Don't go to Sleep

by Iliana Maura

Chapter Nineteen : Nin udos harl'il'cikin ulu elghinn

Catti-brie brought up her sword vertically, point down, to block the elf's blow. Their swords rang out loudly, sound rebounding as it beat against the stone walls, looking for an escape. Not waiting, she turned her hand, circling her blade around his and pushing his out of the way, then stabbing straight ahead.

He leaned away from the attack, but kept his footing, and returned her exact strike. She parried, but instead of disconnecting their sword she stepped forward and slid her blade down his until they met, hilt to hilt. Bracing with her left hand, she pushed back against the elf with all her strength.

Unprepared, he stumbled backwards and was temporarily open to her strikes. She slashed at his face, but her aim was off and she only caught his left shoulder. Recovering, she thrust forward, but the elf had regained his balance and parried the blow.

There was a lull in the fight; the opponents circled each other, blades raised.

"You're doing this because your family was killed by drow," Catti-brie stated more than asked.

"My family was slaughtered by drow," Ivellios corrected angrily. "As was everyone else I had ever known!"

The woman matched his fury. "Did Drizzt do tha'? What he one o' those who attacked yer family?" When the elf made no immediate reply, she plunged on. "No! He wasn't! Always has Drizzt Do'Urdan been maligned fer th' color o' his skin--skin he can't change, else he would!"

"Change for the sole purpose of deceiving more, and destroying more," Ivellios spat back.

"Decivin' who?" Catti-brie demanded. "Destroyin' who? Name one who kin prove tha' Drizzt has done him harm, an' maybe I'll listen t' what ye have t' say!"

"I can't," the elf laughed. "They're all dead--dead like he, and all the rest of his evil kin will be!"

"Lady Alustrial's found a cure," Catti-brie lied, flinging out the words to shake the elf's confidence. "She's found a cure an' right now Drizzt's gettin' stronger!" Please let it be true, she begged whatever gods would hear. Please, let it be true.

Emotions tumbled across the Ivellios's slender elven features: disbelief, anger, fear, and something else--hope? Anger won out, and a snarl twisted his lips.

"You lie," he hissed, and lunged forward.

Eliek's fine blade dived straight into Jarlaxle's face. He had heard that your life flashed before your eyes in such a situation, or that you felt the weight of divine justice on you soul as all of you evil deeds were tallied.

All Jarlaxle could think was, no. No; I can't die like this, on my back at a lesser drow's feet.

I just can't.

But it seemed he could.

Another blade appeared before his eyes, and intercepted Eliek's. The sound of metal on metal scraped across Jarlaxle's ears; the rush of body-heat left him temporarily disoriented.

His sight and hearing cleared slowly; he trembled with pain and the sweet knowledge that he was alive. The sound of fighting came from his left. Slowly, he turned his head that way and was shocked to see Say'evett battling Eliek; it was his lieutenant who had saved him. Emotions pummeled his mind, but he forced them away and focused on the healing orb, lying only a few yards away.

It may as well have been a mile, the mercenary thought, but he turned himself over onto his side and began to crawl towards the orb. Moving any section of his body brought almost unbearable pain to his torso; he breath came irregular and bloody, or not at all. Thinking it would be less painful, he tried to climb onto all fours, but the pain drove him back to the floor, whimpering and involuntarily curling; when the worst of the agony had past he was forced to drag his shattered ribs across the stone, inch by tortuous inch.

The fighting continued to his left, but he was unable to spare it any thoughts. Several times there were low grunts of pain, and once a brief spate of talking, but his world had narrowed down the pain in his body and the ground between him and the orb.

An hour seemed to pass, during which Jarlaxle could not tell if he had covered any ground or not. His head swam, and his heart beat unevenly; blood loss, some small part of his mind noted. He looked at the ground in front of him and was surprised to see his healing orb lying there. When had he reached it? He couldn't remember.

Jarlaxle reached out to pick it up, but his arms refused to move. Slowly, he slid all the way onto the stone floor, unable to move or hold himself up any longer. Something that might have been a sob or a laugh escaped his bloody mouth; he'd made it this far, but now he was unable to finish it.

Zak, he told himself. Think of Zak. He tried to summon up memories, but only think of his friend tied to House Do'Urdan's spider alter, a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be. The thought did not even stir up anger, simply despair that dragged the mercenary farther down, all the way into the stone. His blood spilled cross the surface until both his body and the rock were warmed equally: warmer than stone should be, but cooler than a living body.

