let her win.
One of his swords was still in his hand; where the other had gone, he didn't know. He lifted the sword, feeling his entire torso cry out in protest, and raised it over Minet. Seeing what he was doing, she tried to move away, but when she shifted her injured leg she screamed in pain. Trembling with effort, Jarlaxle plunged the sword through her heart. The last light of life dying in her eyes, she stared uncomprehending into his face.
"That's for taunting Zak," he snarled.
The priestess's eyes glazed over, her body went slack. The strength left Jarlaxle's body in a rush, and sagged against the bloody stone floor, feeling in his pouches for his healing orb. At last he found it, but as he pulled it out, someone's heat-shadow fell over him.
"I was hoping the elg'caress would do the job for me," a male voice said. "But it appears I'll have to finish it."
The orb was kicked out of his hands, and Jarlaxle watched helplessly as it sailed across the corridor and landed--but didn't break--against the far wall. Unable to turn and look at the speaker, Jarlaxle was forced to stay where he was, lying slightly curled on his side, facing the body of Minet Kor'tath.
The speaker walked partially around Jarlaxle, until he was standing above the mercenary's head. There was a pause, during which Jarlaxle watched bright red blood trickle from his ribs and drip silently onto the stone. Then a booted foot struck his shoulder, turning him roughly onto his back. He tried not to make any noise, but a groan escaped his unwilling lips.
He found himself looking up into the haughty face of Eliek, leader of Orbb wun lil Veldrin. His fellow mercenary leader sneered down at him.
"Not so mighty now, are we?" Eliek laughed.
"Strange," Jarlaxle gasped. "But you seem to be the one who's lost his band."
Eliek's expression soured, and he stomped his foot down, hard, on Jarlaxle's ribs. Something snapped, and gave, and the lower left side of his chest collapsed. Breathing seemed to bring in little air and much pain, and he began coughing on the blood leaking from within his lungs. A spasm wracked his body; pain forced him to scream, but lack of air reduced him to whimpering.
"You're pathetic," Eliek spat, and drew his sword. "I should have done this a long time." He slowly brought the blade to rest in the hollow of Jarlaxle's throat. Unable to stop coughing, Jarlaxle involuntarily scraped his throat back and forth across the edge, drawing irregular patches of blood.
Eliek leaned over Jarlaxle's face and whispered, "It ends here."