“Well done, Kaanyr,” Nimor said.
It seemed that Vhok, like Nimor, had decided to clean up his duergar association before retreating. It seemed that Vhok no more left ends untied than did Nimor.
Vhok had planned his escape well. He would flee the siege of Menzoberranzan with hardly a scratch, and if it mattered, scavengers would strip the cavern clean of duergar bodies within a tenday. Meat, dead or alive, never went unconsumed in the Underdark. No evidence of Kaanyr’s betrayal of the duergar would be found by anyone but Nimor.
Nimor left the dead duergar behind and continued his invisible flight through the caverns.
After a time, he began to encounter pockets of the withdrawing tanarukk forces. Squads of scaled and horned tanarukks—creatures with the savagery of orcs and the cunning of demons—trooped through the winding tunnels, weapons bare, bloodshot eyes intermittently checking behind them for pursuit. The ring of their boots, weapons, and armor resounded off the stone. Nimor moved over and through them like a specter, and only the breeze from his beating wings betrayed his passage.
For perhaps half an hour, Nimor trailed the retreating tanarukk forces through the tunnels.
The demon-orcs moved with a purpose, probably toward a pre-determined mustering point, and Nimor hopped from one group to the next. He knew he would eventually happen upon Vhok.
Nimor heard the cambion before he saw him—coarse voices, the thump of dozens of boots, and the ring of heavy armor sounded from ahead, as did the occasional barked order by Kaanyr Vhok.
Nimor beat his wings, sped forward, and spotted the cambion at the front of a large column of torch-bearing tanarukks. Vhok’s close aid Rorgak, a tusked tanarukk broad-shouldered by even the standards of his own kind, stood at his side as they marched. Vhok had apparently retreated ahead of even the token force that he had left behind in Menzoberranzan.
Nimor smiled at the light that shined into Vhok’s character—the cambion was a loud bully but ever a quiet coward.
Still, he commanded an army and had his uses and might yet again. And cowards were easy to manipulate, if not to rely upon.
Nimor swooped in front of the column, alit on the tunnel floor, and allowed himself to become visible.
Snarls and shouts of surprise ran through the tanarukk ranks, a low, dangerous rumble. The column surged to a halt. Vhok and Rorgak had their blades in their hands within a heartbeat.
Rorgak, greatsword in hand, lunged toward Nimor. Several of the tanarukks behind Vhok moved forward, blood in their eyes.
Vhok halted all of them with an upraised hand and a barked order.
“Hold,” the cambion commanded, and they did. Even Rorgak.
Dozens of red eyes fixed on Nimor, hungry eyes.
Nimor held up his hands to show that he bore only a smile, though he knew his wings and fangs must have appeared disconcerting. Vhok and his tanarukks had never before seen him in his half-dragon form. If it proved necessary, Nimor could quickly flee into the Shadow Fringe.
“Nimor,” Vhok said and raised his pointed eyebrows. “I hardly recognized you. You look different than last we met.” He sheathed his rune inscribed blade and offered Nimor a hard look.
“You take a chance showing a lone drow face to my men and me.”
The tanarukks near Vhok growled agreement. Rorgak continued to stare at Nimor, his blade still bare.
Nimor flapped his wings and let shadowstuff leak from his nostrils. “As you can see, Kaanyr, I’m no more drow than you are human or they orcs.”
At that, Vhok smiled and tipped his head to acknowledge the point. A few of the tanarukks chuckled.
“What then?” the cambion asked. “Do you have yet another wondrous scheme to offer me?”
He gestured at his battle scarred, retreating column. “You see the result of your last.”
Vhok’s men laughed at that, but it was forced laughter. No doubt their retreat shamed them.
Nimor kept his smile, though it was difficult.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I would speak of it privately. Your tent?”
Nimor knew that Vhok’s command tent was a magical structure that formed and collapsed into a fist-sized ball of cloth upon command, so it was always a convenient bit of private space.
Vhok studied Nimor’s face for a moment before he said, “Very well.” To Rorgak, Vhok said, “Have the legion take a meal. I will not be long.”
Vhok added something else in a low tone, speaking to his lieutenant in Infernal. Though Nimor could not understand the language, he understood the meaning. Vhok was instructing Rorgak to stand ready in case Nimor attacked Vhok in the tent.
Nimor merely stared at Rorgak as the big, red-scaled lieutenant nodded to Vhok then headed back into the ranks, barking out orders. The tanarukk column broke ranks for a meal, but many bloodshot gazes stayed on Nimor.
Vhok pulled the magical wad of cloth from his pack, picked as level a spot as he could find on the tunnel floor, and cast it to the ground, uttering a command word in a harsh, forgotten language.
The cloth unfolded itself time and again until finally it sprung up into the pennoned, red-and-gold command tent that Nimor knew well. Vhok gestured him in, his breastplate shining in the torchlight. He kept one hand on his blade.
Nimor furled his wings and entered. Within, he found the tent fully furnished with a fine wooden table, a luxurious divan, and a plush couch. The decanter of what Nimor assumed to be brandy—one of Vhok’s indulgences—sat on the table with two empty glasses beside it.
“Furnished and stocked,” Nimor said, turning a circle. “An excellent magic item, Kaanyr. You need only dancing girls. Speaking of which, where is your little winged sweetmeat?”
Vhok snorted derisively, but Nimor heard the affectation in it.
“Gone,” Vhok said. “At least for now.”
“Ah, fickle women,” Nimor said, and decided not to press further. “May I sit?” he asked.
Vhok indicated the couch. Nimor crossed the tent and collapsed onto it.
“We did not have to lose this fight, Kaanyr,” he said.
“Only one of us actually fought this fight,” Vhok answered. “The other fled when things got difficult.”
Nimor struggled to retain his smile.
From outside the tent, near the flap, Nimor’s keen hearing betrayed the quiet scrape of a boot on stone—Rorgak, no doubt.
Only when he had full control of his tone of voice did Nimor say, “Lolth’s return alone saved Menzoberranzan. That and an unfortunate choice in allies.”
Vhok looked at him sharply.
“Not you,” Nimor said. “The duergar.”
Vhok’s expression relaxed and he nodded. “True, that,” he said.
To Nimor’s surprise, the cambion poured two small chalices of the liquor from the decanter and offered one to Nimor.
Nimor took it, but he did not drink. Vhok remained standing.
“Our little princeling is dead,” Nimor said, swirling the brandy in his goblet.
Vhok raised an eyebrow. “You?”
Nimor nodded. When Vhok sipped from his brandy, Nimor did the same. The liquor had traveled well.
“Serves the little fool right,” the cambion said. “Duergar are useless creatures.”
“We are in agreement on that at least, Kaanyr,” Nimor said. “The gray dwarves are a race of imbeciles.” After a pause, he added, “I tracked you down to thank you for warning me of Lolth’s return during my battle with the Archmage.”
Vhok smiled around his goblet and said, “We were allies.”
“Indeed. And as far as I’m concerned, we still are.”
When Vhok did not reply, Nimor filled the silence by raising his glass in a toast and saying, “To grand undertakings.”
Vhok raised his own glass half-heartedly and took a sip, eyeing Nimor over the rim.
Afterward, he asked, “Is there something else, drowling? Or did you return only to express your gratitude and drink my brandy?”