Jarlaxle closed his eyes and felt his heart stutter inside him. He imagined pulling it out and placing it inside of Zak, filling the cavity in his friend's chest. Zak's eyes opened.

"What are you doing?" the Weapons Master demanded.

The mercenary opened his mouth to answer, but only blood came out. It dripped across his lips and filled his mouth the its salty metallic flavor. It didn't taste bad, but it made him tired. He laid his head down on the stone and began to sleep.

Zak was right next to him; there was no longer a hole in his chest. "Get up, Jarlaxle," he ordered. When the mercenary made no move to obey, he grabbed the other's shoulder and shook him roughly. "Get up!"

Jarlaxle groaned in pain and pressed himself against the rock. It softened underneath him and he began to sink into its cool depths, but Zak held onto his shoulder and pulled him back out.

"You can't do this, Jarlaxle," the Weapons Master snapped. "You can't just give up."

Stone clung to him and tried to pull him back down. Why? He asked, without moving his lips.

"Someone will need you," Zak said grimly. "You know him already, and he'll need you in the future. You must be there for him. Besides--" a small smile touched his thin lips "--at least one of us needs to stay alive."

Alright, Jarlaxle thought, but as soon as he decided he would live, the task seemed too hard. He opened his eyes and stared in despair at the healing orb, only five inches from his face, then looked up at Zak, who knelt above him.

"You can do it," was all he offered.

Slowly, Jarlaxle inched his hand towards the orb. One fingertip touched its cool glass surface, than another. His bloody lips formed the words to activate it, and his one working lung pushed a little air through his throat, made a little sound with which to use the magic.

Sweet, sweet relief flowed up his arm. It was small at first--just enough to strengthen him, so he could wrap his whole hand around the orb. Then he pushed himself up onto his elbows, and began to heal his chest.

That took longer than he expected; the healing orb could only do so much, and he was forced to straighten broken bones, and remove two from his crushed lung. But with every second he felt stronger.

There was a cry from one of the fighting drow. Jarlaxle looked over quickly, just in time to watch Say'evett stagger back against one of the walls; his eyes met Jarlaxle's for a brief second, but then he closed them, pain in his face. His arms came up to wrap around his midriff, and he slowly slid down the wall until his legs were folded in front of him; a bright red smear marked his passage along the stone.

Catti-brie blocked, and the next few moments were pure instinct: parry, parry, slash, parry, thrust, all faster than her mind could follow. A small corner of her mind noted that Ivellios was not nearly as good as Drizzt; but then, neither was she.

One of the elf's thrusts slipped through her defenses and sank into her her stomach. It went no deeper than an inch, but she sucked a pained breath through her clenched teeth. When the opponents broke apart, Ivellios held up his sword with a cruel grin, showing her its bloody tip.

His wounds were only partially healed, but there was no time to finish. Spotting his swords, Jarlaxle snatched them up and rushed at Eliek. He made no sound, but the other mercenary noticed him anyway, and turned to meet the attack. Their swords clashed; the sound echoed within the stone corridor, and Say'evett groaned. The sound spurred Jarlaxle and he gave himself over to his instincts, let his body fight without his mind getting in the way.

His body, however, was still badly wounded. He could feel half-healed flesh part and tear within him; he tried to keep fighting anyway, but was simply unable to force his body to do what pained it. He found himself pushed on the offensive. Several times he tried to activate his magical defenses, but Minet's anti-magic spell was still in place. He guessed where his healing orb lay was outside the anti-magic zone, and tried to push the fight in that direction, but Eliek seemed to have come to the same conclusion and refused to be moved. He almost laughed as he realized that Eliek was pushing his weapons high; he had always been bad at the cross-down at the Academy, and Eliek seemed to remember that; it did not seemed to have crossed the other mercenary's mind that Jarlaxle might had improved.

Behind him, Say'evett groaned.

Slowly, Catti-brie was boxed into a corner of the room. She felt panic rising in her, and pushed it down, knowing it wouldn't help her. Nonetheless, she began offering wild prayers to the gods, begging that someone would come down the hallway and help her; no one did.

The elf slashed low at her foot; afraid to give anymore ground, Catti-brie dropped her sword low to intercept. When she did, Ivellios slammed his boot atop her blade, pinning it there for precious second while he swung his own sword back at her neck. There was nothing she could do.

Suddenly his face spasmed with pain. His arm twitched violently, and the sword fell away. He staggered back, doubled over in intense agony.

