Legacy of the Drow: The Legacy by R. A. Salvatore

Author:R. A. Salvatore [Salvatore, R. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Forgotten Realms
ISBN: 9780786954070
Google: RJFMj_9tK64C
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast
Published: 2009-06-23T22:10:02+00:00

hibbledorf Pwent rushed along a side passage, running parallel and twenty feet to the right of the tunnel where he had split from his companions to go out on a prudent flanking maneuver. He heard the crash of the warhammer-blasted door, the sizzle of Catti-brie’s arrows, and cries from several places, even a growl or two, and cursed his luck for being caught out of fun’s way.

Torch leading, the battlerager eagerly spun around a sharp left-hand corner, hoping to get back with the others before the fighting was through. He pulled up short, considering a curious figure, apparently as surprised to see him as he was to see it.

“Hey, now,” the battlerager asked, “is yerself Bruenor’s pet drow?”

Pwent watched the slender elf’s hand come up and heard the click as a hand-held crossbow fired, the quarrel striking Pwent’s sturdy armor and slipping through one of the many cracks to draw a drop of blood on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“Guess not!” the happy Pwent cried, charging wildly with every word and tossing his torch aside. He dipped his head, putting his helmet spike in line, and the dark elf, seeming amazed at the sheer viciousness of this one’s attack, fumbled to get his sword out and ready.

Pwent, barely able to see but fully expecting the defense, whipped his head from side to side as he neared the target, parrying the sword away. He stood up straight again without slowing and launched himself at his opponent, barreling into the stunned dark elf with abandon.

They crashed against the wall, the drow still holding his balance, and holding Pwent up in the air, not knowing what to make of this unusual, hugging battle style.

The dark elf shook his sword hand free, while Pwent simply began to shake, his sharp-ridged armor digging lines in the drow’s chest. The elf squirmed frantically, his own desperate actions only aiding the battlerager’s convulsive attack. Pwent freed one arm and punched wildly, glove nail poking holes in the smooth ebony skin. The dwarf kneed and elbowed, bit the drow on the nose, and punched him in the side.

“Aaaaaargh!” The growling scream erupted all the way from Pwent’s belly, reverberating unsteadily from his flapping lips as he furiously whipped himself about. He felt the warmth of his enemy’s flowing blood, the sensation only driving him, driving the most wild battlerager, to further heights of ferocity.

“Aaaaaargh!”

The drow went down in a heap, Pwent atop him, still convulsing wildly. In a few moments, his enemy no longer squirmed, but Pwent did not relinquish his advantage.

“Ye sneaky elven thing!” he roared, repeatedly slamming his forehead into the dark elf’s face.

Quite literally, the battlerager, with his sharpened armor and spiked joints, shook the unfortunate drow apart.

Pwent finally let go and hopped to his feet, pulling the limp body to a sitting position and leaving it slumped against the wall. The battlerager felt the pain in his back and realized that the drow’s sword had hit him at least once. Of more concern, though, was the numbness flowing down Pwent’s arm, poison spreading from the crossbow wound.

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