Catti-brie's mind leapt to a stunning conclusion. "Spider's Bane," she gasped. "Ye have it--but--it only affects drow!"

He looked up at her, pain etched in every line of his face, as she had so often seen it in Drizzt's. "I've always had it," he panted. "Ever since the drow murdered my family. When it was time to pay them back, I returned their coinage."

Catti-brie found herself shaking with the revelation. "You don't have to do this," she cried. "Lady Alustrial can help ye! Listen t' reason--Drizzt has never done anyone harm but other drow. He's not like the rest o' them, he hates them as much as ye do. Please, Ivellios!"

For a moment indecision wavered in his features, but then his face hardened.

"No," he said. "I made my choice a long time ago, and I'll hold to it."

He threw himself forward. Catti-brie angled her sword as both a parry and an attack; it would have been easy for him to defeat the move, but at the last moment, his muscles betrayed him.

Her sword plunged through his heart, slicing out of his back, slick with life-blood. For a moment their eyes met, his full of despair, hers full of sorrow and shock.

Then he sagged to the floor, and his eyes were empty.

As Jarlaxle had known he would, Eliek dropped his blades and plunged them forward, side by side: the double-thrust low.

As required, the mercenary leader brought his own blades down in an X, the only parry for such an attack.

But as their blade met, a something sparked in Jarlaxle's mind, something very faint but there nonetheless, like the memory of something he had heard a long time ago.

Without thinking, he did what that small spark urged him to do. As his swords touched Eliek's Jarlaxle snapped his booted foot between the hilts of his swords, and slammed it into his opponent's face.

Eliek staggered back, dropping one sword so he could bring his free hand to cradle his shattered nose. Jarlaxle laughed, low and feral, and advanced. The other mercenary, realizing his mistake, raised his remaining sword in a token defense. Jarlaxle only laughed again, batted aside the offending sword, and plunged his own deep into his opponent's heart.

Eliek looked at Jarlaxle with wide, disbelieving eyes. His mind still full of thoughts of Zak, Jarlaxle only laughed, and leaned his face close to that of his rival and whispered.

"You lose."

Slowly, the dying drow slid off Jarlaxle's sword, and collapsed limply on the floor. There was a groan, and belatedly, the mercenary remembered Say'evett. He moved to retrieve his healing sphere, but there was a weak voice from behind him.

"No, sir. There's not. . . time."

Jarlaxle knelt beside Say'evett, feeling strangely helpless. Not knowing what else to do, he reached out and cradled his dying lieutenant in his arms, feeling the weak rise and fall of Say'evett's chest.

"Tell Coss'tul," Say'evett whispered. "Tell him. . . ah. . . but he'll know. . . . It doesn't matter." A shudder coursed through his body, and then he lay still.

Jarlaxle reached out a hand and closed his former soldier's eyes, feeling a strange weight in his heart. It's only because of Zak, he told himself. Thinking about him, and then seeing another drow who was close to you die, is causing you to react more strongly than the situation calls for.

As though the death of his friend had summoned him, Coss'tul appeared at the end of the corridor. His dark eyes saw the body in Jarlaxle arms; a strangled cry was torn from his throat, and he broke into a run, sprinting over the distance.

He knelt beside Jarlaxle, who passed him the body of his friend without saying a word. For a moment, Cos'tul simply held held Say'evett's cooling form, rocking back and forth, low moans issuing from his throat. Jarlaxle didn't know what to do; he had never seen a drow mourn at all, let alone this strongly.

After a while, Cos'tul looked up. "Which sword?" he asked quietly. Jarlaxle pointed wordlessly at Eliek's bloody sword, lying where the dead mercenary had dropped it. Cos'tul laid the body of his friend gently on the stone floor, retrieved the sword, and then returned to Jarlaxle.

Cos'tul offered the blade hilt-first to his leader, both sorrow and serenity in his eyes. "Do you know what I want?" He asked; his voice was no more than a whisper.

Unable to find his voice--and not sure why--Jarlaxle accepted the sword. Cos'tul knelt, and drew Say'evett's head into lap. He looked expectantly to Jarlaxle.

Rising to his feet, Jarlaxle met Cos'tul's eyes. "Thank for your service," he finally managed to say. Cos'tul nodded, and Jarlaxle drew back his arm and sank the blade through Cos'tul's heart.

The drow slumped over the body of his friend, his blood spilling across the stone, but there was a smile across his face.